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A big, foursquare man who would probably take great pride in telling the world how practical he was,
A gentleman, of sorts, stood in the doorway, in a tentative sort of way, like he was trying not to be there.
the toff talked like a molly. Not like the Cleveland Street boys, or anything. Just, a light voice that danced a bit and put a lot of stress on a few words, the sort of voice that made you think, I know your sort.
Tredarloe’s marshlight eyes were expressive enough to get him into a pack of trouble, and Ned had felt them on him all afternoon. He might even have squatted a bit deeper and lifted a bit more in the way of weight, accordingly. A wispy fellow like that might well have a taste for a man with muscle to him, and Ned had had too many compliments on his legs and arse to bother with false modesty.
“Is that your stuff making that bloody noise?” Tredarloe’s mouth dropped open. “You can hear it?” “I can’t hear it. That’s the problem.” “Yes!” Tredarloe said. “That’s exactly what it’s meant to sound like!”
“It’s blood!” Ned said with explosive disgust, batting at his hands as if that could take the touch of the fouled paper away. “Isn’t it? It’s bloody written in bloody blood, you…you bleeder.”
He ought to push Tredarloe off, not let the man touch him. Writing spells in his own blood, right there in front of him. It was unlawful, was what it was: unlawful and unnatural and wrong. Which, admittedly, was a pack of words he’d heard before.
He’d always felt a cove had a right to use his body as he liked, as long as he did no harm.
He couldn’t bear men who didn’t kiss. He’d been a working man for a toff too often, and a novelty for white men too, and he couldn’t find the fun in it any more. If Crispin was one of those, ready to fuck but not kiss him, he’d rather know now.
“It’s George Foster. Well, there’s a turn-up.” “Is he quite poorly?” Crispin asked, with a thread of panic. “None too chipper. We were going to bury him tomorrow.” “Oh, fuck,” Crispin said, and fell off the windowsill.
It was a good thing there was an old man’s corpse strolling through the market, or somebody might have laughed at them.
He didn’t think Ned often let himself look impressed, and come to that, Crispin wasn’t used to being impressive.
Chuck it in the Thames? He’d never make it that far. Anyway, he’d learned his letters off a book of fairy tales, and if you could trust that, which you might as well after everything today, throwing magic stuff in rivers never worked for long.
“You said we’d be magnificent, you and me. I wondered if you’d like to see if you were right.”
“Mph. Freckles. Do that again.” Crispin nipped his ear. “Do you have to call me that?” “Your freckles are stunners. I want to lick them all up.” “You can lick them right off, if you like.”
