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A Stroke Of Midnight :: Гамильтон Лорел
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I looked up at his face, so carefully arrogant. “Are you saying I should take time out of solving a double homicide to have sex?”
Hawthorne’s quiet voice came. “I am sorry that Beatrice and the reporter are dead, but Ivi is correct in one way. My life and the lives of my fellow guards will not change if these murders go unsolved. Prince Cel becoming king will change a great many things.” He removed his helmet, exposing his wavy hair, held back by braids, and the green, pink, and red of his eyes. He was lovely, but all the sidhe were lovely. I’d never really thought of how he compared to the other men. It was as if I’d never really seen him before, never noticed that he was fair of face, broad of shoulder, even by sidhe standards.
Frost made a motion that caught my eye. “Meredith, are you well?” His hand hovered just over my shoulder, as if he wanted to touch me but was afraid to.
I dragged my gaze from Hawthorne, and I was suddenly dizzy. “Is it the chalice?”
“Hawthorne,” Frost said, and the one word was enough.
“I did not try to bespell her, I merely thought about how much I desire to have what Mistral had in the hallway. Not just the taste I had.”
“I cannot blame you,” Frost said, with a sigh. “But the fact that your desire turned into magic so easily means you gained more from the hallway than just a taste of pleasure.”
“As much as I desire an end to my celibacy,” Aisling said, “the chalice sits before us. How can you talk of anything else?”
“Your needs must be paler things than mine,” Hawthorne said.
Amatheon finally spoke as if to himself. “The chalice returned to Meredith’s hand. How can this be?”
I looked up at him, watched the struggle in his flower-petal eyes. “You mean that the chalice would never return to the hand of some mongrel half-breed like me.”
He swallowed so hard it looked as if he were choking on years of prejudice. “Yes,” he said in a voice that was a harsh whisper. He fell to his knees as if some great force had knocked him down, or he had lost the strength in his legs.
He gazed up at me, and the many colors of his eyes glittered in the light, not with magic, but with tears. “Forgive me,” he said in that same harsh whisper, as if the words were being torn from his throat, “forgive me.” I didn’t think it was me he was begging forgiveness of.
The chalice moved toward him, my hands held it, but it was not my will that moved it.
He buried his face in his hands. “I cannot.
I looked up at his face, so carefully arrogant. “Are you saying I should take time out of solving a double homicide to have sex?”
Hawthorne’s quiet voice came. “I am sorry that Beatrice and the reporter are dead, but Ivi is correct in one way. My life and the lives of my fellow guards will not change if these murders go unsolved. Prince Cel becoming king will change a great many things.” He removed his helmet, exposing his wavy hair, held back by braids, and the green, pink, and red of his eyes. He was lovely, but all the sidhe were lovely. I’d never really thought of how he compared to the other men. It was as if I’d never really seen him before, never noticed that he was fair of face, broad of shoulder, even by sidhe standards.
Frost made a motion that caught my eye. “Meredith, are you well?” His hand hovered just over my shoulder, as if he wanted to touch me but was afraid to.
I dragged my gaze from Hawthorne, and I was suddenly dizzy. “Is it the chalice?”
“Hawthorne,” Frost said, and the one word was enough.
“I did not try to bespell her, I merely thought about how much I desire to have what Mistral had in the hallway. Not just the taste I had.”
“I cannot blame you,” Frost said, with a sigh. “But the fact that your desire turned into magic so easily means you gained more from the hallway than just a taste of pleasure.”
“As much as I desire an end to my celibacy,” Aisling said, “the chalice sits before us. How can you talk of anything else?”
“Your needs must be paler things than mine,” Hawthorne said.
Amatheon finally spoke as if to himself. “The chalice returned to Meredith’s hand. How can this be?”
I looked up at him, watched the struggle in his flower-petal eyes. “You mean that the chalice would never return to the hand of some mongrel half-breed like me.”
He swallowed so hard it looked as if he were choking on years of prejudice. “Yes,” he said in a voice that was a harsh whisper. He fell to his knees as if some great force had knocked him down, or he had lost the strength in his legs.
He gazed up at me, and the many colors of his eyes glittered in the light, not with magic, but with tears. “Forgive me,” he said in that same harsh whisper, as if the words were being torn from his throat, “forgive me.” I didn’t think it was me he was begging forgiveness of.
The chalice moved toward him, my hands held it, but it was not my will that moved it.
He buried his face in his hands. “I cannot.