Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

IT WAS just over an hour later when they returned downstairs, in a fairly decent state, and washed to a degree more reasonable than before. Silas thought the time frame quite reasonable, considering the dressing and quick wash had been done in a swift ten minutes, and the rest of the time had involved being on his knees, tending to all the tenderest of places on Pitch's body.

‘Your buttons are askew, my dear.' Jane gestured to Pitch's linen shirt, visible beneath his unbuttoned jacket of deep bronze green: with silver buttons, and elaborate silver and pink embroidery at the collar and cuffs. The buttoning of his shirt was certainly misaligned, but he made no haste to sort them.

‘Well, you are to blame for that, are you not? Bothering us so.'

She inclined her head. ‘But was it not worth it for the clothing I'd found?' The small wicker basket she'd brought in on her arrival had held the jacket Pitch now wore, along with a most fetching pair of stovepipe trousers, a deep black satin that clung in all the right places.

‘He looks marvellous, Jane. You did very well,' Silas said, his lips still humming from services rendered.

‘I'm yet to see him in something he cannot wear to perfection,' Charlie added, his face pink with having been scrubbed clean, his hair slicked back with oil. ‘It's extremely annoying.'

‘But there's no corset vest. No waistcoat at all, for that matter,' Pitch returned. ‘Which makes the interruption of Silas's carnal explorations of my body unforgivable.'

‘For the love of all holy things, shut that mouth of yours, Astaroth.' Isaac was already seated at the dining table, a rectangle of polished mahogany that had been cleared of its decorative table runner, and most places set with beautiful Damask placemats, polished silver cutlery, and large Vaseline green wine glasses. ‘I'm about to eat, and don't need to hear nothing about your body.'

He'd placed himself at the head of the table, nearest to where the fire snapped and cracked cheerily, and already had his fork in hand and a napkin tucked into the high collar of his, unsurprisingly, dark jacket. At least he'd seen fit to discard his scarves, and his overcoat. All of which were thrown haphazardly over the settee.

‘You look very fine, too, Silas.' Charlie grinned. ‘Blue has always suited you.'

The coat that Jane had secured for him was not quite the blue of his beloved Inverness; it was far duller–more a late evening sky than brilliant midday–but the cut was fine and the fit was only marginally too tight.

‘Places, places, now.' Tyvain strode into the room, beaming. ‘Mr Churchill is a right saint, don't know how he's done it so fast, but we are ready to feast, my friends. Sit down, sit down.'

Silas pulled out a chair for Pitch, who was the epitome of good grace as he bobbed in a grateful bow, inclining his head. Suave, until the moment he made a sly grab at Silas's trouser front and pinched.

‘Stop it.' Silas knew himself entirely unconvincing as they took their places side by side. Charlie and Jane sat opposite, their places yet to be set, with Sybilla taking the other head of the table. A spare chair, for the soothsayer, remained beside Pitch.

‘If there's a heaven, you're headed there, Mr Churchill.' Tyvain stepped aside to allow entrance of the inn's publican. He pushed a trolley ahead of him, laden with a plethora of bowls and plates and condiments. ‘I dunno how you've accommodated us so darn fast.'

‘I'm not entirely sure myself,' Robert laughed. ‘But the kitchen was already bustling when you came to me with your request, which was an oddity in itself. Never known cook to surface before mid-morning, especially when it's been a busy night before.'

The waft of hot food, all manner of scents, had Silas salivating.

‘Cook is your fella, then?' Tyvain hovered by the trolley, wringing her hands. ‘Heard about his mastery with a decent pastry even over at the Golden Mile.'

‘I can vouch he is deserved of all praise,' Pitch declared.

‘Feckin' Christ, ‘igh praise don't come ‘igher than that.'

Robert beamed. ‘My Samuel does indeed have the magic touch with sweets. But there is no way you'll see him out of bed at this hour. No, the cook is a different fellow.'

The onslaught of scents was mouth-watering. Silas breathed them in; baked bread, hints of cinnamon and cloves, the richness of meat dishes and the unmistakable crispness of baked potatoes. His stomach gurgled in anticipation, earning him an amused side-long look from Pitch.

Two serving girls entered the room, one carrying a tray that held the missing cutlery, wine glasses and napkins. She had a three-pronged candelabra tucked under her arm, whilst the other serving girl held a deep basket, with corked bottles peeking their head from within. A wreath of holly was looped over her arm, another adornment for the table.

‘Forgoing the distinct lack of sweet treats,' Pitch folded a leg beneath him on the chair, to add the extra height needed to peer over the table towards the trolley, ‘I must say this all smells divine.'

Silas nodded. Whoever this chap was in the kitchen, Silas had decided him far more a legend than Samuel…and he'd not yet taken a bite. His stomach let loose another eager growl. He was utterly famished, having only taken a few mouthfuls of pie last night, unwilling to deprive Pitch.

‘Eat a decent meal, then you can ‘ave your dessert.' Tyvain chided Pitch, moving to assist Robert in unloading the laden trolley while the young women whisked about setting the empty places, and laying out the meagre embellishments. The candelabra was set at the centre of the table, with the holly wreath around its base. Long slim candles were produced from deep pockets, and lit with deft strikes against flint-sided boxes.

‘My god it smells incredible.' Charlie moaned.

‘Let's get this last supper underway then, shall we?' Tyvain said, cheerily.

Silas winced at her choice of words. He glanced at Pitch. The daemon seemed not to have heard, or was covering it well. He still sat perched upright, watching the unloading. His eyes were bright, not with flame, but with a relaxed eagerness. A happiness, Silas dared think.

Charlie and Jane chattered excitedly between themselves about what they would try first, thanking the attendants who had set the table. Sybilla lounged back in her chair, a half-smile upon her wounded face, looking more comfortable than Silas had seen her in ages. A platter of Brussel sprouts was set in front of her, steam rising from their plump little bulges. A roasted chicken, ringed with baked tomatoes and with fresh parsley decorating the drumsticks, was placed alongside.

Everyone was, to Silas's utter delight, content and in fine mood.

‘That fire's not decent enough,' Isaac grumbled. ‘Too cold by half.'

Well, most were content.

‘That's cause you ain't used to having less than a hundred layers on, you sulky bastard.' Tyvain was busy uncorking a bottle of wine.

Pitch rose from his chair, and went to the fireplace. The fire was actually fairly decent, but was waning. Within a moment of him lifting his hands, the flames were jumping, crackling fiercely in the hearth. Isaac tilted his head back, and sighed deeply.

‘Suppose you're good for something then, Astaroth.' Isaac's lips twisted, and Silas wondered if the man was feeling ill, until he realised it was a smile. ‘I thank you.'

Tyvain spilled some of the wine she was pouring into Sybilla's glass. ‘Jesus wept.'

‘Shut ya trap,' Isaac growled. ‘I'm just being civil.'

‘Since bloody when?'

‘Ty, let him be.' Sybilla dabbed at the spill with her napkin, but one of the attendants was already reaching for the salt dish.

‘Leave that to me, miss.' The girl, all rose-cheeked and dark-eyed, fussed around the angel, who gave her the sort of smile which put the lass into a bit of a tizz. Sybilla was definitely in a fine mood, if she found energy enough for some flirtation.

‘Don't worry Isaac,' Pitch said. ‘I know you're still a surly prick who shall be dancing a jig once I'm gone.'

Silas's contentment frayed on hearing the daemon's easy dismissal of himself once more. But he'd not allow either Pitch, or his own worries, to stain this moment.

‘This is truly wonderful, Mr Churchill,' Silas said. ‘You have gone to so much trouble for our sake' And had done so, seemingly at the drop of a hat.

‘Well, it is a good practice run for Christmas, really. We've got five tables booked for a lunchtime gathering. It's the first year we've tried such a thing.'

‘Oh, of course!' Jane cried. ‘Christmas! We've had such trials, there's hardly been time to look at a calendar. How close is it? A week or so?'

Mr Churchill set down a serving plate heaped high with green beans. He seemed bemused by the question. ‘Must have been quite the trials. It is five days away.'

‘Then this shall be our Christmas dinner,' Jane said.

Charlie looked fit to dance out of his chair. ‘Yes, yes, oh what a fabulous idea.'

‘What a lot of fuss over nothin'.' Was Isaac's surly contribution.

‘Mr Churchill, the holly wreath is lovely,' Jane grabbed onto her idea with both hands, ‘but I don't suppose you have anything more for the season?'

The blushing attendant who stood by Sybilla, jumped in before her master could answer. ‘I've been practising those paper hats for your Christmas Day opening, Mr Churchill, sir. Got a dozen of ‘em at least in the cupboard up in the attic. Those paperchains, too. They ain't all the best, but would they do?'

‘Yes, yes. Go on, Mary. Retrieve them if you will,' Robert smiled fondly. ‘And whatever else you can find that might brighten the room for the occasion. Oh, and Mary,' the girl paused, already halfway to the door. ‘Will you send someone to check in on Herbert in the stables? Let him know the bread is out of the oven.' He set down a covered dish, one with tiny brown flowers around the rim of the lid, and gave Pitch and Silas a look. ‘He wouldn't hear a word of it when I said he should sleep in his bed and not the straw with your horses.'

Silas shifted, all degree of uncomfortable, recalling the goddess's use of the boy. He was appalled he'd not thought to check on the young'un himself. ‘I hope he was warm enough…it was a cold night.' Though he himself had not felt a shiver since waking in the grave, renewed.

‘He'll be fine. A resilient lad, our boy. And he'll adore the excuse to have an early Christmas celebration.' Mr Churchill set down the last of the dishes he'd brought in. A hexagonal butter dish with purple and gold trim. None of the dinnerware matched, but it only made the spread more tantalising to look at.

Charlie and Jane were animated, chatting about Christmas experiences. ‘The tree, no doubt,' Charlie said, in answer to Jane's question about her favourite aspect of the season. ‘You?'

‘Gifts! Of course. And I do enjoy an eggnog.'

‘What a lot of hoo-hah over nothing,' Pitch sighed.

Silas turned to him. ‘You don't enjoy the season?'

‘Rather irksome in all its sentimentality.' He played at a shiver. ‘And I am terrible at gift-giving, for I am not interested at all in what others like. And who can be bothered with wrapping paper?'

Silas nudged his knee against Pitch's leg. ‘You are getting quite slovenly in your ability to lie. That new Inverness coat you had made for me is the most wonderful present I've ever received.'

‘Really? That must be why you didn't even bother putting it on to go and take a piss in Sherwood Forest,' Pitch said, and though his comment stirred memories that stung, the daemon's laughter was so frivolous and clearly without any hint of blame that Silas simply smiled. ‘And let's be honest, you likely do not remember any other presents you've received, my dear.'

‘Not a one, but I know I would like yours best.'

‘Dolt.' Pitch's hand rested on his thigh, resting there with no sultry intent, just finding its place. ‘Now, can we please eat?'

‘First decent words you've spoken, mate,' Isaac growled. ‘No point putting down a feast this good and not lettin' us stuff it in our gobs.'

‘Touch it before I say so and lose a finger.' Tyvain swatted him over the ear, having just finished filling his glass.

‘There's one more dish, but it will take a little longer.' Mr Churchill stood, hands on hips, surveying his efforts. ‘Some fancy thing from India, that Cook insisted on. Powerful smell on it, too. And spicy, I'm told. Anyone fancy burning their tongues?'

Pitch nudged Silas. ‘This fellow will adore it. He does enjoy having his tongue in hot places.'

‘Astaroth,' Isaac growled a warning.

Tyvain saved the day by finally taking her place on Pitch's far side. She snatched up her glass so enthusiastically wine spilled onto her hand. ‘Right then, a Merry Christmas, to my family. The most fecked up bunch of bastards I've ever known, or hope to know.' She chewed on her lip before continuing. ‘And I love ya, all of ya.' Her pointed gaze went to Pitch. ‘Even you, you fucking prick.'

‘Oh sod off, hag.'

Charlie stood up, arm raised for another toast. ‘Can I echo those sentiments? Yours Tyvain, not yours, Tobias. And just say that I have no idea how I ended up here, only that I know it is exactly where I was supposed to be…' His gaze moved to Silas. ‘I think I've known, from that day in the forest, when our paths crossed, that there was no other place for me.'

‘Paths far more than crossed, if I recall,' Pitch declared. With his hand still upon Silas's thigh it was easy enough to give him a decent pinch over the knuckles. ‘What? Am I wrong?'

‘Go on, Charlie.' Silas rested his hand over Pitch's; the wine smoothing a warm place in his empty belly. ‘Finish your toast and pay him no mind.'

‘Well, there's not much more to say about it,' Charlie shrugged. ‘I echo Tyvain's sentiments…the part about family, and loving you, I mean.' The lad blushed. ‘I've never been in so much peril in my entire life, and yet I've never felt so protected, so cared for, as I have with you all. So entirely seen.' His voice hitched, and a tremble in his hand rippled the wine in his glass. ‘Christ, I've barely had two sips and I'm rambling.'

He slumped back into his seat.

‘Not at all, Charlie. We love you, too.' Jane wrapped her arm about the lad, the hint of jasmine played between the heavier scents of the awaiting feast. ‘I do not wish you in harm's way, but I'm so very glad you and Silas found each other, and us in return.'

Silas swallowed, far more overcome by the moment than he'd intended to allow himself. The notion of family struck hard at him. Especially here, at the end. When they must leave them all behind. Pitch entwined his fingers through Silas's, leaning in. ‘Does that make us brothers then? If this is a family? I'm fairly sure fornication among siblings is frowned on in this dreary world. Shame. I did so enjoy rutting my big brother.'

Silas sputtered with laughter. He gave Pitch's hand a tight squeeze. ‘Lucky I would break any law for you.'

‘Lucky indeed.' Pitch grinned, taking another sip of his wine, a stain already darkening his pink lips.

Sybilla drew herself to standing, glaring away Tyvain's move to assist her. ‘Don't you dare. I'm fine.' She raised her glass, which was already half-empty. ‘One last toast, to those we have lost, and those we've found along the way.'

‘To those lost, and those found along the way.' Everyone chimed in, glasses tinkling as they were knocked against their neighbours.

‘See,' Pitch muttered. ‘This is why I don't like this Christmas lark. It is both downcast and jovial at once. Very confusing. I have no clue whether I should be laughing riotously, or crying into my drink.'

‘I think that is rather the whole point of the occasion,' Silas said. ‘Wonderful, isn't it?'

‘Fucking ludicrous, is what it is, and you absolutely love it, don't you? You gloriously odd man. I can just imagine you, searching days for the perfect tree to cut down, fussing over the number of branches, the right girth, the perfect pinnacle bow for the star. But then despairing over how many birds you might deprive of nests –'

‘They wouldn't be nesting at this time of year, but it would be best to search the branches in case there are any old nests, or broken egg shells that might attract the ants. Wouldn't want them taking over the parlour.'

Pitch gave him a sidelong look, and Silas grinned. But darker thoughts had stirred; he wondered if he had shared this time of year with family, loved ones…or had he sat alone in a quiet house, no decorations on the mantle, no one to sit at the table with?

But Silas could not seem to find it in himself to wonder too deeply. His past life memories were every bit as lost as those they mourned.

What was not lost was right here, with him. Beside him. And it was a glorious place. His veins brimmed with vigour, his heart bulged at the seams with love. He lifted Pitch's hand, and kissed his knuckles.

‘Now, please, enjoy, everyone,' Robert called from the doorway with his empty trolley. ‘But keep some room for the kedgeree, you won't regret it.'

‘Dunno what that is, just hope it don't stink like that feckin Cullen stinker you ‘ad at ‘Arvington ‘All, Charlie.'

The lad laughed. ‘It was called a Cullen skink, and I assure you it is a delicacy.'

‘A Scottish delicacy,' Silas muttered, mostly to himself, something stirring in the faded recesses of his mind.

‘You've tried it, Silas?' Charlie asked.

He nodded, frowning. ‘I have…'

‘And didn't think much of it apparently,' said Pitch.

‘I don't know…I'm not sure what I thought of it. Only that I know it. Well.'

Blast these vague, half-baked memories. But no one pressed him further; far too busy with piling their plates. Their conversation moved on. All save for Pitch, who kept watching him.

‘Didn't you say you thought that lake of yours to be a loch?' he asked. ‘Now the foul Scottish food stirs you, and you've mentioned Edinburgh Castle as seeming familiar. Perhaps it's not just your death that occurred in the north, my fine fellow, but your life too.' Pitch dolloped an enormous serve of mashed potato onto his plate. ‘A pity you did not retain the accent. I'd have no clue what you were saying most of the time, but good gods it would harden me to listen to you.'

The daemon's lewd wink lifted Silas from the melancholy that had found him.

‘A pity indeed.'

He had far more than a hunch that he'd spent time in the north. Aside from his terrible visions of the loch where he'd drowned, there was Charlie's Scottish origins, with their residence a fancy Northern estate.

When Nemain chose to drown him at the greensward, Silas had learned that it was Charlie's ancestor who'd tried in vain to rescue him the day his brother killed him. He understood that the goddess had put her Blessing upon the meagre bandalore thrown to him in the rough waters, and made it her scythe. He knew that it found its way to someone of Charlie's bloodline during the times Silas was human, and returned to him when he was not so. But just like he knew of the dish, Cullen skink, he did not know any fine details.

But really, what did any of that matter now? The scythe was upon its last journey. As was Silas.

‘Bon appetite, everyone.' Jane grabbed at a plate laden with smoked haddock.

‘You mind your mouth there, girlie. Don't be swearin' at me with your fancy French.' Tyvain reached for a bowl of glistening green peas, where a dollop of yellow butter slowly melted in their heat.

There was spirited activity as everyone filled their plates, passing bowls, swapping condiments, and refilling wine glasses. Pitch leaned over the table, adding an astonishing array of extras to his mashed potatoes. Silas chose to sit back and wait until the way was clear to fill his own plate. He topped up his glass, and Pitch's too, enjoying the brimming of life in the room, the chatter and easy alliance.

‘Here we are, then.' Mary had returned, arms laden once more, with the most unexpected cargo. The lass held a small spruce, planted in a wooden bucket. The slender branches of the young tree were drooping under the load of tinsel and shiny balls bestowed on it. ‘Cook had this little wonder set away for our Christmas opening, but said it was better off in here, with you all.'

‘It is beautiful!' Jane sighed.

‘Looks pitiful small.' Isaac spoke through a mouthful of roast chicken.

‘Remind ya of bits of yaself then, does it?' Tyvain goaded the coachman, who was too hungry to give her more than a dirty look.

Mary carried the tree near to the fireplace, setting it down where the flames could illuminate the tree's sparse decorations; causing them to sparkle, diamond-like, in the glow.

‘There we are then.' A hessian bag hung from looped strings over her arm, and she dug into it's depths now. ‘And here's your hats.' She moved around the table, handing out coloured paper hats, each cut roughly into the shape of crowns. ‘A white one for you, my lady. Will suit you no end.' Sybilla smiled widely at her over the top of her glass of wine. ‘And green for you, sir. Them eyes of yours are wondrous.'

‘Thank you,' Pitch was uncommonly gracious. ‘I know.'

Silas huffed with amusement. ‘Such humility. You are a gem.'

‘And you adore it.'

‘I do.'

His stomach ruined the moment with a growl. ‘Gods, man, will you eat something?' Pitch jabbed his laden fork towards Silas's mouth. ‘Try this. The salt to butter ratio is utter perfection in these potatoes.'

Silas leaned in, taking the mouthful, sliding his lips along the prongs of the fork with slow measure. Pitch bit at his bottom lip, watching Silas just as carefully as he was being watched.

‘Fucking hell, just eat your own food, ya makin' me sick.' Tyvain jabbed her elbow into Pitch's side.

The fork clattered against Silas's teeth, and he very nearly choked on mashed potatoes. Pitch's crown slipped as he whirled to admonish the soothsayer, who merely sucked her teeth at him, before returning to her brussel sprouts.

Recovering quickly, Silas wasted no more time in filling his plate. He was the last to do so, but there was by no means a shortage of food. For some time there were only murmurings of conversation, comments as to the sublime nature of the meal; everyone too busy eating to chat much.

And then the kedgeree arrived.

Mr Churchill dispensed with the trolley this time, using two great padded mittens to carry a large, white porcelain terrine into the dining area. His jaw clenched as he bent to lower the heavy dish to the table. Sybilla shifted her chair to give him greater access.

‘Righto! This has had our mouths watering in the kitchen, I assure you, but there's a fair few more hot spices in it than I've ever know in this dish.' He lifted the lid with a grand flourish, and at once they were bombarded by the richness of the seasoning.

Silas was struck with how familiar a waft it was.

He knew this dish. He'd eaten a huge bowl of it.

At The Atlas.

That meal came flooding back. Kaneko had been credited with its making then. But that was impossible now.

He glanced at the tiny Christmas tree, labouring under its laden boughs. A tree the cook just happened to have ready and prepared for this unexpected gathering.

The same cook who had managed to deliver a feast of preternatural proportions, at the drop of a hat.

Silas shoved back his chair, standing. He snatched his paper crown from his head and cast it beside his plate.

‘No one touch the kedgeree. Sybilla, put down the ladle.'

The angel frowned. ‘Silas? What is it?'

‘Want it all ta yaself?' Tyvain chortled. ‘Well, I ain't fightin' ya.'

‘I will.' Jane sent a playful breeze whipping around Silas where he stood. But he ignored them all.

‘Mr Churchill, take me to the kitchen at once.'

He was frightening the poor man, Silas saw it in the roundness of his eyes, the sudden uncertainty that gripped the normally assured fellow. ‘Is something wrong?'

‘Now, sir. Do not delay. I need to see this cook of yours.'