Read Online The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds by Ian Tregillis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ian Tregillis
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he’d learned over the years to twist his vowels, leaving behind burrs and clipped syllables in order to emulate the regional accent of the Midlands. Will had grown up listening to how the staff at Bestwood spoke.
The door opened. A cold draft followed Marsh into the pub, tousling close-cropped hair the color of wet sand. A forest-green cable-knit turtleneck and gray corduroys covered his solid build. Marsh wasn’t exactly short, or blocky, either, though he sometimes came across as such. It was an illusion created by the way he carried himself, and a face more suited to a boxer than a scholar. But he reminded Will of nothing so much as a coiled spring. Not in the sense of being high-strung or nervous: quite the opposite. But Will had always sensed something inside the man, tightly controlled but powerful.
Marsh ordered at the bar, then leaned against the brass rail while waiting for his pint. When Marsh entered a room, he studied it as though it were a puzzle to be solved. He’d had that mannerism forever—the peculiar way his eyes moved, absorbing every detail. He did it now, examining the pub and the lounge with caramel-colored eyes.
But Will had taken a table in the corner of a dark, smoky pub. He lifted his head. “Pip.” Will had christened Marsh with that nickname during their first year at university together.
Marsh didn’t hear him. Will stood, repeating, “Pip! Over here.” Helifted his hand to wave, but rapped his knuckles on a stag head in the process. “Oh, sodding.” Tea slopped out of its cup when he bumped the table. “Hell.”
Will sucked on his knuckles. The shopgirls tittered.
The commotion drew Marsh’s attention. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile. He approached Will’s table.
“Good to see you, Will.” They clasped hands. Marsh had a brawler’s hands: thick fingers with round puckered knuckles and a solid grip. Will’s hands were more slender. Their handshake creased the thin white scars that spiderwebbed Will’s palm. Not painful, but unpleasant.
“And you’n all, mate.”
The other man cocked an eyebrow. Marsh rankled when people adopted a more common mode around him. At university, he’d worked to achieve a more refined diction of his own.
“Apologies,” said Will, slipping back into his normal enunciations. He had, perhaps, laid it on a bit. “I’d forgotten. Force of habit, you know.”
Marsh grinned. He nodded at the teapot and empty cup. “Buy you something stronger?”
Will shook his head. “I’d settle for just a slice of lemon, honestly. You’d think there’s a war.” Will sighed theatrically. “Alas. I’ll soldier on.”
“Still not drinking, eh? It’s comforting to know you still cling to your affectations.”
“Your billfold can thank old granddad for my peculiarities.”
“Every one? The mind reels.”
Will laughed. “It does indeed.”
“And how’s your brother?” asked Marsh, taking a seat.
“His Grace has made something of a holy terror of himself in the House of Lords. Fancies himself a crusader these days.”
“Socialist?” Marsh looked at him in mild alarm. “Hasn’t gone pink, has he?”
“Oh, no. He’s not a Bolshie.” Will dismissed the concern, waving his long fingers in a languid circle. “Merely decided he’s the champion of the common man. Taken the plight of the Spaniards to heart, or some such.”
At the mention of Spain, Marsh looked rather serious for a moment. “Good for him. Someone ought.”
“A bit late, I fear. I’ll relay your greetings, yes?” A formality, of course.
“Please do,” said Marsh. He sipped at his pint, eyes scanning the room behind Will.
“Well then,” said Will, “to the matter at hand.”
Marsh continued to stare past Will’s shoulder.
“I said,” Will repeated, “to the matter at hand.”
“What?” Marsh looked like he’d just been poleaxed.
Will dangled one long arm over the back of his chair and chanced a look. Marsh’s attention had landed on
The door opened. A cold draft followed Marsh into the pub, tousling close-cropped hair the color of wet sand. A forest-green cable-knit turtleneck and gray corduroys covered his solid build. Marsh wasn’t exactly short, or blocky, either, though he sometimes came across as such. It was an illusion created by the way he carried himself, and a face more suited to a boxer than a scholar. But he reminded Will of nothing so much as a coiled spring. Not in the sense of being high-strung or nervous: quite the opposite. But Will had always sensed something inside the man, tightly controlled but powerful.
Marsh ordered at the bar, then leaned against the brass rail while waiting for his pint. When Marsh entered a room, he studied it as though it were a puzzle to be solved. He’d had that mannerism forever—the peculiar way his eyes moved, absorbing every detail. He did it now, examining the pub and the lounge with caramel-colored eyes.
But Will had taken a table in the corner of a dark, smoky pub. He lifted his head. “Pip.” Will had christened Marsh with that nickname during their first year at university together.
Marsh didn’t hear him. Will stood, repeating, “Pip! Over here.” Helifted his hand to wave, but rapped his knuckles on a stag head in the process. “Oh, sodding.” Tea slopped out of its cup when he bumped the table. “Hell.”
Will sucked on his knuckles. The shopgirls tittered.
The commotion drew Marsh’s attention. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile. He approached Will’s table.
“Good to see you, Will.” They clasped hands. Marsh had a brawler’s hands: thick fingers with round puckered knuckles and a solid grip. Will’s hands were more slender. Their handshake creased the thin white scars that spiderwebbed Will’s palm. Not painful, but unpleasant.
“And you’n all, mate.”
The other man cocked an eyebrow. Marsh rankled when people adopted a more common mode around him. At university, he’d worked to achieve a more refined diction of his own.
“Apologies,” said Will, slipping back into his normal enunciations. He had, perhaps, laid it on a bit. “I’d forgotten. Force of habit, you know.”
Marsh grinned. He nodded at the teapot and empty cup. “Buy you something stronger?”
Will shook his head. “I’d settle for just a slice of lemon, honestly. You’d think there’s a war.” Will sighed theatrically. “Alas. I’ll soldier on.”
“Still not drinking, eh? It’s comforting to know you still cling to your affectations.”
“Your billfold can thank old granddad for my peculiarities.”
“Every one? The mind reels.”
Will laughed. “It does indeed.”
“And how’s your brother?” asked Marsh, taking a seat.
“His Grace has made something of a holy terror of himself in the House of Lords. Fancies himself a crusader these days.”
“Socialist?” Marsh looked at him in mild alarm. “Hasn’t gone pink, has he?”
“Oh, no. He’s not a Bolshie.” Will dismissed the concern, waving his long fingers in a languid circle. “Merely decided he’s the champion of the common man. Taken the plight of the Spaniards to heart, or some such.”
At the mention of Spain, Marsh looked rather serious for a moment. “Good for him. Someone ought.”
“A bit late, I fear. I’ll relay your greetings, yes?” A formality, of course.
“Please do,” said Marsh. He sipped at his pint, eyes scanning the room behind Will.
“Well then,” said Will, “to the matter at hand.”
Marsh continued to stare past Will’s shoulder.
“I said,” Will repeated, “to the matter at hand.”
“What?” Marsh looked like he’d just been poleaxed.
Will dangled one long arm over the back of his chair and chanced a look. Marsh’s attention had landed on
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