He breathed, calming down. “Very well. Since the exchange did not go as planned, we must await a message from the abductor. I believe it will be soon.” Avelyn had moved closer to Flamel and was petting his arm soothingly. Crispin tapped the table in front of her and she looked up at him. “Take care of your master,” he said. He was amazed when she nodded.
“Master Flamel, I must go. Alert me when you receive another message. Do nothing until you talk to me.”
“Yes, Maître. I swear I will.”
Crispin nodded, bowed, and left.
He stood in the street, inhaling deeply of the heavy cold. Now that he thought on it, Henry’s visit to the Shambles seemed even stranger. Had he been trying to warn Crispin? Or trying to see what he knew? But this was before the dead man was discovered or the note about the ransom. The uncertainty gave him a headache.
He walked on, and when he finally turned the corner of the Shambles, he halted. Both sheriffs sat in their saddles. Their horses bowed their heads, snuffling for dead grass through the snow. The sheriffs’ gazes fell on Crispin, but they did not beckon him. What else would they be doing in the Shambles except to watch him? Did they not trust he would do his best to find the killer? They’d seen him accomplish as much before and were as ungrateful each time.
He bowed slightly to them and they pointedly turned away, refusing to acknowledge him. “Whoresons,” Crispin muttered, and continued on to his lodgings.
He made a quick stop at a meat pie seller, handing over his coins and taking the greasy pastry in exchange. The pie warmed his fingers and he was grateful for that as he trudged up the stairs, hoping Jack would be there. But when he opened the door, he found Avelyn stoking his fire instead. “God’s blood!” How had she gotten here so fast? He stomped toward her and she turned, perhaps sensing his steps through the floor. The fire lit a halo of her already fair hair. Her eyes took him in and a small smile graced her face. She still looked elfin, like a changeling, yet he could appreciate her more feminine charms. And she was using them, either consciously or as part of her nature. Much softer than he intended, he asked, “Why are you here? You should be by your master, easing his anxiety.”
She smiled and simply knelt by the fire. He noticed she had a pot of wine steaming there and grabbed the pot’s handle with the rolled-up hem of her apron and poured its contents into a bowl. How had she accomplished so much in so little time? She must have raced here when Crispin left the alchemist.
With a smile, she offered the bowl to him. Disconcerted, he took it reluctantly. “Yes … thank you.” He sipped the hot wine. It felt good as it warmed. He set it aside and sat on his chair, leaning toward her. “You must not stay.” She turned to the fire again and he tapped her shoulder. “I say, you must not stay. You must return to your master. He needs you.”
She shook her head and got up on her knees, touching his to keep herself steady. Her fingers fluttered as she tried to speak her hand language, but he closed his larger hands over her petite ones. “No. I don’t understand you.”
She sighed and clasped her delicate fingers together. After merely looking at him for a long moment, she rose again and made more motions, seemed to act out something, but it still made no sense to Crispin.
“I’m sorry. But I do not understand you. I thank you for the wine, but it might be best to return to-” She laid her fingers to his lips. When he stopped speaking, the fingers slowly withdrew. She touched the bowl, made a motion with her fingers, and then waited. She repeated and waited again expectantly.
“Are you … trying to teach me?” She made the motion a third time and, tentatively, he imitated it.
A broad smile broke out on her face and she repeated the motion. He did a better job of imitating her and she clapped her hands. She jumped to her feet and pointed to the hearth, making a motion with her fingers. And then she pointed to the candle flame. Her fingers meant “fire,” he supposed, and, feeling slightly foolish, he made the motion back. She smiled again and treated many objects in the room in the same way, going to the next only when he made the correct motion.
The strange language intrigued him. He’d always enjoyed learning languages, and this was no different. He marveled at the simplicity of the movements, which reminded him of some of the dancing movements he’d seen in miracle plays. She cupped her hand for the bowl, she wiggled her fingers to represent fire or flames, the same movement only downward represented water. Over and over she’d teach him simple words, the movements a poetic accompaniment to each object she’d encounter.
She laughed her braying laugh again and settled with a flourish of skirts at his feet, hands resting on his knees.
“Where do you come from?” he said to her when she looked up at him with laughing eyes. “Did you come from France?”
She nodded, hands still on his knees. He looked down at her tapered fingers curled around his joints. She tapped his knee and made a motion. He repeated, for if he didn’t, she would repeat it endlessly as if he were a dim child.
She sat up and slid her hands from his knees over his thighs. Her smile was softer and her eyes shadowed by her lashes. She tapped his leg and made a sign. He repeated it.
She scooted closer, touched his chest, and made the sign. She did not wait for him to repeat it when she reached up and touched his lips. She quickly made the sign with her other hand but did not take her fingers away. The fingers began a slow caress. He gave her a small smile and gently took her wrist, removing her hand. But as soon as he released her, her fingers were back, touching his lips and then his chin, the pads of her fingers catching on the stubble.
She withdrew a moment to touch her chest and made the sign of her name.
His voice was roughened when he pointed to himself. “I am Crispin.”
She made a sign for it and he repeated it.
She touched her lips and then touched his and made a sign.
“I don’t understand.”
She repeated the sign, repeated touching her lips and then his. He could not help but lean forward. “I’m sorry. I don’t think … I don’t understand.”
Her hand closed on his coat and dragged him forward. He nearly fell out of his chair when she pulled him farther until his lips touched hers. Startled, he tried to pull away, but her grip on his coat was surprisingly strong. She was gentle as their mouths slid together and then, teasingly, barely touched.
“Avelyn,” he murmured, lips tingling against her nibbling mouth. He took her upper arms in a gentle grasp, trying to push her back. “Avelyn, you shouldn’t be here.” She should be with her master. This was foolish. But the softness of her mouth, moving gently, patiently, over his, as patient as the motions and signs she taught him, grew captivating. Their noses prodded each other. He held his breath when she angled her head and pressed more firmly, hot breath searing his mouth. His lids drifted closed. Slowly, she opened her lips with maddening tenderness. Her tongue caressed. He resisted, but she swiped her tongue over his mouth again before snaking it forward, breaching the seam of his lips. She barely touched the tip of her tongue to his, but all at once, it seemed to be the invitation Crispin was waiting for. His arms enveloped her and he opened his mouth to cover hers.
He inhaled her warm scent and clenched his eyes, feeling little but their wet brush of tongues and the warmth of her breath on his cheek.