“What? She is.”
“I swear, you would play the coquette with a well-upholstered sofa.”
“First, I would not. And second, how handsome is this sofa?” Now Percy groans in earnest. I scrub the rest of the soap off my face. “If you were half as pretty as me, darling, you might understand—”
I turn, and the words crumble into dust. Percy’s sitting on the bed, fiddling with a tinderbox on the nightstand and wearing nothing but a long shirt, which has gotten bunched up around his hips, leaving very little to my imagination. The neck hangs open so that the dusky light slides over the smooth skin of his chest like oil on water.
It is perhaps the most unfair play in the history of unrequited love.
I take a step back without meaning to, knocking into the dressing table. The razor stone falls to the ground with a clatter.
Percy looks up. “I might understand what?”
“I . . .” And I can’t stay here with him, let alone sleep next to him—very suddenly, it is all too much, to think of lying with him, chaste and distant but with the sheets warm from his skin and his drowsy breath against my ear. I think it might eat me alive. I’m halfway to the door, my back against the wall, before I even realize I’ve moved. My hands are strangling the ties of my dressing gown. “I’m not going to turn in yet.”
“What? Aren’t you tired?”
“No. I think I’m going to see if I can find something to drink.”
“Drink tomorrow. I want to go to bed.”
It is impossible to explain how you can love someone so much that it’s difficult to be around him. And with Percy sitting there, half in shadow, his hair loose and his long legs and those eyes I could have lived and died in, it feels like there’s a space inside me that is so bright it burns.
“I’ll try not to wake you when I come in,” I say as I unlatch the door behind my back, then slip out into the hall before he can say anything more.
The house is eerier at night, which I hadn’t thought possible, but poor lighting and long shadows are masters of sinister ambiance. I think about going back into the study where we met Dante, until I remember all the dead things and cursed objects there, and instead shuffle to the front parlor and settle in before the fire, on a leather sofa which is just short enough that I can’t stretch out all the way and just stiff enough that I can’t get comfortable and I am just irritated enough to know I won’t sleep. There’s a decanter on the sideboard with a bottle-collar proclaiming it cognac, but no glasses, so I take a swig straight out of the neck. I haven’t had a drink in a while, but it’s not quite as soothing as I want it to be.
There are footsteps in the hallway, then a moment later a shadow blots the rug. “I thought I heard you wandering about.”
I sit up as Felicity makes a very unladylike flop onto the sofa where my legs just were. I offer her the cognac, and she shocks me by accepting it, then taking a delicate sip. Her nose wrinkles. “That’s vile.”
“It’s not the best I’ve ever had, no.”
“I don’t think it’s this particular vintage.”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“Why acquire a taste for something so horrid?”
Something flaps by the window, a black shape torn from the black sky, and Felicity and I both jump. Then we smile sheepishly at each other. “This house is strange,” I say.
“Yes, but we’re here, aren’t we? They’ve been kind to let us stay. We haven’t any other options.” She takes another tight-lipped sip of the cognac, pulls a spectacular face, then passes it back to me. “Helena’s very pretty.”
“Yes. So?”
“So? So I thought you’d be slavering over that.”
“Should I be?”
“Honestly, Monty, I’ve never quite understood who’s really got a hold on you.”
“Do you want to know if I’m a bugger?”
She winces at the crass word, but then says, “It seems a fair question, considering I’ve seen your hands all over Richard Peele and Theodosia Fitzroy.”
“Oh, dear Theodosia, my girl.” I collapse backward into the sofa cushions. “I remain inconsolable over losing her.” I do not want to talk about this. Especially with my little sister. I came down here for the sole purpose of getting drunk enough to sleep and avoid venturing anywhere near this subject, but Felicity goes on staring at me like she’s waiting for an answer. I take an uncivilized swipe at my mouth with my sleeve, which would have earned me a cuff from Father had we been at home. “Why does it matter who I run around with?”
“Well, one is illegal. And a sin. And the other is also a sin, if you aren’t married to her.”
“Are you going to give me the fornication without the intention of procreation is of the devil and a crime lecture? I believe I could recite it from memory by now.”
“Monty—”
“Perhaps I am trying to procreate with all these lads and I’m just very misinformed about the whole process. If only Eton hadn’t thrown me out.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“What was the question?”
“Are you—”
“Oh yes, am I a sodomite. Well, I’ve been with lads, so . . . yes.”
She purses her lips, and I wish I hadn’t been so forthright. “If you’d stop, Father might not be so rough on you, you know.”
“Oh my, thank you for that earth-shattering wisdom. Can’t believe I didn’t think of that myself.”
“I’m simply suggesting—”
“Don’t bother.”
“—he might ease up.”
“Well, I haven’t much choice.”
“Really?” She crosses her arms. “You haven’t a choice in who you bed?”
“No, I mean I haven’t much choice in who it is I want to bed.”
“Of course you do. Sodomy’s a vice—same as drinking or gambling.”
“Not really. I mean, yes, I enjoy it. And I have certainly abstained from abstinence. But I’m also rather attracted to all the men I kiss. And the ladies as well.”
She laughs, like I’ve made a joke. I don’t. “Sodomy has nothing to do with attraction. It’s an act. A sin.”
“Not for me.”
“But humans are made to be attracted to the opposite sex. Not the same one. That’s how nature operates.”
“Does that make me unnatural?” When she doesn’t reply, I say, “Have you ever fancied anyone?”
“No. But I believe I understand the basic principles of it.”
“I don’t think you really can until it’s happened to you.”
“Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Ever fancied someone?”
“Oh. Well, yes.”
“Girls?”
“Yes.”
“Lads?”
“Also yes.”
“Percy?”
I had felt her winding up to that, but it still catches me on the chin. I don’t say anything, which is answer enough, and she gives me a sideways glance. “Don’t look so surprised. Neither of you is very subtle.”
“Neither of us?”
“Well, yes, it does take two. Isn’t Percy—”
“No,” I interrupt. “Percy is not . . . No.”
“You mean you’ve never—”
“No.” I take another long drink. The bottle collar rattles against the neck.
“Oh. I suppose I assumed, as you lean toward lads and the two of you are always so familiar with each other.”
“We are not.”