CHAPTER 2
Ashroud of fog skirted the three-story house my grandad had converted into Shearwater Spa.
I’d hoped the wake would be held at a pub or the local community center, but I could never be so lucky. The Victorian manor’s steeply pointed lintels and roof ridge decorations gave the impression of teeth, the paired windows like many sets of eyes. Its door was newly painted sage green.
“It used to be cardamon,” I said as I parked Lunaris in the farthest bay available, halfway in a hedge.
She unbuckled my seat belt for me in quiet encouragement.
I got out. The rain had inconveniently stopped, so I could hear the spring. Its trickling waters dripped into my ears. A poisonous sound. I hurried inside after a couple of mourners.
The large sitting rooms of the main level had been converted into dining areas for patrons staying the night, and now featured buffet tables laden with crudites and finger sandwiches. Seeing no one I recognized, I went there to gather a plate just to give my hands something to do.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
I jumped, turning to find Fae behind me. “You may be the only one who feels that way. Mum wanted to strangle me.”
“That’s not true. Well, not entirely. It’s just … hard, you know? No one’s fault, just hard.”
Mum definitely viewed it as my fault. I shrugged it off rather than argue. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine. Did you get my letter? I’m going by Fae now. Trying they/them pronouns on for size.”
It had been welcome news when I’d heard. Having another queer family member hadn’t been on my bingo card. “I did get that one. I’m happy for you.”
A frown line appeared between their brows. “You could reply to my letters from time to time, you know?”
I happened to take a bite of a finger sandwich. It had gone soggy, and the texture made me gag. The look of disgust made Fae wince. “Or not.”
Before I could find the words to explain, the man with the osprey from earlier leaned in. “Taliesin Ashborne, I was hoping I could have a word.”
Fae’s expression darkened at the sight of him. “I was just going,” they said, but leaned in to whisper in my ear as they passed. “Find me later? There’s something else I need to tell you.”
I nodded. The man fed a piece of smoked salmon to his osprey familiar. The sound of fish sliding wetly down its gullet made my gorge rise. I gently set my tray of mostly uneaten crudites aside. “Do I know you?”
“No, unfortunately not. You were young when you left Shearwater, so we weren’t acquainted. I’m Westley Warwick. I knew your grandfather quite well, you see. We were business partners.”
I didn’t know my grandfather had any business partners. I recalled him running himself ragged to run the spa on his own. It had not been fruitful back then, the magic all but gone, and with it the tourism keeping our lives afloat.
As if Warwick could read my thoughts, he said, “Yes, it wasn’t much of a business back then, but we did restore it to its former glory, as I’m sure you’ve heard. I wondered if you had any interest in returning more permanently.”
I narrowed my eyes. Westley Warwick wore a tailored suit and a watch valued higher than everything I owned. He did not so much ask questions as make open-ended statements for me to fill. The conversation made me feel like a fish herded into the shallows by a sea lion.
“No. I’m only here for the funeral.”
“Oh, well, I’m very sorry to hear that. It would be good to have you back, particularly after the loss of Edwin. Shearwater will need another Keeper.”
I frowned, about to open my mouth and ask what he meant by that, but he continued, “All the same, I hope you’ll pay me a visit before you go.
” He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and retrieved a business card, matte black with his name in gloss so you could only read it when it was turned to the light.
On the reverse were his contact details.
“Give me a call,” he said, then turned to mingle with the crowd.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only shark in the waters of this wake.
Gossiping Anne-Marie from down the road interrogated me about my life, then dragged in my uncle Pat, who was not actually my uncle by blood, but a longtime friend of my mum’s we’d forever known as an uncle.
He asked if I had a girlfriend. I’d been out of the closet since I was thirteen.
When they’d done with me, other residents of Shearwater took their place, all of them following a similar refrain.
“Still living out of your caravan?”
“Lunaris is still with me, yeah.”
“What are you doing for a living these days?”
“I’m a ceramic artist.”
“Oh … any money in that?”
“I’ve not starved yet.”
“What’s that on your face?”
“My mustache?”
Some comments were made in jest. Others hid passive-aggressive barbs I tried not to notice, but you only needed the barest touch for a nettle to sting, and I found myself sore and seeking out the bar sooner rather than later.
I pushed spilled salt around with my index finger, making a perfect ring while I waited for the barman to notice me.
Someone else did first. A voice at my ear said, “If I can guess your preferred drink, will you let me buy you one?”
I looked up. The man who’d spoken looked like he’d been assembled in a craft store, or by a fanciful teenage girl with good taste. I realized if I’d said that out loud, it would sound like an insult, though I’d meant it positively.
He had hair down to his waist in a thick plait, dyed gradient shades of blue to match his eyes, and a spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks like stardust. Some sparkling makeup, perhaps.
Though he’d dressed in dark colors for the funeral like everyone, his braces were embroidered with tiny flowers, a colorful reprieve in a dark cloud.
I’d learned over many years alone to take company where I could, but he was so beautiful I blushed. “You don’t have to guess right.”
“But the game’s the fun bit.”
“Not the only fun bit, I hope.”
He laughed, loud and without self-consciousness. “That should have been my line. Stop distracting me. Gin and tonic?”
I winced.
“Damn. All right. Whiskey sour?”
I tilted my head from side to side. “Close. I wouldn’t say no.”
“Surely you’re not a whiskey-on-the-rocks man?”
“Afraid so.”
“Well, three guesses isn’t bad. Oi, Travis! Whiskey on the rocks and a gin and tonic over here.”
I accepted, heart skipping. “Sorry for insulting your drink.”
“So long as your taste in men is better than your taste in booze.”
It might have been poor form to hit on a man at my grandfather’s wake, but it had been a long, anxious day of reintegrating myself with the estranged family I likely wouldn’t see again until the next funeral, and the relief of finding someone with whom conversation flowed easily was too great to check myself.
“I have a type. Blue hair. Five three. Cheeky grin.”
He bit his lip and leaned in close. “I’m Kessian.”
“Tal.”
He tilted his head. “Tal … Tal. Have we met before?”
He felt familiar, like someone I’d known longer than ten minutes, but— “No. I’d remember you.” I hoped the deflection might hint to him that I’d rather not talk about my relation to the deceased.
Kessian seemed to understand. He smiled. It was a secretive thing, dimpled on the right and not the left. He tipped his glass against my own after the barman handed them to us. “Charmer. Cheers.”
I asked about his work. He told me he’d been with the Shearwater Spa for a few years.
That explained his presence at the wake; I wondered how well he’d known Grandad.
When he asked about my own work, I got carried away describing the newest mug I’d made, how I’d been experimenting with glazes and got one that reminded me of the aurora, how I’d enchanted it to keep your drink at the perfect temperature.
“And now I’m trying to design a teapot to do the same thing, but I’m not so sure about the proportions yet, and—” Mid-sentence, I stopped short.
I’d been rambling. Something I was unfortunately prone to, and which I’d learned most people found obnoxious, boring, or both.
“And none of this is probably very interesting.”
Kessian had been leaning on the bar, sucking on the orange slice that garnished his gin and tonic. He said, “Incorrect. The sexiest thing a man can do is yap passionately about his eclectic, hyper-specific interests. Join me outside for a smoke?”
My blissful little bubble popped. I’d really wanted to kiss Kessian just now, but the smell of smoke would invariably put me off. Certain sensory experiences always did. “I don’t smoke.”
“Join me anyway?” Kessian said.
Good company was still good company. I’d sate my loneliness where I could. We might just have to forgo kissing …
I slid off my stool, and he gave the crowd of mourners a once-over before sneaking out the back door.
It was too cold to use the patio and gardens, so none of the furniture had been set out, and nobody else was there.
Instead of reaching into his pocket for a pack of smokes, Kessian grabbed me by my belt loops, dragged me out of sight of the pub windows, and kissed me.