Chapter 3 #4
Dashiell pointed at their feet. The pair of them stood at the edge of the pond where dark green reeds swirled like ribbon.
Nic’s cheeks reddened, each heavy breath producing a cloud that tangled with Dashiell’s in the cold air.
He ought to thank him, but though he tried to swallow his anger, he found that it stuck painfully in his throat.
“Come on.” Dashiell took Nic’s icy hand in his. “You need to get inside and change before you freeze to death.”
“Oh, but that would be so dramatic,” Nic snapped, pulling free and almost tumbling back into the water. “And apparently I like being dramatic.”
Dashiell rolled his eyes and Nic had a strong urge to punch that all-too-handsome face. Instead, he shouldered him out of the way and climbed out of the pond, water streaming off him.
“Thank you ever so much for your assistance, Master sa Vare,” Nic threw back as he made for the gallery’s golden glow, his shoes squelching in a way that would make Rowerre weep. “Truly I would have died without you.”
“You were certainly drunk enough.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Nic glanced over his shoulder as he spoke to find Dashiell following, but in letting his gaze linger a moment on the way the vowsmith’s wet clothes now clung to his body, Nic tripped on the edge of a flower bed.
He saved himself from falling face-first into mud and dormant flowers, but it was a close thing, and there was Dashiell again, gripping his elbow to steady him.
“Maybe you should drink less next time,” the vowsmith said, the words close by Nic’s ear.
“And maybe you should mind your own damn business instead of following me around.”
“I only followed you because I wanted to talk to you. And… to warn you about Gillingham.”
Nic had almost reached the open door, but he spun back at that, finding golden light illuminating Dashiell’s troubled expression. It owned only concern, yet Nic couldn’t have stayed his flirtatious tongue even had he tried. He lifted a brow. “Oh, is that what this is about?”
“Yes, look, he—”
Nic stepped close, anger spurring him to glare his challenge right into Dashiell’s face. “Jealous?”
“What?” For a breathless moment Dashiell stared back, lips parted, before he looked away. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Nic strode on into the house, carrying a twisted sort of triumph he knew he hadn’t earned. “I don’t need your help.”
“Nic, he’s a dishonest rake,” Dashiell hissed, hurrying after him. “And he’s already been hauled up in front of the guild chair twice on charges of misbegotten information, so if he’s not trying to get secrets out of you for Lord Ricard, I’ll eat my damn hat.”
“Then go eat it. I can take care of myself.”
Dashiell stopped with a scuff of damp shoes, leaving Nic to stride on, grimly satisfied at finally silencing him. Hoping Rowerre had a fire burning in his rooms, he headed for the old style-wing stairs with all the pride he possessed, still shivering and trailing reeds.
“Wait, Nic.” Footsteps hurried after him as he mounted the stairs. “Nic!”
“Surely you mean ‘Lord Monterris,’ as I gave you no permission to be informal,” Nic threw over his shoulder.
And tripped over Rowerre.
Foot snagged, Nic landed hard, wrists jarring as he caught his weight. Yet Rowerre made no complaint, no attempt to move or apologise, not even a groan.
With a pained hiss, Nic rolled over. “Rowerre, what on earth are you—?”
Breath hitched in his chest. Rowerre’s neck was bent and his limbs pointed in all the wrong directions, like he was nothing but a collection of parts waiting to be assembled. His glassy eyes stared at nothing and his mouth hung open, blood pooling around a piece of paper crushed in one hand.
“No. No!” Nic gripped his valet’s broken arms as though a shake could wake him.
But Rowerre did not wake, and as an all-too-final realisation crashed through the shock, it left a hollow gouged in Nic’s stomach.
“Please, no,” he whispered, lowering his head to the man’s lifeless shoulder. “Don’t leave me.”
“Nic.” Dashiell knelt beside him, a hand gently pressed to his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
A few moments before, Nic would have snapped and shrugged him off. Now he could only be grateful he wasn’t alone as tears slid down his cheeks. Through the haze of wine and shock, he couldn’t even make sense of what had happened.
Overhead, a step scuffed on the upper landing. Before Nic could make sense of that either, Dashiell had leapt up and was taking the stairs two at a time, disappearing from view.
“Dash!” Panic sheered through Nic’s chest and he ran after him, brushing away tears. “Dash, wait!”
At the top of the stairs, he ran into a breathless Dashiell, who caught his arms to steady him. “I lost them. They were too far ahead of me.”
“You think someone saw what happened?”
Dashiell shook his head in disbelief. “They must have, but…” He trailed off, and dropped his hands from Nic’s arms, sliding back into the form of Master sa Vare, professional vowsmith. “I ought to fetch the doctor and inform His Grace. I’ll… I’ll be back soon, all right?”
And without waiting even for a nod, Dashiell strode away, leaving Nic reeling.