Story Update
Bit missing from the beginning, but after trying three times I've given up for a bit and I'll sort it out later.
As their coach pulled up at the gates to the palace it was clear that most people were already there. The sounds of music and conversation drifted on the breeze from the extensive gardens and around the corner many coaches and their drivers were waiting around for the event to finish. The coach doors were opened, they stepped out onto the gravel and were immediately met by a palace official who politely enquired their names. Milo introduced them and the man checked through his list. After studying it closely for a few minutes he looked up.
"I'm terribly sorry, but I only have one Master Whitlaw on the guest list."
"That can't be right," Milo replied. "We are both guests of the earl of -. We should both be listed."
He nodded. "Of course. I'm sure there has just been a terrible mistake. If you could just wait a moment I'm sure I can get this resolved."
Tobin looked around and noticed several people were watching them from the other side of the gates.
"Forget about it, I'll just go home," he said with a sigh, then turned and started walking back to the coach. He stopped after a few paces and turned back to Milo who was still standing there. "Are you coming?"
Milo looked uncomfortable. "Lady Hawke and Felicity are already in there, " he said quietly. "I should at least tell them what has happened."
Tobin felt his anger growing, knotting in his stomach like something alive. "I see. Very well, I shall go home alone then."
"I'm sure if you give them a couple of minutes they will fix the mistake."
"But it's not a mistake, is it? My sort isn't welcome here and I was stupid to think otherwise.”
“You don't know that, Tobin,” Milo reminded him. He pushed his hand through his hair, feeling deeply conflicted. He did feel he could let his brother go home alone and miserable; but at the same time, walking away from a garden party hosted by the king of Tobermoerai was not an easy thing to do. “I thought we'd been over this.”
“Yes, yes, I'm Father's son too,” he retorted, then stopped. “Maybe you're right.” He felt Milo was dismissing his anger and this made him feel worse. He wanted his brother to feel angry too, and if he wasn’t angry in empathy with him, then just plain angry would do.
“I am?” Milo asked hopefully. “I mean, of course I am.”
“After all, taking in another baby when you already have children, that's a big thing. Most people wouldn't do that without a good reason.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm just saying. Maybe you were more accurate than you thought when you said I was as much Father's son as you were.”
The meaning of his brother's words finally sunk in and suddenly Milo no longer felt conflicted. He took a step forward and struck Tobin as hard as he could. While Tobin was expecting the blow, Milo was considerably stronger and he staggered back, hand to face.
“How could you?” Milo shouted. He knew people would be staring, but at that moment in time he did not care. “How could you say those things, after everything that Father has ever done for you? Get out of my sight,” he added coldly. “I don't want to even look at you right now.”
Milo turned away and headed into the gardens, leaving Tobin to slink back to the coach. No questions were asked when he requested to return home early. The coach rolled away from the palace and he curled into the corner, feeling sick and angry. He could barely feel the blow that Milo had dealt him, though he suspected there was a good mark on his face. Staring despondently out of the window, he suddenly realised he recognised where he was. He called out to the driver to stop the coach.
“Are you sure? There's nothing around here.”
“It's fine. I can find my own way from here.” He let himself out and headed down the street.
Tobin was surprised but relieved to discover he remembered the way perfectly. Soon he was standing underneath the painted sign, looking at the dark door. There was no sound of music or voices this time; it was clearly too early for that. His anger had faded enough to allow him to wonder exactly what he was doing here. Last time they were in this area they had been mugged and Milo had almost died. Why then had he chosen to come here, rather than somewhere safe like the library? He sighed and took a deep breath before pushing open the door. Walking back on his own was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment. Inside he found Dahlia wiping down the tables in the bar area. She looked up as he entered.
“Sorry sir, we're not open yet.”
“Oh, no I was just looking for a man I met here.”
She shook her head. “Only girls in this house. Maybe it was at the club on Canal Street? There are male performers there.”
Tobin blushed vividly. “Not like that! I think he's related to the owner; a tall man with long blond hair?”
A look of realisation came over her face. “Oh, you must mean Rosebud. Hey, Lily?” She turned to a petite blonde who was polishing glasses behind the bar. “Go and see if Rosney is still around.” She tuned back to Tobin. “Hey, I remember you. You were here the other night. Your brother had been shot. How's he doing?”
“He's doing fine,” Tobin muttered.
Dahlia was surprised at his dismissive tone. Before she could question him further, Rosney appeared. He approached with a grin and put his arm around Tobin's shoulders.
“So, I hear you've been looking for me? What's up, did you have a fight with your boyfriend?”
Tobin pushed him away with a look of disgust. “Milo is my brother and no, I actually came to offer to buy you a drink. To say thank you for helping the other day. I'm not sure I want to, now,” he added.
Rosney seemed unperturbed. “Of course you do. That's a fine idea.”
He grabbed his hat from the stand and pushed Tobin out the door before he could protest further. Behind them, the two women looked each other.
“Why don't I deserve to be taken out for a drink?” Dahlia asked. “It wasn't Rosney up to his knees in bloody bandages that night.”
“He's not really your type, though,” Lily pointed out. “Not that I've known you pay attention to any man since I've known you.”
“It would have been nice to have been asked at least. But you're right: cradle-snatching's not my thing and even if he were older, I've learned good things don't come from getting involved.”
“Now you're just being silly. Look at this.” She disappeared into the sewing room and came back with a length of vivid green cloth. “Isn't it beautiful?”
“Another present from Percy, I take it?”
“Yes. Isn't he a darling? This is coloured with his new dye; he says it will never fade or wash out. He's having a dress made for the Princess Alexandria out of the same fabric. Can you believe it? Me, nothing more than a common whore, wearing a dress cut from the same cloth as a princess.”
Dahlia sighed. “Don't talk that way about yourself. You're a dancer, not a whore. Or at least, you wouldn't be if you didn't prostitute yourself out to that man.”
Lily's face darkened. “What is your problem with Percy? You've never liked him.”
“Because I know what men like him are like. He'll shower you with gifts now, but when something better catches his eye he'll leave you in the dirt.”
“I don't believe you. He loves me; he told me he did.”
“Of course he did. But think about it. He's already pretty wealthy; he's about to get a royal warrant for his dyes. He could have his pick of women. There have already been roumers about him and the Lady Sandleford.”
“You’re just jealous,” Lily spat. “Just because no one’s interested in a bitter old hag like you.” She stormed off.
“Oh well done. She's going to be a nightmare to work with tonight.”
Dahlia turned to see one of the other performers who had just come in the front door.
“She'll be okay, Poppy. It's only me she's mad at.”
“I'm not worried about her being angry; I'm worried about her being distracted. When a girl is flicking flowers out of my cleavage with a bull-whip I like her to have her full attention on the task.” She walked over to the bar and poured herself a drink. “Why do you give her a hard time about Percy?”
“Because she doesn't understand what she's getting into. She genuinely thinks he's going to propose; whisk her off to some beautiful house in the nice part of the city. It's going to break her heart when he doesn't.”
“Maybe he will.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Poppy shook her head. “No, not really. But stranger things have happened. Besides sometimes you've just got to see these things for yourself. As long as you keep telling her she is wrong, she'll keep believing she's right. That's just human nature.”
A short way away Rosney had led Tobin to a nearby inn. It was too early to be busy but there were still a few men drinking. As he entered one of them, a grey-haired man with a pipe clamped between toothless gums, waved cheerfully at Rosney.
“Evenin' Rosebud!”
Rosney scowled and muttered something under his breath. He gestured to a table in the corner and he and Tobin sat down. A moment later the barmaid wandered over.
“Evening Ros. Usual?” she enquired cheerfully, twirling a loose strand of hair between her fingers as she spoke.
“Sure. Wait, no, make it whiskey. And a good one, not the cheap stuff old Fisher's pouring down his neck.” He indicated the man who had greeted him earlier.
She shook her head. “Not on your tab, Mister. Sorry but it is more than my job's worth.”
“It's okay. Drinks are on him tonight.”
“How much?” Tobin enquired politely. She told him and he handed her the coins. He wondered what his father would say if he caught him spending his allowance in this manner. She returned a few minutes later with a couple of glasses of whiskey and set them down with a smile.
“Let me know when you want another.”
Rosney picked up his glass. “Here's to you, my friend.”
Tobin smiled and took a sip. The alcohol burned the back of his throat and he coughed. “Ugh, this is supposed to be good?”
Rosney laughed. “Not a big drinker I take it. Don't worry; the more you drink the better it tastes.”
“Why does everyone call you Rosebud?” he enquired.
Rosney sighed. “Is there no one who doesn't know that joke? Look, it's simple: Rose was my mother's name. Rose; Rosebud. Get it? For some reason people still find it funny even now. And if I ever catch you calling me it I'll cut your ears off,” he added coldly.
Tobin grinned and took another drink. It did seem to taste better this time. “So, your mother works at the Black Bouquet?” he guessed.
“She used to; in fact she used to run it. She did pretty well for a woman on her own with a young child to look after. Of course, that was until our house caught fire. I was twelve at the time, always out causing trouble. I guess I must have forgotten to turn off the stove that day. By the time I got back, the fire was too fierce; no one could even get close. Mum never made it out.”
“I'm sorry,” Tobin said softly.
“Why? It wasn't your fault. If you're going to say anything, say 'let me buy you another drink.'“
Tobin caught the attention of the barmaid who came over and re-filled their glasses. Rosney drained his drink in one go and then set the glass down on the table with a thump.
“So,” he said, looking Tobin directly in the eye. “Why did you really come here? You didn't come here to talk about my childhood and I don't think you've got much to thank me for, given that it was partly my fault your brother was shot. So what's the real reason?”
Tobin looked away, feeling embarrassed. He took a long drink. “You were right the first time,” he said quietly. “I did have a fight with Milo. I don't think we've ever argued like that before. We've disagreed about things, sure; wound each other up at times, but never anything like this. He even hit me.” He finished his drink. “The thing is I deserved it completely: I said some really unpleasant things, things I’d never even imagine saying normally. I guess I was angry and I wanted to make him angry too.”
“What happened?”
Tobin told him about what had happened that afternoon. He left out exactly what he had said to Milo, as he was feeling deeply ashamed of his actions. He did find he felt better for talking about the event though, and soon found himself expanding on everything that had happened since they arrived at the earl’s home. Rosney listened patiently until he had finished.
“Is that all?”
“All?” Tobin exclaimed.
Rosney held up a hand. “Sure, it’s pretty rude, but it sounds like someone is deliberately trying to bait you and succeeding every time. Why give them the satisfaction? I mean, are you really that bothered about missing out on stuffy parties?”
“I guess not,” he admitted. “There probably wouldn't have been anyone interesting to talk to.”
“There you go then. If they don't invite you, find something better to do with your time. I'm always up for being bought a drink, for example.”
Tobin smiled. “That wasn't quite how I pictured spending my time,” he admitted.
“So what do you want to do with your life?”
“I really want to be an airship engineer. But that's not going to happen.”
“Why not? Surely someone like you can get a place at the university?”
“Airships in Tobermoerai are all powered by sorceresses. I want to make real ones, powered by engines, not magic.”
“So go for it. Be the first one to design a non-magical airship. Or leave the country, go and work on foreign ones.”
Tobin thought about that for a moment. “Huh. I never thought about doing that. What about you?”
Rosney signalled for another drink. “Well, the Black Bouquet is mine, but I'm happy to leave the running of it to Madam at the moment. I'm going to save up a bit more money and then I'm going to see if I can get Katja home. It's hard, as she can't tell us anything directly, but I've been working with a friend and we think we've got some clues.”
More drinks were bought and they carried on drinking and talking as the sky outside grew dark and the stars came out. Several hours had passed before Tobin took out his pocket-watch to check the time. The face swam before his eyes and he found he could not read the hands.
“I ought to go home,” he mumbled. He tried to stand and promptly fell off his chair. Laughing, Rosney helped him to his feet.
“Definitely not a big drinker!” He helped Tobin out of the bar and into the cool street. “I guess I can't let you go home like this. You better sleep at mine tonight.”
Tobin barely heard him. Suddenly everything felt distant and ethereal. The cobbles hardly registered beneath his feet and despite it being a late autumn evening he felt no chill. In the back of his mind he had the feeling that he should feel scared by this but instead he just felt warm and a bit giddy.
Together they staggered back to the Black Bouquet, but instead of going through the front door Rosney led the way round the back. He held a finger up to his lips then opened a door and Tobin stumbled into a large room. Blearily he looked and saw several of the performers sat around. Round them were boxes of props, from feather fans and ribbons to bull-whips and handcuffs. He was no longer feeling warm and comfortable; instead he was experiencing a growing sense of nausea, not helped by the fact the floor seemed to be rolling under his feet. He felt Rosney take his arm and try to lead him through the room. He managed two more steps before everything went black.
Tobin woke the next morning and immediately wished he had not. The grimy window was not enough to prevent beams of sunlight streaming through and each one felt light a knife driven into the back of his skull via the eyeball. He groaned and buried his head under the pillow. His mouth felt and tasted like he had slept with a sock in it, and there was a deeply unpleasant smell in the room.
“Morning!” said an odiously cheerful voice.
After a few minutes, Tobin risked peaking out from under the pillow. He was in a small room, obviously in the attic of the building. To his left he could see Rosney, who was leaning against the wall and eating something that seemed to be the source of the evil smell. He sat up slowly, wishing the room would stop swaying.
“What is that?”
Rosney looked down at the sandwich in his hand. “This? This is the best hangover cure in the world. It's a fried egg and dripping sandwich, with lots of piccalilli. I made you one too.” He offered him a plate and Tobin blanched. Rosney looked alarmed. “ Hey, you can get out of my bed if you're going to throw up.”
“I'm fine. Just... Just take that away.”
“Suit yourself,” he replied, then proceeded to eat the other sandwich. “I sent a note to your house. The last thing I want is to get accused of kidnapping.”
“Thanks,” he said, resting his head in his hands. “Oh, Milo is going to kill me.”
“Your brother? No, I think he'll forgive you. That's what family's do for each other. He might not let you forget it though.”
Tobin wanted nothing more than to put his head back under the pillow and forget about everything, but that was not really an option, especially in someone else's home. Rosney offered to lend him some spare clothes, but they were several sizes too big. For a few minutes he was could not decide which to choose: dirty clothes that fitted, or clean ones that did not. Rosney watched his dilemma with undisguised amusement. Eventually clean clothes won out.
“The kitchen is just downstairs,” Rosney advised. “I'll meet you down there.”
Tobin made his way gingerly down the steep staircase. The world had stopped spinning at least, but he still felt distinctly unsteady. At the bottom were several doors, but only one was open and he could smell food from within. Inside he found Katja sitting at the table eating porridge. She gave him a friendly wave, as if he were someone she had known for a long time, rather than someone she had met briefly. He sat down at the round oak table next to her.
“How are you feeling?”
He turned to see Dahlia standing in the doorway, a sympathetic smile on her face.
“Not good,” he admitted. “Is this normal? To feel this way after drinking alcohol?”
“It is if you go drinking with Ros. He doesn't mean any harm, but he forgets that most people don't have his tolerance for drink. His mother was just the same. Rose Black could drink men under the table and then go on to dance the night away, none the worse for any of it.” She handed Tobin a glass of water. “Drink that; you'll feel better soon enough.”
He accepted it gratefully. “I've never asked your name,” he realised.
“They call me Dahlia.”
“No, I mean your real name.”
She seemed amused by this. “It's Bryony. Bryony Greenlove.” She turned to the stove. “Did Rosney offer you breakfast? I've got some eggs here.”
The idea of eating, combined with the still-vivid memory of the smell of Rosney's sandwich was too much for Tobin. He turned away from the table and retched. Quickly, Bryony thrust a large bowl in his hands.
"Sorry kid. I guess that was a stupid question." She patted his back ineffectually as he was violently sick.
"I'm so sorry," he gasped.
"It's okay; we've all been there," she assured him.
"I've been so stupid."
"Maybe, but you don't know your limits until you run into them."
He coughed once more then sighed and set the bowl aside. "It's not just last night, though that was pretty stupid. No, ever since I came to the city I've been behaving like an idiot. I've been acting like a spoilt child and now I may have damaged things in a way I can't repair."
This wasn't how I was planning to spend my morning, Bryony though. Why do I seem to be constantly cleaning up other people's mess?
"Look, things always seem worse when you are hungover. You'll see; it won't be as bad as you fear. Besides, everyone makes mistakes: it's all part of growing up. Just learn from them and set them aside, don't let them define you.”
“You should listen to her, Tobin. Bryony's a smart woman.”
They both turned to see Rosney standing in the doorway.
“That I might be, but I'm also a woman with lots to do. You feeling better now, sweetheart? Good. Then you should go home. You've got to do it sooner or later.”
Rosney nodded. “Come on, I'll walk with you as far the river.” He led Tobin through a door that opened out behind the bar in the main room and they headed out into the street. It was drizzling outside, a light rain that seemed nevertheless to quickly permeate its way through their clothes. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to get sick.”
“It's not your fault. I should have been more careful. I appreciate you taking the time to listen to me though. It's good to know I do have a friend in the city.”
“Any time. I mean that.”
“Just as long as the earl doesn't decide to send me home in shame.”
“Do you think he will?”
“I really hope not. I've been thinking about what you said last night and there's something I'd like to do.” He explained his tentative plans to Rosney, who nodded.
“Have you got some time to spare? There’s someone I think you should meet.”
Tobin shrugged. “I’m late enough as it is. I doubt a little longer is going to make any difference.”
Rosney turned off the street they were walking and head up a steep alley. At the end of it he stopped at a non-descript brown wooden door and pushed it open. He beckoned Tobin into a small hallway that seemed even smaller than it actually was because it was lined on either side with large bookcases stacked full of books. Several piles of more books sat on the floor.
“Grandpa? Are you in?” Rosney called down the passage.
“Down here, boy,” came an answering call from the room ahead.
They followed the voice and came out in a small room that was even more cluttered than the hallway. There was a battered green armchair sat in the middle of the room facing the fireplace, with a small table next it. These were clear, but every other available surface was covered in piled of books, apart from one area in the far corner that was occupied by a strange wooden contraption.
"Is that a printing press?" Tobin enquired.
"It is indeed!"
Tobin turned to see a man emerge from behind a towering stack of literature. He looked to be in the later years of his life, bald as a coot but still spy and alert. He was wearing a pair of spectacles and there were another two sets sat on the top of his head. He was dressed in dusty trousers and a threadbare waistcoat that suggested previous wealth or perhaps extreme thrift. He looked Tobin up and down for a moment, before turning to Rosney.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"
"Sure. Grandpa Words, this is Tobin Whitlaw. Tobin, Grandpa Words."
He shook Tobin's hand firmly. "It's pleasure to meet you."
"Grandpa runs a printing service for people who don't want to have the hassle of going through the sourceresses," Rosney explained. "He also, as you might have noticed, collects books."
"Rosney has no time for books," Grandpa Words said with mock sadness. "I trust you think differently?"
Tobin nodded enthusiastically. "I love books."
"Good. I'm glad you've started keeping better company, Rosney. What sort of things do you enjoy reading? Histories, or poetry perhaps? Or maybe romance?"
"Mostly books on engineering, though I like detective stories."
"Engineering, huh. Have a look at this." He cleared a space on a cluttered table and spread something out. Tobin looked over his shoulder in curiosity.
"What is that?"
"This is a copy of the schematics of the Ars Arcana, the flagship of the sourceress' fleet."
Tobin was fascinated. "Where did you get something like this?"
"I don't really remember. People bring me things; they are aware that I collect books and other thing of interest, and they know I'll pay for them. I know everything I own, and where in the house it is. But I do forget where they came from."
Rosney let them pour over the blueprints a bit longer then touched Tobin's shoulder.
"I'm sure this is enthralling but you've got to go home sooner or later."
They parted company shortly afterwards and Tobin caught a cab back to the house. He wanted to change clothes and tidy up before speaking with the earl, but didn't want to risk running into Milo before he was ready. The idea that Rosney had planted in his the previous night had taken root strongly and what he did next would depend on whether or not he could accomplish it.
Fortunately the earl was agreeable, but that meant Tobin had no further excuse to put off apologising to his brother. He paused outside the door, fist raised to knock. In all his life he could not remember anything feeling as hard to do as actually striking the door. Eventually he just gave up and pushed it open. Milo was sat at his desk, his back to the door. He did not look round as Tobin entered.
"I heard you were back. It took you long enough to make your way up here."
Milo's voice was flat; Tobin could detect no trace of emotion to help him with his apology. He swallowed.
"I needed to speak to the earl about something first, but I came here straight after. Milo, you have to know, those things I said yesterday. I didn't mean any of then. I just wanted to make you angry."
"Well, you managed that spectacularly," Milo commented, standing up. "I have never been quite so angry."
"Are ... are you still angry?" he asked timidly.
Milo sighed. "No. Not any more. I was for a while; after the party finished I didn't want to go home because I couldn't face the thought of dealing with you again. But when you didn't come home, all the angry turned into scared. I couldn't sleep last night: I was so sure you had gotten yourself killed."
"I'm so sorry. I never meant for thing to turn out the way they did."
"That's a start. I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me. And maybe I should have been a bit more considerate of how you were feeling at the time. I still think most of your worries are just in your head though," he added, poking his brother in the forehead. "You're so smart sometimes I think it knocks the common sense out of you brain."
Tobin felt a wash of relief and knew he was forgiven.
"You have to do something though," Milo continued, his tone more serious now. "You can't keep acting like this."
He nodded. "I know. That's why I needed to speak to the earl. He's agreed to sponsor my entrance to the university. Now all I need to do is find a suitable tutor (which I think I might have done;) and then actually pass the entrance exam."
"University? What made you decide that?"
"Someone made me realise what my dream was and moreover that I could achieve it if I really put my mind to it.Once I understood that, I haven't been able stop thinking about it. And I also realised that compared to all that, it didn't matter what anyone though of me. Anyone except you of course."
Milo sat down on his bed, unsure how to take this news. He was pleased Tobin had come to the same conclusion and decided to make a change in his life and even more pleased that said change did not involve leaving the city and going home. But university?
"Aren't you still too young?"
"Not really. As long as I can pass the exam. I'll have to get Father's approval, but I don't see that being the difficult part of the plan."
"How long will you stay there for? Will you have to live in the university itself?"
"Yeah. And it should be for three or four years, I think. Don't worry, I'll still come home for holidays and I'll write to you, too."
Milo sighed. "If it's what you've set your heart on I won't stop you. I will worry about you though: you don't exactly have the best record of taking care of yourself."
"It wasn't me who got shot," Tobin protested sulkily.
"No but it was you who almost died going for a ride in a thunderstorm."
"Now you are just being melodramatic. I didn't even have a scratch on me. I guess I'm just lucky."
Milo sighed. "Sure. You're just lucky, that must be it." He lay down on the bed, suddenly feeling tired. "You look a mess. Go and sort yourself out and leave me to rest." He heard the dividing door close a few moments later. Luck had nothing to do with it, he knew. His brother's life was a debt that was still unpaid and the price of that debt remained undisclosed.
As their coach pulled up at the gates to the palace it was clear that most people were already there. The sounds of music and conversation drifted on the breeze from the extensive gardens and around the corner many coaches and their drivers were waiting around for the event to finish. The coach doors were opened, they stepped out onto the gravel and were immediately met by a palace official who politely enquired their names. Milo introduced them and the man checked through his list. After studying it closely for a few minutes he looked up.
"I'm terribly sorry, but I only have one Master Whitlaw on the guest list."
"That can't be right," Milo replied. "We are both guests of the earl of -. We should both be listed."
He nodded. "Of course. I'm sure there has just been a terrible mistake. If you could just wait a moment I'm sure I can get this resolved."
Tobin looked around and noticed several people were watching them from the other side of the gates.
"Forget about it, I'll just go home," he said with a sigh, then turned and started walking back to the coach. He stopped after a few paces and turned back to Milo who was still standing there. "Are you coming?"
Milo looked uncomfortable. "Lady Hawke and Felicity are already in there, " he said quietly. "I should at least tell them what has happened."
Tobin felt his anger growing, knotting in his stomach like something alive. "I see. Very well, I shall go home alone then."
"I'm sure if you give them a couple of minutes they will fix the mistake."
"But it's not a mistake, is it? My sort isn't welcome here and I was stupid to think otherwise.”
“You don't know that, Tobin,” Milo reminded him. He pushed his hand through his hair, feeling deeply conflicted. He did feel he could let his brother go home alone and miserable; but at the same time, walking away from a garden party hosted by the king of Tobermoerai was not an easy thing to do. “I thought we'd been over this.”
“Yes, yes, I'm Father's son too,” he retorted, then stopped. “Maybe you're right.” He felt Milo was dismissing his anger and this made him feel worse. He wanted his brother to feel angry too, and if he wasn’t angry in empathy with him, then just plain angry would do.
“I am?” Milo asked hopefully. “I mean, of course I am.”
“After all, taking in another baby when you already have children, that's a big thing. Most people wouldn't do that without a good reason.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm just saying. Maybe you were more accurate than you thought when you said I was as much Father's son as you were.”
The meaning of his brother's words finally sunk in and suddenly Milo no longer felt conflicted. He took a step forward and struck Tobin as hard as he could. While Tobin was expecting the blow, Milo was considerably stronger and he staggered back, hand to face.
“How could you?” Milo shouted. He knew people would be staring, but at that moment in time he did not care. “How could you say those things, after everything that Father has ever done for you? Get out of my sight,” he added coldly. “I don't want to even look at you right now.”
Milo turned away and headed into the gardens, leaving Tobin to slink back to the coach. No questions were asked when he requested to return home early. The coach rolled away from the palace and he curled into the corner, feeling sick and angry. He could barely feel the blow that Milo had dealt him, though he suspected there was a good mark on his face. Staring despondently out of the window, he suddenly realised he recognised where he was. He called out to the driver to stop the coach.
“Are you sure? There's nothing around here.”
“It's fine. I can find my own way from here.” He let himself out and headed down the street.
Tobin was surprised but relieved to discover he remembered the way perfectly. Soon he was standing underneath the painted sign, looking at the dark door. There was no sound of music or voices this time; it was clearly too early for that. His anger had faded enough to allow him to wonder exactly what he was doing here. Last time they were in this area they had been mugged and Milo had almost died. Why then had he chosen to come here, rather than somewhere safe like the library? He sighed and took a deep breath before pushing open the door. Walking back on his own was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment. Inside he found Dahlia wiping down the tables in the bar area. She looked up as he entered.
“Sorry sir, we're not open yet.”
“Oh, no I was just looking for a man I met here.”
She shook her head. “Only girls in this house. Maybe it was at the club on Canal Street? There are male performers there.”
Tobin blushed vividly. “Not like that! I think he's related to the owner; a tall man with long blond hair?”
A look of realisation came over her face. “Oh, you must mean Rosebud. Hey, Lily?” She turned to a petite blonde who was polishing glasses behind the bar. “Go and see if Rosney is still around.” She tuned back to Tobin. “Hey, I remember you. You were here the other night. Your brother had been shot. How's he doing?”
“He's doing fine,” Tobin muttered.
Dahlia was surprised at his dismissive tone. Before she could question him further, Rosney appeared. He approached with a grin and put his arm around Tobin's shoulders.
“So, I hear you've been looking for me? What's up, did you have a fight with your boyfriend?”
Tobin pushed him away with a look of disgust. “Milo is my brother and no, I actually came to offer to buy you a drink. To say thank you for helping the other day. I'm not sure I want to, now,” he added.
Rosney seemed unperturbed. “Of course you do. That's a fine idea.”
He grabbed his hat from the stand and pushed Tobin out the door before he could protest further. Behind them, the two women looked each other.
“Why don't I deserve to be taken out for a drink?” Dahlia asked. “It wasn't Rosney up to his knees in bloody bandages that night.”
“He's not really your type, though,” Lily pointed out. “Not that I've known you pay attention to any man since I've known you.”
“It would have been nice to have been asked at least. But you're right: cradle-snatching's not my thing and even if he were older, I've learned good things don't come from getting involved.”
“Now you're just being silly. Look at this.” She disappeared into the sewing room and came back with a length of vivid green cloth. “Isn't it beautiful?”
“Another present from Percy, I take it?”
“Yes. Isn't he a darling? This is coloured with his new dye; he says it will never fade or wash out. He's having a dress made for the Princess Alexandria out of the same fabric. Can you believe it? Me, nothing more than a common whore, wearing a dress cut from the same cloth as a princess.”
Dahlia sighed. “Don't talk that way about yourself. You're a dancer, not a whore. Or at least, you wouldn't be if you didn't prostitute yourself out to that man.”
Lily's face darkened. “What is your problem with Percy? You've never liked him.”
“Because I know what men like him are like. He'll shower you with gifts now, but when something better catches his eye he'll leave you in the dirt.”
“I don't believe you. He loves me; he told me he did.”
“Of course he did. But think about it. He's already pretty wealthy; he's about to get a royal warrant for his dyes. He could have his pick of women. There have already been roumers about him and the Lady Sandleford.”
“You’re just jealous,” Lily spat. “Just because no one’s interested in a bitter old hag like you.” She stormed off.
“Oh well done. She's going to be a nightmare to work with tonight.”
Dahlia turned to see one of the other performers who had just come in the front door.
“She'll be okay, Poppy. It's only me she's mad at.”
“I'm not worried about her being angry; I'm worried about her being distracted. When a girl is flicking flowers out of my cleavage with a bull-whip I like her to have her full attention on the task.” She walked over to the bar and poured herself a drink. “Why do you give her a hard time about Percy?”
“Because she doesn't understand what she's getting into. She genuinely thinks he's going to propose; whisk her off to some beautiful house in the nice part of the city. It's going to break her heart when he doesn't.”
“Maybe he will.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Poppy shook her head. “No, not really. But stranger things have happened. Besides sometimes you've just got to see these things for yourself. As long as you keep telling her she is wrong, she'll keep believing she's right. That's just human nature.”
A short way away Rosney had led Tobin to a nearby inn. It was too early to be busy but there were still a few men drinking. As he entered one of them, a grey-haired man with a pipe clamped between toothless gums, waved cheerfully at Rosney.
“Evenin' Rosebud!”
Rosney scowled and muttered something under his breath. He gestured to a table in the corner and he and Tobin sat down. A moment later the barmaid wandered over.
“Evening Ros. Usual?” she enquired cheerfully, twirling a loose strand of hair between her fingers as she spoke.
“Sure. Wait, no, make it whiskey. And a good one, not the cheap stuff old Fisher's pouring down his neck.” He indicated the man who had greeted him earlier.
She shook her head. “Not on your tab, Mister. Sorry but it is more than my job's worth.”
“It's okay. Drinks are on him tonight.”
“How much?” Tobin enquired politely. She told him and he handed her the coins. He wondered what his father would say if he caught him spending his allowance in this manner. She returned a few minutes later with a couple of glasses of whiskey and set them down with a smile.
“Let me know when you want another.”
Rosney picked up his glass. “Here's to you, my friend.”
Tobin smiled and took a sip. The alcohol burned the back of his throat and he coughed. “Ugh, this is supposed to be good?”
Rosney laughed. “Not a big drinker I take it. Don't worry; the more you drink the better it tastes.”
“Why does everyone call you Rosebud?” he enquired.
Rosney sighed. “Is there no one who doesn't know that joke? Look, it's simple: Rose was my mother's name. Rose; Rosebud. Get it? For some reason people still find it funny even now. And if I ever catch you calling me it I'll cut your ears off,” he added coldly.
Tobin grinned and took another drink. It did seem to taste better this time. “So, your mother works at the Black Bouquet?” he guessed.
“She used to; in fact she used to run it. She did pretty well for a woman on her own with a young child to look after. Of course, that was until our house caught fire. I was twelve at the time, always out causing trouble. I guess I must have forgotten to turn off the stove that day. By the time I got back, the fire was too fierce; no one could even get close. Mum never made it out.”
“I'm sorry,” Tobin said softly.
“Why? It wasn't your fault. If you're going to say anything, say 'let me buy you another drink.'“
Tobin caught the attention of the barmaid who came over and re-filled their glasses. Rosney drained his drink in one go and then set the glass down on the table with a thump.
“So,” he said, looking Tobin directly in the eye. “Why did you really come here? You didn't come here to talk about my childhood and I don't think you've got much to thank me for, given that it was partly my fault your brother was shot. So what's the real reason?”
Tobin looked away, feeling embarrassed. He took a long drink. “You were right the first time,” he said quietly. “I did have a fight with Milo. I don't think we've ever argued like that before. We've disagreed about things, sure; wound each other up at times, but never anything like this. He even hit me.” He finished his drink. “The thing is I deserved it completely: I said some really unpleasant things, things I’d never even imagine saying normally. I guess I was angry and I wanted to make him angry too.”
“What happened?”
Tobin told him about what had happened that afternoon. He left out exactly what he had said to Milo, as he was feeling deeply ashamed of his actions. He did find he felt better for talking about the event though, and soon found himself expanding on everything that had happened since they arrived at the earl’s home. Rosney listened patiently until he had finished.
“Is that all?”
“All?” Tobin exclaimed.
Rosney held up a hand. “Sure, it’s pretty rude, but it sounds like someone is deliberately trying to bait you and succeeding every time. Why give them the satisfaction? I mean, are you really that bothered about missing out on stuffy parties?”
“I guess not,” he admitted. “There probably wouldn't have been anyone interesting to talk to.”
“There you go then. If they don't invite you, find something better to do with your time. I'm always up for being bought a drink, for example.”
Tobin smiled. “That wasn't quite how I pictured spending my time,” he admitted.
“So what do you want to do with your life?”
“I really want to be an airship engineer. But that's not going to happen.”
“Why not? Surely someone like you can get a place at the university?”
“Airships in Tobermoerai are all powered by sorceresses. I want to make real ones, powered by engines, not magic.”
“So go for it. Be the first one to design a non-magical airship. Or leave the country, go and work on foreign ones.”
Tobin thought about that for a moment. “Huh. I never thought about doing that. What about you?”
Rosney signalled for another drink. “Well, the Black Bouquet is mine, but I'm happy to leave the running of it to Madam at the moment. I'm going to save up a bit more money and then I'm going to see if I can get Katja home. It's hard, as she can't tell us anything directly, but I've been working with a friend and we think we've got some clues.”
More drinks were bought and they carried on drinking and talking as the sky outside grew dark and the stars came out. Several hours had passed before Tobin took out his pocket-watch to check the time. The face swam before his eyes and he found he could not read the hands.
“I ought to go home,” he mumbled. He tried to stand and promptly fell off his chair. Laughing, Rosney helped him to his feet.
“Definitely not a big drinker!” He helped Tobin out of the bar and into the cool street. “I guess I can't let you go home like this. You better sleep at mine tonight.”
Tobin barely heard him. Suddenly everything felt distant and ethereal. The cobbles hardly registered beneath his feet and despite it being a late autumn evening he felt no chill. In the back of his mind he had the feeling that he should feel scared by this but instead he just felt warm and a bit giddy.
Together they staggered back to the Black Bouquet, but instead of going through the front door Rosney led the way round the back. He held a finger up to his lips then opened a door and Tobin stumbled into a large room. Blearily he looked and saw several of the performers sat around. Round them were boxes of props, from feather fans and ribbons to bull-whips and handcuffs. He was no longer feeling warm and comfortable; instead he was experiencing a growing sense of nausea, not helped by the fact the floor seemed to be rolling under his feet. He felt Rosney take his arm and try to lead him through the room. He managed two more steps before everything went black.
Tobin woke the next morning and immediately wished he had not. The grimy window was not enough to prevent beams of sunlight streaming through and each one felt light a knife driven into the back of his skull via the eyeball. He groaned and buried his head under the pillow. His mouth felt and tasted like he had slept with a sock in it, and there was a deeply unpleasant smell in the room.
“Morning!” said an odiously cheerful voice.
After a few minutes, Tobin risked peaking out from under the pillow. He was in a small room, obviously in the attic of the building. To his left he could see Rosney, who was leaning against the wall and eating something that seemed to be the source of the evil smell. He sat up slowly, wishing the room would stop swaying.
“What is that?”
Rosney looked down at the sandwich in his hand. “This? This is the best hangover cure in the world. It's a fried egg and dripping sandwich, with lots of piccalilli. I made you one too.” He offered him a plate and Tobin blanched. Rosney looked alarmed. “ Hey, you can get out of my bed if you're going to throw up.”
“I'm fine. Just... Just take that away.”
“Suit yourself,” he replied, then proceeded to eat the other sandwich. “I sent a note to your house. The last thing I want is to get accused of kidnapping.”
“Thanks,” he said, resting his head in his hands. “Oh, Milo is going to kill me.”
“Your brother? No, I think he'll forgive you. That's what family's do for each other. He might not let you forget it though.”
Tobin wanted nothing more than to put his head back under the pillow and forget about everything, but that was not really an option, especially in someone else's home. Rosney offered to lend him some spare clothes, but they were several sizes too big. For a few minutes he was could not decide which to choose: dirty clothes that fitted, or clean ones that did not. Rosney watched his dilemma with undisguised amusement. Eventually clean clothes won out.
“The kitchen is just downstairs,” Rosney advised. “I'll meet you down there.”
Tobin made his way gingerly down the steep staircase. The world had stopped spinning at least, but he still felt distinctly unsteady. At the bottom were several doors, but only one was open and he could smell food from within. Inside he found Katja sitting at the table eating porridge. She gave him a friendly wave, as if he were someone she had known for a long time, rather than someone she had met briefly. He sat down at the round oak table next to her.
“How are you feeling?”
He turned to see Dahlia standing in the doorway, a sympathetic smile on her face.
“Not good,” he admitted. “Is this normal? To feel this way after drinking alcohol?”
“It is if you go drinking with Ros. He doesn't mean any harm, but he forgets that most people don't have his tolerance for drink. His mother was just the same. Rose Black could drink men under the table and then go on to dance the night away, none the worse for any of it.” She handed Tobin a glass of water. “Drink that; you'll feel better soon enough.”
He accepted it gratefully. “I've never asked your name,” he realised.
“They call me Dahlia.”
“No, I mean your real name.”
She seemed amused by this. “It's Bryony. Bryony Greenlove.” She turned to the stove. “Did Rosney offer you breakfast? I've got some eggs here.”
The idea of eating, combined with the still-vivid memory of the smell of Rosney's sandwich was too much for Tobin. He turned away from the table and retched. Quickly, Bryony thrust a large bowl in his hands.
"Sorry kid. I guess that was a stupid question." She patted his back ineffectually as he was violently sick.
"I'm so sorry," he gasped.
"It's okay; we've all been there," she assured him.
"I've been so stupid."
"Maybe, but you don't know your limits until you run into them."
He coughed once more then sighed and set the bowl aside. "It's not just last night, though that was pretty stupid. No, ever since I came to the city I've been behaving like an idiot. I've been acting like a spoilt child and now I may have damaged things in a way I can't repair."
This wasn't how I was planning to spend my morning, Bryony though. Why do I seem to be constantly cleaning up other people's mess?
"Look, things always seem worse when you are hungover. You'll see; it won't be as bad as you fear. Besides, everyone makes mistakes: it's all part of growing up. Just learn from them and set them aside, don't let them define you.”
“You should listen to her, Tobin. Bryony's a smart woman.”
They both turned to see Rosney standing in the doorway.
“That I might be, but I'm also a woman with lots to do. You feeling better now, sweetheart? Good. Then you should go home. You've got to do it sooner or later.”
Rosney nodded. “Come on, I'll walk with you as far the river.” He led Tobin through a door that opened out behind the bar in the main room and they headed out into the street. It was drizzling outside, a light rain that seemed nevertheless to quickly permeate its way through their clothes. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to get sick.”
“It's not your fault. I should have been more careful. I appreciate you taking the time to listen to me though. It's good to know I do have a friend in the city.”
“Any time. I mean that.”
“Just as long as the earl doesn't decide to send me home in shame.”
“Do you think he will?”
“I really hope not. I've been thinking about what you said last night and there's something I'd like to do.” He explained his tentative plans to Rosney, who nodded.
“Have you got some time to spare? There’s someone I think you should meet.”
Tobin shrugged. “I’m late enough as it is. I doubt a little longer is going to make any difference.”
Rosney turned off the street they were walking and head up a steep alley. At the end of it he stopped at a non-descript brown wooden door and pushed it open. He beckoned Tobin into a small hallway that seemed even smaller than it actually was because it was lined on either side with large bookcases stacked full of books. Several piles of more books sat on the floor.
“Grandpa? Are you in?” Rosney called down the passage.
“Down here, boy,” came an answering call from the room ahead.
They followed the voice and came out in a small room that was even more cluttered than the hallway. There was a battered green armchair sat in the middle of the room facing the fireplace, with a small table next it. These were clear, but every other available surface was covered in piled of books, apart from one area in the far corner that was occupied by a strange wooden contraption.
"Is that a printing press?" Tobin enquired.
"It is indeed!"
Tobin turned to see a man emerge from behind a towering stack of literature. He looked to be in the later years of his life, bald as a coot but still spy and alert. He was wearing a pair of spectacles and there were another two sets sat on the top of his head. He was dressed in dusty trousers and a threadbare waistcoat that suggested previous wealth or perhaps extreme thrift. He looked Tobin up and down for a moment, before turning to Rosney.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"
"Sure. Grandpa Words, this is Tobin Whitlaw. Tobin, Grandpa Words."
He shook Tobin's hand firmly. "It's pleasure to meet you."
"Grandpa runs a printing service for people who don't want to have the hassle of going through the sourceresses," Rosney explained. "He also, as you might have noticed, collects books."
"Rosney has no time for books," Grandpa Words said with mock sadness. "I trust you think differently?"
Tobin nodded enthusiastically. "I love books."
"Good. I'm glad you've started keeping better company, Rosney. What sort of things do you enjoy reading? Histories, or poetry perhaps? Or maybe romance?"
"Mostly books on engineering, though I like detective stories."
"Engineering, huh. Have a look at this." He cleared a space on a cluttered table and spread something out. Tobin looked over his shoulder in curiosity.
"What is that?"
"This is a copy of the schematics of the Ars Arcana, the flagship of the sourceress' fleet."
Tobin was fascinated. "Where did you get something like this?"
"I don't really remember. People bring me things; they are aware that I collect books and other thing of interest, and they know I'll pay for them. I know everything I own, and where in the house it is. But I do forget where they came from."
Rosney let them pour over the blueprints a bit longer then touched Tobin's shoulder.
"I'm sure this is enthralling but you've got to go home sooner or later."
They parted company shortly afterwards and Tobin caught a cab back to the house. He wanted to change clothes and tidy up before speaking with the earl, but didn't want to risk running into Milo before he was ready. The idea that Rosney had planted in his the previous night had taken root strongly and what he did next would depend on whether or not he could accomplish it.
Fortunately the earl was agreeable, but that meant Tobin had no further excuse to put off apologising to his brother. He paused outside the door, fist raised to knock. In all his life he could not remember anything feeling as hard to do as actually striking the door. Eventually he just gave up and pushed it open. Milo was sat at his desk, his back to the door. He did not look round as Tobin entered.
"I heard you were back. It took you long enough to make your way up here."
Milo's voice was flat; Tobin could detect no trace of emotion to help him with his apology. He swallowed.
"I needed to speak to the earl about something first, but I came here straight after. Milo, you have to know, those things I said yesterday. I didn't mean any of then. I just wanted to make you angry."
"Well, you managed that spectacularly," Milo commented, standing up. "I have never been quite so angry."
"Are ... are you still angry?" he asked timidly.
Milo sighed. "No. Not any more. I was for a while; after the party finished I didn't want to go home because I couldn't face the thought of dealing with you again. But when you didn't come home, all the angry turned into scared. I couldn't sleep last night: I was so sure you had gotten yourself killed."
"I'm so sorry. I never meant for thing to turn out the way they did."
"That's a start. I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me. And maybe I should have been a bit more considerate of how you were feeling at the time. I still think most of your worries are just in your head though," he added, poking his brother in the forehead. "You're so smart sometimes I think it knocks the common sense out of you brain."
Tobin felt a wash of relief and knew he was forgiven.
"You have to do something though," Milo continued, his tone more serious now. "You can't keep acting like this."
He nodded. "I know. That's why I needed to speak to the earl. He's agreed to sponsor my entrance to the university. Now all I need to do is find a suitable tutor (which I think I might have done;) and then actually pass the entrance exam."
"University? What made you decide that?"
"Someone made me realise what my dream was and moreover that I could achieve it if I really put my mind to it.Once I understood that, I haven't been able stop thinking about it. And I also realised that compared to all that, it didn't matter what anyone though of me. Anyone except you of course."
Milo sat down on his bed, unsure how to take this news. He was pleased Tobin had come to the same conclusion and decided to make a change in his life and even more pleased that said change did not involve leaving the city and going home. But university?
"Aren't you still too young?"
"Not really. As long as I can pass the exam. I'll have to get Father's approval, but I don't see that being the difficult part of the plan."
"How long will you stay there for? Will you have to live in the university itself?"
"Yeah. And it should be for three or four years, I think. Don't worry, I'll still come home for holidays and I'll write to you, too."
Milo sighed. "If it's what you've set your heart on I won't stop you. I will worry about you though: you don't exactly have the best record of taking care of yourself."
"It wasn't me who got shot," Tobin protested sulkily.
"No but it was you who almost died going for a ride in a thunderstorm."
"Now you are just being melodramatic. I didn't even have a scratch on me. I guess I'm just lucky."
Milo sighed. "Sure. You're just lucky, that must be it." He lay down on the bed, suddenly feeling tired. "You look a mess. Go and sort yourself out and leave me to rest." He heard the dividing door close a few moments later. Luck had nothing to do with it, he knew. His brother's life was a debt that was still unpaid and the price of that debt remained undisclosed.