The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds (9 page)

“Good to see you, Will.” They clasped hands. Marsh had a brawler’s hands: thick fingers with round puckered knuckles and a solid grip. Will’s hands were more slender. Their handshake creased the thin white scars that spiderwebbed Will’s palm. Not painful, but unpleasant.

“And you’n all, mate.”

The other man cocked an eyebrow. Marsh rankled when people adopted a more common mode around him. At university, he’d worked to achieve a more refined diction of his own.

“Apologies,” said Will, slipping back into his normal enunciations. He had, perhaps, laid it on a bit. “I’d forgotten. Force of habit, you know.”

Marsh grinned. He nodded at the teapot and empty cup. “Buy you something stronger?”

Will shook his head. “I’d settle for just a slice of lemon, honestly. You’d think there’s a war.” Will sighed theatrically. “Alas. I’ll soldier on.”

“Still not drinking, eh? It’s comforting to know you still cling to your affectations.”

“Your billfold can thank old granddad for my peculiarities.”

“Every one? The mind reels.”

Will laughed. “It does indeed.”

“And how’s your brother?” asked Marsh, taking a seat.

“His Grace has made something of a holy terror of himself in the House of Lords. Fancies himself a crusader these days.”

“Socialist?” Marsh looked at him in mild alarm. “Hasn’t gone pink, has he?”

“Oh, no. He’s not a Bolshie.” Will dismissed the concern, waving his long fingers in a languid circle. “Merely decided he’s the champion of the common man. Taken the plight of the Spaniards to heart, or some such.”

At the mention of Spain, Marsh looked rather serious for a moment. “Good for him. Someone ought.”

“A bit late, I fear. I’ll relay your greetings, yes?” A formality, of course.

“Please do,” said Marsh. He sipped at his pint, eyes scanning the room behind Will.

“Well then,” said Will, “to the matter at hand.”

Marsh continued to stare past Will’s shoulder.

“I said,” Will repeated, “to the matter at hand.”

“What?” Marsh looked like he’d just been poleaxed.

Will dangled one long arm over the back of his chair and chanced a look. Marsh’s attention had landed on the freckled coquette. Aha. “Delightful girl.”

“Hmm?” Marsh tried to hide the flush in his cheeks by taking a long draw on his pint. “I suppose she is.”

With casual disinterest, Will asked, “Shall I wave her over?”

“No, no,” said Marsh, shaking his head. But then he fixed Will with a sly look. “You don’t fool me. I’ll wager you were planning to invite her to the snug for a private drink, weren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” said Will in mock indignation. “Aubrey would have a proper fit.”

“Oh?”

“She’s a charming little turtledove, make no mistake. But Aubrey has developed an alarming tendency to frown upon—ahem—dalliances.”

Marsh opened his mouth slightly and tipped his head back. “Ah . . .”

“He believes in the dignity of the working classes—plight of the working man and all that. But not in their breeding. Can’t wait for me to settle down with somebody perfectly dreadful as fits my station.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes.”

“Next you’ll tell me he’s pushing you to join some perfectly respectable profession and give up the gadabout’s life. As also fits your station.”

“I’d be a perfectly respectable captain right now if not for these flat feet. Centuries of inbreeding, you know.”

“What will you do?”

“Aubrey has made noise of endowing a charity. Perhaps I’ll join his crusade.”

“Doesn’t sound like your line of work, Will.”

“No. Still, what can we do? Now, you said you wanted to pick my brain about something. My brain, addled and inbred as ’tis, is at your disposal.”

“Ah. Well, then, speaking of your grandfather—” Marsh lowered his voice. “—I have some questions about his hobby.”

Will scooted his chair closer to the fire to ward off a sudden chill. He had unwillingly shared his grandfather’s “hobby” for over a decade before the wretched old warlock finally drank himself to death.

“I . . . I don’t follow you, Pip.” An unconvincing deflection, and Will knew it.

“Back at university, you read from a book . . .”

“Ah.” Will sighed, knowing he couldn’t dodge the issue. “The Bodleian. I’d rather hoped you were too pissed to remember that night.”

“I nearly was. I’d discounted it as a drunken memory.”

“Better to leave it that way. It was years ago. Ancient history. Why bring it up now?”

Marsh fell quiet for a moment. A distant look danced across his eyes as he watched some private memory unfold. “Recently I saw something . . . strange.”

Will shook his head. “The world is a strange place, Pip. I’m sorry, but I truly can’t help you. It’s better for everybody if you forget anything I might have said or done in my careless youth.”

Marsh sipped at his pint. When Marsh spoke again, Will could feel that coiled spring pushing a new intensity into his voice. “I wouldn’t have brought this up if it wasn’t important.”

Will knew he’d never get Marsh to drop the subject. He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting off a sudden weariness. When he opened his
eyes, Marsh was studying the scars on his hand. Will poured himself another cup of tea as a distraction. “Very well. What do you want to know?”

“That thing you can do. Is it dangerous?”

The question was so absurd, so unexpected, that it caught Will by surprise. The dread and tension he’d felt came out in one loud, barking laugh. The shopgirls turned to stare at him before resuming their quiet conversation.

“Dangerous? That’s your question? If you’re seeking a new hobby, Pip, you’re better off juggling rabid badgers on a street corner. You might even make a few quid.”

But the jovial tone didn’t lighten Marsh’s countenance. He spoke again, more quietly. “That hobby . . . could it kill somebody? Hypothetically.”

“
Kill
somebody?” Will thought back to his grandfather and his dimly remembered father. “Yes, hypothetically.”

“Could that be done deliberately?”

“I dislike the direction this conversation has taken.”

“I’m not asking how. Just if.”

“In the strictest sense? Yes, it’s possible. But nobody would ever
do
it. Regardless of the circumstances.” In response to Marsh’s quizzical expression, Will elaborated. “There are rules about this sort of thing. It’s rather complicated. Suffice it to say that invoking the Eidolons to kill a human being would be unwise to a degree I cannot express. Taboo does not begin to cover it.”

Marsh’s fingertip spiraled through the beads of condensation on his glass, pulling them together into a single droplet that slithered down to the coaster. He pressed one hand to his jaw, cracked his knuckles, then did the same with the other hand. It meant he was thinking.

“You must forgive my directness, Pip, but just what are you dancing around?”

Marsh nursed his beer. He set it down, centering it on a little cork circle with great attention. Will concentrated to pull Marsh’s voice from the pub din.

“You understand this can’t go beyond the two of us.”

In spite of his better judgment, Will was intrigued. He agreed with a solemn dip of the head.

“What would you say if you heard tell of a man bursting into flames? Spontaneously. No warning.”

Will stared at him for a long moment. He refilled his cup. He took a long sip, thinking. The tea had gone tepid.

“Fire, you say?”

“Like a Roman candle.”

Now this
was
fascinating. Macabre, but fascinating. Will felt like a character in a penny dreadful. “How extraordinary. This is the strange thing you witnessed?”

Marsh said nothing, his face blank.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Will, “but it’s rather baroque, don’t you think? If I wanted someone dead, there are many easier ways to go about it.” He took a sip of cold tea before continuing. “Besides which, it’s irrelevant. The fact that we’re still here tells me it wasn’t done by a, ah, hobbyist.” Will disliked using the proper term,
warlock
, in casual conversation.

Marsh looked intrigued by this, but Will didn’t elaborate. “That’s a no, then.”

“If you’re asking whether I could be wrong, then yes. But that’s my opinion.” Will shrugged. “Such as it is.”

A melancholy half smile creased Marsh’s face. “It’s top-drawer, Will. Cheers, mate.”

“Very good, then.” Will tapped his teacup to Marsh’s pint. They drank in companionable silence.

Marsh’s eyes fixed on the amber depths of his half-empty pint as though scrying. He doodled on the table in streaks of condensation and spilled tea. Will recognized the posture of a man grappling with an unsolved riddle.

He’d had a bad tooth once. The ache swelled until it followed him everywhere, intruded on every facet of his waking life, ceaselessly demanded his attention until he solved the problem and had the
accursed thing removed. Unanswered questions rankled Marsh in the same way.

“Mmm.” Marsh set his glass down quickly, foam trickling down his chin. “One last thing, before I forget.”

“Another mystery? Aren’t you quite the sphinx to night. I may come to regret it later, but I confess I can hardly (no worries, love)—” The frumpier shopgirl knocked Will’s chair when she stood to make her way to the ladies’ convenience. “—contain my curiosity. Do tell.”

“It may be a while, but I might have something in a few months. Would you be willing to take a look at something, provide your expert opinion on it?”

“That depends, Pip. Look at what, exactly?”

“Better if I don’t say right now.” Marsh shrugged. “It may turn out to be nothing. Are you interested?”

Part of Will wanted to recoil from the offer. The old training, the indoctrination, rose to the fore. Discussing these matters with outsiders was never done, under any circumstances. But he was torn. It would be a welcome respite from working for Aubrey. And he’d already broken ranks, back at Oxford; the damage was long done. A little consultation. What harm could it do?

Will made his decision. “I am, as ever, your most humble and obedient servant.”

In a far lighter tone, Marsh said, “Excuse me a moment?”

Will nodded. His friend went off to use the loo, sidling through the crowd that had swelled over the past half hour. Will cocked his arm over the back of his chair. The coquette’s friend hadn’t yet returned.

“We’ve been abandoned,” he said.

The woman in the cloche frowned. “Hmm?”

“I said,” he repeated over the din, “that our friends have abandoned us.”

“Oh.” The barest of smiles flitted across her face. Her eyes went back to watching the room.

Will sighed. He tried again. “May I join you?”

She didn’t say anything. He joined her. She frowned.

Marsh returned, looking puzzled and then startled when he saw Will sitting with her.

“It’s just that my dashing companion and I—” He indicated Marsh with a little flourish of the wrist. “—have been discussing the most peculiar matters. Cosmic matters, no less. But now that’s finished and a little light conversation would be the perfect aperitif before supper.”

She cocked an eyebrow at them both, sizing them up.

“Oh, I know, he isn’t much to look at.” Marsh glared at him. The woman had a musical laugh, like a carillonneur practicing the scales.

Will continued, “But that’s his modus operandi, you see. Lulling people into a false security. He’s quite the devil, I assure you.” He tapped the side of his nose. “The PM’s right-hand man.”

“Does every champion of the Crown blush so freely?”

“Au contraire
. That’s how a discerning eye knows he’s the true item.” Will winked. “Strength through humility, you know. What you’re seeing is a rare grace.”

“I see.” She nodded slowly, lips pursed in exaggerated reverence. “How impressive.”

“William Beauclerk.” He offered his hand to her across the table.

“Olivia Turnbull.” She brushed his fingers with a perfunctory tug. Will slumped in his chair. It took a blunt rejection to sting so sharply. Typically he was more successful with the fairer sex. Typically he usually didn’t sound like such a toff when he tried.
Blast
.

The brunt of her gaze fell on Marsh, eyebrows arched in amusement. “Does your crimson companion have a name?”

“Raybould Marsh. Um.” Marsh held out his hand. She took it. “Just Marsh, if you prefer.”

“Liv. Delighted.”

“Likewise,” said Marsh, looking poleaxed again.