Free Monsoon Summer by Julia Gregson Page A

bother,” he said. “It’ll be against Inky’s religion.”
    He’d taken to calling him Inky behind his back. When I heard Flora chortling dutifully, I felt a surge of pure rage.
    â€œDon’t call him that,” I said.
    â€œIt’s a joke,” he explained patiently. Some of the wine had stained his chin like a birthmark. “It’s what Billy Bunter called our tinted brethren.”
    â€œIt’s not funny,” I said, “and he does drink wine, you know that.”
    â€œWell, let him bring his own—or take him the other.” He gestured towards a carafe of damson at the end of the sideboard. “I don’t give a damn.”
    The glass trembled in my hand. I wanted to see wine drip down that smug, taunting face.
    â€œYou’re pretty when you’re angry,” he said.
    Daisy walked in, which was lucky.
    â€œOh, you angel,” she said. I had the tray in my hand. “Would you mind terribly taking it to him?”
    * * *
    It was misty outside and very cold, with the moon hanging behind a skein of clouds. I had the keys to the barn in my pocket. We’d had a minor break-in recently: nothing serious, an old typewriter andeight pounds in petty cash. When I unlocked the door, I saw Anto asleep at his desk in a pool of yellow lamplight, his head resting on his hands like a child’s, dark hair flopping over his hands. Under his right hand was a sheet of paper on which he’d written in his small, neat handwriting: “Oxygen Exchange System.” A tiny sandstone elephant sat cross-legged on top of a pile of textbooks.
    The fire had gone out; it was cold enough to see your breath. In the stable next door, I could hear Bert munching hay.
    As quietly as I could, I crept across the room and relit the stove, and when it was crackling and glowing, I put the tray on the side of the desk, trying to decide whether or not to wake him, he was so deeply asleep. Lord, he was beautiful. I’d never thought of a man being so before. The sharp curve of his cheekbones, the softness of his mouth.
    The collar of the tweed overcoat he was wearing was up. I turned it down, and then I touched his hair. A puff of air came from his mouth like smoke.
    â€œThank you,” he said, quietly.
    I leapt back, managing to catch the plate of food in my hands, but the tray fell with a noisy clatter onto the floor, scattering knives and forks, and wine which spilled like blood over the hearth.
    â€œBlast.” I was furious and embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
    I set the plate back on his desk and we got down on our hands and knees to pick up the fallen cutlery and mop up the wine. And it was then he put his hands on either side of my face and kissed me.
    â€œI know,” he said. He kissed me again.
    We were kneeling, staring at each other like two people about to be executed, when we both heard the clatter of boots outside the door, the horse stamping in his stable.
    â€œLet me in.” A slurred angry voice.
    â€œHang on,” I called through the door.
    It was Tudor, red-faced, half plastered, proprietorial.
    â€œWhy did you lock it?”
    â€œThere was a break-in recently.”
    â€œSilly me. I thought the purpose of a key was to keep robbers out.” He smiled at Anto unpleasantly, showing his yellow teeth.
    â€œBoom boom boom boom!” he suddenly shouted, making his umbrella into a gun and pointing it at the sky. “Did you enjoy my birds?”
    He stood close to Anto, less than a foot away.
    â€œI haven’t tasted them yet,” Anto said. His voice was very quiet; I could see a muscle twitching in his jaw.
    â€œWell, I can tell you, they’re damned good,” Tudor said, and then to me, “It’s raining, Kit. You can share my umbrella back to the house. Your mother told me to get you.”
    â€œThank you,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster; I felt weak-kneed and