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He’d simply grown up an anarchist at heart: an agent on the side of chaos. Until chaos had turned on him.
Maybe, this time, it would be different. Bouffon! He always thought it would be different. He always thought: this time… Ah! but this time, this time, this time… Damnation.
“For God’s sake. Don’t build a wall to keep me outside.” “I won’t build one,” she whispered. “I am the wall.”
“I love you.” When he said it, gazing at the perfect lines of her face, it seemed so true. “From the instant I saw you.” “You want to bed me. I won’t forestall you.” “I want your heart—to hold and cherish.” She looked away from him. “You’ve been wasted as a highwayman. I believe you might have made quite a torrid troubadour.”
“You came to me for help!” he shouted after her. She whirled and looked back. “Aye. I rubbed the bottle, didn’t I? And freed a genie. One wonders what you will do next.”
“We’ve only been married a week.” He looked up with a moonling smile. “She still calls me ‘Mr. Maitland.’” “Toad!” “Well, sometimes she calls me ‘Toad.’” He put his hand over his heart. “You’re charming, my love Adorable.”
S.T. looked up at her. “Now you have a pack,” he said simply.
“Dolce mia. Carissima!” “Italian now?” She sat down and laid her head back on the chair. “A fool in three languages.”
“You got out of there unharmed,” she muttered. “’Tis all that’s important.” He grinned at her, his face shadowed by the gathering darkness. “Oh, no,” he said softly. “I’m going to destroy the bastard. That’s what’s important.”
Painfully, beneath her breath, she whispered, “I love you.” He opened his eyes. A slow smile curved his mouth.
S.T. was cold. He was hungry. He was lonely. He was too old for this.
