by KJ Charles
“I think I can take that hint,” Clem murmured, and then jumped as the band’s chaotic tuning up burst out into a fanfare. “Oh, here we are.” He didn’t release Rowley’s hand. Rowley didn’t want to move it. He flattened his palm over the wool of Clem’s trouser leg, feeling the muscle underneath, and the fingers that pushed between his own.
The first performers were trivial. Some fool of a comedian did a song dressed as a swell and another dressed as a tramp, to the comprehensive disinterest of the audience. A woman in feathers warbled soulfully about lost love and was applauded with enthusiasm, then a male impersonator sang “I’m a Much-Married Man,” twirling his or her cane in a very dashing manner. Clem’s other hand came to rest on Rowley’s leg, so their arms crossed over, and they sat, blissfully quiet together, above the noise, just touching, while Rowley’s heart thumped in a really quite absurd manner.
The stage was cleared. The band began a drumroll, and the master of ceremonies, resplendent in a top hat, appeared below, shouting until he had some sort of quiet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I beg your attention!—your admiration!—your applause!—for the magnificent aerobatic duo, the unchallenged rulers of the trapeze, the one, the only, the Flying Starlings!”
Rowley leaned forward. Clem mimicked the action, and they both jerked in shock as a figure swung out on a trapeze above the middle of the hall, let go, soared tumbling and glittering through the air, and met the hands of another acrobat on the opposite side with an audible slap.
Rowley wasn’t sure if Clem breathed for the next few moments. He was fairly sure he’d forgotten to breathe the first time he’d seen this performance, and from the high vantage point, with a view of how far the Starlings had to fall, it was even more heart-stopping. The acrobats were dressed in identical tight sequined costumes, with a ruffle of skirt at the waist and frills at the bodice to pay lip service to decency. They moved in astonishing union and silence broken by the occasional shout—no words, simply a quick echoing noise that put Rowley in mind of bats navigating by sound. They shifted and swung and flew across space to be caught in the other’s sure hands, little clouds of powder rising up at every impact, in a display of grace and muscle and sheer obstinate fearlessness that left the audience gasping with terror on their behalf.
“There isn’t a net,” Clem hissed. His fingers were digging into Rowley’s thigh, his eyes fixed on the display. “If they fall—”
If either fell, they’d land on the stalls they were flying across, and probably kill whomever they landed on, since even the smaller Starling had substantial muscular development. Rowley nodded his understanding without looking away.
The larger Starling hung, swinging back and forth, knees hooked over the trapeze bar. The smaller swung out and back, out and back in an increasing pendulum, once more, let go, hurtled forward tumbling in space—impossibly far, she’s going to fall, shrieks from below—and met her partner’s hands with a solid thwack. She doubled upward so her feet met the trapeze, her partner dropped, then somehow the smaller Starling was sitting coquettishly on the trapeze bar, extending a leg and waving, while her partner mirrored the pose upside down, as casually as a performer the right way up on solid ground. The hall resounded with cheers and whistles. Clem watched, mouth slightly open, silent.
The Starlings swung themselves off through the air to rapturous applause. They didn’t return for an encore or lower themselves to the ground for a bow; they never did.
Rowley gave Clem a moment, then leaned in to speak under the noise from below. “That’s what I wanted to show you. We can stay if you like—”
“Let’s go home.”
They took the stairs in silence, made their way through the backstage bustle where a chorus was preparing to go onstage in a rustle of crepe, and headed for the street. Clem came out first and stood, hesitant, as if he was reorienting himself, though they were no great distance from Talleyfer’s; Rowley glanced at him, and led the way back.
After a few moments, Clem let out a long breath. “That was astonishing. Thank you. Tell me something. No, tell me two things. Are they both women?”
“The larger one’s a man.” Rowley honestly hadn’t been able to tell the first time he’d seen them, but up close the breadth of shoulder and hip had been clear.
“Do they always both dress as women?”
“I’ve seen them three times. Twice both as women, once both as men.”
“Oh, that’s interesting. I must tell a friend of mine about that.” Clem took a few more steps, his frown suggesting he was going over a mental note. “What was it you thought about them and your work?”
He never made feeble jokes about whether Rowley was planning to stuff the objects of his interest. It was a restraint Rowley found deeply admirable. “Well, it struck me, the first time I saw them, there’s no way at all to capture that. A photograph would be a blur. Perhaps there’s a painter who can convey that kind of grace in motion, not in a moment of stillness, but I’ve never seen any. It’s so fleeting. Because eventually one of them will fall, or they’ll both get too old, and nobody will see them perform again. And I suppose it made me the more determined to plant my standard against decay.”
“You can’t fight time,” Clem said. “Even King Canute didn’t try that.”
“I know, I know. But when you see something like that, so beautiful and temporary, with no way to capture it for posterity or see it again…”
“I pluck the rose,” Clem said. “And love it more than tongue can speak— Then the good minute goes.”
Rowley blinked. “Can you say that again?”
Clem repeated it; Rowley stared at him. “Did you write that?”
“Good heavens, no. That’s Robert Browning, one of my favourite poets.”
“I didn’t know you liked poetry.”
“I love poetry. They have courses of lectures at the Working Men’s institute round the corner. It’s Tennyson at the moment, every Monday. It’s easier to learn at lectures than reading, I think, and it’s different when you hear poetry read aloud. Especially Browning. He can be quite tricky, but the rhythms are so interesting.”
Rowley was considerably out of his depth here. “I’m sure. Uh, what did you mean, with the poem?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve been trying to remember it recently, so I looked it up for you. It’s from ‘Two in the Campagna,’ which is…a bit complicated, but really about how everything changes, everything’s fleeting. That you can pick a rose but you can’t preserve it, you see.”
Rowley thought he saw, and didn’t like it. “Does that mean you don’t want to work on our piece any more?” he asked, with a distinct sensation of loss sucking away the evening’s happiness.
“No, no, I do! I’m enjoying thinking about it so much, I can’t tell you. It’s more that there are some things you simply can’t catch, or if you could, it would have to be the right…oh, blast it. The right way of doing it, the style you do it in—”
“Medium?”
Clem nodded rapidly. “The right medium. A charcoal sketch, done very swiftly, I could imagine that for the Flying Starlings. Or when they invent a better magic lantern that can show moving pictures more smoothly, perhaps.”
“But not my work.”
“Well, no. I don’t think so. I think it can do a lot of interesting things, but it can’t capture fleeting things. Not the joy as it flies.”
Rowley considered that, pacing along in silence.
“Rowley?” Clem sounded slightly cautious. “Did that offend you? I’m sorry.”
“No. No, it didn’t. I think that might be the greatest compliment I’ve ever been paid.”
“Really?” Clem said, and then, “No, that was sarcasm, wasn’t it? You are offended.”
“It wasn’t sarcasm and I’m not.” Rowley wanted to stop, to grab his hand and tug him round, but they were in the open street and it was bitterly cold, with their breath dragoning in the chill air. “I don’t think anyone has ever taken my work seriously
enough to quote poetry and consider its limitations. To think about it the way you do. I want to be at home with you.”
“So do I,” Clem said. “It’s not far.”
They were in the house a little after half past nine. Polly poked her head out to announce that Mr. Power was of course still out, and that Mr. Lugtrout was in the parlour and she planned to rouse him before she left. Clem thanked her, and let himself and Rowley into his rooms, where a good fire had been burning through the evening. Rowley felt the cold rolling off his shoulders, and his spectacles had fogged up instantly. He took them off and slipped them into his jacket pocket rather than embark on the futile task of clearing them. And there they stood, facing each other in the gaslight.
“Clem.” Rowley stepped closer, close enough there was no mistaking his meaning, close enough that he could clearly see Clem’s eyes, alive with hope and wonder and, undeniably, nerves. “May I kiss you?”
Clem nodded, a tiny movement. Rowley rose on tiptoes, and Clem’s mouth met his. Lips cold to the touch still after the chilly walk, his beard surprisingly coarse against Rowley’s own clean-shaven skin, his breath warm and quick. Rowley slid his hands gently up Clem’s arms, felt hands on his own lower back, pressed closer, opened his mouth wider, and Clem was kissing him back with urgent, uncoordinated movements, bumping lips against teeth. His tongue clashed with Rowley’s, colliding rather than tangling, stiffening and awkward, and even as Rowley registered that they hadn’t quite got this right, Clem jerked back with a gasp.
“Clem? What’s wrong?”
“Sorry. Sorry.” He gave a little, tiny shake of a hand, as if indicating no, took another breath. “I, uh—sorry.”
“What is it?” Rowley demanded, and had to force his voice to a gentler tone. “If you’d rather not—”
“No! No, it’s nothing. I’m very well.”
“No, you’re not,” Rowley said bluntly. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Nothing!”
“Well, you weren’t doing anything wrong as far as I’m concerned. So the problem must lie with me, and if you tell me what it is, I’ll try to do better.”
“It’s not you,” Clem said. “I just…forgot to breathe. Don’t laugh.”
“Forgot to breathe?”
“Don’t. It’s hard to get everything right at once. I’m not very good at that. Please don’t laugh.”
He looked wretched, and a little defiant, and very much braced for some unkind word, and Rowley didn’t see anything funny in this at all. “Do you want to stop?”
“No.”
“Then what would help? Clem, I’ve been thinking about kissing you off and on since I moved into Wilderness Row, and more or less continually all the last weekend. I’m not quite sure what you’d like me to do, but if it’s anything short of standing on my head—”
Clem choked. “I can’t kiss the right way up, so I’m not going to do it upside down.”
“You kiss as well as anyone I’ve ever kissed, and neither of us has to apologise for not being a Flying Starling.”
“I bet they can kiss upside down. Probably not each other, though, unless they’re married.”
“I really couldn’t say.” Rowley caught his hand, entangling their fingers, and raised them to his lips. Clem’s breath hitched. Rowley moved his lips over the skin, warm now, teasing each fingertip in turn with lips and a flicker of tongue, slow and patient, until he heard Clem give a little whimper of pleasure. “Would you prefer not to kiss at all? Is that easier?”
“No, I’d like to.” Clem swallowed. “Would you—could you let me set the pace for a little while, though, till I get used to it?”
The thought made Rowley’s blood thump. “You may set the pace as long as you like.” He sucked on a fingertip, felt Clem shudder. “And if anything’s wrong or even not quite right, please tell me. And if you do anything that troubles me, I’ll tell you. How’s that?”
“That would be perfect,” Clem said softly. Rowley didn’t release his hand, but lowered his arm, and raised his face, waiting. Clem was still for a moment, those glorious dark amber-brown eyes intent, then he lowered his head and kissed Rowley carefully, almost chastely. Their lips held for a moment, then Clem began to move, little exploring shifts of pressure and pattern, taking his time.
Rowley had never been kissed like this in his life. It felt as though Clem was learning his mouth, applying that dogged determination to get it right, agonisingly slow. It crossed Rowley’s mind that every part of lovemaking with Clem might be this slow, every inch of skin needing to be thoroughly explored and committed to memory. It might take weeks of patient waiting, and blood rushed to his groin so hard at that realisation that his knees almost buckled.
He moved his free hand very, very lightly to Clem’s arse, hovering almost, until Clem nodded, his lips moving against Rowley’s mouth but not losing their connection, and then just let his fingers and palm rest, cupping the curve of firm flesh, feeling the cloth where he’d have liked bare skin, but feeling other things too: Clem’s concentration; his own arousal, pressing hard against Rowley’s where their bodies met; the tentative probe of Clem’s tongue. He opened his mouth but kept his stillness. He could wait for this, he could wait forever, or damn near it, for this—
“Thief!” The outraged bellow came from upstairs. “Stop, thief! I’ve been robbed!”
Chapter 3
Clem couldn’t take in the words for a few baffling moments. Everything he had was focused on Rowley, on the feel of his lips and tongue and skin, on the bewildering, terrifying pleasure and anticipation, the thread of panic that he was going to get this wrong, and the slowly unfurling confidence that he might possibly get it right. Rowley’s breathing was in his mouth and ears, Rowley’s hand was on his arse without grabbing or groping, and it was so all-consuming and very nearly perfect that the shouting had much the effect of a bucket of water dumped over a sleeping man.
He jerked away, wished he hadn’t, and stared at Rowley in bewilderment as his mind caught up with his ears. “What— Burglary? Is that Mr. Lugtrout?”
“Of course it blasted well is, the miserable lushington.” Rowley sounded more than a little ragged. There was another yell from above. “Argh. You should— No, wait.” He brushed hair back off Clem’s forehead. “Splash your face before you go up, you look a bit, uh, warm. Hurry, people will wonder what you’re doing. No, face,” he said a little sharply as Clem headed for the door.
It was too many instructions, and it did what that always did, which was to leave Clem trapped in a jangling mass of things to do, each one clamouring for attention. “Uh—”
Rowley shut his eyes for a moment, then stepped back, holding up both hands. “Sorry. Sorry. You look very well. Just go up, Clem, it’s all right.”
It wasn’t all right, but Mr. Lugtrout was still bellowing. Clem headed up.
Mr. Lugtrout was on the second-floor landing, red-faced. His door stood open, revealing a dreadful mess of bedding and clothes scattered over the floor. Rowley’s door was shut; Mr. Rillington’s stood open, with its owner standing in the doorway looking extremely angry; Mr. Hirsch and Miss Sweeting were both on the landing as well.
As Clem came up the stairs, Mr. Lugtrout pointed at him. “There he is. What are you about, letting people walk in without a by-your-leave? I’ve been bloody robbed, and what are you going to do about it?”
Then it was a babel of voices.
“Mind your language—”
“—this drunken fool, shouting and banging—”
“—no evidence of anything—”
“—want to know if the house—”
“—my valuables—”
Clem could feel the panic rising. It was simply not possible to tell one voice from another or pick out the important ones, and as people got angrier, they got louder and talked across each other more, and he was supposed to deal with it, but they all wanted something different, and if they would only calm down—
He tried to say something, but
Mr. Lugtrout and Mr. Rillington were shouting at each other now, and Miss Sweeting was saying something high and furious, and he needed to check the house find out what had been stolen secure the door make them stop shouting summon the police look for a thief make them stop—
There was a quiet chinking noise, like a glass being tapped. First one and then another of the shouters turned and looked and fell silent until even Mr. Lugtrout noticed and closed his mouth.
It was Rowley, right behind Clem, tapping on the metal gaslight fitting with the metal handle of a little pocketknife like a man calling for attention at a dinner. He kept doing it until the landing was silent, as if he didn’t care about everyone staring at him, and then he gave his fellow lodgers a nod. “Thank you. Mr. Lugtrout, you say you’ve been robbed.”
“Look at my room!”
“I see that it’s extremely untidy,” Rowley said, voice flat. “When did this happen?”
“How should I know? I’ve been making social visits”—to the pub, Clem assumed—“and then took a short rest in the parlour. I came in to see it like this!”
“Did you hear or see anything, Mr. Rillington?”
“Not a thing,” Mr. Rillington said. “And I’ve been in all evening. If you ask me, he did it himself in a drunken fit and forgot about it. Or he’s planning to claim they stole the rent money and blame the house. Don’t you fall for that, Mr. Talleyfer.”
Mr. Lugtrout started shouting again. Rowley closed his eyes. Miss Sweeting said, “Excuse me,” at a pitch and volume that could have shattered glass and made Clem, at least, jump.
“Excuse me,” she repeated, “but I thought I did hear someone come down, past my room, very quietly, about thirty minutes ago. I noticed because the only people in this house who walk quietly are Mr. Hirsch, who was taking a cup of tea with me, and you, Mr. Green, but I didn’t think you’d come up yet. So I did wonder who it was.”
