Chapter 242: Know my sorrow 2

LYSANDER

"There was a reason for that."

"And it is stranger still that he did not come after the King..." She set her cup down carefully. "After your uncle Cornelius died. You would think his brother’s death would have brought him running."

"He might still come for the funeral." I ran my thumb along the handle of the brush. "There is a chance he does not even know what happened. I was quite young when he fell out with the family, and Uncle Cornelius cut him off almost entirely. After that, there were no calls, texts, letters, or even visits. The house sent a card to the borders at the solstice, and I believe it was Uncle Cornelius’s secretary who signed it."

"Why?"

"Why did he cut him off?"

"Yes. Was it because he didn’t want the life of privilege?"

"That was Uncle Cornelius’s version." I gave a short, humourless laugh. "He thought Isak had thrown everything back in his face. A man with a title, a seat at the royal table and every privilege he could have wanted had chosen to live in what Cornelius considered a glorified cottage, simply to spite the family. He took it as a personal insult, as though Isak had somehow rejected the entire house by refusing to play his part in it."

"But you don’t think that was it."

"My mother had a rather different opinion about why he was so angry."

Bonnie turned fully on the stool. "What was it?"

I opened my mouth, then thought better of it.

"I’m sure she told me at some point," I said after a moment. "But I was young, and probably not terribly interested. The only thing I remember is hearing her crying in her room, talking about something I couldn’t quite understand." I paused, a faint smile touching my mouth. "I was much more preoccupied with the fact that Sofiane had taken the new shoes Father had bought me. They were very special shoes, as I recall, and I was thoroughly offended."

Her lips twitched, but she let me continue.

"I do remember that she kept in touch with Isak in secret. He used to send her messages, and she hid them from Uncle Cornelius. He came to her funeral, too."

"I think Nicholas mentioned that."

"He was the only one who wept openly."

The admission came out more quietly than I meant it to. I looked down at the brush, turning it absently in my hand.

"Afterward, he gave me a gift. A little knife with a bone handle. He stayed at Lily of the Valley for a short while, in the guest room, before returning to the borders with his wife, Sunita." I swallowed. "And that was more or less the last I saw of him."

Bonnie watched me in the mirror. She had gone very still, her attention fixed on me with that particular patience she possessed when she suspected there was something beneath my words that I hadn’t quite found the courage to say.

I glanced down at the brush again and realized my fingers had tightened around it.

"What is it?" she asked softly.

"Nothing. It is only..." I exhaled, loosening my grip. "I have been thinking about what you told me this afternoon. About your father and the dream hopping."

"Dream hopping might be a generous description. I think he was only able to do that with me."

"I believe you, but I don’t think it was necessarily limited to you. Or, at least, I don’t think it will remain that way." I lifted my eyes to hers. "I believe the seals holding him are beginning to weaken. And if we are to mend them, I will need the families who created the runes."

She considered that for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"Runes belong to an older form of magic," I continued. "Stronger, and considerably more jealously guarded. They were never the sort of knowledge that could be passed around freely. Families kept them within their own bloodlines, handed them down from mother to daughter, father to son. Over the centuries, most of those traditions fell into silence. The knowledge is dying with the people who still possess it. Only a handful of houses retain the old marks."

I gave a rueful shake of my head.

"One of those houses is the Wicker family."

"The Wicker family."

"Yes."

"I wish I had all that knowledge," she said with a small, helpless laugh. "To know which families matter and why, to understand all these things. But I don’t. I barely understand my own hands, Lysander. So I hope you will tell me."

"Of course." I reached over and touched her shoulder. "I’ll tell you. Uncle Isak’s wife is a witch."

Her eyebrows rose.

"Oh. Sunita?"

"Yes. Sunita Wicker."

"That is surprising." She straightened on the stool, considering the revelation. "A royal halfling and a witch. And he is a duke, with wolf blood on his mother’s side. Intermarriage between species is frowned upon, Lysander. More so than marrying beneath one’s caste among royals, and that is saying something, even if it was never formally outlawed. I’m surprised there wasn’t greater opposition."

"There was."

"I would have thought it might have..."

"He was a radical for his time." I smiled, unable to disguise my fondness. "He was also half human, and I suspect he never quite lost the habit of looking at the world from that side of things. I’m fairly certain he couldn’t have cared less what anyone thought. He might have been the only person in that entire house who simply did as he pleased."

A small smile touched her mouth, reaching her eyes.

"The trouble," I continued, "is that I will have to get in touch with him sooner or later."

"Because of the runes."

"Because of the runes. And the swearing-in, and the funeral. I will have to write to him regardless." I finally lowered the brush and placed it on the dresser. "It is a perfectly reasonable excuse to make contact, but I cannot say I’m looking forward to it."

"Why?"

"Because of everything happening around us." I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "The Shelters are already furious. The other families are watching, and none of them are particularly comfortable with what is unfolding. Who knows whether they will be willing to involve themselves in any of this? I don’t know what Sunita will say, or what my uncle will think. I haven’t reached out to him in years, Bonnie. I wouldn’t even know how to begin."

Bonnie rose from the stool.

She turned towards me and caught my hand. Only then did I realize I had picked up the brush again without noticing. She gently took it from me and set it aside before gathering both my hands in hers, drawing them against her chest. The soft cotton of her nightdress was warm beneath my knuckles, and I could feel the steady beat of her heart.

"I’m certain it will all work out soon enough," she said.

I looked at her, at the damp ends of her hair curling against her collarbone, the faint scent of mint lingering on her skin, and the warmth in her eyes.

"If you, of all people, are choosing to be optimistic," I said, "then perhaps I ought to take heart."

"Then take heart."

I leaned down and kissed her.