“On a visit to the Continent. You shall take a liking to Italy during your tour and stay there a few months. You will correspond with Steelcrest and with me every few weeks—and we will keep the gilded abreast of your adventures, should they require news. If anyone inquires after you in Italy, you will move to France, and so forth.”
John nodded. “My assets?”
“In a year you will have a tragic accident—”
“A racing accident, I hope. Fitting for me to go out on a tricorn, don’t you think?”
I nodded, looking at my hands, seeing them as if from a distance, clenched in my lap. “Fitting indeed.”
“My documents are in order. There should be no trouble in a year. I’ve left everything to you anyway.” John was calm, eerily serene. “Take care of my stables, will you? The tricorns. The trainers. I have a fine foal. Huntswitch winner for sure. I would like it if you would race her, or sell her to a worthy buyer, should you have a care for me.”
“I have a care for you, John.”
He looked away, his throat working. “I know. I’m sorry, Gabriel.”
“I know, John. I’m sorry too.”
The carriage slowed. Hooves clomping to a stop. The turning of the wheels paused, suspended.
John turned to me. “Marietta is good for you, Gabriel. I quite like her. Don’t be a fool and let her go.”
“I can do nothingbutlet her go, John. Sometimes love can only be given by setting someone free.”
John watched me for a long moment, then held up his bound hands. “You speak truly.”
I hesitated. One cut through his bindings and it would be done.
“Gabriel.”
I pulled the knife. I cut the rope.
The coil fell onto John’s lap, then slithered to the ground. Our gazes held.
I handed him a bag of shaping dust, the two bulky objects that remained in the cloth bundle bumping against my palm.
John dipped his hands in the dust, wiping streaks along his cheeks, his forehead, down his nose. Over his ears and around his neck. Over the shirt. Any identifiable place.
“I will have to do something to my hands,” he said in a conversational tone as his features began changing.
“Yes.”
“The street, maybe. A quick swipe to open the skin, to roughen idle fingers.” His smile was self-deprecating.
I didn’t respond.
John finished his ministrations and straightened his shirt, an unconscious gesture. “How do I look?”
I nodded, my lips unable to form words.
John looked at me for a moment. A lifetime. “Goodbye, Gabriel.”
“Goodbye, John,” I whispered, somehow dredging up the sounds. “May you find peace.”
John smiled. A smile of old, like when we were younger, before Gildonvale had separated us; playing on the estate, no cares in the world. “Yes,” he said simply.
He held out his hands, and I placed the bundle on top, the two objects clacking together, one heavy and one dagger thin.
John’s hand shot out before I could blink and pulled me to him. A fierce hug, a promise. Then he pushed me away and gripped the carriage handle. “Goodbye.”
