garden in a few moments.
“Ah, true love. It looks… fractious.” Tristan looked through his lashes at Mara. “Explain to me why I’d want that? Because I’ve got a better relationship with Cook than they seem to have right now. And I really only see her on Tuesday mornings.”
“Because the lows are fairly easy to wade through,” she replied smoothly. “If the two of you work at it. And it makes the highs unbelievable when you’re passionate. Besides, not only is Cook a ghost, she’s also a woman. Wolf, however, is neither of those things.”
“There’s no two of us. Wolf and me,” he grumbled. “You know what I mean. Fuck.”
“You’ll get there. What are those two doing down there? Couldn’t they fight inside? It’s cold out here. And it’s going to rain.” Mara craned her neck and pointed to Hellsinger’s technicians as the couple walked around the large pond at the end of the gardens. “They’re going to fall in if they’re not careful. Then where will they be?”
“Wet, I guess.” Tristan spotted Gidget and Matt among the low evergreens. They were close to the water’s edge, and the ground there would be slippery after the rains. He’d fallen into that pond more than once, mostly on purpose but sometimes by a misstep. “Kind of looks like they’re still arguing. I’m waiting for one of them to push the other in.”
“I’ll have to get more towels if they go in,” she grumbled good-naturedly, then frowned. “It looks like they’re doing more than having a disagreement.”
It looked to be an epic battle, one bards would have penned lengthy songs about and added verses to as pub drinkers called for more. Too far away to hear anything specific, Tristan could only imagine the furious, sharpened words Gidget flung at the now-cowering Matt. He winced at one particular volley, his shoulders shaking and pulling back as he tucked his elbows in against his ribs as if staving off an attack.
“She’s a sight to behold,” Mara proclaimed. “Good form, really. Arms have nice gestures, and her legs are apart enough to steady her. Look how she’s facing him, full force. Whatever he’s done, it’s pissed her right off.”
“Best thing about being gay, then,” Tristan murmured. “I don’t think I’d survive that. Look at Uncle Walter and Ashley. She looks like someone who’d stab you while you’re sleeping. With tiny little needles. Poisoned needles so it’ll look like you fell into an orgy of lesbian black widows.”
“Most men wouldn’t survive that. Gay or no,” the woman replied. “Really, Tristan? Black widows?”
“Best I could come up with. You knew what I meant. Praying mantises wouldn’t have worked. Had to be black widows.”
Gidget’s voice grew louder, a banshee wail carrying over the bushes, and Tristan caught a snatch of an accusation. There seemed to be a question of infidelity, and she’d found something out but he couldn’t tell what.
“I didn’t see what shoes she had on. Hope she’s not wearing those stilettos I saw her in the other day,” Mara commented. “She could kill a man with those.”
“They looked like switchblades.” A small nibble of an idea bloomed into a larger awareness in Tristan’s mind. “That’s why they call them stilettos. Well, shit. I never knew.”
“It’s good you’re pretty, Tristan.” She patted his shoulder. “Or I’d worry that no man would want to marry you.”
“Nice,” he grumbled. “I don’t think about women’s shoes. Hell, I barely think about my shoes.”
Matt’s beseeching arguments seemed to only infuriate the woman more, and she stopped at the end of the steps, right on the edge of the garden path. Pulling at something on her finger, Gidget wrenched and twisted before finally coming up triumphant. Whatever she yanked off her finger—Tristan could only assume it was a ring—sparkled as it turned in midair, a flash of white and gold against its graying skies and lush evergreen
“Ah, true love. It looks… fractious.” Tristan looked through his lashes at Mara. “Explain to me why I’d want that? Because I’ve got a better relationship with Cook than they seem to have right now. And I really only see her on Tuesday mornings.”
“Because the lows are fairly easy to wade through,” she replied smoothly. “If the two of you work at it. And it makes the highs unbelievable when you’re passionate. Besides, not only is Cook a ghost, she’s also a woman. Wolf, however, is neither of those things.”
“There’s no two of us. Wolf and me,” he grumbled. “You know what I mean. Fuck.”
“You’ll get there. What are those two doing down there? Couldn’t they fight inside? It’s cold out here. And it’s going to rain.” Mara craned her neck and pointed to Hellsinger’s technicians as the couple walked around the large pond at the end of the gardens. “They’re going to fall in if they’re not careful. Then where will they be?”
“Wet, I guess.” Tristan spotted Gidget and Matt among the low evergreens. They were close to the water’s edge, and the ground there would be slippery after the rains. He’d fallen into that pond more than once, mostly on purpose but sometimes by a misstep. “Kind of looks like they’re still arguing. I’m waiting for one of them to push the other in.”
“I’ll have to get more towels if they go in,” she grumbled good-naturedly, then frowned. “It looks like they’re doing more than having a disagreement.”
It looked to be an epic battle, one bards would have penned lengthy songs about and added verses to as pub drinkers called for more. Too far away to hear anything specific, Tristan could only imagine the furious, sharpened words Gidget flung at the now-cowering Matt. He winced at one particular volley, his shoulders shaking and pulling back as he tucked his elbows in against his ribs as if staving off an attack.
“She’s a sight to behold,” Mara proclaimed. “Good form, really. Arms have nice gestures, and her legs are apart enough to steady her. Look how she’s facing him, full force. Whatever he’s done, it’s pissed her right off.”
“Best thing about being gay, then,” Tristan murmured. “I don’t think I’d survive that. Look at Uncle Walter and Ashley. She looks like someone who’d stab you while you’re sleeping. With tiny little needles. Poisoned needles so it’ll look like you fell into an orgy of lesbian black widows.”
“Most men wouldn’t survive that. Gay or no,” the woman replied. “Really, Tristan? Black widows?”
“Best I could come up with. You knew what I meant. Praying mantises wouldn’t have worked. Had to be black widows.”
Gidget’s voice grew louder, a banshee wail carrying over the bushes, and Tristan caught a snatch of an accusation. There seemed to be a question of infidelity, and she’d found something out but he couldn’t tell what.
“I didn’t see what shoes she had on. Hope she’s not wearing those stilettos I saw her in the other day,” Mara commented. “She could kill a man with those.”
“They looked like switchblades.” A small nibble of an idea bloomed into a larger awareness in Tristan’s mind. “That’s why they call them stilettos. Well, shit. I never knew.”
“It’s good you’re pretty, Tristan.” She patted his shoulder. “Or I’d worry that no man would want to marry you.”
“Nice,” he grumbled. “I don’t think about women’s shoes. Hell, I barely think about my shoes.”
Matt’s beseeching arguments seemed to only infuriate the woman more, and she stopped at the end of the steps, right on the edge of the garden path. Pulling at something on her finger, Gidget wrenched and twisted before finally coming up triumphant. Whatever she yanked off her finger—Tristan could only assume it was a ring—sparkled as it turned in midair, a flash of white and gold against its graying skies and lush evergreen
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