“I do.” There were spells that used sex as a conduit. There were some that needed only close physical contact.
“Yeah. I’d rather not sleep with him. Besides, he probably wouldn’t trust me enough to roll over and fall asleep after.”
“No,” said Simon. “I doubt he falls asleep with anyone else in the room these days.”
“So,” said Joan, flopping down at the desk and drumming her fingers on the surface, “I need a distraction once I get in there. Something that’ll keep him busy for a little while so I can look for the book. Something that goes off before too long. I don’t want to eat or drink anything he gives me, and I can make only so many excuses.”
“The book’s probably in his study,” Simon said. “If you’re in his bedroom, it might take you ten minutes to get there. Five if you’re in the drawing room. That’s assuming you’re not interrupted.”
“I’ll deal with interruptions,” said Joan, and then shook her head when Simon’s alarm clearly showed. “Nonlethally. I’ve got enough knockout darts to take down a horse.”
“And the guardian?”
“Flashgun. A couple shots should take care of it, from the way it sounded. Maybe not kill it, but at least send it off for a while. Long enough.”
The image of that thing with its tentacles around Joan made Simon’s throat close. But he knew better than to try to protect her against her will. “I hope so,” he said. “I’m afraid he’s probably hidden the book fairly well. You can lock the door behind you, probably, which will buy you at least a little time.”
“The longer I have, the better. I want to make sure the book’s gone before I have to deal with Reynell at all.” Joan frowned. “So a fire wouldn’t work. He’d go to grab the manuscript himself. A break-in, maybe?”
“Possibly.” Simon leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, and rubbed at his temples. “It’d have to be something magical, though. Otherwise he’d just send a footman to deal with it. And that—”
“—means you’ll have to do it,” Joan said. She didn’t sound happy about it, which Simon supposed made them even. “Unless you can make something and send that in with me.”
He shook his head. “The wards would pick up anything like that instantly. I suppose I’ll have to turn out-and-out housebreaker. He’ll never believe you’d bring a manservant to something like this, and his servants would never let me in otherwise.”
“I don’t like it,” Joan said. “We don’t have anyone on the inside. You break in, and we’re opening this thing up to police, servants, you name it. It’s not just us and him anymore, and that makes it a whole less predictable. But—”
The door opened.
Both of them looked up. Joan stood, one hand going to her side—and then saw Eleanor. She was standing just inside the doorway, her face pale but set.
Before either Joan or Simon could speak, Eleanor pushed the door closed and then clasped her hands behind herself. “I could do it,” she said. “I could be the person on the inside.”
***
Simon looked like he’d seen the dead walk. Joan wasn’t so surprised. This made sense when she thought about it: Eleanor’s nervousness, her questions about Reynell, the way she’d been studying magic. “You were listening,” she said.
“Yes,” said Eleanor, and swallowed. “And I-I spied on you earlier, I’m afraid, when you met with Mr. Reynell. I saw him give you a note. I’m sorry. I know it was deceitful, but I had to find out.”
“Why, in Heaven’s name?” Simon asked, sounding like someone had throttled him.
“Because I kept finding out other things,” Eleanor said, looking like she might faint. “They were little things, but they came together, and I started to see that something very large was going on. And that I can help.”
Simon stared at her. “You don’t know any more about housebreaking than I do.”
“I don’t have to. Nobody looks twice at a maid. You know that. Most people don’t look twice at me, anyway. I don’t think even Mr. Reynell has, since I’ve come back, except to try to scare me. He doesn’t see me as a threat. I don’t think he sees me at all.” She smiled wanly. “Certainly his butler won’t know me or care. And I know a little magic. I could do enough to set off the wards, and then I could scream and run away.”
“You think they’d let you get far enough into the house to cast a spell?” Joan asked.
“I think so. At the very least, I could let Simon in one of the back doors. If I said I’d forgotten to give you something and then pretended to get lost…I think I could manage.”
“Absolutely not,” said Simon, coming back to himself. The hope vanished from Eleanor’s face, and she looked down. “There’s no way I’m letting you—”
“Think about it for a second,” Joan interrupted, holding up a hand. “She could be useful.”
Simon turned to her, eyes narrowing a little. “This isn’t about your mission,” he said, “and I told you when we started that I wouldn’t have her recruited.”
“Exactly when do you think I recruited her, huh? When she listened at the door, or when she spotted me with Reynell? Besides, everything’s about this mission. It has to be.”
“I’m well aware that you think so,” he said icily. “But this is my sister. She doesn’t have to be, and, by God, she isn’t going to be.”
“Not even by her own choice?”
“She’s a child.”
Joan snorted. “She’s eighteen. Old enough here to marry and breed. And I was in the field three years younger—”
“—because your world is like something out of Dante. That doesn’t mean anything. It certainly doesn’t mean I shouldn’t protect her.”
“Yeah?” said Joan. “Well, did you ever think maybe so much protection’s why she—”
Simon knew what she was going to say. It was obvious from the way his eyes flashed. He opened his mouth to interrupt as Joan was about to go on—and then Eleanor cleared her throat.
It was a very quiet sound, but it made them both turn. Heat spread across Joan’s face, and she saw Simon flush as well. Right. We’re both assholes.
“Um,” said Eleanor, “I wanted to say that I wouldn’t be in nearly as much danger as either of you would. Not even if I went.”
Simon blinked. “Well, no,” he said. “You shouldn’t be.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Eleanor swallowed again. “I mean, it isn’t as though I don’t worry about you or as though what happens in there won’t affect my life. And if I didn’t go and it went wrong, don’t you think I’d hate myself for that?”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and she looked hastily down at her feet.
It took about two seconds for Simon to get out of his chair and put his arms around her. “Ellie,” he began, and then stopped. Joan looked away. She’d have left the room, but that would have been more disruptive.
Eleanor sniffled. “You can’t tell me nothing will go wrong, Simon. I couldn’t believe you. I’d want to, but I couldn’t.”
“It wouldn’t be your fault,” he said, “if it did.”
“Wouldn’t it?” Eleanor looked solemnly up at her brother. “Why not? If you’d left me in danger when you could have done something about it at very little risk to yourself, wouldn’t you feel as though you were to blame?”
“That’s different,” said Simon, but halfheartedly. He looked down at Eleanor for a long moment. “Is that the only reason you want to do this?”
“No,” she said very quietly.
“Is it to try to be like Joan? Because—”
“No.” Eleanor blushed and looked over to where Joan sat. “I like you a great deal, but I can’t be like you, any more than I could be like Rosemary. I…hope you understand.”
“Of course I do,” said Joan, and left it at that. “Why, then?”
“I had no part in saving myself,” Eleanor said, and her voice was almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t even remember it. And now when I see Mr. Reynell, he’s…larger than he
should be. Scarier. Like an ogre in a fairy story. I thought that maybe if I could do something to him, just a little thing, it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d be more human.”
Her nerve failed her at the last, and she didn’t look at Simon when she talked. Joan did, though, and saw him look like he’d been punched in the gut.
“I see,” he said, and then stood quietly for a long time, not looking at anyone or anything in the room. “Give me your word, then, that you won’t take any unnecessary risks. You’ll let me in, set off whatever distraction we need, and then hide. You won’t confront Alex.”
Eleanor’s face lit with surprise and pride, fear and love. Joan looked away.
“I swear it,” Eleanor said, lifting her head and speaking clearly. “I swear by the stars and the children of the stars, by the greater Powers and the lesser.”
It was like an oath from Joan’s world but different. From one of Simon’s books, she thought, particularly given the way Simon almost flinched at it. He managed a smile, at least. “Then God go with us all,” he said. “And we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
He didn’t look at Joan when he left the room.
***
Sleep was long in coming that night. Past midnight, Simon was still awake and well acquainted with every crack in his ceiling. He was turning over for what might have been the fiftieth fruitless time when he heard the door open. He spun around almost instantly, less from any sense of real danger than from a general irritation of the nerves.
Joan closed the door behind her and stood silently looking at him. She was wearing a dressing gown again, with a nightgown underneath it this time. With her hair loose and flowing over her shoulders, she looked surprisingly young, and yet there was something in her face that could never be so.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You were right.”
It hurt to say it, hurt both because of his pride and because of what it meant. He watched Joan’s face carefully, looking for triumph, and found none. Instead, she shrugged. “Maybe. But I said it wrong.” She smiled in a way that was half a grimace. “They should’ve sent a better diplomat.”
“I’d rather not work with a diplomat,” said Simon. He sat up a little and held out a hand to her. “And I’d certainly rather not do anything else with one.”
Joan flashed a grin. “Probably not. Our best diplomat was Winston. He’s a friend of my father’s—about the same age too—and has a giant beard.”
She joked, but the weariness was still in her voice. It was in her body too, despite her straight shoulders and high chin. Not just the fight, he thought, or maybe the fight hadn’t just come from Eleanor’s offer. Did everyone’s nerves go twang before something like this? “I’m sorry too,” he said.
“Good to know.” She sat down on the bed beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. Through the window, the moon picked both of them out in silver light. Neither of them spoke for a long time.
There was too much that they might say if they did. All of it seemed ill-omened, the sort of thing you told someone that you would never see again. Simon was magician enough to know the power of belief. If you acted as if something were true, maybe it would be. So he said nothing.
He wondered if Joan had the same reasons. Everyone I love is there, he remembered her saying. He wondered if that was still true, and if she’d prefer, at the end of whatever happened the next night, to leave this world to try to find whatever was left of those she’d known.
When she met his eyes, hers were sad and filled with the same awful knowledge. It didn’t matter what she felt or what he did. It couldn’t. Nothing was certain, and they would be risking everything. That was all either of them needed to know.
Simon rose, then, and kissed her. It was like coming home. They had all the time in the world and not nearly enough.
Slowly, Joan slid her arms around him and pressed her body close, her mouth sweet and warm beneath his. She moved to his neck after a little while when she felt him harden against her, grazing the skin lightly with her lips, tracing every inch until Simon moaned. More than lust was rising in his blood now; there was a warmth that felt almost magical.
Pulling away a little, Simon ran his hands down Joan’s body, grazing her breasts, until he found the knot holding her dressing gown closed. He undid it with care, and he knew Joan watched him. The gown fell away easily. She half sat, half lay before him, almost exposed, and then she reached for the hem of her nightgown and drew it upward.
There was none of the impatience or the frank sexual hunger that he’d come to expect. Not that Joan blushed or tried to hide herself. That sort of reaction would be as alien to her as this time was. But she took as much care removing her nightgown as he had untying the knot of her belt, drawing it slowly upward to expose slim, strong thighs and the sleek golden triangle where they met. Simon caught his breath.
The fabric moved farther upward, traveling the lean, scarred length of her body. Joan drew it higher, over her head and then off. Her bare breasts rose high and firm, dark pink nipples hard and thrusting toward Simon, as if begging for his hands. He made himself wait, though, until Joan reached for him again.
Then he drew her toward him so that her naked skin pressed against his. Her gasp was both satisfying and tempting. He wanted to hear it again, so he cupped her breast in one hand, flicking his thumb over the nipple. Joan writhed. Her hand, on the small of his back, pressed harder, pushing him against her so that the hair between her legs rubbed deliciously against his stiff cock.
Simon groaned, but he didn’t enter her, not yet. He wanted to feel her first, to feel all the firm muscle and smooth skin, to read her scars like he might a book. He ran his hand up her arm and then down her back, gliding over the tattoo there. Protection, he thought, and left his hand there for a while, as if, by its warmth, it might activate the mark or lend some new power to it.
He could indulge that fancy for only so long, though, before Joan’s urges and his own body’s had their way. When she trailed her fingers down his spine, they left heat behind them. When she gripped his buttocks, Simon groaned again and slid his hands down to hers, cupping them and squeezing gently. She squirmed again, eager, even if not impatient, and the friction made Simon gasp.
“You’re lovely,” he said, his voice thick. He still couldn’t speak of love. It felt too much like doom. “You’re so bloody lovely.”
Another day, she might have laughed and denied it. Now she looked up at him and smiled. “So are you.”
One of her hands slid between them, found his cock, and stroked once. Slowly. Simon thrust forward into her hand and cried out. Now, he thought, with a tidal certainty that he’d never before felt with a woman. Now.
She was wet against his hand, and she opened easily, eagerly. Nonetheless, his first thrust forward was slow and gentle. Joan’s body closed around him, arms and legs as well as her sex, and Simon began to move very slightly inside her. He looked down at her while he rocked forward and back, watching her eyes and the almost serene pleasure on her face.
Even the moonlight couldn’t make her silver, not entirely. She was too dark for that. Too vivid. The most living person he’d ever met.
They fell easily into a rhythm. No struggle upward to a peak this time, nor overwhelming fall. Instead, Simon seemed to float there, aware of his own urgency and yet willing to wait, wanting to wait. Not wanting this to be one more thing that was done, that was in the past, as he went forward into—what?
He didn’t want to think about it. Right now, he didn’t have to. He moved slowly, Joan warm and strong below him, and lost himself in now.
It was almost a disappointment to feel his pleasure rising, his own climax approaching, and he tried to hold it off. Then Joan was there with him, coming around him, her eyes open and wide with surprise. He’d never seen such joy on her face before.
Simon kept his own eyes open when he came, trying to burn Joan’s face into his mind. Trying to keep it always—however long always lasted.
Afterward, Joan lay with her head on Simon’s chest, one arm thrown across him. She felt deceptively boneless. Simon suspected that she could snap alert at one wrong sound, though he was far from inclined to test that theory.
Joan didn’t speak. Her eyes went from the window to Simon’s face and then back to the window for a long moment. Then she sighed.
She was going to leave now, Simon knew. She’d say something about having to go, push herself out of bed, and leave. It was very practical of her.
“Could we get under the blankets or something?” Joan asked. “I’m not feeling the cold yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“You’re staying?” Simon asked, blinking down at her.
Joan opened one eye. “If you don’t mind.”
He put one hand on her arm in case she got any ideas about getting up. “Of course I don’t. I—” Simon tried to process his thoughts, tried to get past the feeling that he’d been given a gift he’d never expected. “But—the servants?”
“Hell with ’em,” Joan said, wriggling closer to his side. “Gossip doesn’t spread that fast. It’s one night.”
Either he truly believed her or he wanted to believe her, and Simon didn’t care much either way. He pulled the blanket around them both, rested his chin on Joan’s head, and closed his eyes.
One night, he thought, and tightened his arms around her.
Chapter 39
Alex was reasonably certain that Joan would show up.
The potion, after all, had been very potent. The woman must have been nearly frantic by the time they’d met at the theatre. The strained note to her laughter had certainly borne that out, as had the tension that had gone through her body at his touch. Whatever Simon might have been doing to her, Alex thought, he certainly wasn’t leaving her particularly satisfied.
Still, some doubting part of Alex half expected, when ten o’clock arrived, to find Joan’s maid with some excuse. It was possible that Simon would prevent her from coming. It was possible that her own nerves would have gotten the best of her. And there were always unexpected complications when dealing with women. One simply never knew.
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