The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(113)

"Sandy is possessed by a skrayling."

"Yes."

"And those men who stole him away?"

He sighed. "I don't know. Perhaps hired by the Huntsmen."

She recalled his reluctant confession. "Do the Huntsmen know about the skraylings, about what they can do?"

"It would explain why they hate and fear them so much. But I cannot say for sure. After that night, I did not hide my distaste for their methods, and Charles did not confide in me again." He laughed bitterly. "I would be far more use to Walsingham if he had."

"If the Huntsmen have him and know what he is…" She felt sick at the thought. Possessed or no, he was Master Catlyn's brother.

"We should both get some rest; there is much to do on the morrow." He turned to leave.

"Don't go!" she cried out. The thought of being left alone in the dark, in a building full of demonic creatures that were willing and able to violate her very soul, terrified her. "Please, stay with me."

His jaw tightened. "Do not tempt me. I am in no humour to be gentle."

"I…" Shame turned to indignation. "I was not offering my body."

"No?"

"No." She sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off a shoe. "Faith, you men think of but one thing."

"One thing, aye." He leant on the door jamb, grinning at the double entendre.

She mimed throwing the shoe at him, then let it fall to the floor. She had not the spirit for this game, not tonight. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, afraid she would break down in tears again if he made another jest at her expense.

"Forgive me." He dropped to one knee at her feet and took her hands in his. "This business has put us both out of sorts. I presumed too much."

And I too little, she thought, but dared not say it. She could not meet his eye. His touch, his closeness already threatened her resolve. She had not offered, but she was not sure she could resist if he chose to take.

"Go to sleep," he said. "I will keep vigil, if you wish."

"Thank you, sir."

"Please, call me Mal."

"Thank you. Mal." He was still holding her hands; she could feel her palms and fingertips beginning to sweat. "And… and you can call me Jacomina."

"I think it would be better if I stick to 'Hendricks'," he said with a smile. "Unless you are ready to tell the world?"

She shook her head. "Not just yet."

"Come then, boy, into bed with you."

He released her hands and pulled off her other shoe. She shuffled back on the bed and lay down, still fully clothed. He pulled off his own boots and sat down next to her. After a moment he sprang up and disappeared into the next room, returning soon afterwards with his lute. She smiled, recalling that first meeting at Goody Watson's. Half a lifetime ago, it seemed.

He settled himself against the headboard and began to play – a slow, melancholy tune she had never heard before. The ghostly lamplight picked out the planes of his face, throwing them into sharp relief against the dusky night. Black lashes caught the light now and again as he blinked, and his left hand moved along the neck of the instrument, only inches from her face. She sighed and closed her eyes. Now she might sleep.

Mal glanced down at the sleeping girl, lying on her side with her head pillowed on a fold of the counterpane. The bluish light stole all the colour from her face; she might have been dead but for the slow rise and fall of her shoulder. Too exhausted to dream tonight, by the looks of it. Thank the saints. Nightmares enough awaited her, faces of dead friends, screams, gunfire… At least she had not killed anyone, even if misplaced guilt told her otherwise.

He carefully lowered the lute to the floor and slid down the bed until he was lying next to her. He ought to go back to the ambassador's chamber, but he did not like to think of her waking alone, perhaps from death-haunted dreams, her cries summoning the skraylings to investigate. He lay back on the bolster, laced his hands across his chest like a stone effigy and closed his eyes, letting the now-familiar sounds of the Tower lull him to sleep.

He opened them again to a bright spring day, the air full of white petals blowing in a stiff breeze off the hills. Rows of espaliered apples and pears, as tall as his head, stretched into the distance. He was in the walled garden tucked into the slope behind Rushdale Hall, playing with Sandy whilst Maman and the other grownups fussed over Charlie. All because their brother was getting betrothed, whatever that meant.

Sandy had a new bow and a quiver of blunt-tipped arrows, and was pretending to be one of the New World savages from the illustrated book in their father's library. Mal could see him, creeping along on the far side of the espalier, a pheasant's tail feather sticking up from his bonnet like a pennant. Mal had a wooden sword slung at his hip, but right now he was brandishing a crooked length of apple branch, pretending it was one of Charlie's guns.

"Bang, bang! You're dead!"

"No I'm not!"

Sandy ran to the end of the espalier and fired an arrow that missed Mal completely.

"Yes you are," Mal said. "I shot you through the branches."

"You can't do that, it's cheating." Sandy threw down his bow and arrows and launched himself at Mal.

"Is not." Mal rolled over, pinning his brother to the ground. "I killed you fair and square."