Page 15 of Midwinter Music

“The cheese doesn’t think you’re too much trouble,” Sam said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’d hate to cause the cheese any distress.” John sighed again, a real exhale this time. When he met Sam’s gaze, his eyes were open doors, revealed secrets. Of course that might’ve been charm, like so many of his casual gestures; Sam wasn’t an empathic talent, and couldn’t know. But it looked real. It felt real. “Do you want me to return them? The paintings.”

“You said you wouldn’t.”

John shrugged a shoulder: not agreement, not argument. “Eat more.”

“I’m eating.”

“Are you?”

“This last one…the one in the study…I can return that one to Emma. She knows Kit and I went after the thief; everyone knows.”

John’s hand hung suspended above a plum cake. “I didn’t come back to that supper-party, either.” Implicit in that statement lay a question about suspicion, and coincidences that weren’t.

“She’ll guess. But she won’t say anything.” Sam took a deep breath. “I’ll ask her not to.”

“You—oh, right, she’s your cousin. Something like that.”

“On my mother’s side, yes. She’s kind. In fact…” He hesitated; no help for it, though. “She bought that one—the last one—because I’d wanted to, after Father sold the first two. Emma came in, all sweetness, and offered for it. More than what he’d asked, on the spot. She offered to give it to me, but he’d made that a condition of the sale; she couldn’t give it back to the family.”

“What an absolute donkey’s arse.”

“Thoroughly. In any case, we decided it was better Emma had it than someone entirely random.”

“Yes, I see that.” John broke off a bit of plum cake, held it to Sam’s mouth; Sam took it obediently. “She should have that one. For helping us. You can give it back.”

“I notice you’ve not mentioned the other two.”

“I’m willing to entertain your suggestions, but I can’t promise I’ll listen. I went to a decent amount of trouble to get them. I had to attend one of Travers Malcon’s orgies, I’ll have you know.”

Sam choked on plum cake, coughed, tried to recover.

“Oh, he claims it’s a Midwinter frolic, fortune-telling, lighting the burning log, speaking to the spirits, all of that. You know, respectable.” John’s tone scoffed at this adjective, then flipped it over and tossed it to oblivion. “Of course the fortune-telling has to be done naked, by touch, because that’s the girl’s particular gift, isn’t it…”

“Good gods.”

“I evidently will have a long and pleasurable life. If you were wondering.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“You even mean that. I adore you.” John fed him a plum, and added, factually, “I did not, as it happens, indulge beyond that. I’m good at illusion, and I’d seen that painting—the one of the sea, that one was, all crashing waves, green and blue and misty—”

“I remember.”

“I’d seen it in the hall, so I just made everyone think I was still present, and I popped out for a moment, and came back in in time to look unspeakably bored, debauchery not at all living up to what I’d done on the Continent, you know, might as well depart for darker entertainment elsewhere.”

“You have the morals of a demon. One of the incubus sort.” Sam thought this over, added, “A demon and an alley cat. Combined.”

“And look who isn’t complaining. Here, coffee.”

Sam took it. Had a sip. “I can’t convince you to give those back, can I? I know the other one’s—was—in Viscount Bastable’s possession. He’s one of Father’s cronies, you recall.”

“I do. I went in through a window, for that one.” John’s smile glinted feral and luscious. “I’m good at picking locks.”

“I don’t need to know that.”

“Do you want to know why?”

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