In any event, the inquiry would have to wait until his affliction had passed.
Nicodemus sighed again, heavily this time, and the three at the table perked up.
At one end of the table, with empty plates in front of them and likely empty cups of coffee, were Percy Asare and Rosa Vitale. Percy, who had once been a beloved child of a wealthy family, wore bright vests that complemented his dark brown complexion, but which also made him appear more like the youth he truly was. That was possibly his goal; his curls had grown in white since he had first stumbled out of a Ring, and so he kept his head shaved. He had been sleepily resting his head on Rosa’s shoulder until Nicodemus arrived. Rosa, olive-toned and plump and fond of the color red, older than nearly all of the other peculiari, tolerated this as she would not have if Alistair or Holt had tried it. Not that Holt would have.
“Did you only have toast?” Nicodemus peered over the remains on their plates as he passed them, taking the long way around the table to the stove to find coffee for himself. “That is not a suitable breakfast.”
“We also ate the last of the cookies,” Percy confessed in English, but accented with the version of French from up north. At nineteen, the others seemed to consider him the baby of the house. Rosa in particular had taken him under her wing, perhaps because she’d lost her young one years ago before she had joined the agency. She took the tamer cases these days, teaching Percy the tricks of their trade.
In the books from Holt’s schooling that he’d smuggled back home to Nicodemus, peculiari were usually feared, sometimes punished, sometimes celebrated. In actual history that had occurred just before or in their lifetimes, peculiari had been used as—or chosen to become—weapons of war. Some were still paid to do that, including the State Bureau agents. But everyone here was merely hired to solve problems, usually of a magical nature.
With many humans choosing to avoid peculiari unless they had need of one, most peculiari of cities and towns ended up in this business. The State sought them out, assigning them to different places to handle magical mishaps, although everyone knew their real job was catching thieves and spies—or being thieves and spies, if the State required it. For those with no desire to work for the ever-expanding State, there were agencies like this one. Or they could work alone. Or, if one was born as wealthy as Holt, a peculiari did not have to work at anything they didn’t wish to.
“We only stopped in for a bite,” Rosa explained, although Nicodemus had not yet asked what they were doing here when he’d thought they were on assignment elsewhere. Rosa looked far more tired than her protégé, but not tired enough to let her accent slip through. That generally only happened when she was angry. “We’re taking the train to question someone and it leaves in an hour, and this sounded better than whatever will be in the dining car.”
“Train?” Nicodemus made a mental tally in the expense account but trusted Rosa’s judgment. She would have considered traveling by boat, or, for that matter, through the Rings, and had chosen to use the somewhat disjointed train and carriage network for a reason. Probably a reluctance to rely too much on the Realm, which was a belief, perhaps a superstition, that several peculiari had hinted at over the years. Others did not have such reservations.
Nicodemus considered them both, from Percy’s dimple to Rosa’s chunk of gray that she tucked behind her ear, the circles beneath both of their eyes, the clothes that they had worn yesterday, and then went to fetch a bowl from one of the shelves where he had hidden more cookies. He set the bowl on the table. They’d both been up all night, and with the cook gone and the larder bare of most perishable food since the manor was supposed to be all but empty for a week, the treats were all he could offer, since the pair had no time to stay while he cooked.
Percy’s eyes lit up.
Nicodemus made himself be stern. “Injuries?”
Rosa stood up and held out her arms, rolling her eyes at Nicodemus for worrying but not objecting. Percy seemed startled, as he always did when Nicodemus fussed, but then stood up to do the same. Both of them tipped their heads up when Nicodemus drew closer to look them over better. Small medical problems could turn into big medical problems through nothing more than an oversight. That was why Nicodemus kept an assortment of bandages, medications, and salves on hand on all times.
“You will eat in the dining car anyway?” Nicodemus prodded, clearing his throat but keeping his eye on Percy, who was, after all, still growing.
“Yes, Nicodemus.” It was teasing, but it was an answer. Then Percy took a handful of cookies, passed one to Rosa, one to the other peculiari sitting at the table even though Bel did not care much for gingerbread, and ducked his head in bashful thanks before heading out the door. Rosa stretched through a yawn, then mumbled her gratitude around the cookie in her mouth, and apologized for the mess before she, too, disappeared.
The need to travel by train was unexpected, but they both had indicated their current investigation would last several days more, so Nicodemus was not overly concerned with the time. If anything, it was a relief to know he’d successfully found ways to keep everyone occupied and out of the house without having to explain why he desired their absence. Usually, Holt helped handle this so it wouldn’t seem like Nicodemus was kicking everyone out for no reason.
With the other two gone, the kitchen was silent. Nicodemus darted a glance to Bel at the middle of the table, leaning back in his chair with his arm stretched out to rest on the chair next to him. Bel’s eyes were closed, which was disconcerting enough for Nicodemus to forget whatever he might have said. He pushed the bowl of cookies across the table instead, on the off-chance that Bel might finish them even if they were gingerbread, and had already moved on when Bel opened his eyes.
Nicodemus poured himself what was left of the coffee and took sugar directly from the larder instead of from the sugar bowl at the table practically at Bel’s elbow. He nodded to Bel in greeting as he stirred his coffee, and frowned as Bel slumped forward to peer into the cup in front of him and push out a breath when he found it empty.
Scowling now, although it did his plain face no favors, Nicodemus added more sugar to his coffee, then went to the icebox to search for any cream or milk. He found a little milk and mixed it into the coffee until there was scarcely any coffee to be seen, then he set the cup on the table. He returned to the stove almost immediately, setting up a new pot for himself.
“My thanks,” Bel rasped, scratching the scruff on his cheeks as he drank what should have been Nicodemus’ coffee. Nicodemus tipped his head down to covertly take in the sight, not any less annoyed at the clear signs that Bel had been up for hours. Judging from the state of his clothes, it had not been all for work. Or perhaps it had. Nicodemus did not work with the peculiari and supposed each had their methods.
Bel sometimes sported a short beard and mustache as was fashionable, but not recently, so the hair at his jaw now spoke more of exhaustion than any attempt to make himself handsome. He was never pale,his skin tan through lineage or the work of the sun, but right now he did not have the color he should, and beneath his eyes were shadows. His overcoat, or any sort of coat, seemed to be missing, along with a hat. His hair, dark and glossy and perhaps deliberately long in defiance of town styles, was tied at his nape but several strands had come loose. His shirt was open down past his collarbone, with tobacco and wine stains along the sleeves. Up close, he would likely smell of both, as well as perfume or cologne.
“Have you eaten?” With this question, Bel picked up another piece of toast from his pile of it and dipped it into some honey.
That toast would not sustain him. Bel nonetheless continued to indulge himself in honey and butter and day-old bread and more of Nicodemus’ coffee. Nicodemus went back to the larder, his stomach growling though he did not care for honey. He found eggs and marmalade and came out.
“I see you made yourself toast,” Nicodemus remarked, which was, objectively, a silly thing to say and he did not know why he said it. He set a pan onto the stove with more force than necessary. The resulting sound was loud and made him even more out of sorts. He chose to blame it all on his worries and his upcoming affliction, and rolled up his sleeves before he grabbed a large bowl for his eggs. “Are you just coming in?” He cracked several eggs in a row, which should have drowned out Bel’s answer, but Bel took his time replying.
“Yes. I’ll clean up and get a few hours of sleep before I head out again.” Bel paused, perhaps to lick honey from the corner of his mouth. “I’ll likely stay gone a few days. No need for you to worry or plan for my meals.”
Nicodemus had not indicated the extra eggs in the bowl were for Bel. Although they were; Nicodemus was an asterion, not an actual animal. He reached stiffly for the whisk. “You don’t have any cases that pressing that I recall.” It had been a real concern of his, keeping Bel from the house for the next week. But Holt had assured him he would take care of it, so perhaps he had. “Though, naturally, you know best.”
As he had no business lecturing any of the peculiari, at least, not about their work, Nicodemus reached for an apron and hid his hot face in it as he struggled to keep it from catching on his horns, which of course it briefly did.
At the table, Bel was watching him, apparently fully awake, brown eyes open and fixed on Nicodemus in a way that had nothing to do with Nicodemus’ horns or even his somewhat lanky form, which was what made it odd. MadeBelodd, even for a peculiari. He looked directly at people, at Nicodemus, instead of politely away, and his face did not do what faces were supposed to do, not at first, not until he remembered manners or niceties or whatnot. Then Bel would finally turn away, sometimes with a small smile, as though he was merely playing along with social expectations or Nicodemus’ worries.
Nicodemus was already too warm with his approaching rut and now from standing by the stove. He didn’t need to feel even more aware of how red in the face he was, or how ridiculous he looked in his apron—although he didn’t want to stain his vest, so he was not going to remove it.
He turned his back to the table and stayed that way as he returned to the eggs.
