Chapter 13 #2
His heart ached to imagine the young family’s pain, being forced apart because of what some pieces of vow-lawed paper said. It was the sort of pain that could twist someone up and fill them with hate—could produce a man as sour at the world as Lord Ricard Serral.
“That’s the year before their contract, Nic,” Leaf said. “I wonder if that means anything.”
“I don’t know,” he said, thoughts drifting to another person whom time had twisted up and destroyed. “But I have to go.”
“Go? Where?”
He met Leaf’s curious gaze with a sad smile. “To see my mother.”
Nic stood fidgeting outside the door, the footsteps beyond seeming to take an eternity to reach him. Eventually, it opened and Silla peered out. “Ah, Master Nicholas. I’m afraid Her Grace isn’t in a good—”
“I must see her. I’ll… I’ll do my best not to upset her, Silla, but this is important. I’m sorry.”
He slid past her mid-objection only to be brought up short in his mother’s sitting room.
The duchess’s rooms were always bright and airy, but today Nic squinted into darkness.
The heavy curtains had been drawn with only the faintest cracks of light sneaking in around them, leaving his mother nothing but a collection of shadows sketched in her favourite chair.
“Mama?”
He had the feeling she turned her head, but it was hard to be sure while his eyes adjusted to the lack of light.
“Mama? It’s Nic. I’ve come to sit with you.”
Thanks to a long acquaintance with the space, he made it to the opposite chair without tripping or walking into the corner of the table.
The aged cushions creaked as they sank beneath him, drawing her attention, yet she just watched.
Or at least stared in his direction. It wasn’t always the same thing.
For a few moments, Silla bustled about, drawing a blanket across the duchess’s knees, refilling her water glass, and tidying the fading flowers in the vase at her elbow.
“Silla, could you leave us, please?” Nic said. “I’ll call if she needs you.”
The look he got said She always needs me, but she went, closing the door and leaving Nic alone with his mother. She hadn’t moved, only the fingers twisting her blanket’s tassels showing she lived at all.
Nic leaned forward, setting a hand on hers. It didn’t still its writhing task. “Mama? There is something I want to ask you.”
No answer, yet her eyes flickered in a way that was far from absent.
“It’s about… my father and… Lord Charborough.”
He watched for a reaction and wasn’t disappointed. She flinched as though he had flicked something toward her face, but didn’t speak.
“I found a copy of their marriage contract.”
Beneath his hand hers clenched into a tight ball.
“Can you… can you tell me what happened? Did you know?”
“Yes.” It was barely a whisper. “No. Not at first.”
“You found out after you wed?”
Her nod could have been a twitch, so infinitesimal it was.
“What happened?”
She shook her head, a gentle quiver like she was trying to dissipate a smothering cloud.
“Mama?”
“Duty is all there is. All there can be now.”
Nic’s brow crinkled. It sounded like something his father would say, though he couldn’t tell if she was quoting, only that she clenched her hands until they shook.
Her nails cut into her palms, but Nic’s need to understand flared hot and he pushed on.
“Surely a marriage between our families would have been as useful then as now. Did they just disagree about who would step down or was there more to it?”
Had she been holding anything, it would have snapped. Instead, it was her skin that broke, sending a slow dribble of blood trickling down one palm.
With a hiss, Nic grabbed his handkerchief and pressed it to her hands, trying to gently prise her fingers loose. “Hush, Mama, it’s all right,” he said, guilt weighing heavy. “We’ll get you cleaned up and ready for that party in no time.”
“What party?” she laughed, each word edged in fury. “I am but a prisoner. When you own me, will you set me free?”
It was Nic’s turn to flinch, so fierce were her words.
“We are the possessed,” she went on, throwing wide her arms only to let them fall.
“Luck is all that can bless our existence with meaning. How fortunate are those who sit on high, who cannot see what pains wash about their feet like scum thundering upon sand. Perhaps it is they we should pity, those empty, lifeless men so alone on their thrones, feeling regal, right, important, the truth all the more pitiful for their delusion. Because they cannot bear happiness, they fear contentment, dread any satisfaction that might steal the fire that drives them on to ever greater heights, dragging with them a belief that they are fuelled by indelible wisdom rather than fear. But fear—” She leaned forward, her gaze piercing his skin. “Fear is all any of you have.”
The duchess sat back as suddenly as she had lunged, sinking into her armchair’s shadows. There she grabbed her diary from the side table and opened a fresh page, already reaching for the ink and quill that were never far away. All the while, Nic could hardly breathe.
From behind his mother’s chair, Silla cleared her throat. “Time to go, Master Nicholas. I warned you this wasn’t a good time.”
Too dazed to refuse, he was on his feet before he’d even thought to move. Silla’s gentle grip on his elbow led him toward the door, leaving the scratch of quill on paper behind.
“What… what was that?” he said as Silla opened the door. “I’ve never heard her talk like that.”
“That’s because you usually heed my warnings” was Silla’s grim reply. A glance back, and she stepped out, gesturing for him to join her in the gallery. “These days are her most lucid and yet her darkest. In these moods she doesn’t want to see anyone, even me, and when she speaks it’s all—”
“Rage.”
Silla nodded. “Sometimes she has a lot of words, is poetic even, like today. Other times she throws things. Like that frog you made. It was no accident that it broke, but she convinced herself it was when exhaustion wore her back into a soft, safe place.”
Tears pricked Nic’s eyes. “I didn’t know. You should have told me—have let me help.”
Before he’d finished, Silla shook her head, the streaks of grey in her hair catching the afternoon light. “What help is there, Master Nicholas? The best help is not reminding her of hurts or fuelling her rage.”
“That can’t be all we can do,” he said. “Surely my father—”
“Don’t ever bring him here when she is in this mood.” Fear flashed in Silla’s eyes and she gripped Nic’s arm, tight like a tourniquet. “I fear in this mood she would harm him, given the opportunity.”
A cold shiver trickled down Nic’s spine. “Like she harmed Uncle Francis?”
The question was out before he could think better of it, its words parting Silla’s lips in horror.
“Harming him? Who told you that?”
“Master Everel. He told me about the automaton Uncle Francis made her—the one that killed him.”
Silla stepped close, but her gaze darted about the empty gallery before coming to rest again on Nic’s face.
“Take care with your questions, Master Nicholas,” she whispered.
“This house doesn’t like questions. It likes the past to stay in the past where it belongs.
You want to know about your father and Lord Charborough?
Then let me tell you that love is not always good, no matter how strong.
Sometimes the strongest love is like a poison, and the more you drink the more monstrous you become, until you are standing in a wasteland of your own making.
Sometimes the very strongest love is only hate by another name. ”
Without another word, she slipped back into the duchess’s rooms, leaving Nic standing stunned and alone in the bright gallery.