Page 112 of House of Roots and Ruin
“In bed, sleeping.”
I shook my head. “I looked for him there earlier. His rooms were empty. What did you do to him?”
“Nothing.” He sounded hurt, as though my accusation had wounded him.
It didn’t matter. “Where is he?”
“Downstairs, in the sickroom. He had one of those fits of his last night. That giant of a manservant took him for treatment. I suspect he’s still there, sleeping it off. I meant what I said earlier. Those long nights are taking a toll on him. On us all.”
“But you don’t—”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me, about any of us, little Thaumas girl.”
His temper was sudden and swift, a dark cloud bursting opento unleash its torrent and storm. But when he finally turned to face me, he seemed calm, his anger reined in, held tight in an even tighter fist.
“Since you’re already so close, would you mind shutting the door? There’s a story that needs to be told and I’d hate for us to be interrupted.”
I wanted to call out for help. I wanted to scream and holler and bring the entire staff of Chauntilalie to my aid. But Alex had once said he liked this study best because it was in the most secluded corner of the manor, far from the bedchambers or other places the servants usually trafficked. No one would hear me.
I’d need to run, then.
I reached for the doorknob—a splayed tail of a brass peacock—summoning the burst of energy needed to race out of the room, fling the door closed behind me, and find help. But before I could spring into action, I was forced back into the room as a figure appeared, stepping over the threshold.
For a moment, I thought it was Alex.
Then Viktor.
No.
Julien.
“I thought we’d agreed we were staying out of sight, brother,” he said, his voice clipped and clinical. His eyes, a perfect match to Alex’s, ran over me with a curious disinterest.
“Julien,” I guessed, and he sighed.
“You told her our names?”
“I thought she could help us.”
Another sigh.
“Close the door before anyone else stumbles in here,” Viktorinstructed, leaving the window to make his way toward the seating area, striding through the room with comfortable confidence, a king at home in his palace.
The door swung shut and Julien flipped the lock with a decisive click.
I was trapped.
“Why don’t you join me over here, Ver?” Viktor invited, patting a spot on the chaise beside him. “It’s a long, curious tale. We might as well all be comfortable.”
I had no intention of going anywhere near him, but Julien stepped forward, herding me over to the chairs. I chose an armchair instead, as far from the offered seat as I could get, but stayed standing behind it, using its size as a protective, well-padded barrier.
Julien took the chair opposite me as Viktor sprawled across the chaise, kicking up his feet and tucking his arms behind his head. He looked like a cat stretched in a sunbeam, sleek and wholly satisfied with its place in the universe.
“Where should we begin?” he asked.
“Must we?” Julien questioned.
His clothing was different from his brother’s. Viktor wore the jacket and cravat I’d been painting Alex in, but Julien was less formally dressed. His vest remained unbuttoned, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. I could see a shine of wear on the knees of his trousers and noted the cheaper cloth, the patches and darning. This was not someone who had spent his life in the comforts of Chauntilalie.
