The Lie-Smith's Son

“Well, if he doesn’t exist,” Larei mused, fidgeting with her ring a little more, “who’s the one playin’ games?” Her eyes shifted sharply to the right. She could’ve sworn in the mere moment she took to breathe, soft footsteps scurrying away from her and Eiel could be heard on the breeze. Or perhaps it was her imagination. Either way, this place was making her claustrophobic–paranoid. Add the suspense; the murder, and the intrusion that was a holy man on the premises reminding her of the hot sin in the South, well. It was an opulent powder keg of perfume and finery waiting to explode in a haze of shattered hopes and varying desolations. “It’s an exorbitant amount’uv effort and finances to go to all this trouble…” And who had money like this? The mysterious stranger; Luke whats-his-face? The good doctor? Certainly not the priest. What was to be gained by all of this? What was the play, because the play was the thing?

She shook off an unexpected chill  and rubbed her arms, drawing her silvery stole up over her shoulders in the wake of a passing breeze that breathed down her neck like a wintry ghost more than a friendly reminder of nature’s presence. Nothing felt natural here. Nothing but the need to drink, of course, and a few other primal urges. Fatal curiosity, for example, and a fondness for tall men and gracious women. There was much to distract her here, and that concerned Larei, too.

One could not afford distractions on the battle field. If that’s what this terrain turned out to be, of course.

“Sorry,” she said honestly, lifting her brows at Eiel apologetically for touching him without permission. “Ah find a lotta feelings when I’m tipsy.” She laughed faintly, kneading her forehead and turning away. “In any case–y’wanna earn your weekly pay…?” She twiddled a hand at him, peeking around a corner nonchalantly–then swung back around to eye him, gauging Eiel’s usefulness. More than she’d bargained for thus far–much more.

“I need y’to watch somebody for me, Eiel, darlin’.”

“Someone with a sick sense of humour and a ridiculous amount of money?” Eiel offered, shrugging a shoulder and rubbing the back of his neck. “Or maybe your host is a guest. I’m honestly not sure.” And that was a word he seldom used, ‘honest’. It never sat right on his tongue. He watched her as she watched room; wondered what was going on in her head that made her so uncomfortable, despite being perfectly and happily fizzy on drink. She hadn’t just had the one glass of brandy, he was certain of it; she kept the stuff close to her at all times. It was like a woman’s clutch, but alcoholic. Or something. 

He had the sudden urge to step forward and offer her his coat - but he would be needing that, he would be leaving shortly. He couldn’t stay in this room with her for the rest of the night. He had to go to sleep, ruminate on things, possibly get drunk again to avoid bad dreams and worse memories. He couldn’t afford to get close to this woman who became his employer. He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to. 

“It’s fine,” he said dismissively, looking away from her. “I’ve a sensitivity that I need to control better, is all.” A sensitivity and traumatic stress and a million other things and none of that mattered, none of it; he was here to survive and get paid and talk riddles with pretty women, apparently. He honestly originally thought he was here for dinner. 

Standing up straighter, he tilted his head at her; arms folded in front of him. 

Casting another glance back at Eiel, Larei debated with herself and wondered whether or not she shouldn’t ramp up the charm. She hardly needed to. And didn’t want to, more importantly, where Eiel was concerned. He was unfalteringly loyal, and she wondered if it had to do more with the camaraderie they shared (in secret; she felt, both of them being likely liars, and all–or at least folks used to withholding the truth). And maybe more. Again, she couldn’t afford to get sidetracked at the moment. Perhaps later.

“…A sensitivity ain’t anythang to be ashamed of, sugar,” Larei stated firmly, calmly. “Anyway–first order’a business is y’get some good hot food in ya.” Her eyes narrowed, voice softening.

“Keep an eye on Basil for me. The good priest.” Her sarcasm flickered; a snake tongue, around the words. “Only for as long as possible–don’t upset the apple cart.” She tucked a twenty dollar bill into his jacket pocket, otherwise keeping her distance. Respecting the sensitivity. Trying not to write her own manipulative symphony–for despite the way a socialite could charm tunes of truth out of people like fiddles from devils in Georgia, with Eiel and a handful of others, Larei was genuine. 

“And then get some sleep,” Larei murmured, motioning for him to go.

“Ah’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow.”