Den of Shadows: The gripping new fantasy novel for fans of Caraval. Christopher ByfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
ensuring that their professional relationship flowed more smoothly than thought possible.
Her inclusion in the Gambler’s Den was one of the most fruitful – calming too. Whenever he found scant time to relax, Misu always seemed to be a part of the procedure. It was why she and she only invited herself into Franco’s personal carriage whilst it remained out of bounds for anyone else. No, their relationship was anything but ordinary. She was a confidante in the times when he needed to spit frustration. She was a balm when times became painful.
And it was precisely these reasons why Franco felt the pangs of guilt.
His gaze fell on the woman, keeping the pretence of satisfaction. The gilded smile was impossible to class as fake unless you were aware of what stirred beneath.
Misu always was good at hiding things. A talent, he assumed, where the harshness of reality could be locked away for a spell and the illusion indulged in. Succumbing to reason, he produced a heavy sigh, knowing full well what he was about to do.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ He struck his hands together in succession, drawing attention. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your time please. I must share with you all a truth. It would be easy to witness this spectacle, this extravaganza and believe it is the work of just one man. I am not so proud to admit that is not the case. I introduce to you, the ever lovely Misu, the companion at my side who endures the wastes, the hardships, to bring this show to all of you.’
A spotlight swung off routine. Light set her awash in a white halo. Misu’s cheeks flushed with red at this unexpected attention. She curtseyed politely to applause. What is he up to? her expression said.
‘Now, Misu has been feeling, well, many things considering I am her manager, but sadly for the most part, she believes herself ignored. Unappreciated. Imagine that hardship for a moment, if you could.’
The crowd collectively sighed in sympathy.
‘Now, this is no fault of your own, my fine people. The desert is harsh to travel and we cross it with strength to bring you delight. Your smiles are worthwhile but the toil … the toil can beat the best of us. This woman is the one who keeps me sane.’ Franco wagged a finger. ‘She ensures more things, many things than you experience now. For instance, she ensures the games are managed!’
The crowd cheered, raising their drinks in hand.
‘She keeps the kitchen stocked!’
Another cheer.
‘She keeps the girls in their finery!’
A louder cheer this time, especially from the men who whistled in approval.
‘But more importantly than that –’ Franco thrust his finger in the air, with every person lingering on his words ‘– she keeps the bar populated with the best alcohol you could ever find and convinces me to keep the prices low!’
The cheer was followed with rapturous applause. They chanted Misu’s name over and over, a number of patrons patting her back and thanking her in person. She accepted each and every one, nodding and grinning, warmly shaking the hands of those who offered. Through the sea of faces, elevated up on the train platform – three sets of steps up – Franco threw out his arm.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, your appreciation please, to our ever-shining gem of the Gambler’s Den!’
The torrent of cheers, repeating Misu’s name over and over were deafening, and from his place above them, Franco gave a wink and smile, ensuring full well that Misu knew how much she was valued to him. Maybe speaking the words was difficult, the right ones especially, and he wasn’t prone to delivering heartfelt monologues. Others indulged in such familiarities. They were welcome to them, but Franco rarely had the time or the patience.
But she knew.
Come the dawn, the Gambler’s Den once again came to life. The clattering of iron pans broke the pale morning’s silence. The dining car was thriving with action, with the noises shortly joined by the hissing of bacon rashers, the pungent aroma of brewed coffee, and the accompanying smells that gave a tired person life anew. The kitchen, though grand in no way or special on any account, buzzed with life even at such an unsociable time. Plates were passed between the showgirls, who had already tended to the platform and packed the show materials away into storage. From the outside you would have never imagined such revelry had emerged from its doors. All was now hidden away in the visage of the fine old train.
The girls each gossiped, taking seats at one of the many tables, and prepared themselves for the day. Franco looked around him at the smiling faces, the jokes and cheers, and smiled at each of them in turn. The culminated stress of the last few days had flittered away – much to everyone’s relief. It felt comforting to see everyone relaxed once again, the dirt of their journey and profession scrubbed away somewhat by a camaraderie that they all shared.
It wasn’t family.
Franco refused to call it that as he had, in the past, referred to others not of his blood as such, resulting in it being used as a form of blackmail. Those who forged the title of family demanded sacrifice, devotion, all under the guise of manipulating what one should do. No, family wasn’t the word to use.
This was different.
This was nice, in a sense.
But family it was not.
He took a plate and thanked the one who handed it to him. The woman delivered a smile that had never faltered after her hiring. She called him boss, as respectfully as any of the others.
Misu strolled past, a plate of her own balancing on fingertips, before seating herself opposite Franco. She had decided on a lighter option than what the man before her chose, picking at a small portion of cherry tomatoes, cockatrice eggs, and greenery, which she assumed to be a form of cliff pepper. Chickens didn’t fare so well out here and thanks to the domestication of its larger and much more dangerous relative, cockatrice eggs became a staple foodstuff.
Franco had ordered that there was always to be an ample supply of food so local delicacies were picked up whenever the train stopped. The tomatoes were shipped out from the west where the climate was more temperamental, an extravagance for anyone to indulge in, let alone those under his employ. For most under his roof, the chance to eat so well was extraordinary.
The showgirls came from every background – impoverished, well-to-do, all across the spectrum. Their reasons for joining were their own (escapism, adventure, and others) but each could agree that nothing beat such decadent food, or the traditional tastes of home no matter where that may have been. A full stomach, in Franco’s words, would ensure a full performance.
Franco chewed slowly as they eyed one another silently. Clearly she was waiting for him to begin a dialogue and he did so, placing his cutlery down.
‘Eggs good?’
* * *
Misu tilted her head, mouth still half full. Eggs. After the conflict between them, the best point of conversation he could muster was about eggs?
‘The eggs are fine,’ she revealed, taking the last of them from the plate. ‘The eggs are always fine.’
She heavily swallowed and gestured with a dainty fork. No, this wouldn’t do.
‘I’m sorry, eggs? Eggs. I just wanted to clarify you’re talking about eggs and nothing else at all. It’s not, like, a metaphor for something that I have clearly missed. Maybe about you being an ass and me clearly provoking you for being such a bloody fool?’
Immediately she recoiled upon giving voice to her anger. Turning away did nothing to help the embarrassment.
Franco shrugged blankly. ‘Wow. Good thing I didn’t enquire about the tomatoes.’
The pair laughed at the absurdity, causing more than a few glances in their direction.
‘Food has been a concern of late for you. Are we still on the lookout for an actual cook?’
‘We