He’d racked his brains overnight, trying to work out what he’d done wrong, and come to one inescapable conclusion: Mal knew how Jory felt about him.
And he didn’t reciprocate.
It was a bitter pill, but if he wanted any kind of relationship with his nephew, Jory was going to have to choke it down.
Seagulls swooped and cried, and for a moment, Jory envied them. Things were so simple for them. None of this agonising about whether the object of their affection liked them back: all they had to do was walk up to a bird they fancied, show off their dance moves, and get either accepted or rejected.
Then again, Jory had zero confidence in his dancing skills as a human, and he couldn’t imagine webbed feet making an improvement.
He was aware of the tall, lean shape approaching him along the path for a long while before he had any idea who it was, but gradually the form and features resolved into someone familiar.
Jory’s heart clenched almost painfully, and he half stumbled.
It was Mal, walking straight towards him.
Jory fought to keep his pace from becoming unnaturally fast or slow. It was extraordinarily difficult when he felt so under scrutiny. So much for dancing—he seemed to have forgotten how to walk.
“I wanted to apologise,” he said when they’d finally met, before Mal could open his mouth. “I think I made you feel uncomfortable, yesterday. I’m sorry.”
“What?” Mal looked, if anything, even more uncomfortable now. “Nah, mate, it’s just . . . I was just having an off day. Too much sun. Or something. I oughtta be apologising to you. You know. For running off like that.”
“No, not at all.” So they were going to pretend Mal hadn’t noticed Jory’s unrequited crush on him. Jory could do that. Would have to do that if they were to remain friends, and although it might not be what he wanted, it was the best option in the circumstances. “Um. So, er, what did you want to do about today? Do you still want to go to Tintagel?”
Mal hesitated, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets and hunching his shoulders up tight, as if he were trying to squeeze a decision out by force.
“We don’t have to,” Jory said quickly, his heart sinking. Perhaps friends wasn’t an option after all. “It was just a thought. I’m sure you’ve got—”
“No,” Mal cut him off. “I mean, yeah. We should go. That is, I want to. If you want to?”
He still didn’t look precisely happy, but Christ, Jory was only human. “I’d love to. Um. We’ll have to walk back up for my car.”
Mal let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing. “That’s cool.”
Jory turned, and they walked a few paces up the path in silence while Jory desperately tried to think of what to say.
Mal beat him to it. “So, have you read like all the Arthurian legends? Like Geoffrey of Monmouth, and that French geezer, and the rest of ’em?”
As olive branches went, it was quite a fruitful one, and Jory accepted it gratefully. “I haven’t dipped into Chrétien de Troyes or the Vulgate Cycle since my undergraduate days, to tell you the truth. Or the Mabinogion, for that matter. But Geoffrey, yes. You’re familiar with his Histories of the Kings of Britain?”
“Uh . . . I wouldn’t go that far. But I’ve read the Arthur bits.” Mal smiled, for the first time this morning. “Crazy to think he was writing about Tintagel, like, a thousand years ago and we’re going there today.”
A weight lifted from Jory’s shoulders. It was obvious this trip meant a lot to Mal, and despite everything, Jory felt absurdly privileged to be sharing it with him.
“Have you read Tennyson’s Idylls of the King?” he asked as they walked on, long strides eating up the distance between them and Roscarrock House.
“Nah, Tennyson, that’s poetry, innit? ‘Wandering lonely as a cloud’ and all that bollocks. I never really got on with that stuff at school.”
“Most people don’t. Honestly, I’m not sure what the schools are doing, but they seem to be rather good at turning out young adults with a hatred of poetry these days. And the cloud one was Wordsworth, in fact. But if you can manage Malory, you should be fine with Tennyson. It’s more of a narrative than a poem.” Jory darted him a glance. “Which is not to say you should read them if you don’t want to. Sorry. I keep forgetting I’m not actually a lecturer these days.”
“Do you miss it?”
“God, yes.” Jory hadn’t meant it to come out sounding so heartfelt. He sighed. “I miss the atmosphere, and people interested in knowledge for its own sake.”
“Museum job not cutting it?”
“It’d be better if the visitor numbers were higher.”
“Yeah, you need to put the fun back into that place. Play up the whole smuggling thing.” Mal flashed him a wicked smile. “Dress up as a pirate and shiver yer timbers at everyone.”
Jory snorted. “I think I’d be a bit of a disappointment to kids reared on Captain Jack Sparrow.”
“Nah, don’t do yourself down. You’d be great. Go on, gimme your best ‘Arr, Jim lad.’” Mal walked backwards for a few paces, gazing at him expectantly.
“Ah. Jim lad.” Jory deliberately made his voice sound as BBC English as he could.
Mal burst out laughing and almost tripped over his feet before turning to walk normally. “Maybe not, then. Or you could always tank up on rum first.”
“I’ve actually been thinking about a mermaid exhibit,” Jory said, warming to the subject. “We could incorporate local and foreign legends, and I’m pretty sure I can get my hands on a genuine Fiji mermaid.”
“Uh. You know mermaids ain’t real, right?”
Jory laughed, relief that
