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He shrugged, and we both grew quiet. It was companionable enough, though curiosity and something like tension underlaid the silence. We would be sharing a room, sharing a bed. I wondered if Rafe had ever done that before.
I’d soon find out.
The fire gave a loud pop, making us both jump. Wine sloshed onto the linen tablecloth.
“How will we clean that?” he asked, sounding more concerned than the situation warranted.
“The hotel laundry will take care of it.” I tossed off the rest of my wine. “I’m not sleepy enough for bed yet. Shall we read?”
The room had a small bookcase, and while I hadn’t perused the titles yet, I imagined it would be full of the sort of morally important stuff that I’d read in my college English Literature classes.
“You may read. I’ll just…” His voice trailed off.
I found the little twig he’d given me, the one I’d changed into a revolver. “Here. I imagine you don’t have the tools, but maybe you can plan what you’d make out of this.”
“You turned it into a gun.” He rolled the thing in his hands, taking its measure. “And your magical gun shot real bullets.”
I cocked my head, as usual both glad and disappointed he couldn’t see my grin. “My magic gun looked real enough to Stevenson’s friend, so he believed the bullets were real.”
“So you didn’t shoot a real bullet? He screamed as if he’d been hit.”
“Mm-hmm. He must have a particularly strong imagination.” I tried hard to disguise my gloating, because after all, my power paled in comparison to Rafe’s. “Let’s go sit close to the fire and I’ll read to you.”
“You don’t have to—”
I covered his hand with mine. “I want to. Come sit closer to the fire.”
A moment later, I crouched in front of the bookcase. Most of the books would have been quite at home in a classroom, but at the end of the lowest shelf there were a handful of paper dime novels. “Oh, here we go. Nicholas Carter.”
Rafe settled into one of the chairs. The front desk clerk had sent a pipe and a bag of tobacco with dinner, and I took the time to fill the bowl and light it before I started reading. “This one is calledA Dead Man’s Grip. That sounds intriguing.”
Sputtering into his wineglass, Rafe waved me on. I stayed on the floor, settling cross-legged, the book open in my lap. “Do you smoke?” I held the pipe out to him.
He took it from me, drawing a deep inhale. “Nice.” He exhaled a stream of smoke. I took another drag, exceptionally excited that my lips touched where his had been. After sharing another puff, I began to read. Nicholas Carter was a detective, and soon we were deep into his adventure.
At the end of a chapter, I paused to take a sip of wine.
“Mother never read stories like this.” Rafe wasn’t smiling, exactly, but for once he wasn’t radiating tension. He’d taken charge of the pipe so I could juggle the book and my glass of wine. The rich scent of tobacco added the perfect grace note to the scene.
“There are quite a few of these. I’ll have to bring some with us back to the lighthouse.” My cheeks flared with heat as soon as the words left my mouth. It was unlikely we’d have time for dime novels between now and Samhain, and after that? Well, one way or the other we’d have solved the problem of the Ferox Cor, and I would have no other reason to stay.
The thought left me feeling hollow.
If Rafe noticed my faux pas, he did not let on. “The supply boat used to bring us new books every so often. They haven’t lately.”
“Why not? They should.” I passed him the pipe, my attention fully on the way his lips wrapped around the stem.
He reclined in the chair, his body relaxed, his knees spread. “Maybe we’ll ask if they can bring your Nicholas Carter books.”
They weren’t mine, but it didn’t matter. He handed the pipe back and I opened the book, only to be interrupted.
“So, I wonder if I should sleep out here.”
I glanced at Rafe, amused by the color in his cheeks. “I assumed we’d share the second bedroom.”
“You…Oh.”
“We don’t need to”—I got caught on whether to say what I meant out loud—“we can just… sleep.”
