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Samuel was sitting at the table, doing the bookkeeping for the King Solomon. It was a break from his usual routine, but the week had been busy, and tomorrow was Shabbat, so it had to be done today if he didn’t want to drag the chore into the next week.
John, having apparently finished all his scheming for the day, was paging through the book Samuel had gotten him. It was well-read by now – even more than it had been before Samuel had gotten it – speaking for the noble’s boredom. Samuel had wanted to get him another one, but finding a book that didn’t cost a fortune had posed more of a challenge than he had initially assumed.
Samuel focused back on the ledger. Keeping the books wasn’t his favourite pastime, but it was part of the job, and he was loath to let anyone else do it. At least he had tomorrow to look forward to.
He wondered what his mame would cook. Maybe he’d be able to convince her to bake a Kugel; it had been a while since they had that. Though maybe he should check if she had everything or if he had to go to the market tomorrow morning. If he left early enough-
“Say, Sam. What’s your favourite food?”
Samuel blinked, ripped from his thoughts by John’s voice.
The noble had put the book to the side, his head propped heavily enough on his hand that his cheek was smooshed.
He was staring at Samuel with an unsettling focus. Samuel wondered if he could see into his thoughts like that. Sometimes it certainly seemed like it.
“What?”
“Your favourite food. What is it?”
Samuel ran his thumb along the margin of the ledger.
“Why do you ask?”
John sighed and shrugged.
“I don’t know. You taught me a lot about the food and dishes you serve here, but it occurred to me that you never mentioned what kind of dishes you like.”
Samuel raised an eyebrow.
“You know, if you are bored, you can just say so. But some of us have actual work to do.”
John mirrored Samuel’s expression, one eyebrow raised. He glanced down at the ledger and then back up at Samuel.
“Yes,” he drawled. “You seemed really focused on your numbers. You have been staring at them for over five minutes now.”
Samuel could feel the blood rush to his face and scowled. He had gotten fairly used to the feelings – whatever they were – he had around John, but the thought of the noble staring at him while he had been lost in thought still made his stomach flutter.
“My mame's hamantashen,” he ground out, hoping to end the conversation.
John hummed, face still in his hand and eyes not leaving Samuel.
“What’s that?”
Samuel resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, his ears still burning.
“It’s a pastry. Usually filled with mohn, but mame sometimes makes them with raisins or apples.”
John hummed again.
“I didn’t know you have a sweet tooth.”
“Yes, well.”
Samuel cleared his throat and turned back to his ledger, but he couldn’t focus. Now aware that John was staring at him, the noble’s gaze felt like a hot iron. He made a valiant effort to actually do his bookkeeping for another minute or so before he gave up.
“What about you?”
“What about me?” John asked, voice still the exact same as before – bored, but not unkindly so. Samuel wondered what was going on inside his head.
“What is your favourite food?”
That seemed to rouse John. He blinked and sat up straighter. Pursed his lips after a moment of consideration.
“That is a great question. I have never thought about it, really.”
Samuel seriously doubted that.
“What, are you trying to tell me you were never obsessed with one particular dish? Requesting it over and over again when you were a child until everyone was sick of it?”
John shot him a bemused look.
“I can’t say I was. At home, you usually ate what the cooks made, no matter what it was. It is rude to refuse food or send a dish back, so my tutors insisted I learn to like everything. Or at least pretend to like it.”
Samuel supposed that made sense. Sometimes, John acted so little like a noble that Samuel forgot they had had very different upbringings.
He tried to imagine John as a young boy, sitting at a large, empty table with a plate in front of him, a fake smile plastered on his face and a stern tutor standing next to him.
He couldn’t quite manage it.
“There must be something you are particular about,” Samuel said, and the noble sighed and furrowed his brows, staring at an invisible point in concentration.
Then his lips turned up into a slight smile.
“As a child, I was always glad when our cook made Mohnnudeln. We rarely had them when I got older, though. But her Moravsky Vrabec and Kyselica were just as excellent. Of course, they are more Hausmannskost than anything else, and I haven’t really had any of them since I left. The nobles do prefer their roasted piglets.”
John almost sounded wistful for a moment, but then a flash of guilt crossed his face, and Samuel frowned.
“What is wrong?”
John shook his head.
“It’s nothing. It’s just that Moravian cuisine has a lot of pork.”
He sounded almost apologetic, and Samuel blinked. He waited for the noble to continue, for an admission to anything he had done that would be a reason for him to feel guilty, but he seemed to be done.
“Why would you feel guilty about liking pork?” Samuel asked after a moment of silence. “You do realise that we know that goyim eat pork? Czech cuisine uses it a lot too.”
John made an aborted gesture with his hand, a slight flush rising to his cheeks. It was a rare sight to see him flustered, and Samuel couldn’t help staring.
“Yes, yes. But I know I cannot eat it here, no matter how much I miss it. And I did not want you to feel bad.”
“Why would I feel bad that you cannot eat pork?” Samuel asked and realised at the same time that for some inexplicable reason he did feel bad.
John hadn’t said that he missed eating pork.
The noble stared at him, eyes wide with a hint of confusion.
“I genuinely do not know.”
They stared at each other for a moment in silence, a peculiar kind of stalemate that neither knew what to do with.
Then John broke the silence with a short cough.
“But yes. No dish in particular. I think our cook was just very talented.”
The colour was still high on his cheeks, and Samuel nodded hastily before looking back down at his numbers.
“Noted.”
He forgot about the entire conversation until almost a week later.
His mother had indeed needed him to go to the market, and in addition to all the chores he had to finish before sundown, he didn’t have any time to think about John’s dietary preferences.
On Sunday, it had rained heavily enough to remind the baker of the leak in his roof, and he had enlisted Samuel and Jacob to help him fix it, which had turned out to be a bigger issue than originally anticipated and took two days in total.
It was a bit odd how little influence John’s presence in the quarter had on Samuel’s workload ever since he had decided to hire that mamzer Goatskin instead. All he had to do, at the moment, was meet up with the beggar once a week and collect whatever information he had managed to dig up.
At first, he had even been worried he wouldn’t know what to do with all the time on his hands. Nothing sounded worse than sitting around, waiting for someone else to do his work.
However, that worry had proven to be baseless rather quickly. Ever since he had run around the quarter asking if anyone needed help two weeks ago after a fight with John, people seemed to assume he had more time to help with chores again.
Life churned on outside of the King Solomon’s basement, and there was always a leaky roof to fix, wood to chop, or errands to run when Samuel was done with his work at the tavern. Or groceries to buy at the market for his mother.
Which was what brought him to his current predicament.
He had forgotten all about the conversation about food with John until he was on his way back from the market on Town Hall Street with a list his mame had written.
His path home led him right past the butchers and the pig pens, right in the middle of the street, and a sound ripped him from his thoughts as he was walking through the crowded streets.
The animals were sniffing the dirty ground, squealing and snorting happily. One of them kicked its hind leg back, almost hitting one of the fences, and Samuel stopped in his tracks.
Truth be told, he had never really wasted any thoughts on the animals. Why would he? They were in no way pertinent to his life.
But now they reminded him of John’s wistful look when they had talked about Moravian cuisine, and his stomach clenched uncomfortably.
He didn’t understand why he felt bad. It wasn’t like it was his fault that John couldn’t eat pork at the moment. It was just how it was. Of course there wouldn’t be any pork or bacon in the Jewish quarter, just like there wasn’t any hare. And it wasn’t like John had actually complained.
But it was also the truth that this had been the first time the noble had expressed any kind of sentimentality or melancholy about his home. Usually, all his stories about Moravia and his family were regaled with practised neutrality or (mostly) faked joviality. Never wistful.
Samuel wondered if someone like John was even capable of feeling homesick. He hadn’t even considered it until now, and he would most likely have said ‘no’ even if he had. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Without really knowing why, Samuel’s feet carried him towards the butcher’s door. There was a townswoman in front of the counter, and Samuel hovered next to the door as she talked to the butcher.
Truth be told, he also felt a bit guilty about not having been in the basement as often this week, only staying for a short while when he brought the noble his dinner.
Technically, it wasn’t necessary for him to be down there daily now that there was less information to be discussed and that ordinary daily life in the Jewish quarter kept him occupied, but he knew that the noble bored easily on his own.
Also, he missed talking and playing dice with John almost like a physical pain. Which was a different issue entirely.
“Are you going to buy anything?” the butcher’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Or just stare like a cow?”
Samuel blinked back into the present and immediately scowled. Great, lost in his thoughts, he had entered Emmerand’s butcher shop instead of the one next door. He doubted the other man knew him, but Samuel still preferred to keep out of his way. He was a right mamzer.
When Samuel didn’t reply immediately, Emmerand gave him a look that yelled ‘Well?’, and Samuel made a decision.
“Yes. Do you have any pork?”
“Do I have any pork? Are you yanking my pizzle?” Emmerand replied, and when Samuel didn’t react, he added, “I’m a butcher; of course I have fucking pork. What do you want?”
Samuel hadn’t actually thought that far. He took some cautious steps towards the counter, as if he was expecting there to be a selection on display.
He straightened up. A pig was an animal, just like a cow, so they would most likely have similar cuts. However, those would be uncooked, and while buying pork for a goy was (barely) acceptable, cooking it in the King Solomon was out of the question.
He would have to replace all the pots and cutlery.
“I don’t have all day, boy-“
“Do you have any smoked bacon?”
Emmerand glared at him, most likely because Samuel had interrupted him. Then his expression seemed to soften a bit as he looked Samuel up and down.
“You are a bit touched in the head, aren’t ya? Of course I have bacon. How much do you want?”
Samuel blinked. He hadn’t thought that far. He felt woefully unprepared, which was just stupid.
“Three slices,” he said and pinched the bridge of his nose. That should be enough, right? John could eat one now and keep the rest downstairs if he got hungry in the night.
Emmerand gave him another odd look, but apparently the ‘touched in the head’ excuse sufficed to quell any suspicion.
He handed Samuel the bacon wrapped in thick paper a moment later. Samuel put the coins on the table and shoved the package under the rest of his groceries after making sure it was wrapped properly. Then he fled the shop.
His mind was both racing and blank at the same time on his way home. His thoughts were fighting, reprimanding him for being stupid and telling him he was doing something nice, and really that was all that counted in the end.
The back and forth was a low buzz in the back of his mind.
It was when he entered the Jewish quarter and Pesach greeted him at the gate that the thoughts calling him an idiot grew louder.
What was he thinking? He didn’t even know if John really wanted to eat any pork. Maybe he only felt nostalgic for specific dishes, something Samuel wouldn’t be able to provide even if he wanted.
And what would his zeyde think? Samuel really hoped he would never find out about this. Not like there was a reason for him to.
But it wasn’t like it was forbidden to buy non-kosher food for goyim, Samuel reminded himself. None of the mitzvoth forbade it.
He resolutely ignored the part of him that pointed out that he should still have discussed it with a rabbi.
He came to a stop in front of King Solomon.
Wasn’t he simply doing a kindness? And weren’t acts of human kindness one of the three pillars the world stands on?
Not to mention that the noble had been eating less and less of his dinner lately. Maybe some familiar food would help him regain his appetite again.
And they were friends. Samuel was allowed to do nice things for his friends. Hadn’t he gotten Jacob a pretzel last week on his way from the market?
Sherlin stepped out of the door and almost ran into Samuel. She narrowed her eyes at him, and Samuel shook the offending thoughts away. He straightened up and nodded at his friend in greeting, walking past her into the kitchen.
It was too late now anyway. He would just give John the bacon and live with the consequences.
Because if there was one thing more awkward than a Jew buying bacon for the goy noble living in his basement, it was a Jew buying bacon for the aforementioned noble and not giving it to him.
It was almost time for dinner anyway.
With practised moves, Samuel cut open a bagel and put it with some hard cheese on a plate. The still wrapped bacon he put next to the cheese and sighed.
It couldn’t get much less kosherthan this. Well, it didn’t matter to the noble, he supposed.
When he walked down the stairs into the basement, John perked up and gave him a confused but not displeased smile.
“It’s not Friday again, is it?”
Samuel scowled at him, hands clammy and cold around the plate. Maybe he was a bit early with dinner.
“No, it is not Shabbat. And it is not that early either.”
Samuel had been hesitant to introduce the concept of Shabbat to their resident goy at first. Different dietary choices were usually shrugged off or met with incomprehension at worst. But Samuel had witnessed too many goyim call him or members of his community lazy bastards and sneer at them when they heard that they were not allowed to work during the day.
Samuel had always found it odd, because wasn’t their Sunday also dedicated to worship? Though he supposed it was a bit too much to expect Christians to actually follow their own rules.
John, for example, did not seem to mind much that he couldn’t attend church during his confinement.
The topic of Shabbat had finally come up the second Friday the noble had been their guest, much to Samuel’s chagrin.
When Samuel had brought him his dinner shortly before sundown, the noble had asked him to deliver a ‘very urgent’ letter the same evening. When Samuel had refused, John had asked why, and he had explained.
Much to Samuel’s relief, the noble had accepted the matter with nothing but careful curiosity, and they had found an easy rhythm for all weeks since then.
On the evening before Shabbat, Samuel brought John his dinner shortly before sundown. He then spent the rest of the evening with his mother and zeyde, attending the evening service and eating dinner together.
The next day he brought the noble breakfast before morning service and lunch after the afternoon meal. Dinner was a late affair, after sundown and Havdalah.
At first, Samuel and Sherlin had had difficulties deciding who was supposed to deliver the noble his meals. Would it count as work for Sherlin if she delivered them, considering it was part of her daily tasks in the tavern?
In the end, Samuel had opted for delivering the meals himself. Considering they were always portions of what his mame cooked for the festivities, it felt more like sharing a meal with a friend than performing a service.
Sometimes, he stayed down in the basement when his mother and zeyde took an afternoon nap – at first only for a short while and very sparingly but increasingly more as the weeks passed and he and John became friends.
So, maybe he was a bit early with dinner. But it was definitely past sundown – not that the noble would be able to tell down here.
John chuckled and motioned at Samuel to come closer, like he needed the invitation. He eyed the plate curiously.
“What’s that?”
For a short moment, Samuel felt stupid again, and he quickly handed the plate to John before he could change his mind.
The noble raised an eyebrow at him, and Samuel gestured at the plate, eager for him to open the wrappers despite his nervousness.
The noble gave him another bemused look and finally started to unwrap the present.
Samuel wasn’t sure where to look, so he opted to scan the papers on the table for a moment until he heard a soft gasp.
John’s mouth fell open as he looked first at the bacon and then at Samuel. Samuel could feel his ears burn.
“Why did you-” the noble asked but trailed off.
Samuel shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
“You said you miss it.”
John’s eyes grew round, filled with what could only be called wonder as he looked up at Samuel. There was a warm blush rising to his cheeks, and his lips pulled into a smile, wide and sincere.
It hit Samuel like a kick from a horse just how pretty the noble was when he smiled so genuinely. He had thought so back when he had gotten him the flowers, and just like back then, he shoved that thought into the furthest corner of his mind.
But he was beautiful. With his deep blue eyes and rosy cheeks, with the little scrunch of his nose and genuine joy.
Having these feelings must be punishment, Samuel thought idly. Divine punishment. Pre-emptive divine punishment because God had known that one day Samuel would go out and buy bacon for the noble living in his basement without consulting a rabbi first.
“You really didn’t have to,” John interrupted his thoughts. “I would have never asked this of you.”
“I would not have gotten it if you had asked for it,” Samuel replied truthfully, and John laughed.
“No, I don’t imagine you would have.”
He wrapped the paper back around the bacon and set it aside and gestured at Samuel to sit, starting to eat the bread and cheese.
“I do appreciate it, though,” John told him with another smile, and Samuel shrugged, snatching an apple that the noble had left over from breakfast.
“It’s nothing.”
John looked like he wanted to protest, and Samuel gestured at the papers on the table to distract him. He really wanted this topic to be done with, for the sake of both his sanity and his heart.
“Anything important?”
John sighed and shook his head.
“Apparently, there is a woman trying to open a bathhouse in Hoprink.”
Samuel raised an eyebrow.
“And that is relevant in what way?”
“In no way at all,” the noble said dryly. “As far as I can discern from Goatskin’s information, she isn’t even succeeding. I have no idea why he thought this would be of any interest to us.”
“I knew that mamzer is useless,” Samuel said around a mouthful of apple, and John shot him a look.
“Can we not have this conversation again? You will tell me that we can’t trust him and that he is a liability. I will point out that we don’t have any other options at the moment, you will try to offer to go on the hunt for information again, and I will remind you that there is a good chance that all pertinent people already know you are working for me.”
Samuel opened his mouth, and John interrupted him.
“Yes, and I know you don’t actually work for me.”
Samuel closed his mouth again. He should be annoyed, but he had to fight a smile by taking another bite of the apple.
It was a lot easier to have an argument if the other person argued contra and pro all on their own.
“What about Moses and Jacob?” he asked after a moment, and John sighed again.
“Nothing against your men, my friend, but they are a bit obvious. I’d rather not put them into any unnecessary danger. Meeting with Goatskin is already enough of a risk.”
Samuel nodded slowly. He also wasn’t particularly keen on having to convince Moses to go out to spy for John.
But he could tell the noble was growing restless. Over a month had passed since he had been attacked, and he had been confined to the basement ever since.
At first, the steady input of information had kept him occupied, but the past two weeks seemed to have been particularly hard.
Samuel glanced at the pitcher with flowers at the edge of the table, pushed out of the way to make space for a map of the Kuttenberg region. The poppies were starting to look a little sad. Maybe he’d go get some new ones tomorrow.
John was chewing mechanically, eyes fixed on the map and lost in thought. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper, even though technically he had more time to relax and sleep than a few weeks ago, and worry churned in Samuel’s stomach.
Suddenly, like he had noticed Samuel’s eyes on him, the noble turned to him and smiled.
It didn’t reach his eyes.
He took a sip from his ale cup and shoved the now empty plate over to Samuel so he could put his apple core on it. As he put the core down, Samuel glanced at the wine pitcher at the edge of the table.
That was another point of worry – John had been drinking less and less wine since about a week ago. In anyone else, less wine would be a cause for celebration, but in John it was so unusual it bordered on a bad omen.
“I’m sorry, I did not mean to keep you,” the noble’s voice interrupted his thought. “I’m assuming you have some other matters to attend to today.”
Samuel blinked, confused for a moment, then he shook his head.
“I am telling you, it is not that early. Do not worry, I would not be here if there was a place I would rather be, nuisance of mine.”
Colour shot into John’s cheeks, and he averted his eyes with a small smile. Samuel watched the reaction with something like anticipation – hope, maybe.
The… nickname had slipped out a few days ago for the first time, and at first, Samuel had been horrified and panicked, worrying that he might have crossed a line.
But John hadn’t looked displeased; instead, he had blushed brightly and changed the topic so quickly, Samuel had had trouble keeping up. Since then, Samuel had thrown in the nickname from time to time, just to observe the noble’s reaction.
He knew he was playing with fire, but there was something so uniquely honest about John’s reactions.
None of his actions usually betrayed what he might be feeling – Samuel could not tell for the life of him whether the request for a dance a week ago had been anything but an attempt to squash a particularly bad bout of boredom – but his reactions were tinted with genuine honesty most of the time.
Also, the nickname had been John’s fault in the first place, so it was only fair that he suffered under it. Who in their right mind says ‘Yes, but I am your nuisance’?
He took the wine pitcher, poured two cups, and handed one to the noble. John’s smile morphed into a grin, and he took a small sip. Something inside Samuel relaxed.
“I am glad to hear that. I have missed talking to you the past few days.”
Ah, and there was the counter-blow.
It was really unfair, Samuel thought, how such a mundane sentence could make his insides turn upside down. And it didn’t even look like the noble was trying.
He ducked his head, trying to hide what he was sure were his bright red ears.
“Yes, well. On Sunday it rained badly enough that the baker finally decided it’s time to have the leak in his roof fixed. By then, the rain had already done enough damage that it took Jacob and me the next two days to fix.”
“Was du heute kannst besorgen, verschiebe nicht auf morgen, ” John said with a grin, taking another sip from his wine.
Samuel sighed and picked up his wine cup, draining it. It was pleasantly acidic, with a hint of sweetness, and he let himself relax, shake off the annoyances of the week.
“Tell that to him. But enough of that, let us talk about something else.”
John smiled and motioned at Samuel to continue.
“Well then, what is on your mind?”
Samuel considered the question as he poured himself a new cup. It hadn’t really been on the forefront of his mind, but now that John had asked him, his earlier thoughts returned.
“I was wondering,” he told John. “Does it bother you? Not to be able to go to mass on Sundays?”
The noble blinked at him, clearly having expected anything but that. After a moment, he pursed his lips and shrugged.
“Not per se, no. I have missed too many services in my life for it to really bother me. Turns out it is a bad idea to go to church when you are in hiding.”
The last part was added with a grin, but Samuel ignored the attempted joke.
“I thought it is mandatory.”
John’s smile fell slightly.
“It is. For most people, at least. According to canon law, missing mass can be considered a mortal sin that can lead to eternal damnation.”
Samuel narrowed his eyes, considering the new information.
“Is that not something you are worried about?”
John snorted and took a sip of wine.
“I do not think not attending mass is what is going to be the tiebreaker when it comes to where I end up.”
Some of Samuel’s confusion must have shown on his face, because the noble continued before he could say something.
“I do not lead what one could call a very virtuous life. Not attending mass is definitely not the worst sin I have committed, by far. I am under no illusion about what will be awaiting me after this life.”
Samuel tapped his finger against the rim of his cup.
“I thought you Christians can pay to have sins atoned.”
John rolled his eyes.
“Indulgence money, yes. But I fear by now I have racked up such a debt I would have to sell all the Liechtenstein estates to pay it back. And my family does not need another reason to dislike me.”
The last part was added with a conspiratorial smile again, but it turned humourless quickly.
“Not to mention that there are some sins the Church is not particularly keen to forgive, no matter how much you pay.”
“For example?”
John clicked his tongue and picked up his cup again.
“It does not matter.”
He took a sip and put the cup back down with a soft ‘clack’.
“Why don’t we talk about something more pleasant?”
Samuel nodded, recognising the dismissal for what it was. Still, there was a shadow on John’s face he did not like.
“I think you are wrong. You are a good man, and while I do not wholly know what you have done, I do not think your God will fault you for whatever sins you have committed.”
John smiled at him then, but it was tinted with so much sadness, Samuel wondered how his lips resisted the downturn.
“Samuel,” he said, and the use of his full name stung like a cut by a dagger.
“You honour me, but sadly I have to tell you you do so wrongly. I am not a good man. People have died because of me, and more will most likely in the future. Because of information I gave to the wrong person, because of information I missed, because of one of my schemes, or simply because they housed me.”
He said the last part with more gravitas, with a meaningful look, and Samuel swallowed thickly. When he didn’t say anything, John nodded his head, just once, like a confirmation that he had won their argument.
Samuel took a tense breath.
“I have killed,” he said, voice terse. “Whoever destroys a life is considered by Scripture to have destroyed the whole world. But I have killed, and I would do so again to protect the people I care about. Does that make me a bad man?”
John remained silent, and for a second Samuel regretted asking, unsure of how the noble would reply.
But then John averted his eyes with a small smile.
“But you also saved my life; that must account for something as well. All you are doing is to protect your family, your community. Your intentions are honourable.”
“And yours aren’t? Did you not tell me that all you want is for this war to end? Are you not here because you want to protect something as well?”
John sighed, a deep and weary sound.
“My intentions might be honourable now, but they weren’t always. I fear I have sown enough disaster in my life already.”
Samuel scowled, frustration pressing down on his chest.
“And what? Because you did selfish deeds once in life, nothing you do now matters? You acknowledge that you did wrong in the past, and right now you are risking your life trying to help people. You treat us with kindness when self-proclaimed virtuous and good people regard us as dirt under their feet.”
“Did you know that one of the priests at St Bart’s called Levi a ‘mangy cur’ last week, just because he committed the grave crime of being in his line of sight? I refuse to believe that someone like that is allowed redemption while you are destined for eternal damnation.”
John fell silent for a moment, lips pursed in thought.
“I think,” he said finally, slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “I think people who treat those different from them with nothing but hate and disdain deserve every punishment coming for them in the next life."
"However," he added. "What I think has little impact on what the Church thinks.”
“And the Church is the sole authority on what your God thinks?”
John blinked at him.
“Well, yes.”
Samuel scoffed.
“I thought you smarter than that.”
There was a flash of hurt across John’s face, but it was gone before Samuel could react, replaced by a smile, practised and fake.
“Either way, how do you know I am being sincere? I could just be doing all this to gain your trust. Pretend I care.”
“Yes, but you aren’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Samuel snorted, sensing that he had won the argument.
“You are not as elusive as you think. Your entire demeanour is different when you are faking it.”
John’s mask shattered with a barked laugh, a breathless noise. He picked up his cup and took a sip of wine, averting his eyes again.
“You are a dangerous man, Sam.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
The noble shook his head with a smile, and it was more sincere, his eyes warm again.
“Nothing. I’m not sure I can agree with you, but I thank you for the praise nonetheless.”
“It wasn’t meant as praise,” Samuel muttered, heat rising to his cheeks, and John’s smile widened into a grin.
“In that case, I appreciate it even more.”
He cleared his throat.
“But let’s really talk about more pleasant things. Has Lazel made it to Prague by now?”
Samuel sighed, his cheeks still warm.
He drained his cup and launched into a story on how Lazel’s mother had managed to find a bride for him in Kolin. Lazel had been less than happy, proving what everyone had already known, that he had only wanted to go to Prague to see the city.
When he was done, John laughed and told him a similar story about a page back at Mikulov, who had tried to convince the chamberlain to send him on an excursion to Vienna for reasons no one had been able to figure out. Turned out a girl he had been sweet on had moved there to find a husband.
Samuel couldn’t quite help the way his lips ticked up at the animated way John told the story. It suited him better than the earlier melancholy.