Jean’s brand of revenge didn’t run to murder. “Once you send me that file, I’ll let you out of it. I know you didn’t want to be involved.”
“In what you and Lucienne were doing?”
He nodded. Even here, it didn’t pay to be too specific.
“Actually,” Cricket said, balling her hands in the pockets of her robe, “I was kind of changing my mind.”
Sitting at the kitchen table, they drank a great deal of tea. Cricket hunched over her mug, sipping distractedly, while Jean filled and refilled it. “So tell me about André,” he said, when her fingers were no longer clenched so tightly on the cup that they whitened at the edges.
Her eyes were red, the lid-edges slick inside the lashes when she looked up. “What do you need?”
“Why does he want to conjure so bad?” She opened her mouth a little too fast, and Jean held up his hand. “Not the facile answer, please. You’re an archinformist”—she laughed—“don’t tell me you didn’t pull his records back to first grade before you got involved with him.”
The corner of her mouth quirked. Touché. “He’d never tell you. He’s got a sister he can’t stand. Left home in his teens, after his older brother got killed in a gang fight and he didn’t pass evaluation for Exigency Corps training.”
“So he wanted to be a god-botherer. He’s got the talent—”
“His mother was a conjure.” She pushed the cup away with her fingertips. Jean felt it scrape through the table and lifted his hands. “His sister is, too. He doesn’t talk about them. I can only speculate…”
“So? Speculate.”
She snatched the teacup and drained it. “I think he blames his mom for…He had a brother. A year older. Honoré. A tough boy, ran with a bad crowd. And whether their mom could actually conjure or not, she couldn’t keep Honoré home.”
“Or André from running with him.” Jean lifted the pot. She held her hand over her cup.
“Or keep Honoré alive,” Cricket said. “André got pretty badly beaten up around the same time. I think he blames his mother and sister for, you know.” She waved at the ceiling.
“Not keeping Honoré alive?”
“Sure. So he tried to get into the Corps, and they wouldn’t take him because of his family background. And he wants nothing to do with Zoë—she’s his sister. She’s a conjure, too.”
“Any good?”
Cricket shrugged. “Are any of them? I mean, other than you?”
“There’s a few,” Jean allowed. He cleared his throat. “So André grew up a killer instead.”
Changing her mind, Cricket reached for the teapot after all. “So it would seem.”
The morning was hotter, humid, and bright. André was intent enough on his interface that he jumped when Maryanne bumped the door open with her hip, though he didn’t look up until she set a tin tray on the steel edge of his desk. The napkin-covered outline of an antique revolver lay beside the coffeepot, the china cup, and a doughnut on the gold-rimmed plate.
Wordlessly, stiff-backed, Maryanne turned on a pointed shoe and left him staring at the thing. He reached out and brushed the napkin aside, then checked the load. One bullet.
Maryanne let the door snap shut behind her audibly. She had to give it an extra little push to get that click, and André read the message in it. Maryanne was his cousin, as well as his employee. Normally, she kept her opinions to herself, and her work for him met both their needs. He got to give something back to his family, and in return got help he could trust.
But Maryanne lived with André’s older sister, Zoë, a charlatan conjurer like their mother, and—
There were family differences. Leave it at that.
He set the revolver aside. There was a real paper envelope underneath, his name in actual handwriting, actual ink.
M~ A. Deschênes.
Shit,
he thought. And also,
at last
.
This was more usually a graduation test, as he understood it. A message as plain as the gun: you
“In what you and Lucienne were doing?”
He nodded. Even here, it didn’t pay to be too specific.
“Actually,” Cricket said, balling her hands in the pockets of her robe, “I was kind of changing my mind.”
Sitting at the kitchen table, they drank a great deal of tea. Cricket hunched over her mug, sipping distractedly, while Jean filled and refilled it. “So tell me about André,” he said, when her fingers were no longer clenched so tightly on the cup that they whitened at the edges.
Her eyes were red, the lid-edges slick inside the lashes when she looked up. “What do you need?”
“Why does he want to conjure so bad?” She opened her mouth a little too fast, and Jean held up his hand. “Not the facile answer, please. You’re an archinformist”—she laughed—“don’t tell me you didn’t pull his records back to first grade before you got involved with him.”
The corner of her mouth quirked. Touché. “He’d never tell you. He’s got a sister he can’t stand. Left home in his teens, after his older brother got killed in a gang fight and he didn’t pass evaluation for Exigency Corps training.”
“So he wanted to be a god-botherer. He’s got the talent—”
“His mother was a conjure.” She pushed the cup away with her fingertips. Jean felt it scrape through the table and lifted his hands. “His sister is, too. He doesn’t talk about them. I can only speculate…”
“So? Speculate.”
She snatched the teacup and drained it. “I think he blames his mom for…He had a brother. A year older. Honoré. A tough boy, ran with a bad crowd. And whether their mom could actually conjure or not, she couldn’t keep Honoré home.”
“Or André from running with him.” Jean lifted the pot. She held her hand over her cup.
“Or keep Honoré alive,” Cricket said. “André got pretty badly beaten up around the same time. I think he blames his mother and sister for, you know.” She waved at the ceiling.
“Not keeping Honoré alive?”
“Sure. So he tried to get into the Corps, and they wouldn’t take him because of his family background. And he wants nothing to do with Zoë—she’s his sister. She’s a conjure, too.”
“Any good?”
Cricket shrugged. “Are any of them? I mean, other than you?”
“There’s a few,” Jean allowed. He cleared his throat. “So André grew up a killer instead.”
Changing her mind, Cricket reached for the teapot after all. “So it would seem.”
The morning was hotter, humid, and bright. André was intent enough on his interface that he jumped when Maryanne bumped the door open with her hip, though he didn’t look up until she set a tin tray on the steel edge of his desk. The napkin-covered outline of an antique revolver lay beside the coffeepot, the china cup, and a doughnut on the gold-rimmed plate.
Wordlessly, stiff-backed, Maryanne turned on a pointed shoe and left him staring at the thing. He reached out and brushed the napkin aside, then checked the load. One bullet.
Maryanne let the door snap shut behind her audibly. She had to give it an extra little push to get that click, and André read the message in it. Maryanne was his cousin, as well as his employee. Normally, she kept her opinions to herself, and her work for him met both their needs. He got to give something back to his family, and in return got help he could trust.
But Maryanne lived with André’s older sister, Zoë, a charlatan conjurer like their mother, and—
There were family differences. Leave it at that.
He set the revolver aside. There was a real paper envelope underneath, his name in actual handwriting, actual ink.
M~ A. Deschênes.
Shit,
he thought. And also,
at last
.
This was more usually a graduation test, as he understood it. A message as plain as the gun: you
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