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“I’ve slept with other people. I’ve never got up in the middle of the night and invented a tune about making coffee so I could magically brew what’s going to be a terrible beverage. I’ve never even made coffee before. But you drink it.” His eyes were the color enchantment ought to be, if Sam had ever been able to see the invisible forces that could tug and pull irresistibly in response to a gesture. The blue of an answer, of a sky like a church bell, calling the faithful home.
Sam got out, voice hoarse in his throat, “One.”
“I love you,” John said, shrugging, as if it were simple. “That’s what it is. Go on, will you? I want to feed you gingerbread in bed.”
Sam, disarmed by bluntness, couldn’t summon any reply. This meant that he ended up in bed, trying not to worry about crumbs, or the sound his knee’d made getting onto the mattress, or the vague sense of impropriety inherent in consuming gingerbread with someone who’d just snuck a hand up under Sam’s dressing gown to stroke his thigh.
“You don’t have a housekeeper, either, do you?”
“Mrs. Davies comes in when—”
“Yes, all right, understood.” John broke off gingerbread; the piece appeared in front of Sam’s mouth. After a second he realized John meant him to eat it: like that, out of those composer’s fingers. Authority, assertion, a conductor with the orchestra of Sam to instruct.
He couldn’t help the tiny firework fizz at the back of his head.
John’s hand hadn’t moved. Sam ate the bite, because John would evidently sit there until he did.
“Good,” John told him, with more than a hint of satisfaction. “I’ll buy you art, I think. Or commission it. A view of the City, perhaps. I know you love it.”
“No stolen artworks, thank you.”
“Sam. Love of my life.” John draped a melodramatic hand over his own heart. “I’m wounded.”
“You’re an itinerant composer who’s spent ten years on the Continent. You can’t afford to not steal art.”
“I’m even more wounded. Do you think I’m penniless?”
“Not penniless. You can afford Grafton’s Hotel. But it is a hotel.” With all those generally secretive, disreputable, temporary connotations. “You certainly haven’t bought or leased anyplace.”
“You know where I’m staying?”
“You were a suspect,” Sam grumbled. “I had Kit check.”
“Sam.” John’s eyes danced, though his voice was purposefully solemn. “I have money.”
“I’m sure you have some, but—”
“No, I mean I’m rich.”
“You were stealing paintings!”
“That was on principle. I’ve written a ballet for a Russian duke. A spring fantasia for the Doge’s court, in Venice. A shockingly indecent Viennese waltz, which of course meant that everyone demanded copies.” John paused. “When I say I’m rich, I mean marvelously, despicably, wealthy.”
Sam had reached for the coffee-pot, to see what level of terrible John’s inexperience and magic had conjured. His hand froze mid-reach.
“Did you not notice my impeccably polished boots? My silver-thread silk waistcoat with the onyx buttons?” John’s excessive sigh could’ve launched fleets of ships across a sea. “Now I’m honestly insulted. I dress up for you, and you don’t care.”
“I wasn’t noticing your sartorial selections!”
“And here I thought you were a magistrate with case-solving detective skills.”
“I can’t notice anything but you,” Sam said, truth a raw burning admission in his throat, “when you’re around. Not your clothing, not your boots. Just the way you smile. Your eyes. Your voice.”
John gazed at him, face so bright and soft the whole world might’ve danced along. That note hung in the night again, that tune, the perfect one.
Sam felt his cheeks warm. He moved to pour coffee, hastily.
“Let me,” John said, taking it. “Oh, gods, how awful is it? Well—it could be worse. Sugar. Milk. All right, better.”
