Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.
Dain remembered a child lost, alone and despairing, seeking comfort from the Virgin Mother, when his own was gone.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.
That child had prayed, not knowing what he prayed for. He had not known what his sin was, or what his mother’s was. He had known, though, that he was alone.
Dain knew what it was to be alone, unwanted, frightened, confused, as Jessica had said of his son.
He knew what this hideous child felt. He, too, had been hideous and unwanted.
“Mama’s gone,” he said tightly. “I’m Papa.”
The thing raised its head. Its black eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, the great beak dripping snot.
“Plague take you, you’re filthy,” Dain said. “When was the last time you had a bath?”
The brat’s narrow face twisted into a scowl that would have sent Lucifer running for cover. “Sod off,” he croaked.
Dain grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up. “I am your father, you little wretch, and when I say you’re filthy and need a bath, you say, ‘Yes, sir.’ You do not tell me—”
“Bugger yourself.” The boy choked out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. “Bugger you. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Sod, sod, sod.”
“This is not puzzling behavior,” Dain said. “I am not in the least puzzled. I know exactly what to do. I shall order a bath—and have one of the stablemen up to scrub you. And if you happen to take in a mouthful of soap in the process, that will be all to the good.”
At this, the wretch let out a hoarse stream of invective and began writhing like a fresh-caught fish on a hook.
Dain’s grip remained firm, but the boy’s thread-bare shirt did not. The ragged collar tore off and its wearer broke free—for exactly two seconds, before Dain caught him and swung him up off the floor and under his arm.
Almost in the same heartbeat Dain heard an ominous rattling sound.
Then the boy threw up…all over His Lordship’s boots.
Then the squirming bundle under Dain’s arm turned into a dead weight.
Alarm swept through him and surged into blind panic.
He’d killed the child. He shouldn’t have held him so tightly. He’d broken something, crushed something…murdered his own son.
Dain heard approaching footsteps. His panicked gaze went to the door.
Phelps appeared.
“Phelps, look what I’ve done,” Dain said hollowly.
“Got them fancy boots mucked up, I see,” Phelps said, approaching. He peered down at the lifeless form still wedged against Dain’s hip.
“What’d you do, skeer his dinner out o’ him?”
“Phelps, I think I’ve killed him.” Dain could scarcely move his lips. His entire body was paralyzed. He could not make himself look down…at the corpse.
“Then why’s he breathin’?” Phelps looked up from the boy’s face into his master’s. “He be’nt dead. Only sick, I reckon. Mebbe took a chill comin’ here in the bad weather. Whyn’t you put him down over there on the bed so we can have a look at him?”
Addled, Dain thought. Jessica would say he was addled. Or high-strung. His face burning, he carefully shifted the boy up, carried him to the bed, and gently laid him down.
“He looks a mite feverish,” said Phelps.
Dain cautiously laid his hand over the lad’s grime-encrusted forehead. “He’s—he’s rather overwarm, I think,” said His Lordship.
