Chapter Twenty Five #2
“Speaking of which,” Fiona pitches in, curling a towel and flicking Addy’s ass on the counter. Her squeal pierces my skull, but it works to make her swing her legs over the side of the island and hop down. “Lunch is ready. One of you should fetch Master Waversea. It’s his favorite.”
My brows raise at this. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what it is, but I don’t want to admit that there is much about Rhys I’m yet to learn.
Instead, I slide into the stool beside Clay since Addy has offered to wake Rhys up.
She took a saucepan and a wooden spoon with her, so that’s not a good sign.
Clay bumps his knee against mine beneath the counter, his onyx eyes still warm as if this lightened mood of his is here to stay.
I can’t quite decide if it’s due to the little progress we made last night, or the enormous progress we’ve made with Rhys since coming here.
Sure, he’s still a grump, and that’s not likely to change until we leave, but his rage isn’t directed at Clay anymore.
We’re starting to merge into a trio that might just stand the trials ahead.
Speaking of grumps. There’s the distant clatter of metal, Addy’s muffled cackle and the thunder of footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Fiona has to turn away to hide her laughter, whilst my eyes catch on the neon pink flash skidding through the room.
Addy ducks behind the island before Rhys stomps in, his hair sticking up in every direction.
He pauses in the open archway, his eyes scanning the room for Addy before settling on me.
His eyes are wild thanks to his wake-up call, only a pair of sweatpants on his lower half which are on backwards.
I push a stool out, gesturing for him to join me.
After a moment of hesitation, he manages to ease the tension from his shoulders and sit.
Fiona places a plate in front of him first, before we all receive the same.
Addy slowly stands, a guilty look painted across her face.
“You wait,” he threatens with the point of his index finger in Addy’s direction.
That same finger then crosses over his throat, but there’s a lightness to it.
A hint of playfulness between them that is entirely new.
Addy picks up on it too, glancing my way to wink just as Fiona hands her a plate too.
The four of us lift our forks to dig into the poshest take on a Coq au Vin I’ve ever seen, and I notice Fiona about to slip out with her own.
“Wouldn’t you like to join us?” I ask, halting her mid-step.
Twisting her head, Fiona gawks at me like I’ve just grown another head.
Realizing I’m serious and that Rhys isn’t going to object, she slowly retraces her steps and lowers into a stool beside Addy.
There are multiple dining areas, but I prefer to eat in the kitchen.
It feels like the beating heart of the manor, where all the hustle and bustle happens.
Putting a tiny portion of each component on the plate onto my fork and popping it into my mouth, flavor explodes across my tongue.
I’m not responsible for the sound that escapes me.
The sauce is a mixture of sweet and salty, the meat melting away, and the vegetables crisped to perfection.
I’m practically salivating as I go for another forkful.
It’s not attractive, but Clay and Addy react in exactly the same manner, and Fiona beams with pride.
“I’m not surprised this is your favorite,” I pause long enough to bump Rhys’ shoulder. “I can ask Fiona for the recipe, but I doubt you’d ever get anything close to this caliber from me.” Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Rhys huffs a small laugh and shakes his head.
“I don’t need you to cook for me. If I want it that badly, I’ll learn to make it myself.”
“Or you could come back to visit more,” Fiona points out boldly, shrugging one of her shoulders. If she picks up on the shift in Rhys’ demeanor, she doesn’t comment on it. I’m sure Rhys would sooner burn this manor to the ground than commit to staying more often, and it’s not my place to argue.
What others may see as a streak of luck, being born into this lavish lifestyle with his fancy favourite food and designer clothes, Rhys sees as a curse.
Everything about the manor reminds him of his fear and loneliness.
Although, as he shifts the tightness that had settled between his shoulder blades, he cuts me a small smile and I cling to the hope that not everything in the manor is all doom and gloom for him anymore.
The rest of the meal is enjoyed in silence, the sound of forks scraping against my receivers. Fiona dabs her mouth with a napkin, beginning to remove our plates when Rhys stands.
“Let the men handle it,” he states, collecting my plate before Fiona can. “You ladies go and gossip. I know Harper is burning to ask you a million questions. Just no photos. Pre-braces Rhys doesn’t ever need to see the light of day again.” I’m as shocked as Clayton, who slides off his stool.
“Since when did you clean up after yourself?” he asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Rhys places the plates into the basin and grabs a hand towel.
“Since we became such a great team, Claybake,” he drawls sarcastically.
I watch on in amazement, the quiet domesticity of them falling into washing and drying hitting me harder than any revelation from last night.
It’s a reminder that the past is done, even if those ghosts are creeping back up.
The here and now is what matters and all we have control over.
Catching Rhys’ eye, he nudges his head towards the archway.
I stall for one more confused moment, my mind delayed in catching up.
I know Harper is burning to ask a million questions.
Like a string of thought slipping away, I reach out and grab onto it, suddenly understanding.
This isn’t about pre-braces Rhys. This is about gleaming some answers from the woman who’s been present for Rhys’ entire life.
Who’s witnessed the comings and goings over the years.
Jumping down from my stool and signing frantically to Addy to help me, we gently usher Fiona into one of the smaller living areas just off the kitchen.
The shift in atmosphere is immediate, like the walls themselves are leaning in to listen.
We drop onto the sofa side by side, while Fiona takes the armchair across from us, brushing down her knee-length skirt out of habit.
Despite our efforts to appear relaxed, her eyes twinkle with awareness, the look of someone who isn’t na?ve enough to be fooled by our tight smiles.
“Before you interrogate me, I’ve signed an NDA. I can’t discuss anything relating to Mr. Waversea.” Fiona’s voice remains level as if she’s been waiting for this line of questioning for years. My gut drops immediately, but Addy leans forward without hesitation, elbows braced on her thighs.
“What about Mrs. Waversea?” she asks, cutting straight through the formalities. Fiona’s lips part, then press together again, and when she speaks, her voice is quieter.
“There isn’t much to say.” She exhales slowly, her gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the room.
Although her posture remains composed, I can see the cracks in her armor beginning to form.
She’s desperate to talk to someone. To share what little information she’s been holding onto all this time.
“One night, they were all here. Watching a movie in the theater room, laughing and eating popcorn. Next morning, we arrived to find a six-year-old boy sitting at the bottom of the stairs, crying and clinging to an old blanket he slept with every night.”
My heart squeezes painfully at the image that slams into my mind, so vivid and uninvited, it steals my breath. Small shoulders hunched forward, bare feet on cold marble. A child waiting for a mom who never came back. Fiona fidgets with the edge of her apron.
“There was no one else in the manor, but instructions had been left. Apparently, they were called away for an emergency trip. We did our best to reassure young Rhys, but they were gone for months, and only Mr. Waversea returned. He was never the same after that, but that’s as much as I can say.”
“Did you see them leave?” Addy narrows her eyes, sifting through information like a detective.
“As in, did you see them walk out, alive and of their own accord?” Fiona’s eyes refocus, her hesitancy evident until she gives a small shake of her head.
My throat tightens, the next question churning in my gut.
“What happened to the blanket?” Fiona’s eyes flicker to mine, her arms folding as if she doesn’t know where to put her hands.
“It was burned. Along with all of his personal belongings. The things he cherished most.” A hollow ache blooms behind my ribs as she goes on.
“Around the same time, he was moved out of his room and told he had to earn his place in the house. I can’t tell you how many times I found him curled up, asleep in the hallways.
” Her voice softens, sorrow etched deep.
“This isn’t a home to Master Waversea. It’s a prison. ”
Silence settles over the room like an unmovable fog, the kind that is in no rush to be broken.
The three of us sit there, breathing the same air, each lost in our own private thoughts, yet tethered by what Fiona has revealed.
My chest feels tight, as if my heart is pressing outward, too full of grief and fury and a helpless sort of love that has nowhere to go.
I can almost hear Addy’s thoughts buzzing inside her mind, while Fiona stares at a point just beyond us, her expression worn with the quiet guilt of someone who witnessed too much and intervened too little.
In some ways, Fiona is the closest thing to a mom Rhys has ever had.
Perhaps more like a grandmother due to her age, but either way, I can tell she hasn’t been able to be involved as much as she would like.
There’s a motherly instinct there, hindered by an NDA and an employer who seemingly changed over the course of one business trip.
After a while, Fiona sighs and comes back to herself. She gestures absently to the armchair she’s sitting in, her fingers brushing the hunter’s green velvet stretched across the arm.
“He used to sit right here,” she says quietly.
“His feet never touched the floor. I’d slip him cookies before dinner was served.
He would always try to decline, but I insisted.
” A sad smile curves her lips, the memory bittersweet.
“Sugar helped to calm his nerves before sitting at a table with his father. He suffered terribly with anxiety, but he learnt to deal with it.”
“No,” I shake my head suddenly, my chest aching, heart breaking for the boy I never got to meet and the man still carrying his scars. “He learnt to bury it.”