Croe contemplated the idea that she might be his mistress, as they walked. Had Mallos been married? Was he married, now? That would have been a surprising twist in the plot, but not impossible. With her memories returned to her, she could recall his and the other originals’ dossiers, but the Gods could be elusive when it came to personal details. If Mallos wanted a secret wife, undoubtedly he could manage it. Alliannah was hardly a master spy. And if he was…what? Did it bother her? Did she care?
The hall of paintings kept her eyes busy, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Idly, some long-buried part of her mind made note of the artists represented on these godly walls: Miró, Tàpies, Barceló, among the notable Spaniards. Remarkable, historically important paintings that would have impressed her parents. Would they be pleased to learn she was Mallos’ side piece, if that’s what she was? Croe smirked. She suspected they would be torn, on the one hand gratified that their wayward child had somehow attached herself to such a powerful and influential person, on the other hand aggravated that she could not do it in a civilized manner. But Croe wasn’t civilized, was she? Everything she did seemed to be bent, untoward, taboo.
And besides, mistress had a double meaning. It could mean an illicit lover, but it could also mean a woman in a position of authority. An expert, an owner, a teacher. Maybe that was exactly the sort of thing she was. Maybe she should embrace it, instead of worrying over it like a judgement, or a curse.
They entered a drawing room, and Croe found herself for the first time in the presence of Mallos’ courtiers. They looked as surprised as she felt, but Croe said nothing, meeting their curious gazes with her own unblinking one, a wry smile seizing hold of her expression as he once again reached for her hand. Like before, she felt that surge of unfamiliar, vivid emotion fizz through her. Then a hall, more doors, the promised office like the “x” on a map. Her eyes fell on the desk. She grinned.
How thoughtful of him to leave it nice and clear, with plenty of room for her ass.
While Mallos made for the filing cabinets, Croe took a tour of the room. It was striking how much the decor of this room differed from the rest of the house. Palace. Like in Shaman, Mallos appeared to live in only this small section; everywhere else belonged to others. Unlike Shaman, those others seemed to be irrelevant sycophants, soaking up his influence like pretty, useless flowers in the sun. Croe wondered why he tolerated them…wondered if she could. The portraits on the walls did not escape her notice – they represented the entire spectrum of people that he loved, and did not include a single person in Madrid. But her train of thought was interrupted by the drawing on the table.
She recognized herself immediately. He’d rendered the tattoo on her shoulder with painstaking detail. He thinks I’m beautiful, she realized with a start. Or was he taking her image apart, like the vivisected clock?
Was there a difference?
“You haven’t finished this one,” she purred, picking it up gently and walking with it to his desk. She set it on top of the papers in his in-tray, began unbuttoning her blouse as she sprawled across the desk chair. “Maybe your muse requires an offering.” Her smile was wicked as she watched him, his eyes following her hands.
She wondered if the doors locked, and found she did not care.
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