Chapter 2 #3
As though Nic had summoned the man by thought alone, Castor announced, “Lord Ricard Serral and Lady Theresa Serral.”
Nic had spent some time reading about the Serrals in the old society journals. He had gleaned the impression that Lord Ricard was the family businessman, while Lord Charborough gave talks on classical literature—what the duke might have called an unfortunate ordering of birth.
Not as striking as the marquess and his daughter, Lord Ricard and his wife were still an elegant pair, attired in muted blues and greys and with silver gleaming around the lady’s throat.
“Dr. Fanshaw,” Castor announced as a square-jawed young man with spectacles followed in their wake, looking rather out of place in the white shirt of a non-Brilliant.
A doctor was a sensible addition to a lock-in, yet Nic couldn’t but glance his father’s way and wonder whether the duke had expected quite so many guests.
“The Serral negotiation team,” Castor said, and as a group of vowsmiths, negotiators, and scribes all entered together, Nic hunted the crowd, as afraid of finding Dashiell as of not finding him at all.
“Master Vowsmith Dashiell sa Vare,” the butler intoned, and Nic’s breath caught as the vowsmith stepped forward, attired in the formal black of his craft.
It made him look older than Nic knew him to be, and for a brief moment he allowed himself to stare—at his gleaming dark tresses, at the gold epaulettes that marked his guild rank, at features grown even more handsome with time.
And when their eyes met, it was, for a fleeting moment, sixteen-year-old Dashiell sa Vare who stared back.
Nic’s heart lurched into his throat and he looked away, anywhere but at the way the vowsmith’s lips twitched as he sought to suppress a smile.
The Marquess of Charborough appeared, eclipsing Nic’s vision. He had an intense presence, seeming overlarge for the space despite his broad smile.
“Nicholas, this is Lord Charborough,” his father said, performing a proper introduction. “Charles, my son, Lord Monterris.”
“Delighted to meet you, Monterris,” the marquess said, his piercing gaze raking over Nic. “When last I saw you, you were a bulge in your mother’s stomach. A pity we haven’t yet seen you in town. Allow me to introduce my daughter, Lady Leaf Serral.”
As the lady drew close, Nic’s initial good impression solidified. Pretty of countenance, she had a pair of dark eyes and a direct gaze that met his without a hint of shyness. “Lord Monterris.” She curtsied. “What a relief to find you do not have a tail after all.”
Nic, about to bow, found himself swallowing a shocked laugh. “A tail?”
“Leaf,” Lord Charborough hissed, the apologetic look he threw Nic owning a hint of long-suffering.
“You must also be pleased that Lord Monterris has no tail, Papa,” she said, seeming to enjoy her father’s discomfort. “Since none of our acquaintance was able to assure us otherwise.”
The red-faced marquess led his daughter hastily away, leaving Lord Ricard Serral and his wife standing before them. “Vale,” Lord Ricard said, the duke’s name a snap. “I think you have not been introduced to my wife, Lady Theresa Serral, and my daughter, Lady Radlay.”
While the duke murmured his delight, Nic watched Lady Leaf walk away, as much bemused by her statement as her lack of chagrin.
“My son, Lord Monterris,” the duke said, claiming Nic’s attention. “Nicholas, Lord Ricard Serral.”
Nic smiled and bowed, greeting first Lord Ricard and then his wife, before being introduced to Lady Radlay and Lady Lisbeth Pomerin. None of them noted aloud his lack of tail, and Nic would have glanced after Lady Leaf again had Lord Ricard not gestured Dashiell forward.
“I think I need not introduce Master sa Vare to you, Vale,” the man said, his smile not reaching his eyes.
“Indeed no.” The duke bowed. “Master sa Vare.”
“Your Grace,” Dashiell said, his voice twanging deep into Nic’s memories. “It is an honour to be back here again.”
“The honour is all ours,” Nic’s father said. “It is a pleasure to have such a celebrated vowsmith in our midst, especially one we can claim as our own.”
There was more respect in that welcome than Nic had ever received from his father, and he had to swallow a sudden urge to explain under what circumstances Dashiell had left so abruptly all those years ago.
“You remember my son, Lord Monterris?”
“I do,” Dashiell said, and Nic envied the quiet ease with which he renewed the acquaintance, when surely everyone could hear Nic’s heart pounding. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lord Monterris.”
Determined not to appear like the cloistered provincial he was, nor to betray any sign that Dashiell had once meant the world to him, Nic conjured a bland social smile. “And you, Master sa Vare.”
Having invited no further conversation, Dashiell was forced to move on, and Nic had the doubtful satisfaction of watching him walk away.
If only that could have been the end, rather than just the beginning. Soon the doors would be locked and there would be no way out, though in truth there had been no way out for a long time.
Death was the only way to escape being a Monterris.