Page 5 of Last Track

The face in the mirror afterward looked older than it had that morning. His eyes always appeared brighter when he was tired, the blue-green sharpening against skin gone pale beneath road dust and too many nights of inconsistent sleep. People had been remarking on them for as long as he could remember, usually with the pleased surprise of someone discovering an unusual feature on an otherwise serviceable object. Martin had looked at them differently. He had looked irritated by the effect they had on him, which Galen found much more interesting than admiration.

He dressed in clean clothes from the bag Hazel had ordered him to retrieve from Nina and returned downstairs with his damp hair loose over his shoulders. Martin was already at the table, scrubbed clean enough to reveal that the severe mouth had a softer shape when it was not occupied with livestock betrayal. Galen caught himself looking and redirected his attention toward the safer subject of food.

Hazel had set out stew, bread, cheese, and a dish of roasted vegetables that appeared to have been prepared for twice the number of people present. She waved Galen toward a chair beside Martin, then sat opposite Jacks and asked him what kind of music he played.

"Whatever pays," Galen said. "Folk, mostly. Session work. Private events. Touring when someone needs a guitarist who can learn a set faster than the person they originally hired."

"You play your own songs?" Hazel asked.

"Sometimes."

"That means yes," Jacks said. "Leave him to his stew."

Galen looked at her. "You do this often?"

"Feed people?"

"Know when to leave something alone."

Jacks tore a piece of bread in half. "Only after I've pointed at it once."

Hazel said something to her in French, quick and lightly reproachful. Galen caught enough to recognise that she had accused Jacks of enjoying herself.

"I understood that," he said.

Hazel's face brightened. "You speak French?"

"Enough to get myself fed, housed, and occasionally slapped."

Martin coughed into his drink. Jacks looked almost approving. Hazel gave Galen the measured look of a woman deciding whether the final item deserved follow-up, then apparently chose mercy.

The meal moved around him easily. Hazel asked questions that left room for incomplete answers. Jacks interrupted once, accepted Galen's look, and returned to her bread. Martin said less than either woman, though Galen remained aware of him in the particular way one remained aware of a low note held beneath a melody. His presence altered the shape of the room without demanding attention.

When Hazel offered more stew, Galen accepted. When Jacks reached for the teapot, he considered flight.

Martin noticed. The movement was small, nothing more than an eyebrow lifting as Jacks filled Galen's mug, but it carried the private satisfaction of someone about to watch an experiment repeated under controlled conditions. Galen wrapped both hands around the cup and met his gaze.

"You could warn me," he said.

"I could."

"That implies you won't."

Martin's mouth shifted at one corner. "You survived the first one."

Jacks looked between them. "It's tea."

Hazel made a quiet sound that required no translation.

Galen lifted the mug. The first swallow was no less alarming for being expected. Whatever leaves Jacks used had surrendered every remaining property they possessed into the water, including several that probably required licensing. He kept his expression steady until he saw Martin's eyes narrow with amusement, then took another drink out of pure refusal to give him the satisfaction.

Martin looked down at his plate, but the smile remained. There it was, Galen thought, the beginning of a joke neither of them had agreed to and both already understood.

After supper, Hazel offered him the spare room with the same matter-of-fact certainty she had applied to food and towels. Galen thanked her and declined.

"Nina's comfortable enough when she's level," he said. "I've got heat, bedding, and power now. More than I have at some venues."

"You are certain?" Hazel asked.