‘Won’t you get cold?’ Benedick asked as he walked into the kitchen with a box of fresh fruit, just fetched from the Avalon Towers delivery elevator.
Clementine pushed a strand of hair back from her forehead. ‘Not for a while. I’ve just done my physio and had a shower. It gets me overwarm sometimes.’
Benedick abandoned the groceries in order to step up behind her and drop kisses on her shoulders. He’d never done this before—been able to stand so close behind a lover and press against a bare back. Once past the initial surprise of it, he found he liked to stand close with his hands on Clementine’s waist and his wings flared and cupped, creating a warm well for them to stand in. Now, he let the tips of his wings flutter, wafting air over her skin.
He saw the shape of what she was painting. The sweep of his own held-tight wings—the unevenness of the damaged wing could be subtly seen—blending from the brown-and-black to paler brown to paler yet. In the painting, his wings turned from human with feathers of hair to what would become the velvety pink lushness of the candy moth. Dotted all along his feathers were one or two candy moths, and there was the one balanced on the painted-him’s finger.
‘I can see what you mean now, about the wings.’
Clementine had been chewing on the end of a paintbrush. She removed it long enough to say, ‘Please don’t ask me to explain it. If I could explain things in words I’d write books.’
Benedick kissed the top of her head. ‘Know what you’re calling it, yet?’
‘Secret Life.’ She paused, pensive.
Benedick rubbed his cheek against her dark hair. ‘Yeah. I see that.’ He kissed the crown of her head again and added, ‘Do you need me to model again?’
‘I’ve got the sketches,’ said Clementine, nodding at pages of drawings that were spread about every available surface. Benedick from multiple angles and distances: face profiles and full body outlines, some mere ovals and circles to denote basic composition, others more detailed. Several were acute studies: of feathers, his eyes, the straight lines of his black hair over his ears.
The Fibonacci spiral of his ear was present, and a sketch of his naked bottom with the same mathematical spiral superimposed on it. The maths of perfect beauty, she’d said this morning as she kissed him from nape to Achilles heel, and he’d squirmed and panted happily underneath her hands and mouth.
Clementine, perhaps remembering this morning too, wriggled her back against his front. ‘Though it never hurts if you want to drape yourself decoratively over the sofa. Artist’s inspiration and all that.’
‘In my kilt or just my feathers?’ He moved away to strip off his shirt to begin with, revealing his broad, deep chest.
‘The kilt’s fine,’ she said, off-hand. Benedick raised an eyebrow to find her grinning wickedly at him. ‘Feathers are better.’
Benedick made a show of undoing the buckle and edging the blue and grey tartan down his hips, over his well-muscled legs and calves; not as well-muscled as they used to be, now he didn’t have to use all of them for launching into the air, but physio kept him fit enough.
His body was more than its decline since his flying days, of course. It felt good when Clementine ran her nimble hands over his wings, over all of his skin; when he traced her small body, which was much stronger than it looked, with his own hands. He loved how it felt when he lifted her slight figure in his arms and held her close, her slender legs wrapped around his hips, her arms around his shoulders. The pleasure when they were entwined in bed was just as intense as pleasure had always been: as they reached climax, his wings would shiver and her unused flight muscles flickered under his hands.
We have adjusted our sails, he thought. By the time he was naked and sprawled on the large, long sofa, he was relaxed and smiling.
‘Like this?’
Clementine patted his bottom. ‘Perfect. I need to practise drawing these curves correctly.’ Her hand lingered over the swell of his behind, down to his hamstrings and up again. She drew a finger along his spine, between his wings.
Benedick wiggled. ‘Well, I’d hate for you to get it wrong. You have a reputation in the art world to maintain.’
‘So I do.’ Clementine dropped a kiss onto his lower back, one on each cheek of his bottom, then danced away to her easel.
Benedick laughed and rested his chin on his folded arms. He loved watching her work. He had spent the last two days watching her draw and paint.
They’d spent hours curled up in his bed, in hers, talking art, talking life, talking how his had changed, and how hers had always been different. They’d spent the time learning about each other’s hearts, minds, and bodies.
Falling further in love.
Benedick liked falling in love. Being in love. It felt how flying used to. Free and powerful; a heady voyage balancing the steady with the impetuous.
‘You have that look again,’ said Clementine as she worked at the canvas.
‘What look?’
‘Like you’ve just seen candy moths for the first time.’
‘And you’ve got that look on yours.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Like you’re showing them to me for the first time.’
Clementine laughed, leaned over and painted a stripe of brown paint down his nose. Benedick stretched his wings up behind him, propped his chin on one hand and pouted like a beautiful satyr from a classic painting.
‘Sun-dizzy idiot,’ Clementine chided him affectionately.
‘I’ve been looking at you too long,’ he confessed readily. ‘I used to be a very sober-minded officer of the law.’
Clementine wiped the paint off his nose with her thumb, which she cleaned against her paint-smeared sarong. ‘In a few years you can be a very sober-minded advocate of the law. You’ve got some time for fun in between.’ She kneeled to kiss him.
A ring at the door interrupted what was shaping up to be an epic non-art session. Clementine tried to ignore it, but the bell went again so, with a sigh, she went to answer it. Benedick tugged his kilt back on and was putting on his shirt when Clementine returned, Marca Sifakis close behind.
Marca was holding her wings in tight against her body. Clementine kept the hall and living areas tidier now that Benedick was a regular visitor, but the walls still tended to be lined with easels, paintings in various stages of completion, canvases waiting to be stretched, and stacks of empty frames. There really was enough room for careful wings, Benedick knew, but he remembered that feeling of it being cluttered. He hardly noticed it now. He fit easily into the space Clementine had made for him.
‘Hey, Marca,’ he said, tying his shirt at the waist. She looked astonished to see him here. No, he realised. She looks astonished to see me tying up a shirt I’ve obviously only just put on.
‘Benedick,’ said Marca, ‘I didn’t know you were here.’
‘I’m modelling for a painting,’ he said breezily.
‘An artist’s model, huh? Draping yourself in nothing but a sheet and a cheeky grin?’ She said it like the idea was ludicrous.
‘Minus the sheet,’ he said. ‘It’s too late to worry about my virtue now. I’m dating the artist.’
‘Oh.’
Clementine pursed her lips and then took up a paintbrush with cool deliberation. For a few moments she utterly ignored Marca in favour of working pink paint into the ends of the brown wings on the canvas. Finally, she deigned to respond. ‘Talk away, Lieutenant Sifakis. I’m listening.’
Marca cleared her throat and fixed her eyes on Clementine. ‘Just wanted to update you on the vandalism case.’
‘Mm-hmm?’
‘We were finally able to interview someone from the Dell-inquent gallery. I’m very pleased to report that our investigation concluded that there was no danger to you, after all.’
‘I see.’ Clementine worked on a detail. ‘Just the work of a harmless crank.’
‘Yes, that appears to be very much the case.’
‘So that’s it? Case closed?’
‘Yes. He’s been given an official police warning.’
‘I see. Are you going to tell me who it was?’
‘His name’s Tobias Flack. He’s still denying it all, of course, but Ms MacGovern’s statement makes his guilt very clear. Regretfully, the evidence is mainly circumstantial. We don’t have enough to uphold a court case, I’m afraid, but as I said, a warning was delivered.’
‘So he hasn’t been charged with anything?’
‘As I said, the evidence is hearsay and speculation. Charges wouldn’t stick. Ms MacGovern may consider her own action, though Fair Work laws may restrict her ability to sack him.’
‘Because he hasn’t been charged.’
‘Yes. I’m afraid there’s not much more we can do at present. However, our conclusion, as I said, and based on experience, is that Flack isn’t a danger. Nevertheless, I wanted to let you know that we’ve done everything we could and are satisfied that the case is closed and that there won’t be any further incidents.’
‘Good. Right. Thanks.’ Clementine refused to look at the police officer. Her jaw was tight.
‘How long have you known?’ Benedick asked into the strained silence.
Marca turned to him. ‘Sorry?’
‘It can’t have been that hard to find a suspect and question him. You said you had a lead a week ago. When did you have your word with him?’
Marca’s wings twitched slightly. ‘We’ve had more imminent and potential threats with the trade protests and Jones’s potential political links. Since Flack clearly didn’t pose a threat, based on preliminary investigation, it’s taken a while to finalise the interviews. Without further threats after the opening, more serious cases took precedence …’
‘Yeah,’ Benedick nodded. ‘Got it. Low priority.’
Marca looked like she was going to protest his tone of voice, but she saw Benedick’s expression, set in anger, and Clementine’s, set in resigned contempt. So she excused herself with a crisp, professional, ‘You have my number if you experience any further incidents. Good day, Ms Torres. Benedick.’
When she’d gone, Clementine shoved her paintbrush onto the palette and stalked to the kitchen to fill the kettle in a series of short, sharp moves.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Benedick wanted to know. ‘I thought you were going to pluck feathers off her with a look.’
‘I choose my battles, Benedick. Ones like these aren’t worth my time. You get used to it.’
‘Flapping sunburned hell, I will.’ Benedick was pacing the room, his wings shivering and jerking up in truncated flaps with his rage. Clementine came to him and ran a soothing hand down the rise of his wings, over the leading edges, then dropped her hands to hold his.
‘It’s easy to be angry all the time,’ she said. ‘And it’s exhausting. There’ll be bigger fights, ones really worth the effort. There are plenty of them, don’t you worry.’
‘You’ve had this all your life, haven’t you?’
‘Yep.’
‘Still makes you furious.’
‘Yes, it does. And it makes me tired. So I choose my battles.’
Benedick pressed his forehead to hers. ‘All right, then. I’ll choose another one.’
Clementine kissed his frowning mouth. ‘Tea,’ she said. ‘Then the painting. Unless you want to change out of your kilt and back into your cheeky grin.’
They had tea; and he changed into nothing but the grin.
The painting session had to wait another hour or two.
Chapter Thirteen
Clementine thought Octavia looked twice as pleased for them as they were for themselves, when she met her and Benedick at Takahē Café the next morning. Octavia’s round face dimpled with delight on seeing them arrive hand in hand, and even when Octavia managed to stop dimpling at them, her undergrown wings twitched like she was always ten seconds off spreading them in second-hand joy.
It might have been annoying if Clementine hadn’t felt like preening at Octavia’s clear approval of the improvements in her cousin’s love life. Her own back muscles twitched with residual instinctive desire to peacock her happiness.
I’m happy. I’m in love.
Oh stars, I’m in love. Head over heels, dizzy in love. I’m asking for so much trouble.
Her heart beat fast, equal parts elated and terrified by the surge of feeling. But for this moment, with Octavia radiating delight at their oh-so-obvious romance, Clementine chose the elation. She chose the hope.
‘This is my favourite of you two. What do you think?’ Octavia pointed at a picture in one contact sheet of twenty. In it, Clementine was talking earnestly with Benedick. Her candy moth self-portrait, I fly where others cannot see, was on the wall behind them, slightly out of focus.
‘I bought that painting,’ said Benedick proudly. ‘Maybe you can help me choose which wall to hang it on.’
‘I didn’t know you’d bought a painting.’
‘Of course I bought a painting. Octavia bought one too.’
‘The one with the ladybug and the rose,’ Octavia said, shuffling through the images to find one of a several attendees drinking champagne in front of the piece.
‘Fresh.’ Clementine named the piece. ‘I wanted to do a companion piece. The ladybug in flight.’
‘Consider it sold when you do,’ said Octavia earnestly.
Benedick was pushing the other contact sheets around, examining the strips of images. ‘Could I have some of these, cuz? Eight by tens, maybe.’
‘I’ll get you an album,’ Octavia assured him. ‘I have some of you on your own, you know.’
Benedick shrugged. ‘Why would I want any of those?’
Clementine put her hand over his as they looked through the pictures together. ‘I might want one. I’ll hang you in the kitchen as a reminder not to burn the side dishes.’
‘Set fire to one meal …’ Benedick complained.
Clementine squeezed his hand, laughing.
This time, her mind sang to her. This time, this time, this time …
‘Is the exhibition going well?’ Octavia asked.
‘I’ll meet Dell tomorrow for details, but she’s emailed to say it’s been very successful. A lot of people through the halls, and even some of the pictures that were damaged sold, now they’ve been cleaned up.’
‘Have they found who did it yet?’
‘Apparently. A gallery worker named Flack, but there isn’t enough evidence to charge him.’
Octavia scowled. ‘That’s outrageous.’
Clementine huffed an aggrieved sigh. ‘It is, but if the evidence isn’t airworthy, there’s no point throwing it into the sky and hoping it’ll fly. I don’t want to talk about him. He’s used up enough oxygen already.’
Benedick’s hand rested on her elbow for a moment, and she took a breath. ‘Sun blight the squawker anyway. Whatever he wanted to achieve, he didn’t achieve it. Here I am, as wingless and as loud as ever.’
‘Too right,’ Octavia agreed fiercely. ‘Let’s have cake to celebrate.’
‘Cake it is!’ Benedick applauded.
After cake, and after Octavia had put the contact sheets away, the three of them walked along the riverside. When a boat of slipstreaming teens sailed past, going faster than was advisable, Clementine entwined her fingers with Benedick’s. He said nothing, but rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand.
When he gazed up at the sky, at people flying high and low, a shadow crossed his face. A group of police officers swept past, the sunlight gleaming from the brass fittings of their uniforms. Clementine saw him swallow as he watched them angle towards Parliament on the hill. He sighed and looked away.
‘Let’s go see the dragons in the SunField,’ he said. ‘It’s up here, not far past where the candy moths live. Have you ever seen candy moths in the wild, Octavia?’
‘A colony lived under the drooping pine we had at the end of the yard. I used to crawl under there when I was little, whenever all the other kids were flapping off without me.’
Octavia was smiling, without even a hint of wistfulness in her voice. ‘I went under there with my copies of Lady Arcadia and read to them. I tried to convince Peri to come see them one time, but he acted like I had a cage full of wild dogs under the branches.’
‘Ah. That would be my fault,’ Benedick confessed.
‘I know,’ laughed Octavia. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that time you convinced Peregrine that if we could just catch a kangaroo, we could train it to let us ride in its pouch.’
‘To be fair to me,’ laughed Benedick, ‘I was hoping that would work. And to be doubly fair to me, you looked hilarious in that rice sack, practising.’
‘Then you got all serious and Peri took up being the family clown.’
Clementine leaned against Benedick’s arm but grinned across him at Octavia. ‘Tell me more about Benedick’s childhood larkshines.’
‘If she does, you’ll have to tell us about one of yours,’ insisted Benedick. ‘Like how you learned to swim.’
And so the afternoon passed, trading gems of their juvenile histories, building up a glittering story bank, hungry for tales of the childhoods that had formed them into the adults with whom they had fallen in love.
***
The sixteenth morning after they’d first met in the fourth floor corridor of Avalon Towers, Benedick was sprawled in his bed, directing Clementine in the search for her pants.
‘Try under the footstool there.’
‘You could get up and help,’ Clementine scolded him with a laugh.
‘But I like watching you prance around the bedroom with nothing on,’ he countered with his best argument. He’d woken with her in his arms, his damaged wing curved around her back, tips brushing against her thighs. The intimacy of feathers on skin had desire stirring in him, but the sensation was honey-slow in his veins. More delightful was the simple contentment he felt at holding her with her head pillowed on his shoulder and her arm about his waist, her leg across his. There was a rightness to waking to her slight weight against his chest, her breath warm across his throat.
Grounded Page 16