Page 1 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

CHAPTER ONE

SILAS LURKEDoutside his own bedroom door like a ne’er-do-well. He had been banished from the room for days. Hisownbloody room. He was beyond frustrated with the situation, but he knew better than to argue with a sickly daemon. And Pitch was certainly unwell.

Silas pressed an ear to the door, listening in on the conversation taking place inside. In truth, it was less conversation, more battle of wills and wits.

‘If you just hold steady, Tobias, this will be over in a moment.’ Jane was her usual measured self, calm as a summer breeze. ‘You are making this far more difficult than it ought to be.’

Silas winced. Her reasoning would not go down well at all. His fingers tightened around the mahonia blooms he’d just picked from the garden. Soon enough, the crash of something fragile against the floorboards arrived.

‘You gib-faced, vazey, hedge-creeping bitch,’ Pitch decried, and proceeded to let loose with a string of quite terrible ways he was going to show Jane how difficult he could be if she did not cease and desist with making his existence a misery.

Silas had not discerned exactly what the air elemental was doing to the daemon. There was far too much yelling to make out the details, but he knew it was supposed to make Pitch’s lifelessof a misery. The treatment he was undergoing was designed to rid the prince’s body of the lingering dregs of Gu.

For a time after their escape from Gidleigh House and the greensward, it seemed as though the daemon would suffer no ill effects of his poisoning, something Lady Satine was mightily impressed with. By her account, the prince should be dead, or so close to it they might as well measure him for his coffin. Neither was the case, which evidently she was pleased with.

As was Silas.

‘Destroying a vase is not going to speed up this process.’ Jane was prim. ‘What if that was Silas’s favourite you just ruined?’

‘The man adores headstones,’ Pitch scoffed. ‘He will not give a shit if he’s missing an ugly piece of porcelain from his bedroom dresser.’

‘He may care that the flowers in that vase are now strewn about his room. You’ve noticed, no doubt, that he is partial to anything from the garden.’

‘Of course I’ve bloody noticed. But he brought those flowers days ago. They are as good as dead now. And he brought them tome. So they are mine to do with what I like. And Iliketo see them strewn about on the floor.’

Silas glanced at the new arrangement he held. He knew the floral offerings to be silly, really. But he hadn’t known what else to do. Several hours after Lucifer’s unsettling visit Pitch had declared himself unwell. The prince had slunk off to Silas’s room, declaring he intended to sleep off a sudden headache and churning stomach. Alone. When Silas checked in on him a few hours later, he’d found Pitch buried beneath the blankets and pillows till he was all but hidden save for a few lengths of gold-streaked hair peeking through the covers. His light brown shade was altering each time he used the flame, and there were far more gold highlights at the fore now. The prince had been fast asleep, and Silas had slept on the couch rather than disturb him. One night had since extended to three, and an upset stomach to violent regurgitation.

‘Goodness, you talk a load of rubbish, don’t you?’ Jane now was most derisive. ‘I can see on your face you are quite horrified at what you’ve done.’

‘You need spectacles, then. I don’t give a damn about those fucking flowers.’

‘You are a terrible liar. How surprising, I thought you were a master.’

Pitch muttered but the words were lost to Silas.

Jane was right that the daemon lied about not caring for the flowers. When Silas had brought him the first bouquet of golden spiked mahonia three days ago, Pitch had gone all shades of fetching pink as he watched Silas arrange them in the vase at his bedside.

‘You were out there in the cold, gathering these for me?’

Silas had been taken aback by the sheer disbelief in the prince’s tone.

‘I was. There aren’t so many as I’d hoped – slim pickings at this time of year, of course – but they are quite pretty, don’t you think?’

Pitch had stared at the simple bouquet with a look Silas could not unravel. When he’d not replied, Silas moved to pick up the vase.

‘They aren’t making you feel more wretched, are they? I can take them away.’

‘No.’ Pitch had lunged to stay Silas’s hand. ‘Leave them…please.’

The heat of the daemon’s skin had warmed Silas through, and he had seated himself gingerly on the edge of the bed. ‘Is there anything I can do for you? Some chamomile tea, perhaps? Some cake?’

The prince, propped up on one elbow, drained and bleary-eyed but no less beguiling, had shaken his head. ‘I couldn’t eat. Satty said Mr Ahari believes he’s found something that will rid me of what remains of the poison, but that old bastard is taking his time bringing it to me.’

‘That’s good news though, isn’t it? You’ll soon be feeling well again.’

Pitch nodded, making a vague sound of agreement. He was watching Silas closely, or rather, Silas’s mouth. ‘Being ill is inconvenient. I don’t like being kept from things.’ He wet his lips with a delicate swipe of his tongue and edged closer, making the air between them thinner. Silas’s pulse had begun to race. ‘Do you suppose…that it might be…helpful to…’ Pitch had paused, and the air had crackled. At least, that is how it had seemed to Silas, who had been awash with indecision. He’d longed to press in, to offer the kiss he thought was being asked for, but what if he was terribly wrong? The daemon prince was fragile as a butterfly’s wings with all that had been done to him…and what was now expected of him.

So Silas had held back, waiting for Pitch to lead the way.