This man is wearing an electric blue t-shirt, and a badge lanyard that marks him as staff.
“Mr. Reed?” the man says, his voice strangled with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Elgar turns to look at him. The young man doesn’t move on, and ends up blocking the entrance for those around us. I would prefer if we were not the center of a crowd, so I pull us back against the opposite wall to allow the other people waiting their chance to board the elevator, and to try to block Elgar from view of the lobby.
“Uh, I’m Ichiro Eiji,” the young man says suddenly, when he realizes that Elgar has no good reason to answer him. He shoves his hand at Elgar so abruptly he nearly punches him in the gut.
“Ah, the guest coordinator,” Elgar says, brightening, accepting the handshake. I can tell that it’s all forced charm and smiles, but Ichiro can’t, apparently. He doesn’t seem to see that Elgar’s too wrung thin to want to do this now.
“You’re here early, Mr. Reed,” Ichiro says, and he’s thumbing the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt absently. He wants to tell someone that he’s seen Reed, inform his higher-ups, possibly. That would throw all our plans to keep Elgar under wraps straight into a pool of kelpies.
“Wanted an extra night to spend time with family,” Elgar says. It’s an elegant half-lie, and just true enough that it comes out as sincere. It’s the one we decided on, secretly, so that if someone had swindled the secret of his travel dates and itinerary out of the convention committee, they would be misinformed.
“Syth Piper,” I say, reaching out to shake Ichiro’s hand, as well. “Elgar’s cousin. And this is my wife, Lucy.”
“Oh,” Ichiro says, looking back and forth between us.
“It’s fine,” Elgar says.
Ichiro, on the other hand, looks like he’s trying to swallow a tack. “Mr. Reed—”
“It’s not a big deal. So I came a day early,” Elgar repeats, as if repetition could make Ichiro Eiji less anxious. He flops his hand in dismissal.
“But your room isn’t—”
“Don’t worry,” Pip jumps in, tamping down her ire. “We have a suite. We thought he could just stay with us? You know, save the con some money.” She smirks at that. If there is one thing ConClusion has, it’s an abundance of money. The attendees number in the hundreds of thousands—that is a lot of badge fees.
“But the insurance . . .” Ichiro says, dithering. “And you need to meet your handler for the weekend.”
“I got an email already,” Elgar says, dismissively. “We’ve talked.”
Pip smiles at Ichiro—her steamroller smile, the one she uses when she’s about to intellectually bludgeon acquiescence out of someone. She slings a friendly arm across his shoulders, and pulls him to the side, speaking softly enough that I cannot actually make out all that she is saying. It seems to work, though, for Ichiro nods miserably, and unclips his radio. He walks away, chattering into it, heading down the hallway partially blocked off from the lobby by a large easel with a sign that reads: “Convention Staff Only.”
“Lucy Piper, the miracle worker,” Elgar says, grinning. He puts a hand on the mirrored wall in a way he probably thinks is subtle.
“Not that big a miracle,” Pip says. “He’s still informing his boss.”
“At least they do not have the room number,” I say. “We hold that secret yet, do we not, bao bei?”
“As long as the concierge doesn’t give it to them,” Pip says in answer.
The elevator dings again, and this time, we manage to make it aboard.
A few others join us, and we are squeezed between the wall and a large luggage cart overflowing with suitcases, plastic grocery bags of chips and sodas and a tray of pre-cut vegetables, and a massive pile of board games in battered, well-loved boxes. There are four other occupants on this ride with us—two men, two women—and the tall, thin man on a cane elbows his shorter, larger companion in the ribs and jerks his chin toward Elgar. The car goes quiet as all four try, and fail, to not stare at my creator.
Elgar offers them a cheeky wave and a little lopsided smirk, and the youngest woman—dark skin, dyed red hair, glasses, clad in a fannish t-shirt—has nearly worked up enough gusto to say something when the elevator chimes and the door opens onto their floor. Bravery aborted, they trundle out, lugging the cart, all four pairs of eyes fused to Elgar’s face until the door closes again and cuts them off from view. Just before it snaps shut, Elgar waggles his fingers at them, grinning.
“That’s never not going to be funny,” Elgar says, chuckling drunkenly to himself.
Pip rolls her eyes, and then we are on the top floor of the hotel, where a bit of judicious juggling from within the hotel’s booking system allowed me to ensure we had a two-bedroom suite with kitchenette reserved for our needs. Elgar seems pleased with it when we leave him in his bedroom to get settled. Pip goes immediately into the kitchenette for the bottle of wine she’s left on the counter.
“A bit early in the day,” I chide.
Pip grimaces, but applies the point of the corkscrew to the foil all the same. “If I’m going to put up with his ‘sense of humor’ for the next four days, I need it.”
“Just a small one,” I allow. “We must remain on our guard.”
Pip groans at my nobility. Having just worked the cork out, she jams it back into the mouth of the bottle. “Spoilsport,” she complains.
“Here,” I say, leaning back against the counter and opening my arms, spreading my legs. “Let your husband soothe your ruffled feathers another way.”
Pip accepts the invitation and steps in between my feet, throws her arms around my waist, and cradles her cheek on my sternum. I take advantage of our closeness and slide my hands under the back of her belt to hold her close. We remain locked together, just listening
