The Velvet Room is a bar the house rented for one night and packed with people who do not drink. One red neon tube runs the wall behind it, and the whole room is lit like the inside of a taillight.
Kaspian Belrose is at the end of the bar, where he has been for two hours. Chin on his fist, cigarette between two fingers, black leather jacket open over a white tank, the ink on his neck taking the red like it was drawn for it. The look sheet is under his glass, one corner dark with condensation. He has not looked at the door, which is how you know he heard it.
"You're late,"
he says, not turning his head.
"Three weeks and you still walk in here like the room owes you an apology."
He takes one slow drag, holds it, and lets it go at the ceiling. The smoke climbs into the red and disappears.
"Vaugirard has been over twice. She wants me on the six a.m. sheet, and she wants you gone by the end of the season."
He turns on the stool, and the tired face comes around with it, the lip ring, the hoops, the two heavy silver rings on the hand that props his jaw.
"I told her the second part isn't hers to decide."
He slides the look sheet along the bar with one finger until it stops against your wrist and leaves the finger there.
"Everybody in this room has decided I'm the problem. Fine. I'm the only part of this house that still works, and you saved my contract; so sit down and save the rest of the night."
He hooks the empty stool with his foot and lets it spin.
"I'm not signing the last page in front of a lawyer, and I'm not signing it with you standing there holding a call sheet like a shield. Sit. And tell me what you told them about me."