Page 30 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Arriving at the kitchen, and an exit, at last, Silas slipped the lad a coin in exchange for his assistance, the ankou apparently adept now at bribery. The footman left them rather hurriedly as a bell tinkled somewhere in the house.

‘Charlie is not here,’ Pitch hissed. ‘But I know where to find them –’

‘How do you know they are together?’ Silas’s brows knitted.

‘I don’t, for certain, but I’d wager a decent pile of notes on it. The lad is tenacious, is he not?’ Pitch hoped to put a stop to the ankou’s downward spiral of concern, deciding it wasn’t fetching. ‘Stubborn and moderately brave?’

‘Moderately?’ Silas’s worry was replaced by indignation. ‘He is courageous beyond measure.’

‘Very well. Then we assume he’s stuck to his task like a burr on a dog’s arse, and we’ll find them together.’

The kitchen was oddly empty, with an enormous kettle beginning to steam on the oven top and a spacious pine table patched white with dusting flour. A mound of dough sat waiting for the roller beside it to begin its work. Someone’s cloak had been cast over the unused chopping block. The room had the air of being hastily abandoned.

They crossed to the door which led out into the rear courtyard. And saw immediately where everyone had gone.

There was a fire in the stables.

Nothing too grand, the cheery flames dancing about in one of the feed troughs. Hardly about to burn the house down, with all the servants in attendance flapping about like frightened gulls. Some threw buckets of water, another slapped at the fire with a rag. Stablehands were taking frightened horses from their stalls.

‘Oh bloody hell.’ Silas opened the door and looked for all the world like he was about to roll up his sleeves and join in the dousing.

‘Walk on, Silas,’ Pitch ordered. He grabbed the discarded cloak, slinging it over his shoulders and linking his arm through the ankou’s. He dragged Silas along. The fire seemed rather suspect, very convenient for an escape, and Pitch was not about to waste the opportunity.

‘But we should help,’ Silas said.

‘No, we should keep going.’ He hurried the reluctant oaf along, into the shadows that clung to the far side of the courtyard, distant enough from the fire to keep them relatively hidden. The chaotic scene did the rest of the job for them. They were in the alleyway within a few moments, and if anyone had spotted them, they were too busy to do much about it. Horses whinnied behind them, calling out to one another as the smoke from the small fire stained the air.

‘About time. They beat at that fire much longer, they’d start to know it weren’t natural. This way, quickly.’ Isaac stepped from behind several stacked crates, the coachman barely lighter than the shadows that had concealed him. If he’d been wearing his usual funeral shroud layers, they might have missed him entirely, but he had had to play along with the charade as well and wore a coat of soot-smudge grey, with a stark-white waistcoat beneath. ‘You took your damn time, Mercer. Now get along with you. The carriage is up the end.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Move it.’

The curt command brought Pitch to a standstill. Silas gave him a questioning look.

‘Is everything all right?’

The ankou was a fine sight, with his shaved skin and finely arranged hair. And Pitch was all types of wonderful in his gown. There was still a touch of tincture and champagne buzzing in his veins. What a waste it would be to retreat to the dull confines of the Village right now.

‘We have time,’ he muttered. Lady Satine had said to be back by midnight, before there was chance of the elixir failing and turning him back into a daemonic pumpkin. But even she had admitted that was overly cautious. The elixir had worked for the Lady once for three days. And the first time it was used was always the strongest. ‘We have more time than this. I don’t want to go back.’

He’d not meant to sound so plaintive. Silas turned to face him, blocking Isaac’s view.

‘You don’t want to go back?’ A gentle frown gathered on the ankou’s brow.

‘She said it would be fine until midnight at least,’ Pitch whispered. ‘There’s time for a stroll, surely? Perhaps an aperitif and a decent coq au vin in the West End?’

A dance would be a delight.

He and Silas were invisible. As close to human as the pair of them could be. Why not relish it? Edward wasn’t going anywhere.

Silas brushed at one of Pitch’s raven curls. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’ He spoke so carefully it stung.

‘I think it’s possible…and that is more important to me right now. Just a short while…’ He would not beg, but by the gods if the ankou didn’t agree, a tantrum was to be had. ‘An hour or two. That’s all.’

Silas was thoughtful before he nodded.

Isaac let out a groan that bordered on a growl. ‘That’s not part of the plan.’

‘Plans do change.’ Silas looped his arm around Pitch’s shoulders. ‘And there’s no harm in a stroll, is there?’

‘How the bloody hell would I know?’ Isaac retorted. ‘It’s not for me to say.’