16 #3
Dray watches me stand but he says nothing as I toss the napkin onto the table.
My canvas-style sneakers thud on the hardwood floor.
I pass James who sits alone.
Huddled up against the window, his lashes are low enough that, at first look, I think he’s asleep.
But he isn’t.
He just watches the clouds.
His suit is finer than any I ever thought I would see on him, his hair is clean and properly combed, no oil glistening on his nose or chin, the way it used to all the time back at the academy.
Still, it looks like him. The glasses, the sullenness, the acne scars, the crooked nose, the overall mousiness.
I pass him without a word, then stalk by Mr Younge and the redheaded man.
Mr Younge looks up as I pass, and his eyes narrow.
I make a face right back at him.
Then I march straight for Oliver.
He’s closer to Father now, but they don’t talk.
Oliver’s eyes are shut, and Father has his elbow propped up on the spine of the couch, his head fallen back, and he pinches the bridge of his nose.
Lashes shut, he doesn’t sleep, but he is resting.
I have a gut-wrenching realisation that this could be the first time in years that he can rest properly. Not thinking about me anymore, out there on the run, causing scandals for the family that they have to patch up with an illusioned, well-married Asta.
I snub Father and nudge Oliver on the leg with my dirty, worn sneakers.
He opens his forest eyes.
And he lets a small smile ghost over his lips.
I blink, and it’s gone.
A crack in the mask.
Oliver slips off the couch with a grace I wish my body remembered. Since they found me, I’ve felt like a bull around them, a stumbling, fumbling krum.
That feeling is magnified as Oliver swipes a hand down the front of his shirt, smoothing out the creases, and he makes to speak—
But I shake my head and silence him.
I don’t want to disturb Father.
Not for his own wellbeing, but for mine.
If he opens his eyes right now and sees me standing here, it might unleash years of anger—and all I want to do in this moment is hide.
I fix a pleading look up at Oliver.
And before I can say anything, his mouth curves into a smile, like he knows exactly what I’m doing, which manipulation tactic I’m dusting off.
I mouth the word, ‘Bed.’
He nods once, then slips by me.
I follow him back down to the armchairs.
The soft lights above warm his chestnut hair. It was properly groomed back at the loft, combed into place. But now it looks as though he’s ran his fingers through it too many times, and it’s a little dishevelled.
He takes me to the back of the plane, passing Dray who doesn’t look up from his phone as he types texts or emails.
The door opens to a small lobby of a few doors.
All blackwood and lacquered.
Oliver leads the way through the one across the lobby, and into a bedroom that’s larger than the loft I left behind.
There’s a generous wardrobe, a vanity, a desk, and a bed that’s larger than even my own at Elcott. Undeniably custom made.
Oliver keeps his hand on the doorknob, and he gestures to the folded silk pyjama set on the foot of the bed.
“They might too large for you, but it’s better to sleep in those than…” He looks down at my coarse jeans. He fixes a tight smile onto his face. “I wish we had a change of clothes for you.”
I scoff. “Me, too.”
The sweater is getting itchy. The jeans feel stiff, the sneakers tight and uneven.
One of the bathrooms will have a shower, but what’s the point when I will have to climb into dirty, stiff, cheap clothes right after?
“How long until we land?”
Oliver considers me for a beat, a soft gaze, then glances at his watch. “Another eight hours.”
I reach out for him, his wrist, the glistening face of the gold Jacob & Co timepiece—
Oliver stills.
My fingers graze over the glass, and beneath it, is a gold mechanical design that reminds me of the guts of a grandfather clock.
Oliver turns his wrist, his hand, and clasps his fingers around mine.
For a beat, he just holds my hand—then his grip firms, his thumb running over mine, and he lifts a pained look to me.
He asks, “How are you?”
A loaded question.
It pushes the breath right out of me.
“I… I’m tired.”
It’s an honest answer.
But it stretches over time—to more than this moment.
I mumble, “I’ve been tired for a while.”
“Do you need something to help you sleep?”
A little splash of kindness.
Something that warms me.
Something that almost makes me forget what a terrible brother he’s been to me all my life.
Oliver hasn’t changed.
He’s always had these moments, these cracks and fractures in time, where he’s kind to me.
But now, knowing what Serena told me about Oliver not supporting my engagement to Dray, and that Oliver did give me his watch and let me go, it changes things.
I don’t know how, but it does.
He holds my hand and offers me a kindness, and I think he might be my only ally in this world.
My throat bobs with a thick swallow.
And I nod.
Oliver lets my hand go.
He digs into his trouser pocket and lures out a small phial, no bigger than my pinkie nail.
He hands it to me, then leaves.