Chapter Five
She was being unreasonable.
She was always so damned unreasonable.
Rhys dragged in a breath to steel himself against more nonsense, ignoring the dull thrum that was starting to build in his left temple.
“The other card is at Starling’s Rest,” he said for the fourth time, wiggling his fingers on either side of his face for emphasis. “Why not just come with me? We can show the Old English to Hattie and I can—”
“Don’t you think that will raise some eyebrows?” she snapped, making him sigh before he’d even finished the thought. “You bringing me home?”
“Who cares about eyebrows?!” he retorted, going a bit shrill. “You can say you’re there to see Libba if you like.”
“Libba doesn’t live there anymore,” she reminded him.
It was the second time today someone had pointed out that sad fact.
“Monica, then,” he persisted. “You like Monica.”
She frowned at him. “Do you want to tell your entire household about that invitation? I get the impression it is supposed to be a secret.”
“Well, of course not,” he shot back, matching her frown. “But I don’t want to drag out further revelations for a round trip on foot, either. Just come home with me!”
“Oh, just come home with you,” she mocked. “Just sit on your lap while we read letters together next to the fire.”
He hesitated, blinking several times at that mental image. “What?”
“I’ll get my coat,” she said, slapping the table and forcing herself to stand. “And I’ll put it on. If…”
“‘If’ …?”
She grinned at him, her fingers curling against the wood. “If you eat five more pieces of the spiced fruit. No cream.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, which only seemed to widen that sharp, feline grin of hers.
“Those are my terms.” She straightened, tossing her long, golden hair like the matter were already settled and he’d admitted defeat.
“One,” he said, reaching out and plucking a piece from the tin.
It clearly surprised her, her smile faltering a little as she tracked the path of the little ball of tamarind from its wax wrap onto his tongue.
He chewed slowly, smirking at her as he did.
When he anticipated pain, Rhys could handle it quite well.
“Want to feed me the next one, Persephone?” he taunted, going back, this time for mango. “Do you have spiced pomegranate seeds in there?”
“I could find some,” she retorted.
“Two.” He popped the mango into his mouth, flashing his teeth at her this time as he chewed.
Her expression had melted into bemusement, her big eyes blinking softly as she watched a third piece, this one a ball of shriveled honeydew, vanish between his lips. She sank slowly back into the chair, seemingly at a loss.
“It grows on you,” he commented, tilting his head to the side. “What’s that one? The rectangle?”
“Pineapple,” she muttered, nudging the tin toward him as he made a flourishing show of taking it up.
“Four,” he said, chewing, swallowing, and then blowing out a cool breath over his tingling tongue. “I expect I won’t even feel the last one. Do you want to choose it?”
Her gaze tightened a fraction, her mouth pursing slightly. “No.”
He gave her a wide smile. “Suit yourself. Oho, coconut cream or candied lime peel? How’s a man to choose?”
“Eat them both,” she suggested through her teeth.
So he did.
Gloating in her direction the entire time.
It was worth the blaze in his mouth. And his throat. And likely in his stomach to come back and haunt him later.
More than worth it.
“Where’s that coat, then?” he asked, smacking his lips together like he’d just enjoyed a plate of caviar. “Let’s beat the sunset, shall we?”
She batted her lashes, assuming a look of innocence. “But you’ve broken the deal,” she said sweetly. “You ate cream, there at the end.”
He paused, her words taking a moment to slot into place, clicking like a rusty key in his brain. “What?!” he demanded. “The bloody coconut cream?! We both know that isn’t what you meant.”
“It is what I said,” she pointed out, giving a simpering, little pout.
“Seph!” he barked, getting that grin back into place.
“Fine, fine,” she said, giving a light sigh and floating up out of her chair to swish away in search of her coat. “But you still failed the challenge.”
“Tell that to the fire I’m breathing,” he cried, coming half out of his chair as she vanished down the hall. “Harpy.”
“Child,” she called back melodically.
He wrinkled up his nose and looked down at the tin. He grabbed a fistful more of those devil fruits and stuffed them into his pockets. Damn her.
She came back looking distracted and sufficiently bundled up. It was getting properly cold now.
Rhys himself had only worn a scarf and his normal inside clothes. But he’d always run hot.
“Where’s the envelope?” she asked, taking up the invitation to put it in her pocket. “Ah, here.”
He frowned. “Why bring the envelope?”
“It’s likely got clues on it too,” she reasoned, gesturing toward the door and ushering him out and down the stairs. “There are also those symbols on the front of the invite card. And it never says what time to be at the Priory.”
He paused, just short of the door as she turned and withdrew a ring of keys from her skirts to lock up the storefront.
“Midnight,” he told her. “That’s on my card. Pretty sure it’s midnight.”
“Oh?” she said, crumpling her features just a little to force the last turn of the key, which groaned in protest. “I need to oil that. Are you certain it isn’t ten o’clock? The clue in the riddle …”
“It’s midnight,” he assured her, turning and hopping off the veranda. “I’d prefer it to be ten, though. That’s my favorite number.”
“People don’t have favorite numbers,” she said, taking a dainty step off the stairs in direct opposition of his choice. “Let’s take the dirt path. It’s faster.”
He wanted to argue.
But she was right.
For a time, they walked in silence, shivering against the autumn winds as fog started to build near the shore. It was always colder the closer you got to the water. Her shop basically abutted the sea, so at least it was getting warmer as they got farther away from it.
There was a joke in that, but Rhys needed time to refine it before he spoke it aloud.
“Oh, Rhys, what’d you do to the seal?” she exclaimed suddenly, startling him up to look at her, where she was frowning down at the envelope.
Damn it.
“What do you mean?” he attempted, getting a cut of her eyes and a purse of her lips. He stifled the urge to giggle. He pivoted. “Must’ve stood too close to the kettle steam while it was in my pocket.”
“Rhys, it has your thumbprint in it,” she said, flipping the envelope around so he could see. “I know you tried to steam it open before you brought it to me. What was on the seal? It looks like … hm, like a person?”
“I’m going to be frank with you,” he said with a sigh. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. A person? Probably the patron saint of illusionists.”
“We don’t have a saint,” she replied, sounding amused despite herself. “Charlatans aren’t particularly beloved by the Vatican.”
“Nonsense,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and crouching into his scarf against a gust of wind. “We’ve got Aaron, don’t we?”
“‘Aaron’?” she repeated. “Who’s that?”
“Brother of Moses,” he said, blinking at her. “Aren’t you a papist?”
“I’m a vagrant,” she told him flatly. “Sunday school was sparse, to say the least. ‘Brother of Moses’?”
“Aye,” he said, taking up a bit of craggy branch from the path and holding it up to her.
“He turned a stick into a snake to impress the Pharaoh. Water into wine … Or, wait. It might’ve been blood.
Water into something red. All sorts of marvels.
He was turning ladies’ dresses into bedsheets, I’m certain. He had that sort of charm.”
“Ah,” she said, blinking a few times. “And he is a saint?”
“Not a clue,” Rhys told her, holding up a hand to hop over a row of bricks. “Watch your step here. Old canal fill in.”
She hesitated, frowning, and then bunched her skirt up to mimic his hop, ignoring his offered hand. “You’d think the city would have cleaned that up by now. Surely, someone has a use for the bricks. Maybe I’ll take them.”
“As curiosities?” he asked, his brows shooting up. “It could work. Claim they’re old Roman or Nordic bricks? Oh! Barricade blocks from William’s conquest!”
“No, fool,” she said, laughing aloud, a lovely tinkling sound with not even a hint of mockery. “Just to use as bolsters and weights. But I could see the former working. I do not peddle in fakes, however, unless they are clearly labeled.”
“Why not?” he demanded, kicking down some tall, brittle grass to open up a faster route back onto the road. “Curiosity cabinets are expected to have fakes. It’s part of the appeal.”
“Well, that’s just too bad,” she said, still snickering. “It’s mine and I shall keep it honest.”
“Honesty isn’t the point,” he insisted, with a bit more feeling than he probably should have put into his voice. “People want to be tricked. It’s in our marrow. We enjoy it.”
“I know that,” she said. “Why do you think I sell the magic kits?”
“Because you are evil,” he answered immediately. “And want to spite me.”
She chuckled again, shaking her head as the wind whipped up around them. “Rhys Caradoc,” she said with a sigh. “I know this will shock you, but not everything on this spinning, blue dot is about you.”
“Nonsense,” he answered with a sniff. “It all is. And I enjoy when it tricks me properly.”