“Oh, well, I hadn’t really thought…” she said, frowning.
“No, I don’t suppose you have,” he answered before she could continue. “Either way, I have to plan for myself, Lib. You know that. Mal knows it too, on the odd occasions where he stops admiring his own genius to consider reality. And I told him so.”
“Well, in his defense,” Libba said wryly, “reality is a pillock.”
It diffused his pique, getting a startled little chuckle out of him and a shake of his head. His eyes softened and his shoulders too. He had been easier since they’d come back. He had been less bunched up about the spine.
He shook his head and leaned back against the bar, reminding himself to enjoy her presence while he had it. He took note of her hair, messy and hastily pinned, her dress, even herodd, little shoes. He made it a memory, just in case May came faster than expected.
“Isn’t she just?” he said with a sigh. “Besides, I can’t imagine either of you staying on permanently with the Rest as home. It’s probably fine right now, but it’s only been a few months. How long before one of you suffocates Rhys in his sleep?”
“Hattie has certainly already considered it,” Libba replied with a smirk. “I did too after I saw him traipsing around the house in a pair of harem trousers from my costume chest. I still haven’t gotten them back.”
“And you never will,” Jasper intoned. “And just think, you’re only a quarter of the way through.”
Libba blinked at him as though she hadn’t considered that and then frowned. “Yes, all right,” she said, crossing her arms. “Just because you and Mal are in mutual pucker doesn’t mean I need to be as well.”
“Perhaps I have a solution for you,” Jasper said, leaning closer, as though a single drunken patron gave the first toss what they were saying. It was better to be safe, he reasoned. And besides, he liked the jasmine hair oil she used. It was much nicer than stale ale. “An outfitted, comfortable flat, ready to claim for your own.”
“Oh, is that so?” she answered, eyes flicking down to the fizzing pitcher of ale as though it were the thing speaking rather than Jasper himself. “At what cost?”
“I’m still working that out,” he said, straightening. “But if the trade is intriguing, I know I should continue forth on my current line of thinking.”
“It is intriguing,” she allowed. “But not a guaranteed sell.”
“No? Haven’t you always wanted a place of your own?”
She pursed her lips. “Of course I have. And now I have the Odalisque, don’t I?”
“You do,” he allowed. “But half your troupe is living there. Hardly all your own. In fact, it’s probably even more chaotic than the Rest. Am I right?”
“Rarely,” she answered, though her gaze had sharpened a little. “Let’s just go back to the table before that ale goes flat.”
“Fine,” he said. “So long as you’re intrigued.”
But he was in a much better mood all the way back to where he’d come from in the first place.
Because he knew Libba Lennox well enough to know that intrigue was all he really needed to tip the scales.
Chapter Three
By the weehours of the morning, only Libba, Jasper, and the Travellers were left.
And between them, a plate of dry pickles in exchange for their continued tenure past closing time.
“Eat them,” the barman had said. “They don’t have a jar to go back into.”
Honestly, it wasn’t a bad pairing with the ale. At least in Libba’s estimation.
The young girl who had won the drinking game was asleep on a booth bench, her head resting on a woman’s knee. The elderly man who’d lost it was staring at her with a bleary look of admiration and occasionally repeating while slurring, “I’m moudin’ fur a drop of tea.”
“No tea,” the others would chant at him and then enjoy a series of yawns.
And then he’d frown and mutter, “Shay joug, the lot o’ ya.”
Libba watched it all with a lazy smile.
If Hattie had been there, she’d have been trying to interpret, and it would ruin the poetry, but the poor thing was either vomiting or eating vile things at all hours these past weeks and had been one of the first to depart.
