Page 12 of Midwinter Music

He wasn’t certain what he could do. A tavern? His club—not White’s, though he was a member, but Alleyn’s, where the magistrates of the other Bow Street divisions tended to congregate? Surely not that option, not right this moment. Given the circumstances.

Given all the circumstances. John. Everything about John. Everything about this night. It’d be written across Sam’s face, scrawled in guilty blazing ink: I could’ve arrested him, I could’ve solved this case, and instead I begged him to fuck me and I want to do it again and again…

“Oh, no, this is marvelous, it’ll be perfect.” John had found a tray and begun collecting an improbable amount of pastries. “Do you know how to heat and froth sipping chocolate? Do you have chocolate?”

“I have…brandy, I think. And coffee.”

“You’re lucky I adore you. Can you boil water? Oh, never mind, I can do it.” A whistled note or two, a sung line and a rhyme; suddenly coffee was happening. “Sugar. Milk. Cinnamon? Ginger?”

Sam stared at him, helpless. John had taken easy possession of his kitchen, his gingerbread, his coffee-pot. “Was that…a song about boiling water?”

“Had to make something up, didn’t I? Not my best lyrics, but we’ll keep that between us.” John flung him a smile. Sam put a hand on the table. Steadying.

In a borrowed banyan, John’s ink-and-winter-gold prettiness shone like a painting in a frame. The banyan had been a gift from his cousin Emma—Lady Carness, whose house John had been robbing—and wrapped up sunshine skin in rich emerald brocade. Nothing Sam would’ve bought for himself, nothing he’d ever worn even once, but he thought now it’d only been waiting for John.

He did have a practical plain dressing gown, brown and thick and warm enough for brittle nights; he’d thrown that on, after he’d found emerald indulgence for John. He watched the fall of fabric along composer’s arms, magician’s gestures.

A line, he thought. A note. He couldn’t’ve said what exactly, not being a musician. But the element that made one tune, one waltz, one aria, distinctive. The glowing core of a song, without which it wouldn’t lift or break or capture hearts.

John turned, smiling. His hair needed a comb. His mouth was a book of witchcraft. “Do you ever have breakfast in bed? Supper? Tea?”

“When would I ever—”

“It wasn’t a real question. I plan to enforce it, though. When you’re not at the office. I’ll keep you in bed as much as possible, I think.”

“But,” Sam protested feebly. “Paperwork.”

“Oh, Sam.” John balanced an overflowing tray with a quick hummed command, and came over to him. Touched his arm, only that, which somehow made Sam’s eyes prickle. “Be warned, I’m an artist and a hedonist and shameless about pleasure. And I think you deserve soft mornings and foot-rubs and sweetened chocolate, so thick and hot it melts through your body. I told you I have plans, for you.”

While Sam was attempting to process this, John added, “You can be useful, though; physical gifts and all. Help me carry everything?”

Sam just nodded, because clearly he wasn’t in charge here, and also he wanted to help. He would never say no to John asking for that.

He summoned tray and coffee-pot and cups, with a gesture. He knew how to do that; he had long-practiced control.

John murmured, “Lovely,” with unguarded admiration. The coffee-pot shook itself like a waking dog, mid-air.

John laughed, a sound of pure pleasure; and he put his hand back on Sam’s wrist, thumb rubbing gently.

They went back upstairs, a small procession of command and yearning and preternatural gifts, song and summons.

John touched the bannister on the way up, a gesture at the absence of greenery, the lack of gold paper. “You don’t decorate for Midwinter?”

“This house is where I eat something and go to sleep and wake up in time to be at Bow Street before any of my constables.”

“Such a waste of a lovely bed, if you’re only using it for sleeping.”

“How many people,” Sam said, stopping mid-stairs, “have you flirted with and seduced and—and made coffee for?”

John’s eyebrows moved together. “Do you honestly want a number, or do you just want to be annoyed with me?”

“Both. Neither. Would you take this seriously? I’m—this is—stop being charming!”

“Sam,” John said, and his fingers tightened on Sam’s wrist. On the same step, he was taller; Sam had to look up. The coffee-pot and pastry extravagance bobbed incongruously behind them.

John said, “One.”

“One what—no. You aren’t—I know you’ve slept with—”

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