Page 279 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

Mimi accepts and races away, shouting for Silly.

Lachlan just makes it into a small bathroom before throwing up.

There’s almost nothing in him.

Coffee, bile, the sour remains of last night’s dread.

Lachlan braces both hands against the basin afterwards and waits for his vision to clear, jaw clenched until the worst of the shaking passes. He rinses his mouth, washes his face and swallows two painkillers dry.

He can’t count the rings in a cut-down tree.

It’s his own insides.

In the den, paper stars hang from the ceiling, some elegant and precisely folded by Blaire, others gloriously uneven because Mimi made them herself. Pine garlands wrap around the banisters and fill the whole East Wing with the scent of cold forests. Vasily sits cross-legged beneath the tree in a green sweater several sizes too large, surrounded by torn paper and ribbons. Mimi is attempting to climb into an enormous box rather than investigate what came out of it.

Jules sits on the rug nearby in the rose-red scarf Blaire knitted for him.

He looks pristinely exhausted, beautifully composed.

It’s with a horrible gut-clench of realisation that Lachlan remembers where he’s seen that look before, only it was with the glass dome overhead and butterfly wings beneath their feet.

Nothing in Jules’ face changes when Lachlan enters.

‘Daddy!’ Mimi calls. ‘Daddy, look what Danny got me!’

Danya sits behind her, long legs stretched out beneath the coffee table. He helps arrange a row of painted Russian dolls from largest to smallest. Every one of them has Mimi’s dark hair, bright eyes and intense expression, but she gives them all different names, all eight of them.

Lachlan and Danya’s earpieces crackle.

‘Control to Kestrel, unscheduled vehicle approaching outer boundary.’

‘Heard. Control, hold the gate and give me identification.’ Lachlan looks at Danya, who begins to rise. ‘Stay here. I’ve got it.’

‘I will go.’

‘I said stay.’

Danya drops back down, expression sharpening despite the easy posture.

Jules watches the exchange wordlessly.

Lachlan leaves before Mimi can object.

Once he’s out of sight, he drops the pretence.

There is no vehicle. Rook didn’t question Lachlan’s request for a falsified report and possesses the good sense never to mention it again. Lachlan spends the next twenty minutes triple-checking security elements that don’t need checking, moving through cold corridors and empty stations while Christmas carries on without him. His chest feels carved hollow, his ribs sore from the effort of keeping it from showing.

By the time he returns to the East Wing, half the presents have been opened. Mimi launches herself at him again and demands that he sit down.

He stays for two minutes.

Long enough to be shown the expensive handcrafted porcelain dolls Penhalyx sent and put them aside in favour of Danya’s, half of which she has already named.

‘Jewel, you put him in here,’ she instructs, opening a bigger doll and letting Jules place the smaller one he’s holding inside.