Silas’s dirty cheeks coloured. ‘Thank you, darling.’
Pitch dropped his gaze as his heart fluttered like a box full of sparrows. ‘Right, I need you to stop looking at me like that, and stop speaking so prettily, or we shall have some issues. I’m, ah…I’m a little parched, if you understand me. And this is not the time nor place for it.’
Silas, ever the sensible chap, released him and stepped back. ‘Of course, though I’m not sure I can do much about the looks and sweet talk, but I’ll try my hardest.’ He gestured for Pitch to follow him into the forest. A curious place, even for one such as Pitch who’d seen his fair share of curiosities. There was an acorn tree, if such a tree grew roses instead of nuts, and a magnolia with its emerald green leaves the same but with clumps of red berries instead of flowers. Creatures shaped like praying mantis for the most part save for their padded oversized feet, burrowed about in the fronds of bright red staghorn ferns. Vines weaved their way through all the varied and strange assortment of flora.
Once they were deep within the glitter and glow of the strange foliage, Silas stopped and began to drag off his coat. ‘You need some clothes. I should have offered a long time before now, I apologise. Here take this.’
With the removal of his unflattering russet coat it became very evident that the ankou was also rather parched. Pitch coughed and drew his gaze back up above waist height. He took the coat, and held it between two fingers, holding it at arm’s length.
‘Not only is this coat awful, it is far too big for me.’
‘I know. That is why I’m giving you my shirt.’ The ankou was already unbuttoning himself, already exposing the curls of dark hair upon his chest that Pitch was so fond of tangling his fingers in. He peeled the damp material off one shoulder, revealing the curve of muscle beneath, and that was the limit of what Pitch could take.
‘Gods,’ he muttered, and turned his back.
Silas’s soft chuckle teased at his ears. The ankou was done with easy embarrassment it seemed. ‘The shirt will fit you better, we can roll up the sleeves.’
‘Just hurry it along will you.’ Pitch kept his gaze fixed on the filthy length of the coat, and looked for a diversion in conversation. ‘If they did not do enough already, the angels took your Inverness from me.’
‘You had the coat with you?’
‘I did.’ He bit at his lip. ‘I put it on when I woke that morning in the bower. It was such a beautiful coat…you looked magnificent in it.’
‘It was a beautiful coat, and all the more precious for being a gift from you, but it can be replaced. You cannot.’
Pitch pressed his lips, and his thighs, together. This conversation was going entirely the wrong way for comfort. ‘We need to discuss what is to be done now. How we intend to retrieve the simurgh. They have taken it to the Crystal Palace, but I’ll be damned if we are flying there.’
He laughed, non too genuinely as his conflicted thoughts on the wildness had him tilting between leaving the bastard thing behind, and doing anything at all in his power to fill that space inside himself once more.
The ankou was silent, save for the sounds of his undressing.
‘Here you go.’
Pitch turned. Silas held out the shirt. He was now half-naked and absolutely divine, despite his haggard state. But Pitch’s desire simmered beneath confusion.
‘Did you not hear me?’ He exchanged the shirt for the coat, which Silas drew on quickly. It seemed to take all his attention to do so for he merely nodded.
‘And you have no thoughts on what we should do?’ Pitch slid his arms into the shirt and Silas moved to assist him, standing in behind him.
‘I think we should leave. I want you gone from this place. These boots will aid us, Old Bess said they will return to her. I’m sure I can find the entranceway again. And I have a cloak of his too, I concealed it here in the forest, the tower’s walls were so rough, it was getting caught too often and I was sure I’d fall because of a snagged hem.’
Now this was a conversation Pitch did not understand. He wriggled out of Silas’s reach, rolling his sleeve in sharp, angry snatches. ‘You want us to leave before we find the simurgh?’
Silas would not meet his eye, which immediately had Pitch’s nerves on edge. ‘I don’t think we should attempt such a thing without assistance here. It is far too dangerous, and I’ll not have you imperilled again. Come on, this way.’
The ankou stomped off, heavy-footed in his chunky boots, and Pitch had no option but to follow or be left behind. He frowned as he made his way, grateful that the candy pink grass remained here, shorter in the shade of the overhead canopy but just as soft against his bare feet. The fact that Silas had not gathered him up and fussed over his lack of footwear only raised Pitch’s concerns that the ankou was distracted, and keeping something from him.
‘Silas, what is going on?’ The ankou’s shirt was practically a shift on him, hanging to mid-thigh and grossly overlarge, but he relished it as well as any favoured corset.
‘I’m looking for the cloak I told you about.’ He did not slow. ‘It’s just over here if I recall correctly. It is a concealer. I really should have worn it up the tower but I was beside myself. Perhaps if we both walk beneath it, it will work for us both.’
A few steps later and Silas stopped, digging his boot into what looked like a moss covered conch shell. Pitch made it to his side just as Silas drew some blush-pink material from a cavity from beneath the rock-shell. There was a fur trim there too, brown, or perhaps once white. The ankou’s eyes went to him, but only for a moment, eyelids flaring briefly as he took in Pitch’s new attire.
‘Christ…Pitch…you look…’ Silas blew out a breath, diverting his gaze, and tending to the cloak with studied intensity. ‘Never mind.’
‘I hope the word is breath-taking.’
‘There is more than one word and they’ll all remain unsaid for the sake of our trousers.’ His laugh was a little unsteady. ‘Right then. I suppose I will take us back the way I came, and the boots shall do the rest. I’m hoping so, we didn’t discuss the method for leaving the cockaigne.’
