Les Noyades

3: Goblin Market

Rumi returned to Errol House the following evening, just as he had been bidden. He could not surmise the motive of Culshawe's inviting him; he never came by appointment, but rather by personal volition. He was not let in this time but greeted by a latched door which he pushed open. The quiet of the house blanketed over him as ever it had done. Two years' worth of near silence had not been enough to accustom him to a place of such inherent calm— living at Doha, living with his father, living half-rough for a good deal of his rampantly chaotic life had led him to believe that genuine serenity only occurred in places detached from time itself.

He took the stairs as he had done the previous evening. The sportsman was nowhere to be seen this time, and he was unsurprised by this; it was earlier than he tended to call, and Culshawe would likely be waiting for him in the Foyle Suite or the library. He went first to the former and, upon finding it empty, moved next to the library. What he discovered there astounded him.

He almost leapt in abrupt horror, for there, framed like a seraphim by the crooked light of the room's blinkered lamps, and stood beside Culshawe with an expression that could be described as one of soured milk, was Yves Luscombe.

"Oh," Rumi breathed. At once his thoughts scattered and he was unable to reclaim them. "Well, blow me."

Culshawe threw out a heavy laugh that blundered quickly into a smoker's death-rattle coughing.

"I do feel mean," he admitted, thrusting Yves forward and out of the light's hold of him. It reluctantly slid from his body and shadows deftly softened him. "I only thought that you two might actually get on quite well."

The two eyed each other with the suspicion of alley-cats.

"Are you not going to at least say hello?" Culshawe did not so much ask this as give it over as an instruction.

"Hello," Rumi managed to get out. "I'm— I'm Barrett's son. If you didn't remember me, that is."

"I remember you."

"Oh."

Uncomfortable silence ensued until Culshawe mercifully interevened.

"I was just explaining to Yves how you read my books. He asked if he might borrow some too. Would you have any particular recommendations?"

Rumi was inwardly furious that Culshawe— a man who had provided him with so great a security— could place him in so dire a situation. First came the obvious introduction of Rumi's reasoning for using the library, and then there was the fact of his now being required to act the polite and charming acolyte. He dipped his chin and wheeled his mind through a procession of possible speeches to make.

"I'm reading Forster," was what he settled for, and how odious a remark it was. How weak and disappointing.

"Forster," Yves repeated. The word was clearly difficult for him to pronounce. "And you like Forster?"

"Yes."

"Which one are you reading?"

"Howard's End," Rumi lied. He cared not that Culshawe was eagling him for this.

"Ah, ouais? What do you think of it?" Yves' eyes went dark as drowned violets for a moment. "And what do you think of Margaret?"

"I— alright, not Howard's End. Maurice." The very title felt like a confession. "I've been reading it this week."

Yves was staring Rumi directly in the eyes. Rumi shifted from foot to foot in discomfort and gave the impression that he very much wished he was elsewhere. Yves seemed to be of the same mind; he continued to glance towards first Culshawe and then the door, as if awaiting permission to be dismissed. Was he? Perhaps— Rumi hardly acknowledged the idea that Yves was here for more than one reason. He did not appear surprised by any of this as Rumi was himself. He at once began to recall the other times when there had been other visitors to this library when Rumi was around, 'chance' meetings that were orchestrated by Culshawe, ones which began with shock and ended in disappointment. However many times Culshawe would send Rumi people to fall in love with, he never managed to submit. Perhaps Culshawe was doing the same here, although it was not typical for him to be present himself— usually he would appear an hour or so after the visitor had slipped away. He would find Rumi alone and sigh at his disobedience, which annoyed him to no end; he could hardly control whether he fell in love with somebody or not, however much he wanted to.