Page 42 of The Trick of It

He grinned at her, leaning down to gather up the pillow and blankets. “Come now, Seph,” he said with a click of his tongue. “You act as though I’ve never sneaked out of a woman’s room before.”

“Oh, I have no doubt you’re quite experienced,” she replied dryly. “Feel free to sneak out of mine. Now.”

He gave another little chuckle, grin still wide, and spun on his heel to obey.

But once he was gone, and she was safe to emerge from her bed, safe to put on her armor and shake off the memory of the night before, she found that she felt a little sad about it.

A little rueful.

Because the magic Merlin had wanted to believe in had been in this room last night, liminal and soft and a little unreal. That was true magic.

And now it was gone.

With only sunlight in its place.

*

Rhys dressed quickly. The rumpled linens went directly onto the bare mattress he’d stripped them from and he stepped into the clean set of clothes he’d brought for today, stuffing away his pajamas impatiently as the aroma of breakfast wafted up from the ground floor.

It was well that Seph had kicked him out of her room when she had.

Any longer alone in a private chamber with her looking like that, hair wild down her back, lips puffy and red from being pressed into her pillow, compounded with the particularly susceptible mindset a man often had immediately upon waking … Well, suffice to say, he likely would have said something stupid if he’d lingered. Or done something stupid.

Hell, he’d likely have performed both feats, even though he had escaped quickly.

He ran a dollop of oil through his curls as he took the stairs down, two at a time, toward the beckoning sizzle of cured meats and eggs in butter.

He should’ve asked her, last night in that odd, dark stretch of honesty and drowse, what the Devil had actually, truly happened back when they’d been young. She might have answered him if he’d timed it right.

She might have finally told him the truth.

Of course, it was the rule of the universe that the best ideas in conversation only arrive in the aftermath of its reckoning.

Rhys could have ruled the world if he’d come up with half the clever retorts he was capable of in the moment, opposite a foe, rather than six hours later in the bath.

Alas, it was just the way of things.

“Morning, boyo,” said Mr. Cagney, already halfway out the door with a lumpy parcel in his arms. He lifted it up as though to gesture to it as the subject of conversation. “Lady brought you a pair of stuffed birds. You’ve just missed her.”

“Excellent,” said Rhys. “Have you eaten?”

“Twice,” said Mr. Cagney, tossing him a wink. “Going to take a walk. We’ll depart ’round noon?”

“Certainly,” Rhys agreed, helping him maneuver the stuffed hoopoes on their thick, twining branch out the inn door before he sought out a good table with minimal grit on its wooden surface. He ordered two plates and two cups of whatever was hot and vitalizing, then leaned back to feel the sun on his face until she arrived.

He felt her before he saw her.

Somehow, he knew the sound of her steps. The weight of her soul on the floorboards. He opened his eyes and gave her a lazy, two-fingered wave, holding it until she sagged with relief and trotted over to take the seat opposite him.

“Busy,” she said, looking around at the clamor of diners, which was easily more than double what the inn had seen for dinner last night. “They must excel in breakfast.”

“Let’s hope so. Or hop so, I suppose? Like the hare on the sign.”

She gave him a smirk. “I think that’s a pun, Rhys. Hoppy, like ale?”

He blinked, breaking into a grin. “Ah. And hoppy like a bunny. Clever!”

She shook her head at him, failing to fight off her own smile, and took up her mug of milky, steaming tea with a little sigh.