Every time life on Carnival Row gets too dour for Tourmaline, she goes to the drawer where she hides away her most precious sketchbook, one she saves for her darkest moments, and browses through the many, many sketches of Vignette. Life on the Row is hard, and the way she makes her living now is far from anything she ever thought she'd do, but she knows it could be harder. She has no idea whether or not Vignette is alive or dead, although dead is more likely with each new batch of refugees who have more horrific stories than the last.
Then again, Vignette has always been the resourceful sort, far more so than those Tourmaline grew up with. Perhaps she's the reason there are still refugees making it to the Burgue. Either way, the fact that it's been so many years without Vignette ever turning up means that Tourmaline's dear friend and former lover has no intentions of leaving their dying homeland for anywhere else.
Thinking about Vignette makes Tourmaline feel lonely, and she blames that for why she doesn't turn on her heel and head in the opposite direction when she first spots Rycroft Philostrate striding along the crowded streets of the Row. He's older, more scarred, and when she grows bold enough to step deliberately into his path, the eyes that meet hers have aged decades in the scant years since she saw him last. He looked old beyond his youth back during the war, but now? The haggard fatigue in his eyes is almost painful to witness.
She expects him to sidestep her, or make the sort of rude remark most Burgish men would make to someone obviously of her profession, but he halts and tilts his head in greeting.
"Miss Larou. Is there some matter I can assist you with?"
Although she never wondered what became of Vignette's male lover, she supposes it makes sense he's spent the intervening years working his way up through the constabulary. She starts to shake her head, but then can't resist finding out just how long he'd persisted in Tirnanoc after she'd fled.
"Inspector, perhaps I might avail myself of the opportunity to ask you if you have any news of someone we were once both acquainted with during the war?"
It's admirable how well he hides his flinch. If she didn't have such a deep understanding of body language, she might not have caught it at all. He finally breaks eye contact to glance around, and just when she thinks he's planning an escape, he jerks his head toward a tiny cafe that is barely more than an oversized kitchen by Burgish standards, but nice enough for the Row. She falls into step beside him, surprised when he makes no move to walk faster or slow down to avoid the appearance they're together.
She settles her skirts around her when he pauses at a table, surprised when he even gallantly handles her chair for her. Once he's taken his own seat opposite, the very puzzled Puck proprietor drifts over.
"Tea and a slice of your harken cake, for me. For the lady, whatever she prefers," Philo orders with a slight smile in the elderly woman's direction.
"The same, I believe." Why not enjoy a little treat at his expense?
Once the cafe's owner bustles off to gather their order, Philo returns his attention to Tourmaline, and his expression settles back into the grim lines she'd seen on the street. His posture is as stiff and precise as any upper class gentleman she's ever seen, although she suspects his rigidity is less deportment or manners, and more a bone-deep discomfort with speaking about anything personal to her at all.
"When my orders came to withdraw, she was still alive," he admits softly, and she thinks the words cause him pain. "I was a coward, and I wanted to ignore everything you said, to keep her selfishly with me."
It's a conundrum, Tourmaline supposes, that any decision Philo made would somehow be the wrong one. "But you didn't."
"A better man would have stayed there with her."
Laughing, she dismisses the notion, but waits for their tea and cake to be delivered and some sort of privacy to return. "They would have dragged you away, kicking and screaming, had you tried to desert, especially if they got wind of it being on account of a Critch."
"Perhaps, unless they had reason otherwise." He ignores the cake and sips his tea. "I was too much of a coward to find out."
The puzzling statement makes her frown, because she can't think of any reason his superiors would have let him go. Does she really want to know what might have let him stay with Vignette, though? She takes a bite of her cake to give herself time to ponder it.
"I check the incoming ship rosters as often as I can without rousing suspicion."
Tourmaline can't help but smile in reaction to his admission. "As do I."
"So you do believe she's still alive."
"If anyone can survive the hell that our homeland became, Vignette will. She wasn't a city girl like myself, for all that she was a librarian when you met her."
For the first time, she sees a spark of life ignite in Philo's dark eyes, and despite the embers of jealousy that the very sight of him tries to fan to life, the opportunity to speak of Vignette to someone who knew her, who loved her as much as Tourmaline did, is greater than any hurt feelings she might harbor. She smiles brightly, reaching to refill her cup, and begins to tell tales of college and a bright young Vignette whose spirit could outlast anything.
Tourmaline feels the mask of the courtesan crumble, story by story, and somehow, she can't hate Philo anymore for capturing Vignette's affections after she lost them when his eyes glow with delight at each new tidbit he learns. They're both lonely despite all that surrounds them, haunted by someone they both hope isn't a ghost. By the time they part ways, she doesn't feel quite so hopeless anymore.
Perhaps friendship with the Burgish fellow might not be so terrible after all.