Heaven knew what loneliness, what misery that covered. Dominic put a hand to Silas’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s the books,” Silas said. “All the books, gone to ash. All that thinking, all that writing. My Blakes, the lot of them. My books. Fucking hell, Dom, I know it ain’t the same, but it feels like my boy did. Gone, and naught I can do about it.”
His voice cracked, and Dom leaned forward, gathering him into his arms, holding his bulky brute like a child. “I know. I know.”
They held each other in silence, until Silas took a deep breath. “How’d you get here?”
“Guesswork. I recalled something Mistress Zoë said and concluded that your friend Jon must be her brother Shakespeare. Then I put two and two together.”
“You and your memory. You ought to do a show at Astley’s.” Silas looked around. “This isn’t Jon’s place.”
“It’s Quex’s, the club.”
“Is it, now? Your—Lord Richard ain’t going to like this.”
“He’s not going to find out. Silas, I am aware that you would never willingly endanger me. But I hope you know that if you had come to me, you would have found nothing but welcome.”
“Aye.” Silas rested his head on Dominic’s shoulder for a moment. “I know.”
“I’ll talk to Quex. Ensure that you can stay here safely.” Dominic glanced around, checking the room was otherwise empty and the door shut. “I, uh, assume you know that Quex is a woman?”
“He ain’t.”
“I assure you—”
“What Will Quex is is a cove with a cunny,” Silas said. “He reckons he’s a man, so does Jon, and it’s nobody else’s business until they ask you to join them in bed. Don’t start thinking of him any other way, or you might say something that’ll land a lot of people in trouble.”
That was undeniable, and Quex had made sure Silas was cared for. Dominic decided that he might never have noticed anything. “As you will. Goodness knows there are more pressing issues. Have you debts?”
“No. Always been careful.”
“Any savings? I don’t suppose you had insurance?”
Silas snorted. “No.”
“Then will you let me help? A loan. I’ll charge you interest.” Or, of course, Silas could take the work Richard had offered, but to press that now would be criminally foolish.
“Usurer.” Silas pushed his stubbled cheek against Dominic’s hair. “Ah, Dom. I don’t know. I can’t think about it yet.”
“No, of course not. Just make me one promise? Don’t vanish again. I spent last night and this morning wondering if you had been arrested for high treason or were dead in a gutter, and I should rather not repeat that.”
Silas smiled against Dominic’s skin, and Dominic held him, carefully, until he was asleep again, then went to find Mr. Quex.
Chapter 11
The next few days were…odd.
The calamity was such that Silas couldn’t seem to take it in. He slept heavily and dreamed, of the shop or the fire. Once he dreamed that he was sitting at the counter with Dominic, reading The Marriage of Heaven and Hell while the shop burned around them. He kept remembering that they had to flee, in little bursts of panic, and then forgetting because Dominic had read out, He who has suffer’d you to impose on him, knows you, and they were arguing over the meaning as the flames licked their feet.
Sleep was still better than waking and remembering that he was ruined. No home, no business, no income, no possessions. Not a penny in his pocket and barely a pocket, come to that, because the few clothes he’d scrambled to pull on when the alarm was raised were scorched full of holes.
And yet. He was safe and warm in the little room, with four good meals a day, even if they were porridge or stew spooned into his mouth by a patient maid because his hands were bandaged up. He was pretty sure Dom had ordered Will and Jon to get him fed, as sure that they’d have done it anyway. Harry had come, half-running along the corridor in his distress, and then turned up the next day with a pile of clothes in his arms, good sober clothes for a respectable working man, and a pile of smarter things for a respectable clerk. Silas had asked him, Why not bring one of your fancy weskits and an earring while you’re at it? He grinned at the memory.
If you had to lose everything, you couldn’t do it in better company.
It was a few days before the quack agreed to take off the bandages on his hands. He’d come twice daily to apply salves, and Silas was of the opinion he was just bumping up his bill. Whether it was the ointment or that his hands hadn’t been worth making a fuss about to begin with, they weren’t too bad at all on Sunday evening. Pink in a fair few patches, a little sore still, but no lasting damage done.