The Fall of The Kings (Riverside) (53 page)

THERON WAS GLAD OF THE INVITATION TO VISIT WITH the twins. It kept him from thinking about going to the University. It was as if parts of the city had become closed to him—marked DANGER as clearly as if he’d seen a map printed with the sign. He wanted so badly to see Basil; but where Basil was, it was not safe for him to go. In the streets of University, someone would notice him, and ask him a question he could not answer; they would see what he was, and what he was not, and men with bells and torches would harry him through the wood by night. On the Hill, there was the danger of Genevieve, and his cousin the duchess. And between the Hill and Riverside were shops where jewels could be had at a price he could not pay.

Isabel lived in the Middle City, well across the river from University—below the Hill, beyond the docks, in a district of small shops and artisans. Her husband, Carlos, was a musician; their rooms were far less grand than the little house Diana’s banker had bought, but Isabel’s place was closer to Riverside. He supposed that was the reason they’d chosen it to meet with him.

The girls smelt warm and milky when he hugged them. “Ooh!” Isabel tweaked the braid in his hair. “Love-knot?”

Blushing, he undid it with his fingers. He kept finding them—he must be doing it without thinking, weaving little braids in when he was trying to read or write.

Diana asked, “Are you going to cut your hair for the wedding? Oh, where are my manners?” She held out a formal hand. “Please accept our sincere best wishes for your future happiness. Now tell us everything!”

The rooms were sun-washed, white-walled, clear of all but the most basic furniture, though what there was was well-made. Theron recognized the carpet he’d sent, in a place of honor on the dining-table. By far the most costly and beautiful thing in the place was an elaborate keyboard, Carlos’s instrument. “Is he out?” Theron asked. “I’d love to hear some music later.”

Isabel glowed. “He should play you his new variations, then. I think they are absolutely beautiful, but he’s still fussing to get them perfect for Lady Montague’s spring revels.”

Theron nodded.

“Tell us about your bride,” they demanded. “Is she pretty?”

“Very.”

“I do wish that we could meet your lady first. Da has, but he won’t say a word. I suppose you’ve been giving grand suppers up at Tremontaine House for her family and all.”

Isabel said wistfully, “If only we were younger—we could dress up some night as serving maids at supper and spy on the whole thing!”

“Wicked, Is. We’ll see her at the wedding.”

“And after— Oh, Theron,” Isabel took his hands, “you will bring her to dinner at Katherine’s with us? Family dinners, I mean?”

He tried and failed to imagine the small, quiet Lady Genevieve sitting at table with Katherine in a brocade loose gown pitching breadcrumbs at Marcus, while the twins and Sophia discussed nursery diets.

Holding his gaze, Isabel’s eyes filled with tears. “Is that what this means, then? That you’re going to go all lordly and grownup and leave the family?”

“How could I?” he whispered. “You are my family.” He kissed her cheek. Her sister’s head was on her shoulder. “I’ll still come to dinner, even if Genevieve doesn’t care to,” he said. He looked at the two women, mirrors of each other even to their motherly gowns, coifed hair, and ringed hands, standing with their arms around each other’s waists, as they always had. “How can you ask me such a thing?” Theron demanded. “You’re the ones who did it first—went out and found husbands and left us all.”

They looked at each other, and only they understood what the look meant.

Isabel said abruptly, “There’s fruit and cheese and barley water; I didn’t think anyone would want chocolate at this hour.”

The food was set out on the table like a still life, with pearl-handled fruit knives and painted plates. Just as they were sitting down, there was a yelp and a cry from the other room. Isabel’s hands flew up to cover the stain seeping through her bodice.

A child came in carrying the squalling infant, which was half as big as she was. Isabel unlaced her bodice and put the baby to her breast.

Theron gazed on the nursing child, at its perfect little fingers and the almond-shaped eyelids closed in bliss as it suckled. The most precious thing in the world, warm and soft and alive, new with possibility. He wanted to hold the baby close, to defend it against all comers. He wanted such a one of his own getting. If only he had started sooner—if he had married Isabel, or Diana, it might be his child now that the woman held to her rich, round breast. He would create one soon, he and Genevieve; he would remember, when his life throbbed and pulsed within her at last, that when it burst into joy, its purpose was to make such a child, his child.

There was a heavy step outside the door. Mother and child sat very still, defenseless, lost in a milky feeding world of their own. Theron closed his fingers around a knife, and stood waiting for the door to open, for the intruder to reveal himself. He breathed softly, quietly, ready to spring.

The door opened slowly, slowly, and the man announced his presence by hooting like an owl. Theron tensed.

“Shh!” Isabel whispered; “she’s nearly asleep!”

“Papa’s home!” Carlos crooned, and Theron dropped the knife. “Shh!” the women hissed. The baby whimpered, then fell silent. Theron’s heart was pounding; his skin tingled from the fight that had not happened. He had no name for what he felt: the love and the need to kill something, both at once, both focused on the sleeping child, and on Isabel, his old friend, now transformed under his protection.

He put a hand on Carlos’s shoulder. “Take care of her,” he said, his voice thick with this new passion.

Carlos never took his eyes off his wife and child. “Oh,
she
takes care of
me
.”

Theron’s hand tightened. “I mean it.”

“Of course.”

Theron embraced him. “I want to hear your music. But not now. Come to Riverside; I’ll have the spinet tuned. Music is very good.” And to the women he said, “Thank you for—for a lovely day.”

Diana glanced up from the little head. “Oh, Theron—can you not stay? We’d so much to tell you.”

“I’m sorry,” Theron said. “I must go. Now.” It sounded ungracious, even unfriendly, but that was better than staying and doing he knew not what.

Carlos said, “Please give Lady Sophia our fondest regards.”

“I will. I’ll tell her about the baby.” He smiled helplessly around at them all. “Goodbye.”

When the door closed behind him, the sisters looked at each other. “I’ll put her back to bed,” said Is, and Diana said, “No, let me.”

“Let me,” said Carlos, so of course they let him.

Isabel looked over her table, still neatly spread except for one fruit knife, which was lying on the floor. “He didn’t eat.”

“It’s bad,” said Diana.

“It’s worse than bad. He doesn’t love this one at all.”

“He’s miserable. He’s so nervous I can barely stand to be in the room with him.” Diana picked up the knife and an apple, and angrily began to peel it. “I wish we could just march up to that Randall chit and tell her to leave him alone!”

Isabel hugged her. “What should we do?”

“We should probably tell Lady Sophia.”

“What? That he’s not in love with his intended? I expect she knows.”

“If only she’d cry off,” Diana said.

“Why doesn’t
he
cry off? Take back the proposal, say he’s changed his mind?”

Her sister the banker’s wife looked at her with patient exasperation. “Papa’s already drawn up the contracts. Theron can’t break them now.”

“But Genevieve Randall can?”

Diana drummed her fingers. “It is the woman’s right. But for a lord to reject his contracted bride—well, for all of the things that men may do to us with impunity, it should be comforting to know that this is not one of them.”

“Hmm.” Isabel fiddled with her laces. “I say, do it anyway. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

“For her? It implies that he has found fault with her— judged her and found her wanting somehow. No one else would be in a hurry to offer for her. It could ruin her life. It’s an insult, anyway.”

“In the old days, it would have meant a swordsman for sure. A challenge to Theron, maybe even to the death. Do the Randalls keep a swordsman?”

“How do I know? They could certainly hire one. But even if they didn’t, it would make him look bad. People would start up again talking about how rackety the Campions are, and bringing up old stuff about Katherine, and—and Lady Sophia. The next time Theron picked a bride, the contract would be brutal.”

“She
must
cry off!”

“Why should she? He’s a catch.”

“Maybe she’s really very nice.”

“I doubt it,” Diana said gloomily. “He’s always had abominable taste in women.”

Isabel said quietly, “Di. Did you ever wish that you and Theron—”

Diana looked at her sharply. “Of course not.”

“Oh. It’s just that, that summer we were sixteen, you were on at him all the time, and at home you talked about him.”

“Well, what else was there to talk about?” Diana asked fiercely; “Andy’s cough? Theron had an interesting life; we didn’t.” She laid the apple on a plate, cut neatly in quarters. “Meeting Martin was the best thing that ever happened to me. I love banking.”

Isabel deemed it wise to change the subject. “By the way,” she said, “Mother told me they’ve invited Jessica to the wedding.”

“No! She’ll never come!”

“Of course she will—if the invitation finds her. She’s out there somewhere, on that ship of hers. If anything would bring her home, I’d think it would be the chance to see her brother get married.”

In the next room, music began.

Isabel said, “Let’s eat.”

chapter
II

IT WAS NO GOOD, THERON THOUGHT; WHEREVER HE WENT it was no good. The things he wanted were all wrong, and he wanted them with a gut-twisting fierceness. He wanted Genevieve for the easing of his body, and because he thought she meant he’d have to give up nothing; instead, he had lost the thing he valued most. Which was Basil.

He had a hazy memory of some kind of quarrel—Basil wanted him to be king, that was it. And he’d been angry because he thought Basil didn’t understand who he really was. Theron remembered himself as being independent, a scholar, a thinker, even a poet: a man of discriminating tastes. But he was none of those things, now. Basil had been right after all. Basil had told Theron the truth over and over about himself: he was his blood, his blood, and nothing but his blood. And Theron had laughed, argued, ignored what he’d heard.

Despite his fear of University, he would go back to Basil, and agree to everything and end this torment. He would be whatever Basil wanted him to be. Together they would rut like stags in autumn; he would find ease and comfort, acceptance and understanding. His was the blood of kings—
Mad
kings
, a voice inside him whispered.
Are you ready, little
prince, to do what they must do?

“What must I do?” he cried aloud, and started at the sound of his own words.

Terence tapped on the door, and entered. “Yes, my lord?”

It took all his strength to keep from hurling something at his servant. “Don’t come in,” he said tightly, “unless I bid you.”

“I thought I heard you call, sir,” Terence said patiently.

“I did call, but not to you. Leave me.”

“With respect, sir—”

“How can you respect me?” Theron demanded. “You clean my dirty clothes—my dirty body— What is this
me
that you respect?”

Taking a deep breath first, the servant replied, “My lord. Theron. Your nerves are in a perilous state. I would walk across the city to get you the remedy, but I don’t know where it is to be found.”

“Not,” said Theron, “among my mother’s medicines.”

Terence stood there, his capable hands hanging empty at his sides. When his master said nothing more, he asked, “Is it the dreams, sir?”

“Dreams? What dreams?” Theron said.

Terence looked down. “As my lord says, I know his habits better than most.”