Chapter Twenty-six

Despite Mr. Caesar's entreaties, Captain James and the rest of the Irregulars did indeed go back to war. The British army was mustered by early June and, although hostilities did not begin in earnest for another two weeks, Mr. Caesar, as a consequence, spent a number of days standing on the docks, looking out towards the sea, perfecting his air of aesthetic melancholy.

"Perhaps," Miss Bickle told him—she had taken to keeping him company since the regiment had gone, "we should go to the seaside. It seems rather more fitting to be gazing out at the sea rather than the Thames. The Thames is so smelly."

"Would it greatly surprise you," Mr. Caesar replied, "to know that the smell is not my primary concern?"

"Not at all." Miss Bickle was largely immune to sarcasm. "I am sure your largest concern is that Captain James might get shot by a Frenchman."

The wind off the Thames which, now Miss Bickle had mentioned it, did have a certain element of the open sewer to it, blew cool on Mr. Caesar's face. "Would it surprise you yet more greatly," he said, "to know that my greatest concern isn't that either?"

The vast majority of the time, Miss Bickle was a portrait of obliviousness. She had her ideas about how things were and should be, and had trained her mind to systematically edit the world to preserve those ideas in the face of all evidence. This, however, was not the majority of the time. "Are you concerned he'll forget you?"

"He's in France, " Mr. Caesar declared, as though it were the end of the world. "Or Belgium. Fuck, I hope he's in Belgium. I can't imagine Belgian men are anywhere near as interesting as French men."

Miss Bickle frowned. "Even if French men are very, very interesting they can't be as"—she looked up at him with wide eyes and the conflicted expression of one whose kindness is matched only by her honesty—"well, I'm sure you're more interesting than some French men at least."

"Oh, thank you very much."

"I just mean, well, you know, the French. They do have rather a reputation."

"True." With a sigh, Mr. Caesar turned back to the river. "And—even without, you know, the French and the Belgians and the Dutch and the Danish and the Prussians and all of them—"

"Gosh." Miss Bickle mentally enumerated the various nations of the Seventh Coalition. "Aren't wars complicated?"

"Even without all of them," continued Mr. Caesar, who had known Miss Bickle for long enough to have learned that speaking over interjections was a necessary survival strategy, "I … I also very much do not want him to be killed."

In defiance of all laws of propriety, Miss Bickle took Mr. Caesar by the hand and they stood together awhile watching the ships on the river. And for a while there was nothing but the lapping of the water and the—admittedly rather intrusive—cries of street vendors to disturb the moment.

Then, Miss Bickle raised her voice in a soft, strong, and profoundly off-key melody. "‘I would I were on yonder hill,'" she began, "‘'tis there I'd sit and cry my fill.'"

Mr. Caesar glared down at her. "No."

"‘And every tear would turn a mill …'" She met his gaze, challenging him to respond.

"I'm not singing a mournful song with my own bloody name in it."

"‘And every tear would turn a mill,'" Miss Bickle repeated. I should, as a responsible peddler of influences, remind my readers that there are definitely circumstances in which an inability to take no for an answer is a decidedly negative quality in a person. But this was not one of them.

"All right. You win." He cleared his throat and continued in a rather better voice. "‘Johnny has gone for a soldier.'"

Any hope Mr. Caesar may have had of that being that was dashed at once. Miss Bickle carried on warbling. "‘I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, I'll sell my only spinning wheel.'"

"Oh no, we're not doing all of it. The verse about dyeing my petticoats red at the very least I reserve the right to veto."

"Oh, but John." Miss Bickle frowned. "You'd look so fine in red petticoats."

He had known the argument was useless before he had begun, but he'd needed to try anyway. They did, in the end, sing all of it, even the verse about the petticoats, as they walked away from the riverbank.

And Mr. Caesar, who was not ordinarily given to sentimentality, found tears pricking his eyes. Then more than pricking, so that he needed to stop in the shadow of a doorway and compose himself.

"I could have gone with him," he said. "I could have enlisted or followed with the wives and children. I didn't. He'd be right to abandon me."

Miss Bickle extended one finger and jabbed Mr. Caesar firmly in the arm. "Don't be silly, John. Soldiers leave their loves at home all the time, and they come back all the time. Anyway, fate would not be so cruel as to snatch Captain James away from you so swiftly."

From anybody else it would have been malice, or at least wilful obstinacy. From Miss Bickle it was just what she was like, and Mr. Caesar took it in the spirit it was intended. "You and I have personally met a goddess and the queen of the fairies and they were both terrible people. Why would you expect fate to be any less vicious?"

Miss Bickle considered this. "Because I am a foolish girl who prefers to choose hope."

When she said it, it seemed easy. And so Mr. Caesar delicately dabbed his tears away with a handkerchief. And chose.

I will admit, reader, that I have (or I suppose from another perspective quite literally am ) an imp of the perverse that urges me to leave the story here. As I intimated at the end of my last novel, once the central conflict is resolved, I like to bring things to an end as swiftly as possible. Ordinarily, I lose interest the moment everybody has been turned back from whatever they've been turned into and everybody is in love with the right person (by my standards, at least, I will freely admit that I am not wholly above leaving a gentleman under the effects of a love potion if it will lead to his making better choices—this happened once in Athens, as I am sure you remember). But narrative convention, in this instance, dictates that I should provide you with just slightly more information.

Of course, what narrative convention demands is not always within my power to give. Since I collect these stories by observation, I could not simply invent details in order to provide closure to a reader some two centuries after they took place. I would have needed to be present at some event at which I could authentically observe that, for example, Captain James either did or did not die at the end of a French sabre at the Battle of Quatre Bras.

By great good fortune, however, I was present at just such an event.

Napoleon had fallen once again, to the great joy of all those who cherished freedom from tyranny and the rights of hereditary aristocrats, and the ton was alive with celebration. And with the Bourbon monarchy restored to their definitely entirely rightful throne, the great and the good of England were once again able to engage their passion for the Parisian without feeling like traitors to their nation and their class.

Thus, the Vicomte de Loux was able to host another ball and was, once again, somewhat incentivised to invite as much of the army as he could, in order to remind everybody that he'd been on the right side all along.

There had, initially, been something of a question over whether the Caesars would be invited at all, given the fracas that had unfolded last time. But since the man most likely to make a scene at their inclusion had been eaten by a bear, it did not in the end prove much of an issue.

"For the hundredth time," Miss Caesar was telling her brother, as they rode in a still-borrowed carriage to the vicomte's new let, "go and speak to him."

It was not a conversation Mr. Caesar wished to repeat. But then he hadn't wished to repeat it any of the other times either. "He hasn't come to speak to me."

"He's been at war. He's probably had other things on his mind."

"Then I should not intrude."

Miss Anne, who had been watching the countryside roll by outside, gave her brother a sharp look. "You need to be bolder, John."

"I'm really not sure I do." This was a lie. He was very sure he did indeed. It was just so much harder on his own.

The carriage rolled to a halt alongside a dozen others and the Caesars alighted. Mr. Caesar made his habitual scan of the crowd and noted that his uncle had yet to arrive, which he counted as a small blessing, and that the regiment had yet to arrive, which he counted very much otherwise.

But he pushed the thoughts aside. Either the captain would be there, or he would not. Either he would have returned from the war still wishing to be part of Mr. Caesar's life, or he would not. In the meantime there were still Miss Caesar and Miss Anne to consider. And here Mr. Caesar consoled himself with the thought that at the very least it would be hard for things to go worse than they had last time.

Even so, the spectre of recent events hung over all three of the Caesar children as they made their way to the ballroom. The ton had a frankly inconsistent record when it came to supernatural scandal. At times they would do their best to forget it lest they be uncomfortably reminded of their own cosmic insignificance. And at times they turned sharply against the victims for essentially the same reason.

"And you're sure," Mr. Caesar checked with his sister for the hundred and third time, "that you want to risk this?"

She nodded. "I have tried being ignored, and I have tried being what society asks. Tonight let them take or leave me as I am."

So Mr. Caesar led his sisters to the ballroom and, once they had been announced, he let Miss Caesar lead the way.

Her demeanour had changed greatly since her return from the Other Court. She had taken to dressing more brightly, and in styles that better suited her. This evening she wore a white chemise beneath a gown of red draped asymmetrically over one shoulder. She looked almost classical, at least to her brother's eyes. To her own eyes she looked only like herself, and that, she felt, was enough. For the past several weeks she had taken to wearing her hair tied in styles she'd learned from Amenirdis, but for the evening she had let it loose, and free, framing her head like a sunburst. As she walked into the ballroom with eyes—some cruel, some welcoming—turning towards her, she felt like every queen and every goddess.

She was not sure if she had hoped that Mr. Bygrave would be the first to approach her. But he was.

"Miss Caesar." He bowed stiffly. "You—that is, I—it has been some time."

Changed as she had been by her experiences, a lifetime of training could not be overwritten in a hundred days. Miss Caesar dropped into a flawlessly executed curtsey. "It has, sir."

"I confess," he went on, "my memory of the last few months is a little … muddled?"

That, Miss Caesar had expected but did not like to hear. "It was fairy magic," she said. "I believe it clouds the mind."

Mr. Bygrave developed a sudden and intense interest in his own shoes. "I suppose I am feeling less muddled now."

"Then I shall be happy to introduce you to my sister."

At that, Mr. Bygrave coloured. "No. I mean, your sister is lovely also and, well, it wouldn't do to dance with only one lady at a ball. But, well, would you …"

It would have been the easiest thing in the world to say yes. But it was also the easiest thing in the world to say I wish, so Miss Caesar had learned to be wary of easy things. "I have had many unusual experiences lately," she explained. "And I am not sure I am quite ready to begin looking for a gentleman. Not quite yet."

Mr. Bygrave nodded, sharp and resigned. "I understand."

"But"—Miss Caesar bit her lip—"there can be little danger, I think, in one dance."

The music struck up and Miss Caesar let Mr. Bygrave lead her onto the dance floor.

"I believe," Miss Caesar told him, "it is expected that we should converse."

Mr. Bygrave flushed a little, not quite certain what to converse about. "Have you …" he tried, "have you read any good books lately?"

"Yes," replied Miss Caesar. "Shall I tell you about them?"

"Well, isn't that sweet," said a voice at Mr. Caesar's ear.

Wrapped up in observing his sister as he had been, Mr. Caesar jumped half out of his skin as he turned to see a smiling woman whose gown, if he looked closely, didn't look entirely made-to-measure. "Sal?"

"Captain thought it was best if a couple of us went in quiet. Reyne's mob are still out there and they've still got guns."

Now he was looking still closer, he noticed that Sal's makeup was a little heavier than it once had been, and that it seemed to be covering a fresh scar on her right cheek. "Are you well?" he asked.

"Well enough. Always did my best to take the fuckers with me. And this'll fade." She touched her face, a little self-consciously. "But it's not me you want to ask about really, is it?"

"How are … all of you?" Mr. Caesar asked.

"Alive."

"Good." A prickling sensation began to gather on Mr. Caesar's spine. Perhaps it was just the thought of the Iphigenians, still active, still sharpening their knives. "And is Orestes …"

With surprising polish, Sal pointed with her eyes towards the entrance to the ballroom, and Mr. Caesar turned just in time to see Captain James arrive.

He looked much as he had ever done, much as Mr. Caesar suspected he would ever do. There is a kind of immortality that comes with confidence, and a kind of timelessness. He still belonged more to the battlefield than to the ballroom, but he brought his world with him.

While Mr. Caesar's brain was debating with itself over whether he should approach the captain or let the captain approach him, his feet were making the decision on its behalf. He crossed the floor with an almost unseemly directness until he found himself face-to-face with Captain James.

"Thought I'd find you here," the captain said.

"I should have …" Mr. Caesar cast his eyes down. "I knew when the regiments were returning, but I didn't know if you'd … if you'd want me to."

"As a rule," replied Captain James, looking playfully aggrieved, "a man comes back from war, he wants you to."

"Sorry."

The captain patted Mr. Caesar on the back in a way that could easily be mistaken, by a casual observer, for companionable. Then he left his hand in place in a way that certainly could not. "Do better next time."

Mr. Caesar's mouth was going a little dry, which was only about the third on the list of things making him feel foolish. "There'll be a next time?"

"And a time after that. I'm still a soldier, John. Going away is part of the life. That okay with you?"

It wasn't a question that he'd ever imagined having to answer, but Mr. Caesar found it easier than he might have imagined. "As long as you come back."

There was little that could pass between them at a public ball, the laws and the state of society being what it was, but Captain James's fingertips shifted just slightly along Mr. Caesar's shoulder blade. "Always."

And that, reader, is where we shall leave them. Surrounded by the wealthy and oblivious, frozen like butterflies in glass in a moment where we may pretend, in the face of all conceivable evidence to the contrary, that all is right with the world.

It is also where I shall leave you.

We have walked together awhile now, and I do not do this for fun but because I am stuck in your reality and driven to it by penury. Besides, I can give you no assurances about the future of our heroes. After all, the captain is a military man, and military men have such eventful lives so who, truly, can say what the future ( their future, I should say—and your past, and my eternal present) may hold. Perhaps he and Mr. Caesar found themselves travelling the globe and witnessing wonder after wonder, Mr. Caesar learning eventually to cherish the rough sleeping and hard living that comes with being a soldier's lover.

Or perhaps the opposite is true. Perhaps in the end their lives could never quite merge, the gentleman and the warrior being, at last, too different to really belong in each other's worlds. And perhaps Captain James, for all his great potential, died at last in some squalid colonial battle for the glory of a king who could not possibly have cared less for him.

Then again, the captain is a hero, and heroes seldom end so poorly. And there will be a revolution, shortly, in Greece that will draw so many fascinating people together. So who knows what marvelous adventures the captain and Mr. Caesar may have before them. Or how they might change the fates of empires. Or what Lord Byron may have to do with matters.

I do. Obviously.

Have I whetted your curiosity? Well then, perhaps you will need to continue reading my books. I have little else to do with my time in exile and your support gratifies me greatly.

And the gratitude of the fair folk is a fine thing.

As fine as it is terrible.

Your friend,

R