A Midwinter Fantasy Read Free Page B

What was this? What was this overwhelming irritation he felt for his dear comrade? He had always suffered notions of fleeting jealousy or resignation, like any mortal, but never with such a sudden sense of petty anger. His great heart had indeed withered with the loss of his gift. He wondered if his inner foundation of faith, too, his touchstone of assurance, would prove similarly shaken.
    Percy’s voice roused him from his worried reverie. “How are you faring, Michael, in our new retirement?” She spoke softly, brushing her hand over his. Looking into her eyes, he fancied he could see her thoughts. Curious, empathizing, she was so intuitive despite her innocence, such an old soul in such a young, inexperienced body.
    He shrugged. “Good, good. I spend more time at the church—never a bad place to be when one faces such a dramatic shift in life. There’s more chance to think, to pray . . . I’ve plans, you know. You two are not the only ones trying tomake up for lost time.” Percy took a breath, but Michael continued before she could interject. “And how is
he
faring?” He indicated Alexi.
    “I’m not sure he quite knows what to do with himself,” Percy replied, allowing herself a little grin.
    Alexi turned. “Please don’t
you
go calling me insufferable, as The Guard has always done.”
    At that moment the door was thrown wide and a nasal voice was quick to comment, “Did I hear the word ‘insufferable’?” Lord Elijah Withersby entered, a lean, flaxen-haired man in foppish satin sleeves, and he opened his arms to the assembled company. “Why, you must be talking about His Royal Eeriness, Minister of the Constant Sneer!” He bounded forward and clapped the grimacing Alexi on the arm.
    Percy bit back a giggle, ever entertained by Lord Withersby’s outlandish titles for her imperious, black-clad husband. Michael was glad she was so good-humoured about the teasing, The Guard’s eldest tradition of all.
    “Alexi, my dear man,” Elijah exclaimed, “I know you simply cannot be away for long without missing me terribly, so I thought I’d oblige you. Rebecca said you were here on business. Hullo, Vicar! Wine, please!”
    “Rebecca spoke with you?” Michael asked, on edge. “Did you see her?”
    Elijah shrugged. “She barked at me from the other side of her door.”
    Alexi nodded. “Have we all called upon her then, and she has admitted no one?”
    “So it would seem.” Michael wasn’t sure if his clenched fists were noticed, but he couldn’t be bothered if they were. He sighed, rose and went for more wine. The instinct of hospitality ran deep.
    A beautiful and impeccably dressed woman appeared through the front door. Rolling her eyes, she closed it behind her with the same consideration as Percy and moved to Lord Withersby’s side. “Neither of you knock,” she complained, offering fond, French-accented derision to both Elijah and Alexi. She looked at Percy with empathy, a twinkle in her eye. “We trail behind well-dressed animals, my dear.”
    Josephine Belledoux, the Artist of London’s onetime Guard, and Lord Withersby, its Memory, had been lovers for longer than they’d cared to reveal. Not wanting to conflict with the delicate, pathetic love triangles already scoring the group, they’d thought it best to keep their happy pairing away from their cohorts. The truth of their relationship had been only recently admitted.
    Michael returned with more mulled wine and pulled spare, rickety chairs from what could hardly be called a sitting room into the dining area.
    “Yes,
I
am here on business, Withersby.” Alexi eyed the turquoise fabric of Elijah’s sleeve splayed upon the table. Reaching out to finger the starched, gilt lace upon the cuff, he withdrew in distaste. “What are
you
doing?”
    “I don’t know what to do!” Elijah cried, collapsing dramatically upon the table. “How on earth can I traipse about London as I wish, commandeer Auntie’s house as I please, if I cannot bend