Jasper had refuseda second pint. And a second game.
Malcolm, as a rule, only played games of chance. There was no thrill for him in anything that could be completely mastered with skill.
Jasper was not so particular. He was not so flush with coin nor with natural luck, and he did not have a mind to do much more than watch his friend at his capers until he was certain Libba had been given enough time to get out of costume and into bed back at the Rest.
“You aren’t going to stay in the parlor?” Malcolm asked when Jasper begged off for the night. “I had it prepared for you.”
“Not tonight,” said Jasper with a frown. “I have to rise early to find a dozen day laborers for Templeton-Rath. It is, I believe, a test.”
“Oh, I can suggest a few,” Malcolm said mildly, jiggling the dice in his hand.
“Not necessary,” Jasper assured him. “I just need to sleep. May your luck hold, my friend.”
At that, Malcolm flashed him his widest, most debonair smile and said, “It always does.”
And Jasper fled quickly because if Mal knew the half of what his best mate and his sister had gotten up to tonight, he would not be remotely so cocky, nor good-natured.
Jasper did, to his credit, go directly to his flat and his bed. And he did, responsibly, fall into sleep.
But it was not a restful sleep.
It was not restorative.
It was haunted by memory and confusion and the feel of gauzy, embroidered fabric over warm, taut skin at Liberty Lennox’s waist. Anytime he shook himself awake, it was only to remember that brief flash of her face before she’d folded herself back into Xandine, that expression of stunned, soft shock: her eyes wide and dark, her lips slightly parted.
When he did finally wake to the sun in the sky, his pillows were both on the floor and his sheet had pulled itself completely free of the mattress into a ball around his waist.
That was fair, he supposed.
That was right.
He knew, logically, that he could not still taste her lips every time he licked his own, but he could not seem to remember it for certain, either. It reminded him of sucking the nectar from the base of honeysuckle flowers as a boy, the powdery, sweet pollen lingering on the tip of his tongue.
He wondered if, like his cologne, she smelled divine but was poisonous to consume.
And then he cursed himself for wondering it and forced himself to get dressed and head to the docks before he could think a single thing more. He dabbed on more of Ruby’s damned concoction for good measure to drown out any lingering phantoms of the scent of jasmine and keep his mind focused on only himself.
Only himself.
If he finished his consignment ledgers by ten, he could go down to the loading docks and look for those who needed work today. Earlier was better for the strongest and youngest lads, but just short of midday, you got the ones who were older, moreseasoned, and just broken enough to swear loyalty in exchange for being chosen.
Those were whom he wanted for assembling the new parcel office. Those men would stay for a long-haul job and be willing to come on permanently after the end. The young ones were more likely to go back to the wharf and hope for a higher pay and an earlier morning every few days.
That was the trick of it here.
His office was mostly empty this early. Most of the factors and counters started later in the morning or even preferred to scribble into the night. He had his own office now, though he always tapped his fingers on his old clerking desk when he passed it to thank it for its time and assistance in his good fortune.
He liked to get here before the sun got high enough to cause a glare so he could throw the windows open, even in the colder months. He liked the feeling of wind and movement, the rustle of paper as he compared documents and manifests and signatures and receipts.
He liked how his inkpot smelled mixed with the briny air from outside.
And today, with the autumnal chill fully present for its season, he hoped that it would restore his good sense and focus.
For an hour, it did.
For an hour, there was nothing in the world but imports and exports. Purchases and sales. Escrow and debt and relief opposite the inkpot and the wind and the click of his abacus and scratch of his quill.
For an hour, he could breathe again as the bell rang over the entry and a few junior clerks began to file in. As tea was brewed and conversation rumbled softly under the sounds of his office, beyond the corners where he’d once clerked.
