“I know,” he said, and he couldn’t help the little edge that slipped into his voice. He did know. That was the incredibly selfish problem.
He looked down at the girl in the photo once again. She lived a life where her perfectly coiffed ringlets had turned to wild, windswept curls, where her porcelain doll fashion plate gowns had been replaced by pretty country dresses. He’d spent only ten hours of the last six months with her in person, and he was beginning to realize that the Rosemary he saw on the mirror was a version of herself that she fell into when she spoke to him.
“I feel so out of touch with her,” Chris murmured.
“Christopher….”
He didn’t know what to say, so he stared down at the photo and said nothing.
“Christopher,” Rachel said again, more firmly. “She’s becoming a young woman. And perhaps, as a result, she’s less reliant on you. That is a good thing. Only months ago, she was wilting without being able to see you. And now she’s maintaining a social calendar, supporting her friends, and learning something new every day. She’s finally flourishing.”
“I know,” he repeated.
“Do you? Try to understand. Really, you… you’re much too good a man to not empathize.”
He looked up, and he met her eyes.
They both froze.
They never made eye contact, if they could help it.
She looked away first. She cleared her throat. Three months of unspoken words lay between them. One of us should say something. One of us should just break this dam and see what comes forth. It would be so nice to know what she thought of him. To ask why she had accepted an invitation to a ball on his arm. To finally voice the thing. It would be so nice to have someone who wanted him, whom he wanted back, who was… acceptable.
He tested potential phrases on his lips. All these months later, and I haven’t stopped thinking about how you looked in that gown. That was a good one. He liked how it complimented her appearance, reminded her of the few good parts of that disastrous, traumatic night, and told her that she had never been far from his thoughts.
But he didn’t say the words. He didn’t say anything.
She sighed.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think she’ll be back,” she said, with a glance toward what was presumably a clock. “It’s getting rather late.”
Chris bit back a growl. How was it so easy to flirt with Will that he couldn’t even stop, and yet he went all flummoxed and tongue-tied when faced with an appropriate target?
“You shouldn’t let her stay out,” he said. His frustration gave the words a bite, and Rachel straightened and gave him a sharp look.
“For the last time, one of her friends just lost a father! Aren’t you the one who instructed I encourage her to pursue a life here? Are you now going to call my discipline lax because your directives interfered with your changeable desires?”
“I’m not—!” He cut himself off, took a deep, calming breath, and then held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m just terribly distracted. You do more than fine. Ignore me, Rachel. I’m not fit for polite company.”
She took a moment and then offered him a small smile. It was a gesture of peace, and he took it gratefully. “You’re afraid of losing something that matters very much to you,” she said. “But please, be understanding. Rosie really is doing well. A young girl trying to find her place, struggling with all manner of things… she should be allowed to stray from the side of a protective elder brother. I… trust me. Please.”
“Was that how it was with you and Mister Albany?”
He had no idea why he’d spoken the words aloud.
Rachel’s expression went blank. She wrapped her arms around her middle. She didn’t seem angry. He would have preferred it. She merely seemed as if she’d disappeared to somewhere a thousand miles away. “I should say goodnight,” she murmured, her voice the very model of a dutiful servant. “I’ll give your love to the young Miss Buckley, sir, and condolences to her friend.”
“Rachel—” he began, but she rang the chimes before he could even offer an apology, and left him in silence.
He stared at the swirling mists of the mirror, and then, as they cleared, his own reflection. Absently, he reached up and adjusted a curl that had fallen wrong on his forehead, feeling as if he’d just run an obstacle course.
He tallied every little mistake he’d made. Too friendly here, too cold there, too familiar and then too distant. He fisted his hands and gritted his teeth and Gods, why couldn’t it just be easy?
The way it was with Will.
He turned away from the mirror, swept his greatcoat off the rack and around his body, and headed back into the dark, cool night.
Chris accepted the tumbler of scotch Will poured him without complaint. He sipped at it. It burned all the way down, and he watched Will move around the room through his lashes. He tried not to think too hard about how Will pulled the blinds. Called up to his mother, waited for a response. Locked the front door.
It didn’t mean anything. Will just wanted a modicum of privacy for normal, friendly business. After all, this was a rough neighbourhood, and—and it wasn’t as if Chris wanted anything, as if….
He took another drink. He did love that burn.
Will came and dropped onto the couch beside him. He sat a bit too close. Their outer thighs pressed together. Chris knew he should move away, but he didn’t.
“Hard day?” Will asked. His voice was too casual. Too… nice. William Cartwright didn’t calmly inquire about one’s day. He laughed and said Gods, what happened to you? You look like hell, Chris.
Chris nodded. “We have a case,” he said.
“A rough one?”
“No.” But Rosemary was avoiding him, Rachel Albany pulled away from him, Fernand was dead, and Olivia gave away only little pieces of herself at a time, which he refused to resent because everything she gave, she gave from her very soul. He was fine, and his life continued to get better, not worse, and he just….
He just….
He shifted on the couch. He set his tumbler on the side table. He pulled closer to Will, sliding an arm around his shoulders, leaning in to nuzzle against his hair. It smelled like wintergreen and heather. It always did.
Will gazed up at him, his green eyes sweet and tempting through long lashes. “Chris?”
“You always want me here,” Chris said, his voice so low it set the air to buzzing. “I never have to wonder what you’re really thinking. I never have to guess what you want. And it’s—it’s just always so easy, Will. Being with you is always just so easy.”
Will’s eyes widened.
Chris kissed him.
As always, Will was eager to respond. He hmmed in approval when Chris pulled him close, angling his head. Chris raised one hand to stroke Will’s cheek, to cup his chin, to encourage their mouths closer together. This late in the day, there was a hint of roughness along Will’s usually smooth jaw, and Chris groaned, loving the faint scratch. Will echoed the sound, and that felt better than anything. This was what Chris had come for. He ran his tongue along the seam of Will’s lips. They opened for him eagerly. All his fluttering anxieties and fears and worries faded in and out, throwing sparks like a binding about to go wild.
Then Will crawled up into his lap, wrapped strong arms around his neck, and pressed his body against him.
Whatever binding kept thoughts in order burst, and Chris’s skull was filled with nothing but glorious, humming static.
Will’s lips on his neck.
Chris’s hands stroking down his spine.
Will rocking against him.
Chris moaning quietly.
Will’s teeth against his collarbone.
Chris cupping his buttocks.
Will slowly sliding down his body….
Chris caught his breath when Will’s knees hit the floor. No, he wanted to say, but also yes, yes. Will looked up at him, eyes heavy-lidded, lips slightly parted. Chris had to say something, he knew. But he
licked his lips and said nothing, just… stared.
Yes. Fine. I give in. Come on.
But Will didn’t move. Didn’t do anything.
“Will,” Chris said, his voice hoarse.
Will’s hands fell to his hips. His green eyes were huge, staring up at Chris. “Do you want me to keep going?”
“I….”
“I know what I’m doing,” Will said, a promise. “It’ll be good. But you need to tell me you want it. Only if you want it, Chris. Just say the word.”
He couldn’t say any words. But he could nod, and he did, furiously, so hard at that Will actually smiled and laughed, sweet and quiet and relieved. He reached for the laces of Chris’s pants, and Chris leaned his head back against the couch because he couldn’t bear to watch. He stared up at the ceiling, feeling Will’s breath on his skin, and he let his consciousness just… float.
And he floated, rocking on a sea of guilty delight, riding taller and taller waves to something very much like bliss, a tide of it that rushed through him and came out in a cry that might have been ecstasy and might have been shame.
But it was good. He felt wanted. He felt cared for. He felt connected.
When it was over—and Chris struggled to remember how to breathe, how to open his squeezed-shut eyes, how to disentangle his fingers from Will’s hair—Will climbed back up beside him. He nuzzled at his chin, at his neck. Chris’s lungs heaved as his breath began to steady. Will still panted.
“Better?” Will whispered, cracking the air, breaking the spell, ending the dream and letting reality pour back in all at once.
Chris shuddered. “Y-yes. Fine,” he said. Lied. All of his insides, head to toe, awakened as a mass of writhing snakes. If he actually took a moment to think about what had just happened, he felt a burn of shame that threatened to incinerate him. His pounding heart and shortness of breath and the pleasant tingle in his fingers all felt unbearably indecent.
The sound of the clock on the mantle was raucous in the quiet. Tick, tick, tick. Chris tried to brush back his hair. There was sweat on his forehead. His entire middle felt warm and languid underneath the nest of serpents that burrowed through him. Tick, tick.
Will’s fingers twined with his.
Will laid his head against his shoulder.
Will sighed sweetly.
Something had to be wrong with that clock. It couldn’t possibly be so loud.
Will whispered, “Ah, Chris….”
Tick, tick, tick.
Chris surged to his feet, shaking Will off. “I—I should be going,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I… it’s late. Work tomorrow should be—we have a case, I told you that, I—” He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I should go.”
“Chris,” Will said, and when Chris turned, Will looked up at him with such open sincerity it pulled at his heart, making him sway on his feet. “You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “I like doing that. Especially—I’m just happy to be with you. You don’t need to feel like you owe me anything.”
Of course he didn’t. He hadn’t asked for—and he didn’t have any desire to—and this was all quite—
He swallowed hard.
“It’s fine,” he said quickly. “It’s… it’s just late. Sleep well, Will, I—it’s late, is all.”
He’d never left the Cartwright flat so quickly, nor felt as if devils were so hot on his heels.
livia sipped thoughtfully at her coffee, and then made a face. “Right,” she said, setting it back on the table and reaching for the sugar. “Billy Boothman, Cyril ‘Snake’ Hilden, and Maggie Padmore are our best shots, I think. Mister Kellystone owed each of them exorbitant amounts, and they’re all especially rough lenders.”
Chris weaved into his notebook as he drank his morning tea as slowly as he could. It looked to be a long day of hackneys all over the city, chasing and grilling lenders. He wanted to enjoy the quiet moment as long as possible before they went haring off. The biting wind of the last week had abated, and while the day outside was almost unpleasantly warm, it always seemed the perfect temperature inside Olivia’s office.
“Hm, and I would add Poppy Diddlehops to the list,” Olivia said. She tapped her delicate stirring spoon against the edge of her coffee cup. Ice cubes bobbed along the surface. “Her reputation is almost lamb-like, but she certainly was trying to get her money back from him, if his personal records were any indication. I can’t help but think that anyone with a name so thoroughly ridiculous and a reputation so embarrassingly pure will need to prove something before she’s taken very seriously in the community.”
Chris gave her a flat look. “Really?”
She blinked innocently. “I’m entirely serious, Christopher. Never underestimate the capacity for evil in someone who feels underestimated and unappreciated.”
Chris shook his head, but he weaved the name and what Olivia had said beside it. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen horrors from someone who seemed incapable of it. He set his teacup down; it was mostly empty. “Do you still think this will be easy?”
“I expect to have it all tied up before sunset on Eadday.” Olivia raised the coffee to her lips, tried it, and nodded approvingly. “You’ll get to enjoy the weekend off. Spend it with a gentleman caller, perhaps.” She fluttered her lashes, and he started. Visions of the night before danced in his mind’s eye. Olivia couldn’t know how close he was dancing to the fire’s edge on that front. This was… surely just her normal teasing.
He coughed into his hand, trying to dislodge the lump of anxiety that had settled into his throat. “Yes. Well. I—we should really get the day started, then, to, er, to match your quixotic target.”
Her eyes glimmered playfully as he jumped to his feet and began gathering the tea set and placing it onto the trolley. “It’s nice to see you showing such enthusiasm for your work, Mister Buckley,” she teased. “But you usually so enjoy lingering over tea!”
He felt heat in his ears. “I—no, ah, that is, I’m quite finished.”
“I see,” she said, sitting back and cradling her iced coffee with both hands. “Well, far be it from me to suggest you might just be avoiding an uncomfortable conversation!”
She chuckled to herself while he rattled the trolley back to its customary place, trying not to think about Will. He had just dumped out the rest of his tea when he was interrupted by a knock at the front door. He paused, craning his neck.
Olivia sighed. “Another walk-in, I suppose.” She set aside her coffee to gather her copious fuchsia skirts around her. “I’ll have to send the poor sod off to the station. With my luck, it will be a far more interesting case!”
She hopped to her feet and swept past him to the door. He shook his head, taking his time rearranging the tea set.
He only noticed the long stretch of silence when it was broken. “I…” Olivia said, and then cleared her throat in a way that sounded almost self-conscious.
Olivia? Self-conscious?
He stepped back.
Maris stood in the doorway.
His instinct was to flee. They’d both borne the brunt of her wrath since the day of the Livingstone trial, but he was the real target of it. Olivia was guilty by association; Maris assumed that she had encouraged him to push Will to testify. But he was the one who had pulled the trigger on the whole affair, as far as she was concerned. Christopher Buckley had single-handedly gutted the police’s greatest weapon. Nothing Olivia, or Chris, or even Will had said seemed to redirect the heat of her ire.
But her familiar look of consternation wasn’t in evidence. Instead, she avoided Olivia’s eyes and stared down at the ground. Her hands were curled into fists, and her jaw was bulging so hard that she looked like a chipmunk.
“Maris,” he murmured.
“Maris,” Olivia echoed.
An uncomfortable moment of silence fell around them like a shroud, and then Maris’s gaze snapped up. She looked Olivia in the face. Her face was furiously red, making her freckles stand out.
“It’s bloody warm out here. Are you going to just stand there or are you going to invite me in?” she demanded. “I hate to think that this is how you treat all your clients!”
Chris saw Olivia pause. He could practically see the gears working inside of her head. “You’re not a client,” she said. She made it at least half a question.
“I—of course I’m not, I just—” Maris lifted her balled fist as if she was about to throw a punch. Olivia raised hands in a gesture of surrender and took half a step back. Maris growled. “Just let me in, Faraday! We need—we need to talk!”
Olivia clearly wanted to say something more. Either press for details, or perhaps even stroke Maris’s pronounced discomfort. Revel in it. But after a moment, she stepped aside and swept her arm out in an exaggerated gesture of welcome. “By all means,” she said mildly, and Maris moved like she was escaping a band of roving thugs.
Olivia closed the door, and they all stood for a moment, the air hanging thick with tension among the three of them.
“Hello,” said Olivia, all cordial politeness.
Maris broke. Her shoulders slumped, and she raised her hands to hide her face. “Oh, Gods,” she said, and there was an edge of hysteria in her northern brogue. “Mother Deorwynn, Olivia, I need your help. I don’t know what else to do. It’s Em.”
From where he stood, Chris was treated to the strange spectacle of watching Olivia Faraday look truly affected. Shock, triumph, confusion, and then, finally, real concern moved across her face. She took a step towards Maris. Paused. Then laid a hand on her shoulder. For the first time, Chris noted that despite their vast discrepancies in build, they were about the same height. Two tiny women, each with more conviction and strength in their pinky fingers than he had in his entire body.
“What happened?” Olivia asked.
Maris swallowed. Her shoulders heaved, just once. And then she calmly lowered her hands, clenched her jaw, and the professional, tough little bulldog of a policewoman was back. “She missed a check-in,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly clear, and Chris could pretend he didn’t hear the touch of something ragged at the edges. “She always—I damn well insist that she—hells, I don’t like her out there! Between his sister”—she indicated Chris—“and Doctor bloody Livingstone, the place is a lightning rod for trouble! She goes on and on about your mother’s blasted safeguards, how unwelcoming the place is to outsiders, but I don’t like it! I’ve never liked it.”
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