Page 46 of Angel of Thursdays

“He’s a sophisticate,” May said. “Worldly but sneaky. I think he’s ex-CIA. Bond meets Bourne.”

Cassiel drank his chocolate mint and let it go. He didn’t need to be right about corvids, he didn’t need May to remember his own words. The morning was right. The knee against his thigh was right.

“We’re going to the park,” Cassiel said.

“I figured.” May nodded, raising his gingerbread latte. “Paper means park.”

* * *

They crossed Irving and entered through the path near Ninth Avenue, where the trees closed overhead and the traffic sound dropped.

Golden Gate Park in December was a muted affair. The cypresses retained their dark green, but the ground cover had turned brown and the light filtered through the trees in pale lances. The air smelled of eucalyptus. Cassiel’s eyes relaxed. No contrast to manage, no squinting against directional glare.

May walked close. The gap between their shoulders had been something Cassiel measured once—six inches sticking in his mind like a mental stim—and now it was less than that. He had no need to measure anymore.

The path curved through a stand of eucalyptus, the bark peeling in long strips. May’s hand swung and brushed his sleeve.

“So!” May said. He’d eaten half of the gingerbread man. “Christmas.”

“What about it.”

“You got me something.”

“As the capitalist gift-giving tradition dictates.”

“You’re not going to tell me what it is.”

“Correct.”

Cassiel turned his ring. He watched May’s face—the brightness in it, the endless need to know that made his eyebrows shoot up and his whole body angle forward. The urge to hand May a piece of it, just enough to watch his face change, was tempting. But controllable.

“It’s something I’d need to set up,” Cassiel said. “At your place.”

He hadn’t planned to say it here. He’d planned to say it later—after the walk, maybe, or over text, where he could draft and revise. Instead it came out here, because May had been performing an interrogation with a paper cup and Cassiel’s mouth had opted for indiscretion.

May’s stride broke. He gave a watery smile that was possibly a grimace, scratching at the back of his neck somehow, with the fingers not holding a cookie.

“My place?” he echoed.

“If that’s⁠—”

“No, yeah. Yeah, that’s—” His hand came down and the grin came up. The recovery was faster than the flinch. “That’s cool. Crazy you’ve never been, the shop’s so close and all. Uh, but I’ll need, like, twenty-four hours’ notice so I can—” He waved his hand. “…you know.”

Cassiel didn’t know. He’d never been. He knew it from what small snippets May gave away—a game console belonging to his brother mentioned once, the couch visible in the background of a late night photo, the kitchen counter in a blurred shot of a mug. It was all partial information, like what he had seen just now. The hand at the neck, the faltering, the grin reappearing.

“My apartment is great,” May said, falling into step beside him. “It’s a palace. You’re going to walk in and you’re going to say, ‘Oh May, this is beyond my wildest dreams.’”

“I’m not going to say that.”

“You’re going to think it.”

The path opened into a meadow—brown grass, a stand of trees at the far edge, the sky wide and grey above them. May’s voice was speeding up, papering over a crack. The performance was good, but Cassiel was getting better at hearing the seam. Still, he let it go.

May’s hand, evidence of cookie brushed away on his jeans, found Cassiel’s sleeve and held it.

CHRISTMAS DAY

Cassiel locked the door behind him and stood in Linden & Pratt without turning on the lights. His breath was visible in the cold. The heating system had been turned off over the week. Through the doorway, his workbench sat as he’d left it Monday—loupe in its cradle, tweezers in the tray. The other bench was bare except for a figure of a Christmas elf wearing a red speedo. Ross’s sense of humor. Cassiel looked away from its painted eyes and moved on.