He shakes his head. “Drinking alone—that’s worse. Dream about that Faerie girl again?”
I shoot him a look.
“I have a theory,” he says.
“And I have no desire to hear it.”
“I think you do it just to remember her.”
“Ridiculous,” I argue, my stomach squirming. “I’m already nauseous—don’t make it worse.”
“You’re telling me if you had a chance, you wouldn’t see her again?”
“She and all the other Fae can rot for all I care.”
My friend shrugs, not convinced even though he knows what I lived through.
I glance at Frederick, wishing I didn’t have to deal with him so soon after rising. He’s a wretched sort of person—always too cheerful. My opposite. But if he can put up with me, the least I can do is put up with him.
“Is that new?” I ask, nodding toward his sleek black cane.
He lifts it up for me to inspect, grinning. “It makes me look dapper, don’t you think?”
“It makes you look like a fop.”
Holding up a finger, asking me to reserve judgment, he grasps the cane with one hand and pulls the silver handle with the other, revealing a sharp, narrow blade that gleams in the afternoon sun. “Now what do you think?”
“I think you’re going to accidentally stab yourself.”
He laughs, sheathing the sword. “You’re just jealous.”
We walk into the theater, greeted by an attendant. “Hello, Mr. Devereaux,” he says brightly, tipping his cap as he opens the door.
I nod instead of answering, mostly because I don’t remember his name.
Dennis, my theater manager, hurries over as soon as we step through the doors.
“You’re late, Alex,” the older man says, his mustache bristling with displeasure.
“Only a few minutes,” I argue. “I’ll smooth it over.”
He escorts us into a conference room off the main foyer, opening the door and practically booting me inside.
“Gentlemen.” I extend my hands to the waiting group of miserly curmudgeons like they are old friends. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
The six men stare back at me, dressed in stiff waistcoats and properly ironed jackets, less than impressed with my just-rolled-out-of-bed charm. But it doesn’t matter—they’re tight with their purse strings, but they always end up loosening them. This is our routine, as familiar to me as it is to them. They pretend they’re not going to invest, and I convince them otherwise.
Four are members of prominent families; two are from the bank. But the truth is, I only need to win over one—Charles Anderson Blakely, the head of a shipping company based in southern Valsta. He’s not a fan of the theater, but his young fiancée fancies herself a woman of the arts.
If we play our cards right, he could fund every show this year.
I give the men my spiel, schmoozing them as usual. Frederick sits at the table in the chair nearest me, a bored smirk fixed on his face.
When I finally come to a close, I say, “And that, gentlemen, is why you don’t want to miss this opportunity.”
“Very good, Mr. Devereaux,” Lord Miller says, tipping his hat as he leaves. “I’ll be in touch.”
The rest of the men filter out with him, but Charles remains in his seat, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. He’s in his early forties, with graying hair and sharp features. Women say he’s handsome, and I’ll acknowledge it.