Chapter Text
The winter break always brings with it a sense of festive mischief. The usually sensible water fairies take to creating snowballs and hurling them at each other while the fire fairies incinerate marshmallows at the back of every classroom. Farah’s dealing with the aftermath of one such incident when Saul comes in, flicking snow out of his hair, having presumably walked into the trap she narrowly avoided in one of the west wing corridors.
“One more day,” he mutters. “Give me strength.”
Farah looks up from the pile of molten sugar burning its way through the desk. “At least yours aren’t setting fire to the furniture.”
Saul dusts the last of the flakes off his shoulders and into the bin and comes over, regarding the blackened hollow on the desk with a wrinkled nose and an expression of disdain. “Who did that?”
“One of the first years. I think it was a dare,” Farah says, dousing the still-smouldering desk with what’s left of her coffee.
Saul sits on the corner of the desk, arms folded across the front of his thick, chunky grey jumper. “I don’t know what gets into them,” he says. “They’re not like this when we break up in the summer.”
“They’ve got exams then,” Farah says, “and they’re all busy trying to shag whoever they fancy before they go home.”
Saul regards her from beneath lifted eyebrows. “You thinking shagging is a seasonal activity?”
“I know I’m less inclined to do anything involving undressing when it’s cold, aren’t you?”
“Not sure I get enough offers to warrant setting a minimum temperature requirement,” Saul mutters.
Farah ducks down to assess the desk. “No lasting damage,” she says. “It adds character, I suppose. Walk me back to my office? I’ve next term’s budget for you to sign off.”
Saul agrees and they navigate the labyrinth of pranks and over-exuberance through the school.
In comparison to the rest of the building, Farah’s office is blissfully quiet and warm, and she unwraps her blanket scarf and hangs it behind the door before going over to the desk and digging out the file.
“I managed to negotiate a fifteen percent increased spend on weaponry,” she says, tapping the point on the page while Saul comes round to stand next to her.
“How d’you manage that?”
“I laid it out logically for them—the state of the current stock and how out of date it’s all getting, and they readily agreed,” she says.
“Really?”
“Of course not. I had to agree to do a small favour for a member of the board.”
Saul looks up, grimacing. “Not the guy who said he’d vote for your spending plan if you sent him pictures of your feet?”
“Needs must, Saul.” Saul’s grimace verges on gagging. “I’m joking,” Farah says. “His niece is falling behind. I said I’d give her a few extra lessons over the break to help her catch up.”
Saul scrawls his signature at the bottom of the sheet, looking up as he hands Farah the pen to add hers. “You’re not going to your sister’s?”
“She’s taking the kids away. Skiing.”
“You didn’t fancy that?”
“If I’m going to break an ankle, I’d rather it be doing something less ridiculous than throwing myself down a mountain in a padded onesie.” Farah indicates the pile of paperwork on the desk with a wave. “Besides, I’ve a lot of work to do. It’ll be good to make use of the quiet and get ahead for next term.”
She adds her signature and flips the folder shut before screwing the lid back on her fountain pen and flopping into her desk chair.
Saul looks as appalled as when he thought she might be sending foot pictures to a man old enough to be her father. “You can’t spend the entire break doing paperwork and teaching lessons.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s called a break, Farah. You’re supposed to do things you don’t do the rest of the year.”
“I don’t need a break,” she says, but they both know that deep down, what she means is: I don’t deserve a break.
Saul tilts his head. “Come to mine,” he says.
“What?”
“Sky’s going home with Stella to do the whole meet the parents thing.”
Farah raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise things were that serious.”
Saul rolls his eyes. “It’s as serious as it gets. I had to get an etiquette book so he knows which cutlery to use. Do you have any idea how many different kinds of spoon there are? There’s one specifically for ladling mustard and one for eating things in aspic.”
“The chances of him being served aspic are very low.”
“Low but not zero. I had to drill him on all of it. Snail tongs, egg scissors, grape sheers, the lot.”
Farah can just imagine it: a mock-up of a dining table laid out like a map in a war room and Saul inundating Sky with questions about how to tell his wine glass from that of the person he’s been seated next to, surprising him with questions about the correct way to address a minor royal when asking them to pass the potatoes.
“Better or worse than the sex talk?” she says.
“Believe me, I’d have much rather bluffed my way through the intricacies of some sex act he’s seen in porn that I’ve never heard of.” Saul lets out a long sigh. “If he doesn’t get himself thrown in jail for an unintentional violation of manners, it’ll be a minor miracle. But anyway. He’s off so I’ll be on my own.” He eyes her from the corner of the desk, where he’s turned to rest his arse. “Bring some things,” he says, “stay for a few days. There’s snow forecast. It’ll be fun. No skis, no onesies, I promise. We’ll just go for walks, eat too much, and get drunk in the evenings.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“It’s not like I’ll be throwing you a fourteen-course banquet involving aspic spoons. At best I’m talking hot toddies with whatever’s on special and a giant can of peanuts. Roasted chestnuts if you’re very, very lucky.”
“I am partial to those.” Saul lifts an eyebrow, sensing her wavering. “I could use a change of scene.”
“That’s settled, then. I’ll pick you up tomorrow after work.”
By the time they get to Saul’s, the sun has long sunk behind the horizon and been replaced by a shining crescent moon. The air is chill—more than cold enough to afford them the promised snow—and Farah tugs her coat around her as she strides between the car and the front door.
Inside, Saul shows her upstairs and deposits her bag in the spare room.
“You’ve redecorated,” Farah says, taking in the freshly painted walls and neat curtains which bracket the windows with pale green velvet.
“Stella stays over sometimes.”
“And she sleeps in here?”
“Well, she pretends to.”
They exchange a knowing glance, because the comings and goings between the suites is something they’ve long given up on trying to police.
“If you brought an armed guard,” Saul says wryly, “they can set up in the kitchen.”
“No one to defend me but me, I’m afraid. Or you, I suppose.”
“Are you expecting a kidnap attempt? Because I have got a plan for that. I had to have it ratified by her security detail, even though neither one of them looked older than twelve.”
Farah snorts. “Who knew having a royal to stay would be so involved. What happens if they get married?” Farah says. “Do you become royalty by extension?”
Saul runs his hand over his face. “Fuck, I never thought of that,” he says. “Can you imagine?”
“You’d have to figure out more than which spoons to use.”
“Worse than that, I’d have to talk to Luna.”
Farah sniffs a laugh and undoes the zip on her bag to start unpacking.
“You want to go out for dinner tonight?” Saul says. “There’s a new restaurant on the High Street. People say it’s nice.”
“How nice? I didn’t bring anything formal.”
“I think you can get away without a ball gown.”
“Alright,” Farah says, and Saul smiles and reaches for his phone to ring and book a table.
They reconvene by the front door. Saul looks smart in a way that’s completely different to how he does at school: dark shirt ironed to within an inch of its life and a charcoal jacket with a jaunty—for Saul, anyway—spotty pocket square.
Farah wonders if this is what he wears when he goes out on a date, not that he does such a thing very often, only usually when Ben talks him into an awkward double up arrangement with someone he’s been ineptly emoji flirting with on an app. On those occasions, Saul’s role is mostly moral support, but Farah can’t help wondering what Saul is like when he’s newly encountered in a situation like that, whether he’s flirty and attentive or plays it cool, whether he still offers to walk a girl home.
Saul looks up at the creak of the stairs, gives her a slow once over as she descends, and then looks sharply up again to meet her eye. “I thought you said you didn’t bring anything nice?”
Farah smoothes the velvet of her black dress down over her hips. “I’ve worn this to work plenty of times,” she says, leaving out that she usually adds a jacket because it’s a little clingier in some places than she’s comfortable with when doling out detentions, not to mention the amount of cleavage on show if she happens to lean forward. She holds out the necklace she’s been battling with for ten minutes. “Could you help me with this? I can’t seem to manage the catch.”
She turns so Saul can reach. Warm fingers brush the free stands of her hair to one side and Saul’s breath fans the back of her neck. It’s not like they’re new to being around each other, but whenever one of them steps closer, it’s like they’re both suddenly very aware of how they breathe, trying to do it naturally in a way that sounds and feels incredibly forced.
“There,” Saul says.
The necklace drops into place, cool against Farah’s skin. She smiles at Saul in thanks over her shoulder.
He doesn’t move away immediately, as if he wants to say something, but whatever it is melts before it reaches her.
Instead, he holds out her coat. “Shall we?” he says.
The restaurant is a square stone building that used to be the pub she, Ben and Saul got riotously drunk in every Friday when they first started at Alfea. Farah remembers staggering to the takeaway down the road in search of greasy food to soak up the booze, Saul weaving behind her tossing out jibes about her being a lightweight while cars honked at him to let him know he’d stumbled into the road.
Inside, the restaurant is both smaller and cosier than it looks, garlands of pine interspersed with twinkling lights at the windows, fireplace lit, and linen tablecloths draped over the tables. There’s a strong smell of red wine and tomatoes and a waiter is just setting fire to a dessert to the delight of the surrounding diners.
They’re seated near the window, in a row of small two-person tables with candles in jam jars. It’s darker than it is in the main room where work parties are cackling and exuberant and the street beyond is largely fogged out, giving an atmosphere of intimacy.
The server holds out their menus with a smile of forced, but admirably attempted, sincerity. “We’re so happy you decided to spend your special occasion with us this evening.”
Saul’s gaze just flickers to Farah’s with half a question, but before either he or Farah can say anything, the server carries on. “Can I get some drinks to help you celebrate?”
Farah skims the list and points to a mid-price red from a vineyard on the coast. “Bottle of the Craggy Range cabernet, thank you.”
While they wait for their drinks, she peruses the menu and Saul makes his usual sweep of the room, checking where the exits are and doing a headcount. These days he does it without thinking, mentally logging each face against his internal data base of dubious characters while she tunes into the thoughts of those around them checking for powerful enemies or potential trouble.
It’s a habit neither of them has fully been able to shake off and sometimes ignoring the impulse only serves to put them both on edge, as if relaxation and preparedness for combat became the same thing so long ago they can’t be picked apart again.
The server brings the wine over, pours them both a glass, and sets the bottle on the table, informing them she’ll be back in a minute to take their order and saying how much she hopes they enjoy their special evening.
“Did you tell them it was my birthday?” Farah says.
Panic flickers across Saul’s face. “It’s not, is it? I thought it was in January.”
“It is.”
“She probably just got the tables mixed up.”
Farah murmurs, not quite convinced Saul hasn’t caught the festive pranking impulse and arranged for the staff to leap out and start a rendition of Happy Birthday while presenting her with a towering cake. She turns her attention to the tables around them, head hopping for a hint of special occasion.
“Go on, then,” Saul says, raising his glass. “I know you’re dying to.”
“Torrid affair,” she says. “Boss and intern. Only moderate guilt detected.”
“Bald head, six o’ clock. Too easy.”
Farah sits back in her chair in amused surprise. Saul has always been worryingly good at this game.
“Fine,” she says. She lets the pool of thought and emotion wash over her, picking out the more interesting morsels from the mass of internal quandaries and idle deliberations. “Awkward first date.”
Saul considers the options, scrolling through his memory of the dining room like a map on his phone. “Three o’clock,” he says, but less certainly, this time. “She seems on edge, possibly planning a way to sneak out through the fire exit.”
Farah shakes her head. “That’s because she accidentally ordered the priciest wine and is thinking about skipping out on the bill.”
Saul raises his eyebrows. “One o’clock, then. Huge gold earrings and man bun.”
“Care to explain your reasoning?”
“They’re mismatched. He’s got struggling artist written all over him and she looks like she works in a bank.”
“Accountant, actually, I think,” Farah says.
“Dating app?” Saul says.
“Dating app they’ll both be deleting on their way home.” Farah reaches for her wine and takes a sip, letting it warm her. “Ok then,” she says. “One of them thinks they’re out for a romantic date night and the other is about to give them the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech.”
Saul makes an appalled face. “Why bring them out for dinner just to dump them?”
“Where do you prefer to be broken up with?”
“I don’t know,” Saul says, “somewhere I’m not going to have to stay sitting opposite them while we split the bill, probably.”
Farah swills a mouthful of wine over her tongue. “Best guess?”
Saul murmurs, gaze flicking to the window to check out the contenders in the reflection. “Not the young guy by the back wall? Green sweater, can’t stop fidgeting with his napkin?”
Farah shakes her head.
“Older couple in the corner, then. Grey hair, smart clothes. They could’ve met at Bingo or something.”
“Last chance. One more go or you lose and you’re paying for everything.”
“Fuck,” Saul mutters.
He considers the options in the reflection again, mentally ticking the candidates off one by one.
“Wait,” he says. “It’s the lesbians, isn’t it? The one with the red hair is dressed to do the ‘lets be friends speech’ and the other one is dolled up to the nines. Clearly has no idea at all that’s where things are heading.”
Farah raises her glass in toast and Saul leans across the table and clinks his against it.
The server comes over, notepad poised and ready, the smile a little more genuine, this time. “Are you ready to order? Or do you need another minute?”
“No, we’re fine. I’ll have the butternut squash and sage gnocchi, thank you,” Farah says, “and he’ll have the open ravioli. We’ll share a green salad.”
“I haven’t even looked at the menu,” Saul says. He flips it open, quickly scanning down the list before huffing and flipping it shut again. “Fine. I’ll have the open ravioli.”
Farah smirks and hands their menus to the server.
While they wait for their food, they slip into a discussion about the pub, ribbing each other for their past transgressions, one anecdote bleeding into another: the time Saul accidentally set fire to the bar with a flaming shot; the time Farah singed her fringe trying to blow hers out. Whenever they get away from Alfea, it’s always like this. It’s almost as if all conversations are merely a continuation of something that’s happened before, as if they never stop talking even when there aren’t any audible words.
“Oh, wait,” Farah says. She holds up her hand for quiet so she can focus. “Bill skipper is about to cause a scene as an excuse to flee without paying.”
Saul glances over at the table just as the woman throws her napkin down into the remains of her lasagne and berates her baffled companion for looking at the server’s arse. He rises to defend himself and the couple face off over the table, while the manager scurries over and begs them to calm down.
“Should we intervene?” Saul says.
They both watch as the row intensifies until the couple are yelling insults at each other.
“Is he in on it?” Saul murmurs. “Is this fake or has she been bottling her hatred of him up?”
“Hard to say.”
The woman storms out, her date trailing behind her on a cloud of apologies while he simultaneously tries to get his arms into his jacket and hand his credit card to the manager, who has wisely blocked the door. Diners make wide eyes at each other and at least the lesbian couple seem relieved to have something else to talk about for a moment.
“Probably for the best,” Saul says, reaching for his wine. “She is way out of his league, and he was wildly overcompensating.”
“Why do you say that?”
“All new outfit.”
“How could you possibly tell?”
“Tag was still in his jacket and the mannequin in the menswear shop window was wearing the exact same thing.”
Farah tilts her head to indicate she’s mildly impressed, even though Saul’s eye for this sort of thing has been a running source of entertainment and amusement for more than a decade. When people started venturing out again after the Burned One threat diminished, frequently they used to people watch at speed dating events here, placing bets on who would leave together and who would endure three and a half minutes of awkward silence before the bell rang the death knell of potential romantic flame.
Saul digs his phone out and looks apologetically between Farah and the screen. “Sky,” he says.
“I hope nothing’s wrong?”
“He just needs to know how you’re supposed to address an ambassador.” Saul types furiously into his phone with the tip of one finger. “Don’t know why he thinks I’ll know. Only time I get invited to those sorts of things is as security.”
“Who else would he go to for help?” Farah says. “Anyway, it’s just Ambassador.” Saul shakes his head in bemused embarrassment and taps at the screen. “Any news on the spoons?”
“He sent a picture of this one,” Saul says, turning his phone so she can see.
“And that is?”
“Gazpacho.”
“Very impressive.”
Saul sniffs a laugh and tucks his phone away again. “Where were we, anyway?”
“I was just remembering when we went speed dating,” Farah says, “and we watched everyone pair off or sit in terse silence.”
Saul tilts his head. “Do people still do that? Or have apps replaced it?”
“I wouldn’t know. Dating conventions are hardly on my radar, these days.”
Farah glances up at the server as she approaches with a steaming pasta dish in each hand and a large salad balanced on her forearm.
“Thank you,” she says, as the server sets them down and Saul moves the wine to make room between them for the salad. “That looks marvellous.”
They both tuck in, splitting the salad between them according to their established preferences—Farah taking the rocket, which Saul despises, and he claims the cucumber, which Farah thinks tastes like crunchy water. They chat about the food and their plans for next term, and Farah realises how long it’s been since she did this, with Saul or anyone else. It’s so easy to get wrapped up in Alfea, so easy to find things that need her attention and fall into the trap of thinking there’s never any time to do anything for herself and falling asleep at her desk.
And Saul is such easy company, to her at least. Others find him demanding and taciturn, but she knows that beneath the drive, there’s someone with whom she can relax into the softness of shared history and mutual understanding. She spears a gnocchi and deposits it on the side of his plate.
“You should try this.”
“I’m not the biggest fan of—”
“I know, but you’ll like this.”
As warily as he’d approach a bundle of clothes that could be hiding a Burned One, Saul prods the gnocchi with the prongs of his fork. He considers it for a moment before scooping it into his mouth, where he deliberates before nodding in pleasant surprise.
“You want some of this?” he says, indicating his ravioli and spooning a couple over the table to her.
Farah spears them and tries them immediately, the tomato sauce perfectly ripe on her tongue. “That is really very good. Next time you and Ben go out on a double date, you should bring them here.”
A curious expression flickers over Saul’s face. “You know I only did that once or twice while he got his confidence back, right?” he says.
Farah reaches for her wine. Something about the tangle of emotions radiating from Saul makes her keep the ‘it’s no skin off my nose if you’re dating half of Blackbridge’ firmly in her mouth.
They clear their plates and settle in to finish the wine, chatting about the student pranks.
“How many desks did you lose, in the end?”
“Four or five,” Farah says. “I can still smell the burning sugar.”
Saul glances over her shoulder, eyes widening. “That’s not a memory,” he murmurs.
The server approaches, carefully balancing a platter between her hands.
“And here we are,” she says, placing a slab of slate with a series of miniature chocolate cakes on it between them, “our sharing dessert platter for the happy couple.”
“I don’t believe we ordered this,” Farah says.
“Oh, it’s complimentary, from the chef.”
Saul muffles his mouth with his sleeve as the dessert fizzes into life, an elaborate sugar fan that’s been skewered into the top of one of them going off like a sparkler in a haze of burning sugar. Miniature fireworks erupt over the top of their table, showering the platter in gold sprinkles shaped into tiny stars and hearts. Around the edge of the slate, someone has meticulously drizzled the words ‘happy anniversary!’ in chocolate sauce and decorated it with icing sugar, which catches light on cue and burns for a moment before turning to caramel.
Someone starts to applaud, the sound of it rolling towards them like a crashing wave, and the server beams expectantly.
Farah daren’t breathe or look out at the faces turned towards them from the surrounding tables.
Is she supposed to make a speech? Acknowledge their congratulations, somehow? In the whole of her life, she’s not sure she’s felt quite this much like she’s been thrust onto a stage with no idea what her lines are. She’s just grappling with that when a Champagne cork pops, and another server fills two glasses and presents one to Farah with great flourish.
Farah flicks a helpless gaze at Saul.
He flicks one back that says: just play along. It’ll be over quicker.
“Thank you, that’s—er—”
“Fantastic,” Saul says, and reaches across the table with his glass. “Happy anniversary, darling.”
“Yes, you too,” Farah mutters and clinks her glass against his, adding a hesitant, “sweetheart,” as an afterthought.
Her smile has a gritted quality that probably makes it look as if she was about to serve him with divorce papers, but it must suffice, because the server beams at them both before backing away to leave them to their dessert.
Farah stays frozen in position for a good thirty seconds before jolting back to reality when Saul stabs a fork into one of cakes, causing a minor explosion of chocolate sauce like the entire thing has been modelled on a miniature volcano.
“Did you arrange this?” Farah says. “As some sort of joke?”
Saul rolls his eyes. “Yeah, next I’m going to send you enough flowers to bankrupt myself for a laugh. It’s just a mix up.” He scoops up some chocolate lava and shoves the fork into his mouth. His eyes close in a completely uncharacteristic show of bliss. “You should really try this.”
“Pass me a fork?”
Saul surveys the slate. “There’s only one. I think we’re supposed to share.”
“I’m not having you feed me.”
“We’re supposed to be married,” Saul says, waggling the fork at her before scooping up a mouthful of sponge and sauce and offering it to her over the table. His eyes glitter; he’s enjoying her discomfort just a little too much. “Just try the pudding, sweetheart.”
Farah sighs at him in irritation, but she leans forward anyway, not missing the way Saul’s gaze falls to her lips as they fasten around the fork and slide over the prongs. She swallows, meeting his eye. “Oh,” she says.
It might well be the nicest thing she’s ever had in her mouth.
“See?”
They share the entire thing, one alternating bite at the time, and by the time they’re done with that and half the bottle of Champagne each, it’s nearing midnight and the remaining staff are loitering to clear the last of the tables.
They stagger out, cold hitting them both and making them huddle together, laughing at how tipsy they appear to be and how on earth the mix-up happened.
“There was no one in there who was celebrating,” Farah insists.
“Maybe they got the dates wrong. We should come back tomorrow, see if anyone’s having a row about a forgotten anniversary.“
Farah tucks her arm into Saul’s to balance on her high heels as they cross the icy street. He folds his fingers over hers and leaves them there.
“I don’t know how anyone could mistake us for a couple,” she says.
“What you saying? That we’re hilariously mismatched like man-bun and earrings?”
“Hardly. I just don’t think we have—”
Farah gestures with her free hand.
“Romantic vibes?” Saul offers.
“Exactly.”
They carry on down the cobbles to where the shops and cafes peter out, replaced by the expanse of fields that lead to Saul’s house. He helps her over a ditch to where a stile separates them from the path, regarding it and Farah’s heels with some scepticism.
Farah steps around him, hitches up her skirt, and climbs over the fence, pretending she doesn’t notice how much thigh she flashes at the summit, nor how much she wobbles as she descends the other side. She holds her hand out to Saul in challenge.
“You never fancied it?” he says, hopping up onto the wooden bench that bisects the fence.
“What, marriage?”
The dismissive noise Farah makes comes out louder and more vociferous than she intended. Saul grabs her hand, and she steadies him as he leaps down to join her in the field. “It’s not that ridiculous a suggestion,” he says.
“I would be a hopeless girlfriend, let alone anything more serious.”
“That’s not true.” Farah shoots Saul a sceptical look. “I mean it. You’re—”
“A workaholic with so little free time I can barely keep a houseplant alive without resorting to magic?”
“Last time I checked, you don’t actually need to water a life partner.”
“They do prefer when you speak to them and do things with them, though,” Farah says. “Or so I’ve been led to believe.”
As they cross the field, Saul steers her away from holes in the path, even though it makes them both stagger onto the grass. While they’ve been inside, a sparkling frost has descended, coating everything with a glittering crust and turning their breath to clouds like magic.
“It’s freezing,” Saul says, tugging her closer as her teeth start to chatter, his fingers seeking out the belt loop of her coat to keep her steady.
“Did you have to choose to live so far out of town?” she says. “My shoes are killing—”
Farah’s words are abruptly cut off by Saul lurching toward her. She grabs onto the shoulders of his jacket more by instinct than design, spluttering a protest and bracing for their fall. But the impact of the frost-hard ground doesn’t come, only Saul huffing and grappling with her skirt for a hand hold. “What are you—”
“You said—” Saul staggers, his fingers digging into the underside of Farah’s leg in an apparent attempt to hoist her up.
“Saul wh—”
Saul huffs with effort, shoes sliding on the ice and threatening to deposit them both on their arse. “—just cooperate and l—”
He manages to lift one of her knees and Farah hops and thumps his shoulder.
“Put me down, Saul,” she says, huffing at the expression of complete seriousness he’s wearing. Her usually impeccable balance wavers, owing to a combination of Champagne and standing on one foot like a flamingo. “They hurt, they’ve not been decapitated.”
Saul relents and releases her, puffing air out and facing her with his hands on his hips.
“That’s heads,” he says.
Farah lifts one foot and slips her shoe off, massaging her toes. “What?”
“Decapitated is heads. Only heads.”
“What’s the word for losing a foot, then?”
Saul shrugs, his gaze falling to where the velvet of Farah’s skirt is caught around her thigh. He’s no longer giving the word—whatever it might be—much thought, his mind tracing the muscle in her leg and wishing it were his thumb. He clears his throat.
“Piggyback?”
When they were students, he used to do that sometimes in order to get her back to her room before she learned how to hold her drink.
“Go on, then,” Farah says, kicks off her remaining shoe, and hitches up her skirt.
The house is cold and dark when they get back.
Saul rubs at his arms and his face is flushed with both drink and the exertion of carrying her home. “You want a nightcap? Help us warm up?”
Farah nods and lights the fire with a lazy flash of magic while he goes over to the drinks cabinet, wrestles the stopper out of the decanter, and pours them both a drink.
Farah curls up on the sofa, arm stretched out across the back. She ruffles the aged fabric, thinking about how long it’s been since she had as much fun as they’ve had this evening. There’s been precious little fun, of late. They used to make an effort for Sky’s sake to fill the diary with ordinary family activities, them and Ben and his kids all together pretending to be ordinary when the scars had barely healed. But as the kids grew, it felt less necessary, and Saul talked to Sky more about duty and preparation and the laughter dried up.
“You mean what you said earlier?” Saul says. Farah looks at him in question as he hands her a glass of whiskey. “About being a terrible girlfriend?”
“Rosalind used to say I am incapable of connection, that I’m privy to the full range of emotion but unable to feel any of it.”
“She said a lot of things, not all of them were true.”
Farah takes a swig of her drink, resting the facets of the crystal glass against her lip for a moment just to feel the contrast between the heat of the liquid in her throat and its coolness. “Granted, but on this, I don’t think she was too far of the mark.”
“You connect to me easy enough.”
Saul sinks down next to her, cradling his own glass in his lap. He works his way down the back of the sofa until his hair brushes against her hand, and she can’t tell if it’s intentional or if he’s just loosened by alcohol and firelight.
“How d’you know, anyway, if you never tried?” he says.
“I never tried abseiling off a cliff either and yet I’m perfectly confident that I’d tangle to rope and take down any poor unfortunate who happened to go over the edge with me. Anyway, why are you interested?”
“Dunno. Just. Restaurant. Couples. Mistaken anniversaries.”
The sofa shifts as he turns his head to look at her, the same curious, placeless expression on his features as when she brought up Ben and their romantic outings at the restaurant.
“How about you? No one you’re interested in?” Farah says. Saul shakes his head. “No-one at all?”
“Couple of dates here and there, like I said,” he says, with a shrug. “Nothing really notable in either direction, neither hilariously awful nor nice enough to write home about.” He sighs and takes a sip of his drink. “Problem is, there’s only so much I can say about myself before it truncates in a lie.”
“What do you mean?”
“What am I supposed to say about Sky? Yeah come meet the kid I’m raising because I orphaned him.”
“You wouldn’t necessarily have to disclose the circumstances.”
Saul frowns and shakes his head again. “You don’t want a lie like that at the heart of everything.”
“So what you’re saying is that your dating pool is limited to people who already know about it. Basically, it’s me or Ben.”
Saul sniffs a laugh, runs a hand through his hair before letting it fall onto the sofa. It brushes against Farah’s knee, and he doesn’t move it, fingers shifting the nap of the velvet back and forth.
He’s always different when Sky isn’t here: less uptight, less formal, less contained. Sky gave him purpose, a reason to pull himself as far out of the pit of self-loathing as he could manage, but also constrained him to a rigid persona he’ll likely wear for the rest of his life. A long time ago, he decided what a father is supposed to be and turned himself into the best approximation of it he could manage: encouraging, reliable, dependable, all of his edges filed off on the outside so the only person who gets cut on them is himself.
Sometimes Farah wants to whisper to him that he doesn’t need to be that, not all the time. But what she means is: not with me. Because she knows who he is when all that is stripped away. She knows what it is to cradle him when he’s a mess of blood and tears, when his doubt is all consuming and the rage runs out and reveals that inside it all, he’s still a scared little boy staring into the lifeless eyes of his father. He’s spent his entire life trying to be the man his father demanded he be in that moment: strong, stoic, unshakeable like stone. And sometimes she just wants to chip away at him, but she’s in no position to castigate someone else for turning a granite face to the world.
“What d’you want to do tomorrow?” Saul says.
In the firelight, his eyes shine as he looks at her, his hair brushing her wrist. It’s softer than she’d have guessed and it almost tickles, but not quite.
“I don’t mind, really.”
“You mentioned having gifts still to buy.”
Farah moves her hand away, props her head up with it, burying her fingers in her own hair instead of his. “A couple, yes. My sister is impossible.”
“Do you not just pick what they want out of people’s heads?”
“Strangely people don’t tend to think like the pages of a catalogue with the desired items circled.”
Saul’s eyes drift closed. “I can, if you want,” he says, “if you’ve not crossed me off your list yet. Really need a new drill. I can probably memorise the product code, leave it lying around in there for you to find.”
Farah sniffs an appreciative laugh.
They go to bed, shortly after.
Farah lies awake for a while, miniature fireworks and congratulations going off behind her eyelids like the ones that exploded over their dessert, her mind wandering across the landing and dallying in the doorway of what it might be like to curl up next to Saul.