Chapter 5
Richard woke before the bell. He always did. Light lay clean upon the ceiling—no flicker, no hurry. The birds had begun, measured and exact. He counted three calls before he rose.
The floor accepted his feet without complaint. The boards were cool, true. He liked that.
He washed. He dressed. He smoothed the counterpane flat again when he finished, because disorder lingered if one allowed it.
In the schoolroom, the table waited as it always waited.
The plate steamed. Porridge, thick and plain. Bread cut evenly. The knife set to the right, the fork to the left.
Sunlight reached the edge of the table and stopped. It did not trespass.
Richard sat. He breathed. This hour belonged to him.
He liked the sound of the house before it filled—the distant clink belowstairs, the soft opening and closing of doors not meant to wake. The hour before voices altered.
He lifted the spoon once. Set it down again. He liked the steam better than the taste.
Footsteps came along the passage. They did not keep time.
Richard did not look up at once.
The steps halted at the door. Light shifted.
Langston stood there. He did not enter. Richard raised his eyes then.
His brother’s hair lay disordered, his coat unfastened. The skin beneath his eyes shone too brightly, stretched thin, the colour drawn away.
Langston stared past him first—at the window, the wall—then fixed upon Richard’s face.
“Why are you here?” Langston said.
Richard waited.
Langston crossed the threshold at last. The chair scraped as he pulled it back too far, then sat at an angle. The smell reached Richard then—sleep-sour, sharp. It did not belong in this room.
Richard attended his meal. The fork touched the plate. A small sound. Wrong.
“Stop it,” Langston said.
Richard kept his hands placed.
“Stop looking at me.”
Someone passed the door. The shadow cut across the table and went. For that instant, Langston’s face broke—eyes too wide, mouth parted, the skin drawn thin and pale.
Richard did not move. Langston’s chair struck back.
“Golem.”
The word landed before the motion.
Metal flashed.
The fork entered his hand. It seated itself deep and held.
Richard looked down.
Blood welled, dark and steady, spreading across the grain of the wood.
He noted the warmth. The pressure. The way the fork remained upright.
Langston cried out then—ragged, tearing—and stumbled back. “Save me... save me... save me...”
The table jolted. The plate shattered. Feet pounded. Voices rose.
Smythe wrapped a blanket around Langston and lifted him. “Find Burton,” he said loudly.
Richard remained seated. The fork stood upright.
Blood reached the table’s edge and stopped. The wood darkened unevenly.
He pressed his thumb against the tips of his fingers—triage. Sensation remained.
He flexed once. The fork twisted.
Siobhan came to him, her hand extended. “May I?” she whispered.
Richard placed his hand, fork and all, into hers.
He stepped around the fallen chair. Footmen were mopping his blood, his place setting cast aside.
* * *
They crossed the passage. The nursery door stood open.
Light lay even there. A basin waited upon the stand.
Linen lay folded. Nothing in the room surprised him.
She led him to the small table near the window and set the chair back with her foot.
He climbed into it as she guided him. She did not hurry. She did not look at the fork.
“Sit,” she said. Blood oozed down the side of his hand and dropped upon the table. Siobhan slid a linen beneath his palm. It darkened at once. Mr Burton appeared in the doorway.
Richard stared at him.
“May I?” Burton asked.
Richard shook his head.
Burton stepped closer.
Richard bared his teeth. Burton swallowed.
Siobhan placed her hand on his shoulder. “May Mr Burton remove this?”
She tilted her head, waiting. A few seconds passed; he nodded. She looked at Burton and gestured.
He took the open chair. “Place your hand flat upon the table, please.”
He did.
“I must secure your forearm. May I?”
“Yes.”
Burton grasped his wrist with one hand, the handle with his other. “One, two—”
The metal came free with a wet sound.
“Lint. Boiled water. Clean cloth,” he said, never looking away.
Siobhan hurried away.
“Grip here.” Richard did as he was told; Burton wrapped a serviette around the wound, layer by layer. “Flex each finger.”
He did.
“Again.”
He did.
“Very well.”
Smythe appeared by the door. “Viscount Hopton is in the Blue Room.”
“Stay with Master Richard,” Burton said. “No movement until I return.”
Siobhan reappeared; Burton hastened out.
She closed the door.
Minutes passed. Richard did not count them. His bandaged hand rested upon the table. The linen beneath it had dried stiff.
Voices gathered outside the door. Low at first. Then nearer.
The latch lifted. Siobhan stepped out and drew the door to behind her. She did not look back. Her skirts moved away down the passage.
Richard slid from the chair. He crossed to the door and stood with his shoulder near the panel. The wood felt cool.
Burton’s voice came through it, level and exact.
“…a fork,” he said. “…embedded into his hand.”
Another voice answered. His father’s. Richard heard restraint in it but no words he knew.
Burton again. “…removed it cleanly. The wounds bled freely. No damage beyond puncture.”
His mother spoke. One word only reached him. His name.
“…bloody,” Burton said. “…disquieting rather than dangerous.”
Richard leant closer. He pressed his hand to the door.
White bandage on brown wood.
“…cleaned thoroughly,” Burton said. “If they do not fester, there will be only the smallest scars.”
His mother’s breath stopped. Then resumed.
“…confer in private?” Burton said.
Richard straightened. He stepped back from the door.
The voices trailed off.
* * *
He took the servants’ stairs because it let him pass without question.
The turn came where the stone dipped, worn smooth by passage; he knew it.
He placed his foot where the hollow held him and did not shift again.
He reached for the latch with his bandaged hand, then paused.
He shifted it to the other and pressed against the panel. His mother was speaking.
“You may speak, Mr Burton.”
“Yes, my lady.” There was a pause. “The boys were alone. There was an altercation. Lord Hopton struck his brother.”
A breath—caught, then steadied.
“Where?”
“The schoolroom.”
“How badly is Richard hurt?”
“The skin was broken. There was bleeding.”
“But no lasting damage.”
“None that I can determine.”
Silence followed—not sharp, but full.
“Did Richard strike back?”
“No, my lady.”
A pause.
“Did he cry out?”
“No.”
Another pause.
“Thank you,” she said.
A chair scraped softly.
“You may wait below,” his father said.
“Of course, my lord.”
Footsteps withdrew. The door closed.
“You should have sent for me at once.”
“I sent for Burton.”
“I am their mother.”
Silence.
“They are boys,” his father said. “Boys quarrel.”
“One does not strike,” she said.
A pause.
“Langston did not mean it,” he said.
“Intent does not stop blood.”
The floor creaked.
“Richard does not cry out,” she continued. “That does not make him less injured.”
Silence again.
“They cannot remain together,” he said.
“You mean Langston cannot be contradicted.”
“I mean he must not be provoked.”
“By his own brother.”
A pause.
“Richard will go to Ashdale,” he said.
Silence fell—long, weighted.
“You separate them,” she said, “and you teach one that force prevails.”
“I teach them survival.”
Another chair moved.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “they will not be under the same roof.”
“You have already arranged it.”
“I have considered it necessary.”
Her breath passed, slow and even.
“Then hear me,” she said. “I will not pretend this is wisdom when it is fear.”
Silence held.
“What is that?” his father asked.
“Uncle Hugh has altered the arrangements. Again.”
Paper shifted.
“The route was agreed. The carriage as far as Calais.”
A pause.
“They have put Aunt Penny to sea.”
Silence followed—long enough that he thought the words had gone unheard.
“She does not cross water,” she said. “She would not consent to it without notice.”
“This is not carelessness,” she continued.
“This is decision.”
His father replied then, measured, smoothing the air. “I will look into it.”
“That is not sufficient.”
Her voice changed. “Hear me now, Henry Fitzwilliam!”
His father gaped at his mother.
“This nonsense from the north must stop. Infrequent letters. Sudden trips abroad. Frequent changes of plans—for years? Langstons do not miss weddings or baptisms! Something is amiss. It must stop immediately, I say! An outsider has breached our family felicity and rendered harm. Irreparable harm. It will not do! Find my cousins. Find them and bring them back to the fold. You will attend to this, am I clear, sir?”
Footsteps crossed above. Once. Back again.
“Yes, dearest,” his father said. “I have already dispatched inquiries.”
“Thank you. I require another task that you must attend to.”
His father inclined his head.
“Remove what harms us. Entirely.”
The floor above creaked. A chair scraped. Footsteps crossed—fast now.
He turned from the panel and went down.