The Dalwich Desecration by Gregory Harris Page B

lip.
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œThe brewing. They use wheat, not hops. It’s rather like a German Hefeweizen. Brother Clem . . .” He hesitated.
    â€œClayworth,” I supplied.
    â€œYes, he has much to be proud of.” He toasted my glass and took another sip.
    â€œI’m glad you’re pleased with their ale-making talents, but I would much rather hear what you’re thinking after our discussion at the monastery tonight.”
    â€œThinking . . . ?” he said before he tipped his pint back and took another swallow. “We have spent all of about three hours with them thus far. What should I be thinking?”
    â€œSurely someone has caught your attention,” I pressed, not believing him for a minute.
    He gave a small shrug as he drained his pint.
    â€œVery well,” I grumbled, shoving my unfinished pint away from myself with a frown. “I think I’ve had enough for one night. Are you ready to retire?” I dropped a generous handful of coins onto the table for Miss O’Dowd.
    â€œI am.” He stood up and stretched before following me through the doorway at the back of the pub.
    â€œI hope it won’t be too noisy,” I carped as we trudged upstairs.
    â€œWe’ll stay in the room at the back. That should be quieter,” he yawned.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe room at the back,” he repeated as we reached the landing. “We’ll stay there. It’s bound to be quieter than facing the street.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I continued as he followed me to the room at the rear of the building.
    â€œAm I speaking a foreign language?” he queried impatiently as we went into the miniscule room and he slipped off his jacket and vest.
    â€œYou can’t stay here.” I bothered to state the obvious as I too began to undress before washing my face and hands in the bowl the young chambermaid had brought up earlier. I dried my face on the folded towel set nearby and turned to find Colin stripped to his undergarments.
    â€œWhyever not?”
    â€œThis is a small town, Colin. Mr. Chesterton already said—”
    â€œThat man’s an old sot.” Colin yawned again as he stripped off his undershirt and began to wash up. “I’m not sleeping alone because of him. You’re worrying about nothing.”
    â€œIt’s not just him,” I reminded. “It’s the law. We could end up in jail. Look what they did to Oscar Wilde this winter.”
    â€œWe’re not aesthetics!” he snapped with finality as he dried himself before peeling the rest of his underthings off. “They have no reason to view us with suspicion. We’ll simply wake up with the first light, and before that silly chambermaid comes scampering about we’ll go and muddle the bed linens in the other room. She’ll believe I’ve spent the night there because she has no reason to suspect otherwise. Now stop fussing.” As if to prove his point he threw the covers back and climbed into the bed. “Get in here. I’m cold.”
    I wanted to continue to protest. Somehow it seemed as though that was the right thing to do. Yet as I glanced at him, his eyes shut and one arm stretched across the bed waiting for me, I began to lose my will. After all, he was right, the two of us were nothing like Mr. Wilde and his young fop, Lord Douglas. For discretion marked our every move outside of our home. We did not flaunt our bond as Mr. Wilde had so brazenly done. To do so was not only unseemly, but risked courting the very sort of censure that had garnered Mr. Wilde two years of hard labor. The poor man would be lucky to live through such a sentence.
    It was folly to disregard the tenets of decorum, which is why Colin and I so closely guarded the true nature of our partnership. And because of that fact I realized that he was right. If we took care to disassemble the other room each morning there would be no reason