Seth was as good, or perhaps as bad, as his word. By the time they escaped from dinner aboard the Venti, Dex was hard and aching. He’d drunk more than was good for him, to disguise the awkward stiff gait he was going to have after Seth’s torturing him under the table. He wasn’t ashamed of it, either; over-imbibing gave him an excuse to hang an arm over Seth’s shoulders and lean in close to his lover. The Steamie was waiting for them, far from the carriage path; the smell and noise of the engine disturbed the horses, but not as much as Seth himself did. In fact, even walking a path quite a bit distant, the horses were restless; Dex heard several teams called to order by their drivers.
“Should get Agnes to design us a new Steamie.” Dex slurred his words, poking Seth in the side with one fin
