Warning for mention of antisemitism.
Thanks to Underthenorthernlights for her precious help: even when she's extremely busy - and she is, these days - she still finds time to selflessly betaread this fic.
Thanks a lot to you who read this story, followed, favorited it or sent reviews: it means a lot to me!
This chapter is a special one, because Sansa meets her idol and finally talks to him... I really had fun with this chapter and I sincerely hope you'll enjoy your time reading this. If it doesn't sound like a plea for reviews...
Someone knocked at her door and, through the dreamy haze she was in, Sansa feebly protested. No, not now. Rolling up into a ball under the covers, she tried to remember where she was and what had happened before she fell asleep because, she knew it, she knew it was important, something bad had occurred a few hours ago, something fitful sleep could not erase.
Whoever knocked at her door was growing impatient, for the sound was louder now. She sat up and spotted Evie asleep beside her, fully clothed. The baby. Andrei. All the doors locked and guarded…
On an impulse, Sansa nudged Evie and she hoped the young woman would understand she had to hide herself before someone found her inside her bedroom.
"Evie, please," she whispered, "Evie-"
The door flung open and although the thick velvet curtains obscured the morning light, Sansa saw a furious Petyr Baelish coming in uninvited. Still wearing her dressing gown, Peitho followed him; she glared at Sansa who instantly pulled the blankets to her chin in a derisory attempt to protect herself.
Baelish stepped forward until he stood by the four-poster bed. "Where is the baby?" he spat, leaning against one of the bed columns.
Sansa remained silent. On her right, Evie had sat up and she shook like a leaf.
A few hours before, as Sansa vainly tried to comfort her friend, Evie had made her swear she would never tell where the baby had been taken to, no matter the consequences. Evie had insisted, explaining she could envision anything, provided that her child wasn't sold to the highest bidder like some cattle. Even if Sansa was afraid for Evie's safety, she must keep the secret. Revealing it to Baelish would be a betrayal.
Surprised by her silent determination, Baelish chuckled nervously. "So at least, we found the new mother. You know I wanted to check on you first thing in the morning, dear?" he went on, addressing Evie. "Just to make sure you and your precious child were alright. I got some news from the wealthy couple who wanted to adopt your baby, last night. So a few minutes ago, I went upstairs and I found your room empty. I was worried. I thought your dear Sansa could have some information for me, but as it turns out, you spent the night here and Sansa has to know what happened."
An ominous silence fell upon the room as Baelish swiveled his head to stare at Sansa. "Tell me where is the baby, Sansa. Be a good girl now and tell me where he is."
A panicked glance was all she offered him. Sansa was thinking about Andrei, trying to decide if he could have arrived in Cape May by now. It's likely. He said he was ready to leave New York. Assuming he went back home, took his luggage and drove by night, he's in New Jersey now, with the baby. I hope they're both alright.
"Sansa!" Baelish barked. "Don't disappoint me!"
She heard muffled voices on the landing and as Peitho had left the door open, curious eyes peeked in the bedroom. Sansa spotted a bewildered Edna and a whispering Lois. In all likelihood, what Lois would retain from the incident wasn't Baelish's anger nor his threatening tone but the fact Sansa had shared her bed with another girl.
Woken up by Baelish's booming voice, more girls gathered in the doorway, taking everything in. Among the girls who crowded in on the threshold, she spotted Meg and her heart skipped a beat.
"I know what happened," the dark-haired girl announced. Her confident tone and her unblinking gaze surprised everyone, including Baelish who turned around to face her. "I saw her with her customer last night. I know exactly what they did."
"Oh, you know what happened, Meg?" he told her, disbelief lacing his words. "Very well. Enlighten us!"
"I heard her talking to her customer as if she wasn't going to see him for some time. And the man had a huge wicker basket. The baby was inside."
"This is ridiculous!" Edna protested, though no one had asked for her opinion. "You're a jealous little bitch, Meg, that's what you are!" Peitho shushed Edna with a glare and the tall brunette crossed her arms about her chest, appalled by what she saw.
Still standing by the bed, but glancing from time to time at Sansa, Baelish stroke his neatly trimmed beard. "How can you be sure the baby was inside that basket?"
"Very easy," Meg answered, barely restraining herself from strutting about. She took a step forward, narrowing the space between herself and Baelish. "He had these two houseboys with him, but he carried the basket himself, as if he didn't trust them. Why would a rich man like him would carry a basket, unless there's something precious - something special - inside?"
As the girls gathered on the landing whispered, Sansa swallowed hard. I thought it was a good plan. I thought everything would work. I had the idea we could hide the baby inside the picnic basket. It was foolish. I should have known. Beside her, Evie was already weeping.
"Clever little Meg," Baelish commented. "Your explanation is quite convincing, though what I really need to know is where the baby is now."
"I guess he's at this customer's place-" Meg offered.
"No, dear. I'm afraid Mr Berdokhovski is not stupid enough to stay in New York after stealing this child from me." Baelish spun on his heels and he grinned at Sansa. "We already had a conversation about all this, you and me. You know the consequences, Sansa. You know what you can do to help your dearest Evie."
All of a sudden, Evie's hand wrapped around Sansa's, under the covers and by a quick glance at her friend, the young woman made it clear. Don't say a word, she had written on her slate, a few hours earlier. Baelish must stay away from my son. If you care for me, do whatever it takes.
"I've got nothing to say to you," she spoke, waiting for his reaction with bated breath.
Silence stretched in the bedroom. Evie squeezed her fingers as if to thank her. You can do it, Sansa. Protect my son and don't say a word.
"Out," Baelish spat without ever looking at the girls gathered in the doorway. "Get back to your bedrooms, all of you."
Meg stepped forward again. "Petyr, if I can-"
"It's 'Mr Baelish', for you, girl," Peitho said coldly.
"I said 'out'," he repeated, this time addressing the dark-haired girl who was losing her countenance. Meg walked away, brow furrowed above her almond-shaped eyes. "Peitho, I'm sorry I bothered you," Baelish added. "You should go back to sleep."
"Do you think I can fall asleep after this… incident?" the madam inquired, astonished by his behavior. "You're not serious."
She doesn't want to leave him alone with me, Sansa realized, and this time it was she who squeezed Evie's hand.
"Quite the contrary, dear. I appreciate your concern, but I can handle this myself. Close the door behind you."
Sansa couldn't tell if he was aware of it or not, but he licked his lips as the madam left, the furious rustle of her dressing gown revealing how angry she was. Peitho slammed the door, making both girls jump; Evie took Sansa in her arms, although they knew it wouldn't change what awaited at least one of them.
"If you don't want things to get out of hand," Baelish began, pulling aside the curtains, then walking back towards the bed and coming closer to Evie, "you'd better tell me where he is."
"What are you going to do?" Sansa asked, her frightened look belying her bravado. "You wouldn't hurt the baby, because you want him alive."
Evie's hold on her tightened when the man stopped, a cruel smile pulling the corners of his lips. "Don't underestimate me, sweet girl. I would never hurt that child, because a dead baby wouldn't be of any use but I can cause harm to the foolish man who smuggled the child out of the brothel to impress you. How does that sound?"
Baelish ignored Evie's frantic gaze and focused on Sansa instead. He thinks I'm weak, he expects me to give way. Sansa kept her chin up, staring back at him; in the crook of her neck, Evie's tears had left a wet trail. I can't betray her now, even if it means-
"But before I turn on your Russian beau, I can do something that will make you change your mind, Sansa." Snatching Evie's wrist, he tried to make her get up. Terrified, the young woman resisted at first, the mattress depressing under her weight as she feebly struggled, then she escaped Sansa's arms and stood up with resignation.
"Good girl. At least one of you takes sensible decisions. Now, Evie, you're going to write down Berdokhovski's address. Not the one in New York, the place where he took your child, in hopes Sansa would spread her legs for him."
Trembling, but holding his gaze, Evie shook her head. Baelish cupped her chin.
"Write it down, Evie." He didn't speak loud, but his tone was threatening all the same. "Did Sansa tell you where I'm going to send you? Did she give you details? The poor girl was so scared that day she thought I would leave her in a cheap brothel where my employees have up to thirty customers a day. As if a girl like Sansa could work out there," he snorted.
"You, however… You don't even deserve pity. You're already broken, and if it wasn't for your good looks, you'd never work here. Sansa is irreplaceable in my house, but sadly, you're not."
From where Sansa was, she could see Evie's slender frame shaking, as the young woman weeped convulsively. Sansa wiped away the tears that rolled on her cheeks; her sobs echoed Evie's who still faced Baelish. I can't let him do that.
"Please don't," Sansa begged, getting out of the bed on wobbling knees then standing behind Evie. "Don't hurt her. It's my fault."
Turning around, Evie shook her head; through her tears, the young woman seemed to plead with her.
Baelish smirked. "You know what to do, Sansa. Write down the address this fool inevitably gave you, and I'll reconsider my decision."
If you agree on telling the truth to save me, he'll send me away all the same. It's just a matter of time. Evie had been adamant while they were talking about the consequences of the baby's escape.
"I can't tell you where he is, but…" Her mouth went dry. "I'll dance for you, as you asked me to." Evie shook her head vehemently, but Sansa refused to meet her gaze. "I can- I can also-"
The door creaked open and when Sansa recognized Peitho, she couldn't help thinking the madam had been listening to their conversation from the beginning. Haughty and not paying attention to the girls' reddened eyes, she planted herself in front of Baelish.
"Mrs. Henshaw wants to know if she needs to prepare a room for a new comer. What do I tell her?"
Her icy tone seemingly surprised Baelish, for he arched an eyebrow. "Frankly, Peitho-"
"I'm afraid I need an answer. Quickly, if possible." Her remark, as courteous as it was, exuded resentment and exasperation. Is she reminding him she's still his mistress and she can harm him if he forgets himself?
Baelish snorted. "Very well. Tell Mrs Henshaw the girl will be there in an hour. And please ask the Mad Mouse to come right away. His help can be useful if someone doesn't obey."
Peitho's back stiffened, yet she walked to the door and stayed on the threshold as she called the Mad Mouse. Despite the henchman's light build, the wooden stairs creaked ominously under his weight and when Sansa saw him sticking his head in the door, she felt terribly weak. Braver than most people thought she was, Evie wiped her tears with the back of her hand and stepped towards him.
"Don't leave me alone here!" Sansa cried, addressing Evie. She instantly regretted it, knowing her attitude wouldn't help her friend, yet she had to say these words, she had to let Evie know she would feel left behind once the Mad Mouse, Baelish, or anyone else would take the young woman to the brothel located outside New York. No matter how bustling the house was, she would feel lonely the moment her friend would go.
Evie turned around for a second and through her tears, Sansa locked eyes with her. We know this couldn't last forever, Evie had written before they both fell asleep. You're my friend, but you'll be gone someday. You don't belong here. Sansa suddenly hugged her.
"I don't want you to go," she whispered in Evie's ear.
Evie's red curls - that hair that had caught Sandor's attention the first time he had visited the brothel, she guessed - tickled her nose. Though he had never felt anything akin to love for Evie - she knew it now - the man she loved had found solace in the young woman's arms and it was strange to imagine that, months later, her presence in Baelish's house had brought comfort to Sansa as well. And now, although her fate was sealed, she was the one who reassured Sansa with a pat on the back. Most people despised the young woman they saw as a misfit, thus ignoring she was comfort and acceptance. They're so wrong, Sansa mused.
Baelish broke their embrace by snatching Evie's wrist again and he shoved the young woman forward; sniffing, she obeyed and left Sansa's bedroom, Baelish and the Mad Mouse close on her heels. Peitho glared at Sansa when she tried to follow them, then she stood in the way so that the girl couldn't go after her friend. Sansa heard them going upstairs, most likely packing Evie's meagre belongings and coming back down after a while.
Still crying, Sansa walked to the French window, opened it and stepped on the balcony. She spotted Evie getting in a black car with the Mad Mouse and that was all: she had lost the only friend she had in Baelish's house.
Lothor Brune demonstrated perfect composure in the aftermath of Evie's dismissal, coming back to Sansa and discussing his plans with her. Cold and uncouth as he was, the man seemed to value her opinion and he never questioned the choices Sansa had made to help her friend. On the contrary, at a time when Sansa felt guilty because she was safe whereas Evie had been sent to a place she considered like hell on earth, he told her she had at least saved the baby. Poor child, he doesn't even have a name, Sansa thought bitterly. When she had broached the topic with Evie, the young mother had refused to give her baby a name for now and Sansa read it as a sort of superstition, because their fate was still uncertain.
"I know where she is," Lothor Brune informed her. "The best moment to slip inside is the morning, when the whores are asleep, so I'll go tomorrow morning. Not sure I can come back here after, so this may be the last time I see you."
"You can't do that alone," Sansa protested. She had dried her tears and after the depressed haze of Evie's departure, she had spent the whole morning thinking about how they could rescue her friend.
"So what? The banker's daughter is going to help me?" he said, snorting. "You stay here and you keep a low profile. You already took risks. Besides, they're all keeping a close eye on you, they expect you to do something stupid. They trust me, especially Mr Baelish, so I should be the one to go out there and to rescue Evie."
Sansa bit her lip. "I know someone who can help you. His name is Sandor Clegane but he goes by the Hound."
"He's one of your customers!" Lothor exclaimed. "How many of them promised to help you?"
Two, and that's one too many. "It doesn't matter," she replied a bit stiffly. "Let me write a note and give this note to him. He'll help you. I'd feel better if I know you're together in this."
Despite his outward reluctance, Lothor finally agreed and he watched Sansa writing a message for Sandor. In a begging tone, she asked him to help Lothor so that Evie could escape the brothel. Her pen hovering over the paper, she hesitated for a while before adding something about Baelish locking and guarding the doors because someone had stalked him… Her belief Sandor had been the one behind this was getting stronger; maybe insisting on this wasn't fair, but if Sandor had something to do with the incident, he would probably feel obligated to help.
When Sansa held the message out to Lothor, he gave her a key. "It opens the padlock of the back door, downstairs, in the kitchens. I stole it from the Mad Mouse's bunch of keys and as I lack time to get a spare key cut, I replaced it by another one that looks like it. He'll most likely think I stole the key and kept it." Sansa thanked him and a short silence followed. "Do you plan to escape by the back door or do you want to let someone come in?" he asked her. "I know that's none of my business, but what's going on with this man, the Hound?"
"As you put it, that's none of your business. What do you intend to do once Evie is safe?"
He shifted from foot to foot. "We'll most likely try to find the baby, then…" He shrugged, visibly ill-at-ease.
"You should perhaps stay there and see if you can offer your services to Mr. Berdokhovski. The Lannisters hold a grudge against him so he'll need people like you."
Lothor Brune took his leave shortly after, repeating she shouldn't do anything stupid; Sansa read it as a proof that, beyond his coldness, the man genuinely felt for her.
Peitho had made it clear: she couldn't leave her room that day. Furthermore, she would take her meals alone in the kitchens, after the other girls. Sansa guessed the madam had taken it upon herself: she doubted Baelish would have made such arrangements. In any case, Sansa was punished and she spent the day alone, locked in her bedroom.
After the girls' lunch, once they had returned to their rooms, Sansa went downstairs and sat at the table to eat the leftovers of a chicken and some boiled vegetables. Even Rose had deserted the place, whether she had something to do elsewhere or Peitho had demanded her absence while Sansa ate lunch.
Picking at her cold chicken, Sansa brooded over the last events, when the door flung open: Edna stormed in, red-eyed and sniffing. The moment she spotted Sansa, she tried to regain her composure, yet she was too upset to do a good job at hiding her tears.
"What are you doing here?" she asked Sansa. "Why didn't you eat with us?"
Sansa put down her fork and daintily wiped her mouth. "Peitho said I needed to be corrected. I'm not supposed to talk to you."
Edna snorted, then she turned her back to Sansa and she began to open the cupboards.
"What are you looking for?" Sansa whispered. She wondered what would happen if Peitho saw her talking to someone, despite the madam's instructions.
"I'm looking for booze. Believe me or not, , I'd kill for giggling water. Rose must have sherry somewhere…"
"What happened, Edna?"
A long silence ensued, as the tall brunette's shoulders sunk. With reluctance, she sighed and spun on her heels until she was facing Sansa. Stepping forward, she seized the back of a wooden chair and leaned against it.
"You know what we have in common, you, with your cold chicken and I, with my red eyes and my sudden need for booze? Peitho. She punished you. And we argued… about you and Evie."
Bewildered, Sansa wasn't able to express her interrogation at that moment.
"I told her Baelish was a monster to send Evie in this place. We all know what happen to the girls who work out there after a while: either the hospital, because they got syphilis or whatever VD or... the loony bin. She replied you were to blame for what happened, because you gave Evie foolish ideas." Edna stopped and avoided Sansa's gaze, visibly moved.
"Her remark drove me mad, so I told her you did something both very silly and very brave. I even said I wished I could find someone able to do for me what you did for Evie. Then I added I didn't expect Peitho to be that someone."
Edna's hands were still on the back of the chair and Sansa noticed how her knuckles has become white.
"I'm sorry you both argued about Evie and me," Sansa offered, sheepish.
"Oh, don't be. All the fuss that happened this morning was quite an eye-opener. We know exactly what we can expect from Meg now - even a bearcat like Viola was shocked. And as for me, I realized what kind of person Peitho is. I thought I didn't care, I told myself I didn't become attached to her…" She paused, and let out a nervous chuckle. "I swore to myself I would never carry a torch for her... Guess what? It hurts."
Squeezing her eyes shut, Edna covered her mouth with her hand, as if she wanted to suppress her sob, then she ran away from the kitchens.
There was something different about Sandor when he came back to her, announcing he had rescued Evie with Lothor Brune before letting both of them go to Cape May; far from boasting himself of saving Sansa's friend, he looked concerned. It was already late and he had sneaked in thanks to the key Lothor had provided them, at first hiding himself in the kitchens, then following Rose who had showed him the backstairs. To reach Sansa's bedroom, Sandor had had to go past Peitho's door, but it wasn't enough to disturb him. Yet he looks anxious…
She tackled the issue of Baelish's paranoia, seemingly caused by a man who had stalked him a few days before, imagining Sandor's unease had something to do with it.
"Want to know if I followed him?" he spat, gruff as ever. "Yes I did."
"But why? Baelish went mad after that night and now all the doors are closed-"
"The old cook opened the door for me," he cut her off, his impatience more visible with each passing second.
"Only because Lothor Brune stole a key to help us. You couldn't sneak in like you did before, using the fire escape, you saw how dangerous coming in has become for you… Not to mention Evie! She probably could have escaped the same night her son did, if it wasn't for those security measures Baelish took after you stalked him!"
Sandor rolled his eyes and in his headstrong behavior she saw again, the untamed beast he was the first time he had visited her in Baelish's house. The fearsome, violent Hound.
"Are you done, girl?" he inquired, towering above her.
Sandor was so threatening when he looked at her this way it was difficult for Sansa not to shiver in her pretty nightgown. Back to square one, she thought. She felt like the frightened girl she was when he had offered to help her escape, as she withstood his furious gaze. Instead of smoothing out their differences, the intimacy they had reached during the previous weeks only made everything worse, in her opinion. I trusted you, I almost gave myself to you and you did something so stupid I can't even understand it.
Sandor glared at her, but at some point she wondered if he wasn't feasting his eyes on her as well. You thought I would welcome you in my bed without even questioning what you did? Her eyes shone with anger and defiance - just like they did whenever they met by accident inside the Red Mansion and he behaved like a brute. The unpleasant but now familiar warmth on her cheeks came back as he stared at her, scowling.
"Why?" she repeated, her voice quavering.
He shrugged and although his refusal to explain himself could have infuriated her even more, she felt like there was nothing else to expect. "I don't know," he confirmed, his features somehow softening.
We demand an explanation for everything, Sansa. But some things just happen and you can't explain them, Evie had written on her slate as Sansa complained about the way their plan had failed. What is done is done. Evie was right: the whys and wherefores of Sandor's attitude the night he had stalked Baelish wouldn't change anything now. Still facing each other, they remained quiet for a while. In the end, it was Sansa who broke the silence.
"I'm glad you helped Lothor Brune," she heard herself say.
He shrugged once more; he was so close she could have kissed him if she had stood on tiptoe.
"You asked me to help so I helped him." His detached tone didn't match his anxious gaze.
"Was it difficult?" she inquired. "How- how was she when you found her?"
To her questions, he answered with reluctance, giving few details; Evie was scared to death when they had broken in. Though he never dared ask her, Sandor was convinced she had had several customers during the few hours she had spent out there. He added the people in the brothel didn't offer much resistance but the madam had most likely recognized Lothor, whose recklessness had surprised him. Nobody had seen him, as far as he knew.
"She'll recover," he finally said. "She's stronger than you think. And this man, Lothor Brune, seems to be a rather decent fellow. He stole a car and skipped out with her, hitting all cylinders."
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Sansa snaked her arms around his neck: "I'm sorry I asked you to take those risks," she whispered against the collar of his white shirt. "I didn't know what else to do."
Sandor mumbled soothing words and wrapped a protective arm around her waist, resting his chin on the crown of her head. There was something tender in his attitude; however, when Sansa put light kisses on his neck, focusing on the spot that usually made him shudder and curse under her touch, nothing happened. As she went on with her ministrations, buttoning down his waistcoat and caressing his chest through his shirt, the dull ache inside her lower belly came back. It's been almost a week since I last saw him.
"I missed you," she said in an undertone, her hands wandering on his middle, her fingers brushing the metallic buttons holding his suspenders.
Wetness had pooled between her legs with anticipation, yet she realized something was amiss: Sandor generally stopped her when she reached this area or he growled his approval before leading her to the bed and taking care of her needs. That night, against all odds, he didn't react and stood there, straight as a ramrod, making her feel both wanton and stupid.
"What's wrong?" she asked, stopping abruptly.
"Nothing," he replied and his absentminded tone struck her.
Sandor then led her to the bed where he untied the ribbon of her dressing gown and let it slide from her shoulders. He took off her slippers as he usually did, then he raised to his full height, so that she helped him remove his shirt and undershirt; those were the gestures he usually did when he spent the night with her, but now there was nothing of the feverishness Sansa had grown accustomed to. Stiff and emotionless, he let her do as she pleased. If she expected urgent kisses and passion, she got little for her efforts.
After she slid under the covers, still hoping his distant attitude would vanish as soon as he would see her lying on the mattress, he walked around the bed, took off his shoes and lied down. Then, without even asking her, he turned off the light.
"What's wrong, Sandor?" she asked again, eyes wide open in the dark.
He didn't answer at first, then she heard his mirthless laugh. "Funny how you got used to it, right? Every time I show up here, you expect me to lick your nipples and to fuck you with my fingers."
"Does it make you feel better to sully what we have?" she protested, shocked by his words.
"Spare me, girl. I saw how you looked at me before I turned off the light, I know you're wet." Lying on one side and coming closer, he spoke in her ear and although she couldn't see anything now that the lights were out, she guessed he was smiling cruelly. "You had found an obedient dog to warm your bed and now you're pissed off because there won't be any petting tonight." He grasped her shoulder and held her tight until she was flush against him.
"You're hurting me," she said, on the verge of tears. All of a sudden, he let go of her and she rolled on one side to face Sandor, trying to understand what had just happened. "Are you mad at me because I asked you to help Evie?"
"No... Maybe. I can't think straight tonight," he explained.
His voice had softened, like his features had previously, after she confronted him about the night he had stalked Baelish. What happened to him? What plunged him into such torment?
"I thought helping Evie would only make matters worse," he said. "I thought you would-"
"Question your feelings?" she suggested.
The mattress moved under his weight as he shifted. To admit I would question his feelings in such a case, he should have confessed them in the first place. He never did. She bit her lip.
"I just thought it would be weird if I helped a girl I used to fuck... with you knowing this from the start… I never imagined you could befriend a woman I slept with."
He thinks it's easier if he compartmentalizes things and people, she thought. There are the women he slept with and there is… me. The notion that words of love would probably never pour out of his mouth could have hurt her, but with time, she had learned to find the tiniest clue in his behavior and in his speech. Oddly enough, she was content with it. With caution, she extended her arm and brushed his cheek, relishing the tickle of his stubble under her fingers. He grunted his approval, then he flipped her on her back and rested his head on her chest.
As they layed there, Sandor snuggling up to her while she ran her fingers through his hair, Sansa's concern for him increased. She had watched him lose his temper a few times, but never had he shown alternatively anger and despondency. Except once…
"Gregor is back," he announced, his voice a whisper against her throat. She suppressed a shiver and he tightened his grip on her, one hand on her rib cage, fisting the silky fabric of Sansa's nightgown. So, that's it. Gregor finally came back from the Appalachian Mountains where he was chasing the Brotherhood without Banners.
"He paid a visit to the Lannisters yesterday. He still has things to sort out with those fuckers he was hunting down, so he couldn't stay in town and he left again this morning. Don't mistake me: the Brotherhood will yield or they'll snuff it. He slaughtered their leader, or he thought he had, because the man has reappeared. Beric Dondarrion might be a smartass, but he's a goner. My fucking brother will be back in town next week."
"Did you see him?" she asked after a while, still caressing his hair.
"Nope. Jaime Lannister's bloody report was enough." He shifted again, this time propping himself on his elbows. Sansa brushed away the strands of hair she felt under her fingers while touching his face.
"If he hurts you…" she began.
"What, if he hurts me? You're going to put your needlework away and to beat the crap out of him?" he rasped. "Maybe I'll be the one who cracks his skull, this time."
Sansa tried to protest, but she knew her argument would never reason with him; in desperation, she did the one thing she thought of some use in this case and she took him in her arms. With Sandor on top of her, she almost suffocated, but she was past the point of caring: she started to cradle him, whispering against the crown of his head.
"I don't want you to get hurt. I can only imagine how you feel about your brother, but please don't provoke him. I want to escape with you and nobody else."
As Sandor's weight on her ribcage was hardly bearable, she stopped talking and resumed her ministrations on his skull.
That night, the first caress she felt was that, wet and warm, of his tears seeping in the neckline of her nightgown then rolling down the valley of her breasts. Soon she tried to kiss him - although his weight hindered her movements - and he lifted himself up to claim her mouth.
"You said 'no petting tonight'," she teased him.
"This isn't petting," he countered, straddling her and kissing her neck.
One minute later, she was naked to the waist and she arched her back under his caresses.
Whether he was busy with Joffrey's campaign or more cautious since Peitho had expressed her jealousy, Baelish didn't visit Sansa for two days after he sent Evie to the cheap brothel. Peitho herself confronted Sansa once the news of Lothor Brune's flight with Evie had spread, asking if the girl was involved in this. When Sansa replied Lothor Brune didn't need her help to locate Baelish's brothel at the edge of town or to steal a car, Peitho glared at her and that was all. Sansa knew Baelish wouldn't turn to the police to find Lothor, Evie and the baby, so she assumed they didn't take much risk as long as they stayed far from New York.
On a Friday night, however, Baelish knocked at her door while Sansa was wondering what dress she would wear to dance for Congressman Orton Merryweather, who had become one of her most faithful customers during the last weeks. Holding one hanger in each hand for she tried to figure out if her customer prefered green or blue dresses, she turned around as the door opened. Although the sight of Baelish grinning could only arouse her suspicion, she remained quiet and placed the dresses on her arm.
"Good evening," Baelish said, without losing his smile, and he closed the door behind him. "Already preparing for tonight?"
She nodded curtly, put down the dresses on the bedspread and gave Baelish a quizzical look. What do you want from me?
"Change of program. I am going to take you out for dinner."
"And what about Congressman Merryweather?" she inquired. "He'll be here in an hour or so."
"I will call him and explain you're indisposed. Don't worry about a lecherous old man!"
"I think Congressman Merryweather isn't older than you." There was a heavy silence as she regretted her boldness, after which Sansa took a step forward and said out of curiosity: "If you need someone to accompany you this evening, why don't you ask Peitho?"
The grin plastered on his face didn't fool Sansa; he was more nervous than he would admit.
"To be honest, I don't understand," Sansa added. "I thought I wasn't allowed out."
Baelish tilted his head, becoming serious again: "I suspend the punishment."
Coming from the man who was staring at her, the good news sounded worrying. Sansa swallowed hard.
"What will Peitho say?" she insisted, her throat dry, clutching to the faint hope the prospect of his lover's fits of jealousy would sway Baelish.
"Can I be honest? I don't care about her opinion," he replied bluntly.
Too bad. "Perhaps you don't care about her opinion, because… you don't spend your days here, with Peitho. I do." She folded her arms across her chest with determination.
Baelish sighed and crossed the space between himself and Sansa. Once again, she realized he was shorter than her and the high heeled shoes she wore that evening emphasized the impression. "In my absence, Peitho is the one who makes decisions here and who chides my employees if necessary. I don't care about a cat fight; I don't want to know anything about it. That being said, if Peitho is so bold as to try and pick a quarrel with you, I want you to tell me right away… Did she overstep her bounds, Sansa?"
Avoiding his gaze, Sansa shook her head. He cupped her chin and bored into her eyes, but she persisted in denying the whole thing. "I'd rather stay here, and welcome my customer instead of making waves," she explained.
After a while, Baelish's fingers left her chin and combed her bangs with what was meant to be an affectionate gesture. She stepped backwards, suddenly out of his reach and walked back to the bed where she had left her dresses. He should understand, she told herself, smoothing the fabric of a green dress and willingly avoiding his unsettling gaze. I'm not interested and I think he'll do something foolish if he takes me out instead of Peitho. I'm doing Baelish a favor.
Sansa was underestimating Baelish's obstinacy; retrieving a cigarette case from his pocket, he took a cigarette and lit it, while staring at the girl. Keep pretending I'm not here, she imagined he thought, as he puffed on his cigarette, standing a few feet behind her.
"The other day I was thinking about one of the songs you sing, dear, and I couldn't remember the name of the composer. I thought "This man is Sansa's favorite composer: what's his name?" I had his name on the tip of my tongue."
Sansa swiveled her head, wary. So knowing my shoe size and what kind of clothes I like isn't enough; he inquired on my musical tastes as well.
"The interesting thing is, a friend of mine mentioned this composer yesterday and I felt stupid, because I should have remembered you worship this man. Irving Berlin. He's your favorite composer, right?" Baelish was playing with the silvery cigarette case as he watched her, and Sansa noticed the mockingbird engraved on it.
"What's the matter with Irving Berlin?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Did I mention that... Irving Berlin is one of the guests at the dinner I want to take you to?"
Sansa froze and, for a second, she had the impression her heart stood still; she probably looked funny, for Baelish's face lightened up, his eyes narrowing in the process. This is unfair. He knows I don't care about his expensive gifts so he uses the one thing I can't resist: music. I don't even want to know what he did to get invited to that stupid dinner.
"Be ready to go in twenty minutes," he said. "The blue beaded dress and the sapphire necklace and earrings I offered you."
Stubbing out his cigarette in Sansa's china trinket bowl, he walked to the door.
She was beautiful that night and she knew it; looking at her reflection in the mirror of the entrance hall was unnecessary once she had noticed Baelish's look - full of lust and complacency - and Peitho's glare - promising retaliation. The girl wouldn't be the only one to earn the revenge the madam's eyes suggested; she didn't seem to make any difference between her lover and Sansa, that night, including them both on her list. At some point, Sansa even wondered if it was safe for Baelish to come back to the brothel that night, should he want to share Peitho's bed.
"So you never went to the Ziegfeld Follies?" Baelish asked once they were sitting in the limousine. He had just told her they would watch the show out there before joining Baelish's friends and Irving Berlin himself in a restaurant.
"Mother disapproved, saying it wasn't a place for a young lady." How does it feel to know you're doing something that would scandalize your school boy crush?
"Dear Catelyn," he trailed off, ignoring the thinly veiled criticism her words conveyed. "You should see what this place is like, at least once. I mean this is also an opportunity for you to see what our rivals offer to their patrons."
"Oh. Are we collecting secret information, now?"
He chuckled. "You know what, Sansa? Though you never lose your good manners, the tart comments you make once in a while remind me of your mother. Catelyn could be caustic sometimes."
She rolled her eyes and tried to forget how close Baelish was, despite the roomy passenger compartment; he had slid in next to Sansa instead of sitting opposite to her. The darkness somewhat helped, but she couldn't overlook his hot gaze on her. The rest of the ride was silent; as usual when she could leave the brothel, Sansa didn't want to miss the chance of watching the illuminated streets she only saw from her balcony and to her great surprise, Baelish seemed to respect that - although he never stopped staring at her.
All too soon, the limousine pulled over in the Theater District, right in front of the New Amsterdam Theater; how the driver managed to park the imposing car at that very place, as the street was busy and as pedestrians poured out of the nearest subway entrance, Sansa didn't know. Still feeling nervous, she took her clutch purse and got out of the black sedan when the chauffeur opened the door for her and Baelish. The driver, a dark-haired man average in height and build, ignored the other drivers' toots: Baelish's limousine obviously got in their way and they didn't hold back their irritation.
Awe-struck, Sansa was still admiring the Art nouveau facade of the building when Baelish offered her his arm; though she found it hard to take her eyes off the unusual and florid architecture, they walked in the theater which entrance hall was already crowded.
Once inside, the elaborate details in plaster and terra cotta struck her: the flowers, fruits and animals visible on the ceiling and on the walls of the lobby were all larger than life-size, thus giving an idea of abundance to the decoration. She wanted to take a close look at everything and wherever she looked she found reasons to marvel. The reliefs and the murals mesmerized Sansa and Baelish led her almost by force to the auditorium; if it wasn't for Baelish's presence which partly ruined the moment, she would have gone into raptures.
Except in the Metropolitan Opera House - but the red and gold decoration of the Metropolitan was entirely different from the extravagance displayed there - she had never seen something so beautiful. They took their place in the balcony, where the view on the rest of the auditorium was amazing; Sansa didn't even know how she got there, because it seemed like she was floating through a dream.
For now, she kept observing the details of the boxes next to the stage: the sculptors and painters had created an extraordinary sight, with fruits, lush vegetation and golden birds, as if the spectators sitting in the boxes deserved the same attention than the proscenium a team of artists had created. Pleased by the way she reacted to his surprise, Baelish didn't speak and stared at the girl, smirking.
The show began and Sansa focused on what was happening on stage: dazzled, she recognized the English actor Lupino Lane, then she was mesmerized by the Ziegfeld girls whose risqué costumes had nothing to do with the dresses Sansa had sewn for the first shows at Baelish's house. Although they were hardly dressed with their veils and their ostrich feather fans, the girls seemed to be comfortable as they danced and sang. We must look like amateurs, Sansa told herself, thinking about the show she prepared with her companions. Meanwhile, she gazed at a tall brunette who reminded her of Edna with her bobbed hair and daring eyes. Glancing at the program the usherette had given her, she deduced the unknown girl could be either a Dorothy Sebastian or a Louise Brooks. Never heard these names before… No matter who she is, she's just stunning.
"So?" Baelish inquired, at the end of the show, without noticing the girl was speechless. "What do you think?"
"This is so different from what we do," she replied after a while, absentmindedly playing with the clasp of her clutch purse.
"Can you find inspiration in what you saw tonight?" Baelish was already getting on his feet and motioning her out of the balcony and downstairs.
"I don't know. This is so… daring." Some spectators had stood up and lingered in the aisles, talking in small groups before going to the foyer; Sansa moved past them, then caught up with Baelish.
"Some parts of the last show we had were daring as well," Baelish countered. "Did you know there was another review, on the roof of this very building, which was -" He paused and bored into her eyes, anticipating her reaction. "- which was racier than this?"
Sansa wondered how it could be more audacious than what she had already watched. Pouting, she reached the flight of stairs and cringed when she felt Baelish's breath on her neck. "The Midnight Frolics had a party-like atmosphere and if it wasn't for the Prohibition that ruined the Frolics' business, you could have seen spectators using their cigars to pop the balloons covering the girls' costumes." He placed his hand on her back to guide her to the crowded lobby, then outside; on the evidence of his smug smile, her scandalized expression delighted him.
The streets were busy in the Theater District and when Baelish led her to the limousine again, regardless of common sense, Sansa rolled her eyes, convinced that walking to the restaurant would be quicker. He let out a deep sigh once he slid in next to her.
"You know Irving Berlin isn't his real name, don't you?" he asked her, without trying to hide his contempt. "Some Jew coming from a god-forsaken hole in Russia. I tell you, Sansa, those bloody immigrants will lead this country to its ruin."
She didn't reply, but that didn't stop her thinking. Andrei's mother was Jewish too and he came from Russia, just like Irving Berlin.
"That heartthrob of yours is a... Jack of all trades, but master of none," Baelish went on, seemingly trying to knock Irving Berlin off his pedestal. "Some people say that he worked as a singing waiter in Chinatown and even sold newspapers in the streets… And do you know that your hero has no formal musical education? Even I, who took piano lessons for only a year when I was a boy, know more about music theory than this man." Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and took a sharp intake of breath, trying not to shout at him. "Do you know he has assistants who work with him because he doesn't even read music properly?"
"Do you know how much money he makes in a year?" she retorted, cut to the quick. Her question silenced Baelish: if there was something he respected, it was one's ability to earn good money.
"Listen, Sansa," he said after a short while. "I don't want to ruin that moment, I'm just warning you about this man."
"Why? Is he dangerous? More dangerous than you?" she asked out of provocation. As she glanced at him, the car moved past a street lamp and she felt his stare on her. Don't push your luck, she chided herself, vaguely ill-at-ease.
"Certainly not, dear. I personally think the man is a fraud, but no, he's not dangerous as far as I know."
"You told me once you loved "You'd be Surprised"! I don't understand how you can enjoy a song and despise its composer at the same time," she protested.
"When I said I loved "You'd be Surprised", I meant I loved your rendition of the song, not necessarily the song in itself." She sighed deeply. "Please don't sulk, dear. This could be a lovely night."
Twenty minutes later, they finally reached the high-class restaurant where Baelish said his friends waited for him. As if a man like him could have friends, she mused, giving him a sidelong look. Once more, the chauffeur opened the door for them and when she got out of the car, she had butterflies in her stomach.
"Give me your arm, Sansa," Baelish ordered in a hushed voice.
With reluctance, she complied and they walked in the restaurant. They stopped so that they could take off their coats and leave them at the cloakroom. Then, a waiter led them to the room where Baelish's friends were already having dinner; Sansa heard their fits of laughter before seeing them.
The room was much smaller than the one they had crossed and there was only one large table lit with silver candelabra in addition to the electric light. A silence filled the room when they came in. Sansa observed the unknown faces, saw the group consisted of nine men and only two women, both older than herself. While the women looked like older versions of the Ziegfeld girls - party animals whose dark circles were more visible with each sleepless night but who kept enjoying the flappers' life - their companions were most likely businessmen. Except one, she thought, scolding herself for the stupid grin that pulled up the corners of her lips.
Irving Berlin was sitting at the end of the table and Sansa recognized him immediately; not that she spent her days watching the celebrities' pictures in Broadway Brevities, like some of Baelish's employees, but there was something in the man's attitude that distinguished him from the rest of the group. It must be his big brown eyes: they notice everything, she told herself, blushing as he stared back at her.
"My goodness, Baelish, where did you find that girl?" a gray-haired paunchy man asked, making his companions laugh.
Sansa didn't pay much attention to Baelish's answer as she greeted the guests. Some of the men already leered at her shamelessly, as Baelish pulled out her chair. Swiveling her head, she caught a glimpse at her reflection in the mirror: the baby blue of her beaded dress favored her complexion. The rather simple cut of the dress, with a round neckline, sleeveless and straight, drew the attention on the silver beading detail at the neck, waist and hemline. She had chosen not to wear the sapphire necklace Baelish had offered her, but the matching earrings put the finishing touch on her outfit, with her silvery high-heeled shoes.
She sat down: there was only a man - an old businessman bundled up in his dinner jacket - separating her from Irving Berlin who distractedly listened to his other neighbor's ramblings about the Stock Exchange. Though he was sitting, the composer looked short and slender. His dark hair was neatly combed with a side part, and his big eyes didn't miss a thing as he swept the table. He looks bored.
"You're breathtaking," Baelish whispered in her ear.
She almost jumped at his remark for she wasn't aware he had leaned towards her; of course, he was sitting next to her. She turned to him and instead of smiling politely like she always did when his comments embarrassed her, she just held his stare for a few seconds, until he cleared his throat and began to talk with his own neighbor.
What budded inside her at that very moment surprised her: it wasn't the all-too familiar feeling of repulsion she experienced when it came to her boss; on the contrary, she felt strong and curiously self-confident because he had averted his gaze, thus acknowledging she could have the upper hand on him. If only I learn how to play his game… She wasn't sure she wanted to learn, though.
"So where's the blond doll who used to accompany you?" the paunchy man asked Baelish, as the waiter brought some crawfish consommé. He was sitting opposite to them.
"She's not here, obviously, Belmore," he replied with a smug smile, his knee brushing Sansa's under the table. "Thank you for coming with me tonight," he said, turning to her. As if I ever had a choice...
The paunchy man Baelish had addressed as Belmore then cast a glance at Sansa before leaning forward. "You look very young," he told her. "You can't rule Baelish's house, can you?"
"Sansa is a dancer and a singer," Baelish replied, preempting her response.
"Oh, I'm sure she sings pretty songs at night," another one trailed off, making his companions laugh. Sansa blushed deeply at the innuendo and tried to stay as calm as possible. Why am I here? What does a man like Irving Berlin do with these boors?
"My Sansa is an artist," Baelish stated proudly, raising his glass to his lips.
Despite the disturbing possessiveness his tone exuded, she sensed his pride was sincere and this realization left a strange taste in her mouth. I guess his feelings are genuine and honest as long as I behave like he wants me to.
The waiters brought wine and Sansa understood why they weren't with the other customers; the privacy the room gave them allowed the small group to drink alcohol without regard to the eighteenth amendment. Baelish poured wine in her glass and he looked fixedly at her while she took a sip. Oddly enough, his stare exhilarated her. She felt like a different girl under his scrutiny; a bolder, more audacious version of herself, because he gave her reasons to believe she could sway him. Maybe it's the wine… I'm dizzy and it's not that uncomfortable.
Wine gave her the strength to talk to Irving Berlin. Although he seemed like a quiet, reserved man, he answered to her questions with a smile and inquired about her. For how long had she been singing? Did she play the piano? Did she compose tunes?
"This is strange," she confessed, giggling. "We're here in this restaurant and you're asking if I compose music and…"
"So what?" he encouraged her. Weary of Sansa's indifference, her neighbor had left his seat to flirt with one of the two other women. The one with age-spotted hands, Sansa thought, admonishing herself afterwards. Irving Berlin seized the opportunity to take the seat next to hers.
"It seems crazy to be here, talking with you because… I'm a great fan of yours." Nervous, she bit her lip and felt like a timid little girl before her idol. It's not even funny for him: there must be dozens of girls pretending they like his music just so they can boast themselves later and tell their friends they talked with a celebrity. "I'm sorry," she apologized, "this is embarrassing. You're here to have a good time, not to listen to me babbling about your music."
"You're not babbling," he countered. "If a charming person like you enjoys my songs, who am I to complain? So, Sansa…" He took a cigarette and lit it. "What did you want to ask me?"
They spent the next thirty minutes talking about his music and his work. He confessed he composed a song every night after dinner, sometimes finishing it at dawn. After a few hours of sleep, he spent his days attending rehearsals, thinking about the song he would pen at night…
"What inspires you?" she asked him suddenly, ignoring Mr Belmore's roaring laughter at his neighbor's saucy jape. Sansa had swiveled her hips to face Irving Berlin, thus turning her back to the others.
"I don't know. Sorrow certainly fuels my creativity… but, to be honest, I don't really need something special to inspire me. I see creativity like a source that never ran out so far. I guess I'm lucky. I keep writing music because there are these tunes in my head - and those lyrics too - and I think I couldn't do otherwise because I'm used to this life, now."
"I didn't think sadness inspired you," she observed. "I mean… most your songs are love songs, full of joy."
"Trust me, dear… You have to suffer to write good love songs. Even joyful ones."
As the conversation wound down, she took in the thin lines at the corner of his eyes; they were the traces of his sleepless nights, when he dulled his pain by composing music. People said he had lost his wife only a few months after they got married and Sansa imagined he had indeed suffered to write the songs she found so moving.
"Do you remember Russia?" she asked him, all of a sudden. She regretted it immediately. "I'm sorry, I'm too curious. It's just that… a good friend of mine comes from Russia too-"
A ghost of a smile graced his lips. "Do I remember Russia? You mean before the pogroms that forced my family to take to the roads? Do you even know what a pogrom is, Sansa?"
She averted her eyes, ill-at-ease, as vague memories of what she had read about Jewish immigrants came back. "It's a sort of… racist attack, right?"
"They burned down our houses, Sansa; I guess you can call that a racist attack. I'm afraid I don't remember anything before that night." He chuckled, irony pulling up the corners of his mouth. "It reminds me of a story one of my childhood friends loves to tell. The man is a bit older than me and he plays the violin. We both lived in the Lower East Side when we were younger, until he was hired in an orchestra and became first violin. Quite a success story, right? Anyway, a few months ago, a reporter asked him why he had chosen to play the violin instead of another instrument. Do you know what my friend replied?"
Smiling, Irving Berlin leaned towards her; Sansa shook her head.
"When people wake you up in the dead of night and try to burn down your shtetl, a violin is easier to carry than a double bass."
Sansa squeezed her eyes shut.
"And now you're asking yourself how I can joke about pogroms," he said, observing her reaction. "If we don't, if we complain about our fate, if we let this define who we are, we let the people who killed our neighbors win. We can't let them win." Still shocked, Sansa remained silent. "Why were we talking about all this?" he said, shrugging.
Sansa laughed nervously. "I asked you about Russia. My mistake. Why…" She glanced at her neighbors, wondering if they paid attention, then she whispered: "Why are you here?"
Irving Berlin sighed. "Money. There's this show I want to put on… I'm looking for funding and as it turns out, one of the men sitting with us became infatuated with the singer who will have the leading role… She'll soon be here."
All of a sudden, Baelish's hand brushed hers and she had no other choice but to turn to him. He wanted her to sing something to entertain the other guests; at first, she refused, arguing in an undertone that Baelish's friends were already having fun. She inclined her head towards one of the other women who had sat on Mr Belmore's lap: either careless or well-aware Belmore's gaze dropped in her plunging neckline, the woman threw her head back and laughed. Baelish insisted and to Sansa's great embarrassment, Irving Berlin supported his demand by saying he would love to hear her voice.
"Sing one of our friend's songs," Baelish suggested, hypocritically smiling at the composer.
"Do you want me to make a fool of myself?" she countered.
Baelish rolled his eyes and exhorted her again. When the rest of their small group joined him and asked for a song, she gave in, exhaling a deep sigh.
""You'd be surprised" is Sansa's favorite song, you know," Baelish said, addressing Irving Berlin with a smirk, as she stood up on wobbling knees.
"Don't worry," the composer encouraged her in a whisper. "They're all drunk."
"But you're not," she retorted, "and to be honest, I feel a bit dizzy." Sansa held on tightly to the back of her chair; she wasn't used to singing in cappella. Her voice sounded hesitating at first and she even wondered if the men sitting around the table would listen to her. She nonetheless began:
"Johnny was bashful and shy;
Nobody understood why
Mary loved him.
Everyone wanted to know
How she could pick such a beau"
On an impulse, she stepped aside, grabbed the back of Baelish's chair then leaned against it, pretending he was the man the song described. The assembly laughed. The woman sitting on Belmore's lap threw her head back again while Belmore's neighbor blew smoke rings, gazing at Sansa. She took one more step aside, thus beginning to walk around the table.
"He's not so good in a crowd
But when you get him alone
You'd be surprised"
Baelish, she knew it, took it as a compliment: it was difficult to ignore his smug smile and the glint of pleasure in his gray-green eyes once she was standing opposite to him.
"He doesn't look like much of a lover
But don't judge a book by it's cover
He's got the face of an Angel
But there's a Devil in his eye"
For the last chorus, she had almost reached her starting point and she was leaning over Irving Berlin's shoulder, singing softly the lyrics he had written, as if she was making a confession. The composer burst out laughing, while Baelish sipped his wine, quietly enjoying the moment.
In the end, they all clapped their hands, one of the two women even giving a little cry of excitement, and Sansa bowed modestly. Her triumph, however, didn't last long; the female singer Irving Berlin had mentioned stormed in, drawing everyone's attention by complaining about her admirers who didn't want to let her go and about the photographers who were waiting for her outside. Irritated by the young woman's affected speech and eager to freshen up, Sansa left to go to the restroom.
Her reflection in the mirror seemed different, just like she had already noticed that night. As she contemplated the glistening of the blue beads covering her dress, she wondered what her parents would think if they could see her at that very moment, trying to adapt herself to her new circumstances, obeying Petyr Baelish's orders when she couldn't do otherwise… But am I obeying only when I can't do otherwise? Am I sometimes lying to myself when I say I have no other choice?
Her heart sank when she thought of Sandor who might come that night and find her room empty. The notion he could come to her and be disappointed because she had changed her plans was unbearable. He didn't say he would visit me tonight, maybe he was too busy… Yet, if he shows up and if Rose tells him I'm out… She didn't want to think about it. Discomfited, she opened the restrooms' door and came face to face with Baelish. She couldn't repress a gasp of surprise.
"I'm sorry," she apologized, "I didn't see you at first in the dark and you scared me."
He came closer until he was flush to her. "I loved the song."
She took a step backwards, bumped in the wall and chuckled, ill-at-ease. "It was just a song. I sang the song you chose."
"I think it was more than that." Oddly enough, he tried to change his voice so that it sounded raspier. Ridiculous.
What was ridiculous, as well, was the panic she felt in this deserted hallway. The kitchens were not far, the room where they had had dinner was even closer, but it didn't stop her heart from thumping like a wardrum. She was alone with Baelish and he was so close she felt his hot breath on her face.
"Right now, you could ask me anything, Sansa. I'm not joking. Ask me whatever you want."
A thick, dangerous silence filled the hallway as she mulled over his words. "You already know what I want. I want to go back home."
Baelish hung his head. "For your own safety, Sansa, you know I can't-"
She swiveled her head with exasperation, thus cutting him off.
"Ask me anything else. I know you're angry because you trusted Meg and you feel like she betrayed you… If you want, she can be gone by tomorrow." Avoiding her gaze, he was now observing the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
"You know it's not what I want. I want you to stop the search concerning Evie."
Surprised by her answer, he bored into her eyes. "You wanted Evie and her son to leave the brothel and that's what happened. You won," he said reproachfully. "What else do you want?"
I don't want anything from you. Her fingernails dug deeply in her palms as she held his stare. Now that her eyes had adjusted themselves to the dim light, she could see the defeated look on his face. What Baelish wanted from her was a twisted relationship, something he perhaps called love but was meant to be non-reciprocal; it would always be a power struggle. He would often be in control, yet Sansa could get the upper hand from time to time, like she did, that night. He doesn't even understand it.
"When you know what you want, just tell me," he whispered, suddenly weary. "This -" he made a sweeping gesture, "This could be everyday life, Sansa."
"You mean I could skip my appointments with customers and talk with Irving Berlin every night?" she asked out of provocation.
"You know exactly what I mean. Why do you always choose the hard way?"
He tried to cup Sansa's chin but she shied away from him and they finally got back in the room in time to see Baelish's friends getting on their feet.
"It was so kind of you to invite us all, Baelish," Mr Belmore commented, patting his prominent belly.
Baelish tilted his head with feigned modesty. So that's how he managed to make me meet Irving Berlin: he got out his checkbook. He's so predictable.
They all walked away and crossed the main room of the restaurant; the other customers widened their eyes and began to whisper in their wake because they had recognized the well-known singer who dated one of Baelish's friends.
"It's always like this," the platinum blond complained once in the cloakroom, her voice quavering. Wrapping herself in her fur coat, she let out a deep sigh. For some reason, she looked at Sansa as if she wanted her to be her witness, visibly despising the two other women. "I tell you, darling, people get mad once you're in the public eye," she added, putting a protective hand on Sansa's.
If you're famous, how is it that I never heard your name before? Keeping her thoughts for herself, Sansa took the arm Baelish offered her and they all left the restaurant.
It was pitch-dark outside and although the street lamps cast a pale light on the sidewalk, Sansa didn't spot the three photographers at first; she was walking with Baelish, next to the blond singer, still thinking about her conversation with Irving Berlin, when they suddenly sprung, blinding the group with the flash-lamps and shouting.
"Billie! Billie!" one of the photographers called. "Look at us!"
Although she had been lamenting her fate earlier, the singer stopped and struck a pose. Before Sansa could understand what was going on, the three photographers were gone and Baelish's friends burst out laughing; whether they found the situation funny or were simply too drunk not to laugh for stupid reasons, Sansa couldn't tell.
"Well," Baelish told her with a smirk, "I think we'll be in tomorrow's newspaper."
Just a few things about Sansa's conversation with Irving Berlin...
Pogrom: a violent riot aimed at massacre or persecution of an ethnic or religious group, particularly one aimed at Jews. The term originally entered the English language to describe 19th- and 20th-century attacks on Jews in the Russian Empire.
Shtetl: a small town with a large Jewish population. Shtetls existed in Central and Eastern Europe before the Holocaust and they were mainly found in the Russian Empire, the Congress Kingdom of Poland, Galicia and Romania.