Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Ethram has not slept beside another body since he was boarding in one of the student houses in the lower quarter of Esk. There, beds were shared easily and without trouble, and bodies shared just the same. He has not shared his bed since. He has not shared his body in almost as long.
He curls under the quilt and tries to ignore the presence at his back.
Ky is true to his word. He is a quiet sleeper, with nothing but the whisper of his breath stirring the air.
The shift of hair across linen. They are back to back, as such arrangements go.
The gap between them in the bed feels cavernous and cold, and also far, far too close.
Ky gives off as much heat as the slumbering bedroom hearth. Ethram’s bed has never been so warm, and it drags him into the darkness of sleep despite his tangled thoughts.
He wakes with his face pressed in the linen of Ky’s nightshirt, right between his shoulders. He’s curled into him, rolled tight and pressed into the warmth. He takes a startled breath, and then there is the scent of him, too, of dry rushes and winter rain.
He rolls away, heat rising up his neck. The bed is warm, soft with Ky’s strangely comforting scent, and Ethram really must insist Ky leave today.
He rehearses his eviction as he pads about his morning routine.
Wash, dress. Shave in a frigid bowl of water in the washroom with the cold creeping over his toes. Put the kettle on.
And then the routine breaks, because he sets out two mugs and cuts two slices of bread for toast.
By the time it is done, Ky has joined him in the kitchen. He sets out the butter and preserves as Ethram rescues the toast from the fire.
“The weather is good,” says Ky, as they eat. “I’ll fix your leaking window.”
Ethram is startled into staring. His refusal is heavy on his tongue. But the window needs fixing, and Ky certainly owes him something for his time here.
“There are some tools in the woodshed.”
“I know,” Ky says. He’s in his new clothes, and he must have torn a strip from his old trousers because he’s used it to tie his hair up in a knot at the base of his neck. It leaves his shoulders regretfully unobscured. “I’ll make do.”
Ethram sits at his desk to get some work done, but fails.
The sight of Ky, sleeves rolled up, setting about fixing the warped frame of the window with the deftness of a trained carpenter, proves too distracting.
Ethram gives up his referencing just to watch the way he eases the split wood free and replaces it with a fresh piece that he’s summoned from gods-know-where.
When he’s done, the leak is fixed, and the window smoothly opens when it just jammed before.
Ky swings it open from the outside, then leans through, palms against the sill.
“That was well done,” says Ethram, knowing he’s been caught staring.
“It was a simple task,” returns Ky. “Your gutter has come loose above. I’ll look at it.”
By the time Ethram is preparing an early supper, the gutter is attached, a loose path-stone has been secured, and the gate no longer dips to gouge into the soil every time it is opened. When he goes to tell Ky to come eat, Ky is giving a baleful stare to the tangle of dead brambles.
After dinner is done, and Ky has washed, it is too dark and too late for Ethram to send him off, and so he begrudgingly lets him stay the night. The next morning, Ethram wakes with his face in Ky’s shoulders, and over breakfast, Ky says that he intends to do the laundry.
Ethram hates the laundry enough that he doesn’t ask Ky to move on that day, either.
As Ky hauls all the linens out to the laundry, Ethram hides away in his parlour. He’s a practical man at heart, and when faced with a mystery, there is truly only one thing to do. Research.
He spends most of his money on books and so he has a lot of them.
And because he is rigid in his fixations, they’re all very relevant to his current situation.
Rituals, history, ancient myths, Esk history.
It’s easy to be lost in books. Easier even than getting lost in Esk’s dark archives, and he doesn’t realise the day has passed until there is a polite knock on the doorframe of the parlour.
Ky is leaning there, shirtsleeves pushed up his strong arms, his pale hair plaited over his shoulder. Ethram stares, because what else is there to do when faced with such a sight?
“The linens are in and folded. I’ve lit the hearth.”
“Oh,” Ethram manages. He tries to summon up some irritation at that. There is nothing in him but a soft sort of gratitude. Laundry done. Fire lit. Two chores he hates.
“Mm. Find anything in your books?”
Ethram focuses on his page again. “Well, I can be fairly sure you aren’t a thassalid, because you don’t smell of salt. Not a soul-eater, because I’m still alive. Not an astralyx, because you haven’t sent me mad with lust.”
Ky makes an inelegant snort of a laugh. “Was I supposed to have been trying?”
Ethram doesn’t grace that with an answer. “And if we’re ruling out stormbeasts—”
“We are.”
“—then no, I haven’t found anything.”
“Perhaps I am not in your books.”
Ethram closes the tome in his lap. It has Creatures of Myth: Central Isles across it in gold. “Perhaps you’re not in this book,” he allows. “I’ll find you yet.”
Ky smiles. “I’m sure you will.”