Her eyes narrow.
I breathe in through my nose. “I do not have the head for complicated plots and politics. I would be no good at it.”
Nevermind that I think secret plans to reopen the old portals and allow the fey back into our world are absurd. A childish fixation at best, a disaster at worst, if they somehow manage to succeed. Fey were cruel. Dangerous. Thinking that they would see the noble families as their descendents, and reward us by sharing power, is deranged thinking. Nobody even knows for sure if the reason we have magic in our souls is because our ancestors were fey.
Mother says nothing, but her silence speaks volumes. She cherishes the prestige father’s position in their cult gives her. I’m quite sure she doesn’t truly believe in the cause. She just likes the status.
The staff efficiently dart in, clear the first course and serve the second. Numbly, I pick up my knife and fork.
“I suppose you are going to continue to leave all the work of finding your brother a husband to me?”
My hand tightens on my knife. So many things I cannot say. I cannot say that the cult is crazy and delusional, because they are also dangerous. A proper little secret society of cloaks and daggers. They would wholeheartedly believe they needed to kill me to keep me quiet. They’d never understand that I couldn’t care less about what they get up to as long as they leave me out of it.
As for sweet little Laurie. Mother can’t know that I am hoping that father dies before Laurie turns eighteen. Then when I am master of the house, I can forbid my baby brother being given away in servitude.
If she knew of my plans, she’d find a way to thwart them. Possibly something truly awful, like giving Laurie away before he is eighteen. Or arranging a scandal that would tie my hands.
“I am busy with my studies,” I say, with the best haughty, uncaring tone I can muster.
I don’t look at Laurie, but out of the corner of my eye I see his head lower even more. His shoulders slump. Not so much as to earn a berating from mother about posture, but enough that I see it.
My throat tightens. What a mess. A tangled web of misery.
Visions swim through my mind. My campervan. My worktable. The simple life I have carved for myself. Pink’s pretty eyes. His kind, gentle soul.
My lungs tighten painfully.
I see it now so clearly. It is a wonderful thing that sweet Pink put up a clear boundary between us. Dragging him down into my life would be unforgivable.
This little interlude of living in peace in my campervan in the bottom of Pink’s garden, is just that. An interlude. As soon as my father dies, my real life is going to drag me back kicking and screaming. There is no escaping it.
Pink deserves none of my mess. He deserves the world, or at the very least, a peaceful life. I can’t court him. It would be unfair of me to try to win him over, because if I succeeded, bringing him here would be awful.
I want Pink to be safe. I want him to be happy. Therefore, one thing is perfectly clear.
I really do need to keep Pink far, far away from my heart.
Chapter eight
Pink
ONE YEAR LATER
Ilike the laundry room. The swish of the washing machine. The hum of the dryer. The smell of detergent. It is all soothing and comforting.
I think it also gives me a sense of pride. I grew up with servants, and in the harem our closets were stocked with the stupid Disney-style harem outfits we had to wear. So this is the first time in my life I’ve done my own laundry, and I love the normalcy of it. The novelty hasn’t worn off after a year, so I guess this is something I’m always going to enjoy. And why not? Life is all about the small pleasures.
Here I am, taking clothes that I chose for myself, out of the dryer and folding them. If anyone could see me now, they’dthink I was a normal young man. It definitely is something to be happy about.
My calm thoughts are disrupted as a warm tingle dances through me. I grit my teeth. That was nothing to do with pride at washing my own clothes. That tingle was my swelling magic. I’m not ripe yet, but it’s letting me know it will not be long before I am.
With a small sigh, I start carefully moving my pile of neatly folded clothes from the counter to my laundry basket so I can carry them all up to my room.
The simple task is not enough of a distraction. My thoughts are turning to Monty and I can’t fight it anymore. Maybe I should go to him early? Empty this magic before it gets too annoying?
Monty won’t mind. He never does. He is always kind, gentle, respectful. And distant. Just as I asked him to be twelve long months ago.
My stomach squirms uncomfortably. Do I regret pushing Monty away? It is something I ponder every day, but I’m still not sure what the answer is. On one hand, sex with Monty still leaves me feeling vulnerable. On the other hand, Monty’s endless kindness has slowly won my battered trust. Being vulnerable with Monty no longer feels terrifying.
