Chapter 10
Theo
Theo sat with his knees spread on either side of the toilet as his stomach heaved again, the contents climbing his throat. Wiping the edge of his lip with the back of his hand, he sat back on his heels.
He hung his head, praying to the gods to rid him of the nightmares, the torment, or at least his headache.
His fingers brushed against the cut on his forehead.
Thankfully, it’d scabbed over in the night.
He draped the short strands over it and leaned back over the toilet as another bout of nausea churned in his stomach.
There was a knock on the washroom door. His shoulders sagged as he eyed the latch secured in place.
“Theo,” Gris called from the other side, “you’ve ignored two summonses from servants. We’re going to be late.”
Theo flushed the evidence of his dread. He lifted the latch and cracked the door. “I’ll be out in a moment.”
“Did you not wash your hands?” She crossed her arms, settling her gaze on the dry porcelain sink.
He rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated groan as he turned on the faucet and eyed her through the crack, showing her the hard scrubbing of his fingers.
Gris wasn’t satisfied. She never was. Theo opened the door completely and stepped into his room in nothing but his undershorts and a lose sleep shirt.
Gris had seen him hundreds of times in this manner during the war, but even though her tastes lay elsewhere, he still scoured the floor desperately looking for a clean shirt.
Gris drew the navy-blue curtains open to flourish the room in its natural light. Theo averted his eyes from the sun attempting to blind him as he went about his room and assessed the cleanliness level of various shirts and trousers to pick something appropriate for the meeting with his father.
Now that he was home, he could sport what he wished to. After wearing nothing but his uniform for years, he was eager for something else. They all were. Gris even wore a pair of black leather trousers and a matching vest.
“Here.” Gris stood with a cotton shirt hanging from her finger. “You could try grabbing one hanging in the wardrobe.”
Theo snatched the clean shirt from her and stepped into the washroom to change.
He peeled off his sweat-soaked sleep shirt and let it fall in a heap on the floor.
The chill of a breeze pricked the hairs along his back.
He was exposed. He hastily dressed before returning to his bedchamber to secure his sword and dagger at his hip.
Yesterday’s events played in his mind, but each thought brought a stronger pound to his head. He settled on the edge of his bed, pulling back his covers to hide the sweat line seeping into his sheets.
“Why does it smell like musty socks in here?”
Gris wrinkled her nose and began tossing dirty clothes in a small basket set beside his wardrobe.
He eyed his disaster of a room. Slowly, he was turning into Adelaide.
His sister had the messiest bedchamber, with clothes discarded across every piece of furniture and her blankets rumpled under her bed.
He used to take pride in keeping the space tidy, but it was a chore to keep it up.
He’d banned any servant from entering his room since he returned from the war, but apparently, they were well-needed.
His desk was piled with old battle plans and letters he’d yet to return.
Even his personal bookshelf was bursting and spilling its contents onto the floor.
Stacks of books piled around the bookshelf, and smaller tomes were shoved into nooks and crannies.
“Must be my species.” He sent Gris a flat smirk, but she wasn’t impressed and instead sauntered toward the door.
“Let’s go before your father and Bennet have a fit.”
Theo followed her through the manor. The servants were active and moving with exuberant energy. He didn’t want to think about why, but his brother’s Conjugation was in a few weeks, and his stepmother would no doubt begin pestering him about escorts.
The dark-green curtains were pulled back, casting rays of light through the halls and the paintings lining them. The vaulted ceilings always were a breath of fresh air, keeping the space from feeling as if it were pressing in on him. But today was different.
Theo had spent hours replaying the events with Amaris but had come to no natural conclusion.
He’d even pondered Isabel’s words, aslorn per de eclahard, but he hadn’t had the energy to take a walk to the library and scour the shelves for an answer.
He knew Pricilla, one of the librarians, would help aid in his search for the phrase, but he hadn’t wished to bother her last night.
Upon his return, Pricilla had handed him a list of books she’d made while he’d been away. Before he’d left, they’d shared their favorite titles with one another, recommending their latest reads. She had interesting tastes, but she’d never failed to pique Theo’s interests.
They rounded the next corner, and he felt the ceiling shrink as they grew closer to his father’s study.
He wished for a moment to breathe, to hide in one of the alcoves or find a space to retreat in the library.
He didn’t want to think about the threat looming over Duncaster or the new nightmare plaguing his mind from last night.
The God of Death’s talons scratched along the edge of his mind, whispering judgment in his ear. He’d been there. Kedes’s claws had wrapped around his soul, digging out all he’d done.
Theo released a hot breath as Gris stopped at the door. She turned to look over her shoulder, and her hazel eyes shone back at him. He couldn’t tell what she meant to convey in that single glance, whether it was a plea or simply an apology for what they were about to endure.
When they entered his father’s study, Bennet was already seated before his father in a heated discussion, and Gerard had taken up a space beside a bookcase with a gold clock set into the wood. Gris slid to the back corner, crossing her arms and legs as she leaned into the wood paneling.
Theo approached his father, who gave him a disdainful look as he settled in the seat beside Bennet. Brushing his hands through his hair, he attempted to look somewhat presentable, but he knew his father tracked every wrinkle.
A small bouquet of snowdrops with drooping white pedals sat upon the desk and seemed far more interesting to Theo than his father’s glare.
A beautiful flower able to be grown even under the coldest of conditions.
Theo had once picked snowdrops every week with his mother to set them in that very vase.
Theo remembered a particular time when the crisp bite of Whitereign was settling upon Luana and, with it, the foreshadowing of a disastrous Darkreign with heavy snowstorms.
Do you know why we plant snowdrops? his mother had asked him. Theo, only a child at the time, had grinned as she wrapped him in his cloak and slid mittens over his small hands. Because Father loves them.
He’d beamed with a half-toothy smile. He’d lost a tooth the night prior, after sneaking a piece of hard sweets from Ms. Borstad in the kitchen.
His mother had laughed and flourished her radiant smile at him, throwing her own cloak over her shoulders.
She’d kneeled beside Theo and placed her hands against his rosy cheeks.
Your father only loves them because I do.
I want you to remember, Theo, when you find that special someone, remember every single detail about her.
Write down her favorite flower, the way she takes her tea, the crinkle of her features when she laughs.
That’s a lot to remember, Mama.
Yes, it is, but it will show her you care. His mother had stood and braced her newly showing pregnant belly as she took his hand and led him into the cold.
“Not only are tenants disappearing,” Bennet said, pulling Theo back into the stifling heat of his father’s study, “but we came upon Lord Freville on our travels back. He was murdered.”
Theo’s muscles stiffened. Hearing it again was all too real. He expected to come home from the war and spend the next few years training to take Bennet’s place, not dealing with the beginnings of another fight.
“She was standing over the body and everything,” Gerard said, smirking from his spot against the bookcase.
Theo couldn’t understand how Gerard managed to wiggle his way into Bennet’s graces. More superior men would’ve made a fine second. Theo wasn’t sure how he became a lieutenant either.
His father leaned back in his chair, running his hands along the edge of his graying beard.
Rings of purple sat above his sun-spotted cheeks, making his mismatched eyes more menacing.
His eyes used to both be the dark brown his left one was, but an unfortunate scar marred the right side of his face, taking with it the vision and color of his right eye.
“Where is this supposed murderer?” his father asked.
“In the dungeons. We attempted brief questioning, but the woman was spouting lies and nonsense,” Bennet answered.
Theo felt his father’s gaze fall to him, and when Theo raised his head, he narrowed his dark eye at him.
“What did you discover?”
“She’s adamant she didn’t murder Lord Freville, and I don’t know if she possessed the strength to—”
“Of course she does,” Bennet interrupted. “Randolf, this woman is a lying wench who played into her dramatics. She was covered in Freville’s blood with no other explanation for the scene we found.”
“We are sure she’s the murderer?” his father asked.
“No,” Gris interrupted, pulling herself from the wall before Theo got a chance to speak.
Theo whipped his head in her direction as she strode to Bennet’s other side. Bennet gripped the edge of the chair, his nails digging into the armrests. Crinkles set in above his father’s brows at Gris’s disrespect for the chain of command, but Theo bit his tongue.
Where is she going with this?
“Of course she is,” Bennet clapped back.