“Yeah. And I don’t even like Sartre.”
“I see.”
“Or biscotti.”
He turned into me, stifling an amused sound in my hair. I hoped someday he would learn to laugh freely, but until then, or even if he never did, all his secrets would be safe with me. As cherished as his kisses. “Why haven’t you? Visited I mean.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Somehow never got round to it. That’s one of the most awkward things about living in London: All this exciting stuff happening nearby, and you still end up eating Twiglets in your pyjamas and watching an illegal stream ofDrag Race. Well. If you’re me. Probably you reshape the world’s economy.”
“Not every day. In any case,” he went on vaguely, “perhaps in the future you will have occasion to spend more time here.”
“Yeah, I could spill orange juice on Julia Roberts.”
“Pardon?”
“God, you’re hopeless. I love you.”
He made flustered motions. “Shall we walk?”
“Sure. Though since you normally get a chauffeur to take you to the bathroom, I’m beginning to think you’ve been infected by alien brain parasites. You haven’t been infected by alien brain parasites, have you?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” He thought about it for a moment. “Although I suppose that’s what I’d say if Ihadbeen infected by alien brain parasites. They would want to protect themselves.”
I bit my lip, assessing the situation. “It doesn’t seem as if they’re the threatening kind of alien parasites. I mean, it’s not like they’ve mind-controlled the prime minister or the pope or someone.”
“Excuse me, I’m very rich and quite powerful.”
“Yeah, but all they’re trying to make you do is hook up with a cute boy.”
“It’s true.” He gave a somewhat self-conscious shrug. “They’re much less concerned with wealth and worldly ambition than they used to be. Apparently their priorities have shifted towards, I suppose, being in love and being happy.”
Our attempt to walk wherever Caspian thought we should walk was not going well. We’d made it all of a hundred yards. And now I made us stop, so we could kiss, and kiss, and kiss forever in the tangle of moonlight and streetlight on a softly sleeping street in Notting Hill.
“I’m going to make sure you have the most satisfied alien brain parasites in the universe,” I promised, when we finally broke apart.
A fruit machine spin of expressions whirled across Caspian’s face before he finally settled on solemn to the point of ridiculous. “Thank you. We are, indeed, blessed.”
“I’m a keeper.”
“And I will keep you as long as you wish you to be kept. Although”—another of those adorable rueful looks—“I had not intended to keep you standing around in the cold.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere I could not take the car.”
I was still so unaccustomed to questioning Caspian that it took me a second or two to realise he hadn’t actually given me an answer. But I didn’t mind. It was close to midnight, maybe even a little after it, which meant that we’d slipped into the magical space between days, when the teeth of the past were blunted and the future a starbright road. I wasn’t looking for miracles—I knew change was the shyest of friends and powerful things weren’t easily defeated—but we had time and I had hope. And the same faith I’d always had, in Caspian’s strength and goodness.
We turned, passing beneath a sneaky little archway tucked between two houses and leading onto a cobbled street. I’d heard of London’s half-secret Mews—the lanes that ran behind the grand terraces, once intended to serve as stables and servants quarters, now adapted into modern homes—but I’d never actually been to any of them. My loss again, because, even illuminated only by the glow from their own windows, the houses were lovely. Every single one of them was unique: Some were painted, others were redbrick, some had square balconies, others round, though most had retained the oversized barn doors from their horse-centric days, even if the styles varied, and nearly all were festooned with climbing vines, flower pots, and window boxes. Yet they all fit together perfectly, united in their difference and their charm.
“Oh, Caspian.” I clutched happily at his hand. “This is the best place ever.”
We had stopped outside a pale blue building, its doors and windows picked out in a darker shade, and the wintertime skeleton of a wisteria vine curling up the side. And Caspian seemed suddenly ill at ease. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it. But are you okay?”
“I think so. That is—Arden?”
I couldn’t totally control an instinctive flutter of anxiety. “Yes?”
