6. The Invitation
The Invitation
Miles
T he morning light filtering through the window of the Mourning Lark was gray, tepid, and uninspiring. It was the sort of light that suggested the sun had simply given up on Averdon and gone back to bed, an impulse Miles was currently fighting to suppress in his partner.
Miles stood fully dressed at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, glaring at the immobile mound of blankets that contained Gabriel.
“If you don’t emerge in the next thirty seconds,” Miles announced to the room at large, “I am leaving without you. And I will tell Genna that you are the sole reason for our tardiness.”
The mound shifted. A groan emitted from the depths, muffled and profoundly tragic. “Cruelty. Absolute cruelty. It’s barely dawn.”
“It is nine in the morning,” Miles countered, checking his pocket watch for the third time.
“I contacted Genna an hour ago. Do you know what Genna is like when the subject of her affinity with the dead is broached? She sounded like I’d personally insulted her ancestors via the Whisperstone.
If we aren’t at the manor gates within the hour, she will likely experiment with just how many poisonous herbs she can slip into a ‘preventative tonic’ before I notice. ”
A hand snaked out from the blankets, pale, elegant, and flapping dismissively. “Let her wait. She likes waiting. Gives her time to brood and look mysterious.”
“She hates waiting. Do you want to cancel? Neither of us is eager to go back to the house. We could reschedule for later. Any urgency to do this is ours.”
Silence. Then: “No. I don’t want to cancel.”
Miles stepped closer and seized the edge of the duvet. “Then up. ”
He yanked.
Gabriel curled tighter into a ball, wearing only a pair of slate-gray sleep pants and a scowl. “I hate you. I hate the dawn. I hate the concept of linear time.”
“You love me,” Miles corrected, grabbing Gabriel’s ankle and giving a gentle shake. “You tolerate the dawn because it illuminates your face. And you need linear time to ensure your moisturizer absorbs properly between layers.”
Gabriel kicked free of Miles’s grip and rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I am a lord now. I shouldn’t have to rise before noon. It’s in the bylaws. Palthor probably mentioned it in subsection C.”
“Palthor mentioned tax fraud and prison,” Miles said dryly. He tossed a pair of trousers onto the bed. “We have a haunted house to exorcise and a scary apothecary to appease. Move.”
Gabriel peeked out from under his arm, one blue-gray eye fixing Miles with a calculating stare. “I require motivation.”
Miles sighed, the sound escaping him before he could stop it. “We discussed this. The motivation is not being arrested.”
“Boring.” Gabriel sat up, his hair a chaotic, flaxen halo, every strand catching the gray light. He tapped his own lips. “Tax.”
Leaning down would be a tactical error, walking into a trap set by an apex predator of procrastination. He leaned down anyway. He kept it brief, a firm press of lips meant to energize, not seduce.
Gabriel hummed, unsatisfied, and tangled a hand into the hair at the nape of Miles’s neck, dragging him back down.
The second kiss was deeper, lazier, Gabriel’s tongue sweeping into Miles’s mouth with a languid heat that suggested they had hours to spare.
For a moment, the part of his mind that listed tasks and measured time went silent.
The anxieties about Genna, the looming specter of the Separation Decrees, the ambiguously haunted house.
..it all dissolved into the slide of Gabriel’s skin against his hands and the scent of warmth and sleep.
Miles pulled back with a gasp, his resolve fraying. “No. Absolutely not. That is a terrible strategy.”
Gabriel smirked, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Seemed effective from where I was sitting.”
“Up,” Miles ordered, stepping out of reach before he did something reckless like crawl back into bed. “Now. ”
“Fine.” Gabriel stretched, a long feline extension of limbs that made his spine crack. “But seeing as I am facing the terrors of my childhood before I’ve even had a pastry, I have demands.”
Miles sighed. “I’m listening, though I reserve the right to veto.”
“You deal with the paperwork. All of it. The name change, the inventory lists, the arguments with the constipated clerks. I don’t want to hold a pen unless it’s to sign an autograph.”
“Agreed,” Miles said instantly. He’d intended to do it anyway.
“And dinner,” Gabriel continued, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “A real dinner after what I’m sure will be another horrifying day. I want tablecloths. I want wine that costs more than our rent in Briarleigh. I want to eat something that I can’t pronounce.”
“Done. The Gilded Swann has a menu without prices listed. I’ll make a reservation.”
Gabriel stood, scratching his chest idly. “And finally...” He paused, tilting his head, a wicked glint in his eye. “You must admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“That I am the fairest of them all. That my beauty is the singular beacon of hope in this gray, miserable city, and that the sun itself rose today only because it was jealous of my radiance.”
Miles snorted. “You are ridiculous.”
“I am waiting.”
Gabriel stood there, half-naked and terrified of the day ahead, yet masking it with imperious vanity. He was defiant. He was alive. He was, objectively, stunning.
“Your radiance remains unchallenged by celestial bodies,” Miles recited, keeping his tone dry to mask the sincerity underneath. “You are the aesthetic peak of the nation. You are, indeed, the fairest of them all. Now, for the love of all the gods, put on some pants.”
Gabriel beamed, a genuine, dazzling thing that made the air catch in Miles’s lungs. “Flattery will get you everywhere, darling.”
Then, the whirlwind began.
Miles turned and checked his reflection in the pitted glass of their mirror, smoothing the lapels of his coat.
He’d chosen a deep charcoal wool coat for the walk.
It was respectable, understated, and tailored in the way Gabriel liked.
He carried his official Guild coat over his arm, ready to don it once they reached the dangers of the manor grounds.
A small compromise to please Gabriel. He adjusted his collar.
He frowned at a stubborn lock of brown hair that refused to stay in his half-bun.
He retied the leather thong. Behind him, Gabriel moved, a rustle of fabric, a quiet clink of something.
Miles gave up on his hair and checked his teeth. He adjusted the collar again.
He turned around, prepared to drag Gabriel physically toward the door.
Gabriel was ready.
It had been three minutes. Maybe four. And yet, Gabriel stood by the door, impeccable.
He wore slim black trousers tucked into knee-high boots that gleamed with fresh polish.
A tailored cream blouse with a neckline low enough to suggest scandal without confirming it, layered under a frock coat of deep burgundy brocade.
His hair, previously a bird’s nest, now cascaded in soft, deliberate waves around his face.
He smelled of citrus and expensive herbs.
Miles stared. He checked his own shoddy hairdo in the mirror, then turned back to gape at Gabriel.
“It is fundamentally unfair,” Miles complained, gesturing at Gabriel’s perfection. “I spent twenty minutes wrangling my hair and selecting a coat that you wouldn’t object to, and you... you defied physics.”
“It’s a gift,” Gabriel said, examining his fingernails. “Some of us are born with it. Others have to read books about it.”
“I adjusted my hair four times,” Miles muttered, checking his reflection again. He looked fine. He looked like a competent, rugged academic. He looked like a man who did the reading. But next to Gabriel, he felt like a piece of sturdy furniture standing next to a chandelier. “And you still look...”
“Yes?” Gabriel prompted, clearly fishing, extending an arm for Miles to take with a theatrical flourish of his wrist.
Miles took the arm, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fabric. “Better,” he admitted, knowing the admission would feed the monster. “You look better than I do, despite taking a tenth of the time. It defies all natural laws.”
The admission had the intended effect. Gabriel’s posture straightened, his chin lifted, and that genuinely delighted smile returned, the one that wasn’t a mask, the one that reached his eyes.
It was the armor he needed. If he felt beautiful, he felt powerful.
And if he felt powerful, maybe the ghosts of Rookgate wouldn’t be able to sink their claws in quite so deep .
“We need to hurry,” Miles said. “Genna waits for no man, pretty or otherwise.”
“Very well,” Gabriel said, letting Miles open the door for him. “Let’s go be fashionably—but not Genna-provokingly—late.”
The heavy oak door snagged on something before it could open more than a few inches. Miles frowned, looking down at the gap between the wood and the floorboards. A square of thick, creamy vellum had been wedged halfway under the threshold.
“What is it?” Gabriel stood behind him, peering at the envelope suspiciously.
Ah, well. Miles supposed envelopes had proven to be rather treacherous lately.
“Mail.” Miles stooped to retrieve it. The paper felt heavy, expensive, the kind with a high rag content that cost more per sheet than a decent meal in The Bent. “Though who besides Genna knows we are currently residing at the Lark and why they didn’t knock is a mystery I would like to solve.”
He flipped the envelope over. The calligraphy was impeccable. Lord Gabriel Goldmar of Rookgate.
A hand snatched the letter from his grasp before he could even register the movement. Gabriel stared at the address. His face went pale as parchment, only to flush with a sudden, violent heat.
“Goldmar,” Gabriel hissed. The word sounded like a profanity. “Lord Gabriel Goldmar.”
“Gabe—”