Chapter 6 #4
Kind. Whether or not Dashiell knew it to be a lie, it was a nicer fiction than the truth—that the duke had kept his star pupil as long as possible because his own son was proving an endless disappointment.
The drawing room door opened, spilling a pair of maids into the room carrying tea trays. Castor followed, a sheaf of letters in his hand.
“The evening mail has arrived, Your Grace,” he said. “I have left your correspondence on your desk, but these are for Lord Ricard Serral.”
Gillingham rose, his winning smile in place and his hand outstretched. “I’ll take them.”
Receiving no complaint from Lord Ricard, the butler let Gillingham take the stack before holding out a separate envelope with a large black seal. “And this one is addressed to you directly, Mr. Gillingham.”
The young attending vowsmith stared at the envelope as a tense hush spread through the room.
His jaw tightened, then he snatched the envelope abruptly.
“Thank you.” And with a hint of anger behind his forced smile, he glanced at Nic.
“Unfortunately, it seems I have rather pressing business this evening, my lord. Our tour will have to wait until tomorrow night.”
“Of course.”
With a broad smile for the gathered company, Gillingham wished them all a good evening and was gone before the maids had finished setting out the tea trays.
“What was that?” Nic asked, turning to Dashiell as talk resumed around them.
“The black seal every vowsmith dreads,” he said, grim satisfaction in the lines of his face. “Guild excommunication letter.”
“He’s been kicked out?”
Dashiell risked a glance up as Lord Ricard followed Gillingham out in a sweep of irritation. “So it would seem. In truth, I’m surprised it took this long. He—”
Whether because he thought better of confiding his opinion or because Lady Theresa was watching them, Dashiell swallowed his words and rose. “Can I fetch you a cup of tea, my lord?”
My lord. He had brought that on himself, snapping at Dashiell’s use of his nickname the night before—a timely reminder that however good it had felt to fall back into their friendly banter, he was a stranger now, a vowsmith there only to do his job before returning to his real life.
Between Dashiell’s proper demeanour and the ongoing weight of Rowerre’s loss, Nic found he couldn’t face any more conversation and shook his head. “No, thank you. I am quite worn out and shall bid you good night.”
Nic glanced at the gathered company, and the thought of having to take his leave and suffer his father’s glares only added to his exhaustion. “I’ll just slip out, though,” he added. “If you would kindly indulge me with your silence.”
“Of course, but are you—?”
“Good night, Master sa Vare.”
With no desire to catch his father’s attention, Nic slipped out into the hallway without pausing to light a candle.
A guest would never dare, but Nic had lived his entire life within these walls and made his way toward the hook-wing stairs with no need of light.
With every step, the house darkened around him, slowly smothering all but the scuff of his shoes—a scuff that became a creak as he mounted the stairs.
Nic remained alone in the unbroken darkness until he reached the third-floor landing, when a light glimmering below suggested someone else had decided on an early night too. As it started up the stairs in his wake, Nic turned away.
The hallway leading to his rooms ran the length of the hook wing—a threadbare tract of carpet along which he was the only occupant.
The guests were all on the floor below, making the sound of movement ahead enough to stop Nic in his tracks.
It couldn’t be Rowerre, and surely any other servant would be carrying a candle, yet as he listened, the movement seemed to draw closer.
“Hello?”
The darkness shifted, sending a frisson of terror sliding through his skin.
A white oval hung in the hallway’s empty dark, featureless but for the slits at mouth and eyes.
It owned no real eyes, yet for the space of half a dozen heartbeats, it stared at Nic and Nic stared back, a caught breath tightening his chest.
It stepped forward, the movement slow but unstoppable like the automaton in the style wing, and Nic’s heart slammed into his throat. He could not tear his gaze away, could not move, until a bloom of candlelight behind him fell upon a figure made of shadow.
Nic turned and ran, a dozen desperate strides sending him crashing into someone at the top of the stairs. He fell back with a cry as faltering candlelight flickered upon Dashiell’s features.
“Nic?”
The vowsmith’s warm scent. His worried tone. Nic’s name upon his lips. It all spoke of safety, and with fear thrumming in his veins, Nic gripped Dashiell’s hand without thinking.
He spun to stare back along the passage, but it was empty. No automaton or shadowy spectre, just the darkness of the house stretching away beyond their golden sphere.
Nic let go Dashiell’s hand, his cheeks heating. “Did you see it?”
Silence pooled, and Nic dared not look around to catch the vowsmith’s expression.
“See what?”
“The ghost.”
More silence, and when Nic finally turned he found Dashiell staring at him—a stare that made Nic all too aware of the lingering sensation of skin against skin tingling upon his palm.
“A ghost?” Dashiell said at last. “You’re sure?”
Nic had been, yet as Dashiell raised his brows, doubt crept in. He forced a laugh. “No doubt I am just tired and was thinking of Master Everel’s stories.”
The vowsmith didn’t look entirely convinced, but as Nic’s heart rate slowed from its rapid tattoo, he realised Dashiell must have followed him. “Is there something I can do for you, Master sa Vare? You seem to be on the wrong floor.”
“It’s… I wanted to talk to you about Gillingham.”
“Again? You have already warned me, and—”
“And you are quite capable of looking after yourself, I know.” Dashiell held up a placating hand. “But please, I need you to understand that excommunication won’t stop him; it just means he’ll have no boundaries anymore, no reason to stop short of… of anything to get what he wants.”
A thoughtful warning spoken with a genuine note of care, and Nic found himself once more drawn to the vowsmith like a man reaching cold hands to that comforting fire.
How much easier to hate him for the years of friendship lost, but all Nic could hate was the complicated mess of emotions Dashiell’s very existence left in his breast—a mix of hurt and anger and joy and desire and a desperate need to show him just how insignificant he was. It all came together in a sneer.
“Oh, I see,” Nic said, stepping close. “You really are jealous, aren’t you?”
The vowsmith’s breath hitched. “No, I—”
“Is this what you want?”
Nic gripped Dashiell’s face and kissed him—a fierce, furious kiss sure to be pushed away, an insult to be spurned. For a heartbeat Nic revelled in the cruelty of it, until Dashiell kissed him back. Hard. Desperate. Sure.
The candle fell to the floor, dropping them into darkness as Dashiell shunted Nic toward the wall.
He hit it with a gasp, only to be pressed against it with the full length of Dashiell’s body, the sensation eliciting a guttural groan he could not have suppressed even had he tried.
Pinned and wanting, he grasped at the vowsmith’s coat, hands running over shoulders that felt different yet familiar.
Alone in the dark, their tongues slid against one another, their kiss growing hot with need.
Every part of Nic was aflame and he could feel hardness swelling in Dashiell’s breeches like a promise he wanted kept, the thought of it enough to drive all remaining sense from his mind.
The vowsmith seemed similarly afflicted, devouring Nic with a fervour bordering on madness—a madness Nic shared when fingers closed upon a handful of his hair and tugged, hard enough that he was forced to bare his throat with a moan that emanated straight from his groin.
This was not the old Dashiell, the years stripped away. This was a whole new Dashiell, the past but a fuel—a fuel that burned hot enough to sear them both. And Nic wanted to be seared, to be consumed, to give in to the wildest desires nine years had wrought.
Until as abruptly as they had begun, Dashiell pulled back.
He stood drawing heavy breaths in the dark, before he turned away, becoming nothing but footsteps retreating toward the stairs.
Nic blinked, body hot, lips raw, his mind ablaze with need, with memories and heat and a desperate urge to call the man back.
But the words lodged in his throat. As though history had repeated itself, Dashiell had been right there, solid and tangible and present and his, and now he was gone.