Page 74 of The Trick of It

“Rhys,” she whined, wriggling against him in an attempt to flip over and look into his face, which she managed after a fashion. “I am thirsty. And naked.”

“What a coincidence,” he said, not releasing her. “Did you really think I’d let you sneak off without a kiss good morning?”

“Oh, but my breath,” she started to protest, only to sigh in defeat as he took a long, sweet press of the lips, anyway.

He kept kissing her, gently and without urgency, despite their unclothed state, until she relented to the inevitable and kissed him back.

“Better,” he said, loosening his grip a little. “Now why don’t I fetch you some water and we can waste the entire day in here, without getting dressed at all?”

She sighed, burrowing her face against his bare chest. “As lovely as that sounds,” she murmured against his skin, “we already told the entire house we were going to the Twittens today and that we’d bring back gifts for Merlin.”

“Ah, what idiot did that?” he said with a frown, remembering those words leaving his own lips. “Fel rhech mownt pot jam.”

“Like a fart in a jar,” Seph agreed. “I remember that one. And perhaps. A little. But we do need to order the shoes. If I’m getting two identical pairs, I want them to be worth the cost.”

“All shoes are identical,” he said somberly, “when you are a man.”

Reluctantly, he released her, admitting that breakfast did sound worthwhile and it was best to get this venture into town over with, lest they give up another morning, further into the delightful discoveries of their burgeoning affair.

Besides, he could smell bacon.

Rhys went down first, letting Seph pretend to fuss over her hair to give her the plausible excuse to follow a bit afterward, as though they did not wake together and had not been in any sort of carnal congress the night before. Unnecessary, he thought, as the majority of the household thought they were married, but it was what she wanted, and just now, Rhys couldn’t think of anything more important than giving that woman what she wanted.

“I just think it ought to be written down, is all,” Nini Winterstone’s voice announced before he’d even rounded the corner into the dining room. “Any good ringmaster knows you put it in writing if you don’t want your set to devolve into crying and misplaced grease paint.”

Merlin was watching her with a bemused little smile, like he was familiar with this argument but still did not understand it. “If you feel we must.”

“I do,” she said. “I do. And I’ll do it. I’ve better penmanship than you, anyhow.”

“Madam, the cat has better penmanship than I,” Merlin replied, covering a little wheezing laugh with his kerchief. “I believe Father Wheeler has volunteered to go first. Isn’t that right, Father? Ah! Mr. Caradoc. Good morrow. Where is your lovely companion?”

“Arguing with a pile of hairpins,” Rhys said, grinning at the assembled motley and rounding the table to the two empty seats they’d used the night before. “I do not envy the fairer sex.”

“Perhaps you should, Mr. Caradoc,” said Madame Ivanova, eyeing his brightly-dyed yellow waistcoat and contrasting burgundy jacket. “I think you’d have a taste for preening, if given the opportunity.”

“Oh, I do have a taste for it,” he told her candidly. “I’ll wear kohl on the night of our performance and you will admire my steady hand, my good woman, or I’ll eat my hat.”

“That’s one of his tricks,” Seph’s voice told them, her body following the sound at a brisk clip with the swish of her skirts. She was wearing lilac and pearly beige today. Always two colors. “Eating his hat.”

“Hush,” he tutted. “My wife is always trying to give away my secrets.”

She flushed, her elegant, little throat flexing at the word, and avoided his grin as she found her place next to him.

At the end of the table, Father Wheeler cleared his throat. “I do not have a … well, a performance set, as Mrs. Winterstone put it. I am not a performer. Not really.”

“You are a vicar,” said Master Yuri through a mouthful of bread. “There is no truer showman.”

The priest chuckled, coloring a little at the cheeks. “That may be true, in fact,” he allowed. “What I meant to say is that my healing sessions are typically … erm … without formal structure. In fact, I would prefer to meet with our host in private if he allows it.”

“I told you already,” Merlin said, his fingers clicking around inside his little bowl of ice chips, “I don’t want you to heal me.”

“And I don’t intend to,” the priest said immediately. “But I still might offer some comfort, I think. You mentioned difficulty sleeping, and nagging pain, yes? I cannot take away a cancer as advanced as yours, anyhow, but I can certainly assist with ulcers of the mouth and bouts of sleeplessness.”

“Hm,” said Merlin, narrowing his pale eyes. “That is tempting.”

“Ah, but that does rob us of the pleasure of another group spectacle,” Madame Ivanova pointed out. “I was rather looking forward to another one.”

“We are going into town today,” Seph reminded everyone. “We could bring back a diversion for after dinner, for those wishing for an activity. I actually have something specific in mind, given the time of year. It will only take up an hour or so, but I think it might enhance our business here nicely, if everyone is agreeable.”