Chapter Sixty Four
Lanterns and Lies Pt. One
0o0
At exactly five o'clock the next morning, Astoria awoke to the sound of an enormous crash. She held her breath and listened intently for a moment; her eyelashes scratched loudly against her pillowcase, magnified by the silence between waking and sleeping. What?
The clarity of the smash had been so sharp—like a galleon hitting the sidewalk on a cold day—that even though she knew that she was half unconscious, there didn't seem to be any chance that she had imagined it. Was the house falling down around them? Maybe she had been dreaming? The longer Astoria waited, the more likely this second option seemed to be. Groaning softly, she rolled over and attempted make sense out of her darkened bedroom.
Her immediate surroundings offered no hints of imagined mischief either: an alarm clock was ticking heavily somewhere to her left, a pale blue crack of light was running along a gap in the curtains. Nothing stirred. Feeling disoriented and unaccountably paranoid, Astoria groped about for a lamp. Her hand swung out through the darkness blindly; she could not remember what side of the bed it was on.
Outside, a well-timed gust of salty air whispered against the side of the house. It caressed the window furnishings across the room, letting in bit more light and just a hint of the playful lushness that was brewing. Astoria stopped hunting about for a light-switch and grew very still, sniffing the air.
The grounds of Aston's estate had been largely obscured by darkness the night before, but she already knew what they looked like during the day: flowering fruit trees and patches of lavender fringed the house, shrubs and vines exploded along the cliffs below. Grapes of every taste and color could be plucked from the courtyards and paths. Best of all, at the bottom of the low cliffs lay a sprawling and pebbly expanse of rough white beach. The sea was as warm and transparent as bathwater there—it was her favorite and most natural part of the entire estate.
Unbidden, a lick of excitement rolled through Astoria's sleepy limbs. She really was in Monaco, wasn't she? She was hundreds of miles away from her aunt, her father and the threat of Voldemort. Already the dawn smelled hot and peaceful—what was to stop her from getting up and doing whatever she pleased?
Immediately, as though waiting to pounce, the spirit of the night before seemed to rise up again, reclaiming the shadowy corners of her mind; a phantom eager to remind her of every reason why she was not at liberty to feel peaceful.
The last memory she had before sleep had taken her the night before was of curling up alone beneath the heavy linen duvet. She had left the music room first (the sound of Aston seeing Lucius off in the hall had sobered Astoria almost as much as Draco) but instead of spending the rest of the night wallowing about in the labyrinth of her mind (she had certainly expected to), Astoria had dozed off almost immediately. As a result, she was still dressed in her evening clothes and the lingering scent of sweat mixed with wine clung to her hair like a guilty after-thought.
Meanwhile, somewhere in Monte Carlo, Lucius Malfoy, the Yaxleys and the Rowles were all sleeping off the port that Aston had continued pouring them until long after midnight. But why where they there?
Astoria pondered this question uneasily. She was keenly aware that each family's motive for travelling was probably boring enough, but a natural tendency towards suspicion (not to mention a history of strange luck) made it hard for Astoria to disconnect the sudden appearance of such strange company from herself. After all, there could be no denying that each party posed its own unique threat to her happiness: Lucius was fighting with Belladonna, the Yaxleys loathed the Lestranges to distraction, and Cassandra Rowle probably considered Maudlin's poor treatment of Emilie to be the turning point in what would end up becoming a great crusade against both Astoria and the Mendel family.
But hadn't Astoria's aunt predicted that something like this might happen? Belladonna had warned her that she might end up in the thick of it—that the return of the Dark Lord would lead well-connected English families to tie up financial assets overseas. What was worth pursuing in Monaco? Aston, perhaps?
Or was she overthinking things again? Was it possible that Lucius and the Yaxleys weren't worried about Voldemort at all? Perhaps Monaco was simply a nicer place to lay out on the beach?
Matters inside the Mendel household were even stranger.
At Astoria's suggestion, Élise Bernard had seduced Luc—only now it seemed that she had tailed him all the way to the French Riviera? What on Earth had compelled her to leave Paris? They had already succeeded in making George jealous at the Minister's Ball. Astoria had seen to that. What more did she want?
Astoria shifted violently, kicking the blankets off her feet. Other than herself, Élise was the only person capable of divulging her history as George's mistress and the hand that Astoria had played to ensure their mutual revenge later. Draco had guessed at Astoria's involvement, but he lacked factual proof. What would happen if Élise tattled? Astoria's imagination ran wild at the thought, skipping straight from the mundane to the fantastic.
One thing was certain: Maudlin was not embracing his new single life as an empowered bachelor. In fact, he seemed to be edging steadily toward a freefall into alcoholic paranoia. Surely the last thing he needed was to find out that Luc had dragged a Veela to his father's house because of Astoria?
And Draco. Astoria hissed quietly and pressed her face into her blankets.
She had been resisting the mounting desire to give in to temptation in that quarter for months. It was the worst possible time for her to have snapped so spontaneously. What had happened there?
It wasn't as though she was really afraid of what Draco might tell his father, was she? Of course not—he didn't know enough to pose a legitimate threat.
No, on some level, Astoria acknowledged that her choice to throw herself at Malfoy had had very little to do with bribery (although she could suddenly see how it might have seemed that way) and much more to do with a quiet, rarely acknowledged longing for—what exactly? Something of her own? Attention? Malfoy himself?
She did not know, and what was worse, she had even less of an idea how to proceed now that the act had already taken place. She didn't seem to feel particularly guilty about sleeping with him, that much was obvious. But if she continued down the same line of thought, she also knew that she didn't want anyone else to find that she had done it. Ever.
What was another dirty secret when she already had so many? Keeping secrets had never bothered her…
Astoria continued to fidget, restless and uncomfortable. The ghost of Draco's cologne, still playing about near her neck, did not help matters.
Now that she actually had something to hide, her long-ingrained instinct towards secrecy seemed to be weighing on her. How could something so normal suddenly become so unbearably petty and dishonest overnight?
Astoria considered this. Most of her tendency to conceal her dealings with Draco stemmed from embarrassment; it always had. But if she allowed herself to think clearly, she knew that embarrassment was not her only reason for wanting this story to remain hidden. In all probability, her list of options would begin to shrink the moment her fling with Malfoy became public knowledge. Keeping their juicy bit of gossip quiet would obviously making pretending that nothing had happened much easier—and she found herself instinctively clinging to this notion—but what if that was not entirely what she wanted? Wouldn't living in a household where nobody suspected a thing also make pursuing Draco easier?
No.
Astoria sneered at herself, unwilling to allow this fickle idea much traction. One time could reasonably be explained away as a mistake; anything more and she was looking at a bad habit. It was a dangerous way to be thinking, anyway—there was nothing to be gained from it. Trifling about with Draco was tantamount to playing with fire; inevitably, she would end up burned. And perhaps homeless in the bargain.
As far as Lucius was concerned, Astoria felt relatively safe; Draco was far too self-preserving to let anything slip in front of his father. He wouldn't want to risk being yelled at on a holiday, and possibly—Astoria's stomach did a sick little flip-flop—he would feel somewhat ashamed of himself. He had certainly offered up vague but incriminating promises concerning his father the night before. Had he really insinuated that he would lie for her? He must surely be regretting that now.
To distract herself, Astoria continued down the list of possible leaks, organizing each threat by the level of fear that it induced.
Belladonna was too far away to be taken into account, thank the heavens. But what about friends their own age? Suddenly wide awake and fully nauseous, Astoria squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to seriously contemplate what might happen if Draco (either smugly or vengefully) decided to brag to Maudlin about getting off with her in his mother's music room.
Merlin, what a hot mess that would be—perhaps even worse than the reality of Lucius's displeasure. Maudlin had long played the part of pompous Big Brother around Astoria, using his age to lord over her, loudly praising common sense that he did not actually possess. Finding out that Astoria was secretly shagging his house-guest was sure to throw him into a violent temper-tantrum. And where would that leave her? Maudlin had just broken up with his girlfriend: he was erratic, emotionally unstable, needy. Astoria's father was God knew where and she was supposed to be staying with the Mendels for another month—she could not risk an upset now. Malfoy had to stay quiet.
Unprompted, but not necessarily unconnected, Astoria's thoughts ventured back to the awkwardly charged moment with Maudlin in his bedroom on the night she had arrived in France. That was nothing, she told herself uneasily. He was drunk.
Somewhere down the hall, a second thunderous thunk finally jolted Astoria back to reality. There could be no mistaking it now: she had heard a crash.
Struggling awkwardly to sit up—her dress was gathered about her waist in a river of wrinkles—Astoria lurched forward. Her hands crept up to her neck: two of her necklaces were tangled so tightly that it was a wonder she hadn't choked in her sleep.
A muffled scream shot through the walls like lightning. Another smash. Astoria recognized Élise Bernard's voice now, reverberating off the hallway ceiling at top volume.
What was happening? More importantly, what was Élise saying? Astoria's clumsy fingers fell away from her throat before she could finish untwisting the pearls. The notion that she had been woken up by the sound of Luc and Élise energetically molesting each-other was appaling, but the threat of Élise spilling secrets prompted her to listen closely anyway. She picked apart each sound, searching for signs of violence.
The sound of rapidly approaching foot-steps disproved the first of her fears almost immediately. People do not have sex and jog at the same time, Astoria realized stupidly. She was listening to a row; a very loud one.
Heaving herself to her feet, Astoria tumbled through the darkness towards the curtains. Élise's volume was more than a little alarming. It was still very early in the morning—any reason she might have for screeching was undoubtedly bad. What if Élise had said something incriminating?
Nonsense, decided Astoria, panting slightly. Surely Luc wasn't so annoying that Élise would risk showing her hand so soon? The Mendels were unprecedentedly rich and powerful—Élise must know that Luc was her only meal ticket here. Without him, she would be sent packing.
Astoria reflected on this, lingering by the low-lit window glass, only partly soothed. Her original plan might still work, but only if Élise was as ambitious as she was spiteful—an assumption that Astoria had made quickly and was betting quite a lot on. What if Élise was not the cunning money-grasper that she had taken her for? What if Élise was actually stupid?
"Come on," Astoria muttered tensely, straining her ears. A pale and suspicious silence fell. Then, an unexpected rap on the bedroom door broke the quiet and provoked something close to a nervous spasm in her chest.
Mouthing wordless profanity, Astoria gestured at the door, warding herself against whatever waited on the other side. Élise (for who else could it be?) knocked again, this time more insistently. Making the stubborn decision to feign sleep, Astoria waited with baited breath until the unwanted footsteps retreated again.
The moment the coast was clear, she yanked off her jewelry off and threw it toward her rumpled blankets. Both necklaces slid down onto the floor again with a series of resentful clicks.
An angry red line had appeared near her collar bone—she had slept more heavily than she knew, and her weight seemed to have pressed several baubles into her skin like musket-shot. Annoyed, Astoria massaged her neck feebly.
How was it possible to have so little privacy in such a large house? What was the matter with people? Setting aside the fact that Astoria's list of grievances would be much smaller if she resisted the urge to manipulate, she began to pace the room. Belladonna might genuinely enjoy antics, but Astoria did not have her aunt's constitution for constant battle—especially when danger seemed to be coming at her from all sides.
Conscious of the fact that she was intentionally channeling her aunt for strength, Astoria let out a hollow laugh and yanked her fingers through her hair. She froze. A particularly ardent snarl had formed near base of her head and the memory of the couch friction that had surely put it there was almost enough to undo her. Pulling her hand free, she massaged her left eye until she saw dots.
There was no point in going back to bed—her one shot at uninterrupted rest was spent. What she needed now was a plan. Some light occupation to distract her from her thoughts.
Aston might be eating an early breakfast. Only the more Astoria considered this option, the less eager she was to actually explore it. Their late arrival the day before had obviously nettled him and the fact that both Astoria and Maudlin had gone to bed early without bidding anyone goodnight—a bit of negligence that had struck her as permissibly lazy in the moment—now made their behavior seem doubly rude. Perhaps he would not be in very good spirits even if he was awake?
Astoria's eyes strayed thoughtfully toward the bedside clock.
There was already a long-standing tradition in the Mendel household of getting up early after a bout of rule breaking. As child, the sight of Maudlin slinking outside at dawn to play hand-ball against the courtyard walls had never been entirely uncommon. In fact, dressed in sharp tennis whites, Maudlin had always made something of a show of these incidents, perhaps reasoning that his early morning exercise might be considered proof of manful self-mastery by his irate father.
Astoria had always found Maudlin's morning charades slightly foolish—as far as she knew, Aston was never up early enough to actually witness them. But perhaps there was something to it? She would certainly not be the first person to sulk about the Mendel gardens before breakfast and any plan that bought her more time before she had to see Draco again appealed to her. Pulling her wrinkled dress over her head, Astoria strode toward the bathroom.
The world was somewhat brighter and chillier here, characterized by the ghostly scents of lotion, orange tea and steam long given-over to condensation. Astoria heaved a deep breath, allowing the space to put her in mind of un-brushed hair and leisure. A diamond shaped window was situated behind the claw-footed tub, letting in the yellowing sparkle of early morning.
Too lazy to retrieve her own things, she turned the tap until the water in the tub ran hot and un-stoppered a bottle of amber soap sitting atop the sink. An expensive-smelling cloud of steam rose the moment she dumped it under the spray; the scent of lilies suddenly overpowered the fainter aroma of oranges.
Astoria sank into the water, shivering slightly amidst the flowery froth. Too tired to do anything else, she let her head droop against the side of the tub and stared in the direction of the oncoming sunrise.
It was fully her intention to relax and focus on nothing, but between the shock of the heat and the presence of her own nudity, she found her thoughts doubling back toward Draco again.
She didn't like the idea of being numbered—of being organized into a specific slot by a single action or acquaintance. Life shouldn't work that way. Only, somehow, by allowing Draco to touch her, it seemed as though she had done just that. This thought—although maddeningly obscure—depressed her.
Astoria struggled to understand herself. Calling up every bit of dinner party gossip she had ever heard, she reached an alarming conclusion: the magical world was not so very vast—society women were most frequently measured by their list of lovers and their age, not their jobs or achievements. She had not taken this vague but frightening idea into account the night before—that by having sex with Draco would be giving up something that she could not get back and taking on something that she could not give away.
Someday—in forty years perhaps?—would an aging dowager entertain youngsters at a ball by whispering the story of Astoria's life over the punch bowl, starting with Malfoy and working her way up? What kind of impression would that give? That Astoria was cruel? Greedy? At the very least, she was certain that the picture it painted was not a very true one.
And what about Draco? Even now, at the age of fifteen, Astoria was wise enough to know that when he was forty, she would be the last person that anyone would think to connect his name with. Was that because he was wealthier than she was? Or was it simply because he was a male? If no one finds out, it won't matter, she reasoned quickly.
Astoria slouched, rankling at this injustice. What kind of boy even was Draco? Astoria was obviously fond of him on some level, but still.
Sometimes he acted with great care, she had to give him that. He was obviously capable of cunning and even, on occasion, of wit. But then, he was also liable to act in an obvious and big-headed way that Astoria had always found shockingly stupid. This dichotomy of behavior—on the one hand self-preserving and cleverly efficient, on the other smug and desperate to prove—had more than once worked against Draco's best interests. If Astoria could just intercept him first—before he saw Maudlin or Alec...
But what could she possibly say that wouldn't sound offensive? All she really wanted to do was coax him into keeping his mouth shut, but what if he found her lack of besotted bashfulness insulting? Or worse, what if he enthusiastically agreed with her?
Astoria shivered. She had not considered Draco's own potential lack of enthusiasm. Now that she thought of it, wasn't it possible that he had already gotten what he wanted? What if Astoria had built herself up, assumed that she was worth something to him? What if, in reality, she was nothing more than a wet and forbidden diversion that he had simply never been allowed to enjoy before? She hadn't exactly extracted any real promises from him before she slept with him. What if he was done with her?
The prospect of this dismissal was strangely tragic. Had he said or done anything to give her that impression?
Try as she might, Astoria could not seem to entirely focus. She could feel herself losing track of logic, favoring memory in a perversely overwhelming way instead; the smell of Draco's hair, the tension in his shoulders, the exact feel of his thighs underneath her.
Astoria blinked stupidly, realizing that she had sagged sideways with her eyes half closed. For Merlins sake! The entire incident had been awkward enough the first time. There was no point in romanticizing it.
A sudden hiss, as of a draft sucking across the floor, was Astoria's only warning to pull her legs up toward her chest before another door—one that she had entirely overlooked—shot open.
"Ah!" cried Élise in her scornful lilt, strolling in at her leisure, "there you are! I thought you must be sleeping."
Astoria opened her mouth to respond but surprise seemed to have rendered her momentarily mute.
"Unless you were ignoring me?" Élise continue accusingly, leaning against the sink. She was wearing pale silver slip that barely covered the curve of her hips. A small cigarette case clinked against the porcelain as she pulled herself up to sit, flashing Astoria an eyeful of black lace knickers.
"What are you doing in here?" Astoria finally managed, slowly coming to her senses.
"I wanted to catch you alone," Élise shrugged. She produced a cigarette and a match from the case in her boney white hand and lit up.
She was wearing a tiny silver ring in the shape of a moon on her forefinger. Did Veelas worship celestial bodies? With her pale hair tousled and her shiny nightwear pooling into the sink like mercury, Élise certainly looked like she might.
"Do you mind?" asked Élise, gesturing disinterestedly with her smoking hand.
Astoria eyed the decidedly toxic-smelling fumes in disbelief as she exhaled.
"A little, yeah," she finally managed, making sure that her knees were properly placed to cover her nipples. Something about Élise's aquatic grace—a girl perpetually floating in six inches of water—only served to make Astoria feel less confident about her own, decidedly more human edges.
"Too bad," Élise scoffed. "It's the only way I can stop myself from eating—six courses last night! I don't know how the rich do it. I'll be lucky if I'm ever hired to walk a show again."
"Uhuh," Astoria sneered, fanning smoke away her face. She did not want to listen to Élise, who had possibly the best body she had ever seen, prattle on about poisonous diet tips. "What do you want? I'm bathing."
"I followed you here," admitted Élise, exuding an odd aura that was at once passive and predatory. Geisha-like, thought Astoria. A supplicating tyrant.
"I'd noticed that," Astoria supplied, torn between her own discomfort and the strange allure of such wild, almost clandestine, inappropriateness.
It was clear that Élise found the concept of modesty to be a bit puritanical for her tastes, but she also seemed to know that she was making Astoria uncomfortable. She leaned back against the mirror confidently, observing the parts of Astoria that she could see with curious and un-shuttered eyes.
Unwilling to cower under anyone's gaze, Astoria defiantly let her knees drop. Fine, she seethed inwardly. Let her look.
Élise raised her eyebrows.
"Will your father be along soon?" Élise went on, realizing that she had lost her edge and returning to her breakfast of smoke and cruelty. "It'll be a waste of my time if he isn't coming."
"I don't know what his plans are," Astoria admitted begrudgingly, surprised by the notion that Élise was still thinking about George in the midst of so much splendor. "Probably. He said he'd be along in a week, but who knows what that means."
Élise snorted appreciatively.
"You didn't need to tie down Luc," continued Astoria, unable to conceal her scorn. "Just flirting with him would have been enough."
"But then I wouldn't be here, would I?" taunted Élise, cocking Astoria a rogue grin. "You have very nice legs, you know."
"Maybe," Astoria flashed back, ignoring the compliment, irritated by Élise's unwillingness to acknowledge any fear, "but if you want to stay here, you shouldn't be fighting with him so loudly. Anyone could have heard you earlier."
"I know," groaned Élise, snickering with great animation. "But then it's so hard not to, isn't it? He really is such a pig!"
If she had meant this as an insult, Astoria could not help but feel as though she had spoken with entirely too much glee.
"Right," muttered Astoria, standing up and reaching for a towel. "I'll let you know when my father says he's coming. Until then, you need to keep your mouth shut and make peace with Luc."
Élise raised her eyebrows a bit higher, perhaps disliking the hint of dismissal in Astoria's tone.
"Alight," she agreed, positively reeking of false lightness. She extinguished her cigarette in the sink. "Have it your way. Worst case scenario, I can always trade up."
"What does that mean?" asked Astoria sharply, forgetting to tuck the end of her towel down properly.
"It means that I'll find someone else if I need to," explained Élise, tittering cruelly under her breath. "There are other boys."
"No," Astoria hissed, anxious to make Élise understand how precarious matters already stood. "There is no one else. Alec will spot the trap immediately. Maudlin's uncomfortable eating lunch with any girl in front of his father and Draco's a little fascist. Don't drop Luc."
"Hah!" laughed Élise, surveying her coldly. "All of that means nothing to me. I'm very persuasive. Which one is yours?"
"No one is mine" Astoria sneered, hating how shrill she sounded.
"Oh, no?" scoffed Élise rather patronizingly. "Come now. If you're afraid that I'll pick a favorite, you might as well tell me who to avoid. There are already secrets between us, so what's one more? I'm not even particular."
"Try the lot for all I care!" Astoria declared. This was no lost weekend—she was confident that Draco was too much of a racist to allow Élise anywhere near him in a house that was crawling with important people. "It won't do you any good. If you lose Luc, you're out. And for God's sake, be careful what you say! If you tell anyone that I'm helping you, I'll have the elves poison you!"
Even to Astoria's ears this sounded a bit more violent than she had perhaps intended.
"Hm." Élise let out a single hiccup of a laugh and then bit the air in front of Astoria's face, missing her nose by inches.
Too shocked to react quickly, Élise was able to stride around Astoria and let the door slam shut behind her in silence.
0o0
Dressed in a starched white tennis skirt that matched her obnoxiously white polo, Astoria descended the main staircase several minutes later. Almost every door in the long marble hall stood open to admit the quickening air. The smell of lavender blooming silently over the rocks outside mingled freely with the sea breeze. For an instant, Astoria felt as clean and delicate as her outfit. Élise and Malfoy be damned.
Certain that she detected a hint of coffee on the boisterous wind, Astoria continued down the length of the hall to a long, formal sitting room where the Mendels often installed breakfast for visiting guests.
This same room—the longest in the house, currently inhabited by sturdy tables, vast floral arrangements and long couches upholstered in roman-purple velvet—had more than once been stripped of its carpets and furniture to accommodate dancing at formal parties. It was a vast space, lined along each wall with hinged glass doors that opened out onto the lawn. Today, it was a flurry of airy drapery and spangled golden light.
True to form, Maudlin was already hovering over the tea table when Astoria approached. He was standing with his back to her, striking an earnest profile against the sunrise, but he stirred when he caught sight of movement in the corner of his eye.
His gaze tumbled onto Astoria in surprise. For a fleeting second, his face brightened with instinctual delight. But then, taking in her clothing and guessing her motive, his joy was swiftly replaced by annoyance.
"Well," he clipped, "if it isn't 'Captain Suck Ass'."
"Kiss Ass," Astoria corrected, trying not to smirk at this rare example of confused English on his part. Mauldin had been tutored well—when he made a mistake, it was usually idiomatic and the results were typically hilarious.
"Whatever," Maudlin sniffed, sipping his tea through rather pursed lips.
"Why are you up so early?" asked Astoria, locating the coffee and pouring herself a measure.
"The same reason you are, I suppose," sneered Maudlin. "Have you seen my father yet?"
"No," Astoria admitted. "I think he's still sleeping. He was up later than both of us."
"Oh. You went to bed early too, did you?" he reacted grimly, brow furrowing. This changed things. "Well, no matter. We'll just have to make up for it at lunch."
Jauntiness somewhat regained, Maudlin downed his tea and reclaimed a small rubber ball that he had stashed between a pot of honey and some rolls. "Come on, we'll use the courtyard."
It was already blisteringly hot outside. Small patches of shade retained the moist atmosphere of dawn, but the naked stones of the courtyard were baking under rays of slanting sunlight.
"Stand back," commanded Maudlin, casting his ball forward.
No matter how authoritative his warning, it was still a limp throw. Maudlin managed to catch the return bounce with one hand almost half-heartedly.
"The nerve of them all!" he suddenly burst, slamming the ball against the ground instead. "Don't look at me like that, you feel the same way!" he continued irritably. "You can't stand this either."
Assuming he was talking about Cassandra (because why would he guess that Luc's presence was anything to scare her?) Astoria leaned against a patch of wall and fanned her face. "Are the Rowles usually in Monaco this time of year?"
"Of course not!" shot Maudlin irritably. "Cassandra's here with some great aunt who hasn't left France in a century. It's all a ruse! She's here to keep tabs on me. Or you—"
He pronounced the word 'you' with such affected scorn that Astoria could not help but feel as though he was trying to rile her up on purpose. Searching for an ally, perhaps. Or someone else to blame.
"She fancies that Yaxley bloke," Astoria ventured carefully, trying not to sound as though she was fishing. "Maybe she followed him here. It's not as though she said anything to you last night. Or did she?"
"No," admitted Maudlin nastily, "but I've got her number. If she thinks she can trick me, she can guess again. Malfoy's her cousin, isn't he? I sent him over for breakfast this morning to drag it out of her."
"I'm sorry, what?" asked Astoria. The mention of Malfoy's name of Maudlin's lips had made her light-headed. She really did not know if she had heard him.
"Yeah," continued Maudlin, sounding curiously proud of himself. "I woke him up an hour ago when Luc and that she-elf of his were having a go. Can you imagine letting a half-breed scream at you like that?"
"What did he say?" Astoria pressed, horrified by the notion that she had been thwarted so early. Her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth; she twisted her cheeks to dislodge it.
"Luc?" Maudlin shrugged. "Only that he was sorry about how things played out. I think he's trying to distance himself from Emilie. But who can blame him, you know? She's deadly dull, I've always said that." Maudlin diverted his eyes toward a distant bird and when he spoke again it was in a mutter: "I told him he can stay if he wants... not that I'm caving. It's perfectly reasonable for me to feel bad for him!"
"No, Draco!" Astoria insisted, trying to imagine this scene playing out—Maudlin bursting erratically into Draco's room before sun-up, making wild demands. "I don't care about Luc."
Maudlin frowned and Astoria immediately regretted her wording.
"You know what I mean," she continued quickly. "Do you think you can trust Malfoy with Cassandra? They're related."
"Oh," Maudlin shrugged, "I think so. He's never given me the impression that they're especially close. And you know how Cassandra is."
"Draco agreed to go?" Astoria spluttered stupidly, even less able to imagine this scenario than the first one.
"Well, I mean, he was bit rumpled and out of sorts when I woke him," admitted Maudlin evasively, "but he seemed willing enough."
Certain that 'rumpled and out of sorts' was probably an extreme under-exaggeration of Malfoy's annoyance, Astoria said nothing. Instead, she watched Maudlin's face, searching for signs of suspicion, signs that he knew more than he was letting on, that Draco had told him.
But Maudlin's face was an open—if irritated—slate of naivety. If Draco had said anything about her, Maudlin had misunderstood him.
"He's going to visit her this morning?" Astoria continued, unwilling to let the conversation trickle off before she was satisfied.
"He's there now," Maudlin snorted. "I'm not stupid. I didn't want to give Cassandra so much as an hour to rally."
But Astoria was barely listening. Draco had already seen Maudlin and the worst had not yet happened. This seemed to indicate that he, too, recognized the dangers of irritating his host. That was a very good sign. And the fact that he had agreed to run an early morning favor for Maudlin? Even better. It suggested that, at least for now, Draco might be keen to stay in his good graces.
Beyond that, Astoria could not resist the notion that Draco's willingness to be forced from bed at dawn and sent out on a pointless mission was somewhat attributed to herself. Would he have catered to Maudlin's irrational whims if she was not distantly related to the bargain? Somehow Astoria didn't think so. Her mouth-sticking fear began to transmute itself into something closer to foolish pride.
"This game is rubbish," she remarked, still light-headed, only now with unexplained glee.
"And father is sleeping in the south wing," agreed Maudlin, studying the house with pensive, dissatisfied eyes. "We're west. I doubt he can even see us here. Beach?"
"Beach," Astoria agreed cheerfully, ducking to avoid Maudlin's final, wild ball toss.
0o0
A stately lime path connected to a well-tended stretch of cove not far away, following the gentlest slope of the lawn down toward the sea. But Maudlin, seeking privacy (or else hoping to instigate his own orneriness to even greater heights) soon broke away from this easy route and began to pick his way out along an old goat track. This less formal path sputtered through a patch of remote pine woods and ended at a headland of craggy rock that jutted out over the ocean.
Astoria followed him peacefully enough through the trees, enjoying the balmy silence and golden sun. When they reached the dazzling and wide-open expanse along the top of the cliff, however, she began to have second thoughts.
"Have you brought me here to murder me?" wondered Astoria wryly. She was only partly kidding.
"Huh?" Maudlin barked over the sound of the pounding surf. "No," he sneered. "This way."
He had located an even thinner passage among the bramble. From where Astoria stood, this path looked as though it plunged disconcertingly over the crest of the rust colored peak. From there, it was sure to drop steeply down toward the shore. Praying silently that this was not an elaborate scheme to exact some kind of revenge for hidden dalliances, Astoria reached out unsteadily. She grabbed the sleeve of Maudlin's white tennis sweater and slid down a foot or two of pebbly earth onto a slightly lower precipice.
From here, the path was obvious and sturdy; half-carved into the stone some ten feet above the water was a dry, cave-like stairway that sloped down to where the waves lapped at a shelf of equally bright but very stable rock.
"I've never seen his before," Astoria exclaimed, slipping on a patch of crushed seashells in her excitement.
"Why would you?" jeered Maudlin depressively. "You can't see the second ledge until you're ready to jump from the first."
Ignoring this bit of wretched humor, Astoria turned her eyes seaward. Twenty or so small sailboats hugged the coast; they looked like nothing more than white dots swallowed up by so much blue from where she stood. The wind was not so fierce here, but the sun seemed doubly so. By the time Astoria turned around again, Maudlin had already pulled off his sweater and his polo. He was stretched out shirtless on the driest patch of rock he could find, ignoring her completely.
"Is this literally your man cave?" Astoria demanded, choking on a laugh.
Maudlin raised an arm to shade his eyes against the sun and shot her haughty, intolerant look. "Fuck you."
He had misunderstood her delight; Astoria was not feeling at all inclined towards scorn. If anything, she could hardly believe that Maudlin, the most idle and least adventurous of her friends (to say nothing of his aversion for nature), had discovered such a perilously well-concealed hide-out.
To prove how content she was, Astoria hastily undid the zipper on her skirt and kicked it off toward a pile of small boulders. Her shoulders gloried in the naked kiss of sunlight next. Trusting in the sturdiness of undergarments designed for sport, she tipped sideways into the cool sea without as much as a second thought.
For the next half hour she plunged about stupidly, glorying in the toss of every wave. She dove as deep as she could and opened her eyes onto the greenness of the silent world beneath the surface until they stung from the salt. When, finally, the water had leached all of the warmth from her fingers and rinsed her thoroughly though, she climbed back out again.
Maudlin was still sprawled out on his back but she could tell by his relaxed forehead that he was appeased. In the short time that Astoria had been preoccupied he seemed to have grown two whole shades browner and his hair, normally as well-groomed as a man fresh from the barber, looked thick and tousled by sweat.
It was a strange departure from the way that she was accustomed to seeing him: buttoned up, pompous, oblivious. Half-naked and at peace, there was something rather more Latin about his features than she usually recognized; his face was very dark, almost earnest. If she squinted, she found that she was capable of experiencing his handsomeness—a force she tended to acknowledge in a dispassionate, sisterly way—far more organically. There was a reason that Élise had tried to single him out first at the Minister's Ball first and settled on Luc as a second option. If Élise tried to switch targets again, it would not be Malfoy that she would set her sights on. She had been foolish to even think it.
"I've done something obnoxious," sighed Astoria, settling down onto the rock next to him, prepared to unburden herself.
Her shirt, she noticed, had been retrieved from the boulder she had flung it at. It was already balled up and ready to serve her as a pillow. Astoria's insides squirmed as she looked at it, unable to bring herself to rest her head.
"Hmm?" he grunted.
Astoria opened her mouth, uncertain about where she ought to begin. What was she even admitting to, exactly? She wanted to warn him about Élise, but she didn't know how. She also wanted to avoid any sense of betrayal that Maudlin might feel if he were to discover Astoria's dealings with Draco, but she didn't want to risk provoking the tyrant he had been in their youth to do it. The idea of Maudlin becoming angry with her in place that was obviously special to him struck her as deeply depressing. How long had it been since they had spent any time together in true, companionable silence? Had they ever?
Maudlin shifted lazily, perhaps sensing Astoria's distress. "What?"
His tone was clipped again. Everything had been going wrong for him lately and he seemed to know that he was about to be dealt another blow. Astoria's blinking stuttered and she found that she could not look at him.
"I don't think I've packed enough," she managed stupidly, trying for a deflection.
Her ears rattled with the idiocy of this statement. It was a miserable lie, but she hadn't been able to come up with anything better on the spot—all she had done since she'd arrived in Maudlin's home was eat and dress herself.
You still found time to shag his friend, a nasty little voice snickered inside her ear. Astoria twitched her head, hoping to dislodge this thought.
"Oh!" returned Maudlin pertly. His brow immediately rumpled, the way it always did when his mind was working hard to make out mountain out of a molehill. Astoria watched the gears turn uncomfortably.
As a boy, Maudlin had been able to recite works from three languages. Now, at the brink of manhood, he spoke all three of these tongues fluently but he still could not piece together a solution to a simple problem. Money had a way of poisoning a promising intellect that way. And in Maudlin, the comforts of excess had found a perfect victim.
"Do you have something to wear tonight, at least?" he continued earnestly, addressing this false catastrophe in the best way he knew how. "Father's planning a dinner on the terrace for some of the visiting businessmen."
No, the hard little voice snickered again, I've packed nothing but tennis whites.
"Of course," Astoria scoffed, wanting to backtrack before her excuse wore thin. "I'm being silly, I was only thinking out loud."
"Make an appointment somewhere after the weekend," he suggested, his head sagging again. "I think Giambattista's in town. You can't do much better than that."
"I can't afford him," said Astoria at once, thankful to have such an iron-clad reason to refuse this advice. "My aunt would go ballistic."
"Charge it to my father," scoffed Maudlin. To him, this was such a natural and obvious fallback that he almost appeared to scorn her for not thinking of it sooner. "Come to think of it, Giambattista's tailors might have my name. You can probably put it on my account."
Astoria said nothing. By attempting to set the record straight and warn Maudlin, she had somehow managed to rob him instead. How did that add up?
"I hope there's shrimp for lunch," yawned Maudlin, considering the crisis averted. "It's the right sort of day for it."
0o0
The humidity of the morning was all but gone by the time that Astoria and Maudlin regained the lofty front hall again. It was noon and so many hours of sunlight had worked their magic on her. Feeling salty and well-exercised, Astoria was dreaming of a nap. She dithered just long enough for her eyes to adjust and was on the verge of announcing her intent when an elf swept in to announce that lunch was being served on the porch.
Realizing that this was their best chance to win Aston back into their good-graces before the evening guests arrived, Astoria gave up any hope of sleep and withdrew to her room immediately to freshen up.
Another industrious elf had whisked away the crumpled lavender dress she had worn the night before, but she took little joy in selecting a new one. By lying to Maudlin, she had restricted herself to the most basic wardrobe staples that she possessed—for the next several days she would be forced to wear day-clothes to avoid rousing his suspicions. She brushed out her sea-dried hair and spritzed it with perfume to add some conviction.
Charming, she reminded herself, be charming. You used to be good at that.
The patio in question soon proved to be a balcony off a second story sitting room. Thankful for the increased breeze that height afforded, Astoria was the first person to arrive. It was very sunny here and the view was spectacular; the perfect place for a mid-day meal. She was so busy scoping out the buffet of salads and cold cuts waiting on a wrought iron table that she did not notice a flash of blonde hair on the other end of the terrace until it was almost too late.
In an instant she knew that it was Draco. There was nothing very special in the way that he was dressed or the manner in which he was sitting, but she knew that it was him by the way her stomach lunged forward into her throat.
Only it wasn't Draco; it was Alec and Alec had never worn a plain outfit in his life. Blinking to clear away her hallucinatory first impression, Astoria saw him plainly now. Dressed in a pink and white seersucker suit, he was drinking a glass of champagne topped with juice. On his head tipped a panama hat so ludicrous that Astoria wondered how she could have ever mistaken him for Malfoy.
"High on a dream?" murmured Alec. "Where have you been all morning? I ate breakfast alone with Aston."
"The beach," supplied Astoria after a lengthy pause. She sunk into a deck chair. God, what was the matter with her? "Maudlin and I went at sun-up."
"Mm," grunted Alec, taking a sip of his drink. His eyelashes fluttered. He looked irritated.
"Oh, good!" cried Maudlin, bursting through the curtain behind her. "You're already here! Alec, where's my father?"
He proceeded without pause toward a line of champagne bottles on the table.
"Sailing," returned Alec, settling back rather smugly.
Maudlin's shoulders stiffened, but he did not turn around and betray his nervousness. "Is that right?"
"He left after breakfast," Alec clarified.
"Did he seem very put-out that we weren't there?" asked Maudlin evasively, busying himself with a cork.
"Not really," shrugged Alec. "I got the impression that he was taking company with him. Of course, we might have been among their party if you hadn't slipped off so mysteriously."
Maudlin returned to mixing his mimosa, but his shoulders did not relax. Alec obviously resented them for making sure that he was stuck in the house all day, but Maudlin had other problems on his mind.
"Who went?" asked Astoria, already knowing the answer to her question.
"The visiting English, mostly," returned Alec. "I saw Draco's father."
"Any idea when they'll be back?" rejoined Maudlin, annoyed by Alec's nonchalance. They had known each other too long for this; Alec plainly knew that this news made Maudlin uncomfortable. There was no miscommunication—they were having a standoff.
"They'll dock before dinner-time," supplied Alec, finally taking pity and loosening. "Your father is planning something on the lawn."
"Yes," muttered Maudlin tersely. "He mentioned that at dinner last night."
He came over to the deck chairs clutching a mimosa in each hand. Astoria was more than a little surprised when he offered her the second one.
"Luc is still sleeping," Alec continued, confirming what Astoria already suspected, "he rolled out of bed around ten but couldn't stomach the sunlight. I have no idea what happened to Draco. He went to bed as early as you did."
"I sent him to the Rowles," admitted Maudlin, trying his drink. "Did he really slink off last night too? The nerve of us!"
Astoria downed her mimosa in a single pull. She had never been so tempted to get roaringly drunk in her life—but what good would it do? She would only be trading awkwardness for uselessness.
"You sent him to spy on his relatives?" demanded Alec leeringly. "The poor boy's been here less than a day!"
Alec had a bad habit of occasionally looking at people as though they were objects, but there was no trace of this distance in his expression now. If anything, a lively animation seemed to be dancing behind his features. The effect was possibly even more disconcerting.
"Of course he did," answered a snide, familiar voice belonging to the real Draco Malfoy, announcing his presence in the doorway. "Not that it did any good."
"Ah, Draco!" exclaimed Maudlin, popping his head up. "What happened? She wouldn't see you?"
"What?" scoffed Draco, drawing closer to their circle of chairs. "Of course she saw me, don't be stupid."
"And?" demanded Maudlin, leaping up to draw him a seat.
Astoria fixed her eyes on the horizon, wishing desperately that she had followed Aston to sea. She had wanted a private word with Draco all morning, but now that he was actually here, she found that she could not look at him.
"And nothing," Draco sneered. "She spent all morning working on a batch of horrifyingly homemade scones that I ended up having to choke down and accused you of cheating on your girlfriend. Does any of this sound new to you?"
"I didn't cheat on Emilie!" bristled Maudlin. "Why is she saying that?"
"Who cares?" sneered Draco emphatically. "You dumped her."
"That's not the point!" hissed Maudlin, compulsively loosening his neck-tie. "What proof does she think she has? I'll bury her before she tries to make me look bad!"
"Something about a house-elf?" scowled Draco, plainly sick to death of the entire conversation.
"Which one?" demanded Maudlin at once. Perhaps he had not been as faithful to Emilie as he would like them to think?
"I don't know," sneered Malfoy exaggeratedly. "Kinky The Sneak?"
"I don't have a house-elf named kinky!" declared Maudlin shrilly, bounding to his feet again. "I don't have one! There! See, she's a liar!"
Astoria raised a hand to dab her cheek, certain that Maudlin had just spit on her. Malfoy, meanwhile, was squinting in the shade of the table umbrella, considering Maudlin with a look of great distaste. If he was at all preoccupied about what had happened the night before he was doing a wondrous—almost sociopathic—job of hiding it. He had not so much as glanced at her.
"Tell him, Astoria!" demanded Maudlin, leveling her with an accusing finger. "Tell him I don't have a house elf named 'Kinky'!"
"He doesn't have a house elf named Kinky," intoned Astoria flatly. Why wasn't he looking her?
Maudlin held up a hand and began to count his elves: "Daisy, Lavender, Parsley, Sage—"
"Rosemary and Thyme?" suggested Draco snidely, unable to believe what he was hearing. "I told her Kinky the house-elf was lying. You're covered."
"Why would you do that?" breathed Maudlin, flabbergasted.
"Do what?" repeated Malfoy dubiously. His eyebrows shot up. "You wanted me to tell her it was true?"
"I don't have a house elf named Kinky!" repeated Maudlin shrilly. "I don't have one! Only now, no one will believe me!"
"Dress up another elf as Kinky and have it refute the story if you need to," interjected Astoria, beginning to feel a bit bad for Draco. "It's no matter..."
"I can't do that!" snarled Maudlin, choking an invisible neck. "Cassandra's been here with Emilie a thousand times with. She knows all the elves by sight!"
"She's lying, Maudlin," insisted Astoria calmly. "She won't want to risk being discovered."
"Are we talking about the same person at all?" demanded Maudlin.
"Jesus," heaved Alec, getting up to pour himself another drink.
"She'd call me out in a second for producing the wrong elf!" Maudlin went on. "And she knows the house so well that people will believe her!"
"Fine, have it your way," mused Astoria slowly, driven to distraction by Draco's sullen silence. "Maybe the answer isn't trying to pretend that Kinky is real. Maybe it would be easier to pretend that Kinky is dead."
A short, stunned silence followed this pronouncement.
"Oh-hoo," choked Alec gleefully over the cold cuts.
"She knows there is no Kinky!" hissed Maudlin.
"But no one else does," continued Astoria thoughtfully. "No, hear me out on this. Spread the word that the poor thing died. Then it will be your word against hers—if she even says anything, which I doubt."
"Well!" Maudlin huffed. "It's just—I mean, how does one go about convincing the world that his house elf is dead? What am I supposed to do? Throw the wretched thing a funeral?"
"Sure," insisted Astoria stubbornly. "Serve rum drinks. Wear black. Toss the lie back in her face."
Alec was beside himself.
"No," murmured Maudlin, "I can't. That's just unseemly."
"Oh, do it!" pleaded Alec, alive to the novelty. "It'll be the most fun we've had in ages."
"Won't I look like a crack-pot?" scoffed Maudlin.
"No," drawled Alec. "Not if the people who might scorn you for it are already in on the joke. Give Rowle a week to spread her story and start sending invitations."
This idea was so stupid that it was very nearly genius. Maudlin sunk back into his chair again. He began to laugh. Vaguely at first, then more heartily.
Draco's sneer slid uncomfortably into a tight-lipped frown.
0o0
The afternoon passed in a blur of anxious discomfort. Maudlin, thoroughly rejuvenated, didn't want to do anything other than drink and congratulate himself. This was bad news for Astoria because Draco's presence, although no more than uncharacteristically quiet, was very disheartening. Less than eight hours previously she had wanted nothing more than for him to stay silent; now she found herself wishing he would say anything at all.
Although on the surface their party appeared mostly content and high-spirited, it took everything Astoria had to keep up the act. She laughed loudly when she was expected to, but without comprehension. Outwardly, Draco did not appear to be troubled, but his own mannerisms all had the focused quality of intense concentration—how he might have appeared if he had chosen to appear naturally, Astoria did not dare guess. In the end, the fact that he was not entirely at ease was her only consolation. When the sun finally began to set and Maudlin had exhausted every open bottle on ice, Astoria quietly withdrew to change for dinner feeling glummer and less exhilarated than she had in ages.
Her one rule for the evening—that she dress plainly—now went against every principle that she stood by. So she broke it. Astoria had spent the day ceaselessly blending into the backdrop; she hadn't managed so much as a single, telling look from Draco and if she was going to be spurned, she was bloody well going to make him look at her first.
Perched in the double-doored bathroom, she wrought her magic, drawing eyeliner with the practiced violence of a warrior sharpening knives before battle. Whenever it occurred to her that she was dressing for a boy who might not want her, she redoubled her efforts with an even steadier hand. She chose a dress that was form-fitting, soft and showed the entirety of her sun-kissed back. She was trying too hard.
Ironically, this effort was perhaps the single-most flattering compliment that she had ever paid Malfoy. She doubted he would have the sense to realize it.
When she returned to the first floor, the garden was awash with floating lanterns. Voices rumbled from every side—some trickling in through the long French doors, other's echoing across the hall from the direction of the living room bar. It was plain that Aston had returned, but he had brought so many people with him that Astoria did not dare to hunt him down. Spotting Maudlin slouching against the nearest entryway, she wandered forward. Anything to avoid looking lost.
A small cocktail party was well-underway in the formal garden. Guests were mingling about on the white alleyways between groves of ornamental hedges and the austere stone courtyards. Draco had already come down; he was talking to his mother in the fairy-tale shadow of a linden tree.
"Strap in," murmured Maudlin dispassionately. "Father's talking about marching them all down to the beach."
He cast her a wary glance and then straightened up again, shooting her a furtive double-take over the rim of his scotch. Was he catching her in the lie about her luggage? Or had she simply overdressed to the point of ridiculousness?
"It's not as though I didn't pack anything," Astoria reminded him self-consciously, afraid of being accused. There was only so much she could contend with in one night and she had already firmly met her limit.
"Huh?" frowned Maudlin, confused.
"Astoria!" a familiar voice called out. "Darling!"
Astoria did not move. Her blood had turned to ice. George couldn't possibly be behind her—he was in France.
"Darling, you look marvelous!"
Astoria turned a stunned cheek and allowed her father to swoop in and kiss her. What was he doing here? Her thoughts dashed wildly to Élise, savoring the connection far less than she once had. She hadn't been expecting to see George for another week! What new chaos was this?
"George!" declared Maudlin, perking considerably. "Father said we shouldn't expect you!"
"Well, you know how it is," chuckled George warmly. "There's the place you are and the place you'd rather be! Have you met Mafalda—?"
Astoria let out an audible gasp. The sight of Mafalda Hopkirk on her father's other side hit her like a ton of bricks.
0o0
Ughh, I haven't updated in so long. I feel dreadful about coming back with a two-parter (especially when the first half mostly amounts to set-up) but this chapter was getting long and it seemed wiser to simply post half instead of waiting for the whole thing to be completed. The upshoot? The second part is well under way and should be posted MUCH faster than this one. I'm sorry for being such a fair-weather, holiday-lost author. I promise a big ol' pay-off in part two. Barring sudden death or kidnap, I have no plans to abandon this story.
As always, your reviews mean the most!