Page 39 of Seducing the Sorcerer
Clear as pitch.
But that was Wor, all right. It meant “to pull”. It meant all those circles had something in the middle that was pulling something else. That seemed to the point. Fenn stuck his finger in the page and went back to the sorcerer. The horse had manoeuvred itself towards the bookshelves, pulling away from Morgrim to be as close to Fenn as it could. The lead rope was taut in the sorcerer’s hand.
“Found something?” Morgrim asked, giving him the lead rope.
“Maybe. This here. About Wor, ain’t it?” Fenn opened the book to the picture.
“Yes, that’s Wor.” Morgrim held out his hand for the book and flicked through it. “Yes. Well. I suppose you have to start somewhere. Gargol knew a thing or two. She may be a little late, chronologically speaking, but they were still using worple horses in her time. She would certainly have seen one. And this does look interesting.”
Fenn nearly choked at the word “interesting” because “bloody hard going” seemed more apt, but he said, “Oh? Good. And you’re sure it’s all right? To borrow it, like?”
“Everything here is at your disposal.” Morgrim handed it back with a small bow.
Then he gave Fenn one of those looks again, the kind that lasted just a bit longer than regular.
“Thanks,” Fenn said gruffly.
Was he expected to make the first move? Some blokes preferred it like that. It was part of the fun for them. Only, what if he’d got the wrong idea? What if Morgrim really was only doing all this out of kindness and fellow-feeling? The idea of making an unwanted move on any bloke was a bit embarrassing. The idea of making one on Morgrim the sorcerer was downright spine-chilling, for all they’d had a good time at dinner.
Morgrim led Fenn back downstairs and said good night. He shook Fenn’s hand at the door and Fenn thought the sorcerer held his hand a little longer than was usual. But then Morgrim withdrew and Fenn was outside in the rain.
Back in the stables, Fenn lay at the horse’s feet and leafed through the book, not reading it but remembering the way it had lain open in Morgrim’s hand, the way Morgrim had turned the pages, his whole being somehow completed by the action. He looked right holding a book. Educated. Cultured. Clever.
And now Fenn knew the true story about the clouds. And it was the truth, he had no doubt. So Morgrim wasn’t a thief, nor using his power to hold anyone to ransom. He was trying to help. He hadn’t, so far, but it wasn’t for want of trying.
And that apology about Mandillo! It had been so unexpected and so decent. Morgrim still felt bad about it nearly thirty years on—when it hadn’t even been his fault in the first place. That was—well—it was maybe a strange word to use about a sorcerer, but it was sweet. It showed Morgrim was a bloke who cared, who did his best, who was maybe too hard on himself and blamed himself when he wasn’t perfect.
And Morgrim had made no sexual approach despite the money and all. So, Fenn had got that wrong. He went clammy all over at how close he’d come in the library to making a move on the man. Gods, it would have been mortifying. He could almost see the horror in Morgrim’s eyes.
Ah, but there had been something there between them. Hadn’t there? Or was that Fenn just making things up because Morgrim was being kind? Fenn closed his eyes. He’d known the man a day. It was ridiculous to speculate.
But it was lucky he hadn’t done anything daft.
And should he have told Morgrim the truth about himself? It would have been easy enough to say, “Here’s why I wasn’t on Mandillo” and tell the whole sorry story. But he hadn’t. Because he hadn’t wanted to risk the frown coming down over Morgrim’s face, grim as that bloody portcullis. He hadn’t wanted to risk being slung out on his ear. Because if Morgrim was unforgiving about his own perceived shortcomings, how harshly might he judge the mistakes of others?
And anyway, Morgrim wasn’t aiming to give Fenn a job, so maybe he wouldn’t make enquiries. Folk didn’t check the criminal records of guests, did they? No, they didn’t. Although maybe Fenn should mention it tomorrow anyway. Just casually. “I went to prison, once, you know.” Like that.
Fenn turned off the lantern and lay in the dark.
He’d known Morgrim for a day.
He’d had the worple horse for just a little longer.
It was tempting to think that his old life was over but perhaps even by tomorrow Morgrim would have tired of having him here.
He closed his eyes. It was a good thing Morgrim had made no approach to him. It was a relief, really. Fucking the court sorcerer, indeed! What a bloody nightmare. Fenn had enough complications in his life just now, the largest one being built like a battleship and cobbled together out of sackcloth and magic. It was just as well he was here, stretched out alone in the hay with a full stomach, looking forward to a peaceful night’s sleep. It was just as well he wasn’t up in the tower in some gloomy chamber, being shown how to remove that long black robe.
Aye, it was just as well.
Chapter 9
A few days passed and Morgrim showed no signs of tiring of Fenn’s company. They rode together on the mustering ground. They dined together. They talked. About horses and books and magic and the ways the world had changed since they’d been boys. Morgrim remembered a lot of the same things Fenn remembered. Fenn didn’t have to explain how things used to be different: Morgrim knew. He’d lived it himself.
When they were apart, Fenn found it difficult to believe he was really living at the tower, really doing all this. He thought every time they met that it would be the last time, that Morgrim would ask him to leave. But then he’d see Morgrim again and it would be just the same.
The only sour note was that Morgrim still seemed nervous as a colt in a thunderstorm. He jumped if doors banged, twitched if anyone walked behind him, and his dark eyes were vigilant as a hunting cat’s. Fenn began to wonder if Morgrim had a guilty conscience about spending so much time with him. Perhaps Morgrim normally ate dinner with Aramella, although he never mentioned her. Or anyone else, come to that.
And the longer they spent together, the more Fenn was sure he wasn’t imagining that Morgrim fancied him. More than once he caught Morgrim gazing at him, longing softening his fierce eyes. But Morgrim made no approach.
