Page 12 of Marked Out with Greater Brightness

Both Ash and Blake, he thought, would understand about the surgery. About getting one’s hands dirty, plunging in, wholehearted. Regardless of social standing.

They would’ve liked Hugh. He would’ve liked them.

They’d given him space because he’d needed that. For what, precisely, he wasn’t sure—he couldn’t name the emotion, but he felt the ball of it, the large tangled skein that unraveled and fell out of his mouth in a tiny sob, before he pressed his hand against the sound to stop it.

He wasn’t alone. Not here, not in this room. Not in London, either: in Ash’s slim fanciful townhouse, now their house, full of plans and hopes and dreams.

He had this life to build. He could see it, extended before him.

He wanted it. He truly did. And his heart did a small leap of recognition, admission, freedom, in his chest.

Bandages, he thought. Oh, yes. Both his partners would no doubt appreciate the metaphor.

He looked over at the open trunk. Not a wound, perhaps. An invitation.

He said, “Right, then; let’s see what we’ll be fitting in you…” and considered fitting in, shapes and how they came together, and how much he could get packed up before his scholar and his adventurer returned.

Chapter 6

As it turned out, Cam managed near-perfect timing; he’d tried to estimate how long the walk would be, if his beloveds were being generous with him, and he’d just got a decent luncheon laid out and tea done when the door opened. He turned; Ash was saying something, laughing, pink and gold and fairylike, flushed from exertion but in a healthy way. Blake’s arm was around him, firm and sturdy; they were so lovely, so perfect, that Cam forgot what he’d meant to say.

Ashley, who lived for words, had some. “We thought you might still be downstairs—not that we were hoping you’d—I mean, we would have stayed up here and waited—”

“He means,” Blake said, “that we can leave again. If you’d rather.” He took in the fire, the coziness, the sliced ham and deviled eggs and cheese and scones. “Though you were waiting for us, it looks like.”

“I was. I missed you two, y’know.” He came to meet them halfway across the room, needing to be closer, to be with them.

Some shuffling of greatcoats happened. Ash began to say something; Blake moved an arm, hastily. Cam paused. “What’s wrong?”

“No no no,” Ash said, “nothing, we promise—” But he glanced at Blake; they looked far too conspiratorial, in that moment.

Cam said, “What is it? And you also didn’t leave here with that satchel, this morning; I know you didn’t. So talk.”

Blake laughed, tinged with rue; shrugged the satchel from a shoulder, held it out but didn’t open it. “Should’ve known you’d notice. We thought we’d have time to hide it.”

“To hide it.”

“It’s a surprise. Not done. But…well, go on.” This time he did offer it; Cam took the bag, and opened it up.

And pulled the object out, in surprise. “You bought a sketchbook? I could have—”

“Go ahead and look.”

Cam did. And froze, hands touching thick creamy paper, clutching the binding.

Blake was a more than decent artist with quick sketches, moments, scenes and scenery, glimpses of rivers and mountains and far-off locations he’d explored. This time he’d drawn Edinburgh.

He’d captured so many places. A towering view of the Castle, of course; but also the walk up, the streets Cam knew the way he knew his own hands.

Blake had brought to life the market, a bustling square, the dart of a running dog, the arches and spires of the town. Alleyways, wide lanes, horses and carriages, skies overhead. A few of the sketches had Ash in them: laughing, windblown, pale-haired as a thistle-sprite out to wander the hills and byways of the city.

Blake had drawn the bookshop, their bookshop, not in today’s sunspear weather but in rain, splashing merrily across the shop front. He and Ash had found that old familiar student pub, and had caught that too, inside and out.

There were more pages—blank and not—but Cam stopped at one, letting the book fall slowly open: the front of his building, this building: his practice, his home. Done with care and precision, each brick and each window and the small plaque proclaiming this to be the premises of Doctor Cameron Fraser, simple and simply clear.

Cam’s hands were shaking. He whispered, “You did this for me.”

“It really isn’t done.” Blake put a hand on his arm, steadying. “It was Ash’s idea—we thought you might like it. I wanted to do more, before we leave. That coffee-house you took us to, and the Hume monument, and a view of Arthur’s Seat…”

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