Leaving Mikhail, Jan made his way through the darkened corridors, armed with the details to make his peace with de Leeuw. He rounded a secluded corner in deep concentration—practically into Elsa’s arms. She smoked alone at a half-open window.
“God of the ancients, Jan,” she exclaimed quietly, righting his pile of languid limbs, “—You startled me.”
“You’re looking particularly remarkable tonight,” she added, replacing the green crepe of a strap on his right shoulder.
“Blessed be to Hannah Mitterlöwe,” he explained with a soft kiss to her cheek, “—For the glory that’s her civilization. You’ve come west again, my darling. All you see here will soon be hers.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she declared, providing him a cigarette, “—Not here in Amsterdam.”
“I’ll run rings around Mikhail and you know it,” he reminded her. “I won’t compromise on that—not even for you.”
Elsa watched him smoke beside her. She, of all people, would see through a proud disgrace, leaned with its throat bared, against the wall.
“Are things really settled then,” she asked, “Between you and Hannah?”
“As soon as the Wild Isles are safely in the Republic’s possession,” he explained. “It’s Hannah’s dowry, I suppose—even if I’m the one who’ll earn it for her.”
Elsa smoked with a trembling hand. The silence stretched a moment between them.
“And the Premiere?” She demanded. “—Mikhail says he’s desperately fond of you.”
It was all that Jan could manage to keep the blush from his cheeks, imagining the two of them, dissecting his exploits through the lens of political strategy.
“I’m fond of His Honor, too,” Jan admitted, “Though I could take the man and leave his politics.”
Elsa watched the cigarette at his lips.
“Isn’t that exactly what you’ve done?”
“I suppose it is,” he agreed, exhaling smoke as he opened them again. “But that doesn’t make it my choice. I have unpaid debts to the bank, like everyone else. Collection has come due.”
“The ultimatum is your father’s, then?” Elsa wondered. “Hannah and the Wild Isles?”
“—And after that?” She pressed. Her voice bore the edge of unbearable hope.
“It’s maintenance on the interest,” he corrected her, “—Nothing more. I can’t begin to touch the principle.”
“I don’t begrudge you Mikhail,” he promised. “If anyone could make a case to draw him from his isolation, it’s you. There’s a common language of duty. None of the rest of us seem to be fluent. But I can’t stand down on Amsterdam.”
She nodded, squeezing his palm.
“I understand,” she agreed. “But how strange to be your adversary, even if only in their City-forsaken game.”
“We’ve mimed it for them long enough,” he offered. “We’ll give the familiar scene again—once more, with feeling.”
Elsa tapped ash from her cigarette.
“It’s what we were trained to be,” she added. “—All blessings due to glorious Konstantin.”
“Blasphemy—from Vienna?” Jan observed. He wished immediately that he hadn’t.
“When have I neglected my service to that name?” she countered, gripped by an equally uncharacteristic spontaneity.
The hand was over her mouth like lightening, but the words had poured through as hot as driving rain. Jan knew better than to wrap his arm at her shoulder, but he stood—patient and firm—just within her reach, should that comfort be desired.
“Never,” he declared. “And darkness take any tomb-bound Majesty who disagrees.”
Unseen laughter interrupted their privacy from the end of the hall.
“Just look at me now,” Elsa disagreed, tossing the cigarette under foot, extinguishing it with a twist of her heel, “—Lurking down dark corridors with the Lacquer Man. It’s unforgivable.”
Jan thought of the hand that he had watched at her wrist, rested so innocently in the ballroom of Schloß des Meers.
“Is it so unthinkable that I would draw Your Grace aside to gloat?” He asked.
She smoothed the dress along her hips.
“To gloat,” she echoed, “And to terrorize. —No, it’s not difficult to imagine at all.”
They were quiet as long as the nervous mood would permit, both of them anxious at the thought of discovery, regardless of what they said.
“Let’s not be short with each other,” Jan insisted. “I’ll tolerate whatever else, but City save me if I stoop to that.” He smiled, his cheeks blazing with the contrition of a practiced supplicant. “I’m sorry,” he said. “—I have no right to complain.”
“What does it matter whose right it is to what?” She countered. “I’m so sick of valor! I don’t want to cause you any further harm, nor you to me. Isn’t that enough, without the leaden trappings of duty and oaths and honor, weighing down a sentiment that ought to be buoyant in its sweet simplicity?”
“Of course it’s enough,” Jan agreed. “But their calculus is as second nature to you as breathing.”
“My second nature,” she pressed, “But not yours?” Their fingers wrapped together. Nowhere on all the continent, Jan reflected—were two more artfully shaped sets of nails.
“No,” he smiled, “My master is as simple as the sentiment. I don’t have the strength for yours.”
She brushed the hair from his brow.
“Sweet, then, perhaps,” she corrected them both, “—But far from simple.”
“I ought to go,” he insisted, “There’s the Premiere to reassure.”
“I don’t expect we’ll see each other again all that soon,” she agreed.
Jan straightened the strap at his shoulder.
“I’ll be here,” he said, “Whenever Your Grace is next in Amsterdam. In the meantime, I imagine Mikhail would appreciate a friendly correspondent—offering her condolences at my endless interference.”
“You said you wouldn’t bend for me,” she reminded him.
“Oh, I won’t,” he promised, flashing a smile as he drew away. “—But who’s to say that what profits me can’t profit you, as well? And anyway, won’t it be fun?”
“I’ll await your worst,” she promised.
“City knows that it’s the best I have to offer,” Jan declared. With that, he was gone.
