Page 47 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

There was no way possible the driver could not see the approaching carriage by now. Silas was going to be run off the road entirely at this rate. As it was, he was keeping a nervous eye on their wheels which ran closest to the soft edge. Silas reined the bays in further, slowing them nearly to a halt. But still the wagon thundered on.

Silas’s heart was in his mouth, a cry set to burst from him to warn the driver of their presence. Pitch laid his hand on Silas’s thigh.

‘Hold steady,’ he said.

At the very last, with Silas’s shout filling his throat, the wagon shifted over. Not much, granted, but enough that the likelihood of a head-on collision vanished.

‘Get on, get on with you!’ the driver shouted, slapping the reins against the straining horses.

Shires, all four, great splendours of horseflesh with lavish feathered feet and plaited tails. The wagon was calamitous as it passed by. The blinkered horses frothed at the mouths, their chests lathered. Their driver cast Silas and his carriage a disinterested glance, as though they were some dull part of the scenery unworthy of acknowledging. The dour-faced man cleared his throat so noisily it could be heard over his wheels. He spat into the narrow section of road between him and the carriage before whipping his unfortunate horses into a canter. Well laid as the road may be, the pace was reckless over such uneven terrain.

‘What a damned idiot.’ Silas guided the bays back towards the centre. ‘I swore he was going to run straight through us.’

‘I told you he wouldn’t,’ Pitch said from beneath the shelter of his hood. ‘The Valkyrie has marked the carriage with hexes to make us unremarkable. We are nothing but a flutter in the corner of the eye. That idiot saw enough to avoid us, but he will have forgotten seeing us within a few turns of the carriage wheels.’

Silas chewed back his annoyance. ‘I see. I wish Sybilla had seen fit to tell me that before I had major palpitations. I thought I’d die of fright.’

‘Fright will hardly kill a dead man, Silas.’ It was not said in jest; there was no hint of amusement in the tone.

Silas glanced at the prince, who simmered in his melancholy. ‘No, it will not, that’s true,’ he said carefully. ‘But I was worried nonetheless.’

‘As you so often are.’

Silas sighed inwardly, feeling the precipice of Pitch’s mood keenly, the daemon’s use of acerbic words to barricade himself. Perhaps Silas was unrealistic to assume the habits of four hundred years so easily altered, simply becausehedeclared his affections and proved himself a reasonable lover.

He reached to touch the prince. Pitch slid his hands beneath his cloak and lowered his head. All at once he seemed unacceptably fragile and lost.

‘You are cold.’ Silas threw caution to the wind, his concern overriding sense. ‘I can see it. You are very uncomfortable.’

‘Hardly an unfamiliar state for me.’

Silas licked his lips. It was like having a storm cloud sitting beside him. ‘No, and that is terribly unfair,’ he said. ‘But will you allow me to help you? Even if it is just with a silly blanket. You know I am here for you. I have prattled on about it often enough. Made a right tit of myself, I’m sure.’ He tried for brevity and hoped for at least a mild response. Pitch stayed still beneath his folds. ‘But it’s true…anything at all I can do–’

‘Oh, by all that is unholy, will you stop?’ There was a sound that might…just might…have been quickly deadened laughter. ‘My gods, man. You must learn to write, for you would be a wonder with a romantic novel.’

Silas delighted in what he hoped was a shift in daemonic mood. ‘Really? Do you think so?’

‘You shall be famed for all your sickly-sweet notions. I know your nom de plume already.’

The storm cloud beside him was lifting. Silas smiled. ‘And? What do you suggest I use?’

‘Written by a Silly Fop with a Splendid Cock.’

Blushing but quietly thrilled, Silas replied, ‘You think it splendid?’

A grunted laugh came from beneath the hood. ‘Your pillar does not displease me. Even if I am finding the cushion on this seat far too thin.’

Silas was quite sure his face was ember red, but the foolish nature of the conversation was wonderful. ‘Well, I am very glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘Not about the seat of course. We shall organise another cushion at once. But the literary world is quite safe. The silly fop with the splendid cock intends his whimsies for you alone, I’m afraid.’

He did not blame Pitch for groaning. His words were sickeningly sentimental, but what did he have to lose? The truth was out, and Silas had not expected how freeing it would be to admit to such an intimate thing as love.

‘Stop.’ Pitch’s hood shifted as he shook his head. ‘You are embarrassing yourself. Something is truly wrong with you.’

‘Oh, definitely.’ Silas nodded, most solemn. ‘I’m mad as a March hare when it comes to you. And a hare, not a rabbit, you will note.’

Really, he was acting quite insane. And did not care a whit. Why had he ever thought to hide his feelings, when they faced such peril? He of all people should know that endings were inevitable. Time was not unlimited.

Pitch’s laughter was sharp. He jabbed his elbow hard against Silas’s side. ‘Stop, I am quite serious. I honestly will push you off the carriage and leave you here if you don’t shut your trap.’