Chapter 21 #2
Ezra didn’t realize how much he’d been hoping to see Celia at the Winter Palace—until he did a sweep of its Grand Dining Room.
There were several young women there with dark hair, but none as blunt as hers.
They laughed softly, dabbing their mouths with cloth napkins, their gowns sparkling almost as much as the overhead chandeliers.
They carried on conversations in French and English about all the curiosities they’d seen on the day’s excursions.
They guzzled wine and carved up lamb that cost more than a street vendor’s weekly wage.
Hugo and Everett were also absent, though not quite as conspicuously.
If Ezra squinted, the dozens of tuxedos in the room all blended together.
Black and white and oh so British. Much like the suits that the tailor on Savile Row must be sewing for him now…
“I’m sure she’s up in my room.” Biz touched his arm gently.
“Am I that obvious?”
“Two eyes and a heart. Remember?” His sister gave a rue-filled smile. “Try not to play poker, Ezra. It wouldn’t end well for you.”
“You don’t—you don’t think less of me?”
“Less?” She blinked, and her smile went quiet. “How could more love make a person less?”
This stole all the wind out of Ezra’s lungs.
Even his heart fell still.
“I just hope that, one day, my life can be as large as yours,” Biz went on, through the clatter of teaspoons and excavation gossip. “Where I could choose love instead of… well, survival, I suppose.”
“You would survive without Thornhill, Bitty,” Ezra said softly. “I did.”
His sister bit her lip as they walked past the diners, and made their way to their rooms. The girls’ chambers were undisturbed—their trunks unopened. Beds neatly made. Celia hadn’t come back here. She didn’t have to… None of the clothes were hers.
She was gone.
She’d taken Ezra’s treasures and disappeared.
For good.
How could more love make a person less?
Ezra almost had an answer to this question: He felt oddly hollow as he returned to the room he shared with Vincent across the hall.
He hadn’t realized, until now, how much Celia’s presence had meant.
Her glittering star headband, her bacon and eggs, her jaunty grin as she robbed the Order of British Magicians blind…
the way she’d held the thorny stem out to him with such faith.
Not to mention her own shadow, blending so seamlessly with his.
Ezra hadn’t let someone so close since… well, since—
“Prepare to be spit upon!” The door to their room swung open and Vincent sauntered in.
“I told the concierge that we want to go camping in the Valley of the Kings tonight—and he’s arranged for more camels.
Heaven help us. Have you packed the Webley?
Not for the dromedaries, of course. I’d just feel safer if our party had a gun. ”
The pistol was stuffed deep in Ezra’s steamer trunk. If he’d had the time, he would’ve thrown it in the Nile altogether. “Even after what happened with Biz?”
“She’s fine,” Vincent said as he swayed closer to Ezra.
Thanks to the early-afternoon sun, his shadow moved like velvet across the rug.
“In fact, we’ve all emerged unscathed. What a relief!
All that tiptoeing around the truth was murder on my metaphorical toes.
I now have a new appreciation for ballerinas. ”
“Ballerinas?” Ezra let out a laugh.
“I’m babbling, aren’t I? I do that, when I’m nervous…”
Both of Ezra’s eyebrows rose at this. Nervous was not a word one used to describe Vincent Cain.
He was the pulse of every room he entered, the center of every conversation.
Librarians let him return damaged books without comment.
Professors answered their own questions if he stared long enough.
Young women—and men—circled him at every party.
Or rather, as Biz put it: orbited. Vincent was gravity, a force of nature. Why in the world would he be nervous?
But then Vincent took a step closer.
The briefest hint of stubble glinted gold on the young man’s jaw. Ezra took a sharp breath—and was met with a scent he’d come to associate with books. Not quite aging leather and ink, but warm all the same.
“I want to kiss you, Ezra Bright.”
Sunlight scattered across Vincent’s lips, his warm lips, and Ezra could feel himself melting.
Maybe it was the way Vincent cupped the unscarred spot on his palm, as if he knew just how tender Ezra was there.
A second hand cupped Ezra’s cheek, and instead of holding it all together, he could just allow himself to be the one held.
Not snatched up or taken to some faraway place against his will. Just loved.
Kissing Vincent Cain was easy.
It was a thousand gilded leaves and steaming cups of tea.
It was laughter through the library stacks and knowing winks during midterm exams and celebratory pints at the Eagle and Child.
They’d studied myths together, and then conspired to make their own, to love fiercely enough that one day someone might write about it.
Not a cautionary tale, like Icarus, but oh, how Ezra finally felt as if he was flying.
If his uncle had caught the sun, then he could catch this…
He threaded his fingers through Vincent’s golden hair and drew the other man closer.