Hort won't say that he doesn't feel bad, because he does. But he was honest, and everyone always said that girls appreciated honesty, right?
Apparently the girl's saxophone-playing friend didn't, though.
(Did he even have a gun?)
To cut one of the longest stories of his life short, because, honestly, he doesn't want to think about it too much; he'd ventured further afield to visit Club Avalon, he'd met the girl of his dreams, rushed back to Gavaldon to tell Ravan, and remembered slightly too late, when he'd gotten there, about his current girlfriend- you know, the woman who ran the place- gotten slightly (very) drunk worrying about it, then made a spur of the moment decision, broke up with her in front of the whole bar, then nearly got shot by the saxophonist and had been kicked out by two of her bouncers.
His coccyx were still bruised.
Well, to say that he'd met the girl of his dreams was probably something of an overstatement- he'd seen her from afar, but he'd felt such a connection between them when their eyes had met that they may as well have gotten engaged right there. Even though they didn't know each other's names. And hadn't talked. Or interacted.
At all. Ever.
But Hort was still confident that he would do his best to get this mystery woman to like him back.
For all that, though, he was probably never going to be able to go back to Gavaldon ever again, as Ravan had gleefully pointed out the second he caught up with him. Nicola would never want to see him again, and, honestly, he wasn't too sure that he blamed her. But he liked Gavaldon. The drink was good, the entertainment was good, and he was dating the-
Oh, right. Not anymore.
So, that night, a few weeks after the fateful Gavaldon Incident, instead of taking the usual route through the city's slightly questionable grocer's into Gavaldon, Hort, this time with Ravan in tow, hurries back through the back entrance of a spa, down an unsettlingly steep, narrow, set of stairs, and to what looks very much like an ordinary wall at the back of a dusty, abandoned store-room. But Hort is well-enough acquainted with speakeasies and has, obviously, visited this one before, and knows that this isn't the case, so he raps sharply on the wall, hoping he's remembered the pattern correctly. A panel slides to the side, a set of eyes glare through the gap, and Hort mutters the password he used last time. Apparently this is satisfactory, because the panel snaps shut, and a few seconds later, a larger part of the panelling slides open, a gap just wide enough for them to pass through.
Hort and Ravan scamper through the gap and into the dingy passageway beyond, and the wall slams shut behind them.
-
--
After the muffled, hidden alleyways and the eerie, silent basement, the tumult of the speakeasy hits Hort like a blow to the head. Even though he'd visited speakeasies previously, Avalon was different, somehow- the close, smoky air, the raucous noise of chatter and laugher and the occasional bout of whooping, as well as the band, playing over it all, gave Avalon an enticing manner, dragging you straight into the crowd and to the bar, the stage, the booths and tables scattered around the place.
It's intoxicating.
Ravan grabs his arm and tows him to a table close to the stage, grinning wider than Hort has ever seen him, and there they sit for a good hour, listening to the band, watching the dancers, and getting steadily drunker as the night went on. They'd just finished discussing (arguing over) the finer points of one of the dances, when Hort spots someone sweeping into one of the booths opposite them, the crowd parting around her like the Red Sea for Moses. Someone tall and blonde, swathed in fine clothes and toying with a long string of pearls in one scarlet-nailed hand, clutching a cocktail in the other.
"Ravan, that's her!" Hort tugs on his friends arm. "She's there!"
"Mystery true love?" asks Ravan, peering over his shoulder at the woman sat, resplendent in her furs. "She looks..."
"Swell?"
"I was gonna say upstage, actually." Mutters Ravan.
Looking at her disinterested, aloof face, her eyes that pass over everyone as if they're not even there, there's a niggling doubt at the back of Hort's mind that suggests that maybe, just maybe, Ravan might be right. But he's drunk and she's beautiful and he can't bring himself to consider it.
"Eh, she hasn't met me yet."
Ravan snorts. Hort frowns.
"Oh, yeah! You're, what? A butcher's boy? Bull, she won't even look at you, I'm tellin' ya."
"Wanna bet?" challenges Hort.
"Nah." Ravan finishes his drink, uninterested. Hort grabs his sleeve.
"No, come on-"
Unfortunately for them, whilst Hort and Ravan bicker, someone else enters the booth with Hort's mystery love, someone who both young men completely fail to notice, even when Ravan bets Hort another cocktail. Even when Hort straightens his jacket, smiles, stands up, and strides over.
As it happens, he doesn't notice at all, until he emerges from the crowd on the other side, just opposite said booth.
His face crumples.
Because the eyes currently staring back at him from the booth are not the striking green that Hort had been so taken with, despite his brief look at them, but a deep, almost black, brown.
And they are very familiar.
Oh, this is just great.
Hort stares at Nicola, Nicola who shouldn't even be here, because she ran Gavaldon, Nicola who he broke up with because he was enamoured with- with-
Hort doesn't stop himself fast enough, and Nicola isn't stupid- in fact, she's always been very clever.
So when Hort glances at the blonde girl, and Nicola follows his gaze, and the blonde girl looks up and Hort smooths his hair-
He what-?
Shiiiiit.
He's put his foot in it now.
Nicola puts two and two together, and stands up, shocked face melding into something much more vicious. Hort takes a step back- and slams right into a massive man twice his size, who spills his drink down a woman's front. She shrieks, he swears, and both of them wheel to face Hort, who is far too drunk and far too confused to talk properly, let alone apologise in a satisfactory manner. Hort backs away again, mumbling something he hopes sounds like an apology-
And backs right back into Nicola, but even as he does so, he notices how his mystery woman has already waved for a replacement for the man's drink and a shawl for the woman, how astute-
Nicola is dragging him to face her, fuming.
"I get it now." She snarls, somehow audible over the thunderous noise in the bar. "I get it. You dumped me for Sophie, even though I know for a fact you've never even spoken, and let's face it, you ain't gonna have a chance with her."
"That's her name? Sophie?" Hort asks distractedly. He doesn't notice how hurt Nicola's face becomes until slightly too late. "Wait, no, Nic-"
He reaches out for her, but Nicola flings his hand off of her arm, face mutinous.
"No, I'm not doin' this again. Not here." She seethes. Hort is sure he can feel the mystery woman- Sophie- watching them. "I get it. You don't care. That's... fine. But I'm tellin' you, you've got no chance."
Hort scowls.
"You think I ain't good enough?"
"Maybe I do!" snaps Nicola. "After all, what kind of fella ditches his girlfriend for a girl that he's never even talked to?"
She makes it sound so ridiculous, makes him sound ridiculous, and Hort hates it.
"Maybe I want better than you, you ever consider that?" he barks back, and people are turning to look, probably noticing their shared fury and the hurt and confusion that are slowly eclipsing Nicola's anger. "Maybe you should stop thinkin' yourself the best all the time, then maybe you'll realise-"
"Realise what?"
This is turning into an exact replica of a couple of weeks ago, but Hort finds that he doesn't care, can't care, and as he sucks in a breath to reply-
The volume of the chatter and talk in the bar plunges so quickly, and so abruptly, that it pulls Hort out of his rage completely. Nicola stops too, and looks around-
Her eyes widen and she steps away from Hort, straightening the hem of her dress as she does so. Feeling as if he's just surfaced from underwater, Hort looks up, bewildered, trying to figure out what's caused this sudden, inexplicable lull.
As it happens, it's a who, not a what.
A woman is making her way into the speakeasy, and Hort only needs to take one look to understand why everyone has gone so silent.
She's tall and pale, dressed immaculately in a black and grey suit, sleek tie and well-fitted suit jacket. Short, dark hair is visible cropped just past her ears. Her hands, neck, face are lacerated with small scars, and Hort isn't sure he wants to know why. But the killer, the trait that's making people shrink back and avert their eyes, is none of those things. It's her walk- she advances alone, steadily, without strut or saunter, a stride with purpose but no haste, controlled. It's her posture- ramrod straight, unflinching. It's the flint-sharp gaze from dark eyes shadowed under the hat, her face slightly hidden but losing none of its severity for it. Wicked intelligence glimmers from those eyes. She doesn't look at anyone for long- her gaze darts from face to face quickly, the only unmeasured part of her, constantly evaluating and changing and moving.
Hort knows immediately that she's important. He knows immediately that she's not a regular, not well-known, but known well enough all the same.
He also knows that, as she moves towards them, he needs to get out of there, right now. But he can't seem to move, pinned to the spot by that immense, unmovable, purpose.
Nicola saves him, as it happens. She shoves him out of the way as she and Sophie hurry to meet the newcomer, and it's enough to jerk Hort back to his senses, getting his legs to co-operate with his brain. He scrambles away through the crowd, which is still eerily silent, and escapes back to his table and a dumbstruck Ravan. Together, they stand and stare, as the woman joins Sophie and Nicola in their booth, apparently unbothered by the fact the whole bar is shrinking away from her. It's not until she's sat down and taking a drink from the bartender who's just appeared at her elbow, that the silence shatters. People turn to talk to one another again, but there's a low hum of uncertainty now, droning alongside the chatter, and it's impossible to miss the nervous glances that continue to be thrown in one particular direction.
If Ravan has any comments about Hort's disastrous encounter with Sophie and Nicola, he doesn't share them. Instead, he leans over to a passing staff member.
"Hey- who's that? The woman who just came in?"
The woman raises her eyebrows.
"Why, sir, that's my boss, the club's owner. Don't come by very often, which'll be why everyone's so surprised."
Ravan and Hort exchange glances.
"How does she know them- Sophie and Nicola?" asks Hort.
"Sophie's her sister, and she runs this club. Nicola runs Gavaldon, another one that she owns."
Her... sister?
Apparently Ravan is surprised as well, and both of them glance back over at the severe, silent woman in her dark suit, beside blonde, beautiful Sophie, in her silks and furs. They definitely don't look related.
"Say... what's her name? Your boss?"
The woman looks unsurprised by their constant questioning, if a little exasperated.
"No one really knows. She don't use it, whatever it is."
"What'd they call her, then?"
The woman straightens her waistcoat and repositions her tray on her arm, before glancing briefly at the table, where the three women sit close together, muttering to one another in low tones. It's impossible to tell what they're talking about- they don't look up at all.
"Folks call her Lady A. But if I were you, I wouldn't talk 'bout her much at all."
She hurries away, leaving Hort and Ravan confused and apprehensive behind her.
"Lady A?" repeats Ravan. "What kinda name is that?"
Hort just shakes his head, and he and Ravan return to their seats, musing over what they've just learned.
Just as he does, though, he takes one final glance at the table-
And finds that Lady A has lifted her head, and is staring right back at him.
Hort blanches, shocked, but not because she's looking right at him- but because he's sure, he's somehow, completely certain that he knows her.
And he doesn't know how, or why, or when, but he trusts his gut, and everything in his body insists that he recognises the dark eyes watching him from under the hat.
For a minute, all he can do is stare back, skin prickling, trying to work out why-
And then she bows her head to him a little, and returns to her conversation as if it was nothing, even though he's sure he hasn't seen her acknowledge a single person beyond Sophie and Nicola, leaving Hort with the distinct, uncomfortable impression that she knows him, too.
Ravan turns to him, eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline.
"What was that?"
Shaking his head, Hort opens his mouth to reply-
Onstage, the curtains swish open, and whatever he's going to say is snatched right out of his mouth.
Because even if he thinks he might recognise Lady A, there's not a shadow of doubt in his mind here; he knows the performer currently stood on stage. And while he's probably the very last person Hort had ever expected to see in a speakeasy, let alone on the stage, there's no mistaking that damned chiselled face.
"Tedros Pendragon?" he hisses to Ravan.
Apparently, he didn't say it quietly enough, though.
On the table behind them, three black-suited women exchange meaningful glances.
They stand and make their way backstage without a word.