Page 30 of Razors & Ruin
He’s for the fucking chop, one way or another, but not now. Not today.
I allow the tension to ebb, and as I finish the haircut, I massage the hated scalp, imagining cracking his skull between the heels of my hands.
“What time would you have me attend you this evening?” I ask.
The Beadle sits up and reaches into his vest pocket, extracting a small change purse.
“Take this for your good work, plus extra for a carriage. I will be at The Regent for eight p.m. Present yourself and ask to be shown to the Green Room.”
“As you say.” I pocket the cash. “Until then, Beadle, and many thanks. Oh, a moment.”
I retreat to the shelf and grab a vial, twisting off the cap. I splash the liquid into my palms and apply it to the man’s cheeks, making him hiss through his teeth.
“Sharp on my face, that.” He wrinkles his nose. “What is it?”
“A potent blend of my own invention.” I raise an eyebrow. “Meant only for a potent man. You understand, I’m sure.”
He pulls a deep breath through his nose. “Quite so. How intriguing. I’m sure the lady-folk will be piqued by it.”
“That’s the aim, sir,” I say, giving him a conspirational smirk. “Keep ‘em guessing.”
He claps me on the shoulder as he stands. “I shall see you later, my friend. Clean up well, bring your razors, and don’t make me wait.”
“Never.”
His feet are heavy on the stairs. I return to the shelf and pick up the tiny bottle again. It contains spit, piss, and, for a touch of class, the flower of violets. I replace the cap with a smile and take a minute to tidy up before I go down.
Nellie will want to come tonight, but she is not invited. I didn’t think to ask.
It’s only now I remember she even exists, pottering amongst her dishes and pastry, a pantomime of industry. She won’t be happy—after I ruined her last night, she is more skittish than ever, knowing I’m torn inside as though there are steel hooks in my ribs pulling me asunder.
Her interference is neither wanted not to be tolerated, but still my arm aches where I carved her letters into my living skin. Inside me, Johanna’s name burns in my heart, where Nellie cannot reach.
Marianne has got me thinking; maybe a woman is the key. Some society wife with a taste for a bit of rough, plus too much knowledge of what influential men do for fun.
If it weren’t for Nellie’s murderous impulsivity, I may have been able to get some information already and not be forced to perform like a monkey for people I despise. She will not be afforded an opportunity to impede me again.
This is not her party or the Beadle’s.
It’smine.
17
Nellie
Beadle Higgins passes my window, unbesmirched and unhurried. Whatever happened can’t have been remarkable, and I detect no false note.
When Sweeney appears a minute later, he seems to have found his center, and the hum of sick tension no longer permeates from his body as he strides into my space.
“There’s to be a function tonight at The Regent,” he says, taking a seat at the counter. “My new best friend wants to bring me along so I can meet his establishment pals and show off my skills.”
“You mean the masquerade ball?” I ask.
He frowns, and I realize he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“They hold it once a quarter,” I begin. “All the grandest people get dressed up and do their dirty business under the cover of anonymity, or so they say. I’ve heard a few whispers about it.”
Sweeney leans closer. “Such as?”