Chapter Six
SIX
Evander leaves a trail of bloodied clover in his wake as he enters the kitchen.
Only now have his feet begun to hurt, the abuse of the outdoors pulping his tender skin, and he takes inventory of the whip-line scratches that mark the back of his hands and the glass stuck in his heel from the greenhouse.
Even his sweater hem has unraveled, bits of hawthorn caught in the wool as if the garden tried to snatch him as he ran past.
It isn’t the time to show weakness, but for once in his life, he actually wants Carrington to hobble out from behind a corner and scold him before fixing everything.
Evander doesn’t know how to take care of himself, doesn’t understand what will hurt him until after it has.
The bright, warm glow of the kitchen leaves him squinting as he limps to the quaint little breakfast nook.
It’s tucked out of the way, a circular built-in bench covered in musty cushions, the round table dinted from decades of use.
He slumps onto the bench and considers laying his head on the tabletop. Exhaustion has hit like a brick.
Laurie comes inside behind him, slamming the back door closed as he fishes his phone from his pocket and puts it to his ear. All he says is, “Feral cat corralled,” then ends the call before there’s time for a response.
He rakes a cool gaze over the mess of Evander.
“I am not a feral cat,” Evander says stiffly.
Laurie raises an eyebrow. “Have you thought about scratching my eyes out at any point in the last twenty-four hours?”
“Try the last five minutes,” Evander mutters.
“Feral. Cat.” Laurie leans against the sink and tries to flick dirt off his white shirt. It only smears.
Evander huffs and pulls one of his abused feet into his lap, wincing as he picks out a thorn.
The field guide starts sliding out from under his sweater and he shoves it back up before Laurie sees.
That is his to explore alone. Something about it has snagged his attention—not just the fact it was hidden, but the way it might be exactly what he needs.
A guide to the monster he has inherited.
It’s almost too convenient finding it like that.
When he glances up at the arched windows, the overgrown garden seems to have clawed even closer, branches and ivy knotted against the glass. It needs to be pruned. Sunlight must struggle to get inside with so much shrubbery smothering the panes.
The kitchen feels like an alien place, a ghost in his memory along with so much of Hazelthorn.
He probably had cucumber sandwiches and lemon cakes at this very nook with Laurie, both of them messing around and being rowdy little boys, while their parents ate sedately in the elegant dining room down the hall.
But that’s just what he thinks he should remember. What he truly remembers is being laid out on this table, the smell of perforated bowels slicking the wood while Mr. Lennox-Hall yelled for Carrington to bring bandages.
“Did you unlock my door?” It comes out more demanding than Evander intends. “That night your grandfather died? Someone unlocked my door.”
Laurie has wandered over to the freezer and yanks it open, perusing the contents with disinterest. He doesn’t even spare Evander a glance. “Why would I unlock your door?”
“I don’t know.” Frustration creeps into Evander’s voice. “Carrington wouldn’t just unlock it and leave.” He picks another thorn out of his foot. “Nothing makes sense. What’s wrong with the garden?”
Laurie bangs his head on the freezer with such force that Evander jumps.
“Jesus…” Laurie rubs at his head and hurls two frosted packets onto the counter before slamming the freezer shut as if he has a personal vendetta against it. “What do you mean, ‘What’s wrong with the garden’? It needs a trim? Because yeah, I guess so.”
“No.” Evander decides to speak very slowly and carefully in case this obtuse boy is trying to mishear.
“I mean, why is it so overgrown? Why doesn’t Hazelthorn have gardeners?
Why is it … Why does it feel…” But he can’t say so wildly, viciously alive because maybe that’s how the entire outdoors feels after you’ve been locked inside for seven years.
He huffs out a breath and tries again. “The last thing your grandfather said to me was to never go into the garden. Why?”
“First of all,” Laurie says, still wincing as he glares at the freezer, “nice of you to ignore the final words of a dying man. Real sweet. Second of all, do I look like I know how the twisted brain of Byron Lennox-Hall works? Because I do not. Do a séance and ask him.”
“You’re not very respectful,” Evander says.
“I try not to be.” Laurie gives him the most earnest smile that is somehow also unfathomably condescending.
Evander’s chest feels full of brimstone. He is not an angry person. This isn’t him. Laurie is just insufferable.
Engaging is pointless, so he goes back to pulling thorns out of his sweater and ignoring Laurie as he dusts ice chips off the packets, which, Evander realizes now, are premade pizzas. His mouth waters.
Frozen pizza somehow feels incongruous in a kitchen like this, where oldness lies in the very bones of the flagstone flooring.
Thick, wooden beams run overhead, still blackened from when the old woodstove worked in tandem with the massive fireplace to cook food for the lord of the manor.
Original scrollwork outlines the hearth, and the old iron hooks for big kettles and roasting spits remain intact.
Everything is dark and oppressive. Dark wood walls, dark iron light fixtures, dark cast-iron pots hanging from an overhead rack.
Around the corner lies the butler’s pantry, and Evander has the sudden urge to scurry inside and stuff himself.
But he can’t be seen like that. He can’t be wolfish and unkempt and wild; he needs to be the studious, quiet, considerate gentleman that Mr. Lennox-Hall meticulously raised. Maybe this was why he plied Evander with books and logic puzzles and tests—preparation to inherit.
But it still makes no sense.
The back door yawns open again as Dawes appears in time to watch Laurie select a bottle of wine from the floor-to-ceiling pigeonhole rack beside the pantry.
Scratch marks line Dawes’s forearms as if he fought through a hedgerow to get here, and mud cakes his expensive shoes.
A frown pulls at his brow as he locks the door and then flicks a glance between them.
“Great, you’ve found him. Should he be put—” Dawes checks himself as if he’s remembered Evander has ears.
“What?” Laurie says. “Put him back in his cell?”
Dawes rubs at his temples. “Laurence. I swear, I’m—”
“Not in front of the baby,” Laurie says.
Evander straightens in his chair, lightning flaring hot in his chest. “I’m not a baby.”
“I was talking about me,” Laurie says calmly, “but okay.”
Dawes looks like he’s regretting his entire career.
“I’m not entirely sure I should leave you two alone here tonight, but your great-aunt told me she’s arriving first thing tomorrow.
” He adjusts his cuffs and glares with annoyance at the tears in his sleeves.
“Also, Laurence? Put that wine back. You’re underage. ”
Laurie sighs and sets the wine on the kitchen counter with a thunderous crack. “My bad, I forgot.”
“I understand emotions are running high,” Dawes goes on. “I’m only following the last wishes of your grandfather. This is what he wanted. I’m not your enemy.” He manages a strained smile.
“Or,” Laurie says, a little too bright, “I could hire my own lawyer and contest the bullshit in that will. It’s fake, I know it is.”
Dawes doesn’t blink. “I don’t believe you have the funds for that.”
The silence that follows is monstrous and sucks all the air from the room. Laurie’s expression doesn’t flicker, but his eyes seem dangerously, violently bright.
It sinks into Evander’s skin, the reality of Laurence Lennox-Hall no longer having a single cent to his name.
His belongings, his schooling, his lavish lifestyle—it’s all funded by his grandfather.
Byron didn’t just leave everything to Evander, he cut his grandson off with brutal finality and didn’t even bother to specify guardianship for him to the point he’ll be shuffled off to the nearest of kin, same as Evander.
They’re only seventeen. And Byron clearly only cared about one of them.
A sick, heady rush makes Evander wish he could melt onto cool flagstones until everyone sorts out this mess around him.
Except he’s not safe here. He could easily wake tonight with his throat slit open, the inheritance returned to Laurie in a circular ending to what they started.
If Laurie tried to kill Evander once, he’ll try again.
Evander can see it now, Laurie’s hot, wet mouth on his bones.
His stomach does an odd swoop.
Dawes cautiously gives Evander an awkward pat on the shoulder, but seems to regret the contact.
He slows down his words as he says, “Let me know if you need anything, all right? As your attorney, it’s my job to see you’re safe and cared for.
” He straightens, his voice taking on a brighter, crisp tone, which means he’s talking to Laurie, the real person in the room.
“Also, just a reminder, the will stipulates that if Evander is unable to inherit, all available funds under Byron Lennox-Hall’s name will be donated to various charities and the Hazelthorn Estate will be razed. ”
Evander cuts a sideways glance at Laurie, who looks at the wine like he’s thinking about hurling it against the wall.
Dawes collects his briefcase, adjusts his glasses, and flicks a glance at his watch. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Your grandfather’s office and affairs need to be put in order, so I’ll be here quite a bit in the coming weeks. I’ve locked the office door though—please remain out.”
“Why don’t you just stay the night?” Laurie’s smile is razor-sharp. “Save time with all that traveling.”
A muscle flexes in Dawes’s jaw, but he matches the smile. “That won’t be necessary.”