by Alexis Hall
“Not inclined to answer his phone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s rather childish of him.”
I was really not in the mood to defend Nathaniel. But I tried anyway. “He’s hurt.”
“You needed me.”
“I did, so I’m not going to argue with you about it. But he should be your priority, Caspian.”
“My priorities are determined by objective standards of urgency, not by sentiment. There will be other concerts. You would not have come to find me were it not truly important.”
“That’s”—my brain fiddled with that idea like it was a Rubik’s Cube it couldn’t solve—“really cold and really nice at the same time.”
Caspian gave me one of his smallest smiles. “Thank you. I just came to check you were comfortable. Is there anything else you require?”
“No, I’m good, I think. But where will you sleep?”
“I have some work to finish. And the sofa is perfectly comfortable.”
I retucked myself in the duvet. “I guess having made a big fuss about Nathaniel’s feelings, it would be epically hypocritical to suggest you come in with me?”
“I wouldn’t go quite as far as hypocritical,” he said. “But it would certainly be inconsistent.”
“I won’t jump your bones.”
“We both know there are intimacies beyond sex. And for me, sharing a bed is one of them.”
Probably the thing to do was leave it at that. But I was me, and I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. “You never did tell me why you hated it so much.”
“Oh, Arden, I didn’t hate it. I…far from hated it.” His gaze slid past me to the window and the gleaming sky beyond. “I have trouble with the sense of…with the sense of…physical vulnerability. Of course, rationally, I know you would never…never…” And then he fell silent with the force of Wile E. Coyote crashing into a concrete wall.
“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “I get it.”
He gave me this awful look, half-defiant, half-stricken. “I don’t like feeling helpless.”
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I should have told you.” I was going to protest, but then he turned away and, from behind his own hand, muttered, “But I don’t know how to speak of…of any of it.”
I tried to beam my tangle of adoring-him-hurting-for-him-desperately-wanting-to-help-him feelings at his back. “It’s impossibly difficult.”
“I…Lately I…” He bowed his head. “I have come to wonder who I am protecting with my silence. If it is truly myself.”
“Please,” I burst out. “I don’t want to be alone tonight. And I don’t want you to be either. Stay with me. At least for a little bit.”
Slowly, he faced me again, so much despair in him, and so much longing in his eyes. “Of course I will.”
“Really? I mean…really?”
“Until you sleep.”
I nodded, breathlessly. “Okay. Yes. Anything. Thank you.”
We were almost painfully decorous about it. Me, under the sheets, in an unsexy ball, and Caspian sitting on top of them, having shed only jacket and tie, his back against the headboard and his long legs crossed at the ankles. We didn’t touch—although I could feel the shape of him and, faintly or perhaps it was my imagination, the heat of him. I couldn’t help sneaking little glances at his face. His profile offered nothing but its beauty: those fine masculine symmetries, pure as marble.
“This is, um, all right, right?” I said. “You’re, like, not bored.”
“Go to sleep.”
I was trying. I really was. But the moment I closed my eyes, Jonas was waiting, like some smiling, bespectacled bogeyman. I flipped onto my back. Then my side. Then my other side. My back again. My front.
Caspian made a low, exasperated noise. “Arden…”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I promise I’m not I’m doing it deliberately. I’m just having trouble dropping off.”
“Lying still would probably help.”
“It’s my brain that won’t lie still.”
“Well”—he cast a strange, sweet look at me—“what do you normally do when you feel restless?”
The words echoed inside me, silvery as wind chimes, but way less annoying. “Oh, you know. The usual things. Read a book. Get myself off.” I gave an uncertain laugh. “Which would so not be appropriate right now.”
“I can leave the room.”
“OMG, Caspian. No. I’m not wanking in your bed.”
“I wouldn’t mind. And the sheets are changed daily.”
I whacked him in the leg. “Not the point. It would be weird, and I wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“Then…I suppose you’ll have to fall back on a book.”
“Look.” I propped myself up on an elbow. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the Arden has a problem that must be resolved and I shall resolve it approach you’re taking to me getting a healthy amount of rest, but it’s not going work. I’m scared and I’m anxious, and I really don’t have the concentration to read.”
“What if I read to you?”
I was so surprised, I thought I was having legit delusions. “W-what?”
“If it’s something you would enjoy.” Caspian drew up a knee, folding his hands across it self-consciously. “When I was young, and couldn’t sleep, my father would often read to me. I remember finding it quite soothing.”
“My mum used to read to me, too. It was the loveliest. But I guess it’s the sort of thing you probably have to grow out of.”
The shadow of a smile tugged at the corners of Caspian’s lips. “Dad was very fond of quoting C. S. Lewis on that subject: ‘When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.’”
“I keep thinking I would like to be grown up,” I admitted. “I mean, maybe not very grown up. But grown up enough not to leave the laundry until I have literally run out of clothes.”
He blinked. “That is not a problem I’ve encountered.”
“Because you’re a grown-up.”
“No, because I have a housekeeper.”
That made me laugh—a proper, unsullied, unhesitating laugh. And God, it felt good. The closest I’d come to normal this whole fucked-up week. “That’s definitely cheating. But childish or not, I’d love it if you read to me. Something nice, mind. I don’t think I can cope with intergalactic wars or quantum universes.”
“I’m sure I can find something suitable.” Caspian did not lean over the side of the bed the way I did because he had a sense of personal dignity (though he also had an amazing arse, so in some respects it was shame) and, instead, knelt down on the floor to retrieve the box.
“Will you do voices?” I asked as he sifted carefully through his father’s books.
He glanced up at me. “I’m not sure that’s within my abilities.”
“Will you try?”
“You may very well come to regret that, but if you insist.” Regaining his feet, with his usual poise, he held out a book—a red hardback with a picture of a hilltop castle in a circle on the front. “How do you feel about The Princess Bride?”
I actually gasped. “Caspian, I love love love The Princess Bride. But I had no idea it was a book.”
“It’s somewhat more involved than the film. Though still rather charming.”
“Rather charming? I am losing my shit here.” I was so excited I was practically bouncing. “I can’t believe you’re going to read me The Princess Bride. That’s so much better than Columbo.”
“Better than what?”
I huffed out an impatient sigh. “The granddad in the movie—he’s the guy who played Columbo.”
A blank look from Caspian.
“The detective in the brown raincoat. You know”—I held up a finger—“‘just one more thing.’”
Still nothing.
“Never mind.”
Caspian settled himself back on the bed—and this time it seemed the most natu
ral thing in the world for me to creep into the nook beneath his arm and for him to draw me in tight against his side. “It’s a little different in the book,” he said. “It’s a father reading the story to his son because he remembers his father reading it to him. Which”—he frowned—“in retrospect, makes it a poor choice, given tonight’s events. I’m so sorry. Shall we try something else?
“What? No. Just because I have a shitty father doesn’t mean I can’t cope with fictional dads.”
“I’m relieved. It was my intent to comfort you, not distress you. But I’ve never been particularly talented in this area.”
“Oh, Caspian.” I was so completely, perfectly, blissfully cosy that his name staggered, half-slurred, out of my mouth. “You’ve always been perfect for me.”
At which point, he fell awkwardly silent, looking down at me, the book apparently forgotten in his hands. “Arden, I…”
“Are you all right?”
“I think so. I just…you…” He made a shaky sound, almost but not quite a laugh. “I don’t know how to start.”
“How did your dad start?”
There was a long silence. And then Caspian smiled—a smile I’d never seen before, private and sad and hopeful. “He would say, ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.’”
I nuzzled into him. “For the record, I am very comfortable.”
“Then—” His voice caught and steadied. “I shall begin. This is my favourite book in all the world, though I have never read it.”
I’d always loved Caspian’s voice—its perfectly polished vowels and sharp consonants, the richness of its deepest registers. And now it poured over me as abundantly as Biblical wine, telling me tales of fathers and sons, and lovers and princesses, and pirates and giants, and love and revenge, and friendship and honour, and all the very best things that a story could be about. I got to hear the quickening of his breath when he was excited, and the way he would occasionally stumble or skip a line when he was anxious, and the gentleness that would unspool through the words when he was moved. It made it impossible for me to feel anything but cared for. Anything but safe. And every time Caspian said, “As you wish,” it was like he was saying it to me. Of course, by tomorrow morning the enchantment would pass and it would be just a line in a book.
But tonight. Tonight it was mine.
And we were each other’s again.
Chapter 34
Arden…Arden…”
“Mrrgggf.” I dragged the pillow over my face. “Five more minutes, Mum.”
Caspian cleared this throat. “Arden, we’ve found Jonas.”
I sat up so abruptly I nearly clashed heads with Caspian, who was leaning over me. “When? How? What time is it? Where am I? What’s happening?”
“It’s early afternoon and you’re in my apartment,” he said, gently pushing the hair out of my eyes. “Your father has checked into a Travelodge near Leeds—we traced him by his credit card and the GPS on your phone.”
I flailed wildly. “Early afternoon? Oh God. How? I need to go.”
“You needed to sleep. We know where Jonas is now and where he will be. We have time.”
“Okay, but…but…”
“We have time,” Caspian repeated, in a voice that permitted no dissention. “You will shower, dress, and eat, and Finesilver will pick you up in an hour.”
I heaved a put-upon sigh. “Yes, Mr. Ha—Caspian.”
“And as we discussed yesterday, you will not interfere in anything that happens.”
“That’s sounding murdery again.”
“Don’t tempt me.” His lips thinned on what was clearly an escaping smile. “But no, it is simply that you are emotionally involved in this matter, and I find emotion incompatible with business.”
It was one of those would have agreed to anything type of situations again, but I wasn’t actually looking to splooge my feelings everywhere. I just wanted to be sure that fucker wasn’t coming anywhere near my family ever again. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
“Just”—Caspian twined his fingers briefly with mine—“try not to let him hurt you more than he has already.”
I brought his hand to my lips and kissed it. “I promise.”
And an or so hour later, with my stomach still not sure how it felt about having food in it, and my nerves ragged but holding, I was in Finesilver’s car, heading north. When I’d climbed in, he’d given me one of his too-nice smiles—which I knew meant he definitely didn’t want me there.
“I’m really sorry,” I said, cringing. “I don’t want to make your job more difficult, but I really need to be there for this.”
His eyes flicked briefly to me and then back to the road. “There’s no need to apologise. My job and its complexities are my problem, and Mr. Hart compensates me more than proportionally.”
“Yeah, but your weekend and shit.”
Another smile. “If I cared about my weekends, I wouldn’t have gone into law.”
The truth was, Alexander Finesilver kind of scared me. Not in the way that Bellerose—Ilya—used to, with his chilly and impenetrable perfection, but because of his carefully cultivated humanness. He seemed so nice, so normal: this slender, unobtrusive, dark-haired young man with eyes like Elizabeth Bennett. Very much the opposite of the stereotype of the sharkish lawyer, which is exactly what made me wary. Here was someone who wanted to be underestimated, perhaps even disregarded. On top of the fact he worked for Caspian, who would not have put his trust in someone any less talented, dedicated, and ruthless than he was himself.
Aaaaaand I was going to be stuck in a car with him for nearly four hours. Fun times. I squirmed in my seat. “All the same, thank you and, like…yeah, thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me either.”
Okay, I was too fucked in the head for this. “Jesus, I’m just being polite. You know, as people are to each other.”
“I’m sorry.” He laughed as easily as he smiled. “I’m not thanked very often. I will admit, my personal preference would incline strongly towards your absence. But since Mr. Hart does not agree, and I work for Mr. Hart, here you are. I’m not going to waste energy resenting it.”
I could see why Caspian liked him. They both valued a brand of emotional efficiency that was pretty much beyond me. “Well, Caspian’s personal preference also inclined strongly towards my absence. So you really do have cause to be pissed at me.”
“On the contrary, Mr. St. Ives.” Finesilver’s eyes glittered with sudden interest. “Given you’ve just revealed your capacity to influence my employer, even against his own better judgement, it doesn’t seem as though being pissed at you would be at all to my benefit.”
I squeaked. “I’m not Anne Fucking Boleyn, you know.”
“I’m sure Anne Boleyn didn’t think she was Anne Boleyn.”
There was a long silence.
“Are you trying to tell me,” I said slowly, “that Caspian’s going to cut my head off at some point?”
“I’m sure he won’t.” A pause. “It’s the sort of thing that’s terribly difficult to mount a defense against in court.”
“You are not helping.”
Finesilver laughed, though it sounded different this time. Harsher and realer and, strangely enough, nicer. “I said I wouldn’t resent you. That doesn’t mean I can’t amuse myself a little at your expense.”
“Is that wise, though?” I fluttered my lashes. “Seeing as how I have the ear of the king and all that. I could have you sent to the tower.”
“You could. But then when you are sent to the tower, what will you do for a lawyer?”
“You…” I said, surrendering at least semi-gracefully. “You are basically Littlefinger, aren’t you?”
“Dear me, I hope not. He made terrible decisions.”
We tooled along quietly for a while longer, threading between traffic jams on our way out of London. I was still nervous around Finesilver, but frankly, I had way bigger things to worry about. Y’know, like Jonas. Who had my
phone. And was breaking his journey in Leeds on his way to fuck up my family. Bastard.
“As it’s rather a long way,” remarked Finesilver, “would you mind if I put on an audiobook?”
I…had not been expecting that. “Gosh no. Of course not. Be my guest.”
A moment or two later, a nice English voice filled the car: Just because the man looked like Milton’s ruined archangel and chose to appear in the hall like the Demon King through a trap-door it didn’t necessarily mean that I had to smell Sulphur.
My mind reeled with surprise and curiosity. I hadn’t really given any thought to what Finesilver might to do in his spare time, but if you’d asked me to put forward some ideas, listening to Gothic novels wouldn’t have featured.
“Sorry…can I…”
He paused the narration. “Yes?”
“What’s the book, please? If you don’t mind?”
“It’s Nine Coaches Waiting by”—his voice had lost some of its usual evenness—“Mary Stewart.”
“Ohhh. I’d thought it might be du Maurier.”
“Mr. St. Ives, are you laughing at me?”
I blinked. “Not at all. I might have grinned a bit, imagining Ellery’s reaction if she knew what you were into.”
“Don’t tell her please.”
He seemed genuinely flustered. Which—and yes, yes, I was a bad person—I kind of enjoyed. “She’d like you way more if I did.”
“I don’t want her to like me. I want her to behave in a legally responsible fashion.”
“You do realise”—and now I made no attempt to hide my smirk—“that if she liked you, she probably would.”
His fingers danced against the steering wheel. “Sadly, the acquisition of Miss Hart’s good opinion lies beyond my power.”
“Have you tried?”
He didn’t answer.
“I mean, really tried.”
“I work for her brother,” he said softly. ”Miss Hart’s opinion of me should not be relevant.”
Before I could point out that it was clearly relevant to him, he turned the book back on, and the volume up, so further conversation was impossible.