And he’d stolen the small stack of letters that’d sat at the edge of his father’s desk.
He remembered how his heart had thrummed in his throat as he’d slid a finger under the wax seal, remembered how satisfying it was to watch it peel away – leaving nothing but a small stain of red upon the paper. His father always folded his letters into careful squares, and Damien unfolded them with equal care – eyes flicking over his father’s neat, scratched script. There were many words he didn’t understand, like ‘yield’ and ‘remuneration’, but there were many he did. His father wanted to sell the house –this house, rather than the one in London, or a portion of the land – and Damien had begun to imagine which slices of their vast estate he wouldn’t mind parting with. He supposed his father could sell the rock garden – for he never went there; though he wouldn’t like him to sell the stables, or his pony, or the riding tracks he and his mother liked to take.
He’d opened the second letter with a little less care, and then the third, and then the fourth – and when his fatherhad stepped into the office, Mr Briggs at his side, and saw Damien at his desk – the dark mahogany covered in paper – he’d frozen.
‘Excuse us,’ his father had said curtly, turning to Mr Briggs – who’d stepped from the room with naught but a curious glance towards Damien.
Damien had kept his gaze upon the letters – though he could feel his skin growing hot. He’d planned to have put everything back before his father could find out. He’d planned to …
‘So,’ his father had said, his voice low, measured, and far too calm. ‘This is where you are. The nanny was looking for you in the gardens. She was terrified you’d fallen into the lake.’
Damien could feel how dry his throat had become. ‘Father, I can explain—’
‘Stand up.’
Damien had slid from the chair, coming to stand beside the desk – his gaze upon the rug, its intricate weave of burgundy and gold.
‘Did you know, Damien, that tampering with another man’s letters is a crime?’
Damien felt his throat tighten, and he shook his head – a cold kind of fear gripping him.
‘I could report you to the local constabulary, you know. Have them come here and take you away. Is that what you want?’
Damien shook his head – his whole body trembling. He’d seen the constable when he’d gone into town with Mrs Willis, the nanny. A tall man with a dark uniform, and watchful eyes. But these were just letters – letters in his father’s office. He hadn’t meant to do anything bad. He’d just wanted to—
‘Speak up, boy. I cannot hear you.’
‘No, Father,’ Damien said quietly – hating how meek his voice sounded. How … small.
‘Why did you do this?’
Damien glanced up, and saw in his father’s face that he did not want the true answer. He wasn’t interested in hearing how Damien had longed to hear his father’s voice, even if it was only scratched upon a page. He wanted the answer he always wanted.
‘Because I’m not a good boy.’
His father had nodded in agreement, pulling a stack of paper from one of the desk drawers. Then he’d dipped the fountain pen in ink.
‘Sit,’ he’d commanded, pointing to the chair – and Damien had sat, though it had taken him a little effort to climb back onto it. His father had leaned forwards then, scratching something into the first page.
‘Write this out until you understand it. Until every page is filled.’
And Damien had stared at the words scrawled in neat, black letters.
Bad things beget bad things.
‘And he meant you?’ Ava’s voice was soft. ‘Your father thought you were a bad thing, Damien?’
And though he opened his mouth, he found he could not answer her. Couldn’t hear his own voice any longer – for it was only his father’s voice that rumbled in his ears.
It’s your fault. Your fault. All your fault.
‘Damien?’
Ava’s voice was getting further away, and though Damien knew he was sitting still, that a slice of sunlight was dappling his eyes, he couldn’t feel it anymore – couldn’t feel the solidity of the chair beneath him. He felt as though he was getting pitched and tossed on jagged waves, his stomach roiling as his father’s voice grew louder and louder, the same words repeated over and again:
Your fault.
Yours.
