Wil leaned across her to put the mug down on the table, and his shoulder brushed hers. “Do you want me to get Charlotte?”
She shook her head. She was dreaming. She was nearly sure of it now; she had the same feeling of being in her body and yet not in it as she had had when she was dreaming of Jessamine. The knowledge that it was a dream made her bolder. Wil was stil leaning forward, his arm extended; she curled against him, her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. She felt him jerk with surprise.
“Did I hurt you?” she whispered, belatedly remembering his back.
“I don’t care,” he said fervently. “I don’t care.” His arms went around her, and he held her; she rested her cheek against the warm juncture of his neck and shoulder. She heard the echo of his pulse and smel ed the scent of him, blood and sweat and soap and magic. It was not like it had been on the balcony, al fire and desire. He held her careful y, laying his cheek against her hair. He was shaking, even as his chest rose and fel , even as he hesitantly slid his fingers beneath her chin, lifting her face . . .
“Wil ,” Tessa said. “It’s al right. It doesn’t matter what you do. We’re dreaming, you know.”
“Tess?” Wil sounded alarmed. His arms tightened about her. She felt warm and soft and dizzy. If only Wil real y were like this, she thought, not just in dreams. The bed rol ed under her like a boat set adrift on the sea. She closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.
The night air was cold, the fog thick and yel owish-green under the intermittent pools of gaslight as Wil made his way down King’s Road. The address Magnus had given him was on Cheyne Walk, down near the Chelsea Embankment, and Wil could already smel the familiar scent of the river, silt and water and dirt and rot.
He had been trying to keep his heart from beating its way out of his chest ever since he had found Magnus’s note, neatly folded on a tray on the table beside his bed. It had said nothing beyond a curtly scrawled address: 16 Cheyne Walk. Wil was familiar with the Walk and the area around it.
Chelsea, near the river, was a popular haunt for artists and literary types, and the windows of the public houses he passed glowed with welcoming yel ow light.
He drew his coat around him as he turned a corner, making his way south. His back and legs stil ached from the injuries he had sustained, despite the iratzes; he was sore, as if he’d been stung by dozens of bees. And yet he hardly felt it. His mind was ful of possibilities. What had Magnus discovered? Surely he would not summon Wil if there were no reason? And his body was ful of Tessa, the feel and scent of her. Strangely, what pierced his heart and mind most sharply was not the memory of her lips under his at the bal , but the way she had leaned into him tonight, her head on his shoulder, her breath soft against his neck, as if she trusted him utterly. He would have given everything he had in the world and everything he would ever have, just to lie beside her in the narrow infirmary bed and hold her while she slept. Pul ing away from her had been like pul ing his own skin off, but he’d had to do it.
The way he always had to. The way he always had to deny himself what he wanted.
But maybe—after tonight—
He cut the thought off before it bloomed in his mind. Better not to think about it; better not to hope and be disappointed. He looked around. He was on Cheyne Walk now, with its fine houses with their Georgian fronts. He stopped in front of number 16. It was tal , with a wrought iron fence about it and a prominent bay window. Set into the fence was an ornately worked gate; it was open, and he slipped inside and made his way up to the front door, where he rang the bel .
To his great surprise it was opened not by a footman but by Woolsey Scott, his blond hair in tangles to his shoulders. He wore a dark green dressing gown of Chinese brocade over a pair of dark trousers and a bare chest. A gold-rimmed monocle perched in one eye. He carried a pipe in his left hand, and as he examined Wil at his leisure, he exhaled, sending out a cloud of sweet-smel ing, cough-inducing smoke. “Final y broken down and admitted you’re in love with me, have you?” he inquired of Wil . “I do enjoy these surprise midnight declarations.” He leaned against the door frame and waved a languid ringed hand. “Go along, have at it.”
For once Wil was speechless. It was not a position he found himself in often, and he was forced to admit that he did not like it.
“Oh, leave him be, Woolsey,” said a familiar voice from inside the house—Magnus, hurrying along the corridor. He was fastening his shirt cuffs as he came forward, and his hair was a thicket of mussed black tangles. “I told you Wil would be coming by.”
Wil looked from Magnus to Woolsey. Magnus was barefoot; so was the werewolf. Woolsey had a glimmering gold chain around his neck. From it hung a pendant that said Beati Bellicosi, “Blessed Are the Warriors.” Beneath it was an imprint of a wolf’s paw. Scott noticed Wil staring at it and grinned. “Like what you see?” he inquired.