Thread of Darkness

Ch. 20: hope is a terrible thing

"No," Grayson said.

His voice was firm. A lantern swung overhead, casting odd shadows across his face. Some of the black ink had smudged on his cheek, bruising the skin, and there was a smattering of stubble across his throat. He looked tired, Penny thought; surely he didn't want to embark on a three-hour carriage journey any more than she did.

"Why not?" she asked.

"It could ruin your reputation."

"I'm staying at an inn called—" Penny squinted at the sign above the empty grate. "Nyxos's Nunnery. I think my reputation is already in tatters."

Grayson ran a hand through his hair. "If someone sees us..."

"Like who?" Penny raised an eyebrow. "A bandit? A sailor with a gambling addiction? Trust me, Grayson: nobody we know will see us here."

He sighed. "I still don't like it."

"I'm sure we can get the other room refunded."

Something dark passed over Grayson's face. "That's not what I'm worried about." Penny shivered, rubbing at her arms, and his expression turned begrudging. "Fine. Fine. We'll stay here and share a room, then. Just for the night."

They made their way up the narrow staircase, pausing at a sloped doorway halfway down the corridor. Someone — their coachman, Penny suspected — had deposited their trunks inside already. She privately felt it was a miracle that nobody had stolen them.

She surveyed the room. It was basic, as far as rooms went: a small window; a wax candle; an empty fireplace; a basin with a cloth; and then a narrow bed with a scratchy quilt thrown on top. Large enough to fit two people, Penny noted, but not by much; it would be a bit of a squeeze, especially with Grayson's height.

Still.

They'd manage.

Penny knelt by her trunk, rummaging through until she found a white nightdress. Grayson squatted by the fireplace. He seemed to be concentrating very hard on his box of matches. On anything but her, really.

Not that Penny blamed him.

Penny rose, laying the nightdress on the bed. Apart from the night that she'd barged in on Grayson, she'd never been in a bedroom alone with a man that wasn't her brother, Isaac, or a familial relation (that she could recall, anyway). And she'd certainly never stripped in the same room as one.

But, you know.

First time for everything.

Penny's cloak hit the floor. Then her soaked slippers and gloves. Then her skirts. Grayson fumbled with the matches slightly, although his gaze didn't waver from the fireplace. Penny stripped off her stockings next, and then twisted around to work at the fastenings of her corset. Her numb fingers pulled uselessly at the stays.

Several long moments passed.

Grayson cleared his throat. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes." No.

"Good."

Another silence fell. Penny shivered, bending over for better purchase. She could hear the crackle of flames, and Grayson's clothes moving as he shifted.

"Do you need assistance?" Grayson asked finally.

His voice was reluctant. It was the sort of tone, Penny thought, that one used when they would rather soak their own head in whisky and stick it into the fireplace. Still. She didn't have much of a choice.

"Please," she said.

Grayson rose.

His figure was backlit against the fire, his hair a white halo of flame. There was something hard about his face; something determined. Grayson reached her in three strides, and then his fingers were gliding over her back, working expertly at the fastenings. Almost too expertly, Penny thought, and something sour curled in her chest. Exactly how many times had he done this before?