Avery flashed him a guilty look. Laurence refrained from comment, watching as Avery went around the room painstakingly lighting each candle by hand.
It was an old-fashioned kitchen, with bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The range was an iron one that looked at least a hundred years old, but it was radiating a pleasant heat. A few pots and pans hung from hooks on the wall.
“I have eggs and milk in the pantry and a goose hanging up for tomorrow,” Avery said. “Bread, of course, and apples, both stewed and those stored in autumn. Potatoes for roasting tomorrow, and flour and fruit aplenty for the pudding.”
“And clearly no rationing whatsoever,” Laurence said weakly, envisioning a type of feast he hadn’t seen in years.
Avery looked confused and then said, “Oh! Ah, that is—I fear I really cannot explain this without mention of magic.”
Magic or the black market, Laurence thought cynically, but the idea of a proper meal allayed his conscience. It was Avery’s sin, and he was sick of canteen food.
“Little meat besides the goose, I fear,” Avery said, then brightened. “I have a rabbit or two. Are you averse to rabbit pie? My guests in latter years have seemed less fond of it than was common in my time.”
“And what time was that?” Laurence inquired, leaning back against the side of the freestanding sink as Avery unlatched the door to the pantry and disappeared into its cool dark.
“Why, I was born in the year of our Lord 1579.” Avery came back out, somehow balancing a rabbit still in its fur, a small sack of flour, two enormous onions, and a clay pot of fat.
Laurence went to his rescue, taking the rabbit and the fat. “Well, you look good for your age.” He looked like he was in his midthirties at most.
Avery laughed, bright and easy. “Oh, I have not lived every moment of those years. A full pie, I thought? ’Tis cold enough it will not spoil if we keep what we cannot eat for another day.”
“I’ll bow to your wisdom.” Laurence noted the change of subject, but chose not to remark on it. “I can boil an egg, make toast, and throw together a basic curry sauce to put on anything.”
“Curry? Of the Inde?”
“I was born in Calcutta,” Laurence said. He smiled himself when Avery’s eyes went wide with delight. The whole act was ludicrous, but he had to respect the man’s consistency. Although when had curry been introduced to Britain? He hadn’t the faintest idea.
“But you are an Englishman?”
Laurence shrugged. He tended to think of himself as more of a product of the British Empire than of England itself. His family had been in the Indian service for generations, and it was clear from his coloring that not every marriage his ancestors made had been quite as European as his father liked to claim. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure nationality had much to do with race or birth country anyway—he had met more than a few native Indians who had been pushed through so relentlessly British an upbringing that they gave the impression they would bleed a nice cup of Earl Grey if they cut themselves shaving, and everyone knew a few chaps born in the home counties who’d gone native after a decade or two in India. He’d always thought nationality was something best decided from within, rather than by another man’s standards—not an attitude that had gone down well at Harrow, or with his father.
“English is as English does,” he said in the end, deliberately vague. No point starting arguments, after all. “Now, unless you want the rabbit curried, you shall have to tell me what to do.”
“Leave the rabbit to me. If you could, there are carrots and artichokes in the pantry, and an apple would sweeten the dish.” He looked pensive. “Raisins too, I think.”
Laurence followed instructions carefully, chopping and mixing as he was told and paying close attention to every action. He should have been the one dealing with the rabbit, he knew—he had no qualms about skin and guts—but he did not trust his hands with anything save the simplest of tasks.
It was a pleasant way to spend an evening, working with another man by the soft glow of candlelight, not to stem bleeding or stitch a wound but simply to prepare food. He found himself pausing to watch Avery as he moved around the kitchen, fascinated by his long, clever hands and the way he hummed softly as he worked, and occasionally broke off as if he’d suddenly remembered someone else was there.
The next time Avery landed on a tune Laurence recognized, he joined in, humming along with “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.” Avery sent him a startled look but then broke into song, his voice ringing out in a warm baritone. After a moment’s hesitation, Laurence joined in a little awkwardly—he had no qualms about humming, but singing was something he only ever did when obliged to go to church.
There was something comforting about it, though—about throwing self-consciousness aside and sinking into the familiar words, trying to match his voice to Avery’s.
By the time the pie was in the oven, they were both talking easily, sharing memories of Christmases past—at least on Laurence’s part. He wasn’t sure how much to believe of Avery’s account of the Feast of Fools and king’s cake on Twelfth Night.
“It sounds like that was more of a celebration than Christmas Day itself,” he observed.
“Oh, it was,” Avery said, pouring them both a generous glass of the red wine left over from the pie. It gleamed in the dancing light, full of merry flickers of flame. Avery raised his own glass in a quick toast and then drank, his lips shining red and dark with the touch of the wine.
He had a pretty mouth. Damn, but the whole of him was pretty—not the curves and lipstick prettiness of the nurses from the hospital or the photos of the girls at home that wounded sailors had clung to like talismans. No, Avery’s prettiness was all male. Height and broad shoulders matched with pink cheeks, a wine-dark mouth, and soft brown curls bouncing at his collar—too long for decent fashions, but right for him.
Dear God, and all this after just a sip of wine. Laurence really needed to rediscover his willpower.
But it had been years since he’d last touched a man properly, and he missed it. There had been no chances in the hospital, and nothing more than the quick exchange of busy hands or eager mouths on board ship.
And for all he was a little mad, Avery had a pretty mouth.
Avery turned out of the kitchen and back toward the parlor. As he went, he said, his voice oddly somber for the topic, “Twelve nights. From tonight, when it begins, to Epiphany, when it ends. Every year, twelve nights to celebrate new chances. New beginnings.”
“New beginnings,” Laurence repeated. Wasn’t that what he was hoping for too? Though he had no idea what that fresh start might look like.
Avery swung round, raising his glass. “A toast, then! To new beginnings!” He didn’t sound optimistic.
Laurence raised his glass and clinked it carefully against Avery’s. “Hear, hear.”
Back in the parlor, with the warm scents of the baking pie drifting in to mix with the smoky tang of the fire, they both settled into their chairs to drink quietly. Laurence, who prided himself on his ability to adjust to any situation, sought for a neutral topic, trying to recall everything he knew about Christmas in the country—his childhood ones, once he’d come to England, had all been spent with his godfather in grand London hotels. “Not worth braving the weather for midnight mass, I think.”
“I am not welcome there,” Avery said, still sounding a little sad and distant. “The church is not forgiving of transgressions such as mine.”
“So how do we celebrate tomorrow? Roast your goose and sing a few carols? Or do you have other plans?”
“I rarely plan anything,” Avery said. “Not these days. Christmas comes again all too soon. I grow weary of it.”
“Well, I’ve not had a proper one in years,” Laurence said firmly. “Humor me with one or two things, please.”
“Roast goose and mince pies?” Avery suggested, his expression lightening. “A wassail bowl and the king’s speech?”