Page 75 of Nemesis Mine
Balthazar was still staring. He had forgotten the sprites. Cyrus lifted an unimpressed eyebrow until Balthazar flushed, mottled red creeping up his neck.
“I, er—”
Cyrus looked back to Max. Tempting as it was to put on a show that would have Balthazar shrivelling into his prissy boots, it was more tempting to have Max to himself. “I think we’re in danger of breaking him,” he whispered. Max’s mouth twitched. “Better see what he wants if you still want a PA in working order after the election.”
Max sighed. He didn’t move, his eyes dropping to Cyrus’s mouth as though he was going to kiss him again,audience be damned. Then he let go and readjusted his towel, turning to face Balthazar with an expression warring between annoyance and concern and landing somewhere around impatient. Cyrus leaned back against the worktop to watch, jerking his head at the sprites. They retreated to the creeping buttercup outside and watched Balthazar with suspicion.
“Well?” Max asked.
Balthazar’s eyes had flickered to Cyrus, but when they landed back on Max a peculiar expression crossed his face, desperate and resigned all at once.
Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t voice it. The look disappeared as quickly as it came as Balthazar took a steadying breath. “I was just going to... check what time we’re setting off tomorrow. And make sure you’re ready.”
“Noon. Like we agreed yesterday,” said Max slowly, as though he was wondering if Balthazar had hit his head on the way here. “And I’m spending today getting ready. Are you sure there was nothing else you wanted to—”
“I’m sure,” interrupted Balthazar. He took a step back, though he didn’t turn away. His eyes flickered to Cyrus again. “Is he coming to Durov?”
“No,” said Max.
“Hecan answer for himself,” Cyrus grumbled.
“Nothing to gain by it.” Max ran a hand through damp hair, making it stick up at the back. “Either the nemesis scheme worked and I’ve won, or it didn’t.” His gaze landed on the discarded letter and a smile brightened his tone. “Judging by the canvassing report, it’s worked wonders.”
“Aw,” said Cyrus. “And there I was thinking you didn’twant me there because it’s toodangerous. All the scary, scary champs.”
He was angling for Max to turn his attention back to him, but instead it was Balthazar who looked directly at him and gave a shrug.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d let that stop you,” he said blandly.
Cyrus frowned. Max matched him, opening his mouth to respond.
“Anyway, I’ll be going,” said Balthazar, before he could. He glanced at Max, pointedly avoiding the towel and the bare stomach muscles and the strong chest. More fool him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With that, he turned and hurried away, flapping a hand at one of the sprites as it rose with a whir of wings to follow him.
“He’s weird,” Cyrus announced in the silence.
“He’s stressed,” Max muttered. “I think he spread himself too thin with the election campaign.”
“He’ll get over it when you win.”
Max exhaled. “Yeah. Hopefully.” He finally looked away from the space Balthazar had just vacated, casting a glance down at his towel. “Much as I’d love to pick up where we left off, I should make sure I’m ready for tomorrow.”
Stupid Balthazar and his stupid bad timing. “I can be patient,” Cyrus lied.
But perhaps he could. He wandered down to Ranragh and indulged in a spot of light wrongdoing to fill his time; nothing too serious, just letting the horses loose from the paddock and stealing a crate of freshly caught fish fromseveral stacked by the harbour so that he could fling them at passersby. It took his mind off the election, especially when he managed to ruin a heartfelt confession of love in a tavern doorway by catching one of the men square in the face with a herring.
When he returned to his lair, sneaking past the sprites now napping in their tree hollows, Max was sitting quietly at the table, poring over the canvassing report. Cyrus left him to it, venturing out to the garden to harvest some tomatoes from the vegetable patch.
By the time he’d finished, Max was still hunched over the report, although evening was drawing in and he’d soon be squinting by candlelight. Cyrus sighed, and turned to the kitchen for the time being. Whilst Max and Balthazar had worked on his speech the evening before last, Cyrus had occupied himself experimenting with wild strawberry tartlets. There was still some pastry left.
An hour later, with flamelight chasing crooked shapes along the walls of his lair, he placed a slice of tomato tart and a side salad in front of Max and yanked the letter away.
“Eat,” he said. “And stop looking at that. You can’t change anything now. You said it was good earlier.”
Max blinked down at the plate. Pesto oozed from beneath the halved cherry tomatoes arranged in red and orange stripes and scattered casually with basil, as though Cyrus hadn’t deliberated carefully over where each leaf should sit. “I know, I know. It’s just... hard. Letting go.”
Cyrus could understand that. But he wanted the election to stop hogging Max’s attention. If all went well andMax secured his seat in Heliarth, he’d be waylaid in Durov for at least a week whilst the paperwork was sorted. They would have Max for that time. Whilst he was here, Cyrus wanted him to be present. “Eat,” he repeated.
