The Master of Misrule (11 page)

A
NOISY PACK OF TOURISTS
got between Flora and Blaine during the bus ride home, so both were free to sit in their separate silences. Silently, she indicated their stop; silently, the two of them made their way alongside the park and turned into the row of mansions, with their ranks of pillars and porticoes.

Flora led the way into the house with a nonchalance she did not feel. The interior was adorned in “pearl,” “chiffon,” “jasmine” and “mist”—all subtle variations on white, and chosen to provide a restful backdrop for Mr. Seaton’s collection of Chinese porcelain and Mrs. Seaton’s inherited antiques. None of the lights could be turned to anything stronger than a flattering glow, which gave the impression that everyone who entered the house had been discreetly airbrushed.

“Nice place,” said Blaine, and Flora—braced for something awkward or snide—found herself smiling at him in relief.

She took him to the smallest of the three guest bedrooms. The décor was a little chintzy, perhaps, with its lace curtains and embroidered bedspread, but it felt less like a hotel room than the others, and was slightly out of the way at the top of the house.

“Here we are! Whew—sorry about all the stairs. Now then, your bathroom is through that door. There should be towels and so on already laid out. My room’s back on the first landing, second from the left, if you, um, you know, need anything. I’ll be in the kitchen for now. It’s in the basement. So whenever you’re ready to eat, come down and we can fix something up. Otherwise, I’ll leave you to get settled. Unless there’s anything else you …?”

Blaine bounced his grubby duffel bag against a leg. He looked too big, too dark, altogether too male for that dainty room.

“Actually, I could do with using a washing machine.”

“Of course. I mean, yes, that’s no problem. I’ll show you the utility room. Do you need a change of clothes? Because I’m sure my dad’s—”

His mouth twisted in amusement. “No, I think I can manage.” Then he noticed her discomfited expression. “Thanks, though.”

He came down to the kitchen about twenty minutes later, in a clean if fraying T-shirt, and still damp from the shower.
Flora heard the cough before she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

Mina had prepared a casserole, more than enough for two, and Flora put it on the Aga cooker to warm. The rich, soothing smell filled the kitchen. Flora had turned the radio on low and begun to chop vegetables while she waited. There had also been time to change her rumpled top, wash her face and put up her hair. She felt much better after doing this.

“Oh, hello, there you are. Is that the washing? Good. The utility room’s just through here. Let me show you.”

In theory, Flora did know how to use the washer and dryer, but since Mina was in charge of the laundry, she had no practical experience in getting them to work. Talking a little too much, a little too quickly, she showed him where the array of detergents was kept, and what she hoped was the right sequence of buttons. She was careful not to look as he put his shabby bundle into the machine.

Things went more easily after this. The kitchen, with its old oak table and cream walls, was cozier than the rest of the house, and the rhythmic gurgles of the washing machine were friendly sounds, mingling with the quiet chatter of the radio. Flora heaped two bowls with casserole and brought the vegetables, bread and cheese to the table. Salt and pepper, butter, a water jug. Plus a bottle of cough syrup she’d found in the medicine cabinet.

Blaine accepted his bowl without comment and they passed the dishes between them silently. Oddly, this didn’t feel awkward. As soon as Flora began to eat, she realized she
was ravenous. She hadn’t eaten anything since a few canapés at the Avoncourts’ party.

“My mum’s always wanted one of those,” Blaine said out of nowhere. He nodded toward the glossy cream Aga.

“Really? Well, they
are
lovely, even if they are old-fashioned. And ours can be tricky to cook on; we usually end up using the electric stove.”

She spoke to cover her surprise. It was the first personal information he’d ever volunteered. “Where’s your mother now?” she heard herself asking.

“She’s ill.”

“Oh.” She looked down into her water glass. “Mine drinks.”

She watched Blaine butter another piece of bread. Newly washed, his skin still had a worn, grayish look, especially around the eyes. Not that he looked frail, of course—with his light brown hair cropped, the bones of his face seemed harder, and he had bulk as well as height. Or rather, he had the frame for sturdiness; it stopped him from appearing too obviously thin.

Normal small talk wasn’t an option, which left the Arcanum and its attendant traumas the only topic they had in common. But Flora discovered she wanted them to keep talking anyway.

She leaned forward a little. “Blaine, what was it really like when you played your Knight of Wands?”

Blaine didn’t look up from his food. “It took me to a place full of tombs. There were statues of knights on them,
but the man I was looking for wasn’t there. Not in a grave, nor out of one.”

“So … what do you want from him?”

He took a slow sip of water. Carefully, he put his fork down on the table. His jaw had tightened. Still, he didn’t seem properly angry. More like he was bracing himself for something.

He was just about to speak when the doorbell rang.

Flora went to answer the door feeling exasperated and apprehensive in equal measure. It was nine-thirty at night, for goodness’ sake. She hoped it wasn’t some busybody neighbor, coming to check up on her because her parents were away.

“Hello, honeybun.”

Charlie was standing on one of the lower steps, grinning up at her from under his mop of fair hair.

“Well, um, hello to you, too. This is a … surprise.”

“A nice one, I hope.”

“Of course. It’s just that I …”

“I’ve been over at Rory’s. Bit of an impromptu party going on.”

Yes, she thought. His cheeks were a telltale pink, and he was speaking more loudly than usual.

“Anyhow, I wasn’t really up for it, so I thought I’d swing by on the way home to see how you’re doing, since you’re all on your lonesome. Did your folks get off all right?”

“Absolutely. Daddy left a voice mail to say everything
was fine. Listen, it’s awfully sweet of you to come round, but—”

Somehow, he was swinging confidently past her into the hall. “I hope Mina’s stocked up on the munchies. I’m absolutely
starving
.”

Flora hastened after him. “Wait, Charlie. The thing is, it’s not really a good time—”

Too late: he was already thumping down the stairs to the kitchen. “Hello, hello,” she could hear Charlie saying genially. “Who’s this?”

Flora counted to ten, squared her shoulders and went down to join the fray. Charlie was lounging against the Aga, looking exaggeratedly relaxed, as he assessed Blaine—his tattered clothes and bare feet. The dirty duffel bag propped against the door to the utility room.

“Blaine—this is a friend of mine, Charlie. Charlie, this is Blaine.”

Blaine gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. Then he went back to his food.

“Blaine’s visiting London for a few days. On, erm, work experience,” Flora said overbrightly. She began to twirl her hair. “Anyway, he’s had an absolute
nightmare
with the organization he’s with. There was the most frightful mix-up with the accommodation—you wouldn’t believe! So he’s staying here for a night or two while they sort everything out.”

“I see. And you two know each other from …?”

“St. Bernadine’s,” Flora said before the silence went on
for too long. “It’s a church outreach program. The work experience, I mean. They, um, help coordinate it.”

Charlie was still smiling. “So you’re going to be a priest, Blaine? Or a choirboy?”

Blaine made a hacking, hawking noise in his throat, as if he was about to spit, and reached for the water jug.

“Mmm. That’ll be ‘no comment,’ then.… And how do your parents—” But as Charlie turned to Flora, he did a double take. “God, Flo, what on earth have you done to your face?”

“Oh.” Her hands flew defensively to her cheek. In the dimness of the hall and stairs, her scratches had been hardly noticeable. But she had just moved under one of the spotlights and the marks were now obvious. “Nothing. Just this stray cat I tried to make friends with, till it went all psycho-kitty on me.”

“That’s the thing about you, Flo: you’re a soft touch for any old stray.” He looked more closely at her. “Hey, your hands are all cut up, too.”

“No, they’re fine, honestly. It looks worse than it is.”

“Let me have a look. Don’t be shy—I’ve got the healing touch, you know. Magic fingers!”

“Charlie, don’t, no—”

Charlie reached for her wrists and she backed away, laughing nervously. They had a breathless little mock tussle by the dresser, and she found she was looking over at Blaine, as if in appeal.

He got to his feet with a noisy scraping of the chair.

“I’m beat. If it’s OK with you, I think I’ll head for bed.” Blaine took his plates to the sink and ran some water over them. Then he looked sidelong at Charlie. “Got a lot of praying to do.”

In silence, the other two listened to his feet going up the stairs.

“Well,” said Charlie, “I hope you’re not going to wake up tomorrow and find all the silver’s missing.”

“Don’t be silly.” Flora set about stacking the dishwasher to cover her confusion.

“C’mon—a church outreach program?”

“That’s right.”

“He doesn’t look like a good Catholic schoolboy to me. But I’m not sure how much of a good Catholic schoolgirl you are, either.”

She whirled round on her heel. “Exactly what do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. Sorry. Bloody hell.” Charlie rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, frowning. “It’s just that … OK, sometimes, Flo, I get the feeling there’s all this deep stuff going on with you that no one knows about. Maybe it’s to do with the way you just … disappear … every so often. It’s as if you completely drop off the planet. And then when I see you afterward, it seems you’re, I don’t know,
going through the motions
. Like there’s a part of you that’s not really there, and that maybe it’s the most important part. The part none of us ever gets to see.”

Flora realized she was holding her breath. Charlie was more observant—unnervingly so—than she had given him
credit for. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said carefully, despising herself. “The truth is, there are days when I need to disappear for my own sanity. Because there are some things you can’t share with other people, however much you want to. Deeply personal, painful things—things that belong in families.”

Charlie looked abashed, as she had meant him to. There was a pact among Flora’s friends never to mention Grace, or Mrs. Seaton’s little weakness. Nobody was quite certain how this agreement had come about, but all were sure it was with Flora’s approval.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course you’re right. I’m being insensitive, and I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

“Always.” She smiled up at him in guilt and relief.

“Just remember,” he told her as she walked him to the door, “if you ever have anything you want to share, anything at all, I’m here for you. I know how lame this sounds, but … honestly, Flo, there’s no part of you I wouldn’t like.”

After Charlie had gone and she had cleared away the rest of the supper things, Flora went to sit in Grace’s bedroom. Most of Grace’s things had long since been packed away, but a representative selection of books and posters stayed. To a casual visitor, it looked as if the Seatons’ eldest daughter had gone away to university. Flora sat on the bed and looked from the bookcase—where
Little House on the Prairie
rested against
The Bell Jar
—to a Man Ray print on the wall. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to bring back the image of Grace working at her desk—the warm halo of
light around her bent head, how her frown of concentration lifted into a welcoming smile when she saw her little sister at the door. But the picture wouldn’t come. Instead, Grace’s face was obscured by a tangle of black wool and briar-swords.

Flora’s whole body ached with exhaustion. Now that she was alone in the silence, the creeping coldness had returned. She went and ran a bath, as scalding hot as she could bear, but even when her flinching pink flesh was totally submerged, she couldn’t stop shivering. She lay in the steaming water and sobbed, and sobbed.

B
LAINE HEARD
F
LORA CRYING
as he went downstairs to collect his laundry. The sound was muffled and rhythmic, an almost mechanical keening, and was as familiar to him as other household noises, like a vacuum cleaner or radio.

He was tired but not sleepy. The house was too silent, the bed too soft; his limbs sank into it without relaxing, as if they didn’t quite trust that the cushioning wasn’t about to give way. How many weeks since he had last slept in a proper bed? Over a month, he thought—not since that emergency shelter in Holloway. There had been a couple of hostels before that, interspersed with night buses and train stations, a park bench on one or two fraught occasions.