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And sometimes it is an uncle who refuses to be called uncle because he is far too young, far too handsome, and far too emotionally complex for such a bloody dreadful title.
Lazarus bumps his shoulder against mine. “You are smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” He jests.
“Do not be tedious.”
Edward glances at me. “You are smiling.”
“Betrayal from all sides.” I snarl.
Arthur looks through the glass at Baba, she is still smiling faintly at her tea and his eyes shine with such young, aching devotion that I almost forgive him for making me feel ancient. Almost.
“She will be all right?” he asks quietly.
No one answers too quickly. That would be cruel.
At last, I say, “Not all at once.”
Arthur nods. Inside, Olive says something that makes Baba look down, then laugh again softer.
“But yes,” I add. “I think she has found the right place to begin.”
Arthur looks at me. “Thank you, Alcott.”
I wave one hand. “Yes, well. I am exceptionally wise.”
Lazarus makes a choking sound while Edward turns to look at Laz, suspiciously amused. Arthur smiles, a genuine one this time, then looks inside the greenhouse. Olive lifts her teacup toward us through the glass without looking. Caught. Naturally, Baba turns and sees all four of us standing outside like guilty gargoyles. Her smile fades slightly, but then returns, smaller and steadier. Olive does not turn around, she merely raises her voice enough to carry. “If any of you are finished pretending not to spy, you may bring biscuits.”
50. A Table with Four Seats – Olive
Reprise (The Sound of the End)
Eighteen months after The Collector died, my men have been trying to find me new prey, a new monster. Not a metaphorical one. Not one of Lazarus’s philosophical descriptions of mankind, sin, or the moral rot beneath polished boots, but a real one. A terrible man with a title, mistresses, and a collection of sins so vile even Alcott would go quiet while reading the ledger.
We’ve gathered in the library at our manor, though gathered makes us sound more orderly than we are. Edward stands near the fire, pretending not to watch me over the rim of his glass. Alcott sits at the writing desk with papers spread before him in tidy, damning piles. Lazarus lounges across a velvet chair like a fallen saint with expensive tailoring and poor posture. I sit near the window with Morrigan’s heavy head in my lap, one hand buried in her spotted fur, while Thanatos watches from outside, beak pressed to the glass. He was banned from the library after attempting to carry off a letter opener. He considers this political persecution.
“You are all behaving strangely,” I say.
Lazarus blinks. “We are always behaving strangely.”
“More strangely.”
Alcott looks up. “A difficult measurement.”
Edward says nothing. That, more than anything, confirms it. I turn to him. “Edward.”
His jaw flexes. The face of a man deciding whether love requires honesty or evasion.
“Do not look at me like that,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Like you are about to ask me if I am emotionally prepared for a chair.”
Edward sighs. “I was not going to ask about a chair.”
