Page 3 of A Heaven to Reach For (Infinite Grace #1)

Owin imagined Maschi would be an awkward dancer, at least at first. He would likely not believe that anyone would want to dance with him, a notion which added to the ache that lived in Owin’s chest whenever he thought of their falcon.

He would assuredly not believe it of Owin, who could never manage to speak to Maschi about anything but the Duke’s business or their assigned tasks.

It was difficult, when that gaze was fixed on him, to not think of all the ways they were different, all the ways Owin was a man of action, not faith, and how Maschi had grown since his younger years, but still had bones that looked as fragile as reeds, while Owin was as bruised as a village bully.

The trick to learning about Maschi was watching him covertly, and listening when his friends talked of him, and, once or twice, catching him when he was ill or too tired to control his tongue.

Or, notoriously, being present when someone had put brandy in Maschi’s tea and not told him until after Maschi had spent an hour extolling the virtues of experimentation and reason and explaining earnestly to Owin and everyone else that magic was as natural as the sunrise and the coming of winter.

Bartlemeo had assumed Maschi had seen him put the brandy in his cup and had been appropriately apologetic. Maschi had blushed for a sennight and never spoken of it again.

He would do that for this, as well. Owin had no doubt. And frown over it, in his way, until exhaustion or more hidden brandy unleashed his every thought on whoever happened to be nearest.

Owin stood up with a sigh, and stretched to crack his bones before he picked up the basket holding the last cake and approached the other table.

His heart was beating fast, but there was no one to know but him.

He pushed aside some cups to set the basket down before Maschi’s slender hands, and sat near Maschi but still at a distance.

Then he sighed again without looking over.

“I need a moment of quiet.” He gestured loosely toward Dahl in explanation.

“You should have rested.”

The low, yet fierce statement tricked Owin into turning, and he was instantly pinned by a pair of dark eyes. He had to swallow, then try to remember the subject of discussion, only to realize he could not.

“What?” he asked at last.

“Before coming here.” Maschi’s voice was husky and soft but his words were abrupt and direct. “It was a rough journey you had. And fast, to make it here in time for Ara. Isaac’s presence also meant you had to work harder to help him. You should have rested.”

Whoever had cut Maschi’s hair last must have used a blunted razor. The fringe across his brow was terrible, and only made his stare harder to hide from.

“His Grace was impatient to be home,” Owin said despite the apology that sprang into existence on his tongue. “He was not the only one. People love the festival.”

Maschi blinked and reached up to the sweep his fringe back, though it immediately fell over his forehead once again.

“Oh.” His short tone did not necessarily mean he was angry or upset; that was how he nearly always spoke.

“I thought perhaps there had been danger. It’s a relief to know there wasn’t.

” His eyebrows came together briefly in a familiar, charming scowl that spoke of worry, not ire.

“His Grace should take more mages with him when he travels, whatever the King’s rules. ”

A paranoid but clever king had once banned the nobles from traveling with too many guards or too many mages to keep small armies from forming, and the law remained in effect. Although the Duke rarely brought his mages on short trips, or even that many guards.

“You have made that suggestion many times.” Owin put his chin in his hand while the ripples of thought and indignation passed through Maschi’s face.

“It is dangerous. For all of you,” Maschi insisted in dramatic bursts before expelling a breath. “He could at least bring better ones.”

Owin could not resist a smile. “Such an assessment of your peers.”

He received an even more intent study for that, until Maschi seemed to recognize that he was being teased. He eased down his shoulders, then looked away. “They are not my peers. I am not a priest. They would not allow me to be.”

Again, words appeared on Owin’s tongue. But he swallowed down his questions about whether Maschi wanted to be a priest, because he did not want to hear the answers. He cleared his throat. “Your peers,” he repeated, deliberately, because Maschi’s lower status had to be a formality.

Maschi glanced at him but this time did not argue.

With that, Owin dared a compliment, or as much of one as Maschi would accept. “Aubrey might mention it to the Duke again, if prompted.” Prompted by Owin. “You’re not wrong about the rest. And I, for one, would not mind you with us.”

Owin had once fought five men by himself and lived to tell the tale. He still had to look away from Maschi’s sharp stare. “What?” He finally asked, his gaze on the air between the two tables and not one tiny, stern half-priest.

“I would stay out of trouble.”

The quiet words almost felt like an offer.

Owin turned to give Maschi a frown of his own. “No, you absolutely wouldn’t. But,” he inclined his head, “His Grace seems more amused than worried at the trouble you cause.”

A mistake.

Maschi tensed up again and hid his hands beneath the table. “I am very amusing.”

“I didn’t say I was amused,” Owin added, but had to be honest. “More terrified, usually.” Soon enough, Maschi was going to speak the truth to the wrong person at the wrong time and get himself into real danger.

Maschi leaned forward earnestly. “I mean no harm to come to the Duke, or t…t…to any of you.”

Maschi’s stammer was usually a sign he was deeply bothered by something, or simply very tired.

Owin put a hand out to calm him. “It’s my job to be terrified, little mage. It helps me pay attention.”

Maschi was not calmed. A ball of greenish-blue light formed above his head, then sparked and exploded into dozens of flashes of light, there and gone. Several of the people nearby gasped. Some probably hurried away. Owin didn’t spare them a glance.

Maschi sat up and narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t terrified when the other priests are there.

” He took a deep breath, then let it out, and the feeling in the air, like the start of a storm, slid into nothingness.

Owin didn’t move despite that, staying close and watching Maschi blink away pained bewilderment.

“I know I… I know you….” Maschi took another breath.

“You all think of me as a strange child, but I thought you at least…” He turned his head and looked down, and when he finally spoke, his voice was as quiet as it ever was.

“You’re going to miss out on the festival you rode so hard to get to. Ara is…well, you know what it is for.”

Owin followed Maschi’s gaze to the strip of blue cloth tied around his thigh. When Owin raised his head, Maschi was already pushing himself to his feet.

He walked with deliberate, graceful steps to the other table, where he sat next to Dahl, who immediately welcomed him with the outstretched arms of a drunken friend and began to pet Maschi’s hair.

The confusion all over Maschi’s face at the action made Owin heave another long sigh and get to his feet.

He went into the pub, squinting at the darkness indoors, and purchased another ale as well as a tart liquor made from cherries, served in a cup so small it may as well have been a thimble.

He brought both back out into the sunshine and held the thimble before Maschi’s face until it was taken carefully in both of Maschi’s hands.

Dahl grinned up at Owin for the gesture. Maschi seemed even more confused than before.

“I dislike my friends being mad at me,” Owin explained to both of them, but particularly to one perplexed mage.

Maschi tipped his head back to study him. “Are we friends?”

The grave question was a surprise and all the more painful for it.

Owin stood for a moment, absorbing the blow, then nodded. “Yes. Perhaps not the closest. But yes, I would like to think so.”

The smile, when it came, would have been enough to unseat him if he’d been riding.

It softened the line of Maschi’s brows, made his cheeks fuller and his eyes gleam.

Owin’s throat locked. He wondered foolishly when Maschi had become captivating instead of intimidating, although, in truth, Owin had been captivated for some time now.

Then the smile disappeared and Maschi’s gaze became unrelenting once again. “But I am not like your other friends.”

“No,” Owin answered before he could think better of it.

Maschi’s expression shuttered.

He lowered his head, then put the small cup to his lips and downed the contents in one swallow before setting the cup forcefully on the table. Startled, Dahl shot Owin a stern glance before turning his back on him to wrap his arm around Maschi’s stiff shoulders.

With little else to do now that he had once again made things worse instead of better, Owin took his ale and returned to the other table. He contained his sighs but thought some of his despair must have stayed in his face.

Beau appeared, her clothing askew, red marks down her throat, and patted Owin’s shoulder when he looked up. “You have hours until sundown. You’ll find someone yet,” she told him sympathetically and left him to wish he had stayed back in his room, after all.

EVENTUALLY, Owin went in search of food, but after that, chose not to leave his comfortable position in front of the pub for what was left of the afternoon.

The others came and went. Denys finally got a nap, his head in his arms while slouched over a table.

Wolfe reappeared, apparently untouched although appearances could be deceiving.

Margaret joined Owin for his meal before leaving for the dancing, Beau hopefully meeting her there.