“Whenever you believe in him, at that moment, he is real to you.”
”Is the Lady real?”
Dmitri remained silent for a few moments, then quietly answered, “Very much so. But she’s not what you think she is. Which is why you must train.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Martin.
Peter closed his eyes and leaned on the tavern’s hearth, recalling arms around him, lips against lips, the deep thrum ofsomethingunderneath. A rightness. Tiny sparks igniting when skin touched skin. A missing piece of himself, restored.
From the moment he’d been drawn to a badly injured Arkenn on the riverbank, there’d been something about him. So much time apart should have dampened the pull.
Yet time and distance only increased Peter’s want for his foundling.
Only, he’d woken to an empty bed. Would Arkenn… Martin come back? Fate couldn’t have brought them together, only to separate them again.
All those seasons ago, nestled together on Peter’s bunk. First, he’d nursed Martin back to health, then Martin returned the favor. Peter never told a soul his suspicions about Martin’s magery. How had he managed to hide his powers, living in a city where one wrong move meant a death sentence?
He should have run, gotten as far from E’Skaara as possible. Yet, he’d stayed. Why?
Peter would have to ask him, if Martin graced the Stone’s Throw’s door again. The late eve crowd departed, his three lodgers trudging upstairs to their rooms long before closing. Tonight, no squeaking bed ropes chased back the quiet. Not a sound, not even the ticking of the mantel clock. No surprise. He’d liked the workmanship when he’d inherited the place but never got around to having the faulty mechanisms repaired.
He dawdled, sent Addie home, took his time sweeping.
Tick, tick, tick…
Peter spun, facing the hearth. The clock’s pendulum swung back and forth, ticking off the moments. What? How? An accidental fall to the floor broke parts inside, Old Mitta had told him.
Suddenly prickles rose on Peter’s neck, warmth flowing into his belly. He wasn’t alone. Slowly, slowly, he turned to face the street.
There, under a lantern, stood a familiar figure, dressed in black.
They stared at each other for long moments, frozen. The figure crossed the street in a few long strides.
Peter jerked his shoulders back, reanimating and hurrying toward the door. One minute Martin stood outside, looking in on a world where he felt so out of place at times; the next moment, warmth surrounded him when he stepped out of the cold, both physical and proverbial, and into the light.
Peter greeted him with a bashful smile. “What brings you down here to my humble establishment at this hour?”
He didn’t bar the way, ushering Martin farther inside. Martin winked, tightness unfurling inside of him at the welcome. “We’re sharers of secrets, are we not?” Shyness had never been a problem, yet Martin hefted the weight of each word before allowing it to leave his mouth. “Would you believe I have business with the tavernkeeper?” Too much filled his mind, had kept him awake at night. Things Peter might not be ready to hear if the priests had kept him so isolated from the knowledge of who, or what, Peter and Martin were.
Peter whipped his gaze to the floor, the bloom of color on his pale cheeks answering louder than words.
Footsteps overhead had Peter gazing ceilingward. He bustled over to the front door, grasping the cloak and hat hanging from a hook and wrapping himself inside worn wool. “Walk with me?”
“Aren’t you afraid of cutpurses or other evils roaming the streets at night?” Martin asked, even though they’d be as safe outside as in—he’d see to it.
“Not with you.” A gentle smile lifted the corner of Peter’s mouth, etching a dimple into his cheek. “Why do you think no one approaches you? You’re… dangerous.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Besides, anyone who can run down a murderous sailor and return with nary a scratch must be someone to be reckoned with.”
Peter didn’t know half of the matter. Martin raised a brow.
Peter chuckled. “As Aggie says, anyone out on a night like tonight is bound to be a relative of hers. I’ll simply threaten to tell her. No wise man risks her wrath.”
Martin supposed not. He strolled outside, then waited as Peter locked the door and pocketed the key. “Where to?”
Peter nodded toward the end of the road. “There’s a pier that the locals use for fishing. When I can’t sleep, I go there, watch the ships’ lanterns bobbing in the bay.”
Did he miss the sea? TheSeabird? His father?
