Page 10 of A Heaven to Reach For

“What would I do in that bigger bed once you are done with me?” he asked, composed except for the downturned curve of his mouth. “It’s no wonder I’m not wanted. I am not suited to Ara. I shouldn’t have…” He reached up to scrub his lips with his knuckles as if trying to remove the color, before giving up and turning away.

Owin let his hands fall while this newer ache settled into him. “You are drunk, little priest. You should rest. Isn’t that what you told me?” Because Maschi had watched Owin and worried, as if he also, unbelievably, held an ache in his chest. “Did you believe that only on Ara could you—” Owin did not finish the question. Prickly Maschi would not understand. “It will still be Ara tomorrow,” he offered instead. “Somewhere. That is what you said. Something to do with the infinite Heavens?”

“Always gentle.” Maschi answered mournfully, perching on the edge of his cot and putting his head in his hands once again.

“You think I am pretty,” Owin said aloud, a revelation that would take much longer to settle into him. “When you are not drunk, you can find me, and if you still want me to, I will tell you what you will do in that big bed. Hang Ara.” Maschi lifted his head at that, frowning. “Ara is but one day, and one day is not enough—would not be enough for…. When you are not drunk,” Owin said again, heart racing. “But if you don’t, come find us anyway. Your friends will want to see you. You are wanted, Maschi.”

Maschi exhaled his name, breathless and shocked. “Owin.”

Owin reached out, with thought, slowly, to let Maschi pull away if he wished, and when he did not, Owin softly pressed his fingertips to the smudge of blue high on Maschi’s cheek.

“You said we were not friends like the others.” Maschi scowled yet tipped his cheek toward Owin’s hand.

Owin did not contest it, just marveled at the falcon he was permitted to pet, the slow, sleepy sparkles of silver that escaped into the air around Maschi and which made Maschi’s cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Sleep,” he reminded Maschi at last, hot with embarrassment of his own. The Duke would laugh to see Owin tenderly and carefully tucking his troublesome priest-mage into bed. On Ara of all nights, when sleep should have been the last thing on their minds.

Owin could not seem to feel disappointment over it. If Maschi changed his mind, Owin still had the slow fall of Maschi’s eyelids as he stared at Owin with confused hope and reluctantly succumbed to sleep, and the thin, fragile chain of aras blooms that Owin cupped in his hand before he finally left the room.

AUBREY was the only other one fit enough for riding alongside the Duke in the morning. He looked tired, although not ill fromtoo much indulgence, and not as if he had spent his night restless, as Owin had. The Duke seemed faintly amused at them both, perhaps imagining sins that neither of them had likely committed, but he left them once they returned to the manor.

It was shortly before midday, the sky as blue as it had been the day before. Aubrey would follow the Duke for more discussion, so Owin stopped him then.

“The little mage should travel with His Grace more, when there is a greater chance of danger. He is sharper than the other two.”

Aubrey gave Owin a study that Owin did not flinch from, then nodded. “True. And only more true as they settle into country life and forget court intrigues. But the little mage can also cause problems.”

“Which is why he should not have been left alone in the yard of a pub on the night of Ara.” Owin said it with a smile he did not mean.

Aubrey nodded again, slower. “He was not. Madame Carel was near and aware of him, and I planned to return before I went home.” The smile that grew onhisface was meant. “But once he had wine in him, he would not be moved. Not by any ofus.”

He clapped Owin on the shoulder while Owin considered that information in warm, silent awe, then headed for the kitchens for their midday meal.

Owin followed him in a daze, not the least bit mindful of what food he was given or what he ate. He didn’t think much of anything until he returned by himself to the part of the yard devoted to the guards’ housing and comfort. There was a wooden awning, near where they practiced with their weapons to keep their skills honed, and beneath it were benches and a table, where many of them often spent their days playing cards or talking.

Beneath that awning now, stiff and tense and somewhat pale, near the edge of one bench, was Maschi. Bartlemeo was in the midst of some tale, probably of his adventures of the night before, and Maschi was listening, or appearing to, with his hands pressed flat to the tabletop.

Owin spun on his heel to return to the kitchens, and returned with a loaded plate and a cup filled with tea and some of Isaac’s remedy for rowdy nights. He did not think he was noticed until he was close, and by then, even thinking of Maschi’s gaze was enough to lock his throat.

Owin met that gaze regardless, eyebrows raised, before setting the plate and cup in front of Maschi’s hands.

“The remedy too?” Bartlemeo wondered, approving, before continuing on with his story. At another time, when he was less nervous, Bartlemeo’s story might have made Owin smile. Instead, he crossed over to Dahl and Wolfe’s side of the table without comment. Dahl appeared to be sleeping while sitting up, but cracked one eye when Owin sat down.

He looked over to Maschi, who stared into the cup curiously but finally took a sip, then back to Owin.

“Aubrey will be here in a while to discuss what we’re to do. Enjoy yourselves while you can,” Owin warned Dahl and Wolfe both, raising his voice for the others to hear as well.

Dahl groaned. “I didn’t even get any remedy yet.”

“You know how to get your own,” Wolfe informed him without sympathy, but pushed his cup toward his friend a moment later. Owin would bet coin he did not have that some of Isaac’s cure was in there. But he was not particularly interested in Dahl’s well-earned headache.

The blue on Maschi’s cheek was stark with his skin so ashen, though the drink would help with that. He had some shadows beneath his eyes, but not as much as he might have. He had slept. More than Owin had, very possibly.

“We all usually have some,” Bartlemeo explained quietly to Maschi. “Well, those of us who have too much and then have the sense to fetch some.” He said that part loudly.

Dahl growled sleepily at him. “They were a lovely pair, but it will take me a while to regain my strength.”

“You’re strong enough to walk to the kitchens if you are strong enough to tell us the story,” Wolfe insisted, his tone as cool as ever. “His stories are always the same, Maschi, you don’t have to listen.”

“Yes, mine are far more interesting!” Bartlemeo contributed gleefully, then paused. “Although, if you wanted to share what you got up to outside the pub, or if you even returned home before dawn, we are a ready audience.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

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