He rang the attendant and instructed he was not to be disturbed. He settled into the upholstered couch, rested his head against the window, and promptly fell into a light sleep, the kind he’d taught himself during the war—restful, but awake enough to keep dreams away and stay aware of the noise around him.
He woke fully as the conductor called out their stop in York, and a soft knock came on his door.
Wesley reached forward and pulled aside the curtain, and there was Sebastian, framed by the glass door. The man had a good tailor, whether he shopped on Saville Row or in Spain or bloody Avalon, because Wesley was still not convinced he wasn’t a witch. His long wool coat was heavier than Wesley wore for fall, but its close fit accented the lean lines of Sebastian’s body, and the soft brown, paired with the plaid flat cap and warm scarf, complemented the autumn shades of his eyes and hair.
He was so obnoxiously attractive, and just as obnoxiously certain Wesley was afraid of him. The man never needed to know how Wesley’s body nowrelaxedat the sight, as if some part of him—almost certainly the atavistic part that didn’t want to be onfucking fire—now permanently associated Sebastian with safety.
They got a taxi at the station for the hour’s drive to the village. “Up from London, eh?” the cab driver said, as they drove down narrow, bumpy country roads. “We’re getting murders here like we’re a big city like yours. They still haven’t caught the blighter that did that poor fellow in the Shambles in.”
Wesley opened his mouth, an irritableI’m not paying you to talkon the tip of his tongue. But his gaze stole sideways. Sebastian looked sad, and tired, and like he felt personally responsible for some nonmagical bloke pushing up the daisies in York. Perhaps that’s what happened when one had a family legacy: the weight stayed on one’s shoulders regardless.
Maybe, against all odds, he and Sebastian had something in common.
Wesley bit his reply back, settling against the seat instead and letting Sebastian engage in pointless chatter with the driver about the weather (rainy), the day (gray), and the city of York (old). He normally only entertained complete silence on a car ride—or, if he were being truly honest, the sound of his own voice—but listening to Sebastian’s soft accent and warm words was, against all odds, not entirely off-putting.
Wesley had them dropped off on the village’s outskirts, because for all Sebastian could hide them from magic, he couldn’t hide them from gossip, and no one needed to know the master of the manor was visiting. It was only about a mile to the gates, and Sebastian had agreed they should walk.
Long grass brushed Wesley’s shins as they trekked in the road’s green shoulder next to the short stone wall that bordered the farm next to the manor. The same green grass covered the small rolling hills of the farm, and Wesley couldn’t stop himself from automatically looking them over.
The lambs are in the barn, you sentimental twit,he chastised himself.If there even are any lambs to be seen in the fall.
He wanted another cigarette, but he gritted his teeth and left the pack in his pocket. There would be imported cigars in the manor; he could pretend he wanted one, not needed it.
“Zhang said we would be staying at a manor of yours?” Sebastian said, making it a question.
“Shepherd Hall,” Wesley said, answering automatically as his feelings continued to jumble. “The first Viscount Fine had it built on the ruins of an abbey. Fair warning, I don’t visit often—”ever“—so the electricity’s been turned off.”
“Does it have a fireplace?”
The painting of San Juan came to Wesley’s mind, the bright sun over the cream-colored sand, palm trees, and turquoise ocean. “Several fireplaces,” he said dryly. “We’ll be perfectly warm, stop worrying.”
“I wasn’tworrying.”
A clear lie from the thin-blooded tropical flower. And obviously not endearing at all. “I’m not sure what the status of supplies is, but I have a car in the manor’s garage that we can sneak out without alerting the whole village that someone is staying at the manor.”
“A car?” Sebastian repeated, and Wesley was pretty sure he heard a note of genuine enthusiasm. “Will your groundskeeper not notice us, though?”
Wesley’s throat tightened. “Mr. Fitzgerald passed away last spring. The land around us is tended by farmers, but there’s no one at Shepherd Hall right now.”
A butler, Wesley could manage without, but an estate like Shepherd Hall needed a groundskeeper. He braced himself for the inevitable:it’s been six months, why the hell haven’t you replaced him?
“Oh,” Sebastian said, more gently. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“I—why would you say that?” Wesley said in surprise, the words tumbling out. “He was only a groundskeeper.”
“But aren’t we here because you care for your staff?”
“Well—I mean, I certainly don’t want any of them immolated—”
“And this is a lovely countryside,” Sebastian said. “Gardeners are treasures, yes? They care for the plants and flowers, and make things beautiful for the rest of us to enjoy.”
Wesley’s gaze stole to the hills of the farm, barely visible in the dim light, and he didn’t respond.
They pulled out torches when it got too dark to see—flashlights, Sebastian insisted on calling them, because he had a Spanish father but was still hopelessly American—and found their way over the river bridge and up to the manor’s stone and iron gates. Wesley unlocked the padlock, locking up behind them.
A light rain had begun, dotting Wesley’s neck as they trudged up the driveway, gravel crunching under their feet. It was in many ways a relief to arrive at night, when he wouldn’t have to see the state of the manor’s neglected gardens.
The driveway was another quarter-mile, but eventually they passed the copse of short but thick trees that framed the end of the driveway, and stepped onto the drive that circled the hedges and giant fountain in front of the manor. Wesley could almost see the ghosts of the cars that had brought the guests to his mother’s funeral, could almost hear their voices drifting over the grounds.
