Page 34 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle
‘You just said yourself the elixir is plainly still working. And the Morrigan are looking for an ankou and a daemon. We are not them…we are free, Silas.’ Pitch was earnest, clutching at the crumpled empty bag. He stepped up close, his skirts covering Silas’s feet, the taffeta finding its way between his legs. ‘We could be there and back before Satty does her morning piss tomorrow.’
Silas inhaled, his head a battle front of pros and cons. ‘I thought you were keen to enjoy your evening with more trivial things?’ Which he was not averse to at all. He’d been enjoying their game.
‘I don’t want to find him, Silas.’ Pitch ground his teeth into the words. He turned about and continued along the pavement. Silas kept close. ‘You once threatened to spank me senseless – the worst attempt at a threat I’ve ever heard – if I tried to ride off and handle this on my own. But I was not thinking of runningtowardsthe threat, only away. Far away. I was not fooling when I said I’d abandon this quest at once if the decision was mine.’ He paused, tracing white satin against the metal of a streetlight. ‘I don’t want to find Edward, Silas, because I know once I do…I’ll understand what has been done to me and what will become of me, and what is expected of me. And I have no right to protest any of it because I should not be drawing breath at all. So I was letting myself indulge in this little delaying fantasy, with warm chestnuts in my hand and your tongue in my mouth. But the truth is the decision to run or stay or play is not mine. We have masters who must be obeyed, you and I both. And they do not give a shit if I’m enjoying being on your arm and wearing my pretty frock and having you look at me the way you do. So we should abandon it now, before they rip it from us. From me. I need to go to Cambridge. This must be done with.’ He frowned, gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Does that make any sense at all? Or am I still high and sounding like a fool? I feel I may be veering towards foolery.’
Pitch was in truth a little bleary-eyed, his jaw working too hard at grinding nothing, but he did not sound a fool. Silas felt the undercurrent of the prince’s desperation and his fears, very keenly. Bloody hell, was there no chance he could bundle him up, grab the nearest hansom, and demand the driver take them to the very darkest corner of the Isles?
‘You do not sound foolish at all.’ He touched Pitch’s back, knowing just where the daemon preferred, though the corset formed a barrier against offering much real comfort. ‘We are both set on a path we must follow, but yours is particularly rough. You have every right to protest how it has been handled and I want you to know that what you want does matter, very much, to me.’ He adjusted the drape of Pitch’s cloak, tugging the two folds so the rising breeze could not sneak beneath.
‘You’re fussing,’ the prince mumbled, though did not slap him away.
‘You bring out my inner fusspot, what can I say?’ To Silas’s delight, he drew a muffled laugh from the daemon.
‘I understand entirely if you prefer to return to the Village,’ Pitch said. ‘I know you are a careful man and might –’
‘We both know I’m not going anywhere but where you go, so let’s not waste time with all that.’ As Silas turned towards the road, he thought he saw Pitch’s shoulders slacken.
He lifted his hand, waving down a hansom cab. A prancing bay tossed its head as the driver pulled up alongside them. ‘Where to?’ a squat-faced man called from behind his thick muffler.
Silas took a quick, firming breath, aware this was likely not the wisest choice he’d ever made but feeling a small thrill because of it.
‘We need to catch a train to Cambridge. Do you suppose they are still running?’
‘Suppose they are.’ He sniffed deeply. ‘Been some trouble on that line today, so they are all running late. If you’re lucky, you might still catch the last one.’
Silas held out his hand to Pitch. ‘Shall we?’
‘We shall.’ The daemon slid his fingers across Silas’s palm and held tight. ‘And ifyouare very lucky, we shall have a cabin to ourselves.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THEY REACHEDLiverpool Street Station before the departure of the last train. It had been delayed by forty-five minutes, so there was luck there.Andthey were lucky enough to secure two of the last remaining seats on the busy train.
But that was where their luck ended.
Pitch’s notion of fooling about in the carriage with the ankou, taking as much pleasure as he could before a dreary trip to the asylum and beyond, was cruelly dashed. Not only would they not have their own cabin, they would not be seated together. There had been only one seat in each class available. Pitch would take the first-class seat, of course. He was a lady, gods damn it, and it was hardly proper to have him squeezed in amongst the common folk on uncomfortable wooden seating. The ankou sensibly did not try to challenge that decision. Silas would take the second-class seat.
‘Would it help you endure the discomfort,’ Pitch said as they wove their way through the buzzing crowd, ‘if I said there would be a superlative hand job waiting for you at the other end?’
Silas’s eyes bulged. ‘Truly, you must stop that.’
The ankou glanced about, ensuring no one had heard the exchange between Mr and Mrs Bellingham. Pitch had insisted on the new marital arrangement. He was not partial to incest. They had chosen a new moniker purposely, too. He and Silas were a striking pair, even with their guises, and tongues may wag. No need for any word to reach the Charters that the Cargills were headed straight to the asylum they weren’t supposed to know about. London could be a small town at times. Especially when wealthy families were involved.
‘Stop the hand jobs? I’ve hardly started giving them to you.’
Silas grimaced, shifting his hips. ‘I beg you, please don’t say such brazen things when I’m not in the right environment to walk around with a maypole in my trousers.’
‘Hardly my problem you cannot control yourself.’
‘Bloody hell, you are dreadful.’
It was adorable really, how hard the ankou tried to stay stern while his smile fought to rise.
Pitch sipped on some peppermint water Silas had bought for him, giving him something else to do with his jaw rather than grind it. He was grateful that Daphne’s tincture was fast losing its punch. Cocaine was wonderful and all, but not without its downsides.
There was still a comfortable fifteen minutes until departure. The jostling of the passing traffic was beginning to piss Pitch off. Twice someone had trod on the hem of his gown, and twice he’d let them know how displeased he was, using language Silas assured him was not befitting of Mrs Bellingham.
They reached the gate, where the ticket collector was having a hearty conversation with a trio of young lads who had clearly been enjoying London’s public houses. Pitch envied them their inebriated state. He’d begun to think again of what he’d recalled in Fothergill’s office: an angel, obsessed with righting his wrongs, uncaring whether it fucked up a daemon’s life entirely.