Chapter 11 #2
All eyes turned to the duke and Nic could imagine the war taking place inside his father’s breast. Which was the lesser evil? Satisfying Lord Ricard’s gleeful prodding by refusing permission, or letting his son sing?
We don’t need another useless conjuror in this family.
The hissed words had cut deep, and in that moment Nic decided he didn’t want his father to choose for him. Nic had never been a good enough son and never would be, but with Leaf and Dashiell and his mother smiling his way, he could choose to fly.
“Something sad?” Nic said, making a bow. “I think I can manage that.”
“Well, well,” Lord Charborough said, flicking a glance the duke’s way. “So long as you’re sure, Monterris, let’s pull over some chairs.”
A flurry of activity filled the room, all scraping chair legs and rustling skirts as their guests made a makeshift arc.
At its focal point, Nic stood stretching his fingers, his excitement fast mingling with dread as every eye settled upon him.
The duke’s were indiscernible behind his glasses, but Nic knew the blank stare of a man holding in fury when he saw it.
Sitting close next to him, Lord Charborough had one leg stretched out before the echo cage, while at the back of the group, Dashiell stood with his hands loosely grasping an empty chair.
Of all those present, the duchess had seen Nic perform the most, but still she sat close, wearing a broad, eager smile.
His chosen song told the story of a maid who fell in love with a lord, a tragic tale for which Nic conjured no pale canvas, no golden garden, just a single, detailed tree made from dozens of curling scrolls.
He traced them slowly, much as a beginner might when learning a sigil’s shape, and knew the joy of having his audience’s rapt attention.
Like the tree, the song had a deceptively simple beginning, only to grow in range with its characters’ sorrows—characters he formed as silhouettes, each with a heart coloured for their mood. He’d always loved the way it looked and, full of pride, his voice rose and his fingers danced.
As he sang, Nic found himself looking at his mother.
She often slipped into dark moods and seemed rarely to live in the same reality, yet she alone had always encouraged him, always listened.
She listened now as his song swelled and Nic didn’t care what anyone else thought.
Let them see who he was, consequences be damned—let his father see what Nic could have accomplished had his skills been encouraged, not condemned.
The fury that burned inside him at everything he had been denied cracked out into the fury of the song’s penultimate verse, the hurt of his characters bleeding out as though Nic had cut himself open.
It carried him to the end without making a single egregious error, and upon the last notes, he lowered his hands and let both the song and the conjured lights fade away. His fingers ached, but his heart sang.
His small audience applauded, seemingly as much in surprise as pleasure.
“Excellent work,” Lord Charborough said, though beside him the duke kept his arms folded. “Very nice.”
Lady Lisbeth dabbed her eyes. “That was so moving.”
“Quite a performance indeed,” Lady Theresa agreed.
Rising from her chair, Leaf came forward, all smiles beneath an attempt at formality. “Lord Monterris, that was truly a joy. Thank you.”
Nic bowed. “I am glad to have entertained you, my lady.”
“I did not think you were so well practiced,” she added in a lower voice. “And now I must apologise for doubting you.”
“When one’s father hates what you love, you don’t stop doing it. You just stop doing it where he can see.”
He had meant the words humorously, but her smile turned sad as she glanced toward the unmoving duke.
“The perfect appetiser to cards, don’t you think, Val?” Lord Charborough said, rising from his chair.
“Indeed.” Nic’s father did not so much as glance at his son as he rose. “Everel, have the footmen reset the chairs.”
As the hubbub of movement once more rose around him, Nic found Dashiell had not moved. He was still holding the back of a chair, still watching him.
“My darling,” the duchess said, coming to clasp Nic’s hands. “You are always so remarkable. And so brave.”
“Thank you, Mama.” He squeezed her hands. “I could not do it without you.”
“All I’ve ever wanted was to save you.”
Her gaze slid out of focus as she spoke, leaving disquiet squirming in Nic’s stomach. “Save me?”
“From the house.”
Leaf had disappeared as the chairs were reset, but in a flurry of emerald skirts she returned to grip his arm. “Nic, we are making up tables. Come be my partner for Battara.”
“Oh. Right. Of course. Will you be playing, Mama?”
She blinked, a hint of confusion behind her eyes as she shook her head. “No, my love, you go. Enjoy yourself.”
Leaf had hurried off again, and by the time Nic joined her at the table she had already collected Dashiell as well, the smile she shot Nic as he sat beside the vowsmith one of mingled mischief and triumph. It was all Nic could do not to glare back.
“Oh, may I join you?” Lady Lisbeth said, letting go of Millie’s arm and sailing over, eyes on Dashiell. “Do you need a partner, Master sa Vare?”
“I do indeed, my lady,” Dashiell said, gesturing to the empty seat across from him.
Lady Lisbeth hastily settled into it, leaving Millie to pull a face at her and turn away to join her father and stepmother at the other table.
The doctor made up their fourth, while the duke and Lord Charborough pulled out chairs at the third table.
“Your Grace,” Master Everel said, with a light touch upon the duchess’s arm to get her attention. “Shall we make up a team?”
It was cordially asked, but Nic cringed inwardly before the question had fully passed the man’s lips. His hope that his mother’s quiet mood might hold shattered as she spun a scowl on the old vowsmith.
“Do not touch me! As well I should partner with a snake!”
Lady Theresa gasped, gripping her husband’s arm as the room stuttered into silence.
Nic’s stomach dropped, and he couldn’t but think of how their guests had stared at his mother the night before, seeming to find her wild cries more upsetting than Mr. Gillingham’s hanging body.
It mattered not that she was distressed while her oddities were so distressing to them.
Nic made to rise, but stopped when Silla broke away from her place near the door—she the only one who dared move amid the frozen tableau. “Your Grace,” she said, taking her mistress’s arm. “It has been a long day. How about we get you settled in for a rest?”
The duchess flinched and looked down at her maid’s hand, confusion fading in and out upon her face. For a moment Nic thought she might argue, but the anger that had flared at Master Everel’s touch shrank away and she nodded.
Nic let out a slow breath as Silla led the duchess toward the door, hating the taste of relief his mother’s docility left in its wake.
Despite her calm demeanour, stares followed her all the way, only turning to the duke once the door had closed behind her.
But whatever surprise others might have felt, Nic felt none when his father just looked away.
“Shall we dice instead, Charles?” the duke drawled, the words an end to the incident as far as he was concerned.
Lord Charborough hesitated, glancing at the door, but as there seemed nothing to say, he soon assented.
Master Everel was sent for dice and the evening spun on, leaving Nic with the feeling every curious eye was now on him.
“They have never gotten along,” he said loud enough for the other table to hear.
It wasn’t a lie so much as an omission, the statement papering over years during which Master Everel had been the bearer of the duke’s commands, refusing her requests and calling in doctors.
“Like Millie and Lady Theresa,” Lady Lisbeth whispered with a theatrical grimace, causing Leaf to laugh.
“Oh no, Lizzy, that is far worse.”
As the party settled back into easy talk, Nic glanced toward the door, wondering if he ought to go after his mother. It would look particular and Silla was better at settling her, yet a creeping sense of guilt remained as the evening continued without her.
Leaf slid a pack of shimmering cards across the table to Dashiell. “Master sa Vare, I assume you number shuffling among your many talents.”
“I wouldn’t call it a talent, my lady,” he said, picking them up, “but I’m certainly capable.”
He began shuffling, the easy movement of his fingers drawing Lady Lisbeth’s rapt attention. “That is what you call merely capable, Master sa Vare?” she asked as he dealt. “I am sure I could not work so swiftly without the cards going all over the floor.”
“It is a lucky side effect of smithing that one becomes good with their hands. Although my skill is nothing to what Lord Monterris can do, of course.”
It was lightly said, but Nic suddenly felt he was sitting all too close. Safest to excuse himself, to go after his mother and stop recalling just how skilled Dashiell’s fingers could be and where on his body they had traced. Still, he did not move.
“It must be very interesting, being a vowsmith,” Lady Lisbeth said, taking a cake from a proffered refreshment tray. “Do you enjoy it?”
“For the most part.” Dashiell dropped a last card in front of himself before setting the remaining stack in the centre of the table. “Like everything, there are times it’s tedious, but I enjoy travelling, and the Brilliance itself continues to fascinate me.”
“Where have you travelled?”
“Well, I have been to many places around England—Devonshire, Cheshire, Yorkshire, Cornwall—but have also been to Paris, Amsterdam, and Naples, among others.”
While Nic had been nowhere, his knowledge of the world gleaned from pictures and travelogues.
“So many places,” Lady Lisbeth said. “Do you have a favourite?”