Page 111 of A Rare Find

She turned and met Georgie’s gaze. Their hair had dried in errant waves, and the candle they held made their eyes glisten like melting ice.

“We should sleep.” She crossed to the bed. “You have to meet Mr. Arbuthnot at the inn by ten.”

Their gaze tracked her movement. “So early?”

“That’s what Miss Linley said.” The bed was narrower than hers, and lovelier, and fresher, the mint-green blanket swirled with pale pink florals, the sheets sweet smelling and butter soft as she slipped inside.

They snuffed their candle, and then the two on the bedside table.

The room turned black.

The mattress dipped beneath their weight. She rolled onto her side, her face next to theirs.

“I’ll be there at ten, then.” Their statement had a nearly imperceptible lilt.

Tell me what to do.

They’d begged her permission to leave. As though permission were hers to give, as though they’d listen if she responded Stay. But it wasn’t, and they wouldn’t. She might have been angry at their emotional deceit. Indeed, beneath the willow, she’d almost screeched like some taloned bird of night. The next moment, understanding blunted her anger, dulling it to an ache.

They had been abandoned, and it had hurt them deeply, more deeply than they’d admit. Now they worried they were abandoning her and needed to convince themself they’d considered her wishes. But they didn’t owe her such consideration. They’d never made her any promises. She’d always known they were leaving. If she’d failed to protect her heart, that was her own concern. This pretense of reluctance—it was the only thing for which she could fault them. It forced her to pretend too.

“I’ll come to see you perform in Manchester,” she lied.

“Your father will permit it?” they asked, and her throat relaxed. Their skepticism invited honesty.

“No.” She exhaled. Papa would return soon, with baskets of artifacts for her to sketch and describe. They’d fall back into a rhythm of working on Ancient Derbyshire, and soon it would be time to prepare his presentation for the next Society meeting. The weeks and months would pass. She’d dig on the bluff, during her few spare moments. She’d do what she could to keep the twins from climbing out windows and into trunks. She’d call on Mrs. Alderwalsey. She’d take that good lady’s blue satin and see if she couldn’t sew it into a prettily trimmed spencer for Agnes.

Georgie’s breath warmed her cheek. “I didn’t think so.” They slung their arm over her waist and curled her closer.

“I’d like to,” she said honestly. “Maybe someday.” When the twins were grown. When she made Fellow and had the resources to travel.

Maybe someday. Maybe never.

“I won’t be gone long,” they said, and she kissed them, urgently, to stop their words before they could say anything else reassuring and untrue. They kissed her back, their hand sliding up to her nape, their tongue in her mouth, matching her urgency.

They thought never too.

Their kiss tasted like the end, the final sip of summer cordial, in which all the crushed berries had settled, a sweetness that scorched.

She wiggled to work the nightgown up her thighs, wrestling up Georgie’s as well, with an impatience that would have shocked her if she had time for it. Their bare legs threaded hers, and she gasped against their lips. She tore at the ruffles interfering with her access to their breasts, fumbling for an opening. They heaved up, wrenching their nightgown over their head, and she did the same, buttons snagging in her hair. She hadn’t learned finesse from previous encounters. It was the opposite. She was rougher now, but so were they, dropping down on her, pressing her flat beneath them, pinning her wrists.

“Elf.” They gulped air. “I—”

She pushed up, fusing their mouths. Kissing instead of speaking. Kissing instead of thinking, instead of breathing. A world of lips and tongues and teeth.

Abruptly, they rolled them both onto their sides. She groped for their breast, and they grabbed her bottom, kneading it, reaching around, and…she cried out as their fingers slid into her from behind. She gripped their breast convulsively, too hard, but they arched their back, and their moan meant not enough. She struggled to wedge her other arm between their bellies, panting, and finally, her finger struck that springy, jewel-toned hair, which gave gloriously onto their sopping wet cleft. Her wrist burned from the angle, but when she moved her fingers, the sounds she pulled from Georgie’s throat made a different fire go everywhere. She cinched her legs around their thigh, trembling, her fingers stuttering out of rhythm, because the way they plunged their fingers up inside her, again and again—she couldn’t control herself. Her mouth was open on their neck, and she screamed as she climaxed, shaking into delirious pieces. Georgie thrashed and shook with her, and then they sighed—not a Romeo sigh, a richly satisfied sigh, pure contentment stroking her over like velvet. They held all the pieces of her in their arms. She slept so soundly that she awoke in the same position, their arms still around her.

For several blissful minutes, she didn’t move a muscle, committing everything to memory, the feel of their body tangled with hers, heavy with sleep. And then she extricated herself carefully, dressed, and tiptoed from the room.

It was eight in the morning. Mrs. Pegg would be making breakfast, wondering what delayed her. She descended the stairs and bumped into a housemaid hurrying out of the drawing room. She was round faced and young, with a feather broom and a friendly smile, and she agreed readily to waking Georgie in another half hour.

Another minute, and Elf was outside in the cool morning light, the dewiness of the air soothing her sandy eyes.

She was tired. She was simultaneously hollow as a reed and spilling over from fullness. She was running away, perhaps, from goodbye.

When she reached Holywell Rock, she paused to put her hand on it, the lichen slightly damp, itching under her palm. It seemed more significant than usual, the idea of passing by the boundary stone.

The pause extended.