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“That’s what she said.”
“Anything else?”
“Your shirt’s on inside out.”
Arthur looked down. Yes. His t-shirt was definitely on inside-out. Seams for miles.
“It’s a viscount thing,” he said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand you’re a daft prick, but the boss likes you, so sod me and my opinions from now to next Thursday, I guess.”
“That’s an extraordinary amount of sodomy,” Arthur said.
“I can take it,” she said, and spun on her red Wellie to leave.
Arthur stopped her on the steps by calling her name.
“What?” she asked, facing him again.
“Is Regan…okay?” he asked.
Zoot scrunched up her face, looking confused as if she’d asked him if Regan occasionally transformed into a werewolf. “She’s all right, far as I know.”
“You’re sure? I’m not asking for gossip.”
She grinned. “Yeah you are.”
“Fine. So I am. But only because she sometimes says things that make me wonder. She’s not depressed or anything?” He wasn’t sure what he was asking. All he had was a hunch that there was something moving under the surface of Regan’s tough exterior, a deep current of sorrow or maybe even fear?
“She’s been in a better mood than I’ve seen her in a long time. Hasn’t threatened to sack me all week.”
“And that’s unusual?”
“I usually get the boot twice a day.”
“Only twice?”
Zoot pointed at his face. “Brat,” she said, then turned and stalked off again.
Arthur called after her, “I like your coat.”
The reply came in the form of her two fingers in the shape of a V.
Eight o’clock was a full day away. And the sun was out—a rarity in London in November. Arthur went for a long run followed by a full English breakfast. Buoyed by the knowledge he’d get to see Regan again tonight, he decided to brave texting Charlie.
* * *
That afternoon,Arthur put on his black jacket and boots and set out across Hyde Park. Not only had his brother texted him back, but Charlie had agreed to meet him for tea.
The plane trees that filled the park were in full color—a mottled yellow and red. The oaks had gone red and orange and the paths were littered with fallen leaves, every color of autumn. They crunched under his boots as he strode past tourists taking photographs on their phones.
His dream had cast a strange pall over the day. It was erotic, yes, and he’d liked it (of course), but it had left him unsettled, the way too-vivid dreams could. In the dream, Regan had spoken with such honesty that he’d believed her, that she really would die the second their bodies parted. And it hadn’t been erotic exaggeration on her part. It had been the truth.
At that moment, he realized he hadn’t been having a dream but a nightmare. What unsettled him wasn’t that it was a nightmare, but that it was a nightmare from which he hadn’t wanted to awake.
He blamed the dream on the conversation they’d had in The Pearl’s old smoking lounge, about how learning about death was the end of childhood. That was all. Fitting that the dream took place at Wingthorn Hall. She was just like their famous roses, loved not for their petals but their enormous thorns.
A young couple from Japan interrupted his reverie, and he was glad for the chance to shake off the dream. Smiling kindly, they asked if he would take their photo in front of the Serpentine, the bridge in the background. The Serpentine had been a pet project of Queen Caroline, one of Arthur’s many exalted ancestors on his father’s side. Could they imagine that the random man they’d asked to take their picture sharedDNAwith kings and queens, lords and knights?
