The Mercury Waltz by Kathe Koja Page B

could have some extra scratch? Just a little bit extra?”
    Haden pours from a squared decanter, wine so deeply red it shows black in the uncertain light; vinegar splash, he hands a cup to Luc, drinks half of his in one swallow. “What for? Another scarf?”
    “No, I—I would like to do something nice for M’sieur Stefan, may be not a scarf, but very nice.” Smiling as if he is already shopping for the gift, a lovely smile from Luc the loveliest of his boys, much in demand among the lords and the better rentiers, his own first choice when the heat strikes; and more spiff, less dosed on pills than usual, is little Luc in love? “And to pay back I’ll do double, the Park and the square if that’s your wish, or whatever you wish, I can pay it all back by next Sunday for certain—” Haden downing the rest of the cup, reaching for his billfold while Luc, surer now of the favor, bubbles on of the night ahead: “I think it will be dice, may be at Piggy’s. He likes Piggy’s, he says it reminds him of Puggy’s—”
    “Piggy’s is a bunghole. What is Puggy’s?”
    “I don’t know. A place he lived before, I think…. Oh ta!” glowing, hand out for the money as Haden smiles, brushing lightly at a soft stray strand: “Sure he’s worth it, your fancy monsieur?”
    “Oh, M’sieur Stefan is a real gentleman, a great gentleman! And a star,” proudly, “the star of the Mercury Theatre—he plays the puppets there, and he sings, you should hear him sing! And—” dwindling to silence at the change in Haden’s face, in his eyes and “Dice, too?” says Haden. “I do know he likes his cards. So Stefan Hilaire’s your light o’ love!” as his smile changes as well. “Why didn’t you tell me? Tell me now,” keeping hold of the banknote. “Does his man know about you?”
    “What man?”
    “The owner. His owner. Mr. Bok.”
    Luc flushes, an unhappy color. “Oh that’s not true—he is not ‘owned’ that way, they are—He is not owned.”
    “Is it bad then, to be owned? I own you.” Fingers to Luc’s chin, not harshly, just firmly, lifting that face to face his own: “Who found you in the sewer? Who ran off that old tosser who was beating you like a fucking drum? Whose money bought you this scarf?” one hand now stroking the garish silk, blue as a whore’s painted eyes, tugging it down to caress the white throat beneath and “Love him if you like,” he says into Luc’s ear, scarred lips just brushing the skin. “For me you need to watch.”
    Luc’s eyes are closed; his voice is less than a whisper. “Watch what?”
    “Him, your M’sieur Stefan—he’s worth the watching, an’t he, a fine cardsman like that?” sliding the shirt from the narrow shoulders, wash of gooseflesh in the chilly room. “Stand up, that’s right. —Him and the other, everything that happens there I want to know,” with a kiss to taste again the wine in his own mouth, the boy’s breath ragged and sweet beneath and “No, not that,” as Luc makes to kneel before him. “This way,” to the bed, a coupling brief and even briefly tender, Luc trembling like a fawn in his grasp and “Here,” says Haden afterward, himself retying Luc’s untidy scarf. “We’ll walk together,” arm in arm through the dodge and stroll of the streets to the doors of the Mercury, where the last few patrons hurry in for the evening’s seating; the lamps are lit, it is almost exactly nine o’clock.
    Luc, still pale, puts his hand to the door, an anguished look past his shoulder as “Watch,” Haden’s murmur, tucking into the empty velvet pocket several of the larger de Vries banknotes, later used to buy a bottle of crême soubrette for M’sieur Stefan, shared out in the warm and private confines of another nonesuch hotel, the shabbier Cocked Hat, after the knight and the trickster have gone again to their reward and the dice have been thrown and the night’s stakes lost and “Did you take pills tonight, bébé ? You oughtn’t,