To Bram’s surprise, Abaddon smiled. “I have lived a long time. My collections are superb… legendary, some might say.” He glanced at the door. “Where is Thomas?”
“Abed, sir,” Owen told him. “Just a migraine. Nothing to worry about.”
Abaddon’s large hand landed with a clap on Owen’s shoulder, but the smaller man didn’t buckle as Bram was certain he would’ve done. “You’re sure about that?”
“Well, he’s still being a crotchety old bugger,” Owen replied, “so he’s got life in him yet.”
Marnie was a large, warm woman who hugged them all heartily before Cecilia let loose with her stories. To Bram’s dismay, the girl didn’t leave out Bram’s vomiting incident when she recounted their journey from London. He followed the sound of Cecilia’s chatter and Marnie’s indulgent laughter, smiling to himself. Abaddon’s house already felt like a home compared to the house in which he’d grown up, and the moment was bitter-sweet when he realised that, given time, he could be happy here.
13
Bram’s Book
Cecilia was sick.
Sweaty hair framed her pale face, a tiny orb among the plethora of cushions. She had not liked the reminder that animals carried diseases, and she had likely picked something up from her beloved pigeons. She complained that her uncle hadn’t let her pick up owl pellets at the zoo while Abaddon paced. The large man had sulked when Armando had dismissed his doctor and sent for Feltham.
Perfect bloody Feltham.
Armando fussed until Feltham arrived, and Bram wondered why he’d never bothered to ask if Feltham had a given name, or indeed ask Oliver if he had a surname.
Now he knew.
Oliver had a surname.
Bram fled from the room, complaining that he felt sick. If Oliver stayed here to look after Cecilia, he wouldn’t be able to avoid him. He had only just washed his face after vomiting yet again when there was a knock at his bedroom door.
Armando’s worried face appeared in the small gap. “Feltham wants to examine you.”
“No,” Bram blurted. “No, absolutely not.”
“That’s what I told him you’d say, but Abaddon insisted I ask you anyway. Are you sure you’re alright? He said he already checked to see if you have a fever.”
“I’m fine. I think I’m just nervous about Uriel’s plan going awry,” he admitted, even though it was only half true. “I would dearly love for all this to be over, so we can get on with our lives without fear.”
Armando smiled. “Feltham is most put out that you ran away at the sight of him.”
Bram smiled back. “Really? Why should that bother him?”
“He is like Uriel,” Armando told him. “Attracted to all sorts of people.”
“You mean… even men?”
“Precisely. And having you run from the room dented his ego.”
Bram laughed, feeling suddenly better. Perhaps it wasn’t as hopeless as he once thought. Perhaps Oliver might love him anyway. He sighed. Or perhaps Bram was kidding himself.
“Feltham left to make his preparation,” Armando said. “He is convinced Cecilia has contracted a waterborne disease, most likely while still in London, possibly from one of those bloody corpses. She admitted one touched her.”
“Oh dear.”
“Indeed. Come on. Marnie made breakfast.” Armando clapped his shoulder as Bram opened the door wider. “It’ll make you feel better.”
When Oliver finally returned, Bram couldn’t decide if he was disappointed or relieved that the water jinn didn’t recognise him. Oliver spent many hours at Cecilia’s bedside, telling her all about the flowers he brought with him, not even sparing the child the horror stories of tragic, flowery love. Cecilia was so enamoured with him that she didn’t even complain when love didn’t conquer all.
On a few occasions, when others were there, Bram remained in the room to listen. After all, it would look extremely suspicious if he left every time Oliver arrived, or if he refused to be in a room with him. He found himself smiling fondly at Oliver’s tales, biting his lip so he didn’t join in, and sometimes, Oliver would offer him smiles so brilliant, they would put the sun in the shade.
Bram couldn’t stand it.
After a few days, Cecilia was feeling better, and gathered them all in her room so she could talk at everyone at once. There was no particular reason for the summons. She just wanted to witter on endlessly about geese, and lizards, and armadillos. She compared Bram to an otter because he was playful with big brown eyes, and he felt Oliver’s eyes on him as he blushed. Oliver, she said, was a ferret because he was sleek and well-dressed, like the ferrets on leads in Hyde Park. Cecilia couldn’t decide which animal to choose for Abaddon, so she’d said he was a bison or a rhinoceros or a bull, which had made Bram’s eyes bulge as laughter rose unbidden up his throat.
Oliver gave the poor man a consolatory clap on the back, but once he caught sight of Armando’s vibrant laughter, Abaddon’s wild smile had everyone else growing silent. The love growing between the two of them filled and drained Bram’s heart in equal measure.
Mealtimes were awful. Bram couldn’t stop fidgeting. Every time Oliver tried to tell him a story about his precious flowers and the meanings behind them, Bram wanted to blurt out that he knew. He knew everything about flowers because he had memorised every bloody word Oliver had ever uttered. If Bram even began to talk about flowers, it would become obvious to Oliver at once who he was. Besides, those stories were sacred to him. To us. And now Oliver was sharing them with everyone at the table as if they meant nothing.
Guilt tried to rise inside him. Guilt that he hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to tell Oliver… anything. Yes, he felt guilty, but he was also annoyed when Oliver flirted with him, which was always. After all, how in love with Bram could Oliver have been if he was pursuing him now, believing him to be someone different?
At one such mealtime, Bram had once again been seated next to Oliver, who asked, “What is your favourite flower, Bram?”
“I don’t have a favourite flower,” he replied. “I’m not a fan of flowers at all.”
None of the gasps around the table were as loud or as heartfelt as Oliver’s.
“You don’t like flowers?” Oliver asked, as if such a position were unjustifiable.
“I do not.” It was a lie, but having spilled it, Bram felt compelled to go on. “They make me sneeze… if there’s too many of them, but I would still rather see them in a garden than chopped up and stuck in a vase until their gaudiness fades into rotting crumbs.”
