Edwin nodded.
“Then they didn’t need advance notice of where we were going,” said Robin, with relief. While he might not trust any of the members of Belinda’s party, he didn’t want to believe any of them capable of murder.
It did leave them without any more clues as to who was responsible, though. What clues had been in this house had died with Flora Sutton.
Robin thought suddenly of the vision he’d had of an old woman—a different old woman—black-clad and bright-eyed, being attacked in a small space. Something about the defiant edge to her smile had been the same as Mrs. Sutton’s.
“About Mrs. Sutton,” he said, tentative. “Did you have the feeling she didn’t give up whatever that chap wanted from her?”
“Yes,” said Edwin. “Or else she gave the answer he didn’t want, and then took herself out of the picture.”
That was a kind of courage that Robin wouldn’t have ascribed to many people. Certainly not to himself. When he’d punched the men in illusion masks, that first evening in the London streets, he’d been more surprised and affronted than anything else. Now, after six days of pain and confusion, he wondered if he’d still do the same thing. And if that wasn’t exactly what the curse’s pain and visions had been intended to inflict.
As much as Robin had wanted to shake the secrets out of Flora Sutton’s skirts—to know why he’d been cursed, and what Reggie Gatling might have died for—he’d seen the fear on her face, when she talked about the contract and what it could lead to.
Was leading to.
“I’ll have to go through her books,” said Edwin, brightening marginally. “I wonder if Sutton Cottage would let me take a few of them home.” He glanced around the room as if expecting a response to his musing.
It seemed completely mad, that Edwin had acquired an estate on the basis of some blood and one woman’s hands, but there it was. Magical inheritance law, it appeared, was two parts sympathy and one part paperwork. The housekeeper had unlocked a desk drawer in a dusty study, before dinner, and there it had been: Edwin’s full name, in stark copperplate, on an official will. That sort of charm was possible because Edwin was a registered magician, Edwin had explained. Though there’d been an edge of uncertainty to it, as though they’d strayed into areas for which even Edwin’s life of reading had not fully prepared him. Perhaps it was something to do with Sutton Cottage itself, like the way the guidelight had flared up when Edwin climaxed.
Thinking about that, Robin wanted to put his lips to Edwin’s again. But he was entirely at sea in the etiquette. What came after sex and before sleep? What fell into the bounds of acceptable behaviour?
“No visions today?” Edwin asked.
“Not yet,” said Robin. Thank goodness one hadn’t decided to strike mid-coitus. “I’m getting more of a warning, when they come. I’d have time to”—he waved a weak hand—“sit down. As it were.”
“What kind of warning?”
“Sparkling lights at the corners of everything. Like when you take a tumble to the mat and stand up too fast.” Robin licked his lips. “And a taste like pepper. And usually some kind of smell, but that one varies. And—it’s hard to breathe. Pressured. Not quite like being winded, but close.”
“Could you bring one on, do you think? Purposefully?”
“Why?”
“You saw the maze,” Edwin said. “It was important. You could see something else.”
Robin didn’t relish the idea, but that was inarguable. He settled further down in the bed and closed his eyes. “Where do I start?”
“With what usually starts it,” said Edwin. His voice had the usual confidence of knowledge, but hushed. The sound of it was a comforting thrill, like rough flannel dragged over Robin’s skin.
Robin rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, striking up a heat that he could pretend was the hot taste that heralded the foresight. He screwed his eyes tight shut until the light prickled. He inhaled, deep—no scent but the dusty lavender of sheets long kept in a linen chest, and the murkier one of bodies and their closeness—and held it.
Held it. Held it. Eyes tight.
He willed his mind to plunge into a vision, but couldn’t focus on anything past the sensation of his lungs pressing against his ribs, straining, the stubborn burn of them followed all at once by a flood of panic—any moment his mouth and nose would fill with water, he wouldn’t be able to breathe even if he tried— He gasped his eyes open and flailed in his haste to sit up and lean forward. Edwin’s hand touched his shoulder. Robin was expecting an eager query about whether it had worked, but Edwin just rubbed small circles with the heel of his hand.
“No good,” said Robin when he had his breath. “Sorry. Felt too much like the bloody swan-pond, even trying.”
Edwin lifted his hand away. He looked very tired, and as though he was having trouble deciding on what he wanted to say. What came out, carefully arranged as a dinner service, was: “I wish I could make this better.”
“You’re trying,” said Robin.
The thin lips thinned further. “Failing.”
Robin thought for no real reason of Maud, who’d throw herself into every new endeavour and passion as though it were the first. He swallowed a terrible surge of guilt. He was supposed to be there for her, supposed to be sorting out their family’s future, and where was he? Tucked away in a manor house in Cambridgeshire, drinking up Edwin Courcey with his eyes and pretending that his own problems were the only ones in the world.
“Trying’s what counts,” he said.
Edwin yawned. The room was warming, since he’d stirred up the fire; that must have been the reason he let the blanket slip down from his shoulders. Robin let himself drink his fill. Edwin’s skin was smooth and pale, the wings of his collarbone making Robin’s mouth water. He thought about that particular vision again: Edwin, nude and writhing, on his back against sheets. These sheets? How was he supposed to tell? Sheets were sheets.
“What? What’s that look for?” Edwin’s limbs were curling up, self-conscious and self-protective. Robin was far too distracted to say anything but: “I was thinking I’d quite like to suck your prick.”
Edwin’s breath caught. His bent knee softened, as Robin stroked a hand up Edwin’s leg. Robin was already reaching for him, already moving down in the bed to find a good position, when Edwin’s hand landed on his wrist. Edwin had a look on his face that Robin couldn’t read at all.
“I—thank you, but I would rather you didn’t,” said Edwin. Robin stared at him.
Edwin licked his lips and went on, hastily, “That said, I’d like to. For you.”
“You shouldn’t feel obliged—”
“I don’t.” A trace of a smile now. “I’m not lying to you, Robin. I would very much like to do that.”
Robin had never in his life come across any fellow who had an objection to having his prick sucked, and felt a moment of indignant wounded pride; he’d seldom made that offer before. But he was hardly going to push any kind of activity on someone unwilling, and Edwin was eyeing Robin’s cock—it throbbed in anticipation—with the sort of intensity he’d previously applied only to books, so what was Robin going to do, refuse him?
“Well,” he said, helpless. “Thank you awfully, I suppose?”
“Always so polite,” said Edwin. He leaned down and kissed Robin, a single sharp meeting of mouths.