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What the Masters lack in understanding of basic human anatomy and mundane courtship rituals, they compensate for with innovations in annual celebrations. After all, what evokes romance better than prolonged stress?
Mayoral elections are the latest addition to yearly activities, and with them come thrilling public events that don't involve reaching into furnaces or sniffing an ammonia-flavoured snow-esque substance. Inherently. The bulk of the population is too swept up in the excitement to question the intent behind this sudden introduction; despite Mr Huffam's best efforts, neither the Masters nor the Palace could be reached for comment.
The Ministry of Public Decency was responsible for publishing the first edition Rules of Electioneering. Article Seventeen states that if all candidates agree, then in lieu of scheduled debates, each of them is entitled to choose one contest to challenge the others. It can be cerebral. It can be a board game. It can even be physical, as long as it’s fair among them and unlikely to result in death.
Mr Pages holds out the hat and trills, “Esteemerant canditetors, selectrocute at will!”
The Jovial Contrarian draws the stick with ‘1’ painted on it. Sinning Jenny draws ‘2’, the Bishop of Southwark, ‘3’.
Jenny cringes while the Bishop chucks his stick aside and the Contrarian rubs his hands together, beaming. Any competitive activity he wants! Anything at all! Whatever will he pick?
Animal Racing
“It’s a turtle,” the Contrarian insists.
“For Heaven’s sake,” booms the Bishop, “I know a blasted tortoise when I see one!”
“Then do tell us when you do, because that’s a turtle. A perfectly tripartisan pet turtle.”
“Nonsense! Falsities and misdirection!” The Bishop rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing massive muscles and scars that hurt to see. “Mark my words, I will retrieve a certified tortoise and rain taxonomic truth upon you - ”
“Don’t,” Jenny says, wearily. “He’d argue that it's a mutated terrapin.”
“I don’t know what that is,” claims the Contrarian.
Near the starting line, Jenny’s scruffy Hungover Terrier circles the blue-bandanaed Definite Turtle, sniffing more like it’s instinctively wine-tasting the air than searching for territory to mark. The animals’ eyes meet for an uncomprehending second. The Turtle yawns. The Terrier yawns back.
“That sounds like a turtle,” says the Contrarian, once Jenny has finished explaining what a terrapin is.
“It does sound like a turtle,” the Bishop admits grudgingly.
“It lives in swamps,” says Jenny.
“So it’s a swamp turtle,” the Contrarian concludes.
Jenny glances at their pets. “Or perhaps your turtle is a land terrapin.” She ignores the Contrarian’s gasp.
“No,” the Bishop says, opening one palm and repeatedly pounding his fist into it, “because that’s a filthy anarchist tortoise.”
The Bishop’s animal has yet to arrive. It probably isn’t Church-issued - a beetle would be difficult to track and easy to crush. The Contrarian’s rules state that it can’t be much larger than the other two animals, nor capable of eating them. Based on rumours, a remotely suitable beast reared in the Labyrinth of Tigers may be a logistical nightmare, and potentially terrible for his popularity among the fainter-hearted.
That’s why some of the Bishop’s wealthier supporters have donated a pedigree Racing Slug instead.
The Contrarian stops laughing. “Oh.”
The contestants are wrangled to the starting line. A Fervid Duelist fires her pistol - and they're off! The Hungover Terrier takes three steps, veers sharply, and promptly walks into an inconveniently-placed pole. Sympathetic murmurs rise as Jenny scoops it up and kisses its head, angling herself so that the audience has full view. Meanwhile, the Bishop alternates between cheering and heckling the Racing Slug - sometimes within the same breath - while the Contrarian frowns at the tor-Turtle. The Bishop certainly has a way with animals. He puts the fear of God into them. As in, the sort of fear that God feels, which is infinitely more terrifying.
Jenny sidesteps the Bishop’s elated pacing as she flounces towards her entourage. Her dazzling smile drops off once her back is turned to the crowd. She sets the Terrier down; it wobbles and lands face-first on the ground.
“Magnificent beasts, these slugs! Slow and steady is a decent tactic, but it’s got to ooze chutzpah!” The Bishop is providing commentary to the Contrarian, who has rested his elbows on the armrests of his wheeled chair, with his chin on one hand. The Contrarian nods along to indicate that he's listening attentively. Very attentively. “Shame they’re so damn close to serpents. If only they had spines - but that’s always the case, eh?”
The Definite Turtle diligently stays the course, but ten minutes later, the Slug has inched past. Jenny patiently tells her aides that further inebriation isn’t the best way to medicate the dog. The Contrarian teases the Bishop about the Slug's anatomical deficiencies, delighting in his heated replies. (“What if you need to strangle it?” “Anywhere I grab it will become its neck!” “What if you grab it by the tail?” “Do slugs even have tails?!”) Another gunshot rings out! The Duelist looks sheepish.
Then - there, in the bleachers. Silver flashes at the side of a rising figure shrouded like an inkblot. All attention is diverted to the man as he waves his gun to punctuate his rant.
The Bishop curses the absence of his rifle. Jenny rushes to her opponents’ sides; they watch, impassively, as she lifts the hem of her skirt to unholster a derringer strapped to her thigh. Nuns.
“I speak for the Liberation of Night!” The Revolutionary's shrill voice rather dampens the declaration. “The Bishop and the Bohemian are a pawn and a puppet! Now we see that the Contrarian is a weak-willed traitor! Death to the figureheads of bourgeoise rot! Death to Mr Fires! Death to the Terrier, Slug, and Turtle!”
“It’s a tortoise!” roars the Bishop, hurling his iron mitre to the floor.
The anarchist’s finger lands on the trigger. Bang!
He drops dead. The Fervid Duelist blows on the smoking barrel of her gun.
A brawl breaks out between Revolutionary sympathisers and Bazaar loyalists. Emboldened, the Duelist begins shooting at nothing in particular, though she has the sense to avoid aiming around the candidates. The Slug squelches across the finish line. Jenny and the Contrarian belatedly realise their close proximity to each other, exchange alarmed glances, and fail to evade the Bishop’s good-natured claps on the back.
As the situation deteriorates further, Jenny begins firing warning shots. The Bishop gathers the exhausted animals and deposits them onto the Contrarian’s lap. The Contrarian nods, the Bishop grips the handles of his chair, and the candidates hurry towards the nearest exit.
“Which wretches are you shooting at?” the Bishop demands.
Jenny reloads. “I’m alternating between anarchists and criminals.”
“Capital!” The Contrarian lightly folds his blanket over the animals. “Make sure you accidentally hit a Constable.”
They return to the designated office in the Ministry of Public Decency.
“Well!” Mr Pages claps its...sleeves. “That went splenderoufsly! Aside from the vicious scrimmage ending in ragiering flammitation! Now, what shall be our next bout, dearment Jenny?”
The Contrarian feeds lettuce to his Duplicitous Tortoise and asks, “Impromptu poetry? Painting decloaked Masters?”
“Honey-chugging?” the Bishop contributes, with a hearty laugh. He continues wiping the Slug’s excess slime with a dishcloth. Fortunately for the Slug, it’s been deemed unsuitable for the thunder-bat in his barn. It would be slurped up like a noodle with no offspring spat out. “Evasive smiling?”
“No, actually.” Jenny rubs the Terrier’s belly, looking pensive. The dog hiccups. “I’ve decided on something more...vigourous.”
Political Debate
“WHY,” asks the Bishop.
Jenny smiles and shrugs.
The Contrarian arrived four hours early. He spent none of that time preparing and all of it bickering with his own staff. The Manager of the Royal Bethlehem had stretched his mouth into a nominal smile and observed that at least he was warming up.
“I am not warming up,” the Contrarian had retorted cheerfully. “I resent the insinuation that I’ve ever cooled down in my entire life.”
“He’d squandered his turn! Now he’s sure to totally forego reasonable debate in favour of rhetoric and shouting!” The Bishop tugs at his flowing hair in frustration. “HOW WILL WE HAVE A CIVIL DISCUSSION IF HE’S SHOUTING?”
A bottle of wine and an empty glass have been placed on each candidate’s table. Jenny says it’s more exciting that way. The men actually agree.
“We should drink out of each other’s glasses,” says the Contrarian, casting a sly smile in the Bishop's direction, “in case Jenny is trying to poison us.”
Jenny laughs. “If I wanted to poison you, I would find subtler ways.”
A sizable audience has congregated, some in anticipation of another fight. Special Constables stand vigilant at the sides. Mr Pages grandly glides to the front and waves its sleeves for quiet.
“First, our esteemerant canditetors shall take turns querifying at one another for fifteen minutes each. I hadn’t, ah, written about this specifercous invocation of debate in the rule tomeling, so we shall cross whatever appendages we possess and hope for the best. A single stipupilation, though -” Pages turns to address the candidates. “Brevity, please!”
To avoid an extra headache, they’re forced to go in the same order as the original lots they'd drawn.
“If His Grace permits it, my first question is only for Jenny,” says the Contrarian. The Bishop waves his assent.
Jenny pours copious wine into her glass. “Is it about why I never call you ‘petal’?”
“Not this time.” The Contrarian lifts his glass. “What’s in this wine, besides fermented mushrooms? It tastes...odd.”
“Oh, just a splash of Darkdrop Coffee. It’s Ministry-approved and administered.”
The candidates glance at Pages, whose shoulders move in a way reminiscent of a shrug. The Bishop and the Contrarian consider their half-full glasses. Then they stare at each other. They both take a long, long sip.
From there, the Contrarian’s questions progress as one would predict. He asks his opponents what their favourite colours are - making it clear that he expects meaningful explanations. He asks their opinions on theories from several different fields, disproved and emerging, painfully simple and mind-bogglingly esoteric. He asks where they were on the nights of certain noteworthy murders. (“I can’t be Jack and the Vake simultaneously.” “Not with that attitude, you can’t!”) By the end of his fifteen minutes, the Bishop is redder than Jenny’s stockings.
Jenny’s turn. The rougher portions of the crowd hush into reverent silence. She runs a finger around the rim of her glass, flashes her signature smile, and tilts her head at an endearing inquisitive angle.
“How do you plan to structure your cabinets?” she asks. What her own answer lacks in real substance or spontaneity, it substitutes with a bevy of dramatic pauses and gloriously deliberated diction. “I plan to draw from colleagues, from the poor, and other downtrodden citizens. Some high society members have claimed - ”
“I disavow any knowledge,” interrupts the Contrarian.
Jenny wavers for a moment. “Of what?”
“Just, anything.”
“Rest assured,” says the Bishop, pouring more wine, “we hold no suspicion in that area.”
“Good!” the Contrarian says happily.
“As I was saying,” Jenny continues, “some high society members have claimed that the oppressed are unsuited for governance. It’s nonsense, of course. The people who have been failed by our system are most likely to understand what needs to be done, to value their station instead of viewing it as an additional title.” She laughs, airiness underscored with anger. “Who could better appreciate high office than the lowest of the low?”
Applause bursts from one side of the audience. A few whistle in support or wipe their eyes. Rehearsed lines delivered, Jenny eases into her seat. Only the keenest audience member would notice the tension stored in her neck; if they did, they would surely miss the glance she shoots at the Contrarian, an iota of annoyance away from a glare.
The Bishop’s cabinet would consist of members of the clergy and eminent churchgoers, as well as veterans from the Campaign of 1868.
“After all, governance is perpetual war,” he says. “As all major concepts are, like love, or pacifism, or hypocrisy! I won't be having the Admiralty around, though - those aged ambulatory bath plugs would sink beneath Hell's triremes. And their ships aren't that strong, either!”
The Contrarian is a high society fixture, but surely he can’t get away with a cabinet full of Revolutionaries? He shocks the audience by revealing that he’d offer positions to Jenny and the Bishop. He believes that they have much to teach him, such as guile and perseverance and the mechanics of giant bat reproduction.
Jenny waits for the furor to die down to ask, “Why would you need to learn that?”
“Interested in bat-mating, are you?” thunders the Bishop, pounding his table with both fists.
The Contrarian begins to say something indecorous about mothers. Mr Pages shuffles forward to give the candidates a stern look. Probably. It’s hard to tell within the recesses of its hood. It shuffles back ominously.
Jenny swings one leg over the other; the lights of the false-stars glint off the rosary around her neck. “What are your plans for art and culture?”
As a longtime resident of Veilgarden and prominent member of the Bohemian community, she wishes to promote art independent of the snobbery of the Empress’ Court. She envisions a London where any passionate act short of nonconsensual murder could be considered an art form. She suggests that unemployed Bohemians could give free lessons to people of all backgrounds and beautify buildings falling into disrepair since the Fall...including the Church’s.
The Bishop insists that they require no such help. Jenny counters with the fact that Southwark Cathedral contains a contemporary mural of devils laughing around a gambling table. There’s no question that they’re devils, because they have glowing yellow eyes, wear unusual clothes, and are on fire.
“I hate devils and want them to spontaneously burst into holy flame while enjoying themselves, wearing their finest clothes!” says the Bishop. “That is the significance of the mural!”
The Contrarian is a prolific writer, but he fails to mention his occupation in favour of interrogating Jenny about her definitions of ‘art’ and 'form', leading to a brief exchange over the validity of the colour grey. (“It’s just boring silver. We don’t need it.” “How am I supposed to describe your eyes, then?” “By all means, please try.”)
The Bishop cracks his knuckles; it sounds like sparks jumping in an open fire. “God’s Editors do good work, mostly. I’d expand to other areas of literature. Infernal influence has been sneaking through the cracks of culture like weeds with legs - or, worse, without them! Worm-sized serpents infesting the apple of righteousness and offering its husk as forbidden fruit!!! We’ll pluck ‘em out and stomp them into the dirt! Lower than dirt. Into the floor of Hell for worms!”
Jenny concedes that some recent poetry has been offensive to both traditional virtue and artistic sensibility. A shadow of unidentifiable emotion shutters over the Bishop’s gaze. He falls silent. Following a pause, Jenny gently mentions the Church’s past partnerships with artists both amateur and established; their architecture; the beauty of their services.
That cheers him up. “We’ve been incorporating melodious beasts in Southwark Cathedral’s choir,” he enthuses. “Canary-esque creatures who can hit a high note previously unknown in the human hearing range! We could breed a batch or twenty for the Court. We've sat through an unforeseen and, frankly, bewildering resurgence of ballet. None of it can compare to a flock of anxious birds with glass vocal chords!”
Jenny’s final question concerns the plight of parentless children.
“Which is better,” she asks, heaving a regretful sigh, “urchins’ rookeries or orphanages? I view safety and education as the top priorities, regardless of where the child lives. But it’s so difficult to judge the accuracy of my assessment, since the children themselves have no political presence.”
The Contrarian delivers a scattered answer with his typical bluster. Jenny props both elbows on the table, resting her chin atop her hands, smiling close-lipped. Midway through his tangent, the Contrarian refills his glass to the brim; he ends abruptly and drinks continuously throughout the Bishop’s answer.
“Hoodwinking urchins comes easier to spirifers than blinking!” says the Bishop. “I say, keep children off the streets before they sell their souls for spore-toffee. I’ve always thought the Church should take more direct charge of orphanages. How’re so many running without a formal system in place, hmm? Can’t raise a child if you aren’t held to standards of your own!” Oh, Jenny agrees wholeheartedly.
The Bishop practically climbs his table while posing his first question, jabbing his index finger in his opponents’ direction.
“Sinners!” For the Bishop, ‘sinner’ is a gender-neutral form of casual address. “Brace yourselves for a FUSILLADE of CATECHISM! How would you describe the present state of your spiritual lives, beyond hideously inadequate?”
Jenny threads her rosary through her fingers as she admits that her theological activities have lapsed. As she polishes the spiked crucifix on her table, she laments her current neglect of religion. Straightening her wimple, she promises to open productive dialogue with the Church, should they find it in their hearts to forgive her.
As for the Contrarian?
“Every day, I thank God.” He beams at the audience, then at the Bishop. “That I'm an atheist.”
The Bishop’s table nearly flips over from his instinctive haste to enter a fighting stance. “An atheist couldn’t govern any more than a terrified elephant can squeeze through a barn door!”
The Contrarian argues that God is an atheist since He doesn't need to believe in Himself. They spend a few minutes debating self-perpetuating faith. (“Does grey believe in grey, Your Excellency?” “What does that even mean?! Are you implying that God is the colour grey? Recant! Recant!” “I’m sorry, grey.”) Sensing the crowd’s mounting excitement, Jenny coughs.
The Bishop takes a breath deep enough to rival the bottom of the Zee, and drinks straight from the bottle before asking what his opponents’ favourite Bible verses are.
He laughs loudly. “I have a hard time choosing, myself! There are so many about dealing grievous harm to Hell's denizens and almost all of them have been removed in revisions.” He settles for, oh, the entire Book of Revelation.
The Contrarian likes the verses condemning serving two masters. He feels that it's applicable to eleven. Or none. Or six. Or all. In the corner, Pages clears its throat. It's akin to a rusty hinge.
“‘Set me as a seal upon thine heart,’ ” recites Jenny, “‘as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.’” She toys with the rings on one hand. “Romans 8:6.”
It’s really Song of Solomon 8:6. The Bishop is at a loss for words. Should he correct her, demonstrating his knowledge of the book considered salacious by the public? Or should he let it pass without comment, and risk seeming inept or apathetic to his Church peers? He visibly wars with the options for several seconds. Through gritted teeth, he says it’s a good choice and sits down.
The Bishop rubs his tired eyes. “What are your views on foreign policy?”
He needn’t repeat his stance on Hell. More imperative is his knowledge of the Elder Continent and other lands.
“Rumours say there's an island where Rattus Faber and guinea pigs vie for power,” he recalls. “Can’t do a thing with small sapient rodents in my...research, but our army is short of recruits. Rodents eat less than people. They’ve been known to eat each other, and people! That’s the sort of efficiency we need: a self-feeding, self-cleaning army!”
The topic hadn’t occurred to either of his opponents, focused as they are upon domestic issues. Jenny’s knowledge beyond London is largely confined to the convent at Abbey Rock; she manages to shoehorn Mutton Island into her answer and looks slightly amazed afterwards.
The Contrarian meaningfully sweeps his gaze over the audience. “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”
“I plan to evict them and there’s more where they came from!”
“It’s an old metaphor, Your Excellency,” says Jenny.
“Metaphor is the tongue of deceit,” declares the Bishop.
She examines him, expressionless. “Of course.”
The second half of the debate consists of Mr Pages reading out random questions collected from the audience:
What is Jenny’s relationship with Mr Wines? No comment. (From her. The audience has many.) What is Jenny’s relationship with Mr Spices? No comment. What is Mr Wines’ relationship with Mr Spices? Vote Jenny, and find out. What is the Contrarian’s relationship with the Calendar Council? No comment. What is the Contrarian’s relationship with the Affluent Photographer? He stares blankly. (“Who? Oh. Her.”) What is the Contrarian’s relationship with Tomb-Colonists? He has no idea, honestly. What is the Bishop’s relationship with the Bishop of St. Fiacre’s? No comment. What is the Bishop’s relationship with the destitute poet seen weeping outside Southwark Cathedral for the past week? No. Comment. What is the Bishop’s relationship with himself after twenty-six years of desperately internalising his harrowing guilt?
Mr Pages flips through the cards, puzzled. “That querification was not present earlier.”
“Devils!” the Bishop shouts. “Devils’ tampering!”
The Contrarian drains his glass and giddily suggests that he sic a devil-detecting beast on the audience. The Bishop slams his empty bottle onto the table and says there’s a beast and a devil right in front of him. The Contrarian tells him to apologise to Jenny. The Bishop booms that only one person will be sorry by the end of the day. Mr Pages dives between them, entereatering for reason and calmifortude. Naturally, the anarchists and veterans in the crowd take this as a cue to start fighting.
Insults fly, as do makeshift projectiles and the occasional nun. The Special Constables have their hands full. A gun goes off. Apparently the Fervid Duelist is in attendance. Chaos descends. Escalates. Plateaus. Jenny winks, silently toasts the audience and sips her first glass of wine.
Hand-to-hand Combat
(Arm wrestling)
Finally! The last competition had been delayed, since all three campaigns encountered unexpected challenges at the start of the second week. When pressed, they refuse to disclose what kind of challenges. The Bishop’s skin is burning to the lightest touch, eyes bleary and blazing. The Contrarian’s appearance borders on ragged. Only Jenny retains a relatively healthy glow, and even that is dimmed from within.
Mr Pages bans an audience this time, lest it end in another skirmish. The Bishop doesn’t mind - he thinks the Ministry of Public Decency is an excellent place to hold the matches, since it’s notoriously drafty (“Sharpens the senses! A far cry from the complacency wrought by hellfire!”) and very, very grey.
Jenny and the Contrarian will go first. Whoever wins will undoubtedly lose against the Bishop, but at this point it’s really a matter of principle. The principle of vengeance.
Pages bounces on its...heels? “I trusterfy that you can manageriate yourselves? You are running for office, after all.”
This morning, it received an anonymous delivery of recently published romantic literature. It’s anxious to burn the books itself, posthaste. It’s, er, chilliferous in its spire and it’s eager to warm its chambers by nighttime. All three candidates agree that they can compete without its supervision, with varying degrees of confidence and suspicion. Pages rushes off without another alleged word.
The Bishop rounds on his opponents, shaking a clenched fist in indignation.
“Rigid rules are for Constables and temperance campaigners, and who’s ever heard of them leading anything greater than an unnecessarily long manhunt or a march pelted with rotten vegetables?” The Bishop gestures like he’s trying to squish his opponents together. “You figure this out. Since your contests were disorganised disasters, I don’t see why mine should be orderly! All I have to say is, no funny business. Got it?” Jenny assures him that the Contrarian has no discernable sense of humour. “Well, swear upon the Word. Contrarian, swear to Darwin.”
Jenny and the Contrarian give their solemn vows. The Bishop moves behind the Contrarian, to hold his wheeled chair in place. Jenny removes her rings. She and the Contrarian look at each other for a heartbeat, then plant their elbows on the table and clasp each other’s hands.
The Bishop raises an eyebrow at the lack of further discussion. The Contrarian raises an eyebrow at the bandage wrapped around Jenny’s thumb.
“A letterbox bit me,” she explains.
“Poor thing.” His thumb gently rubs over hers. “And I’m sure it was unpleasant for you, too.”
She stifles a laugh as she tightens her hold. The Bishop whistles sharply, signalling for them to start.
Within thirty seconds, neither have lowered the other’s arm more than an inch for more than a second or two. Frowning, the Bishop examines them closer, but can find nothing objectionable.
The clock ticks several times. The Contrarian shuts his eyes.
“What are you doing?” asks Jenny.
“Praying.”
The Bishop groans.
Leaden seconds plod past a minute. The Contrarian’s arm slackens, barely. His face doesn’t move. Jenny begins to press the attack in earnest, then hesitates. No. It’s too easy. Sure enough, she has to defend against a burst of aggression that ends as swiftly as it started.
To a casual observer, the strategy may seem obvious: play it safe, conserve energy for a big ambush. Stares dart from wrists to fingertips as they measure the risk of every moment. Occasionally, they remind each other of the threat they pose with small shoves and sharp twists of their wrists; with flexing grips and feinting flicks; with idle glances and pointed silence.
Their gazes lock.
“Why don’t you ever call me ‘petal’?” the Contrarian wonders.
“You should’ve asked during the debate.” Jenny smiles. “Petal.”
He makes a tiny choking sound, faltering - Jenny acts quickly and succeeds in lowering his arm slightly before he recovers. He pushes back with renewed determination. Soon, they’ve reverted to their original position.
The Contrarian eyes her warily. “Was the answer ‘I’m saving it for when I need to distract you while arm wrestling’?”
The fingers of her free hand twitch towards her face. “I'll tell you if you relax for a second.”
“I did, earlier.”
“Oh, so that was intentional, was it?” He shrugs with one shoulder. Jenny tsks, then laughs under her breath, fingers curling and unfurling almost as slowly as her tongue. “Someone’s fighting dirty.”
“Yes, you are.” The Contrarian tosses her a lazy smile. “And I don’t do it any other way.”
Their grips ease enough for some colour to return to their whitened knuckles. She remarks upon the advantageous size of his hands. He compliments her nail polish. Finger by finger. She sings snatches of bawdy dockside songs, some of which include her name. He quotes extensively from a work he calls A Rhyming Revelry, lingering over the lines about runtery and aberration, and failure and defeat, and truth-strangling. (“You’re making this up.” “Flatterer.”)
Jenny studies their hands. She looses a whine, biting her lip. “Hurts.”
“Poor thing,” the Contrarian repeats, without sympathy. He groans softly as he rallies to resist her renewed onslaught.
They both exhale, long and shaky, when she relents.
“I must admit, I’m surprised that you haven’t been more forceful,” muses the Contrarian. “There's been this slogan uttered by Bohemians lately…” He pretends to struggle to remember. “‘Fortune favours the bold'?”
“‘Bold’, not foolish. I won’t seriously challenge you until I’m ready. Your arm is so bl__dy strong.” She traces his calluses for the umpteenth time. “Your hand is so flexible.” Suddenly, her fingers clench over his, the tightest yet; he retaliates by stroking the back of her hand. “I’d wager it helps that you’ve been cocking a snook.”
“It’s a natural byproduct of mastering oneself.”
Jenny’s scarlet-stockinged foot slides up one wheel of his chair. “I know it’s officially arm wrestling, but are we allowed to use the rest of our bodies?”
He leans closer. “If we are - ”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT, YOU SINNERS,” bellows the Bishop, who's been standing behind the Contrarian this entire time.
“It’s in her name, Your Excellency.” The Contrarian squeezes Jenny’s hand in mock solidarity. Eyes sparkling, she digs her nails into his knuckles.
“I’m beginning to suspect you’re holding back,” Jenny murmurs.
“I was about to say the same thing. Then I remembered that you don’t grasp the concept.”
She blinks rapidly. Shocked. Scandalised. “Whatever do you mean?”
“The Abbess of the Parlour of Virtue,” says the Contrarian, languid tone offsetting the ferocity of how he strains to push her arm down. “You must have collected all manner of useful secrets about the great and good, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” Jenny hums. Grimacing, she wrenches her wrist to its previous position, forces his arm down half of an inch before he regains ground. “Though I’m having trouble with my immediate opponents: a pair of admirable, if exasperating men.”
“Do tell.”
“The problem is, they’ve never visited the Parlour. Dante’s and the Brass Embassy are the only establishments less likely to receive a friendly visit from His Grace. As for you…” Her gaze drags to their hands - to the Contrarian’s restless fingers - then lands on the Contrarian’s face like a hungry Blue Prophet on an unsuspecting zailor’s head. “I wouldn’t know how to corrupt someone with no scruples.”
The Contrarian chuckles. “It’s never too late to learn.”
An anguished roar interrupts Jenny’s response. The Bishop storms up, grabs their wrists in one huge hand, and slams them against the table. He pins them there for as long as he deems necessary to make a point. His gaze flits between his opponents’ stunned expressions, to their interlaced fingers, back again. Then he releases them and stomps away, wearing grim satisfaction like a heavy medal.
“I suppose that’s that,” says the Contrarian. They release each other at the same time. “Might as well let him have this victory before next week.”
“But if Pages asks, who came in second?”
“We both did.”
“Is that allowed?”
“Would you like to call the Bishop back to clarify?”
Jenny props her other elbow on the table. She opens her hand, fingers wiggling teasingly.
“I’d rather settle it between us, petal,” she suggests.
The Contrarian grins and clasps her hand again.