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After the hotel: before the Dee Society Headquarters.
Cabal was propped precariously in the chair: heels towards the fire, perched on the seat’s edge, head thrown over the hard back. His hair straggled onto his forehead, and his stubbornly immaculate shirt caught the firelight.
The fire and a few candles showed the interior of a humble little structure, partway between a shepherd’s hut and a hunting cabin. It felt like a million years since Leonie and Cabal had left it that morning; it had been a long and difficult day, even by their standards.
Leonie refilled their glasses. The level of yellow liquid danced upwards quickly, and she concentrated on not splashing the table.
“Of course,’ Cabal uttered at the ceiling, “they didn't even ask why I needed a keg of human hearts.” Leonie smirked: did he know his accent became more English when he was drunk?
Oblivious to her amusement, he waved a hand in the air. "They just jumped to conclusions.”
“Correct conclusions."
“Broadly correct, I suppose. But they could have asked.” He guided the glass to his lips and sipped without tipping it all over his cravat. His vest was folded over the back of his chair, but the cravat was a fixed point in what was, to Leonie at least, a lightly spinning world. Most men loosened their cravats at some point in a long evening, but drunk or sober, Cabal never even adjusted his.
“What did you want the hearts for?” She was only curious. Leonie had found her opinions on the illicit requisition of human remains softening, as long as it was done tactfully.
"Research " he articulated clearly, with a pointed glance. She knew not to ask questions after a hint like that unless she wanted a fight.
For fun, she concentrated on bringing the rough stones of the hearth into focus. She had been drunk before, but not very drunk and not very often. She didn’t trust the moustached undergraduates who helpfully refilled her glass at dances, but with the day’s horrors behind them, this evening had felt like a good time. She warmed her own trousered legs at the fire. It was nippy at night up here, and the vintage was fruity and crisp. “This is a nice wine."
“You don’t know anything about wine."
“I thought you liked it, too. You’ve certainly drunk enough of it."
“I do like it. I will drink more of it.’ He demonstrated. "But you still don’t know anything about wine."
Leonie rolled her eyes. “You know, I hear that some people are filled with a feeling of universal brotherhood and love when they drink."
Cabal held his glass away and looked at it suspiciously. “Really. It’s a wonder the practice ever caught on.” He put it down and took out his silver matchbox. He lit a slim cigar without asking. Leonie didn’t mind; tobacco smoke was far from the most offensive aroma to hang about Cabal. If it could overcome the formaldehyde, godspeed to the smoke was all she could say.
Cabal exhaled a wisp like a self-satisfied dragon. “So,’ he said. “What are you studying at that fourth-rate torture chamber with aspirations to scholarship? Are the wardens allowing you to read anything interesting, or is it all government-approved handouts?"
Cabal was well-informed about parts of her studies, and he had decided opinions about all of it. They didn’t even disagree about everything. They’d had an excellent debate - well, vicious fight, but very enjoyable - about her crime prevention paper the last time they met, but Leonie felt too congenial to want a rematch. And she was in a mood to indulge him, after the business with the precipice and the boot-scraper. "The University is at least a third-rate torture chamber. And yes, I’ve been studying legal codes lately.’
Cabal snorted with more explosive verve than his sober self. “Lists of naughty actions drawn up by the public service. Spare me."
“Oh, I shall. And what system would you prefer? Imperator Cabal, dispensing starry wisdom from his laboratory?"
“It would be a more rational and efficient world."
“You’d loathe it. All the grubby little people like me expecting you to care about things. No, laws are for the best, Cabal. See if you can’t stay within the spirit of the law, at least."
Cabal grunted, but he didn’t pursue the topic. Perhaps he wasn’t in a combative mood, either. “Are you still studying necromancers?"
“Mm hmm. And occult crime more generally."
He didn't ask why. At first she had studied the criminology of the occult to make sense of the ridiculous man beside her. Now that she knew more about that - not everything, but as much as she was ever likely to know - the course of study still interested her. Not that it would do a damn thing for her career.
Cabal had been thinking. He placed his empty glass carefully on the table. “You’re wasted there, you know."
Leonie felt surprise, then a glow of happiness. That was implied praise from Cabal. It wasn’t dispensed… well, it wasn’t dispensed. Freely, or often, or at all. She reminded herself that Cabal’s metrics of value were suspect, but it still warmed her. “Getting a degree isn’t a waste. And I won’t be there forever.”
But what would she do then? Fight to get hired by the police or the civil service, probably, with a view to working her way towards their dispirited little occult division. It did not even excite her.
“I should hope you won’t. If the guards transfer you to the faculty block, do write for help."
Leonie laughed, and Cabal quieted. The fire popped and cracked, and Leonie threw another log on while Cabal rose to fetch the next bottle. She felt guilty about their unauthorized stay in this stranger's… hunting lodge? Summer hovel? She hoped the firewood wouldn’t be difficult to replace. She would leave payment on the mantlepiece, and Cabal could sneer at her if he liked. And, she vowed to herself, she would sweep up. She would remind Cabal that being a bastard was a choice, not a religious calling or a genetic destiny - and that he might act like a villain at times, but he wasn’t a lowlife. He would still not help with the sweeping up. At least, being a fussbudget, he would naturally leave things tidier than when he arrived.
Cabal returned with the chilled bottle, opened it with a flourish, and refilled her glass. Leonie took a meditative sip. The riesling made everything seem terribly poignant. The fire, the sparks flying upward - a brief moment of glory, and then oblivion. Gone as if they had never been. Cabal was still quiet.
She worried about him sometimes, though she knew better than to think it too loudly around him. Despite his strangeness, his irascibility - despite, even, the cold darkness she knew was part of the truth about Johannes Cabal, despite these things, humans were social animals. There must be terrific strains in that regulated mind. Did he ever want to talk about it? Could she ever ask?
Leonie’s mental filters were adversely affected by alcohol. “Will you tell me about her?"
“Her. Who do you mean? Are you changing the subject?” But he sat up in his chair and checked a glass he knew was empty.
“You know.’ She pressed. “Her.”
He watched the fire. Was he considering it? Leonie held her breath.
“No. I don’t believe I will.” He didn’t sound offended. Leonie refilled his glass, and they sat in silence.
The fire died down. They would go to their sleeping bags soon. Hers was warming by the fire now, and she would stay close to the hearthstones overnight. Cabal preferred the farther corner for some obscure tactical reason. She hoped he liked the draft from the door. He never seemed to feel the cold.
“What did she like?” She didn’t expect an answer, or not a polite one, but she had an odd feeling that Cabal might not mind being pressed, just this once.
There was another pause, and Cabal spoke softly. “Books. Dancing. Philosophy. Talking to people.” He placed the words upon the cooling air.
“And you," Leonie added.
He nodded slowly. “Yes.” She had liked him. He set his glass on the table as if he was afraid it might shatter from the impact. He had forgotten about his cheroot, and it had burned down. He threw the butt into the fire.
Once upon a time, Leonie would have been confused, if not disdainful, at that idea. She stole a sidelong glance at the tipsy necromancer. No matter how many times she tried, she could not picture him living a normal life, with a little house and a little job and a little family.
But she had no difficulty, now, imagining him provoking fondness or even love. Perhaps he hadn’t always been so hard to like. It's a pity, she thought, that he would probably never succeed in his quest. Well, if there was not love, perhaps there was friendship, and a glass too many around the fire of an evening.
She rose. “Good night, my boy. Don't freeze to death." If he’d been her father, she would have patted his shoulder as she passed. She snorted. She was drunk, if that had crossed her mind. You didn’t touch Cabal if you wanted your hand back.
“Good night, Miss Barrow.” He went to fuss at his sleeping bag. Leonie was wrapped in hers within the minute. She listened to the familiar sound of him checking the Webley, ending in the final clunk when he laid it down within reach before he slept.
As Leonie drifted off to sleep, it occurred to her that she hadn’t yet seen Cabal with a hangover. In her fuzzy, spinning brain, she formed a small prayer that tomorrow would not be that day.