Free A Pretty Mouth by Molly Tanzer Page B

or sip of anything?”
    “My head,” he groaned. “Oh, Chelone—I was beastly to you last night, was I not?”
    “Never mind that,” I said. “I believe you have already apologized enough.”
    “Did I?” He flopped over onto his side and looked at me. “I must have had more wine than I thought.”
    “Not all apologies must be spoken,” I said, and touched where my new lovely necklace hung below my blouse. Stroking the pendant, even through the fabric, gave me the most visceral shock! Plenty of times I have received trinkets from lovers, but this—it comforted me to have it about my neck, as if it were a warm extension of my very flesh.
    “True enough, I suppose! Draw back the curtains, cousin, and hand me that tea— ahh ,” he said, sipping it. “Better. I should not have lingered in bed so long, but ach—my head! How it aches!”
    “Well, you had a long night,” I said over my shoulder.
    “Indeed I did. Ventured out to that tomb—well, you must know that already. Dreadfully wet, and I fell—or hit my head—or something. Must have slipped.” He took another long slurp of tea and fell back upon the pillows of his bed. “Well, no lasting harm done. Still feel miserable, though.”
    “Is there anything I can do?”
    “I wonder …” He looked at me. “You seem in a maternal sort of mood, eh? Would you be so kind—no.”
    “Ask anything and it shall be yours, if it is within my power to give it.”
    “Just sit with me, talk to me. Keep me company. I never had a relative to look after me before.”
    Poor dear! “Let me read to you, then—and perhaps you will doze until supper-time.”
    “Smashing idea, Chelone. What would you like to read?”
    “You claimed to have a collection that would make me blush,” I suggested, having retained no small curiosity regarding his literary tastes. “Even if you no longer think me so easily shocked, I should like to see what you have.”
    Even in the dim light—for though I had drawn back the drapes, the hour was late, and the sunlight waning—I saw him blush pinker than a rose! I had no expectation of his showing any shyness after the events of last night, and felt such a rush of tenderness for the dear boy that I kissed him on the forehead.
    “N—no,” he stammered. “I was, ah, drinking last night, you see, and loose-tongued; I was not myself, and should not have mentioned such things about—about my family, myself, and …”
    Such an endearing display! Charmed, I put my finger to his lips and shook my head. I was not to be dissuaded.
    “Let me read something—I shall pick it. Just nod where you have stowed them. Coyness will only make me all the more eager!”
    He looked miserable as a wet cat, but pointed with a trembling finger towards a valise not yet unpacked. Opening the top, I discovered to my delight that it was entirely full of pornography! He had a lovely old edition of Juliette , several volumes of The Pearl and The Oyster (I cannot fault him; though Lazenby has always been a competitor, his work is very fine), a chapbook of Swinburne’s “Reginald’s Flogging,” The Sins of the Cities of the Plain , which perhaps would explain his ability with arses—and, I was happy to see, quite a few editions of Milady’s Ruby Vase !
    “I see you are quite an avid reader,” said I, which caused him to choke on the dregs of his tea. “Here, I have selected something. Let me read to you—ah, yes! Here is a good-sounding yarn, ‘What My Brother Learned in India’ by a Rosa Birchbottom.”
    “Not that one,” he said with such trepidation I felt rather wounded.
    “Why ever not?”
    “I … please, Chelone. She is my very favorite author, and I fear I should—embarrass myself.”
    “Rosa Birchbottom is your favorite author?” How could I not laugh! “Let me read this story, then. I trust your taste, cousin.”
    “I—”
    “My brother studied a great many things whilst in India, and upon his return he was good enough to teach me