Page 36 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

The room was gloriously warm and smelled like a pie shop. Bess was rolling out dough at the long table in the room’s centre, the front of his impractical blush-pink silk gown covered over with a garishly floral apron. Wearing a far more sensible set of trousers and a brown shirt, Charlie was over by the kitchener, stirring one of the blackened pots.

‘Get that door closed,’ Bess cried. ‘Blast it’s chilly out there.’ Either his entire face was smudged in baking flour, or he’d been too generous with his powder this morning. Two bright dots of rouge highlighted his cheeks. ‘Not exactly a fine morning for a walk. What were you two doing out there so long?’

‘As if you don’t know it all.’ Pitch headed straight for the black kitchener in its alcove of heat. Charlie was at one end with his pot, stirring a caramel-brown broth that smelled of mutton and cinnamon and cloves. Sharing the same heat plate was an enormous black kettle, steam beginning to hint from its spout.

Pitch busied himself with untying his laces, steadfastly refusing to look the lad in the eye. He did not feel good, being back in this house, the lieutenant and his angel nearby. Pitch’s earlier foul mood and violence were likely not forgotten either.

‘How are you feeling?’ Charlie asked quietly. And something about the gentle way he did so made Pitch rile with sudden, blazing anger. There was only so much care and concern a daemon could handle.

‘Fine. Very fine. Silas just fucked me to within an inch of my life, and told me he loved me, can you imagine? Have I not said from the start he is an idiot?’ He tossed his boots to nowhere in particular and thrust his hands towards the kitchener’s warmth.

It took a moment to realise the room was silent, save for the bubble of the pot and low hiss of the kettle. He looked up to find Charlie staring at him. By the table Bess was patting Silas’s arm with flour-smudged fingertips. The ankou’s head was lowered and his wet hair long enough now to conceal his face. For which Pitch was grateful.

He had just been an unforgivable bastard.

Charlie left his stirring to join the consolation party. To add insult to injury, he enveloped Silas in a hug and said very pointedly, ‘You are no fool, my friend. And he does not deserve you.’

Well, Pitch had never contested that. He counted the seconds, waiting for the ankou to say something, but it was Bess who spoke first.

‘That kettle is getting ready to scream, Charlie. Best get to it before it wakes Edward. He’s barely settled. He must be rested if he’s to leave today.’

‘Leave today?’ That was Silas.

Pitch’s mood scuttled deeper. He’d failed to mention the angel’s instructions to leave at once.

A terse situation was about to become even more so.

‘That is what Tobias said, you are to leave today. We have Sybilla at a gallop to return.’ Bess blew out a breath to shift a strand of grey hair hanging over his nose. ‘She’ll be here within the hour. I intend to send you off with some of this pie, and the broth shall be ready by then. You must have Edward eat some, however you can manage. He’s barely had a mouthful in the past week.’

Pitch felt Silas’s hard glare upon him. He shifted so he had his back to the ankou, pretending he was greatly interested in the jars of preserves and jams assembled on the sideboard.

He had no appetite for any.

‘Pitch, are we to leave today?’

He’d never heard Silas speak in such a sullen way. Pitch clenched his fingers around a cloth-covered jar of raspberry jam. He picked it up, simply because he had no idea what else to do.

‘We are. Did I not say?’

‘You did not.’

Pitch slipped the cloth free and jabbed his finger into the scarlet stickiness. Sugar may make him less of a foul creature, he supposed. ‘I thought I had.’

‘It must have slipped your mind.’

‘I was preoccupied, that is certain.’ Pitch sucked down a blob of seed-peppered jam. He was every bit the swimmer out of his depth now, as he’d been in the fucking pond. He owed Silas an apology, he absolutely did, but could not assemble any of the words in his mouth. He blamed the jam. And the damned audience.

‘Well, you know now,’ Old Bess said. ‘So best you both get yourselves cleaned up properly and start thinking about what to pack.’ Pitch had never wanted to kiss Old Bess so fiercely in his life. ‘Charlie has already started gathering a few things for the journey, blankets and the like. Edward will need to be kept warm when his fever finally breaks and you…’ He paused, so long that Pitch turned around to see to whom he referred. And damn it, it was him. ‘Make sure you pack long johns, plenty of wool shirts too. I had more than we need sent over. Nancy and Ada are feeling the draughts of this place, just as you.’ Wonderful, Pitch was placed in the same company as the purebreds. ‘I’ll come and help you when I’m done here.’

‘I don’t need a valet.’

‘You do when you have no idea what it is to be cold, Tobias.’

Bess did not bother to conceal his concern. No doubt he knew of Pitch’s performance in the pond and could see with his own eyes how desperate Pitch was to warm himself– the fire daemon with flames in his veins trembling with cold. But Pitch was only half listening now. Silas had moved to Charlie’s side, insisting on lifting the heavy black kettle despite the lad’s protests that he was quite able. The ankou took the hot metal over to the bench where a more delicate floral teapot was ready for the boiled water. How long until Charlie prattled on about Pitch trying to strangle Edward in a rage? Another detail he’d kept from Silas.

‘Tobias…’

He started at the name, realising it had been said several times already. Bess gave him a tight smile.