Page 54 of Pride Not Prejudice

“I will?”

“Yes.”

Unsure if he would know, and wondering if this was an elaborate ruse to steal something — not that there was much to steal — Paul hefted the trap door open and motioned him down the rungs of a sturdy ladder. “Go on.” When Alastair brushed past, the slight contact beckoned to him. He said primly, “I assume you aren’t a murderer, or you’d have murdered me already.”

“At two in the afternoon in a public house on a well-traversed road? Please, I’m not a fool. I would wait until cover of darkness, my man.”

Taken aback by the teasing and enamored with the thought of him returning after dark, Paul shook his head and couldn’t resist smiling himself. “If you wanted to go to all the trouble, I can already tell you there would be little to gain from murdering me. I just inherited this place, but I still have to work. Can’t even find my mother’s silver.” He knew he shouldn’t be saying so much.

“Don’t be so sure,” said Alastair, his head tilted up to listen, “there could still be something to gain.” Then, he winked.

Paul could think of no reply but letting the trapdoor fall closed, and it didn’t close quickly enough to muffle smug chuckling.

Returning to the taproom, which now felt curiously devoid of life, he waited. As he dusted the top shelf behind the bar, he thought, I’d consider holding lifted goods if it meant seeing him more than once. It wasn’t rape or murder; it wouldn’t hurt anything except for laws. He already hurt those in his personal life, anyway.

As fast as the thought came, he tried to dismiss it. He really should carry on as normal whenever Alastair saw himself outside.

Something in him understood, though, that anything resembling normalcy had shifted.

Half an hour passed before Paul knew what Alastair meant about knowing when it was fine. “Good afternoon, Mr. Apollyon.”

His back was to the door but he recognized the voice. It was Mr. Sykes, a fisherman who recently fancied himself more of a rogue and whose daughter was about to marry a hostler in Norwich. The Sykes family had known the Apollyons for a generation, though not especially amicably.

Mr. Sykes once suggested Paul propose marriage to Muriel within Mrs. Apollyon’s hearing. Muriel was fifteen at the time, Paul sixteen. Mother feigned a sudden headache upon hearing the remark and excused herself. It was widely understood that Mr. Sykes abused Mrs. Sykes, and later turned his ire upon their daughter after his wife died and his reliance on drink became more entrenched. Everyone seemed to like Muriel; few liked her father.

“Mr. Sykes.”

“I hate to trouble you,” said Sykes. That was a lie, for Sykes rarely seemed concerned with politeness unless it could get him something.

“No trouble. The afternoon is quiet, as you see.”

“Then maybe you’ll be able to help.”

“Happy to do what I can,” said Paul. That was a lie of his own.

Sykes sat at the bar. Paul was about to ask what he wanted to drink when foreign sensations entered his mind, sharp as winter cold through an open door. Oh, fuck. Not now. There was naught to do but pretend they weren’t there.

So he stood in the taproom he’d known all his life while — somewhere else — he ran fingertips through dark, gray-streaked hair mussed against a white pillowcase. Well, it was infinitely preferable to the discussion he was about to have with Sykes. He forced himself to ask, “Can I… get you something?”

“Beer, if you please.”

“Of course.” Relieved to turn his back as the experience demanded his attention, Paul closed his eyes and drank it in for just a moment. They were not always pleasant, these glimpses into futures, but this was. And mostly, he experienced them as an observer of a play.

But this particular one found him well within his body. Alastair — no one else of his acquaintance had tattoos, and besides, the longer Paul was pulled, the more he saw his face properly — moaning beneath him on his bed, his skin burnished by afternoon sunlight.

Paul might think it was a daydream, except he’d cultivated the discipline not to daydream much about this topic. With internal difficulty and external grace, he procured the beer for Sykes and set it before him. “How can I help?”

He prayed that whatever the answer was, it wouldn’t involve him stepping out from the bar, for his trousers had gone tight.

“I’m asking around to locate a certain rogue who’s stolen something from my dear Muriel.”

Composed, grateful for all the times he’d had to practice concentrating on a conversation while something else provoked sensations in his body, Paul said, “Oh? I’m sorry to hear it.”

Sykes took a long drink, then nodded. “He’s rather tall. Dark-haired. If you’re eagle-eyed, you might notice he’s tattooed on the neck. And on the hands, but he’s likely wearing some sort of gloves to cover them. Well-spoken for a thug, yet treacherous, you see.”

Paul had studiously not looked too much at Alastair’s hands, else he’d be tempted to wonder what those hands could do. He might have been wearing gloves. “I see.”

“Goes by Alastair, but I’m not convinced that’s his real name.”

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