“Well,” Robin said presently. “That could have gone . . . worse?”
Edwin turned his scratched, incredulous face on Robin, and there was a moment where Robin didn’t know which way the moment would tip; whether Edwin was going to be angry at him all over again, for rushing foolishly in, in the first place.
“I can’t believe we were almost killed by a hedge,” Edwin said, halfway between plaintive and outraged.
Robin cackled with laughter that seemed to grab bodily hold of him. He let the tree take most of his weight. “I just”—he managed—“thought of the phrase hedge witch.” It was like when he’d been struck by Bel’s arrow: the fuzzy, happy sense of floating.
The happiness redoubled when Edwin began to laugh too. Surely it was the first time, Robin thought. The first time he’d seen Edwin laugh properly. But no, that wasn’t right; they’d laughed in the motorcar on the way here, barely an hour ago. A hundred years ago. Now Edwin leaned his hands on his knees and laughed like a brook, looking alight and alive and wonderful in the sunshine.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to London?” said Edwin, wheezing mildly.
“I’m collecting near-death experiences, me,” said Robin. “Though I am giving serious thought to that suggestion about hitting you in the face.”
“Oh, no.” Edwin straightened. His tone was dry. Gingerly he wiped a hand over his scratched face. “And ruin these good looks?”
A moment of hilarious silence, and both of them collapsed into laughter again. This time Edwin almost stumbled, and steadied himself again on Robin’s arm. His grip lingered, stayed.
Distance, Robin thought giddily. Falling apples. The effect of proximity on natural forces.
It seemed natural, after all, for Robin to pat Edwin comfortingly on the back, and then to let his hand slide down to the man’s waist and rest there. They were alive. They were laughing. The enormity of Robin’s fear was leaching out through his feet and into the soil, leaving him feeling invincible. Edwin’s body was warm and he swayed forward willingly, his chest coming to rest against Robin’s. His eyes were bright as cobalt.
It was like tumblers falling into place in a lock. The invincible feeling surged, sharpened, and became a want so large it pushed at the boundaries of Robin’s skin.
Edwin had gone still. Tense. Unmoving: neither forward nor backward, even as the familiar wariness swam over his features.
Robin still had one arm around Edwin’s waist. He lifted the other and traced the fine line of Edwin’s cheekbone with his thumb, as he’d wanted to do for—oh, hours, days. A hundred years. It came away with a few flecks of blood, and Edwin’s lips parted in something that was an exquisite cousin to pain; Edwin’s thin chest filled, and his chin lifted by a bare fraction of an inch, calling attention to the line of his throat.
It was almost like foresight. A vision, elbowing aside all of Robin’s other thoughts, that reached only a few moments into the future. He would keep hold of Edwin’s face and pull it forward, he would let the heat of Edwin’s body between his legs sear itself into memory, and he would set his lips to that neck, that mouth— A woman’s scream sliced the air, from the direction of the house.
The same footman who’d greeted them in the driveway came hurrying up as they approached the house. He had the harried look of a man who intended to hustle the visitors back into their car with a thousand apologies. He stopped dead at the sight of them, however, and Edwin suspected it was only years of training that kept his jaw from dropping outright.
“We heard a scream,” said Edwin. “What’s happened?”
“I . . .” The footman’s gaze swung pendulum-like between them. If Edwin looked half as bloody and bedraggled as Robin did, they might as well have been actors who’d wandered off the stage of Titus Andronicus.
“We were attacked,” Robin said. “And not just by the maze. There was—a man, in a”—he waved a hand near his face and Edwin supplied—“illusion mask.”
The footman, visibly deciding to escalate this above his own station, burst out—“Mrs. Sutton, she’s—there’s been—you’d better come with me, sirs.”
Edwin’s head swam as they followed him into the house. Not the least of it was the way his body was clamouring to relive the moment when he’d realised exactly how close they were standing and exactly what Robin’s hot, intent gaze heralded. Part of him wanted to ignore the rest of this wretched situation, implausible and dangerous and bewildering as it no doubt was, and snatch hold of Robin’s shirt and try again.
Now, now. Can’t let standards slip just because of a little near-death experience, Edwin thought, and had to bury a burst of strangled inappropriate laughter in a cough.
It died in his throat as they entered Mrs. Sutton’s parlour. The room seemed busy with people, though there were only four of them. A girl in a maid’s uniform was sobbing; the sound grated on Edwin’s nerves. He heard a sharp inhalation from Robin, who’d preceded him into the room, and then an older woman moved aside, turning at the sound of their entry, and Edwin saw what had caused it.
Flora Sutton sat in the chair where they’d left her. She seemed to have shrunk; the velvet was vast, cradling her. Her eyes were open and as unmoving as every other part of her body. There was no blood, no marks. A violent stillness rang in Edwin’s mind.
The smile on her dead face had an edge that Edwin would almost call triumphant.
“What on Earth” came from the older woman in a sharp tone. Housekeeper, by her dress and her dignity. “Franklin, get these . . .”
She, too, trailed off as her gaze travelled over Edwin and Robin.
“They’re visiting on family business, Mrs. Greengage,” said the footman. “The mistress”—no more than a soft break in the words—“met with them.” He introduced Edwin and Robin, note-perfect on Robin’s title, habit managing to overcome whatever shock he was feeling.
“Courcey,” said the other man in the room, whom Edwin had already mentally labelled as butler. The name was question and relief all at once. Edwin supposed it would have been the outside of enough, for this household to have to deal with unmagical garden enthusiasts in the immediate aftermath of . . . whatever this was.
“Yes. Mrs. Sutton was looking into something for us.” Edwin gestured to the new pile of books on the table at the corpse’s right hand. A small vase with a sprig of red leaves had been pushed aside to make room for them. “We went to look at the maze while we waited. We were going to have tea.”
“Our maze doesn’t care for magicians,” said Mrs. Greengage. Her arm was around the sobbing maid, but she frowned at Edwin. “How’d she not warn you of that, Mr. Courcey?”
“Has—look here, has someone sent for a doctor?” Robin demanded. “The police?”
The fact was hauled once more into Edwin’s consciousness: this wasn’t Robin’s world. He didn’t know how it worked.
“No police,” Edwin said, trying to promise explanation at a later time with his frown.
“We’ve telephoned for Dr. Hayman, but he was out on a call. Left a message with his wife,” said the housekeeper. Edwin nodded. Not his mother’s favoured doctor, but Hayman had provided the occasional second opinion on her rheumatism. There weren’t many unbusheled doctors in any given county; they tended to be busy.
Edwin’s eyes drew back to the pale and smiling face of Flora Sutton. Time was not exactly of the essence. She was dead, and nothing was going to make her less so.
“I knew” came from the maid, who’d managed to stop sobbing. “I knew. I was polishing in the hall and it went quiet-like, all of a sudden.” A wet hiccup. “It was the clocks. All of them.”