Page 56 of Bitter Burn
Standing on the other side of my wife are Hugo Budic, Kayden Howell, and Isabella Beroul, all of whom came down for the funeral, which I think is uncommonly kind of them. What happened at Armorica with Isabella and her attacker seems to have forged a bond between them and Tristan, and the best part of myself is pleased that Tristan has such good friends at his new post.
The worst part of myself would like to steal him back.
“I’ll see you at Blanche’s,” my twin says to me after the service is concluded and people begin getting to their feet. She walks away without another word and goes to greet a senator from the intelligence committee before they can escape.
Tristan is now standing mostly alone under the canopy, looking lost as he takes in the uncompromising shape of his father’s coffin, and my hand gives an involuntary twitch at my side as I watch him. Because I remember doing this very same thing at my own father’s funeral; I remember understanding that I was an orphan now, realizing that a forgotten childhood fear had suddenly crawled out from under my bed, but instead of terror, I only felt a peculiar, muffled sort of bewilderment. Like I’d been cast in the role of orphan but no one had given me a script to follow or lines to say, so I was left to improvise the part as much—or as little—as I wanted.
I want to go to Tristan, and I want to go to Blanche, and I am very tired of being so far away from them both when all these people who barely know my sister or my bodyguard get to swarm around them and ply them with their awkward, hollow sentiments.
I shift forward at the same moment Isolde does, and then we both stop at the same time, seeing Tristan now snared in conversation with three men in the old blue service uniforms.
“We’ll see him tonight,” I say to myself as much as to her. I’ve offered Lyonesse’s hospitality to Tristan and the trio from Armorica, and starting tonight, they’ll be staying with us. It’s a gamble to have Tristan back, even for a short time, but I’m throwing the goddamn dice. With Hugo, Kayden, and Isabella—with the club still quiet for the holidays and the papal conclave still in session—I’m hoping there’s enough smoke to cover the fire of the truth: the idea of my puppy staying at some soulless hotel when he could be under my roof is absolutely unacceptable.
He needs to be home.
Incidentally, we’re not the only ones who’ve tried to move closer to Tristan. I glance over and see Isabella Beroul—quite fetching today in an ivory coat and red lipstick—standing closer to the graveside canopy, like she was about to walk over there. But Kayden has caught her around the waist in a fraternal sort of tug and seems to be telling her something akin to what I just told my wife.
The same wife who is currently staring at Isabella with a look she might give an overvalued altar triptych with flaking paint and mold damage.
“Careful, darling,” I murmur and gently steer her by the elbow to where Jago is waiting for us in the car. “People might start to think you’re jealous.”
Blanche’s pale blue town house is teeming with people, but thanks to Melody’s wife, Sophie—who skipped the service so that she could coordinate all the minutiae of such a gathering—the Capitol Hill residence is a smooth and gentle churn of nibbles and conversation and not the miserable crush of immiscible coteries and coats slung awkwardly over arms it could be.
Isolde, who was raised for moments such as these, steps in to help as soon as we get there, and she and Sophie begin discreetly collecting information for thank-you cards and facilitating introductions so that Tristan and Blanche aren’t unduly in demand by the guests.
Melody and I ourselves take turns with our older sister, showing too many teeth when we smile, making sure that no one leaves the town house without remembering that Blanche is a Trevena and therefore not to be fucked with by anyone hoping to leverage something out of a general’s widow. When Melody joins Blanche and me again after making some rounds, I go to get another drink. Just water since I’d like to stay sharp this afternoon—but I drink it from a rocks glass so I can maintain my useful reputation as an inept sybarite.
I treat myself to a moment of quiet in the conservatory off the kitchen. Blanche has rows of potted plants along her tall windows, and the plants are all neatly pruned, with perfectly damp and loamy soil, so very Blanche in the evidence of their consistent and attentive care.
I reach out to thumb the florid pink petal of a potted foxglove. I remember the poisonous plants Isolde and I had at Lyonesse during our wedding ceremony, how darkly luxurious they’d been. Foxglove just like this had bloomed everywhere, along with monkshood and nightshade and oleander and the occasional white spray of hemlock. Not too much hemlock, of course, just enough to pervade the gaps and clefts of the arrangement.
Filler is what I think florists call it.
“No uniform today?” a mild voice asks, and I turn to see Lady Anguish—or Nimue Moore-Rhys, as she’s known outside Lyonesse—as she steps into the conservatory with a glass of wine.
“Not today,” I say, a smidge dryly. “Where’s Merlin?”
“With the little one,” she replies. “He’s had enough funerals for a lifetime or two.”
I could stand a few more funerals personally, but it wouldn’t be polite to say so.
Anguish joins me at the plants and then asks while looking over her shoulder, “Do you see that couple there, by Morgan?”
I follow Anguish’s gaze over to a man and a woman near the fireplace. They are both tall, immaculately dressed fiftysomethings with the flaxen hair, white teeth, and glowing skin of people who take the boat out on weekends.
“Those are the Hesses,” Anguish informs me. “Their house borders the Thomas farmhouse, so they’ve been friends of Ricker’s for a very long time. Their son disappeared in England a little while ago, right after he left the priesthood. It was very tragic.”
“The priesthood.” I can’t say the Hesses strike me as the type to have a clergyman for a son, given the casual wealth glinting from their wrists and hanging subtly in the bespoke tailoring of their clothes.
“Oh yes, the Hesses are very Catholic. They even have a cardinal for a family friend. He arranged some things so their son could get the posting he wanted in England, near a place called Thornchapel.”
Thornchapel. My mind helpfully offers up the memory of Father Minch’s bible, of the titles and corresponding libraries written there.
“Stunning library,” says Anguish off-handedly. “I might be able to connect you to the owner if you’d like. Or the Hesses could if you want to make their acquaintance.”
“One of these days, I’d like to know how you do it,” I tell her, watching her face closely now.
“Do what?”
