Chapter 26 #2
“All right. Then I guess this is goodbye.”
Nic couldn’t speak, could only nod while his internal scream grew all the louder, shattering through his body.
Dashiell ran a hand through his hair. Licked his lips. Lingered.
“All right,” he repeated. “Goodbye, Nic.”
And having spun on his heel, Dashiell strode toward the door. It was wrenched open, and in a swish of vowsmith’s black, he was gone.
Nic broke. He dropped to his knees, and lifting his face to the ceiling, let out a cracked, almost soundless wail, tears pouring unchecked down his cheeks.
Nic drank.
With the door locked against the world, he sat in his rooms and emptied glass after glass.
It didn’t help. He could still remember every word Dashiell had said, could still remember the gentle way he’d taken Nic’s face in his hands, could still remember how the words I don’t want this had tasted on his own tongue. And so he drank some more.
The next morning he woke feeling wretched, yet could hardly have said how much was due to the wine and how much was the broken heart. Or the still-healing wound cut into his side.
Yet as though it were any normal day, Ambrose brought his breakfast tray and his shaving water.
At least no ill news came with them—a small mercy.
The chance that ending things might not have been enough to save Dashiell’s life had haunted Nic’s thoughts.
He would breathe a little easier once negotiations began for the day—a glance at the mantelpiece clock telling him that wouldn’t be for another half hour.
A lifetime ago, Dashiell had snuck in on his way to the session and sat atop Nic, covering him in kisses. Now there was just silence while Ambrose helped him dress, as though such a mundane thing even mattered.
Nursing an aching head, Nic took his time, and was halfway through shaving when a sharp knock sounded on the door. Now that Ambrose was keeping it locked, he couldn’t just wait for Leaf to let herself in, so the valet put down Nic’s razor and went to open it.
The door lock clicked and the hinges squealed their faint protest, before a familiar voice said, “Ambrose. If you would give this to Lord Monterris.”
Nic moved before any rational thought could stop him, stepping out into his sitting room as Dashiell made to leave.
“Dash.”
The vowsmith turned, his expression one of furious hauteur. Yet a tiny hint of hope shone in his eyes, filling Nic with guilt for having spoken at all when there was nothing more he could say—nothing he should say. Better this way. Better for Dashiell to go in hate than in love.
And he needed to go—needed not to be seen in Nic’s company at all. Instead, Dashiell gestured to the box in Ambrose’s hand, its lid sitting open a crack.
“I finished it,” he said, the words hard. “And no, I did not look inside. It not being my place to do so.” A bow. “Good day to you, my lord.”
As the vowsmith walked out, the urge to call him back, to change his mind, to throw everything away, was almost overwhelming. Nic balled his fingers into fists, and went to take the box from Ambrose’s hand.
It looked much the same as it had when he’d found it, but here and there Dashiell had scratched out sigils and added new ones, leaving it covered in the lingering feel of the vowsmith’s magic. It was almost as cruel as the smell of him that lingered on Nic’s pillows.
Despite his confidence in Dashiell’s work, Nic tensed as he flipped open the lid. Nothing happened, just the faint creak of a stiff hinge leaving Nic staring down at a single crumpled piece of paper torn along one edge.
“Oh shit,” Nic breathed. “Ambrose? Quick, go fetch Lady Leaf. Now!”
“Yes, my lord.”
As Ambrose departed, Nic pulled the page from the box and set it on the table, smoothing the crumples as best he could.
A page from a ledger. The Serral crest was faintly inked at the top like a watermark, followed by neat lines of accounts and expenses.
Two books for Charles ￡8 6s. Greasing coin, paid to Gillingham ￡20. My lady’s shawl ￡60.
At the next line, Nic drew a sharp breath.
Lord Francis Monterris—services rendered ￡10,000.
Hurried steps heralded Ambrose’s return, but even when Leaf swept in saying, “Ambrose said you found something,” Nic didn’t look up from the page, just slid it across the table toward her.
“Oh! Is that the page your valet was holding?”
“Read it.”
A moment of silence hung while she read, then, “Oh! But… my aunt got that shawl just before we came. Yes, see, the date at the top of the page is from last month. That cannot be right.”
At last, Nic looked up, meeting her frown. He’d had the very same thought, but it was slowly giving way to another, to the possibility that the Faceless Man hadn’t been the ghost of Lord Francis at all.
Nic thought of his father’s hand on his arm as he hissed in Nic’s ear. We don’t need another useless conjuror in this family.
“Oh,” he breathed, before his voice failed entirely.
“Oh?”