Page 4 of A Heaven to Reach For (Infinite Grace #1)

Madame Carel, who owned the pub, emerged to sweep empty cups from the tables and to take bets on the number of babies to be born that winter.

There would be no making of babies for Owin, but he had cheerfully offered some coin for the pool, knowing the wildness that would begin once the sun went down.

Ara might be a festival of sunlight, as well as spring and beginnings, but many people liked their tumbles to happen in the dark, when the lack of light could make even an alley seem private.

He closed his eyes for a time, drifting into sleep and returning to awareness when the sky had shifted to a much darker blue and someone had propped themselves up next to Denys’s abandoned chair instead of sitting in it and had fallen asleep right there on the ground.

If Owin was going to find someone for a moment of fun, he ought to go soon.

But he stayed where he was, sipping ale and rising only to stretch or to find a place to piss, prodding at the ache in his chest without any hope of ridding himself of it, thinking of his own foolishness over and over, and the moment where it had seemed that Maschi had regarded him well before Owin had set him to worrying again.

Music carried through the air, louder than before, while Owin contemplated the effort and benefit of finding someone else, at least for the night, or for an hour. He had reached no conclusions when Dahl plopped down next to him, seemingly from nowhere.

Dahl’s tabard was missing and his eyes were glassy. He pursed his lips. “You look so sad, Owin, and on such a day. Why are the people I care about inclined to melancholy or studiousness?”

Because he also cared, Owin did not ask Dahl where his tabard was, or where Wolfe was, usually to be found at Dahl’s side. “It’s a beautiful day, and I have food, and drink, and friends. Why should I be melancholy?”

Dahl harrumphed in an obvious, drunken way, and rested his cheek in his hand, half-falling over the table. “Why indeed?” He tapped his nose as if that meant something. “I’m on to you. Today, I finally understand… you, at least. Not everyone.”

“You have had too much, Dahl.” Owin would have joined him not long ago, but had a feeling it might make things worse if he tried it now.

“Yes,” Dahl agreed. “But in the absence of… well… in the face of those absences, so what?” He likely thought he made sense. “You know… Owin… it has been a distressingly lonely day. Our evening does not have to be the same.”

He arched his eyebrows hopefully.

Owin studied Dahl’s messy curls and his full mouth, then looked over to the empty space next to him. He once more identified the ache that had been plaguing him for much longer than today, but with it, finally, the reason he still sat here alone.

He was a fool, but a polite one. “I’m sure it would be a joy and a pleasure, as it was before.”

“But?” Dahl’s pout was close to adorable.

“ But ,” Owin agreed, “I don’t think so.”

Dahl continued to pout but not much more than that.

He also did not seem very surprised. He leaned even farther against the table, then said, “ Ah ,” in a tone of understanding, before repeating, “Ah!” but this time with shocked delight.

He straightened. “It seems the Flowers of the Festival have found our dear little priest.”

“ What ?” The question burst from Owin far too loudly, but Dahl did not seem to notice as he scrambled to his feet to cross over to Maschi as the mage slipped into the yard.

There was a careless smudge of blue across Maschi’s mouth, a stain that would last for a day or two even with scrubbing. Maschi was composed despite that, and how someone had clearly ruffled his hair.

Those more dedicated to the spirit of the day were often called the Flowers of the Festival, and it was too easy to imagine a group of young people dancing around a sweet-faced, if too thin, Maschi, and teasing him for his frowns and calling for him to join the fun.

It was easier still to imagine one of them gently holding Maschi’s chin while drawing their fingertips over his lips to paint them.

Blue stain on red or brown lips made dark reds or purples.

Maschi’s mouth was as bright and tempting as a berry.

He did not look kissed, for all that. Owin told this to his pounding heart.

Maschi nodded to whatever questions Dahl asked him and permitted himself to dragged to the other table and his face inspected.

Dahl’s grin was enormous, and his intention for Maschi to remain there, in public, with his lips marked and ready, was alarmingly clear.

Dahl glanced over to Owin, eyebrows up, and when Owin dragged his attention away from Maschi to look at him, Dahl winked before ducking down to plant a short, enthusiastic kiss squarely on Maschi’s lips.

Owin drew in a breath.

Maschi’s hands came up, then dropped. He stared at Dahl intently as Dahl pulled back, and it might have been how Dahl’s smile slowly gentled, but after another moment, Maschi smiled in return and touched his fingers to his lips.

Dahl was a good choice, Owin thought distractedly, the music a whining hum at the back of his mind.

Dahl was someone Maschi liked and trusted, and that kiss had been friendly.

Anything else would be friendly as well, with Dahl.

With Dahl and Wolfe, Owin’s thoughts added helpfully, although Owin had no basis for such an idea except the closeness of the pair.

The idea was ridiculous. Maschi was, in some way, regarded as a priest, who lived a lonely life. He touched his mouth now like someone new to kisses. He would not… They would not….

“Why, Maschi,” Aubrey’s voice carried through the din and the rush in Owin’s ears, “I see you’ve succumbed to the spirit of Ara.”

Hardly drunk, but with a loose grace that spoke of recent pleasure, Aubrey sauntered into the yard and straight to Maschi. Dahl moved smoothly out of his way, and Owin had a moment to blink before Aubrey was tipping Maschi’s face up and sweeping his thumb along his painted lips.

Maschi brought his hands up again, this time leaving them to tremble against Aubrey’s forearms. His eyes were wide as Aubrey took his time leaning in. He did not close them, though Aubrey’s kiss was soft and slow and made him curl his hands around Aubrey’s wrists.

There were others in the yard with them. Owin spared a glare for some of them at their vocal objections but was otherwise frozen. Aubrey eventually pulled back and swept a hand through Maschi’s hair before standing straight.

Aubrey was next to Owin only moments later, yawning and calling for a drink, not seeming to notice Owin’s distraction as he began to talk about the trip to see the King.

Maschi’s sideways glance over to them was there and gone.

Aubrey was a good kisser. Owin knew it well. Maschi might consider Aubrey a better friend. He was also a good choice if Maschi was going to take more from this day.

“Oh, hang the King,” Owin muttered despite telling himself all of that, and ignored the shocked, then thoughtful look Aubrey gave him.