"Didn't think I was being given a choice about the Montague who's been fucking me," Marc muttered, only half under his breath. Only one of them was, after all, and it sure as fuck wasn't his wife. Married to one, fucking the other; in some way it seemed to work out. When they fuck had he started thinking of this as something that was going to keep happening. A soft growl, offering a rumbling counterpoint to the hiss of the wheel.
"M'either there, here, or working out," Marcus said, reaching down with one hand as the wheel slowed, needing another fluff of wool to continue building the yarn on the bobbin. He let it slow all the way to a stop, taking a moment to check the tension, the quality of the yarn he'd spun. He made a small grunt of approval, then went back to work at it. "Bring your own books in if you want. There's shite there that's old, ancient shit from Flint history. Not worth reading. Been putting that up the ladders, towards the ceiling. Keeping the modern shite that I read now down where I can get to it."