Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
In the morning, it seems a fading dream, like all the others that come with the thought of Ky’s body against his.
Over breakfast, Ky only smiles as Ethram pours tea for them both and tells him that Dean Parl over the other end of the road had a tree come down earlier in the year, and he’s told Ky that Ky can take as much firewood as he wishes as long as splits it himself.
It is so perfectly mundane. Ethram can only nod.
When Ky returns for lunch, he’s sun-warm, a sweat-sheen on his skin and darkening his shirt.
He comes back from the washroom wet to the shoulders, like he’s dumped water over his head.
There is no chance this man is anything but flesh and blood today.
There are no hints of claws or moonlight, no air of ancient mystery.
Just sweat and a ruddy flush to his pale cheeks.
“I’ll collect the wood tomorrow,” Ky says, leaning in the parlour doorway. He looks pleased with himself. “There’s enough to stock us for the winter.”
Ethram stares at his page. Us for the winter. Then he notices the mess of Ky’s hair and sighs.
“Gods,” he says. “If you will not cut it, then keep it tidy.”
Ky gives him a suffering look. “Yes, dear,” he says, pushing off the doorframe. “I’ve set out lunch, so peel yourself off your books.”
He does, but he’s distracted by another thought. He stops by the bedroom on his way to the kitchen. There’s something at the bottom of his wardrobe that has been there for far too long.
Ky flinches when Ethram’s hands brush his neck from behind, gathering up his hair.
It’s an odd reaction, but Ethram doesn’t worry over it.
He combs his fingers through the already-almost-dry locks, marvelling at how the pale gold slips over his skin.
If he’s honest, he’s wanted to get his hands in it for weeks now.
He twists his handful deftly, then catches all the hair up with the oak clasp.
“There,” he says. “Now it’s neat.”
He sits down to eat, but from the corner of his eye, he can see Ky’s smile. The way he watches Ethram eat. Yes, dear. It had been a suffering retort. It hadn’t felt wrong.
Ethram doesn’t wish to think on it a moment longer, so he does not.
When he gets back from the market the next day, artemisia seeds triumphantly in his basket, there is a sofa in the parlour. He stares at it.
“Ada Leighton said I could have it in exchange for fixing her jammed door, since she no longer wanted it,” says Ky, from his spot in the armchair. “It seemed a fair trade.”
It is a handsome piece, with striped ticking in pale green, and it makes a comfortable place to stretch out in the evenings.
Then comes the second armchair. New curtains, sewn by Ada’s wife in return for Ky’s help in moving the crates in their attic.
There are fresh, plump pillows on the bed.
Delicately scented soaps in the washroom.
The long summer days give Ky too much time to easily fill, but he manages it somehow.
Ethram’s boots are polished. His shirts are mended.
His shaving knife sharpened. And through it all, the garden grows dense and verdant.
Ethram, on the other hand, grows steadily more irate and more prickly. It is the heat, and it’s the pressure once more mounting in the house around him. Ky does not seem to notice or mind when Ethram’s tongue gets sharp, and it is often sharp.
He goes to the Gardens to bathe, and comes back to the darkening of Ky’s gaze, the way his eyes drop to Ethram’s neck. The springs do not give so much relief anymore. How can they, when he suspects he knows the truth?
He can no longer deny the springs feel like Ky’s own aura.
When Ky heats the bathwater, there is a lingering scent of tea and moss, just like in the Gardens.
It is so obvious that he wonders sometimes if he should shove Ky in a carriage and take him home.
The place he belongs. Surely it is the place he should be.
Perhaps he might even fix the failing springs, bring the Gardens’ magic back to life the way he has brought Ethram’s cottage back to life.
But Ethram does not want Ky to leave. He wants to wake every day with Ky in the bed beside him. He wants to watch the garden grow. He wants Ky to plant crabapple trees by the door.
Ethram never intended to fall in love. He can hardly believe it now that it has happened. What sort of fool falls for something so very far from his reach?
It’s hard to remember that, though, when Ky comes in with hands dark with garden dirt, the first harvest in his arms. When he finishes knitting a jumper in pale blue and pulls it over Ethram’s head.
When sometimes, on the nights when Ethram can’t quiet his thoughts enough to sleep, Ky rolls over and tucks him half underneath him, smothering him into the mattress.
It’s too warm, and too heavy, and it’s the only thing that gets him to sleep.
Ky never initiates more, though. No matter the promises he catches in Ky’s gaze, there is never anything more. Ethram offers nothing either, because he knows he can survive losing Ky, as it is. But if he lets himself have more, he does not think the loss would be something he could easily weather.
When the summer is over, he tells himself. He’ll find Ky his name when summer is over. After that, well. Who can say?
“Ethram,” says Ky, as if he’s been saying it for a while. He’s standing over him, and he’s holding the book Ethram had been reading.
Ethram looks at his empty hands. He hadn’t even noticed it had been taken. “What is it?”
“A letter for you.”
Ethram gets up, stretches the ache from his back before taking it.
“From Sabine,” he says, and cracks it open.
It is nothing more than a social invitation to a summer dinner at the Gardens.
Her offer is still there, too. Are you still being taken care of?
He can imagine the teasing cast of her mouth as she wrote it.
He is considering whether he should go when Ky tugs the letter free and reads it too.
“Casca,” he says, and it’s a low sound, but not in any pleasant way. “Your woman at the Gardens?”
Ethram laughs. “She is not anything except my friend.” He tugs the letter back. Ky does not relinquish it. The paper tears.
There is no levity on Ky’s face.
“Ky,” says Ethram, weary. “What is this?”
“Do you not know? Do I have to lay it out for you like one of your books?”
Ethram realises, with a strange and sudden sharpness, that he is not the only one to have been frustrated.
Ky’s fingers wrap around the back of Ethram’s neck, firm and implacable, and Ethram goes still all over. The press of aether into his skin is skating the edge of pain, but then it fades again, pulled back. The strength of Ky’s grip increases.
“Ky,” says Ethram, and it comes out as a whisper.
Ky tugs Ethram’s head back. Strong fingers, pushing up into Ethram’s hair, taking it in his fist. A shiver crawls down Ethram’s spine. His thoughts have gone dull-edged. He’s staring at Ky’s mouth, and the twist of Ky’s smile betrays he knows it.
“You can have me,” says Ky. “Do you not want me?”
Of course he wants him. Of course he’s been wanting him. For days. Weeks. From the first moment he’d realised that coming home now meant coming home to Ky. He’ll keep on wanting him, too. For days. Weeks. He can’t imagine this hunger ever fading. If he indulges it, it will consume him.
“How can I have you?” he says. “You are not something I can have.”
“Try,” Ky whispers, leaning down.
His lips are a gentle press at Ethram’s mouth, a promise of the sweet taste of rain before a storm, and then Ethram is wrenching himself away. His hair pulls at his scalp, and Ky lets him go.
“No,” says Ethram, his frustration as sharp as anger. “I am what I am. You are what you are. You will not stay with me. I do not want you if I cannot have you.”
It’s true, is the thing. Ethram knows it, and Ky knows it too, because he shuts his eyes and tips his face away. That’s what he does when he doesn’t want to admit that Ethram is right.
His pulse is pounding in his ears. He feels like he’s in a squall and all sense of direction is gone. “This is enough,” he says. “No more, Ky. You don’t get to have me and leave me.”
When he looks back at him, Ky’s face is as far from gentle as Ethram has seen it since winter. “I would let you have me.”
“You cannot even remember all that you are. How can you give it? And even if you remembered, you would not give it to the likes of me.”
Ky’s expression fractures. There is a slip, a moment of silver-storm and dark teeth and moonlit eyes, and then he’s only Ky again, weary and resigned.
“Well,” he says, turning away. “If that is what you think.”