Page 10 of Lord of the Lost

Mona knew that what she was doing was not, technically, proper. She knew that those who did not understand her deep friendship with Devlin would say nasty, misguided things if they discovered what she was about to do. She knew, too, that those things would be true in any other circumstances but these. Devlin, she knew most of all, could be trusted not to step upon her honour. So when the footman had delivered to her a letter written in Devlin’s hand, she had gathered her courage, steeled her resolve, and crept out in the deep dark of night and snuck down the road, away from Crooked Hill Manor.

The night was, thank the Lord, dry – well almost – there was just a slight drizzle. But the moonlight cast everything in an eerie silver light, and the call of an owl made her jump, the swoop of its white wings above her even more so. The air showed the mist of her breath as she walked, and she hugged her coat around her. Perhaps she was a fool to come out like this – why, after all, would Devlin ask for a secret meeting, when, as Duke, he could simply call upon her brother, or invite her family to call upon him?

She had no answer to that question, except for the faint hope that made her heart sing – that he wanted to see her utterly alone, so that he might touch her, and say things to her that others should not overhear… She shook her head, irritated by her own thoughts. She was a silly goose to even consider it. But the question did not leave her mind, nonetheless.

Eventually she came to the gate of Crooked Hill Manor, at the bottom of the hill, surrounded by ancient trees, its gateposts topped by carved representations of her family’s crest. They looked threatening, gargoyle-like in the filtered moonlight, the breeze casting shadows across them from the evergreen trees. She opened the gate slightly, slid through, and closed it. Then she went to stand beside the gate post, waiting in the shadow of the post as the letter had instructed.

Go back, go back, go back!

The small voice in her mind sounded like Mother and Roland and her dear departed Father and a thousand other people, all of whom had only her best interests at heart.

She steadfastly ignored it, even though she knew that it was right.

But what she knew mattered little when her heart plagued her with fantasies of her friend. They would meet in the parlour, somewhere, soon, she knew, and they would play their parts in front of others, but what of friendly conversation which was not a performance? What of the type of friendship which makes one feel alive, unconstrained, almost like a child again? Or… perhaps… the type of friendship which makes you feel more than simple friendship…?

Her heart pounded in her ears. Despite the cold, her palms sweated, and her legs trembled.

He was not coming.

He was not coming!

Oh, he is not coming!

But then she heard firm, slightly uneven footsteps in the darkness. She retreated deeper into the trees which bordered the gate and waited, lest it was some night time traveller, some highwayman or criminal, and not Devlin.

“Desdemona?” came his voice, a voice she knew so well. “Lady Desdemona?”

“I am here,” Mona whispered, her voice quivering.

She stepped out of the shadow of the trees and into a beam of moonlight, just as Devlin appeared around the corner of the road, and came to stand in the same pool of silvery light. The two of them, made ethereal by moonlight, regarded each other, each looking for the person they remembered, in the person who stood before them.

Mona simply stared, caught by how different he was, and yet how much the same. The shape of him was little changed – his body stronger, more muscular now, even though he had always been well-built. But the details…. He now had a beard - she had never seen Devlin with a beard before and had always appreciated his square, strong jaw. His beard was thick, and the same colour as his hair - night-black. It completely covered the lower half of his face and, even as she wondered why he might have grown a beard, she saw why.

A white, faded scar ran from under his left eye down to the bottom of his face. Around the scar his beard had not grown, but the beard was so thick that it mostly obscured it. His eyes were somehow harder, less trusting than she remembered - they were still pale green, but they had seen more, endured more. He had let his hair grow down to his shoulders – it was tied back in a queue, only just restrained by a simple strip of leather. He looked half-wild, but he was unmistakably Devlin.

The breath she hadn’t known she was holding left her in a rush.

“Does my appearance frighten you, Mona?”

Mona blushed.

She thought of herself as Mona, always, but he had stopped using that childhood name for her, long ago, even before he had gone to France. She should have reprimanded him - he should not have even called her by her forename, let alone by a shortening of it - but she did not. It sounded too natural coming from his lips.

Propriety could be saved for parlours and meeting under the eyes of others…

“It does not,” she said. “Though I was initially surprised. You are so changed in some ways.”

“And you are unchanged,” Devlin countered. “I feel as though I have fallen through time. Here I am, a brute from some land far hence, and here you are, as preserved and perfect as some statue of a goddess. I am afraid, dear Mona, that I am a mere facsimile of the man I once was – one with too many flaws.”

“Nonsense!” Mona cried, shocking herself with the force of her words. “You are His Grace, Devlin Vickery, Duke of Grimstoke. That is who you are, Devlin. And no matter what you have experienced, what you have done, for these last eleven years, you are a good man, deserving of holding that title. That is what you are.”

He smiled. The passage of time had done little to alter the effect that his smile had upon her.

He is just my friend, she told herself. He is only my good friend. But Mona denied her heart with those thoughts – and failed to believe what she told herself.

He studied her, the moonlight sparking light in his eyes, silvering the edge of him, catching light from the water drops on his hair, making him seem somehow magical. For a moment, expressions flickered across his face, expressions which Mona could not interpret, but which seemed to touch on sadness and doubt, as much as anything else. Was he disappointed, despite what he had said? Was she not what he had expected?

Then he surprised her completely.