Corbenic by Catherine Fisher Page B

butter.
    Cal wandered into the long room and put his plate on the table; his uncle glanced at him. “In fact I ought to insist you go in this morning. What’s this about you sliding off at half four last night?”
    â€œPhyllis,” Cal said bitterly.
    â€œYes. And she was right. It’s not on, Cal.”
    The doorbell rang; Thérèse went, her white shirt loose over tight dark trousers.
    Cal chewed the flaky croissant. “It won’t happen again. I just felt . . . a bit . . .”
    â€œNo, it won’t. I wouldn’t take it from anyone else and I won’t take it from you.” He tipped his head, curious. “And what on earth have you done to your hand?”
    Before he could think of an answer, Thérèse was calling from the door, “Cal?” Her voice was coy. “It’s for you,” she said, and there was a mocking note in it that surprised him. Until he looked over and saw Shadow.
    She was standing outside the front door, wearing the same clothes as last night, and she smiled calmly, hands in pockets. “Hi,” she said.
    â€œHi.” He was numb with embarrassment; the word came out automatically. She seemed so out of place here. The cobweb on her face was a mystery, her dark scruffy clothes bizarre in the modern, spotless room.
    He got up hastily and went over; Thérèse winked and slipped discreetly into the kitchen. He glanced back; Trevor was watching with ill-disguised astonishment over the newspaper.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” Cal whispered.
    â€œYou’re not so hard to find.” She scratched her cheek with a black fingernail. “Hawk kept an eye on you last night.”
    â€œFollowed me!”
    â€œIf you like. Because of the sword.”
    â€œI told you . . .”
    â€œCome on, Cal. We can’t keep it.”
    â€œ I don’t want it .” He shot an uneasy look in the mirror. He should ask her in, but her boots were muddy. The thought turned him cold.
    â€œAnd we thought you might want to see Hawk fight.”
    â€œFight?”
    â€œAt the reenactment. You could meet the rest of the Company.” She smiled, teasing. “We want you to come.”
    â€œWhat Company?”
    â€œArthur’s. It’s a reenactment group.”
    He hesitated. It was the last thing he wanted. But he had to get her out of here.
    â€œBring your friend in,” Trevor said with vast reluctance.
    â€œOh, it’s okay. We’re just going out.” Cal ran back and gulped his coffee; then raced upstairs and snatched his coat from the wardrobe, cursing and dashing back to brush his teeth. But when he got back downstairs again Shadow was sitting on the soft leather sofa talking to Thérèse.
    Cal fidgeted at the door. “We’re going down to the castle.”
    Trevor managed to take his eyes off Shadow’s tattoo long enough to say, “Fine.” He looked horrified; made a blank, questioning face. Cal shrugged, hot.
    â€œEnjoy yourselves!” From the doorstep Thérèse waved them off. Cal knew as soon as she went back in she’d collapse in fits of giggles and Trevor would fling the paper down and say, “Who the hell was THAT?”
    He stalked down the sloping drive, furious with himself and furious with Shadow for coming. She didn’t seem to notice. Instead she walked behind him slowly and said, “Is your mother French?”
    â€œ What? ”
    â€œShe sounds it.”
    Amazed, he realized she was talking about Thérèse. He opened his mouth to tell her Thérèse was his uncle’s girlfriend. Instead he said, “Yes.” That’s how easy it was. One word. And you could create a whole new world. She probably thought Trevor was his father. He had never had a father. In an instant a vivid string of imaginings had come and gone in his mind; him at six with Thérèse in the park, his birthday parties, Christmas, skiing, summer holidays