Page 72 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
He tried not to think about how very badly he had lost sight of that fact. He tried even harder not to think about how Percy seemed to have done so as well.
He tried not to think about the two nights they had spent on the dirt floor of a barn, nor about the hour they had spent on silk bedcovers in that godforsaken palace.
More often than he liked, he thought back to that afternoon at Cheveril Castle, and wondered if maybe all along Percy just wanted him as a bit of rough, a criminal for hire. He pictured Percy among all his luxuries, spread out cool and clean on that blue silk, like something Kit had never wanted to want. Kit was coarse and rough, and it was too easy to believe that Percy truly had wanted Kit to sully the place.
He couldn’t quite make himself believe that, though. Whenever he tried, he instead remembered something domestic and mundane—Percy absently tearing his cake into two pieces and giving half to Kit, Percy’s lips brushing a kiss onto his knuckles—and he knew how Percy felt. He couldn’t even convince himself that he was deluded or foolish—he knew how Percy felt with a bone-deep certainty, with a surety that was something like faith.
That didn’t mean he’d come back, though. The world was filled with people who felt all kinds of things and couldn’t manage to shape those feelings into something that would last. But Kit knew he wanted that, and knew he was prepared to do whatever it took to make it happen.
Perhaps spending time with Percy had knocked something loose inside him, as if maybe being with Percy had made Kit take stock of what exactly he needed to be content. Weeks ago, Betty had teased him about pining away for a life of crime, but what he had really missed was the sense of setting things right. In a world that was teeming with unfairness, Kit wanted to be a hand on the scale of justice, or maybe he wanted to tear the scales down.
And, ideally, he would do all that with Percy, if not at his side then at least near at hand.
“The lads at table five started a betting pool for when Rob will come back and how bad his excuse for buggering off will be this time,” Betty said while they were closing up.
Kit snorted. Neither hide nor hair had been seen of Rob in the days since the robbery. All Kit could think was that maybe Rob had taken a liking to disappearing without a trace. Perhaps this was going to be a regular occurrence—vanishing for a year and then returning without warning. “I probably ought to go see his mother,” Kit said, feeling very resigned about it. “Maybe he told her this time.”
After walking Betty home that night, he took his time on the trip home. There was no hurry, and he had made up his mind to go easy on his leg. But when he approached the darkened coffeehouse, he saw a figure leaning against the door, obscured by shadows.
Kit gripped his walking stick a little more firmly but didn’t break stride. The figure was lean and dressed in nondescript clothes; he bent his head in a way that would shield his face from view, even though the street was dark. A pale strand of hair escaped from beneath the brim of his hat, catching the moonlight.
“Loitering,” Kit chided when he reached the shop.
“I prefer to think of it as skulking,” Percy countered. “Maybe even lurking.”
“You’ll have to work on your technique.” Kit opened the door and held it for Percy to enter before him. Percy immediately sat in his usual seat at the long table. “I wondered if I’d ever see you here again,” Kit admitted.
“It’s hardly been a day since I saw you,” Percy said, not bothering to conceal how amused he was, damn him.
“More like a day and a half,” Kit grumbled. And then Percy smirked at him and, really, Kit could not stand for that, so he hauled Percy up by the collar and kissed him hard.
“It’s almost all I’ve been thinking of,” Percy said, his words little more than a breath against Kit’s cheek. “Well, in between bouts of scheming and coming up with plans to bankrupt and defraud the estate of the next Duke of Clare.”
Kit’s heart gave a wild thump as he processed the ramifications of that statement. He pulled away just enough to look Percy in the eye. “You’ve been busy.”
“Rather.” From his shoulder, Percy removed the strap of what Kit could now see was the case in which he carried his swords. “I have something for you. It’s not much, but as you certainly didn’t profit in any way from our job—”
“I don’t need to be paid for that,” Kit said.
“No, no, I know that. I shouldn’t have phrased it that way. It’s actually something I got for myself while I was abroad, but I’ve never used such a thing and don’t plan to. In any event, I thought you might like it.” He held out a walking stick.
Kit took it. It was a little heavier than the stick he presently used, and made of a wood that felt silky smooth and warm to the touch. The handle was carved in a way that made it feel molded to fit his palm. He could tell at a glance that it was a fine piece of craftsmanship and likely cost a pretty penny, but it wasn’t ostentatious. It wasn’t something he’d feel silly using. Frankly, he was surprised Percy would have chosen something so understated for himself. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s a very nice—”
“Yes, yes,” Percy said impatiently. “It’s all that and more. But you haven’t seen what it can do.” He reached out and did something to the handle so that the body of the stick fell away, revealing a long, thin blade. “It’s a swordstick. Since you always have your walking stick as well as various weaponry, I thought it might be convenient.”
“I don’t know how to use a sword,” Kit said.
“Well, you’re very fortunate to know someone who does and who would very much enjoy the chance to teach you.” Percy fiddled with the hilt of the swordstick, his fingers brushing against Kit’s. “If you like.”
“You ought to be worse than this,” Percy called out half an hour later. They had stripped down to their shirtsleeves, and the only light in the back room came from two lanterns that Kit hung from hooks. Silhouettes of limbs and swords danced across the walls. “Fix your grip and stop making your wrist do all the work.”
“I don’t see how I could possibly be worse,” Kit panted. In order to make things more equal, Percy used a blunt practice sword in his left hand and was clearly only using a quarter of his skill to parry Kit’s attacks. Kit, meanwhile, was making a shambles of the thing.
“No, no, I’ve seen dozens of novices make asses of themselves,” Percy said. “You, at least, know how to fight. Yes, see, just like that,” he added as Kit blocked one of his thrusts. “You’re using the strength from the core of your body rather than making your arms do all the work. And you aren’t afraid of hurting me.”
“I’m terrified of hurting you,” Kit objected.
“However will you manage when I’m prizefighting?”
