Page 53 of The Trick of It

“Not Lem?” Rhys asked immediately of the tall, sturdy muscle who was always at Libba’s side and had played Tybalt opposite Rhys’s Mercutio in the last production.

She gave half a smile. “Of course not Lem,” she assured him. “He’ll live to stab you another day.”

“We’ll see about that.” Rhys sniffed. “Am I getting killed in this next one?”

“Alas, no,” she said. “You’ll be Puck. Because you already are.”

Rhys only blinked.

He had always found ways to avoid reading Shakespeare, back when Willa had attempted to impose it upon them.

He didn’t know who the Devil Puck was, but if he was half as fun as Mercutio, it would be a good time.

“You’ll want to make more of your fairy fire,” she told him. “People will be slobbering for it after how well it did last time. You should sell the recipe to Seph. I bet she’d make a killing.”

His hand jerked, spattering a bit of wine on his collar, which immediately made him grimace.

Libba’s eyebrows raised just a fraction, her gaze sharpening as she followed the slow spread of red liquid on the white fabric of his shirt. “Something amiss?”

Rhys sighed, digging a hand into his hair and squeezing. “Many things,” he said. “Did you know … erm … that I … with Seph … Did you know that I …”

Libba gave him an unimpressed flattening of her lips. “Yes.”

“I didn’t finish my question!” he shot, dropping his hand with a frown.

“We all know,” she said, shrugging. “What of it?”

He stared at her, doing his best to glower and failing miserably, and then sighed, slumping backward and splashing himself again before taking an undignified swig of the wine. “Apparently, the feeling is mutual.”

“Of course it is,” Libba replied, with a roll of her eyes. “Did you not know that?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, taking a few more petulant, slurping sips. “And you didn’t bloody think to tell me?!” he hissed.

“Why would I do that?” she answered with a little laugh. “You know how much I enjoy a good drama. But it appears a new act has kicked off without my knowledge. Is this about the envelope you were ranting about last week?”

“Yes,” he said, then he frowned and shook his head. “Actually, no. That helped but is irrelevant.”

“And?” Libba pressed, leaning forward. “Did you finally make it with her? Full clicket?”

He gasped, touching his throat like a scandalized church matron. “Liberty Beauregard Lennox!” he breathed.

“Rhys, if you are going to give me a middle name,” she told him, curling her lip, “it must never again be Beauregard.”

“Liberty Evangeline Lennox!” he amended, seeing an approving nod snap at her chin. “Lennox Townsend, even! How could you ask that?!”

“Well, did you?” she prodded, reaching out to poke at his bicep. “Was it good?”

“Of course it was good,” he snapped, flicking her hand away. “Why did I come here?”

She grinned then, her teeth even and white and sparkling in the candlelight. “Oh, I must go immediately to Seph and terrorize her about this.”

“Lib,” he said, kicking his foot out to tap her ankles. “Terrorize me. I’m the one who came here for it.”

She paused, her expression softening just a touch, around the edges. “Yes, you did, didn’t you? That can’t have been the first time you two have kissed. Surely, back in the performing days …”

“Never,” he groaned, dropping his face into his hand and shaking it. “Not once. Worse than that, actually, but I can’t bear telling that story just now.”

“All right.” Her hand came out, warm and firm on his shoulder and squeezed. “So, what now?”