Page 59 of Laws of Witchcraft
I stopped. Turned. “My what?”
Oscar cleared his throat. He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. But I do want to make it clear that I’m not interested in you in that way.”
“You arrogant fool, Oscar!” Out of all the things I could have said—wanted to say—that was the first thing that popped out? I should have apologized, but instead I made it worse. “I am not interested in you. I’m not interested in anyone in that way, man or woman.”
Instead of being put off by my outburst, Oscar dug in. “You may not be now, but when you meet the right fellow?—”
“Stop! You’re wrong.” I went to walk off, but returned. Now that I’d started, I couldn’t hold my tongue, even though my head knew I shouldn’t speak my mind. Nothing good ever came of that. But it was as though my thudding heart and rushing blood were pumping the words out of me, and the valve couldn’t be closed against the flood. “That’s the problem with you, Oscar. You always think you’re right.”
“Gavin—”
“And another thing. I know why you want the tattoo flying spell. You think it will help you feel powerful and put others in awe of you. You’re tired of coming second, losing out to someone else. India chose Matt over you. Louisa chose magical children over you. Miss Wheeler chose Defoe.”
“She didn’t choose Defoe. She chose freedom and independence. That’s a concept I fully support.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “Now who’s the one who thinks he’s always right?”
Why was he so calm in the face of my tirade? I felt like a torrent was surging through me. After saying my piece, the torrent had lost some of its power and was now more of a swell. Still, I was discombobulated. My thoughts were disorganized, something I wasn’t used to.
I set off at a brisk pace, as much to get away from Oscar as to expend the excess energy coursing through me, so that I could once again think properly. Oscar didn’t follow.
After a good walk around Hyde Park, I became very aware that saying my piece changed nothing. In fact, I may have made it worse. Oscar probably thought my outburst was a diversionary tactic to stop him thinking I liked him in that way.
Should I address the issue, but with a calmer manner? Or let the matter slide altogether in the hope all would be forgotten?
Considering we were going to travel again in the future, it was probably best that I cleared the air.
I bought a piece of paper at a stationer’s shop and wrote a note to Oscar asking him to meet me at the chophouse fifteen minutes before eight so we could talk before the others got there. I handed it to his landlady and asked her to deliver it for me.
I made sure I was early for our meeting at Ye Old Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street. Oscar and I regularly met there, since he was familiar with it from his newspaper days. Its low ceilings, and wood-paneled walls reminded me of my father’s study. Even the worn leather upholstered seats and the smell of brandy took me back to the days when I’d sit in the big armchair by the fire and read one of his books while he worked. The clientele made me feel comfortable, too. The literary set often met there to draw inspiration from one another, and educated men discussed theories in dimly lit corners, while journalists boasted loudly about their latest article. Many greeted me with a nod or shake of the hand, a clap on the shoulder or an offer to buy me a drink. I declined them all. I’d spotted Oscar waiting for me.
Although I’d arrived early, he was even earlier. He sat in a booth, two tankards of ale in front of him. He pushed one toward me across the table as I sat opposite.
“Let me begin by apologizing,” I said, without a moment’s hesitation. Some things shouldn’t be delayed, and an apology to my best friend was at the top of that list. “I said some awful things that I regret. I was angry, but that’s no excuse.”
“It is quite a good excuse.” Oscar smiled, but it quickly faded when I didn’t return it. “I’m sorry, too, Gavin. I didn’t listen to you. I should have let the matter drop.”
“Thank you.” I touched my tankard against his, then sipped.
Oscar watched me over the rim of his tankard as he sipped, too. “You were right, though. About me. I was going after the tattoo flying spell because of my issue with coming second. It stems back to my childhood and my brother. Isaac is an ink magician, too, but unlike me he has a head for business. That, and being the oldest son, meant he inherited the family ink-manufacturing company. I never wanted it, but perhaps there is some lingering resentment within me still, deep down.”
“Oscar,” I gently chided. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I didn’t mean any of what I said.”
He set the tankard down and loosely circled it with both hands. “I’ve been thinking…perhaps we shouldn’t go searching for the book with the tattoo flying spell. We’ll forget we ever heard about it. We’ll look for another book instead. Something less controversial, but important. Another seminal work, like Mackenzie’s.”
I placed my tankard on the table and tapped my finger on its side. I didn’t like seeing him so low, and all because I was embarrassed. I’d had a few hours to mull it over and now knew that it was embarrassment that spurred me to lash out, not anger. A part of me wanted to explain further to Oscar, but it wasn’t the sort of discussion men had with each other, and certainly not in a chophouse on Fleet Street where we knew three-quarters of the patrons.
“And let Defoe get his hands on the tattoo spell?” I shook my head. “That’s even more dangerous than you getting it.”
One side of his mouth lifted with his half-smile.
“Besides, I’ve now got my heart set on an Italian adventure.”
The other corner of his mouth joined the first in a relieved smile. He lifted his tankard in salute. “Italy it is.”
Willie slid onto the bench seat beside me, knocking my elbow and making the ale spill over the rim of the tankard. She placed an arm around my shoulders. “Celebrating without us?”
“I’m toasting Gavin,” Oscar said as D.I. Brockwell sat beside him. “If it wasn’t for him, a madman would still be on the loose in Edinburgh.”
“Tell me every detail,” Brockwell urged.
Willie glanced up as a familiar voice declared in a drunken drawl that he had a salacious piece of gossip about one of the queen’s grandsons. “Do it quickly, before Farnsworth gets us all thrown out.”
“They won’t throw him out,” Oscar said. “They’ll clamor to buy him another drink to get him talking.”
I laughed, and he joined in.
I felt better for having apologized. Now we could both move forward. He may not believe me when I said I had no romantic interest in him, and so we hadn’t really resolved the issue, but in a manner befitting well-brought-up Englishmen, we’d repressed it.
For now.
