Page 68 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
“It was the spring of ’39,” Kit said.
“Yes, that’s right,” Percy said, puzzled that Kit would know this. “It was my second year away at school.”
“Did you ever wonder how the castle got its name?” Kit asked.
“It was named after the priory that used to stand here,” Percy said.
“And how do you think the priory got its name?”
“Oh—there used to be a village, didn’t there?” He only vaguely remembered it as a place he was occasionally allowed to visit with his nurse, his cooperation secured with a boiled sweet. At some point, the village hadn’t been there anymore, but he had been toooccupied with school to ask what had become of it, and in any event conversation with his parents did not extend to the duke’s improvements to the property.
“Yes,” Kit said flatly, then rode ahead of Percy.
They probably ought to ride around to the stable block, but Percy wanted to walk up the broad white steps one last time. There was the usual awkwardness that attended arriving home unexpected, but Percy took advantage of the general confusion to avoid explaining Kit’s presence. “Really, I was hoping to see my father and the duchess, but if they aren’t here, then I’ll only stay long enough to rest the horses,” Percy said airily. “No, no, don’t trouble yourself about supper.”
Eventually he and Kit were in the great hall, alone except for the small army of servants that no doubt were just out of sight.
“This is the great hall,” Percy said redundantly, because it was fairly obvious where they were, with its enormous hearth and its minstrel gallery. “And this is the Grand Staircase,” he said. “We lack a certain creativity when it comes to naming things, I’m afraid. You’ll never guess what color the Blue Library is.” He spun on his heel and saw Kit standing in the middle of the hall, not looking at the ornately carved ceiling or the impressively large, if tragically ugly, oil painting of a battle scene that hung above the hearth, but rather at Percy himself, and with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“Can you climb stairs?” Percy asked. “Frankly, I’m not certain I can, and there’s a solid chance a footman will have to carry me down, but would you like to give it a try?”
Kit shrugged. Percy’s wound pulled a bit with each step, and he regretted this idea by the first landing.
At the top, he led Kit toward the portrait gallery. “That’s mygrandmother,” he said, gesturing at the portrait of a raven-haired lady who had an affronted-looking pug on her lap. And then, indicating a gentleman with an enormous black wig who was sitting in what was obviously the great hall downstairs, “That’s the ninth marquess, shortly before he was beheaded. He had several pet monkeys. Too many monkeys, if we’re honest. And this is my mother.” He hadn’t planned to stop, hadn’t planned to stare, but this was the first time he had seen his mother’s face since he left England. And while this portrait was a poor likeness, it was close enough to take his breath away. It had been painted shortly after her wedding, so when she was about twenty. The portraitist had contrived to give her a dreamy air, which was far from the sharp-eyed, quick-witted woman he had loved.
“You look like her,” Kit said. They were the first words he had spoken since entering the house.
“Thank you,” Percy said, even though it wasn’t exactly a compliment, given how daft his mother looked in that portrait. But he knew Kit meant that Percy looked like his mother,too. He let himself stare shamelessly at the portrait for another minute. “It’s a pity it’s so large, or I’d smuggle it out in my coat.” Most people didn’t even have the option of stealing portraits of their dead mothers, so leaving this behind wouldn’t really be a loss, he reasoned. Eventually his memory of his mother’s face would fade. It was fine. He would cope, just like everybody else.
“And these are my apartments,” he said, pushing open a heavy oak door. The rooms had been dusted and aired recently, and smelled fresh and clean despite having been unoccupied for over two years. “The Talbot family tradition of obvious naming continues unbroken, as these chambers have been known as Lord Holland’s Rooms since my first ancestor used the courtesy title.”
Kit stood in the doorway, his jaw set and his expression dark. Again, he looked at Percy, rather than at the objectively impressive collection of Dresden figurines that sat on the chimneypiece, or at the honest-to-God Caravaggio that hung beside the door to the inner chambers. Nor did he seem interested in the thick carpets or silk draperies.
Percy passed through the antechamber into the sitting room, then through that into the bedchamber. He knew Kit followed only from the muffled sound of his walking stick thumping against the carpeted floor. Percy lifted a hand to touch the pale blue silk bed hangings. A few motes of dust scattered, catching the light in a way that almost sparkled.
Then the dust settled, and he knew he must have been staring into space for minutes. He felt his cheeks heat, and he turned to Kit, who was leaning in the doorway. “I’m sorry.” His voice was thick, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think he was about to cry. “The clock above the mantelpiece is—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the clock.”
“Of course you don’t, you barbarian.”
Kit’s mouth twitched. “What do you need?” Percy must have looked as confused and lost as he felt, because Kit clarified. “What do you need to do here? We can’t stay. I’m sorry, Percy, but we have to go to London. What do you need to do before we leave?”
What he really wanted was to shrink the entirety of Cheveril to the size of one of the Dresden figurines and put it in his pocket to keep it safe. What he really wanted was to burn it down so nobody else could have it, or maybe because he hated caring so much about brick and stone.
He glanced at the bed, then at Kit. “Will you—would youfuck me?” His voice was small, doubtful, the opposite of seductive. “The mattress is very comfortable,” he added, because he was thoroughly committed to being a moron.
“Is that what you need?”
Percy nodded. Kit crossed the room, still not touching him, still looking at him too closely.
“All right, then,” Kit said, and kissed him.
Chapter46
“Make it so this is what I remember,” Percy said as they fumbled with one another’s clothes.
“You may be overestimating my abilities,” Kit said. He wished he could, though. He wished all it would take was a thorough fucking to obliterate Cheveril Castle and all it stood for from Percy’s mind. From who Percy was.
