netherfield ketch is let at last

 

The fourth ink bottle was more or less Malik’s fault; he had forced Altair against the bookcase, jostling the shelves until books and maps were falling off and, ultimately, another ink well rolled from a higher ledge and fell on top of Altair’s head.  Malik himself had not seen it happen, too busy leaving teeth marks over Altair’s bottom lip, but he had felt Altair stiffen and grimace against his mouth when, by all accounts, he should have been moaning.

 

Malik drew back, staring up at the blue-black stain spreading throughout the top of Altair’s white cowl.  Altair stared back and, very carefully, put a hand on his head to assess the damage.  He frowned as excess ink dripped from the tip of his pointed hood to the front of his robes.

 

“Can we-?” Altair began, managing to still sound optimistic.

 

“No,” Malik replied, and pushed him towards the fountain.