Page 14 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Silas felt Sybilla’s gaze shift between them, making assumptions. But she’d be wrong. They weren’t sharing a bed, not even the same floor of the cottage when it came to sleeping arrangements. There was Pitch’s illness of course, but Silas was also waiting for sign from the daemon he was ready for such intimacy once more. Now the prince’s suggestive comment had him awash with hope. He stood, rather pathetically transfixed by the jade-touched gaze that was levelled at him.

‘The soup perhaps,’ he said.

‘Excellent.’ Pitch sidled up and, after a very brief hesitation, looped his arm through Silas’s, hooking him in close. ‘Will you take me to dinner?’

‘Just be sure you can afford to pay that bill, Silas.’ Sybilla winked at him, pushing past to make her way down the corridor. Her leather trousers creaked as she walked.

‘No need to make such theatre of it,’ Silas mumbled. ‘It’s just a meal.’

Pitch patted his arm. ‘And Tuesday is just a soirée, where my talent for the theatrical will be most useful. I shall be beautiful, and tongues will be loosened, and I will learn the whereabouts of our missing pair. Then I shall bore you senseless with all the gossip when I return. Be prepared to be woken in the early hours and made to listen to all the scandals.’

Silas chuckled. Damn, it was infuriating how often this creature made him laugh when he should be scowling. ‘So long as you bring good news, I dare say I would even listen to you sing.’

‘In that case, my sweet Silas, I’ll find your little friend if it is the very last thing I do.’

CHAPTER FOUR

PITCH ADMIREDthe view in the floor-length mirror, turning this way and that to take in the flow of taffeta he wore. A row of diamante buttons ran up the front of his bodice, where a lace-ruffled collar sat high, concealing the bump at his throat. Raven-black ringlets bobbed against the tops of his shoulders, and subtle amber eyes stared back at him. His usual viridian was hidden, courtesy of some stinging eye drops Satty had produced along with her foul-smelling aura-concealing elixir.

The cloud-grey taffeta swished about him, and the diamond-and-sapphire earrings clipped to his ears dangled and swayed, their facets catching the light. His corseted waist was narrowed down to a curve that bordered on insensible. Jane had used all her considerable strength to pull in the laces, and Pitch’s ribs, nearly to the breaking point. Breathing was definitely an issue. He’d have to keep his inhales short and sweet, but not too quick or he’d be liable to faint. He refused to allow Jane to loosen the lacing. He did not tell her of the contentment that came with being strapped up to within an inch of his life. She would not understand what it was to feel so secure, held tight, and less fearful of breaking apart as mad inner turmoil sought release.

She added a dash more colour to his lips before she stepped back to set away the assortment of toiletries she held, her own azure gown spreading like a pond around her. ‘Right, you are done. A little perfume, and your gloves.’ She indicated the lengths of white satin that were draped over the edge of the vanity as she dabbed her finger over the top of an open bottle of Fleurs de Bulgarie. ‘By Royal Appointment. If it’s good enough for the Queen, it’s good enough for you, I say.’

Jane pressed her damp fingertip behind Pitch’s ears and under his chin. He offered up his wrists, barely accessible due to the tightness of the fabric. The sleeves were full length and tight all the way up to mid upper arm, where they exploded into a superb bulge of taffeta. He couldn’t deny it; the dress Jane had chosen was perfection. And he a work of art beneath it. He rubbed at his left ear, his hearing still a bit muffled after the Lady had put the drops of elixir in an hour or so ago. The immediate effect had been total deafness for that eardrum, which was unpleasant but bearable when Satty had declared the elixir a success. He could not see it himself. A natural could not see their own hue, but he was assured there was not a trace of his supposedly rain-washed and twisted aura about him. Satty likened the elixir to bottled camouflage. The djinn were creatures born of the animalistic power of nature, and nowhere else but in the wild were there more splendid displays of camouflage to be seen: from the chameleon to the mountain hare changing its colours for the winter.

‘Careful though,’ she’d warned as he shook his head, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable sense of movement in his ear canal as the elixir filled it. ‘The eye tint will hold till tomorrow at least, but I’m not confident about the elixir for you. I think it best you are back as soon as possible. By midnight if you can.’

Pitch smoothed his skirts, finding it hard to look away from the sultry raven-haired beauty that stared back at him in the mirror.

‘Gods, you are vanity on legs, aren’t you?’ Jane said.

‘Well, look at me.’ Pitch gestured to the vision. ‘Tell me that is not a beautiful example of humanity.’

Jane rolled her eyes, but she nodded. ‘You do look quite fetching, I can’t deny it. But I know what lies beneath, and I have no interest in going there again, I’m afraid.’

‘Nor do I, my dear elemental.’ Pitch adjusted the lace that spilled over the edge of the high collar. ‘I’m rather partial to balls presently.’

‘I’m sure you are.’

Jane laughed, not in the least bit insulted, and he liked her all the more for it. He’d never say so, but she was not terrible company to be around. Silas certainly enjoyed her presence. A weight seemed to lift from the ankou when she was around, and that smile on his face when Jane had first come to the cottage on their return? Pure joy. Not irritating to see, in the least.

Not at all.

Jane fussed about in one of the many drawers in her bureau, searching for something. She loosed a little cry as she withdrew a tiny bottle. The glass was the colour of amber with a neat silver stopper. ‘I was looking for another pin for your hair, but you might like this even more. Rose oil. In case you and Silas have run your supply dry.’ Her grin was wry, but Pitch’s own smile struggled to stay aloft.

Gods, Jane would choke on disbelief to know that he, a veritable whore when he so chose, was sleeping alone. And by choice. Silas had kept a subtle distance, undemanding of any repeat of their intimacy in the carriage, asking nothing from a pathetically fragile prince. Pitch had woken several times now in a sheer panic, mistaking his tangled sheets for an Alp daemon and the ceiling rose for magickal runes. His cries would bring Silas at a run, the ankou taking long, patient minutes to convince Pitch that he was not being held down and controlled. That he was safe and would not be forced where he did not wish to go.

The nightmares that used to hold visions of Seraphiel were now full of horns and knives and pinned-down fear.

Pitch continued working the gloves on. ‘The oil might prove a boon this evening, should I need to go to greater lengths to get the information I need.’

Let the illusion hold. Let them all think he was just as he’d been before Gidleigh House. He’d not told Lady Satine of the full extent of the Alp’s assault, and did not intend to change that. Silas alone held the secret with him, and so long as the ankou never dared look on him with pity, Pitch could bear it.

Jane gave him a puzzled look. ‘Oh. I thought…never mind. Here you are, then.’

While Pitch finished pulling on the second glove, Jane tucked the rose oil into a cleverly sewn pocket that was hidden among the folds of the smoke-grey skirt.

‘I’ve not seen Silas around,’ Pitch said, casual and careless. The silly dolt had been in a temper ever since he’d learned he was not allowed to attend the soirée. ‘Is he off picking me a corsage?’