Chapter 2: The Evening

Nico

Warm candlelight flatters the green felt of the gaming table, smelling of beeswax and old cedar. The salon is a quiet hum of low voices, the air thick with the scent of French perfume and tobacco. Across the boards, Sandro smiles, his fingers tapping the polished wood.

Felix deals, the cards sliding over the felt with a dry hiss. He wears his evening dress like he runs the yacht, his collar stiff, his cuffs showing exactly half an inch of white linen below the sleeve. His eyes remain on the deck as he distributes the cards. My eyes follow the white rectangles falling in front of me, a jack of clubs and a queen of spades. I pick them up, the paper stiff and clean under my thumbs. Sandro is already looking at his hand, his face expressionless.

"Your bet, Signor Ferrara," I say, leaning back in my chair. The silk lining of my jacket is cool against my shoulders. I spin a gold solari on the wood, the metal catching the light before it falls flat.

Sandro lifts his cards, squinting through the smoke of his cigar. "Monsieur le Duc is generous tonight. Or perhaps he is simply impatient." He tosses two gold coins into the center. "I call."

"Monsieur Beaumont is the impatient one," Felix says. He turns over a card without looking up. "His eyes have been on the terrace for ten minutes."

"The terrace holds better prospects than this table," Théo says. He sits next to me, his jacket open, a glass of Valderran brandy in his hand. He is already half-turned toward the balcony, where two women in lace gowns lean against the stone railing. He raises his glass to them, his smile easy and slow. One of the women laughs, her fan fluttering in the dark. Théo leans over the balustrade, speaking in a low voice that makes the second woman lean in, her blonde curls catching the candlelight.

"You are losing focus, Monsieur Beaumont," I say, turning my cards over. A pair of kings. I sweep the small pile of gold chips toward my side of the table, the metal clicking against the wood. "And you are losing your gold."

"A temporary setback, Monsieur le Duc," Théo says, retaining his smile. He speaks to Sandro in Italian, then turns to the woman approaching our table, switching to French seamlessly. He handles both conversations with the smooth grace of a man who enjoys the sound of his own voice. The woman leans over his shoulder, her perfume sweet and heavy, her fingers brushing the dark wool of his collar.

Near the terrace, a dancer works the small wooden stage. Her hips sway to the cadence of the hand drums, her movements slow and heavy. Half the room follows the curve of her waist, their eyes lazy and content. She is beautiful, her skin dark under the candles, but she is only another decoration in a room filled with them. A girl in a green silk gown moves between the tables, carrying a tray of iced wine, her hips brushing against the chairs. She stops by Sandro, placing a fresh glass of brandy at his elbow with a quiet smile. Sandro pats her hip, his fingers lingering on the silk before she moves on, leaving him with his brandy and his cards. In Le Cercle, everyone moves according to their role, and the rules are printed on the back of the chips.

"Sandro is investing in the local talent again," Théo says, taking a sip of his brandy.

"It is a stable market," Sandro says, throwing his cards onto the felt. "Unlike the shipping lanes. Felix, you are looking particularly grim tonight. Did the manifests tell you something terrible?"

"The manifests are simply late," Felix says. He collects the cards, his fingers squaring the deck until every edge lines up. He takes the next hand, sweeping Sandro's chips into his own pile. "Which means the numbers are currently unresolved. I prefer resolved numbers."

"Monsieur Hartmann is a slave to the ledger," I say, leaning forward. I take a fresh glass from the tray. The glass is cold, the condensation wet on my palm. "Drink your wine, Felix. The world remains intact until the cards are dealt."

I look down at my hands. The gold chips are stacked in neat piles of ten, their edges crisp and clean. A few hours ago, I was on the yacht, the sun hot on my chest, a girl sleeping on my shoulder. Now, I am under the crystal chandeliers, the evening dress hot and stiff, the collar pressing against my throat. The transition is easy, a familiar routine. I have spent five years in this city, moving from the yacht to the casino to the apartments, always one step ahead of the letters from Valderre.

The breeze from the terrace is cool, carrying the scent of salt and the distant noise of the harbor. Below the cliffs, the lights of Seravalle move on the black water, small yellow dots reflecting the stars. The night air is the exact temperature of skin, and nothing in it asks anything of me. The cards are friendly, and the brandy is old. My friends are in no hurry to go home, and neither am I.

"Tonight is a victory," Théo says, leaning his head back against the leather seat. "We have won three hundred solari from the Valderran ambassador's nephew, and we have drunk the best cellar in Seravalle."

"The ambassador's nephew was a fool," Sandro says. He lights a fresh cigar, the tip glowing orange in the dim light. "He played as if he wanted to lose."

"He was a romantic," I say. "He believed in his own luck. A fatal error in Le Cercle."

"Nico is the only one allowed to be lucky," Felix says. He deals the next hand. "He has the Duke's name and the Duke's treasury to back it."

"I have charm, Monsieur Hartmann," I say, flashing a smile. "The treasury is merely a backup plan."

"Madame Eclaire’s," Sandro says, blowing a ring of grey smoke toward the ceiling.

The suggestion requires no debate. We finish our glasses.

"The Eastern route is still open," Théo says, standing up and stretching his arms. He laughs, a loud, easy sound that draws a glance from the next table. "If the sea does not swallow us first."

Sandro and Felix laugh, the sound familiar and warm.

I stand up, my jacket slipping into place. Quiet now, I hold the image of the merchantman clearing the harbor point, the black anchor mark on its dirty sail. The thought stays mine alone as we walk toward the doors.

Nico

Madame Eclaire’s foyer smells of heavy jasmine and the sharp oil of the floor wax. The scent only half-covers the working heat of the house. Inside, the main salon is a red silk labyrinth under crystal chandeliers, where candles burn low in silver sconces. Girls in thin chemises and loosened stays drape themselves along the velvet divans. In one alcove, a merchant's hand disappears into the folds of an open robe, while behind a lace curtain, a couple shifts in silence. A woman in a sheer gown walks slowly up the stairs, followed by a young man who has already lost his jacket.

I walk through the room, answering the greetings of the regular patrons with a nod, my friends following behind me. A girl in red silk calls my name from a divan, waving a gold-painted fan. I walk past. Years I have spent in these rooms, paying for the company of women whose names I forget before the sun rises. The routine has lost its charm.

Armand Vellier sits in his usual corner, a still, proprietary presence. He holds a glass of dry sherry, the silver anchor cufflinks on his wrists catching the light as he raises the glass. His silver hair is immaculately brushed, his grey eyes scanning the salon with the calm of a banker reading his ledger. He is fifty-two, and he runs his trading company and this house with the same administrative focus. Seeing him here sets my teeth on edge. He is family, a surrogate uncle who has directed my father's business in Seravalle for decades, but his comfort in this room feels too deliberate.

Madame Eclaire herself approaches us, her silk skirts rustling. She is a woman of fifty, her face smooth, her keys clicking at her waist.

"Monsieur Beaumont," she says, offering her hand to Théo. "Signor Ferrara. You are late for the presentation."

"The cards were stubborn, Madame," Théo says, kissing her knuckles. "But we are here now. Show us the new arrivals."

"The ships from the south were generous this week," Eclaire says, turning toward the raised platform at the end of the salon.

Three women stand on the stage. They are dressed in European silk, the bright colors looking foreign against their skin under the room's inspection. The first two women look down, their shoulders hunched, their smiles forced and small. They perform their roles correctly, offering the soft submission the buyers expect.

Then my eyes find the third.

She stands barefoot in a blue silk gown that fits her badly, the fabric tight across her chest. Her skin is a warm brown, her black hair falling over her shoulders in curls. Her face remains expressionless, her chin lifted, her dark eyes steady and dry. She looks directly at me from across the salon and does not look away, her posture straight and rigid. She gives the buyers none of the bowed surrender the others offer. She is a prisoner, but her composure remains intact, and she looks the buyers over and finds none of them worth her trouble.

I have not thought of a good reason for any of this when I step away from my friends, walking straight to Madame Eclaire.

"The one in blue," I say, my voice low.

Eclaire raises an eyebrow, her keys clicking as she turns to me. "The Moorish girl? She is expensive, Nico. Armand has first rights on the southern arrivals."

"Name the price," I say. I pull my purse from my coat, the heavy weight of gold solari clinking in my hand. "A week. On the yacht. I will collect her tomorrow at midday."

Eclaire looks at the purse, then at Armand in the corner. Armand's eyes remain on us, his face smooth, and then he slowly nods. One corner of his mouth lifts, and he holds it there, letting me see that he sees. It should annoy me. For some reason, the annoyance escapes me.

"Five hundred solari," Eclaire says.

I count the coins onto her small silver tray, the gold clicking against the metal. The transaction is done before the better part of me can catch up.

"She will be ready for you at midday," Eclaire says, sweeping the gold into her pocket. "But she is cargo, Nico. Do not expect her to thank you for the sea air."

"I only expect a quiet voyage, Madame," I say, though I am already thinking of the stare she gave me across the room.

I turn back to my friends. Théo is already speaking to one of the other arrivals, his hand on her waist, his face bright with charm. Sandro is laughing at a joke the girl in green made. Only Felix stands quiet, his eyes on me, his ledger closed under his arm. He looks at the empty silver tray where five hundred solari sat a moment ago, then back at me, and says nothing.

"I am going back to the boat," I say.

"So soon, Monsieur le Duc?" Théo asks, looking up. "The night is young."

"The sea is calling, Monsieur Beaumont," I say, turning toward the door. "Drink your brandy. I will see you tomorrow."

The cold air of the harbor district hits my face as I step out of Madame Eclaire's. The streets are steep and narrow, winding down the limestone cliffs toward the docks. The wind carries the smell of low tide and roasting coffee from the taverns near the quay.

I walk down the stone steps, my leather soles scuffing against the rock. My hands are empty, my purse lighter by five hundred gold coins, but my mind is crowded. I spent the better part of a minute being examined by a woman who gave me nothing, and I found it more interesting than an evening of women who gave me everything. It is a ridiculous thing to have done. I tell myself I bought her to keep her away from Armand's plans. That is partly true, and I know it is not the whole of it.

Below me, the masts of the Sans Souci rise against the stars, the hull riding quiet in the dark water. I walk toward the pier, my purse light against my hip, and wait for the morning to arrive.