Page 6 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

‘If you wish to be beaten with it, certainly.’

‘You are likely stiff for having been immobile so long. All the more reason a walk is just what you need.’ Silas was determined to get at least one daemonic foot outside, even though his ears might bleed soon from so much complaining.

He opened the door, and a jolly little tune played itself to him as Silas’s newfound musicality returned. Quirky, spirited notes revealed the supernatural nature of the chap he had been hoping to find outside his door.

Elemental. Earth.

Gilmore, grumpy and very gruff but marvellous in the kitchen, stood with balled hands on his hips, glaring up at them both. His peaked cap of berry red was quite fetching, setting off the pale colouring of his hair nicely.

‘Perfect timing,’ Silas said. ‘Have you brought the tarts, Gilmore?’

‘You’re about to put ya giant foot in them.’ The gnome jerked his chin. Silas peered down to find a small wicker basket on the doormat.

‘Thank you ever so much.’ Silas swept up the basket and stepped out onto the porch, making room for the prince to join him.

‘Gods, gnome,’ Pitch said. ‘What’s on your head? Did someone drop a tub of strawberry jam on you?’

Gilmore snatched his cap away, revealing a head of pale hair that looked like it had never put a strand out of place in its life. His deep-set eyes were filled with a quiet contempt.

Silas was not so happy himself as he turned to the daemon. ‘Really? You are going to be churlish with the gentleman who has just made you his strawberry tarts, which I recall you saying once were without equal?’

Pitch had the decency to look admonished. ‘Fine.’ He waved an airy hand. ‘Thank you, gnome. Much obliged. But that doesn’t change the fact that your cap looks foolish.’

‘Not as damn foolish as your face,’ Gilmore retorted. ‘Pity you didn’t turn yourself inside out with all that gagging.’

‘Even wearing my own entrails for jewellery I’d still be more pleasant to look upon than you.’

‘Christ.’ Silas picked up the basket, in no mood for the pair of them. ‘I’m going to go for a walk, and I’m taking these. If you want to come along, Pitch, do. If not, I truly do not care. You can stay here and trade juvenile insults.’ He tipped his head at the gnome. ‘Thank you for these, Gilmore. I appreciate your haste with preparing them. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

‘Afternoon, Mr Mercer.’ Gilmore smirked, casting a snide glance towards Pitch. ‘Guess even your ankou has his limits with you, then.’

‘I’m not his bloody ankou,’ Silas muttered.

He strode away and followed his nose towards the dank, heavenly scent of the graveyard that was drifting in on the easterly breeze. A place where he might find some momentary peace. Pitch’s issues with the Gu were resolved, but that was not to say all worries were extinguished. Far from it. Charlie’s whereabouts plagued Silas. He’d not slept well in days and was at times empty-headed with fatigue.

Lost in his thoughts, Silas was almost across the green before he realised how quickly he was walking. Far too brisk a pace if Pitch had followed.

Which, to his surprise, he had. He lumbered along in an awkward jog that fell to a casual walk the moment Silas turned to look.

‘What?’ Pitch said. ‘You are holding the tarts for ransom. I shall have to endure your company.’

Silas kept the smile from his face until he turned about and the daemon could not see.

#

The late-afternoon air was more bracing than Silas expected. As they sauntered into the garden, his nose was dripping and his ungloved hands ached from the cold. But there was pleasing colour in Pitch’s cheeks, especially since he’d eaten several of Gilmore’s tarts. Edward’s watch had been left behind, resting alongside the bandalore in the jewellery box on the mantel, so he was not plagued by that discomfort at least.

But that did not seem to have made him any more congenial.

‘I understand your obsession for being outdoors now,’ the prince declared, licking at his pastry-flecked fingers. ‘We are surrounded by dead things. You must feel right at home.’

‘Well, it may appear all is dead, but it’s not the case. Look here. These little buds on the shrubbery here? This is a Christmas rose. This will be a blanket of white before long.’

‘Yes, because it will be damned well snowing. Gods, snow is tiresome.’

As though the garden were offended, Pitch tripped upon an exposed root. He would have gone flying if not for Silas’s quick, steadying hand.

‘I’m quite all right. No need for that.’ Pitch adjusted his velvet tailcoat, despite the rich purple fabric sitting perfectly well. ‘Pass me another tart, will you?’