Page 56 of Legacy of Thorns
Daphne and Finley spoke at the same moment.
“What about your castle?”
“You still haven’t told me why you were chasing my father and now me.”
“What elegant confluence,” Barlowe said. “You present the question and the answer at the same moment. I must produce the castle I claim to own, and I must produce it soon. After so many years, questions have begun to be asked—oh only the most subtle, of course. But I have seen how subtle questions can grow.”
“It doesn’t exist?” Daphne asked. “And you’ve managed to fool everyone that it does for an entire decade!?”
“Remarkable, is it not, what people will believe if you say something with enough confidence,” the false lord said.
Finley shifted uncomfortably. He couldn’t deny the words when he’d made the same observation more than once.
“I will admit that I haven’t been circulating through house parties for the entire ten years,” Barlowe offered. “For the first seven I acted as companion to an elderly, and extremely wealthy, noble lady. She placed my witty pronouncements slightly above her many lap dogs in terms of my entertainment value—a place of great honor in her household, I assure you. And for the price of excellent mealtime conversation, I was kept in luxury as a permanent houseguest. I knew the arrangement couldn’t last forever, so I had already begun my search during those years, but I’ll admit it was of a more desultory nature during that time. In the three years since, I have worked with more urgency.”
“This is too much.” Daphne sank onto the closest armchair, curling up into it and resting her head against the backrest. Her eyes closed.
Finley immediately placed himself between her and Barlowe, wishing, once again, that he had never encouraged her to walk into the manor.
“So it’s true?” Barlowe stepped sideways so he could see Daphne. “My men reported that you had traveled into the regionwith a young lady who was given to frequent napping, but I doubted their report.”
“She grew up outside Oakden,” Finley said reluctantly.
He didn’t want to tell Barlowe anything about Daphne, but he didn’t trust the man’s smooth manners. If he thought Daphne was mocking him, he might react badly.
Silence drew out between them, Fin’s emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Daphne had challenged him to let go of his bitterness toward his father, and Finley had committed to doing so—or attempting to do so, at least. He had also begun to accept her assessment of the ways in which his father had influenced both him and Archie.
But when she had gently questioned the truth of his perception of his father, Finley had never wavered. He had been so certain that he had known his father, so certain his father had ruined his life.
And yet now it turned out that Finley hadn’t known his father at all. He hadn’t even known his true name.
Fresh resentment surged through him. Why hadn’t his father told him?
Finley could understand wanting to protect Archie, who had been so young, but why not tell Finley? Had his father really thought he was protecting his older son?
His mother had thought the same, though. How many times had she told Fin to remain a child while he still could?
His childhood and youth rolled through his mind, the old events replaying with fresh color. His father’s desertion of their family, the subsequent three years of nomadic life—all of it looked different under the new revelation.
Finley had thought they were always fleeing debts, but he couldn’t remember now if his father had actually said so. How many of those times had they actually been fleeing discovery—from Barlowe himself or from others who had realized the truth and sought to use his father for their own ends?
He could hear his mother’s words in his mind, telling him to forgive his father, telling him that he misunderstood him. But Finley had stubbornly refused to accept her words. Perhaps Finley had not been entirely blameless in the situation himself.
He tried to ground himself, to think it through clearly. Some facts hadn’t changed. His father hadn’t been a good father. He hadn’t loved them well. But perhaps he had been doing his best, loving as best he knew how. Finley could understand that—he knew what it was to try and to fall short.
Something inside him shifted, resentment giving way to something that felt like grief. But there was no more time for processing emotions.
Barlowe still hadn’t taken his eyes off Daphne, watching her sleep with far too much interest.
“Enough with the distractions!” Finley snapped, trying to keep Barlowe’s attention on him. “Let’s speak of matters as they really are. You have been persecuting and attempting to abduct both me and my brother—a child!—for years. But even if our father was a prince, we don’t have a castle to give you. We never did.”
“No, no, of course not,” Barlowe said in a soothing tone that made Finley want to throttle the man. “I have the castle already—or I will have as soon as you clear away a couple of impediments for me.”
Daphne finally stirred, rising from the chair and coming to Finley’s side. “Let me guess. This castle that you claim is yours belongs to a girl currently trapped in an enchanted sleep, and the brambles protecting her won’t let you pass. That’s why you need a prince.”
Barlowe gave a delighted clap. “You prove once again that you’re a lady of more than ordinary perception. You have seen straight to the heart of the matter.”
“But that’s outrageous!” Indignation flowed from Daphne. “Even if Fin or Archer open the brambles for you and wake the girl, that won’t make the castle yours. What of her family?”
