Hither, Page (Page & Sommers, #1)

by Cat Sebastian

The doctor’s face clouded. Probably he had the honest man’s instinctive distaste for subverting the course of justice. That was a luxury Leo never had. If only honest men knew how many lives had been saved with a bit of criminal conspiracy, they’d think it one of the cardinal virtues. This was probably how butchers felt when someone felt sorry for pigs while halfway through a ham sandwich.

“Good night, Mr. Page. Try to stay warm. Maybe whatever it is you need to do could wait for some sunshine.” They both knew this was nonsense. Leo would be spending the next few hours with no company but an electric torch, combing the bushes at Wych Hall for whatever it was Wendy Smythe had been looking for. That wasn’t something that could be done in the daytime. Maybe some of that was visible on his face, or maybe Sommers realized that on his own, because before Leo could say anything, Sommers took his muffler from a peg by the door and looped it around Leo’s neck. The scratch of the wool sent electricity coursing through his nerve endings as much as any caress might. “At least try not to freeze to death,” Sommers said. “Even if you are used to it.” And so Leo went into the night, wrapped in a wool muffler that smelled of antiseptic soap and slow caresses by a rare wood fire, a reminder of an honest man who still wanted to keep him warm.

it was a symbol of the holy trinity, but also a representation of past, present, and future, all tangled together, infinitely cyclical, and in the end, indistinguishable from one another. As a child, he had found this comforting. No matter what—dead fathers, mothers who abandoned one without so much as a goodbye—the future was always in wait with its promise of hope and renewal. Now he found himself thinking of how if the three hares represented past, present, and future,

He passed a Woolworth’s, its window display filled with brightly colored and foolishly festive Christmas paraphernalia. There were china figurines of Father Christmas, a couple of cards showing happy families gathered around hearths and pine trees, and packages of Christmas crackers. Without examining his thoughts, he went into the store and bought a package of a dozen crackers. He told himself that this was what Leonard Page would do. But the truth was that he had never held one in his hand, and now he wanted to. He could never know what life felt like for an ordinary person, but he could run his fingers over the same cardboard, hear the same songs, taste the same sweets. He could pretend to be the sort of person who had a life, a future, people he cared about and who cared for him in return. He sat in his train compartment, the package of crackers on his lap, mocking him with their bright colors. He wanted to know what was inside them. He knew there would be a paper hat, and maybe a toy or a boiled sweet. He wasn’t entirely certain, and that uncertainty bothered him. How had he reached nearly thirty years of age without knowing what was in Christmas crackers? That, he thought in bitter amusement, was the logical end of spycraft: needing to open the Christmas cracker a week too early. The conductor rushed to the door of his compartment at the sound of the first cracker being opened. “Oh, sir, you gave me a fright,” the man panted. “But I suppose you’re just getting a bit ...

WHEN JAMES GOT ON THE train, it was already nearly full of passengers coming home from London. He rejected several compartments on the grounds that they were partly occupied by noisy small children or elderly ladies who looked eager for conversation. He was about to shut the door on yet another compartment due to its occupant being apparently engaged in the process of shredding bits of foil when he realized the gentleman in question was Leo Page. “Mr. Page? What in the name of creation are you doing?” James hadn’t ever expected to see Page at a loss for words, but that was evidently the case, for Page stared at him in plain embarrassment. James peered closer at the mess on Page’s lap. “Are those Christmas crackers?” To his delight, Page turned pink. “Never mind me. I’m staging a one-man production of The Little Match Girl.” He swept the bits of paper into a neat pile and crammed them into his attaché case. “Terribly self-indulgent. But what are you doing?” “Heading back to Wychcomb St. Mary, same as you.” Of course, that wasn’t a good enough answer for Page. “This is one of your London days. But if you were coming from London, you wouldn’t be getting on the train now. You’d have gotten on at Paddington, like me, or you would have switched to this train at Oxford. But you just got on now, at—” He looked out the window as if the passing countryside would give him any indication of the name of the station they had just left. “Bourton on the Water,” James supplied helpfully. “...

Mr. Page, would you like to hear about a very large hat?” Leo suspected this was a maneuver to distract him from asking about Mildred Hoggett. But he couldn’t very well insist that they cough up whatever secrets they were hiding. So he made a murmur of interest. “Oh, no, Cora,” Miss Pickering said, grabbing the lumpy mass of yarn out of the other lady’s hands and regarding it balefully. “Not that story.” Leo had the sense that even in this overheated sitting room, they were surrounded by secrets, that any conversational gambit was straying into forbidden territory. He felt at once disoriented and oddly at home. He knew the rules of this game, where both parties jealously guarded their secrets while simultaneously pretending they had none. And with two elderly ladies, the secrets couldn’t be so bad.

“I insist,” Miss Delacourt said. “This is just the sort of story to amuse Mr. Page. It was at a house party, one of those things people did before the war. Before the first war, I mean. A house filled with guests and servants, four changes of clothing a day. I had to go to immense trouble with scarves and bits of trim to disguise the fact that I only had fourteen dresses, although now looking back fourteen is a frightful lot, isn’t it, Edith?” “Frightful,” Miss Pickering agreed. “I believe I brought four trunks of clothing for that party. And two French maids, one to attend to my wardrobe and the other to do my hair. But Mr. Page doesn’t want to hear about your dresses. If you’re going to tell this awful story, you might as well get to the part about the shooting.” Leo’s ears pricked up at the word shooting. He had expected a meandering tale about cats or horses or whatever it was old ladies talked about. He hadn’t realized firearms were to be involved. “Oh dear. I told you, I’m too inclined to ramble. It happens at my age. So, this party was at Lord Listerdale’s place in Kent and it rained five days straight. The gentlemen went out riding, but of course the ladies had to stay indoors, which was very tedious. In the evenings, we played charades and all those parlor games that are nothing but excuses for young people to grope one another. I don’t mind telling you that by the end I was quite bored of being pawed at and proposed to.” “And rightly so,” Miss Pickering said firm...

"Bedlamite" refers to a person experiencing a severe mental illness, especially one who is detained in an institution. It's an archaic term, according to Collins Dictionary and Vocabulary.com, and is sometimes considered offensive. Here's a more detailed explanation: Origin: The word "bedlamite" is derived from "bedlam," which is a short and colloquial pronunciation of "Bethlehem," the name of a historical lunatic asylum in London. Usage: "Bedlamite" was once used to describe a person with a severe mental illness, particularly one who was institutionalized. Modern Usage: While the term is still sometimes used, it's generally considered archaic and offensive. More modern and respectful terms for people with mental illnesses are preferred. Synonyms: "Bedlamite" can be thought of as a synonym for terms like "lunatic," "madman," or "maniac," according

“I insist,” Miss Delacourt said. “This is just the sort of story to amuse Mr. Page. It was at a house party, one of those things people did before the war. Before the first war, I mean. A house filled with guests and servants, four changes of clothing a day. I had to go to immense trouble with scarves and bits of trim to disguise the fact that I only had fourteen dresses, although now looking back fourteen is a frightful lot, isn’t it, Edith?” “Frightful,” Miss Pickering agreed. “I believe I brought four trunks of clothing for that party. And two French maids, one to attend to my wardrobe and the other to do my hair. But Mr. Page doesn’t want to hear about your dresses. If you’re going to tell this awful story, you might as well get to the part about the shooting.” Leo’s ears pricked up at the word shooting. He had expected a meandering tale about cats or horses or whatever it was old ladies talked about. He hadn’t realized firearms were to be involved. “Oh dear. I told you, I’m too inclined to ramble. It happens at my age. So, this party was at Lord Listerdale’s place in Kent and it rained five days straight. The gentlemen went out riding, but of course the ladies had to stay indoors, which was very tedious. In the evenings, we played charades and all those parlor games that are nothing but excuses for young people to grope one another. I don’t mind telling you that by the end I was quite bored of being pawed at and proposed to.” “And rightly so,” Miss Pickering said firm...

impecunious /ˌimpəˈkyo͞onēəs/ I. adjective having little or no money • a titled but impecunious family. II. derivatives 1. impecuniosity /ˌimpəˌkyo͞onēˈäsədē / noun 2. impecuniousness noun – origin late 16th cent.: from in-1 ‘not’ + obsolete pecunious ‘having money, wealthy’ (from Latin pecuniosus, from pecunia ‘money’).

LEO HADN’T COME TO James’s house for a warm meal and words of comfort. It was all very disconcerting. He was playing the role of a man people cared about; that was all, surely. But this was one of those times he envied the person he was pretending to be. “Upstairs,” he said when they had finished washing the dishes and setting them to dry on the draining board. This touch of domesticity was too much. He didn’t even dare look James in the eye lest the man see everything that was there. Leo was a good liar—no, Leo was the best liar. But all he could think about was the truth, and the truth was that he was much, much too fond of the doctor. James wiped his hands on the tea towel and brought his fingertips to Leo’s chin, tipping it up. Leo had the childish urge to squeeze his eyes shut, as if that would hide him from James’s gaze. He didn’t want to hear whatever it was that James was about to say. But James didn’t say anything. He only leaned in and brushed a too-soft kiss over Leo’s lips. “Upstairs,” he agreed. The bedroom was warmer than it had been the previous night. He could hear the radiator going full blast, and wondered if James had done that for him, just as he had put out an extra bowl. Leo wasn’t the type of person who could be counted on to arrive for dinner, couldn’t be counted on for anything. James surely knew that. Maybe he just liked bad bets. Taking hold of James’s collar, Leo pulled him close, running his lips over the other man’s scratchy jaw and the soft u...

JAMES RESISTED THE urge to draw Leo close to him, to press kisses to his temples and whisper things better left unsaid. He knew what Leo needed because it was what he needed too—a momentary reprieve from his thoughts, a bit of temporary oblivion. This thing they had together was a terrible idea, and there would be plenty of time later to think about the full ramifications of what they were doing and feeling. For now, he concentrated on the feel of Leo beneath him, the clasp of his legs around James’s back, the sounds he made as James thrust in. He had done this only a handful of times and hadn’t ever really understood the thrill of it. Certainly, it felt good, but so did hands and mouths. But Leo had tears in his eyes and an expression of ecstasy on his face. And James was doing that to him. This was what Leo had wanted, and James was giving it to him. He tilted his hips and thrust again, and Leo whimpered. “I’m close,” Leo said. “Get a hand on yourself,” James said. He was trying to make this last as long as possible, to stretch out this holiday from reality. But the tightness of Leo’s body and the simple fact of having wanted this so much had brought him to the brink faster than he might have liked. Leo seemed much in the same place, his breathing faster and more ragged than it had been moments ago. The thought flitted through James’s mind that they might have made it even worse, that instead of oblivion they might have cemented whatever bond there was between them. Leo ...

Hold still and I’ll get my thermometer.” “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Leo said as he stepped away from James’s touch and pulled his shirt on. “I’m perfectly fine.” He was not fine. When he woke, his throat had the raw feeling he usually associated with chemical burns, but it was the pounding in his head that really distracted him. “It’s a cold. And I have work to do, no matter what my temperature is.” James’s frown

Epilogue On Christmas morning, Leo put on a pair of James’s pajamas and read the newspaper while James did a fry up. They ate on the floor in front of the hearth. “Nobody’s questioning our story,” Leo said for perhaps the twentieth time in the past few days. “And we haven’t heard that Norris was arrested, so I suppose he got away.” They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Leo opened it himself to find Wendy, muffler wrapped around her neck and her bicycle leaning against a snow bank. The streets were clear of snow, but the drifts and mounds didn’t show any signs of melting. “I’m on my way to the vicarage,” she said. “But I’m under orders to give this to you.” She held out a brightly wrapped package. “Me?” Leo asked stupidly. “Not James?” “Cora says James can open his in person later when you come for supper,” she called over her shoulder on her way back to her bicycle. If Leo were on a case, he’d assume that this meant Miss Delacourt didn’t want him to open it with witnesses present. Or that it was a bomb. But no, he didn’t think Miss Delacourt would risk James’s life. Besides, it didn’t feel like a bomb. “What’s that?” James asked, coming up behind him. “Not a bomb,” Leo said. “Probably.” “That’s good,” James said. “It’s a present from Miss Delacourt.” “Huh. Want to open it?” Leo knelt before the fire and carefully untied the string, then peeled off the red paper, revealing a wooden box. It appeared to be made of ebony and that was inlaid with lighter wood. He turned...