Instead, he saw an awkward man who understood the danger of being a courtesan beholden to the wealthy, and a piece of Charon thought, bitterly, that Yves would probably see it, too.
“I can’t convince Yves to choose you,” Charon said at last, when he’d refilled the tea several times and Raul had relaxed enough to sit comfortably on the cushion. “You know that.”
“Yes, but I’d like to try,” Raul said.
“You could have hired him, like you hired me.”
“Maybe, but I expect most of the others have done that already. You work with him. Laurent said you were an honorable man. If you think that I’m unsuitable, you don’t have to do anything, but if I’m to court Yves, I’ll need help.”
Charon drew back on the couch, trying to look at Raul as Yves would. Yves deserved more than a former torturer-turned-courtesan. Was Raul what he needed? He didn’t offer love, but love could bloom if Yves had the inclination, and Raul understood the pitfalls of a courtesan at the mercy of the nobility. Yves could do worse, surely.
Charon could never give Yves the love he needed, but he could at least give him a better option.
“Don’t write him poetry,” Charon said, ignoring the pain in his chest as he turned to pull a book down from the shelf. “And his favorite poem is in here.”
“A book?” Raul said, and he smiled. “Oh, it’s thePrince’s Play.It runs in Kallistos every spring. There’s a monologue by the woman who’s been turned into a peony that’s absolutely filthy, but it makes me laugh every time.”
“That’s the one,” Charon said. “It’s playing in the Sun Garden Theater right now.”
He’d taken Yves to see it three years before, and Yves had laughed so hard he wept. Charon had given him the script a few weeks later, but Yves was always reading it in Charon’s room, so it had quietly moved there over the years. It felt wrong to see someone else holding it, but Charon quietly forced his unease down.
“Thank you,” Raul said. He got up, hesitated, and reached forward to take Charon’s hand. “You won’t regret it.”
He already was, but Charon simply shook Raul’s hand and let go. Raul beamed at him and turned to the door, leaving the book behind on the chaise. Charon picked it up. He thought of Yves at the play, pressed up next to Charon in the cheap seats just beyond the pit, wiping tears from his eyes as he wheezed with laughter. Then Charon put the book away, closed the door, and smothered the flames in the fireplace until there was nothing left but a heap of dying embers.
Two
Poetry had been a mistake.
Yves loved poetry. He had a small library of dog-eared collections in Charon’s room, and he kept some of his favorites on slips of paper in his dresser drawer. Some came from love letters, including a truly inspired verse from a client who had gone on on to study language in Gerakia. Yves appreciated poetry the way Charon liked the wood carvings in the museum on Haddler Street, where ancient Starians had carved images of people emerging from bits of oak and cedar.
Unfortunately, the nobles of Staria didn’t share Yves’ love for verse, because half of them had thoroughly butchered it.
“Oh, listen to this one.” Percy sprawled on Yves’ bed, wrapped in a fur jacket that cost more than most nobles’ monthly income. “Oh, Yves, the eaves of the trees bend at the knees for the bees in the leaves.What does that mean? The trees are kneeling for bees? Are the bees a metaphor?”
“He’s trying to rhyme.” Yves collapsed on the rug. “At least he tried. Lord Gretter scratched Lady Helmand’s name off herSpring Forgivenessballad and removed three stanzas.”
“I can’t believe you like this stuff,” Percy said, picking up another poem. He winced. “You’re the least romantic man I’ve ever met, but then you sigh over things likeThe King’s Ruin.”
“That one has two murders in it, actually.”
“What, really?” Percy started digging through the letters again.
“And I’m not unromantic. I’m terribly romantic.” Yves lay a hand on his chest. “This heart beats for one thing and one thing alone.”
“Financial security,” Percy said, and grinned when Yves shot him a dirty look. “I’m sorry, should I open up your options to the lower city?”
“If they know how to write in a proper meter, then go ahead.” Yves fished outThe King’s Ruinand handed it to Percy, then went back to opening envelopes. “No one’s picked the best yet, though.”
“I doubt they will. Even I can’t, and I know you better than anyone.” Percy paused, the paper flopping over his fingers. “Except Charon, I suppose. I wonder if he’ll make it to the wedding. He might be gone by then.”
Yves sliced his thumb with the letter opener. He hissed in pain and grabbed a handkerchief to press to the cut. “It’s fine,” he said, when Percy sat up. “Charon’s been wanting to travel for ages. I wouldn’t want him to put his plans on hold for this.”
“Yeah,” Percy drawled. “It’s only one the wedding of one of his closest friends.”
“We’re not that close.”
The look Percy gave him could have cracked stone. “Huh. You must be pretty mad about him leaving. You haven’t practiced flirting with him in weeks.”
