He willed the image away.
A long-acquired skill.
This movement, this slow, hitched negotiation with gravity, it got the job done, didn’t it?
He didn’t set his feet in the direction of the stables, as he usually did after his morning swim, but toward the manor house—the orangery, specifically. There he would find Sir Abstrupus taking his morning tea.
Bran had a question for the old rascal.
Dramatically, the house appeared through the mist.Château Bottom’s Roost. An imposing structure of weathered gray stone, it was constructed in the opulent Baroque style of a true French château, so as to appear as grand as those palaces built beforethe collapse of theAncien Régime. Sir Abstrupus had overseen the construction himself, as quaint medieval Bottom’s Roost had been transformed into Château Bottom’s Roost.
One wasn’t likely to see another structure like it on this side of the Channel.
Bran skirted the outside of the house to enter the orangery from the exterior door. He grabbed the wrought-iron handle of the weighty glass door and pushed it open. A blast of heavy, moist air met him full in the face—a welcome effect in January, he was sure, but much less so in August.
But Sir Abstrupus was nothing if not a man of habit. So, if his habit was to break his fast in his orangery, then nothing between heaven and hell was going to stop him. The old eccentric swore by the revivifying effect of humid flora in the morning.
In truth, it was a difficult argument to counter, given the man was well past his ninetieth year, though he kept mum about which year.A man is entitled to his secrets, was all Sir Abstrupus would say on the subject.
Fair play.
Bran supposed a man was.
Soft morning sun peeked through the glass wall of east-facing windows, permeating the air with muted, hazy light through dense greenery. Sir Abstrupus’s orangery was neither elegant nor curated—much like the man himself.Impenetrable junglewould be the fitting descriptor for this space, stuffed to the skylights with all manner of flora from every corner of the world—palm trees from Burma … orchids from the Kingdom of Brazil … cacti from the Mexican Empire … a plant called a Venus’s Flytrap from the Carolinas in America. Not all were exactly thriving—the cacti looked in dire need of a dry desert—but Sir Abstrupus would have them. They were the gateway to a world he would never experience firsthand, for it was known that Sir Abstrupus hadn’t left the Roost in decades—since thefinal slate tile was fitted to the roof. So, he made the world come to him.
Bran could understand the logic.
He’d had about enough of the outside world himself.
As there was no central aisle—or aisles of any sort—Bran navigated in the general direction toward where Sir Abstrupus took his morning tea, careful to avoid the odd cactus or delicate orchid or low branch of a kumquat tree. One hadn’t a choice but to move slowly and with care, which suited Bran perfectly.Slowly and with carehad become his guiding mantra.
Familiar bitterness and frustration roared through him—as it would at least twenty more times today.
A shock of white sprang from the fronds of a bushy fern. One labored, zigzagging step, then another, and Bran was facing Sir Abstrupus, whose teacup was lifted halfway to his mouth. He was a small, delicate man who looked as if he might be composed of bird’s bones. His bright cornflower-blue eyes, too, held a birdlike quality, quick and sharp—eyes that missed nothing. Further, his head of wiry white hair that tended to stand on end would have done a crested chicken proud. Presently, the humidity of the orangery had it displayed in a frizzed puff.
With a mild liftof bushy white eyebrows, he asked, “Will you sit and take a cup of lily-of-the-valley tea with me?”
“Lily of the valley?” Bran’s forehead gathered. “Isn’t that plant?—”
“Poisonous?” Sir Abstrupus finished for him.
All Bran could do was nod, slowly.
“Oh, it most certainly is,” said Sir Abstrupus in his blithe way. “But only in large quantities. In small doses, it can have wondrous benefits.” He took another sip. “Besides, the lilies looked so inviting, and I had to have a taste.”
Bran realized he hadn’t stopped nodding. “And is it—” He attempted to soften his natural bluntness. “Good?”
“Oh, it’s dreadful.” Sir Abstrupus heaved a defeated sigh and set his cup down. “Since you haven’t taken a seat, I suppose you have a purpose for this visit?”
Right.
Bran cleared his throat—and stopped nodding. “I was on my way to the stables.”
Sir Abstrupus tipped his head to the side. “Yet you’rehere. On the opposite side of the château.”
Subtlety.
That was the skill called for in this situation.
