Chapter 14 #4
The rain had started to ease slightly, but as they headed back with the heavy cage hanging between them, it renewed with fresh vigour. It pelted down so hard Nic was sure it was trying to flay the skin from his face.
Dashiell pointed ahead. “Let’s get them to the pavilion!”
It was the last place he wanted to go with Dashiell right now, but he agreed, and the pair of them hauled the cage up the stairs and under cover.
“What ridiculous weather,” Nic grumbled as they set the echoes down out of the storm. “My father will be furious that it’s ruined his plans. Fireworks and all at this rate.”
“Dukes aren’t capable of commanding the weather?”
Ignoring this quip, Nic knelt before the cage. Inside, the birds were furiously shaking water from their wings. “You’re safe for now. Although it’s just a bit of water, you know.”
“Quite a lot of water.”
Nic got to his feet. “All right, quite a lot of water.”
Water that wasn’t only being shaken from their feathers. It also dripped from Dashiell, from the tips of his bedraggled hair and the cuffs of his shirt—a shirt that clung to his chest, leaving a hint of skin visible through its fine pale weave. Nic realised too late that he was staring.
“Do you remember the last time we were here?” Dashiell said, staring right back.
Busy hands, the thrill of discovery, hot kisses that went on and on yet were over too quickly—the unfinished moments for which Dashiell had claimed his damnable closure. The flare of anger was back and Nic shook the memories away.
“That was a long time ago.”
“Was it?” Dashiell took a step forward, only to stop abruptly like he’d tugged his own leash.
In the path of such restrained tension, Nic caught his breath. Part of him wanted to slap that beautiful face, yet angry as he was, he couldn’t deny he also wanted to slide his fingers into that somehow still perfect neckcloth and pull Dashiell close.
“Nic, I…”
Nic braced for yet another apology, but it didn’t come, leaving his name suspended alone in the damp air.
Voice having failed him, Dashiell advanced another step, close enough now that they shared their next breath, a whisper all that kept their sodden shirts from touching.
Once more standing in the shadow of their own ghosts, Dashiell lifted a hand to Nic’s brow and brushed back a sodden lock of hair.
The soft graze of his knuckles against Nic’s skin was both breath and spark, leaving his chest tight and his throat constricted.
He needed to move, to escape, to not look at the fond curve of Dashiell’s lips.
From Nic’s brow, the vowsmith’s fingers traced a curving path behind one ear and down, and it was all Nic could do not to lean into his touch, turning like a flower to the sun—all he could do not to hold his breath when Dashiell leaned in, his nose brushing against Nic’s in silent question.
His body yearned to mimic the gesture, but Nic knew with certainty now how it would end if he did—with a view of Dashiell’s retreating back. And so with their lips all but touching, he murmured, “What are you doing?”
“Trying to kiss you,” the vowsmith murmured back, one corner of his lips quirking into a smile. “Is it not obvious?”
“What happened to closure?” Nic didn’t move, didn’t pull back, lips presented like a challenge. He didn’t know if he most wanted Dashiell to take it or realise his error, or how long he could hold himself without caving.
There must have been enough bite in his words, for Dashiell drew back, just enough to search Nic’s face, his eyes wide with surprise. And not a little hurt.
Nic could feel the moment slipping away—Dashiell slipping away. What difference would one more kiss make? Dashiell had taken his closure; why could Nic not take his own? Make it even.
Because he’s a vowsmith, the sensible part of his mind warned. Because if he gets caught, his career will be over.
Beyond the pavilion’s iron railings, the rain was beginning to ease. The thunder of it hitting the roof had quieted, and unable to bear Dashiell’s proximity a moment longer, Nic pulled away.
“We ought to get the echoes back.”
“Yes. Of course.” Soft words. Nic dared not look at the man’s face, just readied himself to pick up the heavy cage once more. Better not to have needed Dashiell’s help, but they could walk back in silence, bearing their sodden cargo, and get on with their lives.
“Uh, Nic?”
The panicked edge in Dashiell’s voice cut through Nic’s abstraction. The vowsmith stood at the railing, pointing out at something dark lying on the grass beyond. “What is that?”
Nic moved to the stairs, a terrible sense of inevitability growing with every step.
“Oh no.” His stomach dropped, and wishing he could close his eyes instead and will the horror away, Nic sped out into the rain.
Dashiell followed, the pair of them running the short distance in anxious silence, only to slow as their discovery become unmistakable.
A body dressed all in black, its wispy grey hair plastered down by the rain.
Master Everel.
Nic dropped to his knees, breath rushing from his chest. The old vowsmith lay face down in the grass, utterly still. Yet it was not the man’s sightless eyes that drew Nic’s gaze. It was the arrow protruding from his back.