Page 46 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

They travelled on awhile before they passed beyond the borders of the Sanctuary. Bess had spread their haven wide.

The departure from that haven was extraordinarily subtle. Or it would have been if Pitch were not scrutinising every tiny sensation, searching for a sign he was not so deadened inside as he felt. He knew precisely when they stepped beyond Old Bess’s borders by the gentle tug at his senses, the slight pressure against his eardrums.

Though they could not see it for the fog, the breadth of England lay ahead. Seraphiel’s Sanctuary lay hidden in its curves and folds somewhere. Blood Lake too. Pitch sank into his seat, hunched further under his cape. He felt himself an emptied container, dulled at the edges. Gods, what fool’s journey was this? He was exposed now in a way he’d not dealt with before. In turn, so were all those around him. Pitch’s heart betrayed him with a foolish, hurried thud.

He did not know he was clutching at Silas’s greatcoat until the ankou touched him.

‘Hey now, one mile at a time.’ Silas rubbed his hand. ‘Remember to take a breath.’

Pitch glowered. ‘I am taking a bloody…’ He exhaled, his lungs rushing to expel the air he’d held too long.

‘There you go. Well done.’ How did Silas manage to say such things without sounding like a condescending prick?

Pitch released his hold on the dull greatcoat. Stiff and the colour of pea soup, it covered over the royal-blue of the Inverness and would keep the ankou dry should Matilda see a need to piss upon them. His presentation of the new coat to Silas had not been pretty. He’d practically thrown the Inverness at the man and yelled at him to gather their belongings. But he’d not been so blindsided by Ronin’s horrid demise that he did not notice how Silas’s eyes glistened as he stared at the blue tangle in his arms, caressing a cuff as though Pitch had just presented him with their newborn son and not a piece of clothing.

Silas pushed the horses into a trot. Pitch leaned into the ankou as the horses drew them on, from one Sanctuary to another, and tried very hard to ignore how cold he was.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

FOR SOMEtime now the grumble of far distant thunder off to the west had bothered Silas. It announced itself again now, but thanks to a copse of trees and Matilda’s gloomy, drizzling fog, there was small chance of observing the storm. He shrugged his shoulders, seeking to shift the weight of his unease. The weather was as unsettled as he. The dread that had accompanied him since the Fulbourn anchored deeper with every mile.

He turned his attention back to the road ahead, fighting the urge to set the horses into a gallop, run them all the way to this blasted Sanctuary. Move Pitch to the safety it might offer.

He blinked, his eyelashes damp.

These steeds were not Lalassu and Sanu. He’d be sending them to an early grave, and likely before they even reached the Sanctuary. Bloody hell, he missed his pale horse. It had been far too long without her. Every moment passed in Lalassu’s absence gave him greater cause for concern as he imagined what she encountered in a landscape run riot by the Blight.

The carriage moved on at a sure but reasonable pace, through a day tart with winter’s touch. There was no breeze save for the one made by the carriage’s movement, but more importantly, there was an absence of heavy rain. Matilda, wherever she lurked, deigned to keep them relatively dry.

Silas flexed his hand where it rested on Pitch’s thigh, his fingertips near numb from the cold. He wasn’t certain if Pitch slept but he’d been silent a long while.

Another half hour passed before the prince shifted against him, raising a slender hand to tug at his hood and tilt it down further over his face.

‘Do you need another blanket?’ Silas asked.

‘No’ came the sullen reply.

Silas pressed no further, though he heard the lie. And he felt it. Pitch shivered every now and then, sniffing with a nose that ran with the chill.

Seraphiel, blast him to all hells, had been heavy-handed with this seal of his. And at a time like this. The angel had essentially gagged and bound the very power he’d created. Why?

Silas inhaled and blew a breath between his lips. The familiar white of winter’s speech billowed in the frigid air. He touched at the hint of a black cuff that peeked from beneath his more rigid greatcoat. Pitch’s secretive arrangement of a new coat, a replica of Silas’s Inverness, had caught him utterly by surprise. Turned him speechless, really. He wasn’t even sure he had thanked him. He’d been unable to do anything but stare like a fool and fight back tears. The gift was superlative, thoughtful, and if he made too much of a fuss of it, the prince was likely to rip it up in front of him.

So far the road had been devoid of other travellers. Silas had spied some far-away farmers tending flocks, and at one point noted a party of riders off in the distance, travelling a parallel road. No sooner was Silas thinking how pleasant the ride was and the clatter and whine of an approaching wagon pockmarked the air.

The wagon thundered over a low rise, drawn by four large workhorses at a trot that looked set to spill into a canter at any moment. Their driver appeared to be a great pile of brown cloth, with very little sign of the man who sat beneath the layers, reminding Silas of Isaac, the Village’s miserable coachman. The driver whistled sharply at his horses and shouted at them to move along. His barked orders echoed across the sparse landscape.

‘Bloody hell,’ Silas muttered, taking his hand from Pitch’s thigh.

He guided his pair towards the edge of the road. There was likely space enough to pass one another if they moved cautiously. Something the other driver seemed intent onnotdoing.

The wagon was laden with wooden barrels, empty judging by the manic tempo with which they knocked against one another.

‘Is this chap going to slow down?’ Silas asked.

Pitch’s weight shifted. ‘Hold our horses steady where they are. It will be fine.’

‘Fine? He’s in the middle of the bloody road. There’s not enough room for us.’