Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
FOX
When the sealed letter from his mother came requesting his presence at dinner, he couldn’t avoid it any longer. He’d spent the last couple of days in the barracks, trying to avoid thinking too hard about Ian, Leon, Lumi—everything.
Fox set the note from his mother down and looked at himself in the polished metal mirror on his desk.
The worst of his face was healing, but he doubted his mother would ask him what had happened, regardless.
If there was one thing their family was good at, it was ignoring pain.
Even his mother didn’t want to confront the difficult conversations.
He poked at his black eyes. There was nothing he could do to hide them.
He packed a small bag of clothes, knowing she’d guilt him into staying the night.
As he turned to switch off the gas lamp on the wall, he noticed the corner of leather sticking out from beneath his pillow.
The book’s cover was warm beneath his hands as he pulled it out, running his finger over the fading inked title: Tales of the So-Called Dragonborn.
Sofia had given it to him, and though his simply possessing it could spell danger, he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.
It was a risky game he was playing. If he were caught with it…
Fox tucked it inside his jacket before turning off the lamp and leaving.
He walked slowly, as if delaying the inevitable would make it better. He didn’t want to see his mother and the wraith she’d likely become with the loss of his father—his fault. Not that she knew that part.
But it made it all the harder to imagine looking her in the eyes, knowing that he was the root of her pain.
It had been his fault his brother had died, and his own hand that had taken his father’s life.
For all the pain he unknowingly inflicted on her, he didn’t deserve her empathy, let alone her love.
When he arrived at last, the sun was just setting behind the horizon, and the gas lamps already glowed along the street. He paused outside the front door of the manor and took a low, deep breath before he entered.
His mother was standing in the front hall, as though she’d been waiting there for him to arrive.
Instead of the frail wraith he expected to see, she was beaming, cheeks flushed and full of life, hair done up in a neat coif.
She was wearing one of her nicer house dresses, with lace trimming along the skirt and embroidery on the neckline, but she had an old, stained apron tied over it.
Her lips pinched as her eyes swept over his face and the cuts and bruises he knew stood out starkly against his skin. But she said nothing as she swept him into a hug.
“Mother,” he said. She smelled of onions, cumin, and roasted chili peppers.
“You’re late,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake, and he could only study her, looking for the cracks, but seeing none. “You’re never late.”
He wasn’t. His father had beaten that one into him over the sun cycles.
“It smells delicious in here,” he said, ignoring her statement. “Have all the workers returned?”
“Only Lidi and Tamin,” she said, letting go of him. “I’m making dinner, which I need to get back to before the beans overcook.”
Fox didn’t hide his surprise as she fluttered past the dining room, through the servants’ hall, and into the kitchens.
It was strange to see the home so quiet, only Lidi standing in the corner, slicing and buttering bread with quiet determination.
“Paoletta, is he here?” Lidi asked, not looking up from her task.
“I am,” Fox said, unsure why he felt so out of place in his own home. Lidi gave a small jump, quick to respond with a bow, knife still held in her hands.
“None of that,” Mother said, leaning over a large boiling pot, steam curling her dark strands.
He felt unsteady on his feet, as if the world were shifting underneath him.
“Well, are you going to help?” Mother said, tone brooking no argument as she passed him a spoon and waved him over to his own pot. “Taste the rice and let me know if it needs more salt or lime.”
They sat down for dinner a while later, Lidi making her excuses before slipping back into the kitchen.
Fox was used to the dining room feeling empty, having never recovered from Leon’s absence.
Yet, despite his father being gone and he and his mother sitting together at one end of the table, the room felt more alive than it had in ages.
The gas lamps were burning brightly, and someone had lit the candles all along the table runner.
The scent of decadent, almost pungent spices filled the room, so unlike the Falain food his father had always insisted on.
“How do you know how to do this?” he asked as the burst of flavors hit his tongue with the first bite.
The beans were full and somehow indulgent, the tang of the tomatoes the perfect amount of sharpness against the heavy savoriness of the pork fat.
They’d rarely eaten beans, his father calling the dish poor food, but these tasted better than most meats served in the army cafeterias.
She smiled. “I used to sneak into the kitchens when I was younger. Nonia would let me help in exchange for teaching me the basics. It was a pleasant escape from the droll life of a general’s daughter.
Back then, they didn’t let women of my station work.
So, there wasn’t much for me to do in between the parties.
” Her smile was soft when she spoke of her family, and Fox felt an ache in his chest. He’d never met her parents—his grandparents.
They’d died before he was born, his grandfather at sea and his grandmother shortly after.
Mother always said she died of a broken heart.
Fox had never believed her. There was no such thing as a love like that. So he thought.
An ache ran through him, and he pressed his hand to the book under his jacket, where it rested against his heart.
Mother took a bite of the buttered flatbread and closed her eyes, lips curving in a small smile. She’d lost everything over the sun cycles—everything but Fox.
“You’re staring,” she said, eyes opening, the warm brown meeting his own.
“How are you?”
“I won’t shatter, Little Fox,” she said, putting down her fork.
He could see the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the lines creased across her forehead.
When had they appeared, and why hadn’t he ever noticed them before?
Even her hair, once black as night, had threads of silver streaking through at the roots. When had she gotten older?
“I just worry about you.”
She reached forward, folding his hands within her own, smaller but warm. Her eyes searched his, forcing him to look at her. “That’s not your job.”
“It is now,” he said.
A laugh bubbled up from her throat, and she squeezed his hands tighter.
“Don’t act like your father was the one taking care of me before he died.
” She reached up, placing her hand against his cheek.
“I know I wasn’t a good mother after Leon died.
While I don’t regret my grief, in grieving one son, I abandoned the other.
I won’t do that again. I’m your mother, and I’m going to take care of you. ”
“Mother, I’m an adult.”
She clicked her tongue. “That doesn’t make you any less my son. And you’ll forever be my son, even when you’re old and wrinkled. Like me.”
“You lost your husband,” he said. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“And you lost your father,” she said, taking a sip from her silver goblet.
Fox wasn’t sure what he should be feeling in that moment. Self-pity? Sadness?
“I loved your father,” Mother continued, voice soft, eyes distant. “I won’t let this break me. He died honorably, on his own two feet, defending this city as he always wanted.”
Fox’s chest tightened. His father had died on his back, killed by his own son. He looked at her, tracing every new wrinkle and gray hair. She might not be breaking yet, but she was fragile. If she knew…
He would make sure she never found out.
“You should teach the cook this recipe,” he said, interrupting his own thoughts. “It’s delicious.”
“Perhaps I will. I spoke with Liliana in the healing wards,” she said, in a subject change that had Fox narrowing his eyes.
“About?”
“The night of the prison break.”
Fox’s blood ran cold. Most of the people who had been stupid enough to mention the dragon they’d seen the night of the breakout had been killed or arrested.
But every rumor that flew through the city made him nauseated, waiting for the day the chief commander’s patience snapped.
He wouldn’t let his mother get caught up in that.
“What did she say?” he tried to keep his voice casual.
“A lot of people were injured, and a few healers were killed or disappeared,” she said. “I’m going to help in the healers’ wards. I know you’ll be busy with the army and reconstruction. It’s the least I can do, and it will keep me busy.”
Fox’s shoulder slumped in relief. “That sounds wonderful. I don’t like you being in this giant house alone all day.”
“You’re trying to take care of me again,” she said, smirking. He didn’t bother to hide the flush of his cheeks as he smiled.
Maybe things would be okay. If his mother could survive this, he could too.
After dinner, his mother insisted on helping Lidi wash the dishes and even volunteered Fox to dry them.
Though he found himself handing them off to Lidi when he realized he didn’t know where a single dish or pot was stored.
Even standing in the kitchens, he thought about how distant the room felt, despite having spent most of his life just on the other side of the wall.
He’d only ever turned up in the kitchens when he was in trouble or trying to hide.
Only once his mother forced tea down his throat and talked his ear off about the healing wards did she allow him to escape upstairs.
His room was cold, but he started a fire, thinking of Sofia the entire time. She would have been proud of the neat pile of logs he created, and how well they caught.
When the fire was crackling, he sat down in front of it, pulling out the book that had been tucked against his chest all night. It was a weight he was all too aware of.
He studied it carefully now, as if he might see Sofia’s fingerprints still pressed into its cover from when she’d handed it to him.
He thought of Lumi and his confession to them that he hadn’t found Sofia’s parents.
How had they broken the news to Sofia? Had they comforted her?
The shapeshifter had been much less happy to see him when Ian had shuffled him into the alleyway in the slums. They’d glared at him as if he’d personally offended them, which perhaps he had.
Or perhaps it had been his king’s man cloak and the badge shining on his chest. Their hatred was only fair.
He started gathering the supplies before he’d even formed the plan into words. He needed to hide the text before someone caught him with it.
His fingers grazed across the shelves until he found the perfect book.
It was one that Harlow had given him less than a blink ago when he’d promoted him to junior major.
He’d never bound a book before, but he’d learned how to stitch in training.
They’d practiced on leather and animal skins back then. It couldn’t be much different.
The hardest part was breaking the binding of the original pages without tearing them.
He even added the first chapter of the commander’s book to the front of the new one, ensuring that if anyone opened the cover, the first thing they would see would be descriptions of the various weapons used across Wueco.
For the first time in a long time, his mind was empty as he stitched, focused on keeping each pull of the needle even and tight.
When the book was finally rebound, the new cover perfectly fitted across the forbidden pages.
He looked down at the leather cover left behind, the small etching of a dragon across the spine.
Hating himself even as he did so, he drew a dagger across the cover until it was only strips. The leather pieces curled and shrank in the flames of his fireplace until they were slowly devoured. He tucked the newly bound book back into his pocket, comfortable with its weight.
It was the right choice, yet he felt as though he were burning a part of himself away. Was this what spying would be? Constantly hiding everything he cared about, burning the things he wanted to keep?
How many things did his brother burn? How many notes were passed among him and the resistance fighters? How many whispered words between Ian and him were lost? How much did Fox really know about his brother?
But then again, had his brother ever truly hidden himself from Fox?
He had spoken his mind. He had spoken out against the king and Chief Commander Harlow many times.
It was Fox who had refused to listen. It had been his own loyalty and ignorance that had made him blind to what his brother’s words had meant.
He’d always wanted to make his brother proud—to carry on his legacy. Had his goals truly changed, though?
A knock from downstairs shattered the silence. It was rapid and loud even from his room, cracking against the wood of the front door as though trying to break it down. Fox’s heart dropped, too many horrible possibilities running through his mind in an instant.
Mother was already downstairs by the time he made it to the hall, opening the door with a look of consternation.
High Specialist Tomlo was standing at the door, hand raised, readying to knock his mother in the face. A breath left Fox as he saw the man was alone. They wouldn’t send this weak-spined soldier alone to arrest him.
“Ocon,” he said, not bothering with titles and barely acknowledging his mother with a nod.
“High Specialist,” he said smiling, hoping the use of the man’s titles would bring back some modicum of decorum. “Can I ask why you’ve interrupted my night off?”
“Chief Commander Harlow has requested your presence. He wants you to pack a bag and come straight to the lab.”