Page 8 of The Fulbourn: Pitch & Sickle

Silas’s ribs thrummed with his quickened heartbeat. ‘Well, ifyoudare saddle up Sanu and seek to ride off to handle things on your own, there will also be consequences.’ That had Pitch’s gaze lifting to him, and Silas hurried on so he would not do anything foolish, like kiss him. ‘I know you consider it. But if you try to run off without me, don’t think for a moment I will not hunt you down, pull you off your horse, and throw your royal arse over my knee because I…’ Bloody hell, where was he going with this? He busied himself with the flowers, wondering if there was a badger hole he could crawl into.

‘Do go on, tell me how you shall punish me.’ Pitch’s lips twitched. ‘Would you spank me? With your hand? Or with a paddle, perhaps?’

‘Stop it.’ Silas battled to stop the images that came to mind.

‘Tell me, I truly would like to know.’

‘I don’t…well, I’m not certain. I fear I’ve not given my threat true consideration.’ But bloody hell he was considering it now.

Pitch dissolved into a bright fit of laughter, the sound chasing away the ever-growing chill. Silas shook his head but struggled not to smile. He took another tart from the basket, the treat managing to still retain the oven’s warmth.

‘It’s really not that funny.’ Silas shoved the pastry at the prince. ‘Here, stick this in your mouth, and do shut up.’

Pitch did half of what he was told, biting into the tart but still chuckling. They continued their stroll, heading towards the gate that allowed a view of the graveyard. The heady waft was thickening with the darkening evening, brushing at Silas’s skin like fine cobwebs.

He breathed in deeply.

‘You truly relish the graves, don’t you?’ the daemon said around a pink mouthful.

‘I truly do.’ And he’d not apologise for it.

‘I’ve known men with stranger fetishes.’

‘I’m sure you have.’

The vines that had concealed the gate when he’d first discovered the exit were now trimmed to fall neatly around the archway. The ivy, an evergreen, was a pleasant dash of colour in the winter-sore garden. He stared out across the open space to where Highgate Cemetery lay, with its blocks and pillars of stone, its crypts and mausoleums. As much as the place called to him, soothed him, he did have some unwelcome memories of it.

Of the open grave that had swallowed him whole when he’d sought to evade the harpies.

Silas shivered, gooseflesh tracing his arms.

‘I told you you needed your jacket under that coat,’ Pitch said, scrutinising the piece of golden pastry he held.

‘I’m not cold. I’m just remembering the harpies.’

‘Here or the greensward? They can’t get enough of you it seems.’

‘Both, really.’

Pitch was in the mood for saying things out of the blue today. ‘I’m sorry I did not get to you sooner, Silas, when they had you in that greensward.’

‘What?’ The sincerity in the daemon’s voice pained him. ‘Pitch…honestly, you must not think –’

‘I’ll think what I want. And what I think is that I will not let them hurt you again that way. Now go and stare longingly at your graveyard and give me another damned tart.’

Silas would rather stare at other lovely things. He held out the basket. ‘Can I say then that I am sorry, too.’

‘You usually do –’

‘That I did not search harder for you that day.’

Pitch snatched at the basket. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You weren’t to know. You had no reason to think I was being anything other than the prick I am. I’m sure you just assumed I had abandoned you to take my pleasures elsewhere.’ He tried to take hold of the wicker handle, but Silas covered his hand, squeezing gently.

‘And because I was being petty and petulant, I let that assumption blind me. It was a mistake I shall always regret. And is not one I shall make again. I promise you.’

The basket was all that separated them. Pitch was watching him, gold hinting beneath the emerald in his eyes as though his flame stirred. The silence was thick with something indefinable. The daemon’s lips parted as though he were about to speak. He leaned forward, and Silas wondered if the kiss that had been so violently interrupted by Pitch’s illness was finally to be realised.

But the fading afternoon’s light glanced against beating wings, drawing Pitch’s attention.