Page 110 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

“A little bit, yes.”

Lark hums. His lips twitch. “I will ask you again tomorrow then.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lark

When I emerge from the bathroom some time later, Dante is sitting cross-legged in the centre of the bed. I smell coffee and bread; he has a plate resting by his knee with toast and some fruit that I am sure is already overripe.

“Coffee?” I ask. “I thought we were going to sleep.”

He shrugs one shoulder. He has a book open by his other knee and his eyes are still scanning the words as he speaks. “I’ll still sleep. I found juice in your fridge, too. Should be good.”

“The coffee is fine.”

I sit next to him, leaning over to look at the book he has found. I have a handful of them scattered around the flat, though I do not tend to read often. I spend most of my evenings—have spent most of my evenings—doing very little after I close the café. Mostly, I let the old radio play. I like the sound of voices in the background, and I find TVs a little overwhelming.

“What is that?” I ask. I take a sip of my coffee and try not to pull a face. It is not a beverage I have really grown accustomed to. I much prefer floral teas and their subtle flavours.

“Found it over there,” Dante says, waving vaguely at the room. “Wouldn’t think you’d need it.”

He closes the book and shows me the cover. It is an old, thin book on keeping a vegetable garden. “Someone left it in the café,” I say. “I was interested in finding out how humans grow their plants.”

Dante chuckles and leans past me to set the book on the bedside table. He offers me the plate and I eat with him, both of us sitting quietly, shoulder to shoulder.

“It was a trick question,” Dante says.

“What was?”

“When I asked you to tell me what my favourite coffee is. It was—I knew you weren’t going to know. I’d never let you know.”

Ah. That. The conversation feels as though it took place so long ago. I reach over and touch one of his still damp curls.

“And now?”

“You don’t like coffee at all, do you?”

“No.”

Dante laughs faintly. “Yeah, I don’t like it much either. Not the fancy stuff. I liked the really sweet caramel ones you made, with the cream and the toppings and—” He shakes his head. “I just drink instant at home. I only really want it for the caffeine, so it seems a bit pointless splashing out on stuff I don’t like.”

“Instant…” I clear my throat and feel my cheeks are warm. “I confess, I only opened the café because I thought it would draw you in.”

“You… what?”

Is he angry? I dare not press the bond to find out. “I—When I first saw you, you were in a café. With Ophelia. And after that, too. I-I thought…”

Dante starts laughing. He laughs and laughs, leaning against my shoulder as though he cannot support himself. I find myself laughing, too. Of course I should have simply asked him. Got to know him in a normal, expected way.

“I like the café, though,” he says finally. “I like that everyone hangs out here. I like that you’re here.”

I kiss his forehead. “I like that you’re here, too.” There is much more I want to speak with him about, but now he yawns, and I can sense that we do not have much more time before either of us is too tired to be coherent. I set the plate aside and between us, and we shuffle under the duvet.

Dante sighs when I slide an arm around his waist. He rolls over so we’re face-to-face.

“I’m glad it worked,” he says. “I’m glad we made it.”

“So am I.”