CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT #3
This would go better for everyone involved, including the visitor, if Sy cooperated. Mira would only torture the poor fellow more if she sensed Sy had any sympathy for him.
He must divert that sympathy like water from the mire; nurture the stiff, arid lawn of indifference that grew over him, that absolved him, that swallowed him deeper every day. It was a pity the stranger had to die, he decided as he descended the staircase. But then, that was the way of the world.
He repeated this to himself enough that by the time he reached the front hall, prepared to invite the doomed visitor into Mira’s parlor, he began to believe it.
The snail-headed footman had arrived first, and was patting the stranger down for weapons, which he didn’t appear to have.
Nothing about the man was particularly noteworthy.
He was attractive, but in an ordinary way.
Bright-eyed and clean-shaven, the same age as Sy, only an inch or so shorter.
He had a narrow face, long auburn hair pulled back at his neck with a cream-colored ribbon, eyes the same red-brown as his hair.
He wore a smart tan suit, and a leather satchel – a spellscribe’s pen kit.
The footman reached for it.
“Ah, not that, my friend,” said the stranger. He lifted out the golden instrument. “Tools of the trade. Only my pen.”
“I’ll take him from here,” Sy said to the footman. Knowing he spoke with their mistress’s authority, the footman obliged.
The visitor watched Sy, his expression the picture-perfect, dull politeness of a well-bred gentleman. Despite the fact he had just been patted down by a servant with a giant snail for a head.
Too mannered. Too practiced.
And…something else. It scratched at Sy’s chest, at the packed earth that buried him alive. Something vulpine – something sly.
Something...radiant. The source of something wild now blossoming in his breast. Something dangerous. Something necessary.
Sy realized he was staring. The man was staring at him, too; measuring him. Their eyes locked, a moment too long. A moment longer than was strictly appropriate.
Then, just a mite, the man’s gaze softened. “Greetings,” he said with a formal bow, breaking the spell of their strained silence.
Sy hesitated. Welcome. Please, come inside. It was on the tip of his tongue. It was what he must say. All he had to do was open his mouth.
“Leave,” he said abruptly, voice low. “Turn around and run. You must go. Anywhere, but far away from here. You still have a chance.”
At Sy’s outburst, the man opened his mouth, surprised. Sy was surprised, himself. He felt that flutter again – a swarm, a storm.
“Run,” he said again. Begged.
When the man replied, his tone was strikingly unpracticed. Almost…intimate. “I’m afraid that simply isn’t possible.”
Before he could parse the man’s strange behavior, Sy felt Mira approach, and deflated. Too late.
“Who is our guest, Sylas? What price shall he pay for disturbing our peace? I’m quite partial to the slugs, myself, but then I thought – Mirabelle, you’ve grown stale. It should be leeches!”
The man’s eyes locked on Mira. Any startling intimacy had entirely vanished, so thoroughly it must have been imagined. There was nothing untoward in his manner.
And yet, Sy couldn’t shake the impression the man was staring through the sights of a loaded shotgun.
“I am but a lowly representative from the Sangfeder Academy of Inscription Arts, unworthy of such company or regard,” he said with a gallant bow. Now his voice was rich and sonorous, a bugle call. “Ortolan Gander, an emissary sent on behalf of King Edgard, at your service.”
“A spellscribe.” Mira suddenly grew stiff. “Then I’ll give you a face more befitting your profession. What do you think, Sylas? A rat? Perhaps a wolf?”
As she spoke, coarse gray fur began sprouting along the emissary’s cheeks.
“I come on official business from the king,” the man said, eyes darting to Sy, who looked away.
The man’s fate was sealed. “You may want to consider his offer, first. A great reward,” he added in a rush as his face began to elongate.
Her smile faded, and her spell receded. “What reward?”
Ortolan swallowed, running a hand over his restored face. “One, Your Ladyship, that is long overdue.”
Mira cocked a suspicious eyebrow, sizing the man up. Suddenly, she spun around, her mink cape swishing behind her. “What are you waiting for, Sylas? See our guest inside.”
Leave, he begged again, silently. Anyone sensible would have by now. But the silent communion, the conspiracy, was gone.
Whatever Sy had thought he’d seen, the man was only the pliant emissary he professed to be.
Sy did not need to mask his disappointment; he hardly felt it. As the drawing had demonstrated, he could not trust his eyes. Could not trust himself. The only recourse was to stop expecting to; a bad habit he must work to correct. Thankfully, his mistress was eager to help.
“This way, if you please,” he said with a deferential bow. The man entered without looking at him. Sy closed the door, sealing them all inside.