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When I returned to our accommodations, my master was still awake, sitting in an arm chair facing the door. He looked up from his ledger to raise an eyebrow at me. Once, this would have been in lieu of a dozen questions along the theme of "What shenanigans have you got yourself into this time, Passepartout?" (Though, particularly at the start of our acquaintance, he preferred not to know the answer.)
Now, he was somewhat more direct. "Did you see that singer again?"
Someone else may not have noticed the emphasis on "that" or the way "singer" was pronounced as an insult, but I had devoted a not insignificant amount of time to deciphering the subtleties of the slightest inflections of his voice.
"We have no way forward for days, and that singer is one of the best I've ever heard."
"From the way you two were speaking last night, I thought you might have gotten another invitation to stay. More permanently."
Merde. For better or for worse, last week — after far too much cheap vodka — I had told him about Vitti's offer on our last trip around the world, and, it seems, my master was a jealous man.
Still, I could not resist baiting him. "And if I did?"
He put aside his ledger and rose, wobbling a little. At this distance, I could smell something harsh on his breath — our vodka reserves must be even lower. "Then I would tell you to stay."
"Here?" I asked innocently. "I suppose I can book passage for one instead of two. I hope you can manage the luggage on your own."
He pulled at the lapels of my coat and pressed his forehead against mine. "Stay with me."
I decided to relent, and gave him a reassuring kiss. "As you wish."