DePaul,” she said, without so much as a blush. Its tasseled end debouched onto the parlor, where he met the maid balancing an empty tray. Cyril left the cold mosaic of the washroom behind and gratefully took to the plush carpet running the length of the hallway.
Despite Aristide’s penchant for over-warming his rooms, the last of winter lingered in the tiled floor. He ran a wet comb through his hair, brushed his teeth with cloying, violet-flavored toothpaste, and borrowed the dressing gown hanging on the bath rail. Though this was not his flat, Cyril slipped from bed and went directly to the washroom without hesitation. An early spring storm freckled the bedroom windows with rain. The smell of coffee was strong outside his nest of blankets. In a second-story flat on the fashionable part of Baldwin Street-close enough to the river that the scent of money still perfumed the air, and close enough to the wharves for good street food and radical conversation-Cyril DePaul pulled himself from beneath a heavy duvet of moiré silk. Amberlough City, eponymous capital of the larger state, was not home to many early risers. At the beginning of the workweek, most of Amberlough’s salaryfolk crawled reluctantly from their bed-or someone else’s-and let the trolleys tow them, hungover and half asleep, to the office.
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