Page 75 of King's Man

Sam felt a pulse of unease. “About what?”

“Going home.” Nate looked up; his expression was serious. “Sam, I don’t think you should go. Not yet. Talmach’s truly angry. And heknowsyou. He — He’s not without influence at home and he’s certainly not the only one in power with strong opinions on Loyalists.”

Sam’s skin flushed cold. “But Hal’s scratchman can give me a new identity: a loyalty oath, a citizenship certificate, and —”

“I’m not saying you can’t ever go back,” Nate said, tucking the folder under his arm. “I’m just saying not yet. In a few years, maybe it’ll be safer?”

“A fewyears?” His chest tightened. “And you’ll… What? You’ll wait for me?”

Nate came to stand before him, his head tipped as if surprised by the question. “Of course.”

“For years? Nate, I don’t want to be apart —”

Nate’s fingers pressed against his lip, stopping him. “Sam, I’ll wait here. I’ll wait right here with you.” He smiled at whatever he saw in Sam’s eyes. “I don’t want you sneaking home like a thief cracking a house. I don’t want you denying who you are, or what you believe. I don’t want you hiding from people who know you. I want us to gohome, Sam, to Rosemont. Together and with our heads held high.”

“But…” Sam was speechless. “It could be years. And what about your work, your position?Ourwork.”

“We can serve our country here. God knows there’s enough for the Department of Foreign Affairs to do in London. Besides” — Nate tapped the folder under his arm — “Hal Foxe knows merchants willing to trade with America despite the British embargo.” He flashed a grin. “Off the books, of course, but they’ll still need contracts drawing up. Plenty of work for a couple of outlawed lawyers. And if we must wait a few years to go home… Well, then we’ll wait together.”

Sam stared at him, his dearest friend, and doubted he’d ever loved Nate more. “Come here,” he said, tugging him closer. Nate smiled, lips parting in anticipation of a kiss, but that wasn’t what Sam had in mind. Instead, he lifted his hands to Nate’s neckcloth, ignored his flustered protest — “Sam!” — and snagged the leather cord about his neck, tugging the ring free from his shirt.

Turning it over between his fingers, Sam smiled. It was a fine piece; he’d been specific about the design. Their woven hair sat within an oval setting of warm gold, its shoulders enhanced by delicaterepousséwork that merged into a sturdy band that suited Nate’s slim fingers. And inside, the inscription AETAI:Amicus est tamquam alter idem.

A true friend is a second self.

Sam traced his fingers over the shell of Nate’s ear, the line of his brow, his cheekbone, his face as familiar to Sam as his own reflection — the other half of his soul. Then he reached up to hook the leather cord over Nate’s head, untied it and freed the ring. Nate watched in silence as Sam took his hand and slipped the ring back onto Nate’s finger where it belonged.

“Always together,” Sam promised.

Nate curled his fingers around Sam’s hand, bringing his knuckles to his lips even though his eyes never left Sam’s. “Always and forever.”

Epilogue

Six months later — February 20th, 1784

London, England

Fog sat heavy in St. Giles, creeping up from the river on stealthy feet. Sam drew his muffler closer around his neck and hurried across the street from the Brewery, glad to see the yellow light of the Bowl bleeding through the murk. He’d be gladder still when Nate got back. Nights like these were made for footpads and Nate was still green in the ways of London. At least he’d taken to carrying a heavy stick at night.

And Sam should learn to stop worrying. It was difficult, though, when your heart and soul were walking about on the sleeve of another man. Sentimental tosh, perhaps, but the truth nonetheless: six months after they’d found each other again, he and Nate were absurdly besotted, and Sam had never been happier.

Still, the friend he was meeting tonight would knock that sort of nonsense out of him and he wasn’t sorry for the distraction. In fact, he found himself smiling at the prospect as he shouldered open the door to the Bowl.

He was met by the distinctive fug of a warm public house on a cold night, one-part damp wool coats and three-parts gin. Welcome, nonetheless. From behind the bar, Moses lifted a hand in greeting. He had a good listening ear and gave plain-spoken advice. Sam had noticed more black faces and American accents in the place too, these past few months, exiles drawn together in search of friends in a strange land. Sam approved. He felt increasingly at home in this wretched, wonderful corner of London. And business at the Bowl had certainly never been better, as evidenced by the crowd playing dice this Friday night. Over their heads, Sam mimed a drink and Moses nodded.

Then he searched the room and found Elias Cole lurking in a dark corner at the back. As usual, Cole preferred to keep to the shadows. He wasn’t exactly welcome on Hal Foxe’s turf, although nobody here would ever do him harm. Why, Sam didn’t rightly understand and didn’t plan to find out. Every man was entitled to his secrets.

As Sam approached, Cole nudged a chair towards him with his foot. “Looking well, Hutch. How’ve you been?”

Deliriously happy, foolishly in love. “Well enough. And yourself?” Sam cocked his head as he sat down. “You look… excited?”

Cole grinned, sitting forward. “Maybe I am.”

“Will you tell me why, or is it a secret?”

“Let’s just say six months of bloody hard work are about to pay off. And when I say pay off, I’m talking about three hundred quid’s worth of pay off.” He made a face. “Less what I’ll have to split with Bow Street.”

“That’s a decent reward.” Sam smiled as Moses came over with his whiskey. “Thank you. Another for you, Cole?”

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