The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(60)

As she neared the top she heard someone cry out, a man's voice. In her own room. She crept up the last few steps and turned right onto the landing. The only sound from the room up ahead was a fast rhythmic creaking. She tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear to the worn planks.

The cry came again and this time there were words, in a voice she recognised. Ned Faulkner.

"Oh God… Oh God… I die, I di– Aaaahhh!"

Blood rushed to her cheeks and her heart stilled its clamour. Ned Faulkner. Gabriel Parrish. They were fornicating like the sinners of Sodom, in her own bed no less, and blaspheming as they did so. She leant back against the wall and drew a deep breath, then another. Reaching out to her left she pounded on the door with the side of her fist.

"Master Parrish?"

There was a scuffling noise from within, and muttered curses. Coby recited the Lord's Prayer under her breath, then knocked again.

"Master Parrish!"

Silence. Try once more.

She had just got to the part about forgiving trespasses, when the door opened a crack. Parrish stepped out onto the landing clad in shirt and hose, his feet bare. His pale hair was disordered and limp with sweat, and his features were as flushed as her own, though not, she feared, with shame.

"Hendricks? What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" she countered. "We have rehearsals today."

Parrish made a derisive noise.

"Please, sir?" She tried a different tack. "Philip is still forgetting his lines, and now he reckons his voice might be breaking."

"And how am I to help with that?" He lowered his voice. "I want nothing to do with this play. Not any more."

Coby sighed. This was all she needed.

"How could you?" she muttered, jerking her head towards the door. "In my bed."

He shrugged. "Ned was… persistent, and we could hardly use the boys' room, or anywhere else for that matter. You did take pains to point out that this door has a bolt on it."

She pushed past him, unwilling to acknowledge he was right. If Betsy had found… evidence in Philip's bed, it would go ill for Parrish.

The air was heavy with the smell of violets and fresh sweat. Memories of another man's scent, the warmth of his breath on her neck as they grappled in combat, rose unbidden. How was that any different from this? the voice of temptation asked. It just is, she replied.

She shook off the troublesome thoughts and forced herself to return to the matter at hand. Parrish was making a show of straightening the bedding, but since Faulkner was still sprawled across half of it with only a corner of the sheet to hide his modesty, there seemed little point.

"Hullo, Hendricks," Faulkner said, grinning. "What brings you here?"

"Master Parrish is supposed to be at rehearsals," she replied.

"So you're Naismith's retriever now, as well as his mastiff?" He exchanged knowing glances with Parrish. "Methinks he would make a better spaniel, eh, Gabe?"

"Oh, he's that already." Parrish gave her a wink.

"Alas, my horn is winded," Faulkner sighed. "The hunt is over, and the quarry brought to its fall."

Coby ignored him. "Sir, we really do need you at the theatre. Everyone's so upset–"

Parrish's eyes flicked towards his lover, and Coby realised he hadn't told Faulkner about the poem yet.

"They're always like this before a new play," he said, a little too loudly. "They can live without me for one afternoon."

"As long as it is only one."

"Why should it not be?" Faulkner levered himself out of bed and slithered naked over to Parrish, slipping his arms around the other man's waist. "Or is there something you're not telling me, love?"

Coby looked away, her cheeks burning. The shamelessness of the man knew no bounds.

"It's nothing," Parrish said. "Just the usual squabbling over who gets the best parts."

"I know which parts I like best," Faulkner purred.

"Stop it, Ned, you're embarrassing yourself as well as Hendricks."

Faulkner flounced back to bed and wrapped himself in a sheet, muttering.

"Don't mind him," Parrish told Coby. "He's been in a queer humour all morning."

She made no comment. As far as she could see, Faulkner was his usual self: lewd, discourteous and nasty.

"So, how are the rehearsals going?" Parrish asked her, leaning on the bedpost. "Is Pip's voice really breaking?"

"I don't think so. It's just nerves, or a summer chill."

"Naismith should get him some physic from the skrayling apothecary in that case."

"They would be happier if you were there, sir. And not just the boys. The company feels incomplete without you."

Parrish bit his lip. He looked somewhat mollified, but she decided this was not the time to take chances.

"You are the very pinnacle of the actor's art, in both male and female roles," she went on, "and thus invaluable to Suffolk's Men."

"Invaluable, eh?" Parrish fingered his lovelock and looked about the room.

"Absolutely."

"All right. Tell Naismith I'll turn up if he pays me the same as Rafe."