Page 26 of The Trick of It

“Flies and mosquitoes aren’t very abundant as it gets cold, either,” she said, nodding. “Oh, but I have some dried ants and crickets at the shop! I shall offer them. Though the ants are covered in chocolate.”

“What?” he barked, though she’d turned to leave for truth this time. “Seph! Why do you have ants in chocolate?!”

It was no use.

She was gone.

And he was stuck achy, and clogged, and listless in his bed. It was a very nice bed, at least. And though he’d never tell her so, using the spicy fruits when he needed to clear his cursed head enough to breathe through his nose was actually very effective.

Shortly after the delivery of the pink tin, he found himself sprinkling the powdered heat concoction from the bottoms of the fruit paper into his mugs of tea and broth, to astoundingly tasty results.

When Monica Thresher, the sweetest of his sisters, came to read to him, he insisted she try it, too, and glowed in pleasure at the look of astounded enjoyment on her round, pink face.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she breathed. “Seph ought to sell it in a shaker.”

“You tell her,” he said. “I’ve given the wench enough business ideas.”

Which only seemed to amuse Monica. “Shall I read to you?” she offered, drifting over to his bookshelf and tapping the spines until she found his tales of Welsh legacy on the rack. “Gwenllian again?”

“No,” he said, faster and sharper than he’d intended. “No, not her. Not right now.”

“Really?” Monica asked, turning with surprise in her eyes. “You love Gwenllian.”

“Not right now,” he said again, and he sneezed a few times for good measure. “Erm … Bran the Blessed. It’s in the same book.”

“But I don’t know that one,” she protested, withdrawing the book and flipping through it as she swayed back toward the chair at the foot of his bed. “Oh, a giant. And a king.”

“It gets worse,” he assured her.

And settled in under his blankets for a tale of a wronged Welsh king who used Irish magic to become a talking, decapitated head.

Why did that feel so right just now?

Rhys decided that no one could say.

It was a mystery.

A total and complete mystery.

Part III

Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter Eight

Seph woke before daybreak on the tenth, with the assumption that she’d need to dress, pack, and walk to Starling’s Rest to retrieve Rhys and the coach.

He must have anticipated her over-preparedness, because shortly after her kettle began its high-pitched aria of mercy, there was a clatter downstairs and a ring of her bell. She found him waiting for her, dressed in a red waistcoat and a fluffy, sage-green scarf, his brown curls each styled into perfect ringlets on his brow.

“Stop dawdling,” he teased, green eyes sparkling with mischief. “And stop looking so surprised.”

So she did.

She left the hot tea in the kettle and climbed into the coach, an empty trunk for her purchases lodged overhead, and her mind still bleary from sleep as they lurched off in the direction of Lewes.

He proffered a flask at her, his fingertips poking out of maimed gloves, and shook it a bit for good measure. “Coffee,” he said. “For your vim.”

“Coffee and what else?” she asked warily, plucking it from his grasp.