Page 14 of Brave Truth

Lawson shook his head, a little jerkily, but obviously engaging a bit more. He put the stone down carefully, not quite pushing it back toward Claudio, so he could pick up the mug. Once he had his hands around it, he stared into the tea before he asked, “The stone?”

“Had it since Schola. A good friend on a hard day. It’s old, it’s seen so many things, been battered around.” It wasn’t something he talked about much. Even with Orion, who’d found it for him, given it to him, and who had one of his own. “I find the weight reassuring.”

“Not charmed?” That was a little hesitant.

“Mmm. It’s had a lot of attention over the years. There are theories and bibliographies and all about that. But nothing intentional. Just friendship. Comfort. Coming back to a steady point.” Claudio hesitated. “Take as much time as you need. There’s no one needing the room.”

“No,” Lawson took a deep breath. “Sorry. Shouldn’t?—”

“None of that.” Claudio did his best to be firm about it. “Doesn’t seem like the most enjoyable few minutes. Well, I know from my end that sort of thing isn’t. But it’s not a bother to me. Everyone else cleared out. Did you have anywhere you needed to be tonight, anyone you might want to let know?” He was, in fact, used to Penelopes in the aftermath of a bad spell forgetting they needed to be somewhere.

Lawson shook his head. “Go to a pub, usually. After the meeting.”

“Well, if you want a little company, I can walk you along there when you’re ready. Or not, if you’d rather. You can tell me to go away if you want. I will if you say the word.”

Chapter 10

That afternoon

Matthew could feel himself freezing up again. He wanted to grab for the rock, and he couldn’t do that either. He was sure that if he did, it would go sliding off the table. Matthew could clearly hear, as if it were real, the crack as it hit the floor, sharp in his ears like a gunshot. Now he stared down at his lap again, feeling the tension in his shoulders as if he’d shatter into shards of glass.

That had been a delusion of Charles VI of France, in his worst moments, that any sudden movement would destroy him that way. Matthew’s mind caught onto that. He could consider it with a certain intellectual distance, because whatever was wrong with him, whatever had broken with no chance of mending in Nuremberg, wasn’t like that. He would take some deep breaths and drink the tea that was on offer. The overwhelming whatever it was would fade. It had to.

He’d never dealt with it with someone watching, though. Other times, he’d been alone, in his office. Or he’d been able to duck into the loo at Mum and Dad’s in London, take ten minutes. The teasing when he came out was awful, but better than being stared at or people trying to help and making it worse.

Warren wasn’t making it worse. Some distant part of Matthew’s self, what felt like a thousand miles away, was fascinated by that. Warren wasn’t rushing; he wasn’t pitying. He wasn’t anything other than quiet and calm and steady. There was no hint of blame, or needing to buck up. Just the reliable presence.

Hesitantly, he reached out his fingers to the rock again. He could touch the rock, even when he couldn’t make sense of this. He did not know why Warren had a rock like this, why he’d brought it out, even how long he’d been sitting there. Once he was touching it, he could try words again. “You must have other places to be. I couldn’t—” He didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

“Actually, tonight I don’t. I was on call Saturday through this afternoon. I was just going to go home and find a book, and that can wait a bit.”

“Oh.” Matthew swallowed. “I mean.” They weren’t friends. They barely knew each other. Why was Warren being like this? And could he even take the man to Urania’s Apples? He didn’t think the man would cause a problem. Certainly, anyone who was in the Penelopes had to be at least a little familiar with the idea of the odd relationships people found. Professionally, anyway. But that didn’t mean he’d be decent about it.

On the other hand, nothing had said he’d be decent about this. And here Warren was, being decent. Not just decent, that sounded mealy and like he’d merely been average. This needed some sort of superlative Matthew absolutely couldn’t muster right now.

“Which pub?” The question was still easy, gentle. “There are quite a few choices near here.” And the various segments of the Ministry had their particular preferences.

It was certainly better than going home to a dark and too-quiet flat, and he equally obviously couldn’t ask Warren to walk him back there. Matthew coughed. “Urania’s Apples.” He tried to say more than the admittedly odd and oddly informative name, and his tongue was too thick in his mouth to manage it.

“Not my usual, but I’ve been in there a few times. Good cider, I gather? And a decent set of beers on tap. When you’re ready, then.” There was a long stretched out silence. Warren couldn’t possibly be making a pass, not right now. Even if he’d mentioned the cider, which had particular implications at Urania’s Apples. It made Matthew freeze still. He got stuck in it, unable to get himself to do anything other than stare down at the rock his fingers were resting on.

Warren didn’t rush him, not exactly, but somewhere in there he felt something change. Minutes, maybe. Not hours, the light hadn’t changed, and no one had come to tidy the room. He just kept staring at his hands, the rock, and the table, getting stuck there like he was frozen in amber or some other invisible stone. After some amount of time, though, there was Warren’s voice, steady and firm. “Do you need anything from your office? And do you have a coat? Ah, there it is.”

Matthew shook his head, feeling entirely lost. Though no, not lost. There was someone here who had a plan, who was fully capable of putting that plan into action. He didn’t have to do it himself. Good thing. If he’d been on his own, he’d have sat here until he terrified whoever came in to clean later.

“Ready as you’re getting? Can you stand up?” It was a command voice, that was the thing Matthew recognised. Not the way people meant that, of someone who expected to be obeyed. This was the voice of someone who’d been painfully, viscerally, responsible for other people’s lives, and who’d taken that job as seriously as he could. The way most people didn’t.

He managed to push back from the table, leaning both hands on it to stand. Then there was a series of movements, things he couldn’t quite track. The stone was put away gently. Warren brought Matthew’s coat from the hook on the wall, handed him his satchel, then gathered up his own things.

There was no particular intimacy to it. No attempt to try to touch, not more than the brief contacts necessary. Some part of Matthew ached for that, for the sheer idea of what it would feel like if there had been just a hair more. A hand on his wrist, fingers on his, even just briefly. But it didn’t feel like Warren was keeping his distance, either.

Somehow, Matthew managed one foot in front of the other, out the door, down the steps, out into the cold air. That was bracing. It brought him a bit more back to his body, though not enough to figure out how to pull the scarf around. The pub wasn’t terribly far, though, and the streets between the building they’d met in and the pub weren’t terribly busy. He heard Warren say something once or twice to other people. Once or twice he checked with Matthew as they crossed a street. Nothing that made it obvious.

Then there was the pub, and the dim but present light and the warmth nearly did him in. Warren must have spotted a place immediately, and he guided Matthew over to it, again making no kind of obvious fuss. Though perhaps Matthew’s ability to evaluate what was or wasn’t obvious was not reliable right now. He did not know what it looked like. Warren bent over and murmured, once he was seated. “They know your usual taste?” It meant Matthew could just nod.

He was alone for a couple of minutes, not long, before Warren came back, setting a glass of beer in front of him, and a bottle of cider for himself. “Soup in a minute, nothing too heavy to start.”

There was silence again until York brought round the soup, along with a plate with two rolls. No butter, of course, it was still rationed, but Warren immediately broke one roll open and inhaled before beginning to eat it plain with his fingers. Matthew managed a sip of his beer, then a bit of the vegetable soup. That eased everything up a little, and it made him realise he’d had a rather scant lunch, which probably wasn’t helping anything. The soup was restorative enough that eventually he could glance up at Warren and not immediately feel he had to look away.