‘Sometimes it’s better if you don’t.’ And Leo handed Jurand his cane, gave him a parting poke in the stomach, then strutted across the street, trying not to let the pain show. They didn’t call him the Young Lion for nothing, after all. He knew a bit about courage, and the secret is to dismiss the whole notion of choice and just do. He lifted his fist and gave four smart knocks, twisting his face into the kind of self-assured smoulder he imagined the great lovers of history might’ve used.
It slipped straight off when the door opened. There was a dark-skinned woman on the other side he’d never seen before.
‘Oh … I was expecting—’
‘You must be the Young Lion,’ she said in common that probably had less accent than his.
‘Some people call me that—’
She snapped her teeth at him with a surprisingly lion-like growl and he jerked back in surprise, winced as his weight went on his wounded leg and tried to pass it off with a false chuckle as she let him past, leaning back against the door until it clunked shut. ‘Lady Savine is upstairs.’
‘Upstairs. Of course.’ He found he was blushing, which probably wasn’t something the great lovers of history would’ve done. ‘I mean, not that, I just mean … I’m not much of a talker.’
‘No doubt God gave you other talents.’ And she turned away with the slightest smile.
It seemed a long way up that darkened staircase, his heart beating so loud they could’ve heard it in the street, the chink of light below the black door getting steadily closer, promising so much. He’d no idea what to expect. Wouldn’t have shocked him to find Savine waiting with a loaded flatbow. Or stretched out naked on a tiger skin. Or both, for that matter.
He paused outside the door, trying to catch his breath, but it refused to be caught. Too cold outside, too warm in here. He thought about knocking, then realised it might be more masterful if he just swept in. They didn’t call him the Young Lion for nothing, after all. Reckless charges were his trademark. He reached for the knob, paused at a rush of nerves, then bundled too eagerly through.
Savine stood, pouring wine in the light of one lamp, as precisely posed as if she was standing for a portrait. She didn’t even flinch as the door opened, didn’t even turn to look at him, just held the glass up to the light, frowning slightly as she checked the colour. ‘You made it, then?’ she asked, finally turning towards him.
‘Yes.’ He clutched for something witty to add but the cupboard was bare. She looked even more immaculate than he remembered. Her shape against the lamplight – almost impossibly – what? Where else would words fail you but in a bloody writer’s office?
He looked around, hoping to find some inspiration. Shelves burst with books, a leather-topped desk was strewn with papers. What might’ve been a printing press stood in one corner, about the ugliest thing Leo had ever seen, all iron gears and handles, a blackened roller and one printed page lying in its open jaws.
‘Sworbreck’s latest tissue of fantasies,’ said Savine. ‘But you didn’t come to hear about other people’s adventures.’
‘Why did I come here?’ he asked, pushing the door shut, half a weak effort at a joke, half actually wanting an answer.
‘For an adventure of your own.’ And she offered him the glass.
She looked so composed, so poised, so totally in control, but as she glided closer, Leo caught something glimmering in her eyes. Some hint of hunger, or anger, or madness, even, that made him very excited and slightly afraid. Or maybe the other way around. He found himself shrinking back, ended up pressed awkwardly against the desk, the moulded edge jabbing him in the arse.
By the dead, even the most thick-headed man in Adua – and Leo counted himself in the running – couldn’t have doubted what she was after. Probably there’d never been any doubt, but for some reason, he’d let himself think she might really want to give him a tour of a writer’s office. Here the pens, there the ink, now we can all go back to our separate beds and have a lovely sleep, entirely untroubled by worries over one’s abilities as a lover.
If anyone asked, Leo would always say he adored the ladies. But there’d been times when he worried that women didn’t quite … excite him the way they should. The way they did other men. Now it seemed his problem had simply been finding the right one. Rikke had been such easy company. One of the boys. Savine could scarcely have been more the opposite. He’d never met a woman who was more … woman.
‘Nervous?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he lied. His voice cracked a bit and she smiled. A hard little smile, as though she’d caught him out. Which she had, of course. He’d never been much of a liar.
The truth was, Leo had never been that comfortable around women. But perhaps comfortable is the last thing romance should be. Perhaps it should have an edge. And every moment with Savine felt as thrilling and dangerous as stepping into the Circle with the Great Wolf.
‘I … don’t think I ever met a woman like you before,’ he said.
‘Of course not.’ She threw her wine back in one easy motion, thin muscles in her neck fluttering as she swallowed. ‘I’m the only one.’ And she tossed the glass onto the leather top of the desk, where it rattled on its edge but by some sorcery stayed upright. She eased closer, pale chest rising and falling, soft skin gleaming with the lamplight and—
She was wearing a necklace that didn’t fit at all with her flawless tailoring. A twisted thong with bone tablets threaded onto it, jaggedly carved. The kind of thing Rikke used to wear in a rattling mass. Even through the drink and the excitement, that gave him a twinge of guilt.
‘Where did you get the runes?’
‘From the North,’ she said, vaguely, her eyes on his mouth.
‘What do they say?’ He wasn’t doing anything wrong, was he? Rikke had made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing more to—
Savine took him by the chin with a force that wasn’t to be resisted. ‘Who cares?’ Her thumbtip crept up his cheek, her narrowed eyes fixed on it, and the tip of her tongue showed between her lips as she found the fresh scar, stroked it gently, a little tickly, a little sore.
‘Did Stour Nightfall give you this?’ she asked.
‘With a few other keepsakes.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Only if you press— ah!’ She very deliberately pressed it, her teeth savagely bared for an instant, and made him flinch away, twisted even more uncomfortably over the desk.
He could hardly believe how slight she was, how slender, the sinews twitching in her bare shoulder. He hardly dared to touch her in case she snapped in his hands. But she was stronger than he’d expected. Far stronger. Far warmer. He caught a waft of her scent, mostly summer meadow, but with some harsh animal edge in it. He might’ve been more scared than excited but without doubt his cock was the other way around.
His throat was so tight he could hardly speak. He found himself wondering how much older she was than him. Five years? Ten? How much more experienced … ‘Are you sure this is a good idea—’
‘I’m sure it’s a terrible idea. That’s its appeal.’ She flipped open a little box, brought out a pinch of something between finger and thumb and lifted it to his face. She found a way to do even that gracefully. ‘Here.’
‘What is it?’
‘Pearl dust.’
‘The stuff artists use to make them more sensitive?’
‘What works for artists works just as well for the rest of us. They’re really a great deal less special than they like to think. Just sniff it.’
‘I’m not sure I—’
‘I thought you came for an adventure?’ And she pressed that pinch of powder to one of his nostrils while she squeezed the other shut with a fingertip. He really had no choice but to snort it up. The time for choices had been in the street outside—.
‘Ah, by the dead!’ Fire burned to the back of his throat, out into his ears, down into his teeth, brought tears to his eyes. A horrible sensation. ‘Why the hell would anyone—’