Children Of The Sky (The Scripts Of Neptune, Book 2)

Chapter 11

Ely hated parties. He hated dancing. He hated the stiff suit he was forced to wear. And he hated following his red-haired fiend of a ward around everywhere to make sure she didn't get in trouble. There was no feasible way she actually had business in every corner of the dancing hall, and he was convinced further by the sly, smug smiles she gave him every time she caught a glimpse of his disgruntled expression that she was doing it just to drive him mad.

And it worked.

She finally crossed into the adjoining room and stopped by a table of scarlet drinks in crystal glasses, the candles casting gold-red patterns on the snow-white tablecloth where the light hit the glass. Shooting him a lazy, uninterested look as he took up his spot beside the table and folded his hands--he'd been lectured about crossing his arms earlier--she lifted a glass to her painted lips and took a sip. Ely resisted the urge to roll his eyes and leaned back against the table, watching the crowd of sharply dressed nobility milling about and conversing, the ladies' dresses catching the lamplight and the eyes of gentlemen, servants rushing around to replace drinks and take messages. Ely hated it. All the money put into this, all the food that would go uneaten and be thrown away...it could sustain a poorer district of the city for weeks.

Glancing to the side when something moved in his periphery, Ely found himself looking at a young boy, maybe nine or ten, with dirty-blond hair sticking out from under a maroon bandana and a servant's tunic on. He sat in a wheelchair, his too-skinny legs propped up on footrests, one hand on one of the wooden wheels and the other clutching a wine-stained mop. He grinned when he saw Ely looking, showing a few teeth missing, one already halfway grown back in.

"You look like someone shoved a branch up your arse," he whispered, still grinning like a cat as he stuck his hand out. "I'm Paris. Having fun with the arrogant one?"

"Ely," Ely replied, shaking his small hand hesitantly and trying to look a little more relaxed as he stole a glance at Darcy. "'Fun' isn't exactly the word I'd use."

Paris snickered, leaning his mop against the table and moving his wheelchair around. "She's just miffed at her mum for giving her a chaperone. She gets more bearable, I swear."

Ely made a skeptical noise in the back of his throat, casting another glance her way. "Sure." Picking up a drink, he brought it to his lips and made a face as the bitter taste stung his tongue and burned his throat. Alcohol. He should've known from the smell; he'd never liked it much. "What's the mop for?"

Sighing, Paris picked it up and regarded it with a cross between fondness and annoyance. "My job. I'm supposed to clean up spills. My sister calls me the official mopper-upper."

Huffing a short laugh, Ely set his drink down and folded his hands again, keeping an eye on Darcy in the corner of his eye. Silence fell between he and Paris, awkward and lengthy until the splatter of liquid and the sharp crash of glass breaking rose above the clamor of conversation. Paris sighed and took hold of his mop, laying it across his knees and wheeling himself a few feet away before stopping and turning back halfway with a smile that seemed too soft and sincere for a boy so young. "Stick around awhile, Ely. It's not so bad once you really get used to it."

Ely ground his teeth as he watched Paris maneuver towards the scene of the accident, catching a glimpse of a short, slender girl with similar features and coloring weaving through the crowd towards the same spot, a broom in her hand and a brown bird perched on her shoulder. He almost missed Darcy when she meandered off; her bright hair caught his eye as she set down her second empty glass and made for the other room again. Begrudgingly, he followed.

The rest of the night was uneventful; Darcy continued to wander aimlessly, dancing once with a brown-haired, ochre-skinned young man Ely had been informed was her betrothed, otherwise not participating in any activities. He caught sight of Paris now and then, ducking under elbows and asking people to move so he get through with his mop. The girl with the bird--Ely assumed she was the sister Paris had talked about--was never far behind.