Free The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds by Ian Tregillis

the freckled coquette. Aha. “Delightful girl.”
    “Hmm?” Marsh tried to hide the flush in his cheeks by taking a long draw on his pint. “I suppose she is.”
    With casual disinterest, Will asked, “Shall I wave her over?”
    “No, no,” said Marsh, shaking his head. But then he fixed Will with a sly look. “You don’t fool me. I’ll wager you were planning to invite her to the snug for a private drink, weren’t you?”
    “I don’t know what you mean, sir,” said Will in mock indignation. “Aubrey would have a proper fit.”
    “Oh?”
    “She’s a charming little turtledove, make no mistake. But Aubrey has developed an alarming tendency to frown upon—ahem—dalliances.”
    Marsh opened his mouth slightly and tipped his head back. “Ah . . .”
    “He believes in the dignity of the working classes—plight of the working man and all that. But not in their breeding. Can’t wait for me to settle down with somebody perfectly dreadful as fits my station.”
    “Oh dear.”
    “Yes.”
    “Next you’ll tell me he’s pushing you to join some perfectly respectable profession and give up the gadabout’s life. As also fits your station.”
    “I’d be a perfectly respectable captain right now if not for these flat feet. Centuries of inbreeding, you know.”
    “What will you do?”
    “Aubrey has made noise of endowing a charity. Perhaps I’ll join his crusade.”
    “Doesn’t sound like your line of work, Will.”
    “No. Still, what can we do? Now, you said you wanted to pick my brain about something. My brain, addled and inbred as ’tis, is at your disposal.”
    “Ah. Well, then, speaking of your grandfather—” Marsh lowered his voice. “—I have some questions about his hobby.”
    Will scooted his chair closer to the fire to ward off a sudden chill. He had unwillingly shared his grandfather’s “hobby” for over a decade before the wretched old warlock finally drank himself to death.
    “I . . . I don’t follow you, Pip.” An unconvincing deflection, and Will knew it.
    “Back at university, you read from a book . . .”
    “Ah.” Will sighed, knowing he couldn’t dodge the issue. “The Bodleian. I’d rather hoped you were too pissed to remember that night.”
    “I nearly was. I’d discounted it as a drunken memory.”
    “Better to leave it that way. It was years ago. Ancient history. Why bring it up now?”
    Marsh fell quiet for a moment. A distant look danced across his eyes as he watched some private memory unfold. “Recently I saw something . . . strange.”
    Will shook his head. “The world is a strange place, Pip. I’m sorry, but I truly can’t help you. It’s better for everybody if you forget anything I might have said or done in my careless youth.”
    Marsh sipped at his pint. When Marsh spoke again, Will could feel that coiled spring pushing a new intensity into his voice. “I wouldn’t have brought this up if it wasn’t important.”
    Will knew he’d never get Marsh to drop the subject. He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting off a sudden weariness. When he opened hiseyes, Marsh was studying the scars on his hand. Will poured himself another cup of tea as a distraction. “Very well. What do you want to know?”
    “That thing you can do. Is it dangerous?”
    The question was so absurd, so unexpected, that it caught Will by surprise. The dread and tension he’d felt came out in one loud, barking laugh. The shopgirls turned to stare at him before resuming their quiet conversation.
    “Dangerous? That’s your question? If you’re seeking a new hobby, Pip, you’re better off juggling rabid badgers on a street corner. You might even make a few quid.”
    But the jovial tone didn’t lighten Marsh’s countenance. He spoke again, more quietly. “That hobby . . . could it kill somebody? Hypothetically.”
    “
Kill
somebody?” Will thought back to his grandfather and his dimly remembered father. “Yes, hypothetically.”
    “Could that be done