Chapter Twelve #3
She flung her arms around Sidney, and he froze, unsure of his role in her plan. But when she kissed his cheek, brushing the edge of his lips, the night melted away in a rush of jasmine-tinted rain that made his head spin.
He had kissed enough girls before the war to feel proficient in that department, and he’d certainly thought about it often enough with Amélie.
But it had been years—years—since that tantalizing rush of heat had pooled under his skin, and the faintness of Bishop’s touch only made him want more.
Sidney’s hands found her waist, and she didn’t swat him off.
For a fleeting moment, her arms tightened around him, and Sidney angled his head deeper, dipping toward the curve of her neck.
Bishop’s breath nipped his ear. “They’re gone.”
It was a dash of cold water, worsened by the wide, wicked smile on Bishop’s face when she pulled back. “That did the trick quite nicely; their shadow skulked away. Hopefully, they’ll think us half-witted lovers who broke into an empty house for a rendezvous.”
Sidney caught himself still leaning toward her. She looked up at him askance, and he forced himself to straighten and keep his face neutral. “You could have warned me.”
Bishop straightened her coat with a self-satisfied air. “I improvised, and it worked. Don’t sulk.”
“I’m not sulking.” He was in shock, true, but certainly not sulking. He had enjoyed it far more than he would ever admit.
“You’ve been sulking this whole evening. You didn’t like that I found Tolliver’s cache.”
“I didn’t like the idea of you breaking into more houses,” he said, making an effort to unclench his jaw. “What if I’d been the murderer?”
“What if I’d been the murderer? You completely let down your guard.”
“You’re criticizing my techniques now?”
“Well, you could at least try to give the investigation some effort.”
“I walked half of Oxford this morning following Hughes,” Sidney said flatly. “I’ve given more effort than the Rook deserves.”
“You paid a needless visit to Olenev’s shop to verify information we’d already been given, then showed up to search a man’s house without even a torch,” Bishop counted on her fingers, “and you didn’t even bother encoding your reply to my message.
You’re plodding along like nothing really matters.
Time is precious, and we must be effective. ”
“Is that what you call writing articles for The Blue? Effective?” Sidney retorted.
“That was one blunder! I also have Neville’s letter, and now something about Marion that Tolliver clearly found important—”
“You’re working too many angles. You’re snatching at every shiny thing and trying to make it fit the picture, and all you’re really doing is muddying the water.
” Sidney scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m sorry you think I’m plodding along, but this is the job, and I tried to warn you: It’s not sexy, and it’s not exciting.
It’s hours of work collecting information, and then sifting through everything for the parts that actually matter. It’s subtle, and it’s slow.”
“And when the murderer escapes at the end of term because we failed to identify them, you’ll take your money and shrug that you did your job—one you didn’t want in the first place.
” Bishop drew close, her chin tilted up at him in defiance.
“Disguising apathy as dutifulness is exceptionally clever, Mr. Braithwaite.”
Sidney’s skin flamed hot. “Would you like to drill me in counterintelligence techniques with all of your expertise then? I worked two years for the Rook and took a bullet in the gut for my trouble, but please—please tell me how I can improve. Tell me how I can make the Honorable Ginevra Bishop happy.”
The words burned on Sidney’s lips, and he wanted to spit away the bitter taste. But the angry, hurt expression on Bishop’s face made him feel even worse.
“What I’d like,” she said, “is to not feel entirely alone in this endeavor.” Bishop dropped her chin and backed toward the wall as though pulled by gentle marionette strings. “Please accept my apology for making you reconsider the Rook’s offer. Boost me up, and I won’t trouble you further tonight.”
Lethargy had so swiftly replaced Bishop’s usual fire that Sidney was taken aback.
He knelt on the damp ground at her request and tried to better read her mood as she stepped into his cradled fingers.
But Bishop kept her face averted, and Sidney could only shove her up when she tapped his shoulder.
She scrabbled the rest of the way like a squirrel and disappeared over the wall without another word.
Sidney tucked the forgotten umbrella under his arm, preferring to feel the rain as he set off for Swithun.
But even the cold, uncomfortable rain dripping down his neck couldn’t distract him from the prickle of his conscience.
He should be mollified that she’d apologized for badgering him into helping the Rook, and that final look on her face said he could probably wriggle off the hook entirely now, if he wanted to.
If the Rook found someone else to help Bishop, he could return to his studies and ignore the memories he didn’t want to confront.
Only that plan now made Sidney feel wretched.
Gently, he prodded at the scar below his right ribs.
Bishop might think him heartless, but that wound was a tangible reminder of how much he had once cared for the work, and how little the work offered in return.
He had taken a bullet for Amélie, she’d still died, and the next mission was presented like a ticket number in a waiting room.
Keeping Bishop at arm’s length and his emotions locked away was objectively the best path forward.
But the disappointment in her eyes had cut through his defenses and rattled that lock, enough to make him face the ugly truth simmering beneath his irritation: He was being a rotten partner.
Bishop was clever and eager to pull her own weight, but he’d offered little instruction and then criticized all her choices.
His own career in the field would have swiftly ended without the support of his fellow operatives, but the few who’d mocked his early efforts still wedged in his memory like ugly thorns.
Only he was the thorn now, making her work at a disadvantage because of his own problems. And it wasn’t fair.
Sidney lifted his face to the sky and rubbed his eyes as the rain cascaded over him.
He’d made it this far without the nightmares’ resurgence, so perhaps he wasn’t as delicate as he’d feared.
If Bishop would accept an olive branch, he would try to help her in earnest and deal with his own monsters without inflicting the consequences upon her.
Somehow, they could muddle through together.