Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) by Baird Wells Read Free Book Online Page B

Paris on business other than Whitehall's. Beltran
made a show of going in the door, of coming back out a moment to tap his boots
off on the step or shake some dust from a table cover, making certain the
people on the street caught sight of him. There was a little chart, a separate
sheet of vellum folded and tucked inside his log, establishing a rotation for
the lighting of lamps so that different parts of the house were illuminated in
turn. Beltran's activities were itemized with costs, in order to account for
his allowance from Whitehall.
    Evening meal at M. Denair's
tavern, 3s.
    Napped on sofa after reading the
daily papers – purchase, 1s.
    Bed linens sent out to monthly
laundry, 10s.
    Elbows resting atop his desk, Ty
thumbed each page, squinting curiously at the next column. He was tucked into
one corner of the formal parlor, leaned over a wide oak desk littered with half
finished work. Three shelves set into the wall above him were no less cluttered,
much, he imagined, to the constant anxiety of poor Beltran who'd been
instructed not to arrange them. Light was scarce despite it being early
afternoon in the outside world. Curtains of the first floor rooms, excepting
the dining room, were never opened for any reason. Ivory silk drapes covered
the panes, sandwiching heavy wool blankets that dissuaded even the most prying
sets of eyes.
    As it had so many times today, his
gaze wandered to Olivia, seated before a round card table. Its coarse white
canvas drape was stained all sorts of browns and boasted more than one
char-edged burn. He waved the journal to gain her attention. “Do you ever
wonder at Monsieur Beltran?”
    Olivia stayed hunched over the
table, calico bandanna tied to her face like a fashionable highwayman. She
shook her head at something, not him, and frowned. “Wonder about what?” she
murmured through the cloth.
    He rose, taking the journal and a
writing tray fanned with papers, moving to a sofa across from her and dropping
to the cushions. Its frame creaked under his sudden impact, dust stars
exploding up from the blue and gold damask upholstery.
    Sweeping a hand at the cloud, he
tapped a page. “Just what a strange life he leads. His entire existence is
waiting on someone else.”
    “Servants do that,” she murmured.
“They wait on you.”
    “No. No,” he argued. “I mean
actually waiting. Foot-tapping, yawn-inducing waiting.”
    There was a pop, then an alchemical
whoosh, and all conversation paused.
    Olivia's table would have gotten
her burned for witchcraft in another century. A nicked wooden pestle, two white
stone mortars, and a silver tray of some powder in an unnatural shade of sickly
green were neatly arranged to one side.
    Directly before her sat a
collection of bottles which would have fit perfectly in a museum: a squat,
square, red glass bottle; a blue, steep-shouldered one; the last one pink and
nearly oval. They all bore some sort of silver charm. Red, a snarling hound.
Blue, a winged demon nearly as tall as the container. Pink, a tangle of
interlaced hearts pierced by tiny knives.
    He tensed, watching her tip some
green powder onto the table cloth with a tiny silver spatula. Pinching a glass
pipette, she added a single drop from the blue bottle. Ty flinched at foam,
then smoke. He glanced from the concoction to Olivia's face for reassurance. A
deepening vee to her brows was not reassuring.
    Poof! A small column of
flame shot up and began licking at the cloth. He was half out of his seat by
the time she finished smacking it out with a much-abused leather glove.
    Sighing, she got up and opened the
door, fanning it a moment against the acrid, metallic stink. Falling back into
her chair, she tugged her mask down, looking defeated. “What were you saying?”
    “God woman, I have no idea. I'm too
preoccupied trying not to inhale. And wondering if you'll burn the house down
while I sleep.”
    That coaxed a smile. “You're quite
safe. For now.” She picked up one of his papers. “Now