Kyle had looked pleased. “Yes. You might even have seen some of my work on sale, if you’ve been to the pottery—although they’re stretching the definition of ‘local artist’ to the breaking point there. But this place seems to inspire people. I saw some very good driftwood sculptures by a local woman last time I was here. Kirsty Fisher—have you heard of her?”
Jory was horribly aware of Mal stiffening by his side. “Ah. Yes.”
“She’s Jory’s ex,” Mal said, all in a rush.
Dev had raised his eyebrows—then whistled a few bars of a song Jory recognised but couldn’t quite identify.
Mal clearly had no such problem, as he broke into a smile and called Dev a wanker.
“What did I miss?” Jory asked.
Kyle made a sympathetic face. “It’s a song by The Saturdays. Called ‘Issues.’ Sorry to bring up an uncomfortable subject. Again.”
“No, it’s . . .” Jory gave Mal a rueful look. “It’s a little awkward right now, but we’re going to get over it. She’s the mother of my son, Gawen.”
“He’s a great kid,” Mal put in. He nudged Jory. “Show ’em a pic. I know you got like zillions on your phone.”
Jory had dutifully got out his phone—and, of course, the first photo to come up was the one of Mal pouting in bed. Everyone laughed, Mal threatened to show his pictures of Jory, and after that, the conversation had flowed far more smoothly.
It was good. More than good.
Later, Jory and Mal walked down to the Sea Bell together, because Mal was determined to prove that Jory and Jago would get along fine over a pint. Jory still had his doubts about that, but since the meeting with Dev had gone so well, he was prepared to give it a go.
The skies were still cloudy, but there was a lighter feel to the air as they looked out to sea. “Think we’ve had the last of the rain?” Jory asked idly.
“God, I hope so. Had enough the other night to last me a lifetime. Hey, that thing with the seaweed, does that actually work?”
“Thing with the seaweed?”
“You know. You hang it up outside your window, and it tells you the weather.”
“What, if it’s wet it must be raining?”
Mal stuck up a finger. “Git. But it must’ve been well dodgy being a fisherman in the old days if that’s all you had to rely on when you put out to sea.”
“Oh, that reminds me: I found out something about Mary Roscarrock for you. Or rather, Bea did, and she told me. Although I’m not sure it’s what you wanted to know. She didn’t really concentrate on the piracy side. More the, er, family side.”
“Yeah?” Mal’s tone was cautious. Maybe Jory should have left Bea out of the story, but . . . she was still his sister. That wasn’t going to change.
Jory recounted what Bea had told him of Lady Mary’s tale. Leaving out Bea’s reaction to her discovery because, well. It didn’t exactly show her in a good light and he didn’t think she’d thank him for sharing it.
Mal grinned. “Hey, so you’re not the first queer in the family.”
“I’d be amazed if I was.” To be honest, there had been times he’d wondered about Bran. “But anyway, we could try and dig a bit deeper, building on what we know so far. See if there are court records that mention her, that sort of thing. Although if she changed her name, perhaps took a male name, it might be difficult.”
“Yeah, if you want.” Mal didn’t sound all that bothered.
“I thought you wanted to.”
“Nah, it’s just . . . Okay, don’t laugh, but it was just this idea I had, you know? I wanted to find a Roscarrock Dev could, like, relate to or be proud of. Whatever.”
“And you chose a pirate? Is there something I should know about Dev? Latent criminal tendencies? A fetish for tricorn hats?”
“See, I knew you’d laugh. But you know what I mean. Someone who didn’t just do what was expected of ’em. Took their own path and sod the head of the family. Uh. Not literally.”
“I’d hope not. But yes, of course we can still do that.”
“Nah, don’t need to anymore, do we? He’s met you.”
Jory’s heart flipped over at the warmth in Mal’s eyes. “Me? I’m not exactly a role model of rebellion. I’ve spent my life doing what my family wanted.”
“Yeah, and now you ain’t doing it no more.” Mal snaked an arm around Jory’s waist and pulled him close. He leered. “Now you’re just doing me.”
“That was awful,” Jory protested, laughing as he pushed Mal away in mock disgust.
“Nah, you love me really,” Mal said—then he froze, uncertainty in his eyes. “Uh . . .”
Jory pulled Mal in tight again, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I do.”
“Jeez, it’s cold round here.” Mal shivered, the thick woolly fisherman’s sweater Mrs. Quick had hand-knitted him out of an actual sheep doing sod all to stop the wind slicing through.
“I told you you’d need a jacket.” Jory sounded smug, but he also wrapped his arms around Mal in a big, warm hug, so Mal decided to let him live. “It’s almost December, you know.”
“I was fine back home.” Home was Jory’s cottage on the outskirts of Porthkennack. Well, it was Jory’s for now. After Christmas it was going to be theirs, properly and officially rather than just a case of Mal generally not getting around to leaving at the end of the day. He was going to move his rats in and everything. The thought made Mal feel all warm and fuzzy inside although, sadly, not outside.
Jory was going to be coming back with Mal to his mum and dad’s for Christmas. Mal hoped there’d be room in his parents’ flat, what with Morgan and her husband bringing the baby over for Christmas dinner. But he couldn’t wait to see his nephew again.
Even if Morgs had insisted on calling
