Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards Ch. 11 Pt. 2

 Notes: Let's have a little more backstory, hmm? Hiram's curious, and who can blame him?

Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 11 Pt. 2

***

 

Chapter Eleven, Part Two

 

Legend Has It…

 

 

 

To tell Letty, or not to tell her? On the one hand, it would be considerate to give her time to prepare for a meeting with The Thread, of all people. It could be life-changing, after all. On the other hand, it seemed like Letty had already convinced herself that Hiram was going to be of no use to her, and that he shouldn’t even try. What were the odds that she would just ignore him if he tried to convince her it was the thing to do? No, better that it happened naturally in some way. As if it was happenstance that she was able to meet with them, rather then preplanned. The only hitch was creating those circumstances.

Ah, well. He still had a few weeks to think about it. Now that the aftermath of his temple visit had faded a bit, and people had proven to be more circumspect than he’d counted on, Hiram’s sense of sociality had come back full swing. He had a place to live, a burgeoning business, and enough money to spare after every week’s Market Day that he could afford to live it up in town a bit when the mood struck him. And in Lollop, there were really only two places to spend your money on a regular basis: The Yew Brew, if you were in the mood for clean surroundings and hearty meals, or The Highwayman, a tavern on the eastern edge of town that catered more to travelers than locals.

Hiram visited the Yew Brew several times throughout the week, once to treat Tilda to dinner closer to her own house, and once to simply sit and absorb the conversation that flowed from patron to patron like a lazy river. It didn’t even take any magic of his own to hear what people had to say, because Phlox was happy to repeat it for him sotto-voce.

“The older gentlemen at the table by the fireplace say they’re surprised to see you without your lady friend.”

Hiram hummed thoughtfully as he took a sip of ale.

“They say their wives expect you to propose to her by midwinter.”

“Ha!”

“Something I can get for you, Hiram?” Jonn called from where he was pulling drinks a bit farther down the bar.

“I’m well for now, thank you,” he replied.

“Right, then.”

“Have you entirely forgotten how to be circumspect, Xerome?”

He tapped twice with one of his fingernails on the counter.

“Oh, lovely, we’re communicating in the Undertone now.” Phlox huffed. “Just admit you’re bored. Maybe you should propose to Tilda, she seems to be one of the only people around who can liven you up a bit.”

Tap-tap.

“Obviously I’m not serious. I know you’re more interested in males. Speaking of, there have been several conversations since you sat down speculating on whether or not people should come over and ask you about Master Surrus. Apparently, his penchant for solitude is legendary.”

“Hmm.” Hiram contemplated that as he finished off the half-chicken that had come with his supper.

“Isn’t it, though? What makes you so special that he was willing to take you home?” Hiram grinned. “Besides all the things he’s not supposed to know about you, obviously. Ugh, you’re so childish.”

“Oy!” The arrival of Robard interrupted Hiram’s private conversation, but he didn’t mind it, just reached out and steadied the stool beside him as the dwarf heaved himself up onto it. He seemed sober for once, and eager not to be if the false joviality he projected was any indicator. “Well met, Master Emblic, well met.”

“And a good evening to you, Robard,” he said politely.

“Mm. What’re you havin’ there, eh?”

“The dinner special.”

“Ah, ah. And, eh, what to drink?”

“Oh, this?” Hiram glanced down at the mug. “It’s a pint of Jonn’s pumpkin ale. The top-shelf stuff. He said it would go well with the dinner.” He shrugged. “He was right, of course. It’s very good.”

“Is it, now?” Robard affected a wide-eyed demeanor. “Y’know, I’ve been meaning to try that pumpkin ale.”

“Then you should.”

“Aye, aye. Only…it’s a bit dear, you know. A bit…pricier than a simple dwarf like myself can afford.”

Hiram wasn’t sure how Robard made a living when most of what he spent his time on seemed to be getting drunk, so this was probably a true statement. Jonn was clearly his closest friend—rumor had it that Robard even slept in the barn—but that didn’t mean Jonn was willing to waste his expensive microbrews on the dwarf when the cheaper ale got him drunk just as fast.

Actually…hmm. “I was wondering,” Hiram said, “about that tower in the distance.”

Robard blinked. “Gemmel’s tower?”

“That’s the one! It seems like a mightily impressive sort of place. I hear it was built by a dwarf, too.”

“Aye, that it was.” Robard thumped his chest. “My own clan, in fact.”

“Truly!”

“Indeed, indeed. Clan Blackstone, on account of we used to live in a mountain of the stuff.”

Interesting. Perhaps Gemmel had been attempting to reinvent the past when he decided to manufacture his tower in the stuff. “Fascinating. I’d love to learn more about it, if you have any tales to tell. Nothing that would bring disgrace,” Hiram added quickly. He knew how touchy dwarves could be about their private histories. “Just what’s allowable. I love a good story.”

It was hard to tell underneath the beard, but Hiram thought Robard was trying to affect a crafty expression. “The stories would be better heard over a pint of pumpkin ale, I daresay.”

“Agreed.” Hiram waved Jonn over. “I’d like the same again for Robard, including dinner, please.”

“Oh.” Robard looked at him with surprise in his rheumy eyes. “You don’t need to do all that.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Hiram replied lightly. Jonn seemed to approve, if the speed with which he brought the meal of chicken and roasted potatoes out was any indicator. The ale he pulled much more slowly, making sure Robard was already tucking in to his dinner before setting it down.

The next hour was spent gleaning bits of gold from Robard’s ramblings. The broad strokes followed what Avery had said—they were driven out of Blackstone Mountain in the north by an unholy alliance between serpentkin and a group of fire elementals, and after a lot of diversions the majority of them ended up settling here. There might have been an element of coercion in there as well, something about an internal dispute that split their party in two, but that part wasn’t clear.

“Great idea, that tower,” Robard said in the middle of his second pint. “Could have revolutionized magic in the area, not to mention given our clan a revenue stream that supported us in our traditional crafts instead of turning weaponsmiths into blacksmiths and mangonel-makers into carpenters.”

“You were a warrior clan, then?”

“Aye, that we were. S’why it burned all the more to be forced out of our home, y’ken. If it were just one or the other, we’d have managed, but serpentkin plus the elementals?” He shook his head morosely. “It was too much. Can’t say that I care for the emperor all that much, meself, but every dwarf driven out of the northern range cheered the day he and his people subdued those scaly bastards.”

Subdued. That was a very tame description for annihilation. It occurred to Hiram that letting Robard wax rhapsodic about the devastation of Phlox’s people wasn’t the nicest thing for his elemental assistant right now.

He got a few more general stories about the tower, a smidgeon of the Blackstone clan’s epic poem, which sounded like it must be fantastic sung, and ended the night with Robard on his fourth mug of ale and staggering off to the outhouse. Hiram paid the final bill, then got to his feet and wrapped himself up in his cloak as he headed outside to walk home. He could have come with Mule, but the walk was nice to help clear his head after he’d been drinking. Usually it was a quiet, contemplative time.

Tonight, he was treated to a stream of hissed imprecations from Phlox. “They stole our caverns first! Our holy places, defiled by the deep-digging dwarves, where no piece of us was considered sacred!”

“I know,” Hiram said tiredly.

“The serpentkin were merely a means to an end! We never intended for them to feed on the clans we conquered.”

“I understand that.”

“There was no good reason for the violence your emperor leveled at us. We as a people are no more now, right down to the smallest flames.”

Hiram could argue that point, but he chose not to under the circumstances. “It’s in the past now, Phlox.”

There was a moment of silence before Phlox said, “Sometimes I wish more than anything that I had managed to kill you. Or that you had chosen to kill me.”

Hiram only nodded; his throat was too tight to do otherwise. He could offer up excuses, he could say that nothing was simple and war least of all, he could remind Phlox that he’d quite literally brought the invasion upon himself by burning through town after town, but that wouldn’t do anything except exacerbate the bad feelings. They walked in silence the rest of the way home, and Hiram was resigned to a night full of memories keeping him awake as he walked through the front door.

“Finally.”

“Esme!” Hiram looked at her, then did a doubletake. “Are you…snuggling with Knight?”

“Only because you weren’t here,” she defended herself before licking a stripe between the rabbit’s ears. She had adjusted herself to be about the same size as the enormous bunny, who seemed surprisingly sanguine about having a dangerous, carnivorous sphinx cuddling him like a baby. “I got cold.”

Hiram smiled at the thin excuse. “I see.”

“And it’s been days since you visited me.”

“That’s true.”

“So here I am.” She rolled onto her back, pulling Knight with her. The rabbit went with the air of a creature who had abandoned every thought of fighting back. “You have my permission to pet me.”

It beat focusing on the silent treatment from Phlox all night. “Your wish is my command.”

 

Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards Ch. 11 Pt. 1

 Notes: Let's move things right along, shall we? Gossip=plot in my world.

 Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards Ch. 11 Pt. 1

 ***

Chapter Eleven, Part One

Photo by Kelly Sikkema
 

The Thread

 

Hiram had worried that his reputation in Lollop would be irretrievable after what happened in the Temple of Melemor. Making the head priest cry and sending the rest of town into a tizzy over a little old memory—the ideal way to ingratiate himself to his new home. He was sure he’d have Uriel the Pustulant banging on his door in no time, insisting that not only were his fees lacking, he was also a heretic in the eyes of the local gods and they were sending for an exorcist. Which—thank you, but no. He’d been exorcised a time or two in his childhood by people his well-meaning but ignorant parents found, and that had been painful enough.

Fortunately, none of his worse fears came to pass. In fact, he seemed caught in a state of more respectability than he’d had before, which…

“Why?” Hiram demanded of Tilda a few evenings down the line. He’d fielded plenty of visitors in the days since Lares, and while curiosity seemed to be peaking, they’d all had good reasons to visit an herbalist as well. He dispensed medicinal teas for indigestion, sleep aids, soothing ointments for skin issues, and several internal aids meant to either increase or decrease fertility depending on what the person wanted. He was questioned, very gently and mostly by older woman, about how he was settling in to town, and after being assured that he liked it very much, he was patted on the shoulder and… “Why aren’t I being run out of town for what I put everyone through?”

Tilda smiled over a cup of tea—rosehip and yarrow, with a hint of licorice because she liked the flavor as she said, “Honestly, Hiram, you’d think you wanted to get run out of town. Have you considered that sharing your private pain to the rest of us has made you more relatable rather than less? And I have to say, as bad as that was, it was far from a unique experience. Just stronger than we’re used to.” She tilted her head, silver strands amongst the brown catching the light from his fireplace. “And I think few of us minded seeing High Priest Melemor in a state of true understanding, for once. He’s always been a very…formidable man, but not a very compassionate one.”

Hiram stared at her. “So people like that I made him cry?”

“From what I’ve heard, they feel it’s only just, given that he insisted you undergo the ritual in the first place.” She shrugged. “Be wary of testing one’s spirit, it might just test you back.”

“Huh.” Well, that was a bit of a relief. “What about—”

A blunt head pressed against his shin, and Hiram smiled down at Knight, who was doing much better with his hopping these days. “There you are, my dear,” he said indulgently. “Did you have a nice nap?” The rabbit nosed at him again. “Feeling hungry? Or would you prefer a bit of a cuddle?” Hiram set his cup aside, reached down, and heaved the rabbit into his lap. “Oof,” he grunted. “You certainly haven’t gotten any lighter since you’ve been with me, have you? Let me have a look now, there’s a good lad…”

He inspected the wound on Knight’s leg. “Much better!” he praised. “And your fur is growing back in and everything. You’ll be healed up beautifully by midwinter, love.” He stroked over the rabbit’s back, and Knight stretched out to give him more room to work, eyes closing in bunny bliss.

“Goodness,” Tilda said archly. “Such politesse, and to a rabbit no less! No wonder Master Surrus thinks so highly of you.”

Hiram blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Master Surrus, the school teacher. Handsome gentleman, a bit retiring, and oh, yes—he swept you off your feet onto his horse and carried you away into the sunset the other day, from what I hear—”

“There was no sweeping,” Hiram insisted. “And no sunset, it was barely past ten in the morning.”

Her eyes twinkled as she said, “But you did go somewhere with him.”

“Well…yes.” Hiram felt oddly reluctant to talk about it. He wouldn’t have said anything prurient, even if there was something of that nature to say, and yet…something about Avery made him want to keep their time together private. It wasn’t so unusual—Avery was a private person and Hiram was lucky to have been invited into his home.

“Don’t worry,” Tilda said. “I won’t pry. It’s not my place and I get the sense you wouldn’t tell me anything anyhow. I just think it’s nice, that’s all.” Her smile dimmed a bit. “His social circle is even smaller than yours, and he’s been here for years. Before you, the only person I ever heard of visiting his cottage was Master Spindlestep.”

That correlated well to Hiram’s impressions of the younger man. Still. “He should have more friends. He’s young, well known to the people here, talented, a good conversationalist…”

“And I’m sure, with all these charms, that if he wanted more friends he would have them,” Tilda said. “That he doesn’t speaks to a quirk of his character, not a fault of the people of Lollop. Most would welcome him into their social circle, if only to gossip about their children, but Master Surrus defies that sort of convention. As is his right,” she added. “We’re all wildly curious about him, of course, but Lollop knows how to respect the privacy of the individual.”

“Most of the time,” Hiram agreed.

“Yes.” Tilda sounded a bit tired. “Most of the time. More lately, in fact—everyone is preparing for the Thread to come through in a few weeks.”

“The Thread…” Hiram had encountered the Thread numerous times in distant villages, but only in his former persona. They were a search party, in a way, a group of individuals who represented the interests of gods and temples who might benefit from fresh blood.

For children who tested positive in their local temples for magical ability but lacked the means to get to a capital and go into training on their own, the Thread was their last hope. If a member of a Thread party could vouch for your ability, they would take you along with them to the practice that you fit best with no cost to your family. It wasn’t a foolproof system, but it was a bit of hope for the gifted children of poor villages who had no other means of promoting their sparks and talents.

Every Thread party contained a wizard or sorcerer of some kind, a cleric or paladin of some god, and either a bard or a druid—both if you were lucky. Between those specialties, almost all the basic spark manifestations were covered.

Sparks were almost always inherited. Hiram was one of the very rare cases where neither of his parents showed any signs of magical ability, and neither did any family members going back three generations, which was as far as anyone he was related to could remember. His parents had thought he was cursed, hence the exorcisms gone awry, but here…

“Is there any spark to speak of in Letty’s family?” he asked.

Tilda sighed heavily. “Did Letty talk to you about having a spark?”

“No. Not directly,” he said. “Not quite. She said something about being tested and not showing enough of an aptitude for Lollop to invest in her education there.”

“It’s true. I don’t know much about Letty’s situation personally, but her mother…” Tilda shook her head. “That was a woman with a spark. For healing, believe it or not. Celiane was actually apprenticed as a Cleric of Melemor for several years before she met her husband Granth.”

Wait a second. “Clerics of Melemor are required to take vows of chastity.” The healing arts in particular could be a little finicky depending on the god, and Melemor didn’t like to come second to anyone else when it came to his priests and clerics.

“Exactly. They met at a harvest festival. Granth was very charming, and she got very drunk, and the next morning, well.” Tilda shook her head. “They were found naked together in the back of the Brew’s stables. Celiane tried to plead for forgiveness, but the head cleric at the time refused to take her back. Then she turned up pregnant, and it was a quick wedding to Granth at that point. It’s not been a happy marriage, we all know that,” she said. “I can’t speak to the state of her spark, but I daresay it’s atrophied at this point. None of their children have tested highly, so far—Letty is the only one who came close.”

Well. That was abhorrent. The blank-faced woman Hiram had seen on the porch, surrounded by children and shouted at by her awful husband—she might not have a spark anymore, but she surely remembered a time when she did. Remembered how it felt to be so close to a god that you could borrow their power and do good in the world. To be tied to such a man, gods, she must have felt so awful that morning.

All the more reason to get Letty out of there if he could. He only had three more weeks of her time. He needed to coach her spark up as bright as it would go and get her in reach of the Thread, and then hopefully she would escape the fate that seemed laid out for her.

“I think there’s more to Letty than meets the eye,” Hiram said, careful to keep his voice light. “I’m no spark myself—” more like a conflagration “—but I’ve seen enough of them over the years to have a good feeling about her. And everyone deserves a chance to change their situation, especially when it’s one like hers.”

“I don’t control the Thread’s choices,” Tilda said, “but I’m sure we could get her a meeting with them if you think it’s worthwhile.”

Hiram smiled brightly. “I think it just might be.”

 

Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 10, Pt. 2

 Notes: Let's finish our little tea party, hmm?

Title:  Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 10, Pt. 2

***

Chapter Ten, Part Two

 

Delicate Subjects

 

“So,” Hiram said after a moment. “Now that you’ve experienced some of my tragic past, tell me some of yours.”

Avery quirked a smile. “What makes you think I’ve got a tragic past?”

“Oh, I can tell that sort of thing from the first second,” Hiram assured him. “Very insightful, me.”

“Indeed?”

“Absolutely.”

The smile only got broader, and Hiram was delighted to realize he’d found someone who was willing to play a bit—to indulge his silly side, as it were. Phlox had no time for that sort of thing, and Esme often confused silly with simple, which led to numerous her attempting to bat him about the head and “knock some sense into him” with her rather dangerous paws. There was hope for Tilda, but still. He was used to being part of a group of people who could joke with each other, poke and prod and jest without getting too personal about it. He missed his friends. He missed Misha. Hells, he even missed Andy sometimes—no one could quite muster up an “I’m not going to let on how impressed I am” face like his former lover.

Sure enough, Avery arched one eyebrow. “And what does a tragic past look like, exactly?”

Hiram took advantage of the implicit invitation to look the other man up and down in a measuring manner. Avery Surrus had been attractive at first glance—now he was downright captivating.

That said…

“It’s something in the face,” Hiram mused. “A certain twist of the brow, an expression on the edge of either a glower or a good cry, if there’s a sheen to the eyes. You can see it in the posture, too—slightly stooped, like the world is just a bit too heavy for those shoulders. It’s evident in the color palette as well—blacks and grays and dark browns, perhaps the occasional blue if the person is feeling particularly splashy on that day. Just one of these things would be inconclusive, but put them all together and you get…well.” He gestured at Avery. “Yourself.”

“Or you could have simply talked to Mistress Tate.”

“Oh, I absolutely did that as well,” Hiram said, and Avery actually laughed.

“And yet,” Avery said after a moment, “you yourself don’t fit the pattern you just described, and yet you can’t deny that you have something terribly tragic in your past.”

Hiram shrugged. “I live to defy expectation, and don’t think you can change the subject so easily, young man.”

“Avery.” His blue eyes were very bright and very intent on Hiram’s face. “I want you to call me Avery.”

For the first time in a long time, Hiram felt rather…well, enthralled wouldn’t be too strong a word. He’d felt desire for plenty of people, before and even after Andy had become his world, but desire was a fairly cheap commodity. This, now? This was downright intriguing. “Avery.” He took a sip of tea to avoid having to clear his throat. “Go on, then.”

“My story isn’t very exciting,” Avery said after a moment. “I never knew my father, my mother died when I was young, I left town via an apprenticeship and finally fell in with a group who had use for my skills.”

“Mm. Thievery, I assume.”

The teasing light left Avery’s face. “Excuse me?”

Shit. “I don’t mean to accuse you of anything specific,” Hiram said quickly. “Only—I know what children who are experts at shimmying down chimneys often become, in cities at least. And I have no particular animus against thieves or rogues, either; everyone has to make a living, after all, and they tend to target people who have more than enough to live on. So…” He shrugged. “It’s just a guess. Feel free to tell me how wrong I am.”

Avery stared at him in silence before abruptly sighing. “You know, you’re the first person in my experience to just outright say it like that. I think a few others in town have wondered, maybe even suspected over the years, but no one’s ever even implied such a thing before, much less said it straight to my face.”

“Ah.” It was rather rude of Hiram, in that light.

“But you’re not wrong,” Avery went on, the stiffness leaving his back as he relaxed once more. “I did learn the trade of a rogue, for a time.”

Hiram could picture it perfectly. Avery had a certain sinuousness about him, a confidence and steadiness that was both highly attractive and indicative of strenuous training. “I bet you were good at it.”

He smiled. This was different from his earlier smile; there was a challenge in it, a cheeky hint of wickedness that was utterly alluring. “I was,” he said before hiding his smile behind his teacup. “But I eventually decided to give it up and return home. And before you ask, Master Spindlestep is an old friend I originally made during my earliest wanderings, but the fact that he settled here after an accident stole his vision seemed like fate calling me home after I decided to retire.”

“And you went into teaching.” Hiram whistled admiringly. “Not exactly a profession that travels lock-step with the path of the rogue, is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Avery demurred. “After all, being able to keep track of dozens of noisy, potentially dangerous individuals at once while maintaining your own internal quietude and focus is certainly shared between them. And I can’t say I’ve never had call to pin a child’s sleeve to the desk using their own quill, but I try not to trot that little trick out unless someone’s really acting up.”

Hiram laughed as he pictured such a thing in his mind. “I daresay they love you.”

Avery’s face softened. “I think some of them do. I certainly didn’t expect to enjoy teaching as much as I do, but it’s…it’s a good fit for me. A path I’m grateful to be able to walk down, given…everything.”

Everything being his tragic past, but Hiram had already concluded that he wasn’t going to get any more details from Avery about that today. It was fine. He’d pushed his luck as far as it could go, and he wouldn’t make his host uncomfortable. “We should all be so lucky.”

“You are, aren’t you?” Avery countered. “No matter what you were doing before—and as long as we’re being honest, Hiram, I don’t believe for a second that you’ve spent decades of your life as a simple herbalist—you’ve settled into this role with great success, I’d say. Almost everyone in town speaks well of you, particularly after last Market Day.”

Hiram scratched his jaw for a moment, needing the distraction as he pictured the absolute scene he’d made in the temple. “We’ll see what they have to say after today’s fiasco,” he muttered.

“Who could speak ill of you after knowing what they now do about your past?”

“To some, pain is nothing more than a doorway to manipulation,” Hiram said.

Avery stared at him steadily. “Indeed,” he agreed. “But you’re clearly already on your guard. You won’t let them corner you any more than I would.”

There was  a vagueness to that phrasing that made Hiram wonder how Avery meant it. He chided himself for his hopeful heart. You’ve had your great love; all your adventures are in the past. You’re meant to live a quiet and peaceful life now, and that doesn’t include brewing up a romance. Especially not with a man like this. A man with secrets. A man who was far more dangerous than he looked.

A man who saw through Hiram like crystal and pushed, ever so gently, against the façade until he was tempted to let it start falling away.

But he couldn’t. This was important, damn it. Hiram needed to lay low if he wanted to survive, if he wanted to be there for Misha someday. He smiled affably. “Thank you for the tea.”

Avery paused, then nodded, as though acknowledging that certain subjects had been taken off the table. “You’re welcome. Would you like me to run you back to town?” Not back to Hiram’s house, but back to town. Hmm, perhaps Avery was just as reticent to allow himself the opportunity for romance as Hiram was. Naturally, that made Hiram want to push.

Stop it. Take the out. “Thank you, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.” He took both their cups and set them on the scarred wooden counter by the washbasin, then headed for the door. “It will only take me a moment to saddle Buttercup.”

Hiram grinned. “You named your mare Buttercup?”

“She came with the name,” Avery informed him airily. “And I think it suits her very well. She’s as sweet and delicate as a flower.”

“You’d expect a horse named Buttercup to be yellow, or at least light tan. She’s uniformly brown.”

“I don’t have to sit here and listen to your imprecations about my horse’s name,” Avery said warningly, but he was smiling again. “She’s a perfect Buttercup.”

Hiram held up his hands in an assuaging manner. “Of course she is. I never said otherwise.”

“Nor should you.” Avery stepped outside and Hiram followed, moving away from the door as the other man locked it, then headed for the little stable. It was warmer now that it was later in the morning, and he shed his cloak with a sense of mild relief. The sun soaked through the thin fabric of his shirt, a lovely rich red color that Master Spindlestep had assured him would look well with his complexion, and Hiram closed his eyes and stretched his arms over his head for a moment, then gently rolled his neck from side to side until it cracked satisfyingly.

Thus relieved, he ambled a little farther down the path until he had a clearer look at Gemmel’s Tower. The entire thing, transubstantiated…what a miraculous wonder. What a terrifying horror. Gemmel must have been exceedingly assured of himself, and the fallout must have been exceedingly final for Hiram to have never heard of such a place before. Perhaps he could ask some of the local dwarves about it, dig a bit deeper into the legend. Not that he intended to go to such a place, but it wasn’t impossible that the tower could be a source of illness, and if it were close to a waterway…hmm. He might have to do some further investigation.

He absently smoothed his free hand over the small of his back and down his hip, tapping at the side of his thigh with his fingers in an errant rhythm as he considered his options. Dum-dum-dah-dahdahdahdah-dum-dum-dah—

“Hiram?”

He turned back to Avery, who was holding Buttercup’s lead and looking a bit poleaxed. “Ready to go, then?”

“Um, yes.”

“Wonderful.” He gestured to the horse. “After you, darling.”

Darling? Where did that come from? Better knock it off, he won’t—

Avery recovered his aplomb enough to wink. “Of course, dearest.”

Oh, Gods. This man was dangerous in more ways than one. Hiram wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to resist such charms.

He wasn’t even entirely sure he wanted to.