He huffs and moves his hands from his hips. His eyes narrow, then he smiles. “You think I’m pretty like this?”
“Yes,” I admit in defeat.
A beaming smile spreads across Mabon’s beautiful face. It lights up his eyes. “Good.”
Oh lord. London suddenly seems so very, very far away.
Chapter twenty-seven
This pub is getting busier and rowdier. The football match has drawn quite the crowd. Perfect for what we need, but it is making me a little uneasy. There are so many people packed into one space that if things went wrong, they’d go really wrong. Very quickly.
I take another deep breath. Everything is fine. Mabon’s disguise is flawless, and he is keeping his hood up like I told him to. No one has given us more than a glance.
My plan of slipping into recently vacated tables and acting as if the leftover food and drinks are ours, is working perfectly.
Mabon likes fish and chips, and hunter’s chicken. He likes cider but hates beer. Not that his dislike seems to stop him from drinking it. I’m going to have to stop him soon. A drunk Mabon is the last thing I need.
But at the moment he looks so happy that I can’t bring myself to curtail his enthusiasm. He is looking around with keen interest, acting like this shitty chain pub is something special. He is not complaining at all about eating leftovers. In fact, everytime we slide into a new table, he is tucking in with glee and regaling me with his verdict on the human food.
I feel strangely proud that I’m managing to feed and clothe him when I don’t have any money. But I’m sure the novelty will wear off soon and all that will be left is stress. We need money. We can’t get all the way to London without any. It would take a week to walk. And every moment Mabon is not home, is a moment the Resistance could capture him again.
If we had train fare, we would be in London in eight hours. If we had coach fare, it would take around fourteen hours.
So I need to steal some cash. Everyone in here is getting drunk enough that picking some pockets shouldn’t be difficult. Even though I have never picked a pocket before. But how hard can it be?
A loud round of cheering erupts around the crowd. Some people jump up and punch the air. Drinks spill. Someone falls over.
“What’s happening?” whispers Mabon. His new blue eyes are wide, but not alarmed.
“Falkirk scored a goal.”
“Is that good?” he asks.
I smile and sip my stolen beer. “In this pub, yes.”
“Oh goodie!” he beams.
My heart does a strange skip. He really can be a sweetie sometimes. Utterly impossible at other times. He certainly doesn’t make things dull, and apparently I find that endearing.
The people at the table next to us finish their exuberant celebration and sit back down. And something amazing catches my eye. The guy closest to our table has his back to me and his wallet is half out of his trouser pocket. It’s about to fall on the floor.
He and his mates are very drunk. It’s loud in here, so he will never hear it hit the floor. Once it falls, I’ll be able to bend downand scoop it up with no problem. This is the answer to all my prayers.
“I need to pee,” says Mabon.
Oh for fuck’s sake. I glare at him. He stares back at me with an innocent look. I sigh. He has been perfectly well behaved for hours.
I nod towards the back of the pub. “Follow the signs that say toilets. You’ll probably have to go up a million stairs.”
Mabon nods his understanding and stands up.
“Use the ones that say gentleman,” I tell him.
He nods again and flashes me a smile as if he is off on an exciting adventure, which I suppose is true. If you are a prince, using a public restroom in a pub probably is a huge adventure.
I watch in trepidation as he heads off, weaving through the crowd gracefully. He looks exactly like a young man in a hoodie and dark jeans. Unremarkable. If he keeps his hood up, no one is going to see how extraordinarily beautiful he is. He is going to be fine.
I snap my attention back to the wallet and try to make it fall the rest of the way out by the force of my stare.
