Chapter 2 #3
Ephraim, meanwhile, blinked several times before his gaze could take in anything beyond the gentleman’s sheer size.
Astonishing, yes, but beyond that a queer sort of thrill shivered up his spine and left his mind quite blank.
In a dim and distant sort of way he supposed that he ought to have known that a gentleman must be very tall indeed for Hull, who stood just over six foot himself, to describe him as such.
Unlike Hull, this gentleman was clean-shaven, and his raven-dark hair—worn long in a manner that hadn’t been fashionable since Ephraim was a lad but nonetheless drew his admiration—was drawn back into a queue.
His aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and formidable jawline would make fine inspiration for a sculptor of the Florentine tradition (Lofthouse would’ve known the particular name Ephraim wished to recall).
The tentative smile that graced the gentleman’s full lips belied his immense bulk and the evident strength behind it.
“Mr Grigsby, I presume?”
A simple and commonplace enquiry. However it was uttered in a voice that seemed to rumble forth from oceanic depths and reverberated through Ephraim’s breast-bone.
“At your service,” Ephraim replied far too late. “Mr Drude…?”
A bashful smile overtook the gentleman’s lips. “The very same. A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last.”
“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,” Ephraim blurted. Belatedly, he withdrew and held the door wide for his guest to enter. “Pray do come in.”
Due to his horns, Hull had developed a habit of bowing through doorways with a graceful bend of his waist in a single fluid stride. Ephraim had grown both accustomed to and fond of the gesture.
Drude performed a similar feat with equal poise, save that his height required him to bend almost in half to pass under the door-frame without striking his top hat.
Ephraim swallowed down his fluttering pulse once more.
Drude cast a curious gaze over the office, his dark eyes flicking from window to desk to hearth to door.
“Hull is upstairs,” Ephraim explained. “I’m afraid his injury has confined him there, else he would’ve come down to greet you himself.”
Drude accepted this with a nod. “We are quite alone?”
“Quite,” Ephraim assured him. “Just the three of us.” Something about that phrase sent another queer shiver through his veins. He discreetly cleared his throat again. “May I take your coat and hat?”
Drude blinked down at him. “Ah, of course—thank you.”
But rather than slipping his coat from his shoulders, his shrug provoked a shimmer over his whole frame, until almost everything Ephraim had beheld of him ‘til now dissolved and was remade anew in fae resplendence.
The eyes remained the same, as did the magnificent topography of his features.
The height was similar up to the crown of the head, whereupon the top hat had vanished and a pair of scarlet spiralling horns arose in its place to add an equivalent number of inches.
The hair and brows remained raven-dark whilst the complexion took on the shade of a deep and brilliant ruby.
The hands bore black claws, and where trousers had covered the legs there were now merely knee-breeches, as Hull oft wore, and crimson calves elegantly descending into heels, fetlocks, and raven-dark hooves.
A black-tufted scarlet tail idly swished behind.
Such a figure in a mortal frame would certainly suffice to catch Ephraim’s notice, suppress his instincts though he might.
As a fae with crimson flesh and spiralling horns and gleaming hooves and a tufted tail…
well. One might hardly fault Ephraim a second glance. Still, he endeavoured not to stare.
There was still a coat, though not quite the one Ephraim had perceived before. This one was a match for the knee-breeches in black wool trimmed with borders of tiny red and gold embroidered tulips along the hems.
Ephraim recollected himself and hastened to relieve his guest of this burden.
The figure beneath the coat proved no less impressive. Indeed, only moreso. For the lack of coat left the shirt-sleeves bare, and beneath the sheer linen rippled thick crimson shoulders and arms which Ephraim could not hope to encircle with both hands.
Ephraim tore his gaze away to hang up the coat.
“Please, follow me,” he bid his guest.
Drude bowed his assent.
Ephraim screwed his courage to the sticking-place and mounted the stair. Heavy hoof-beats resounded behind him, overpowering his own heartbeat in his ears.
“Thank you for coming,” Ephraim added over his shoulder as he led the way upwards. “And on such short notice, too. We are both immensely grateful for your assistance in this matter.”
Too analytical by half. Not expressing anywhere near what he truly felt. But the words were out, and he couldn’t very well snatch them back now.
Drude merely smiled and rumbled in reply, “I could hardly do otherwise.”
Of all the emotions Ephraim had anticipated he would feel upon Drude’s arrival, he had not counted upon relief.
The gentleman himself had made a splendid first impression, of course. His courtesy was impeccable and, moreover, had the even rarer quality of sincerity. This had allayed many of Ephraim’s fears.
Even Drude’s size, which at first glance had intimidated, now seemed a boon.
A gentleman of such immense stature and evident strength could carry Hull as easily as Hull carried Ephraim—just as Ephraim had fervently wished he could, when his Hull hobbled across the floorboards, and Ephraim yearned for the youthful vigour he’d never possessed, so that he might sweep Hull off his hooves and ferry him where’er he required.
The thought of Drude doing so in his place might have inspired envy.
Ephraim, however, found his heart fluttering at the thought.
What a sight that would prove to behold, by Jove.
Before any such flights of fancy could carry Ephraim further off, they arrived at the bedroom door.
Ephraim knocked; out of form, out of habit, out of decency, and even as he did so he knew himself foolish for it, for why should he knock when his lover (from whom he had parted scarce minutes before) lay on the other side and beside him stood his lover’s friend of five centuries?
Yet his knuckles had already rapped upon the wood, and he could only stand there with a shameful scarlet blooming across his cheeks whilst he awaited a reply.
“Enter,” said Hull, much to Ephraim’s relief despite the evident confusion in his tone.
Ephraim opened the door and stepped back to permit their guest entry.
For the briefest instant, all was silence as Hull and Drude’s eyes met. The sensation behind Ephraim’s sternum felt akin to when a clock one had forgotten about begins to chime. Grins broke out over both fae’s countenances without a word.
Two strides sufficed to carry Drude from the threshold to the bed-side.
Hull tipped his face up to meet the kiss Drude bent to bestow upon him.
This fae greeting between old friends was far warmer than any greeting between Ephraim and Dr Hitchingham.
Then again, things were done differently in the fae realms. And of course he and Dr Hitchingham had never known each other quite so intimately.
Still he felt a touch wistful that he has no such friendship of his own.
He had expected also to feel some small sorrow, or envy at the very least. Instead, as he gazed upon Hull’s sinewy forearms embracing Drude’s broad shoulders, he felt…
intrigued. Like Actaeon stumbling upon bathing Artemis, entranced, unable to tear his gaze away even though it meant his own certain demise.
Unlike Actaeon, Ephraim reminded himself, Drude was not an interloper, but a welcome guest.
Belatedly he recollected himself, crossed the threshold, and shut the door behind him.
“Your letter had me worried,” Drude rumbled when they broke off for breath.
“How?” Hull laughed. “I told you I was all right.”
“I know what disregard you have for your own danger,” Drude replied. Then, to Ephraim’s further alarm, he turned to where he still haunted the doorway. “And I daresay your Ephraim might agree with me.”
“Quite,” Ephraim felt forced to admit. He had some small relief in finding an ally in this regard. Between Drude and himself, Hull would have a deuce of a time trying to dodge medical attention.
Hull had worn night-shirts and a dressing gown for the bulk of his convalescence; at present, sitting up in bed, he wore merely his night-shirt.
Its sheer linen clung to his limbs and gave a gauzy glow to the blue-grey flesh beneath, which Ephraim would’ve appreciated far more if the circumstances weren’t so dire.
At present, Hull demonstrated the utility of the night-shirt by swiftly and seamlessly drawing it up over his head and tossing it aside, baring his body to Drude’s affection and evident admiration.
Drude required no further prompting to follow suit. Breeches, waistcoat, and shirt vanished with astonishing rapidity—all nonetheless folded and laid aside atop the linen chest with remarkable care.
Ephraim was torn between trying not to stare and reminding himself that (in this particular instance) it would be far more strange for him not to look.
Even amidst this struggle he couldn’t help noting that, unlike Hull, Drude’s back was not hollow, but was instead thick with rippling brawn betwixt his broad shoulders.
To say nothing of a certain attribute of remarkable length and girth lower down on his anatomy.
To think that this was the calibre of lover that Hull had left behind to be with Ephraim in Staple Inn…
The realization was staggering, to say the least. Unfathomable.
Ephraim felt more grateful and more bewildered than ever before at what Hull could possibly see in his frail mortal frame.