It was only as they drew closer to the house itself that Robin’s mental classification hurtled abruptly from pastoral romance to outright religious fantasy as an angel floated into view from behind a thick chimney-stack.
Clad all in white and bathed in light, Robin thought stupidly. Or bathèd, rather.
“Dear Lord,” he choked, when the thought settled home, and dropped his bags.
“And it begins,” said Edwin, soft and resigned.
The angel made a highly non-ethereal whooping sound and waved in their direction. It was a young woman with a crown of blond hair, a thick plait tumbling unfashionably down over her shoulder. She was wearing a white dress that looked more like a classical robe, and she was inarguably . . . floating, as though seated on a wide swing that had become unmoored from its ropes at the height of its arc and simply failed to notice.
She was also holding a serious-looking bow and arrow. As Robin watched, she notched arrow to bowstring, tugged it back, and aimed directly at the two of them.
No. At Edwin.
“Wait—” Robin said, in real alarm.
She released the string. Robin shoved sideways, driving his shoulder into Edwin’s, trying to force the both of them to the ground. He felt the dull pain of bodily impact, then the more immediate one of his hand making the close acquaintance of the gravel drive. He shook his head and rolled off Edwin and to his feet, and only then became aware of the bright new pain in his left leg.
“Ow,” said Edwin, but he sounded more dry than hurt.
“Oh, you dolt, whatever did you do that for?” came an exasperated shout from above Robin’s head. “You confused it.”
Robin looked down at the stinging section of his leg, where his trousers now sported a frayed tear. When Robin touched the damaged part, his fingertips came away with a tiny smear of blood. It was such a small wound. Almost polite. Welcome! Robin thought, enjoy your stay! and let out a spurt of laughter. This place was incredible already.
“This place is incredible,” he told Edwin. Goodwill was surging beneath his skin and he wanted to share. He knelt and helped Edwin up, and was surprised when Edwin grabbed at Robin’s jaw, holding him still and staring into his eyes as though to read his fortune there. Edwin had a smudge of dirt on his cheek. The light was giving his hair fruit colours.
“Apricots!” said Robin.
“Fuck,” Edwin muttered, dropping his hands.
Robin covered his own mouth. He realised a moment later that he’d meant to cover Edwin’s, and laughed at his own mistake. Then he laughed more at the look on Edwin’s face.
“Bel!” Edwin shouted. “Get down here and help me fix him.” Edwin was doing that clever thing with his fingers again, making the string come alive. Robin watched in delight as the cradle filled with pale green light. Edwin knelt at Robin’s feet, serious as though in anticipation of a sword-touch to the shoulder.
“I’m not a knight,” Robin reminded him. “Can’t knight you, either.”
“Hold still,” Edwin snapped, and flicked the green light at Robin’s scratched leg, where it tickled deliciously.
“That felt nice,” Robin said. He sat, heavily and all at once, so that he could beam right into Edwin’s face. “Do it again!”
“Dammit, Bel, what did you tip those arrows with?”
“Some mixture or other from Whistlethropp’s,” said the angel addressed as Bel, who had alighted nearby. “Such a droll picture on the label, you’ll laugh when you see it.”
Robin laughed obligingly in anticipation.
“Shop-bought,” Edwin muttered. “Can’t be too strong, at least.”
“I’m strong,” said Robin happily. “Shall I show you?”
He stood and then threw himself forward. Peals of approving laughter greeted his attempt at a handstand, which made up for the fact that he quickly overbalanced and ended up on his back, grinning up at the sky. There were more people around now. More voices. The more the merrier.
Edwin’s frown appeared between Robin and the clouds.
“Wasn’t that impressive?” Robin tried to poke at Edwin’s chin. “Aren’t you impressed?”
“Euphoria, but at least you’re lucid,” said Edwin. “Hm. Sage will take something like that; they used it in field medicine—hold still.” His fingers moved to build up another flick of cupped light, this one blazing yellow. Robin didn’t want to hold still. He wanted to race around the house.
Edwin had one bony knee resting hard on Robin’s thigh, holding him down with a meagre strength that Robin would have been able to shake off in an instant. But . . . that might have hurt Edwin’s feelings. Instead Robin relaxed and chuckled, making little patterns in the gravel with his feet and hands as Edwin muttered to himself.
“Angels,” Robin said, thinking about lying in the snow. He craned his neck to see if Bel was within view.
“She’s not an angel,” said Edwin. “She’s my sister, and she should know better than to assume someone who’s never played her games is going to know to hold still when she fires a charmed arrow at them.”
“It’ll wear off soon. All in good fun,” said a hearty male voice. “Must be a new record, my dear fellow. Not here ten minutes and you’re already turning on the lectures.”
Robin lifted a hand to pat at Edwin’s apricot hair, and missed.
There was a high-pitched female laugh. “See, Bel’s done you a favour. Made you a friend, even if it did take a game of Cupid to get the thing done.”
“That’s a bit much, Trudie,” said a milder voice.
“Will all of you please be quiet,” said Edwin. His fingertips tucked themselves under Robin’s jaw, cool and quick, then pulled away and began a new pattern in the string. Robin was more than happy to watch the dance of Edwin’s fingers. The spell was hesitant to start and stayed small when it was done, a tiny red glow like the tip of a cigarette.
“I don’t smoke,” Robin said. “Used to. Gave it up.”
Edwin reached down and opened Robin’s mouth with his thumb. Robin felt his eyes go hooded, felt his chest rise with a breath of promise and pleasure.
Edwin shoved the red spark into Robin’s mouth, and Robin swallowed mostly on reflex.
Ten minutes later, Robin was seated on his own suitcase in the entrance hall, vacillating evenly between a feeling of angry indignation and the desire to burst out laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation. The anger had so far stifled the laughter, for the simple reason that nobody at Penhallick—with the exception of Edwin—seemed to think that Robin had any reason to feel angry.
Robin had been properly introduced to Mrs. Belinda Walcott—née Courcey—and her laconic and elegantly moustachioed husband, Charles, along with a handful of their friends. William—“Call me Billy, everyone does”—Byatt was a densely freckled sandy-haired chap hovering in Charles Walcott’s shadow, and the smile he gave seemed amiable enough. Then there was Francis Miggs, a stout fellow with a reddish complexion who looked at Robin with a beady gamester’s eye, as if thinking of placing a bet on him. The only other woman was Trudie Davenport, the sharp-featured brunette with a da Vinci nose and an actress’s high laugh, who even on ten seconds’ acquaintance gave off the air of a marble set loose in a bowl—always trying to return herself to the centre of things.
“I didn’t realise Bel was having one of her parties,” Edwin said to Robin. “I thought it’d be quieter.”
“You should have telegraphed!” Belinda’s angelic face was rendered decidedly less so by the jut of her lower lip. “Really, Win, it’s too thoughtless of you. My numbers were already thrown off because Laura’s ill and Walt’s up from town with Father, and now you’ve dragged another fellow up here, too, when you never bring guests.” She eyed Robin with frank curiosity. “If you’d only let Mother and Father know you were coming, I’d have told Charlie to invite his cousins. Ghastly simpering bores, the pair of them, but at least they’d have balanced the table. And you could have amused them for me, I suppose.”