Page 6 of Mystic Wonderful

In a move that would have been intentionally suggestive on the part of anyone else, Rose licked gravy off the tip of her finger, her gaze steely above it. “I’m aware of that.”

Again, emotion threatened to tweak du Lac’s expression. He blinked a few times, visibly clamping down on it. Took a breath and said, “Listen.”

Oh no, Francis thought, because somehow he knew what the sergeant was about to bring up, and he wished he wouldn’t do it, not here in front of all these other people.

“About–”

“No.” Rose’s expression didn’t alter, but her voice sent chills rippling across Francis’s skin.No, you will not mention him. No, I won’t talk about him. Beck was her religion; the shrine in the back of her mind, always. Francis knew never to prod, that he could only listen, on those rare occasions she chose to share.

Du Lac stared at her, and, to Francis’s amazement, his lips twitched as if he was about to pursue the matter further.Oh God, Francis thought with a sinking sense of regret.He’s an idiot. A disappointing thing to realize about one’s superior officer.

They were saved, though – and, in Francis’s case, cursed – by the scraping out of the chair beside du Lac. A tray landed on the table.

And suddenly, Francis found himself sitting across from Tristan Mayweather.

Francis didn’t think he could be blamed for his reaction.

(Not true. He would berate himself viciously later.)

“The new kids,” Sir Mayweather said, glancing between the two of them, his face utterly impassive. His voice – only imagined by Francis, until now – was low, and rough; a gruff scrape, like he didn’t speak often, tinged with apathy. He didn’t sneer or glare at them; there was no contempt – there wasnothing. Not so much as the faintest spark of interest.

But that didn’t stop Francis’s heart from leaping halfway up his throat.

Here sat his idol – his fantasy – in the flesh. Close enough to see the faint scar that ran below one eye; close enough to count the silver strands of hair at his temples; close enough to see that his eyes were the color of ochre, and cold as the barren, grave-strewn landscape outside.

Francis thought he might pass out. Instead, he made a stumbling fool of himself.

His fork fell from his numb hand. “You’re.” He swallowed with a gulp. “You’re – you’re–” He couldn’t breathe.

Tristan leaned sideways into his sergeant, and, in a bored voice, said, “Is he having a stroke?”

“Tristan Mayweather,” Francis finished, pathetically. He could feel how wide his eyes were, how worshipful. He wanted to die. “I mean. Sir. Sir Mayweather.”

Unlike Sergeant du Lac, Tristandidregard Francis – albeit it with flat disinterest. After a moment, he frowned, and speared a hunk of meatloaf with his fork. “It’s just Tris. No ‘sir.’”

Tris.

Tris.

Francis’s lungs ached.

Du Lac’s voice intruded, a mean laugh threaded through it. “Are you a fan of Sir Mayweather’s, Gallo?”

Don’t answer that,Francis’s conscience said, very reasonably.

But Tristan – Tris – was looking at him, hooded, and dark, and bored, and when he took a breath,I’ve heard of himturned into…

“Yes. I mean, I’ve been studying the Knights for a long time. I always wanted to join up. And I always wanted to be Gold Company. I wanted…” He bit his lip, and trailed off.

Tris’s lip curled, and now therewascontempt, a trace of it, before his gaze dropped to his tray.

Francis wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“Frank,” Rose said, quietly. “Cool it.”

“Right.” Face flaming, regret and mortification pulsing through him like a second heartbeat, he dropped his face over his tray, and began to force his dinner down, one painful bite at a time.

~*~

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