quickly.
“Well.” Dek gives me a look.
“I didn’t like the look of those fellows,” Gregor says. “If we were selling to some nice, wholesome revolutionaries, that’d be one thing, but there was the stink of the opium trade about them.”
“Ten silver coins,” repeats Dek sadly.
“Revolutionaries, or those that are left of them, don’t have any money,” I point out.
Gregor gives me a hard, sober look suddenly and says, “You’d be surprised, my girl.”
“Would I?” I know Gregor’s revolutionary days are long behind him, but I’ve never heard him speak of them, and I find myself suddenly curious. Gregor, Esme, and her husband all dreamed of a different Frayne when they were young. They dreamed hard enough to risk their lives for it. But things are different now. Nobody dreams of anything much in Frayne anymore.
For a moment, it looks as if Gregor might say more, but then his face changes, to careless and jovial again. He pushes the bottle of whiskey toward me. “Go on, Julia, sit down and have a drink with us,” he says. “We hardly see you anymore!”
“I’m not drinking that swill,” I say. “If you’re going to drink in the middle of the day, you could at least get something decent.”
“Good liquor is a waste,” says Dek. “After the first couple of drinks, you can’t tell the difference anyway.” He doesn’t slur or loll about when he’s drunk. It’s hard to tell how much he’s had. The real change is that he seems, sadly, more himself. When he isn’t drinking, there is too often a hardness about him, like he is clamped shut so tight around his own private pain you can’t gain access at all. But then, he is not that way every day.
“Come on, what’s the beef, my girl?” says Gregor. “It can’t be the poor quality of booze that offends you. Tell me why you don’t approve of me today.”
“You’re drunk,” I say. “As usual.”
“Not so very,” he slurs at me. I think he’s exaggerating now, just to annoy me.
“Stop it, Julia,” says Dek wearily, gathering up his papers. “A fellow can drink whiskey if he wants to.”
“I’m not telling him what to do,” I argue, hurt to find Dek taking Gregor’s side just because he’s sharing his cheap liquor.
“It’s because of your da, isn’t it?” says Gregor. “But I’m not like him, you know.”
The anger comes so fast, it leaves me breathless. I want to hit him. For a moment, I think I might actually do it, but then I get a handle on myself. Dek has gone rigid.
“It has nothing to do with my father,” I say.
“He chose the drug over you and your ma,” Gregor carries on.
“Shut up, Gregor,” warns Dek.
“I’d never do that. I would never choose the drink over Csilla or any friend. Never.”
“You choose the drink over Csilla every blasted day,” I say.
He gives me a lopsided, uncomprehending stare, and I leave quickly, banging the door behind me. He’d better drop that line of thought or Dek will be the one to hit him.
I take a motor cab to Mount Heriot, a hill topped by Capriss Temple, the great white Lorian temple that overlooks the whole of Spira City. It’s the most beautiful part of the city, the tree-lined avenues and steep stone staircases winding up the hill toward Capriss Temple’s shining dome. From here, I can see the river Syne cutting the city in two, the Scola and Forrestal in the south, the Twist and the Edge to the East, and at the very center of the city, great Hostorak lurking behind the parliament. The wooded grounds of the royal palace lie in West Spira, where the most elegant shops and houses and hotels are.
There is a dearth of men of a certain age here—Gregor’s age, my father’s age—for so many of them were killed in the uprising. I can’t believe Gregor is right that any remnant of that old guard still exists, in Mount Heriot or anywhere. To be sure, in certain bars you’ll find miserable old dissenters muttering the same far-fetched rumors about
“Well.” Dek gives me a look.
“I didn’t like the look of those fellows,” Gregor says. “If we were selling to some nice, wholesome revolutionaries, that’d be one thing, but there was the stink of the opium trade about them.”
“Ten silver coins,” repeats Dek sadly.
“Revolutionaries, or those that are left of them, don’t have any money,” I point out.
Gregor gives me a hard, sober look suddenly and says, “You’d be surprised, my girl.”
“Would I?” I know Gregor’s revolutionary days are long behind him, but I’ve never heard him speak of them, and I find myself suddenly curious. Gregor, Esme, and her husband all dreamed of a different Frayne when they were young. They dreamed hard enough to risk their lives for it. But things are different now. Nobody dreams of anything much in Frayne anymore.
For a moment, it looks as if Gregor might say more, but then his face changes, to careless and jovial again. He pushes the bottle of whiskey toward me. “Go on, Julia, sit down and have a drink with us,” he says. “We hardly see you anymore!”
“I’m not drinking that swill,” I say. “If you’re going to drink in the middle of the day, you could at least get something decent.”
“Good liquor is a waste,” says Dek. “After the first couple of drinks, you can’t tell the difference anyway.” He doesn’t slur or loll about when he’s drunk. It’s hard to tell how much he’s had. The real change is that he seems, sadly, more himself. When he isn’t drinking, there is too often a hardness about him, like he is clamped shut so tight around his own private pain you can’t gain access at all. But then, he is not that way every day.
“Come on, what’s the beef, my girl?” says Gregor. “It can’t be the poor quality of booze that offends you. Tell me why you don’t approve of me today.”
“You’re drunk,” I say. “As usual.”
“Not so very,” he slurs at me. I think he’s exaggerating now, just to annoy me.
“Stop it, Julia,” says Dek wearily, gathering up his papers. “A fellow can drink whiskey if he wants to.”
“I’m not telling him what to do,” I argue, hurt to find Dek taking Gregor’s side just because he’s sharing his cheap liquor.
“It’s because of your da, isn’t it?” says Gregor. “But I’m not like him, you know.”
The anger comes so fast, it leaves me breathless. I want to hit him. For a moment, I think I might actually do it, but then I get a handle on myself. Dek has gone rigid.
“It has nothing to do with my father,” I say.
“He chose the drug over you and your ma,” Gregor carries on.
“Shut up, Gregor,” warns Dek.
“I’d never do that. I would never choose the drink over Csilla or any friend. Never.”
“You choose the drink over Csilla every blasted day,” I say.
He gives me a lopsided, uncomprehending stare, and I leave quickly, banging the door behind me. He’d better drop that line of thought or Dek will be the one to hit him.
I take a motor cab to Mount Heriot, a hill topped by Capriss Temple, the great white Lorian temple that overlooks the whole of Spira City. It’s the most beautiful part of the city, the tree-lined avenues and steep stone staircases winding up the hill toward Capriss Temple’s shining dome. From here, I can see the river Syne cutting the city in two, the Scola and Forrestal in the south, the Twist and the Edge to the East, and at the very center of the city, great Hostorak lurking behind the parliament. The wooded grounds of the royal palace lie in West Spira, where the most elegant shops and houses and hotels are.
There is a dearth of men of a certain age here—Gregor’s age, my father’s age—for so many of them were killed in the uprising. I can’t believe Gregor is right that any remnant of that old guard still exists, in Mount Heriot or anywhere. To be sure, in certain bars you’ll find miserable old dissenters muttering the same far-fetched rumors about
Similar Books
