The Mirador (73 page)

“A . . . secretary.”

“Between the Empyrean and the Mirador, yes. Someone to make sure I’m on time for things, handle correspondence, block importunate would-be suitors. You know, the usual.”

“And you think I’d suit you?”

“You write a fair hand. And good God, Vincent, what else do you have to do?”

“I’ve never—

“You’ll learn,” I said, and managed to say it cheerfully.

“Do you make a habit of taking in strays?” he said as Lenore came in with the tea tray.

“Huh,” I said, thinking of Lenore, and Mildmay, and Semper and Gordeny. And even Corinna. And Hallam—please, God, let Stephen be able to help him. “You have a point.”

We dealt with the tea and sandwiches; I was appallingly hungry, now that I thought about it. Lenore ghosted away again.

Vincent said, “Are you quite sure?”

“If it doesn’t work out, you’ll at least be in a better position to find some other job. And, yes, I like you and I believe I can trust you. Which I think are more important in a secretary than prior experience.”

“You’re a determined woman,” he said—dryly because he was trying to distract me from the fact that he was blushing.

“Mule-headed is the word you’re looking for,” I said kindly, and nearly made him choke on his tea. “Come on, Vincent, are you betting on the dogs or the ponies?”

“All right!” he said. “I’ll quit fighting against the miracle.”

“Good man,” I said. “Come with me to the theater tonight, and I can introduce you around. Corinna Colquitt will flirt with you, but don’t mind that. She always flirts with Felix—”

My voice broke, as sudden and hard as the descending blade of Mélusine’s vicious sanguette.

“Mehitabel,” Vincent said gently, “there’s nothing we can do.”

“I know that.” I sniffed hard. “And I can’t afford the luxury of a good cry right now, but God . . .”

“He won’t be burned,” Vincent said. “And his brother is with him.”

I sniffed again and got out my handkerchief. “I know. Dammit. All right. I need to get ready—and I have your first task for you.”

“Yes?” he said, still a little wary, but I was glad he was following my cues.

“For the love of God, cut your nails. There’s nail scissors in the bathroom.”

His eyes lit, brilliant as diamonds, and he got up to sweep me a low, grave parody of a courtier’s bow. “At your behest, madame.”

He went to find the nail scissors, and I blew my nose and went to make ready to become Edith Pelpheria again.