“I don’t know—no, Courcey, I don’t.” Hawthorn’s sharpness now had an edge of—not pity, else Robin would have found himself throwing some more unwise punches. But a frank sympathy. “I do wish you luck with it. But I’m not whatever solution you’re looking for.” His gaze wandered to Courcey and Robin waited for another piece of off-colour humour to emerge from that smirking mouth. Instead his lordship gave a small bow.
“Good to see you, Edwin, old chap. Don’t give my regards to your family. I never liked any of them.”
Courcey turned on his heel without returning either bow or farewell. He was halfway down the corridor when Robin, still in the doorway, felt sickly heat spread beneath his collar. Blotches of light danced at the corners of his vision; he clutched at the doorframe. The peppery sensation on his tongue was the same as it had been last night. He could smell caramel on the edge of burning, and a sudden wild flare of salt and flowers, like a summer breeze distilled— The ocean sliced the scene in half, an endless horizon of sea against blushing sky, the watercolours of sunset fading up to a darkening blue. Lord Hawthorn stood with one elbow leaned on a railing, looking outwards, nodding as though in response to speech. He turned suddenly and pulled a watch from his pocket by its chain, glancing down to check the time. He looked up and then gestured. Pointing to something.
Even as the image began to fade Robin was aware of a burning curiosity as to what was happening, as it were, just out of the frame. He tried to sink further into it, as one did with the waking dregs of a dream. His eyes stung. Move, he thought, show me, and the image lurched, and Robin could almost see— He was, he was surprised to learn, still upright. His hand was a pale claw on the doorframe. His legs felt like damp feathers. Someone was supporting him with a grip on his other arm.
“—with us. There.”
The support, Robin realised once his eyes focused, was Hawthorn. The man must have crossed the room at speed. Courcey was a few feet away, frowning.
“I’m fine,” Robin said. “Sorry.”
“Was that another attack?” asked Courcey. “The same pain as before?”
“No,” Robin said, before he could muster his thoughts enough to say yes, and seize on the excuse. But the immersive image had involved no pain in his arm or anywhere else. One mercy at least. “No, I just felt faint. I’m—recovering from a flu.”
A thick eyebrow arched. Robin waited for some sort of disparaging comment about swooning like a schoolgirl. Hawthorn had startling eyes, the sort of bright blue that might be called merry in a woman. Up close, he really was unfairly handsome, and his grip on Robin’s arm was strong and careful. But that willingness to wound was visible in the curve of his mouth. Robin would have rather kissed a fresh-caught pike.
“Try not to faint onto anything breakable on your way out” was all Hawthorn said.
Makepeace, not looking at all like a man whose position was imperilled, showed them to the door and helped them into their coats. The butler and Courcey exchanged a rueful look.
“New York,” said Courcey. “For how long?”
“Goodbye, Mr. Courcey.”
“Yes, all right.”
The door closed behind them with finality. New York, Robin thought. A trip across the ocean. He shivered a little as he followed Courcey back down into the street.
Courcey glanced at him. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,” said Robin yet again.
He wondered if coming clean about the visions would have made a difference, back there in the house. Somehow he doubted it. If Hawthorn hadn’t been prepared to even look at the physical evidence of the curse, there was no reason to think that hearing about effects beyond pain would have budged him further.
Courcey nodded and lapsed into a silence as brittle as the first freeze of a river. Robin could only guess at what he was thinking. A thawing comment of some kind was needed.
“What an utterly charming fellow,” Robin said.
The sound Courcey made was small, a clearing of the throat. If it had started as laughter then he’d caught it early. “Yes. That’s the way Hawthorn is. Can’t get through the simplest conversation without taking the chance to insult everyone in the room.”
Robin managed, narrowly, not to point out that Courcey hadn’t been doing himself any favours by reacting in such an obvious way. Indeed, Robin had been surprised at how easily Hawthorn had dismantled Courcey’s shell of competence and reserve.
Or perhaps it wasn’t surprising. If Hawthorn’s joke, which hadn’t sounded much like a joke, had referred to a true—liaison? relationship?—between the two men.