“I would have preferred truth to silence.”
George gave a great bark of laughter. “Not the family way, old boy, not the family way. It should be our motto. ‘Sub silentio.’”
“What about, oh who was it again, St. Erth’s second daughter. Rosa, was it? Everyone thought you would marry her.”
“Oh yes, I liked her well enough. Too well to marry her. I was grateful for her letters, though. They were pretty things. Smelled of flowers. So did she. But it was Edward who kept me sane.” He finished his drink. “Or some approximation thereof. He made me believe the world was waiting for me. Except it wasn’t. He lied, though I can’t hold it against him.” George came to his feet and spread his arms wide. “This was the illusion all along. In truth, I never left Sevastopol.”
“You’re drunk.” Thomas was pleading and he did not care. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re here, with me, and you’re safe and good and you’re still my brother. And ... and ...” It was not something spoken in their family, but he said it now. The words learned, not from God, with all His promises and mysteries—and the endless, endless silence—but in Micha’s arms. “I love you.”
“Yes, I’m drunk,” said George mildly, ignoring the rest. “And I know exactly what I’m saying. It’s been ten years, Thom, and I still dream of it. I still see the bodies. The mud and the blood and the glittering sea. I still hear the guns in every carriage that rattles down the street. Drinking helps but not very much.” He looked down at his hands and the scraped knuckles. “I haven’t touched a woman I haven’t paid for in over a decade.” He crossed to the window and stood looking out at the shadow-sloshed street below. “It’s why I wanted that bloody housekeeper. She looked untouchable. As though you could never hurt her.”
“That does not excuse your conduct.”
George sighed. “I know. I’m not fit for human company. It’s true what they say. ‘Any hussar who is not dead by the age of thirty is a blackguard.’”
There was a long silence.
“George,” said Thomas, at last, “you need to know something.”
“Oh?”
“Well, a lot of things. But this is about Edward.” Thomas took a deep breath. His heart was pounding like hoofbeats. “It’s not your fault he died. It was not some divine retribution for your actions in the war. The gun did not discharge by accident. He chose to take his own life. He ... he killed himself.”
George’s back went absolutely rigid. “What?”
“The marquess made me keep the secret. To avoid the disgrace. And I didn’t take much convincing because I wanted to see our brother buried well.”
“And why,” asked George very softly, “was this kept from me?”
“I ... don’t know. He insisted, and I was not strong enough to gainsay His Lordship. Perhaps he thought it would upset you.”
“Whereas being lied to is something I particularly enjoy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You always are, Thom. You always are.” George turned slowly. The moonlight bleached his face to bone. “I used to hate you for being so much our father’s creature. But now I see that none of us were any different.”
“You do at least understand,” Thomas insisted, “that you cannot blame yourself for Edward’s death. I should have told you. I know that.”
“By his own hand, or another’s, it makes no difference. Our brother is lost.”
“Not lost, just waiting. We will see him again.”
“Not I. I know what awaits me.” George came back to his chair and lifted the empty decanter, watching the dregs careen back and forth, in shades of amber and gold. “Do you know why he did it?”
“No, but I feel I should.”
“As do I.” George’s face hardened. “I’ll find out.”
“How? The man is dead.”
“I don’t know. But, for now, I’m going to bed. I’m very drunk, and I’m tired of talking.”
Thomas nodded. “As you wish.”
“You’re still a prig, old boy.”
“I know.”
