3. Last Will and Testament
Last Will and Testament
Gabriel
T he Office of Unclaimed Holdings and Stewardship existed in a state of perpetual, soul-crushing beige.
Not the warm, inviting beige of fresh cream or sun-bleached linen.
No, this was the dingy beige of institutional grind, of forms filed in triplicate, of dreams deferred until further notice.
The walls wore it. The floors bore it. Even the air tasted of it, thick with dust motes that drifted through anemic shafts of late-afternoon light filtering through windows so grimy they rendered the world outside an indistinct smear.
Gabriel glared at the clerk behind the counter, a reed-thin man whose entire existence seemed predicated on avoiding eye contact. The clerk shuffled papers, obviously pretending to be busy while doing nothing at all.
“We’ve been here,” Gabriel announced to no one in particular, “since midday. ”
Miles didn’t look up from whatever book he’d brought with him. “I’m aware.”
“It’s taking forever.”
“Also aware.”
Gabriel slouched lower on the spindly wooden bench.
Around them, the office stretched in all its bureaucratic glory.
Rows of filing cabinets listed like drunk sailors, towers of paperwork held together with fraying twine, and a pneumatic tube system wheezed and rattled overhead like a consumptive dragon.
Every surface bore the patina of decades worth of red tape.
“This was a terrible idea,” Gabriel muttered. “Coming back here. Taking this seriously. ”
That earned him a glance from Miles, warm brown eyes peering over the rim of reading glasses that made him look like an unfairly handsome librarian. “And what is your current alternative plan?”
“Burn the letter. Pretend we never received it.” Gabriel waved a hand dismissively. “Move around, taking small jobs and testing the beds in every inn in Averly. Live happily ever after.”
“Tempting.” Miles looked back to his book and turned a page. “Until the law caught up with us.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Realist.” Miles shifted, and Gabriel caught the familiar scent of him, book leather and that soap he preferred, the one with sandalwood. “We deal with this now, or it deals with us later. I’d rather choose the timing.”
Gabriel admired Miles’s profile. The strong line of his jaw, the way his brown hair escaped its tie in soft waves that curled against his collar, the small crease between his brows that appeared when he concentrated.
Even here, in this temple of tedium, Miles managed to look like he belonged in a better story.
One with fewer forms and more adventure. Or at least decent lighting.
Gabriel sighed, a long, theatrical exhale that earned him a sharp look from an elderly woman three benches down who clutched her number tag like it might escape. He slumped further, draping himself across the bench in a pose that suggested imminent death by boredom.
“Number forty-seven,” the clerk called out in a voice flatter than day-old beer.
A man in a wrinkled coat shuffled to the counter, number tag trembling in his grip. “Only took three hours,” he mumbled.
Gabriel’s eyes flicked to the paper tag in his own hand. Sixty-two. Sixty. Two. So many numbers between him and salvation.
“I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.”
“I’m expiring. Withering. Becoming one with this bench.”
Miles closed the book and shifted to make room. “Come here.”
Gabriel didn’t need to be asked twice. He scooched close and tucked himself against Miles’s side, fitting into the space under his arm. Miles was solid and warm, anchoring him against the gray tide of bureaucratic purgatory threatening to sweep him away .
“What were you reading?” Gabriel asked, mostly to have something to say, something to focus on besides the creeping sensation that he might dissolve into dust before they reached the counter.
“Classification systems for inherited properties,” Miles said, which should have been the most boring sentence in the history of language, but somehow sounded almost enthusiastic in his voice.
“Did you know there are seventeen subcategories for residential holdings alone? And that’s not counting the provisional designations for structures with—”
Gabriel tried to listen. He really did. But Miles’s voice washed over him like background music while his mind skittered elsewhere, to the journey here, to what waited for them behind the counter, to all the ways this could go wrong. His fingers found the hem of Miles’s sleeve and worried at it.
Miles didn’t have to be here. That was the thing Gabriel kept circling back to, the thought that lodged somewhere behind his ribs and refused to budge.
Miles could be literally anywhere else, back in Briarleigh with his books and his projects, in some cozy coffee house having an interesting conversation, off doing whatever it was normal people did with their afternoons that didn’t involve slow death by administrative procedure.
But he was here. Sitting on a bench that squeaked every time he breathed, reading books about property law, and letting Gabriel curl against him in defiance of propriety like some anxious cat. Because that’s what Miles did. That’s who Miles was.
“—which I suspect might be relevant to our situation, given the age of the—Gabriel. Are you listening?”
“Riveted.”
“Liar.” Miles pressed a kiss to his cheek, brief and casual, the type of gesture that made the corners of Gabriel’s mouth curl upward despite himself. “We’ll get through this.”
“Will we?”
“We’ve survived worse.”
That was unfortunately true.
“You know,” Miles said in that way he had when he was trying to will reality into compliance, “with any luck, this will all be resolved by dinnertime. We’ll enjoy a nice meal with Genna.
I hear she’s been experimenting with some kind of roasted root vegetable situation that’s supposed to be quite good for digestion.
We’ll test out the bed at the Mourning Lark properly and be on our way back to Briarleigh tomorrow.
Without needing to look over our shoulders. ”
Gabriel made a noncommittal sound. The words painted a pleasant picture. Too pleasant. The kind of pleasant that reality liked to take behind the stables and beat senseless.
“Simple transaction,” Miles continued, warming to his theme. “Sign over the estate to the city to dispose of as they see fit. Reject the absurd title. Collect whatever gold the whole mess is worth. Return to our life.”
Our life. The words settled over Gabriel like a favorite coat, warm and familiar. Except the life Miles described required one critical component: that Madaze Goldmar’s influence actually ended with his death six months ago. Which it should have.
Gabriel had put the blade through his master’s heart himself. Had watched those flat black eyes go still, felt the magical compulsion snap like a cable under tension. Madaze was rotting now, presumably sent to his rest in the sea by the city. Perhaps left to rot where he lay.
But his shadow lingered.
It had form now. Weight. A physical manifestation in stone and timber and whatever dark magic permeated the place.
Rookgate Manor. The name alone tasted like grave dirt on Gabriel’s tongue.
He’d sworn he’d never see it again, never walk those halls, never feel those walls close around him like a fist.
And now—somehow, improbably, absurdly —he’d inherited it.
Madaze was dead, but probate had resurrected his influence in Gabriel’s life.
“Mm,” Gabriel managed. Agreement, or at least the shape of it.
Miles shifted, opening his book again one-handed and angling it so Gabriel could read along if he wanted. Which he didn’t. The print blurred into meaningless shapes, legal jargon tangling with property codes and subclauses.
The pneumatic tubes wheezed and clattered overhead. Someone coughed, a wet, consumptive sound that echoed through the office like a death rattle.
“Number fifty-three.”
Gabriel let his head rest against Miles, breathing in the familiar scent of him, anchoring himself to the present instead of the past that had been trying to claw its way up his throat the moment they’d returned to Averdon.
How difficult could it be to sign away property he’d never wanted?
A few signatures. Maybe a stamp or two, judging by the bureaucratic enthusiasm this place displayed.
Some functionary would shuffle papers, file them in triplicate, and that would be that.
He’d burn the damned place to the ground if it would expedite the process.
The mental image brought a dark satisfaction: Rookgate Manor engulfed in flames, its expensive wallpaper curling and blackening, its parquet floors collapsing into the basement where—
Gabriel severed the thread of that thought before it could pull him along. He would not go down into that basement. Not even in his own head. Not here. Not now. Possibly not ever, if he had anything to say about it.
“Number fifty-six.”
“What do you think it’s worth?” Gabriel asked, trying derail his own spiraling thoughts. “The estate.”
Miles considered, using his thumb to mark his place in the book.
“Difficult to say without a proper assessment. The manor itself occupies prime real estate in the Spires. Even accounting for its... reputation... and probable state of disrepair, the land alone would fetch a considerable sum. Then there’s whatever holdings came with the title.
Ships, probably, given Rookgate’s mercantile focus.
Warehouses. Rookgate Croft back in the district.
Maybe some investment portfolios if Madaze was remotely competent at financial management. ”
“He was competent at everything except being human.”
“Fair point.” Miles’s arm tightened around him briefly. “Still. We’re likely talking thousands of gold, at minimum. Possibly tens of thousands.”
The number should have meant something. Security. Freedom. The ability to build the life they wanted instead of scraping by on small jobs and hoarded savings. But he just felt hollow.