Page 41 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

‘He was there tonight, did I tell you?’

‘Who and where?’

‘Kaneko, at the Charters’ soirée.’

The show had begun. A lady was belting out a jolly tune from beneath a swathe of feather boas which did a poor job of concealing the fact she wore very little clothing. ‘Really? Why was he there? I’m assuming he didn’t recognise you?’

‘Delivering some catering I believe. And didn’t give me a second glance. Which was rude, really. Considering I am a picture.’ Pitch took a sip. ‘Oh good gods, this is decent stuff.’

‘Indeed. Why didn’t you say we were here in Cambridge? Do you have concerns about Kaneko?’

Pitch fluttered his hand, lips brushing his glass. ‘I don’t think so. But it didn’t feel right to broadcast it to him.’

‘Were you worried Lady Satine would have the sirin fly in another carriage to retrieve us and send us straight to our rooms with no supper?’ Silas was only half joking.

Pitch’s unfamiliar, but still striking, honey-brown eyes watched him over the top of his royal-blue glass. ‘If she sent us to the same room, I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad. But I prefer it here, don’t you?’ Pitch moved closer as he spoke, making a very warm room so much more stifling.

‘It’s certainly jovial.’ Silas swallowed a decent mouthful, the bubbles tickling at his nose.

The crowd joined in with the chorus being sung, something about a certain member of Parliament having an enormous stick to poke about.

‘I want you to take off your coat, Silas.’

Sweet mercy. ‘Take off…my…’

‘Coat, the long thing hanging off your back.’ Pitch’s smile twisted about. ‘The idea you had about putting the watch in a lead box was wonderful, but it’s still quite –’

‘Oh shit, yes of course.’ Silas slammed down his glass, fearing for a moment the force had cracked it.

‘And take my cloak too, if you wouldn’t mind.’ The prince was attempting to undo the clasp whilst still holding on to his glass, which was likely going to mean more spilled champagne.

‘Here, let me do that.’ Silas draped his coat over his arm and placed his fingers on the simple clip at Pitch’s neck. The job was easy enough, but he was suddenly very aware of how close they stood, and that the daemon’s eyes were on him, and his hands were not as steady as he would like. Pitch cupped Silas’s elbow with his free hand.

‘Tricky little contraption,’ Silas stuttered.

He was on the verge of tilting into those impossibly bowed lips. But Pitch was preoccupied with taking those lips to his glass and moaning in an unnecessary way as he declared the drink luscious.

The clasp unfastened. The cloak was removed from slender shoulders, and Pitch exhaled as he stepped back. Silas hurried the clothing away, searching for a coatrack and spying one to the right of the door. But it was too close. ‘Maybe I should put the coat outside? Or in the cloak room.’

‘Oh yes, perfect place for death’s scythe and Raph’s trinket.’

‘Shit, terrible idea. You’re right. I’m more tired than I thought, I suppose.’ Or all the blood had simply left one end of his body for the other. He placed the coat onto an iron hook shaped like an elephant’s trunk. When he turned about, Pitch was dropping a long, slender silver pin onto the table that held Silas’s abandoned drink. He removed another pin from his wig and then pulled the entire mass of black ringlets free, followed by the white skullcap underneath. He shoved his fingers into his flattened natural waves, ruffling them back to life.

‘Oh fuck,’ Pitch said. ‘You have no idea how good it feels to be rid of that.’

Perhaps not, but Silasdidknow how good it was to see those light waves again, Pitch’s hair tinged ever more golden since the harrowing times in Devon.

The music’s tempo shifted. Violins joined the fray to play out a waltzing tune as the bawdy singalong continued. Silas stepped around the screen to take in the show and avoid staring too hard at Pitch as he continued to fuss with his hair.

It turned out more than four peoplecouldfit on the stage. Six couples were costumed in screamingly bright fabric, some crowned with pretty tiaras, waltzing about the stage as the crowd clapped. What he’d thought was a young man in breeches was in fact a young lass, with no effort being made to hide the swell of her bosom beneath her clinging shirt and vest. Her partner, at a second glance, was found to be a member of Old Bess’s club. A sturdy man with a thin moustache wearing a gown of sunrise pink, a single feathery plume jigging atop an enormous wig of white, like a snowbank parked upon his head.

No wonder Nancy and Ada had had no quarrel with Pitch’s costume. It was more of a wonder they had not invited him onto the stage.

‘This music…’ Pitch was suddenly right beside him. Taking his hand. ‘Dance with me.’

At once Silas’s pulse was a runaway train. ‘What? Oh, I’m a terrible dancer I’m afraid.’ The marquess’s ball was testament to that.

‘But will you dance with me anyway?’