Chapter 8
Nic dressed early the following morning and hurried down to the breakfast parlour.
He preferred to breakfast in his rooms, but today he needed to find Leaf, and as she was an early-rising Serral, the breakfast parlour seemed the wisest place to begin.
Unfortunately, at the parlour door he all but ran into his father—another famously early riser.
“Ah, Nicholas, a moment.” The duke gestured toward the adjacent sitting room. Foreboding swelled, but Nic could hardly refuse and so he followed in silence, his anxiety deepening when his father closed the door behind them.
“We need this contract to go ahead,” the duke said, leaning on the arm of one patterned silk armchair. “Nothing can get in the way. We cannot afford to pay either compensation to the Serrals or the guild breakage fees—we can barely afford to be hosting this event at all.”
The question of what this had to do with Nic almost slipped from his lips, only to be caught on the memory of having endangered the contract by kissing the Serral family’s head vowsmith.
“You have been cold to Master sa Vare since he arrived,” his father went on. “And insulted him last night with your childish behaviour.”
“Do you mean when I threw the—?”
“I will hear no excuses, Nicholas. As Master sa Vare is the head vowsmith of the Serral delegation, earning his ire will serve us ill. After last night’s unfortunate happenings, we must tread carefully.
Some of the non-Brilliant members of the Serral negotiation team left this morning, and while I do not think Charles wants the infamy of invoking the Requisite Care Clause and forcing the king to come running to his rescue, let’s try to keep it that way.
So for the sake of your name, if not common courtesy, it is time to put aside your foolish jealousy and be civil to Master sa Vare.
Your previous friendship ought to have been an unforeseen boon for us. ”
When Nic could find no words, his father looked over his glasses, brows raised.
“Is it so shocking an expectation, Nicholas? You seem to be winning over Lady Leaf; just extend that charm to her head vowsmith.” With an imperious finger, the duke gestured to the closed door.
“I left Master sa Vare breakfasting, so go in there and be charming. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The duke pushed his glasses back up his nose, like a bird settling ruffled feathers.
“Good.” He pulled open the door but, before Nic could escape, added, “I know sometimes I might seem harsh, but as a Monterris you have one responsibility and that is the preservation of your family. You bear one of the oldest, proudest names in England and it is your duty to uphold it as your ancestors did before you. Whatever it takes.”
“Yes, sir.”
The automatic reply seemed to satisfy the duke, who strode out, his imperious footsteps echoing away along the passage.
After a moment to gather himself, Nic made his way to the breakfast parlour.
The door sat open, and as he approached, the scratch of quill on paper mingled with the whisper of sigils, their accent distinctly familiar.
Nine years may have changed much, but they had not changed the feel of Dashiell’s magic, and no amount of anger could displace the comfort such familiarity bestowed.
The vowsmith sat alone at the breakfast table, meal forgotten.
As he worked, tiny swirls of shadow spiralled from the paper, and without conscious thought, Nic felt the sigils in his skin.
It took less than a line to realise Dashiell was inscribing a poem, smithing raw emotion onto the page.
But he was working too fast, not paying attention to the fine details needed for such a task, and first one sigil twanged wrongly, followed by another, and Nic winced.
“I think you meant to use el there. And miir on the line before.”
Dashiell dropped the quill and, glancing up, crumpled his page into a ball. “I didn’t see you there.” He threw it into the grate, where it caught fire and burned brightly into ash.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have corrected you. Given the speed you were working—”
“It’s fine; it was nothing important. You know, I’ve never met anyone else who could feel sigils like you do.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Nic said, taking a seat at the table. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”
Having pushed his ink and quill away, Dashiell reapplied himself to his neglected breakfast. “Do you still get those awful headaches because of it? You used to curl up in the den and not move for hours.”
Dashiell’s words were light, but his grim expression proved he hadn’t forgotten how bad it had been whenever Nic’s manifesting affinity had run ahead of his ability to hold it, whenever the noise of a world filled with magic had seemed to press upon his skull like lead plates, whenever the doctors had dosed him with Brilliance-suppressing elixirs and still his father had demanded he study and study and never stop.
Here sat the only man who knew those parts of him, yet Nic dared not let him in again. Charm, his father had demanded, not openness.
“Only rarely,” he said, the words dismissive. “Do negotiations continue today? After what happened last night?”
“They do. Your father suggested pausing a day out of respect, but the Serrals wouldn’t hear of it. We’re moving to a new room, though, thankfully.”
“I’m surprised it wasn’t Lord Ricard who wanted to pause proceedings. It’s more my father’s style to press ahead with a complete lack of empathy.”
A notch appeared between Dashiell’s brows. “Perhaps empathy is something generally lacking among peers rather than it being a quirk of your father’s—though I realise I shouldn’t say so to you.”
“Because he’s my father or because I’m a peer?”
“Both?”
“Well, since I said it first, you are absolved. And I do wonder if it’s not so much something inherent in the titled class as it is an outcome of running a family like a business.
The guild-and-contract system controls who does and does not have access to the Brilliance, which means we are all owned by the head of our family like chattel. We’re assets, not people.”
“That’s just the way we have forged contracts since the Family Register Act of 1541.”
“Ah, but have you ever considered it could be done differently?”
Dashiell’s brows rose. “It is hardly my place to debate King Henry’s wisdom no matter how long dead he is, although you make a good point.” A small, reminiscent smile turned his lips. “I don’t recall any of our tutors being so philosophical.”
“No, they were all prosy bores.”
“Prosy bores who would never have brooked a challenge to the contract system, nor have questioned the necessity of magic like you did the other night.”
Nic grinned. “Shocked you, that did.”
“Only because I’d never thought about it before!”
“Oh, so not because you’ve become a prosy bore?”
Dashiell smiled, a true one with a hint of affection that sent Nic’s heart racing. It was all too easy to fall into such conversations, too natural, like the longer they sat together, the less the intervening years mattered.
“Unfortunately, becoming a prosy bore is something of a job hazard for vowsmiths,” Dashiell said, his smile turning wry. “Though I like to think I’m not so far gone yet.”
Nic made no reply, needing to break the flow of easy conversation no matter how many witty retorts came to mind. He feigned interest in his breakfast.
After a long, somewhat awkward silence, Dashiell cleared his throat. “And your plans for the day? I… noticed you’re getting along well with Lady Leaf Serral.”
It sounded like jealousy. It looked like jealousy. And in any other circumstances Nic would have revelled in the jealousy. Instead, he forced himself to ignore it and preserve what remained of his sanity.
“Yes,” he said lightly. “We get along well. She’s not what I expected and it will never be a love match, but how many peers can boast one of those? I hope you’re negotiating her a good stud to bear our children.”
Dashiell had been about to take a bite of bread, and had Nic waited a few moments, he might have choked on it. As it was, he coughed and gave Nic a look of such censure that he couldn’t help but grin.
“Well?” he said, triumphant. “That’s what you call it, isn’t it? A stud and a mare? I imagine they are awkward discussions.”
“Not my favourite part of negotiations,” the vowsmith admitted, “but I understand the need for families to ensure progeny.”
“You do?”
Dashiell frowned. “You don’t?”
“Well, if you’re negotiating for someone else to provide the…
raw material for a child, let’s say, then you’re already creating something that is—in this case—not really a Monterris.
And if you’re already signing into vow law an heir that is zero percent Monterris, why not have another heir who is zero percent Monterris?
You could just… choose one. Anyone would do.
Or at least anyone of an acceptable Brilliance level. ”
This speech earned a silent stare from across the table, Nic unable to tell from the slight frown and parted lips what Dashiell thought of it, only that he found it impossible to answer.
“You really are remarkable, Nic,” he said eventually. “Lady Leaf is an extremely fortunate young woman.”
A desperate yearning cut through the armour he’d held tight since Dashiell’s arrival, and Nic dared not speak.
He needed to push away the warmth and joy of such conversations, along with any treacherous inklings of hope that they could ever be more than strangers again.
It had seemed so easy at the outset, but every moment spent alone with him only made the next harder to bear.
And then as though the words had been weighing on him, Dashiell went on, “About… about the other night. When I followed you. I shouldn’t have…”
Having begun, the vowsmith seemed incapable of finishing, leaving annoyance to flare in Nic’s breast. “Have what?” he said. “Have run away? Have kissed me back? Have pushed me against the wall? Have pulled—”
“All of it!” Dashiell cried.
A beat of silence fell, followed by a second. Then more calmly, he added, “It was… extremely unprofessional of me, and I’m sorry.”
“Sorry. Yes, of course you are.” Nic stared down at his hands.
He ought to escape before he said something he would regret, but it was too late.
They had already said too much to allow him to fold his hurts away, so instead he looked up, meeting the gaze of the man who had once meant everything to him.
“What did I do? You didn’t even say goodbye. ”
Dashiell closed his eyes. “Nic…”
“If you didn’t want the same thing I did, you could have just said so.”
“That’s not—” The vowsmith shook his head. Glanced to the open door. “This isn’t a good time for this conversation.”
“And when is? Never?” Nic rose from the table. “Good luck with the negotiations today, Master sa Vare.”
As he reached the door, Dashiell’s chair scraped back. “Nic, wait.”
The desire to walk out warred with a yearning to remain, and giving in to a sliver of hope he couldn’t escape, Nic turned.
His expression a plea, Dashiell stood with his fingertips to the table, something hesitant in the way he seemed to both lean forward and hold back. “It was nothing you did,” he said when Nic lifted haughty brows. “Nothing we did. I… cannot explain, but I need you to know that.”
For the space of a heartbeat, a breath, a whole lifetime, Nic met the vowsmith’s gaze unspeaking, the urge to throw disbelief in his face withering beneath such open sincerity. And because despite all the hurt, Nic wanted to believe him—wanted it to be true.
Not willing to dare further words, Nic nodded.
“Ah, Lord Monterris, good morning to you!”
Nic flinched at the jovial greeting, the sudden arrival of Lord Charborough sending his heart hammering harder than had Dashiell’s admission. The man showed no sign of noticing anything amiss, however, nodding to a rather red-cheeked Dashiell. “Master sa Vare.”
“Good morning, sir,” Nic said, and would have continued past him into the hall had Lord Charborough not touched his arm to stay his progress.
“If the day warms up, you might take Leaf out into the gardens,” the man said.
“She was much overset last night, and some sunshine and exercise will do her good. Can get caught in her head a bit too much, that one. I would do it myself, but I am close to finishing a very important translation. Ancient Greek, you know.”
Nic didn’t know, but readily agreed, assuring the marquess that he would happily take Leaf anywhere she wished.
“Capital!”
With his daughter apparently dealt with, Lord Charborough continued into the breakfast parlour, allowing Nic to escape without glancing back.