Spells and Sensibility

Chapter 3-2

Theo liked paintings that hung perfectly straight, and books arranged according to his system, and symmetrical cravats. He could not wear gloves, because if one acquired a spot or a smudge, they no longer matched, and he could never bear that. It prickled at the corners of his mind.

His brother thought him merely fussy; Clarence laughed at him and occasionally hung an artwork crooked or displayed mismatched candleholders just to see Theo’s reaction. Theo knew his brother did not truly mean harm, knew that Clarence would forget about any comment in the next moment’s chatter about a gambling hell or a new racehorse bought with that ducal purse, and simply sighed and straightened the art each time.

Did he find Henry Tourmaline, a man who’d done more than Theo ever could for the country and the cause, intimidating? Perhaps, he acknowledged silently. Perhaps.

Which did not mean he had to show it. He took Henry’s teacup and refilled it. Henry watched him with the expression of someone thoroughly unused to small gestures.

“I think you were on the right track,” Theo said, “as far as looking into wellsprings and sources and land-sense. Especially if those were more your strengths to begin with. But Johnson’s History won’t help as much, being, well, a history; you need something practical. But that’s a problem for the morning, I should think. You need to rest, and I tend to rise early.”

“You do seem the type,” Henry said. He’d eaten another bite or so of a piece of toast; he looked better than he had, unless that was simply wishful thinking on Theo’s behalf. Still, headache-mending tea and some nourishment must be helping somewhat. “Early mornings and polished boots. You’ve got a daily dust-removal enchantment, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. Everyone should. It’s only a variant of the standard basic banishing spell. Drink that, and we’ll get you into bed? Unless you’d like me to look at your arm. I’m guessing you used your own blood for the thoroughly silly Restorative attempt, since it needs some form of…essence…and that’s one of the strongest…”

They both paused. Theo knew, entirely knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they were both thinking about certain other forms of magical essence a man might produce, and not tears or sweat, either. He tried not to blush. He was fairly certain he failed.

Oh, well; Henry had no doubt encountered coarser talk among soldiers. Theo straightened his shoulders. “Er. Yes. Well. Do you need bandages, or a quick knitting-spell? I’m not the best, but I can do the basics, and a simple cut shouldn’t be too bad, assuming you haven’t done anything more out of the ordinary to yourself.”

Henry had so far failed to produce any syllables. He did blink at Theo, finally, and then shook his head and took a very long drink of tea. Resurfacing, he said, “I managed. I do have about enough power to light a candle, as you said. Or close a tiny nick. I’m not hurt.” He sounded earnest about this.

Theo narrowed eyes at him.

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Henry protested.

“No,” Theo said, “you wouldn’t, would you? You’d try to handle everything yourself, and you’d offer to help me with tea things when you can barely stand, but you wouldn’t lie to me, Henry.”

“Theo,” Henry said, as if the name, the answer, were inadvertent, instinctive, a yielding in the wake of his own name on Theo’s lips.

“We’ll solve this.” Theo put a hand out, deliberately; he let it rest above Henry’s wrist, advance notice, then settled it into place. Tangible, but gentle: a skimming brush of touch, his fingers atop Henry’s weary arm. No soldier’s defenses, no flaring light, burst outward, so perhaps he’d done it right. “I promise. I like puzzles, and you’ve brought me one. You can tell me more about the circumstances in the morning, for specifics. For now, let me take you to bed. I mean my bed! I mean without me in it.”

Henry opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head again. “Theo.”

“Still me, I’m afraid? No one more impressive has turned up that I’m aware of, though toasted cheese is quite good at comfort, I’ve found.”

“…toasted cheese,” Henry echoed. “I mean. Yes. It…is.”

“Good, then.” Theo lifted his hand, but kept it offered. “Momentary assistance up the stairs? You may bring the rest of your tea; I’ll get the cup in the morning.”

Henry looked at the hand, looked at him, and took it. Thin weight rested in Theo’s care, willingly given over; he fit himself under Henry’s arm again, and found himself glad that he was sturdy enough for that. “Come along.”

They went. The flight of steps was short and broad, time-worn and stone but shallow; the tower rooms stood stacked atop each other in small cozy circles that’d seen ages of magicians come and go. Theo’s tower, the northeast of the inner older court, had three floors, and the topmost was only storage and the stair to the roof walk; the ground floor had the sitting room and kitchen, and the only other floor held the bedroom and washroom. It’d all been renovated a decade or so ago, in the lighter brighter styles of the time, and he’d updated furnishings and renewed insulation-spells and everything of that sort, but he hadn’t been able to make it any larger.

He looked at his bed. It was more his size than Henry’s. No help for that at the moment, so he guided Henry over there and hovered through a brief coughing fit. “Drink your tea.”

Henry did. “I like your tapestries.”

“Oh—thank you. They’re not really expensive—local, not imported—but I liked the patterns.” They were simple, woven in interlocking colors, but deep and rich in color, regal purple and star-blue and antique gold. He’d liked the geometry and the lines and the hues. “Here, fire—” A flick of fingers and a word took care of that; he glanced around. “I’m not certain any of my nightshirts would fit you. Well, perhaps—you’re thinner than I am—but you’re also possessed of implausible height.”

Henry actually laughed, a startled escape of breathless noise. He was still obediently sitting on the bed. “I’m a perfectly plausible height, I assure you. My brother Jack is even taller. You’re simply a study in miniature.”

“You shall have to tolerate a miniature bed, then. I’ll get out a shirt, and you can decide for yourself.” He paused, glanced around, swept a hand at the room: a single cozy dark blue chair squished under the window, a bedside table, a woven rug, the partition that hid the shower-bath and necessary closet. The College had had plumbing, magically assisted, for quite some time; it took a bit of monitoring by specialists in copper and water, because it was complicated spellwork, but everyone considered the convenience of flushing toilets worth the trouble, versus the old privies and chamber-pots.

The hot water for showers did not ever last long, but it came when called, and Theo adored his shower-bath and the resultant cleanliness. “Feel free to use anything you’d like. I’ll sleep downstairs on the sofa; just give me a moment to collect a blanket. I always have spare tooth-powder, and a brush, in that drawer over on the right.”

Henry was regarding him with an expression that Theo did not quite know how to read. “Of course you do.”

“One does hate to run out unexpectedly. Would you, er…like any assistance? With your boots, or—or your coat? Before I go?”

“I shouldn’t need it,” Henry said, tone complicatedly rueful. “I can manage. Theo, all this…”

“It’s no trouble. I deal with undergraduates on a daily basis; you’re not even in the top ten worst things I’ve seen come through my library door.” He scooped up a blanket from the chest at the bed’s foot, left it open—Henry might want more blankets—and tried not to think about Henry removing boots, coat, cravat…shirt and trousers…smallclothes, perhaps, if he was the sort to sleep naked…

Relationships between two men, or two women, might be tolerated and legal in England these days—perhaps for political or powerful alliances, say—but that did not make them common, and not all men would welcome any overtures that direction. Theo, who’d grown up with a brother who enjoyed the charms of any and all of humanity at every offered opportunity—once upon the breakfast table, as he’d walked in to discover—had known of his own preferences toward men for quite some time; he had not been entirely celibate as a student, discovering London’s charms and the houses and pubs that catered to a certain clientele.

He had, however, not the faintest idea how one actually engaged in a relationship, not to mention a vague horror at the physical messiness left in the wake of certain encounters. He had consequently kept them to a minimum, and only if he desperately felt the need for another person; he happened to have a splendid set of glass dildos in a locked and charm-sealed box beneath his bed, and several spare blankets and his lovely shower-bath for immediate clean-up, and that took care of that, on most occasions.

Henry Tourmaline was beautiful, even exhausted, and enervated: gloriously male, with enticing rumpled hair that Theo wanted to smooth and stroke, and made of long legs and long-fingered hands and hard-earned whipcord muscle. He was the sort of man Theo might have sought out at one of those houses or pubs, if plain small Theodore Burnett could’ve ever dared to aim so high: someone competent, brave, a presence in a room.

That presence was in Theo’s room now. Sitting on Theo’s bed. Potentially soon to be naked there.

No. Henry’d said no to assistance. Henry was certainly not having those thoughts. Not about someone short and officious and overly meticulous. A study in miniature. The sort of person who bought extra tooth-powder and brushes, more than one, just in case.

And Theo most definitely should not make assumptions or overtures. The man was wounded, and a war hero, for heaven’s sake.

He clutched his spare blanket. Backed toward his stairs. “I shall just. Be down here. Call me if you need anything; I’ll hear you. It’s not a large set of rooms.”

“Thank you.” Henry still hadn’t moved. “Theo, I—thank you.”

“Not at all,” Theo said, and fled halfway down the stairs, ran back up enough to poke his head up, and called over, “I’ll be awake at half-past seven, and we’ll need to be at the library by nine!”

“I thought you said early!” Henry called back, grin audible if not visible. “That’s nothing, compared to the Army, Theo!”

“It’s early when everyone else is keeping Town hours!” Theo argued. “Balls and card-parties and invitations—oh, stop laughing. Go to bed, Captain. Henry.”

“Yes, Theo.”

That damnable willingness again. Utterly sweet. Disarming. The man was a menace, even half-dead. “I’m going to sleep. And so are you.”

“Yes, Theo.”

Theo sputtered, gave up, and retreated. His sitting room. Ordinary. Recognizable. Familiar.

He cleaned plates and knives and the toasting fork. He put everything away. Established order.

Beyond the window’s thick old glass, a crackling noise sounded; Theo turned. Fireworks danced over the green, in scarlet and sapphire; students were laughing, calling to friends, coming and going and showing off.

He hoped the noise wouldn’t be too awful. The students were heading for the Great Lawn, so they’d have some distance.

There were fewer students than there had been, once. Theo, standing at the window, thought for a moment about war, and the cost. So many of England’s young magicians had gone. And there’d never been that many to begin with; perhaps ten prospective practitioners each year had the gift of sensing magic, working with it, shaping it.

Some of those magicians, like Henry, had returned. Not all of them had. Fewer than half.