Page 3 of Infamous

‘Oh, I don’t know. I think it’ll be nice,’ Rose had offered, her face pink. ‘Don’t you like parties, really?’

‘No,’ Eddie said, sitting up very straight and staring at Rose in genuine horror. ‘They’re terrible! They’re monstrous! The only absolutely minuscule shred of joy to be found in them is that I can attend them with you, and as I can attendanythingwith you, that leaves them with no redeeming qualities whatsoever.’

‘Well, I’m looking forward to it,’ said Rose. ‘And besides – my parents aresoproud. Not everybody is guaranteed a grand coming out, Ed. It’s a privilege. If you do anything to ruin it for me, or them, I’ll throw you overarm into the Thames.’

It was the very first sign that Rose did not in fact co-inhabit Eddie’s brain, and it was extremely jarring.

Their coming out itself had gone mostly without incident. They did not have to present themselves to the Queen herself due to her ill health, which Rose said was a blessing, as ‘Eddie would have undoubtedly done something so heinous and inappropriate that she’d have been executed right then and there in the middle of the ballroom.’

Rose had been asked to dance many, many times, and Eddie only a few; she hadn’t mindedthatat all, although she had resented the fact that she had had to watch Rose line up again and again, her painstakingly fashioned ringlets flying as she was whirled and courted by all manner of eager, pink-faced gentlemen.

Towards midnight, they escaped up some stairs and out onto a balcony to be alone, crashing through the doors in a rush of silk and lace. London spread out before them, an intricate puzzle of rooftops partially obscured by chimney smoke.

‘If I were queen, I’d abolish all this. Balls. Coming out. Suitors.’

Rose snorted into her ivory glove. ‘If you were queen, everything would be burning down around us. It would be the sequel to the Great Fire of London – the evengreaterfire of London. And anyway, mad genius, you’d have had to marry the king to become queen.’

‘Hmph.’

‘I’m sorry you sat out some of the dances.’

‘Dear God, not at all – I’m sorry you satinthem.’

Rose laughed and leaned her elbows on the stone balcony, her eyes drifting across the horizon.

‘That does not make even half a jot of sense.’

‘You didn’tlikeany of those boys, did you?’

Rose paused for too long a moment; Eddie felt herself on the verge of a gentle fret.

‘No. I did not.’

Eddie breathed a little easier. She came to stand next to Rose, leaning her head on her friend’s shoulder. Ordinarily she would have been batted away, but instead Rose just closed her eyes.

‘Sixteen is a terrible age,’ Eddie said seriously.

‘What are you pontificating on about now?’

‘I feel like I could do anything and nothing, all at the same time. London is enormous! But it’s too small! I want to write something great, but I fear I am far too young – I am not a child, but dagger to my heart, I never want to be a minute older.’

‘How much wine did you have to drink?’

Eddie shifted against Rose, tilting her head up to look at the stars.

‘Nash Nicholson published his first poem at sixteen. It was one of the only cheerful ones.’

‘Which one is he?’

‘You never listen to me, do you?’

Rose reached up to pet her clumsily on the head. ‘All Idois listen to you. London is big, it’s small .?.?. Daggers .?.?. Er .?.?. Famous poets.’

‘I am destined to be tragically misunderstood.’

Rose laughed quietly. There was a brief silence, an oasis between the bustle of the city and the distant strains of music from the ball below them.

‘You are right about one thing, though. I don’t know how I’ll get on with being an adult, full grown.’