Page 34 of The House of the Red Balconies

He had also developed an irritating conviction that Zo was an innocent, or at least shy. That was perhaps only natural when Timon had been making his interest plain for weeks without receiving an enthusiastic response, but it was still annoying. The man had lived most of his life on Tykanos; he knew how companions operated. Yet he was so convinced that he must be an exception to the rule that the only explanation for Zo keeping him at arm’s length was that Zo was a shy flower?

Zo couldn’t really complain to anyone about it. Chrestos might have been sympathetic, but Zo had probably burned his bridges with Chrestos by failing to confide in him earlier. The women were all struggling to find someone as interested in them as Timon was in Zo, and the stakes were higher for them—letting a man into their beds meant risking pregnancy. Zo couldn’t ask them to listen to his complaints.

Hylas would have listened and offered sympathy. He might even have had something helpful to say, if Zo had asked for advice. But Zo couldn’t bring himself to talk to Hylas about Timon. When he was with Hylas, he tried to pretend Timon didn’t exist. And Hylas had had something to do with bringing Timon to the Red Balconies in the first place; Zo didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

So on the 31st of Tenth Month, the last day of the Pseuchaian year, Zo let Timon linger while his other guests took their leave, until it was just the two of them alone in his room.

Timon raised his wine cup and drained it. He looked at Zo, his eyes dark in the lamplight.

“Is tonight the night that my skittish beauty finally relents?” he murmured.

Zo raised his eyebrows and blinked at him as though he might not have heard or understood what that meant. He was not going to encourage this kind of thing. But he moved closer to Timon on the divan—it was a nice, firmly cushioned one that Hylas had brought home for him from the governor’s mansion, where it was being discarded in a redecoration—and plucked the empty wine cup from Timon’s hand to set it on the table.

He should let the man make the first move; clearly he was the sort who would want to. Would he lean in for a kiss, or slide his hand onto Zo’s thigh as he had tried to do more than once before?

He toyed with a strand of Zo’s hair. So far, so good.

“You know I am a weapons merchant,” he said.

“Mm.”

“I have one very special spear I have been … burning to show you.”

Zo laughed. He couldn’t help it. He knew he wasn’t supposed to; that hadn’t been uttered in a tone that invited laughter. He tried to turn the laugh into a nervous giggle, didn’t think he was particularly successful.

“You may have heard that I’m a ladies’ man.” Timon frowned slightly. “I have that reputation, I know. But not to worry. I know my way around the rear of a pretty youth.”

“Just that part?” He would not laugh again. Angels of the Almighty, let him not laugh again.

Timon himself was still entirely serious. “I mean I’ve bedded a few boys in my time. Though they have to be quite special to pique my interest.”

“I’m choosy myself.”

Timon’s frown deepened, and he shifted on the divan. “Erm … on the whole, I think it will be better if you don’t talk back.”

“Oh?”

“You’re quite good at it, but I don’t feel it will help my prowess.”

“Oh.”

“Are we clear, then?”

“Yes, sir, absolutely.”

And indeed it was clear. Timon wanted playacting; or rather, he really wanted a squirming, reluctant boy, but he’d realized, having at least half a brain, that Zo wasn’t that, and instead wanted him to pretend to be. And Zo, who’d never been squirming or reluctant even when he had been a boy, wanted to throw up.

He ducked his head so that his hair fell like a curtain, half-hiding his face. He could do playacting, of course. He did it all the time, had acted one part or another most of his life, often under much more challenging circumstances. He could do it, but he didn’t want to. He wanted a night of enjoyable sex, and he should have known before now that he wasn’t going to get it.

Timon moved toward him on the divan. He had soft hands, white and well-manicured. One of them slid under Zo’s hair and cupped his face, and he pulled Zo toward himself to kiss him. Zo came pliantly and allowed himself to be kissed. Some people liked it like this, he reminded himself: letting the other person take charge, feigning passivity. Maybe it would turn out that he liked it too.

“That’s a good boy,” Timon murmured when he had taken his tongue out of Zo’s mouth finally. He was a terrible kisser. “Is it strange, kissing a man with a beard?”

“Oh, no, sir.” Did Timon think he was the only bearded man on the island? And where did he imagine Zo was from, that he would find beards a novelty?

Timon was giving him an exasperated look.

“Well, perhaps a little,” Zo simpered.