Thread of Frost

Ch. 42: Something Terrible

Grayson blinked.

His uncle loomed over him. Orin wore a black jacket embroidered with gold silk, and his boots were freshly polished; he smelled of expensive cologne. Grayson struggled to his feet. A cotton-scented breeze drifted through the window, and the table was laden with trays of fairycakes and a yellow-and-blue teapot.

"How are you feeling?" Orin asked.

Grayson's head throbbed. "This isn't possible."

"Tea?" Orin asked.

His uncle held up the teapot. Grayson moved closer to the door.

"I don't understand." A pulse pounded in his throat. "How did I get here?"

"Or scones," Orin offered, extending a silver platter. "We have raspberry scones."

"I have to go back," Grayson said.

He turned for the door. There was a clatter; Orin must have set down the scones. "What are you talking about?"

"The cave!" Grayson seized the door handle. "I have to get back to the—" The handle jiggled but didn't turn. His uncle must have locked it, Grayson realized, and acid crawled up his throat. He spun around. "Let me out."

"Thomas." Orin's voice was patient. "We've spoken about this."

"Let me go!"

Grayson kicked at the door. The door swung outward, and for a triumphant moment, Grayson thought he'd succeeded before a female figure stepped through. She was dressed in a green cloak, and her auburn hair was coming loose from its chignon.

"Is everything alright?" Penny asked.

Grayson's heart stopped. "Penny."

She looked different, somehow. Older. Fine lines creased her eyes, and she smelled of wildflowers and salt breeze. Penny set several brown parcels on the sideboard, stripping off white kid gloves. Orin drew closer.

"Darling," Orin murmured. "You're home early."

"I know," Penny said. "Camille cancelled lunch. She has the flu, poor thing."

She tipped her face up. Orin threaded his hand in her hair, ducking his head to kiss her. There was something possessive about the gesture — almost intimate — that suggested this wasn't the first time he'd done so. Penny made a little noise, fisting her hand in his collar.

Blood roared in Grayson's ears.

Grayson's stomach rolled, and he staggered backward. He was going to be sick. He braced a hand against the table. "Get off her."

"Oh." Penny stepped back. "I didn't realize... It is it bad today?"

She looked to Orin, who squeezed her hand. "We're managing." Orin turned. "I'm allowed to kiss my wife, Thomas. Sit down. I'll pour you some tea."

His uncle crossed to the table, fiddling with the teapot. Grayson half-slumped against the wall; he could feel his heart pounding, his legs trembling. Penny raised a hand, brushing her swollen mouth; a golden wedding band glinted on her finger.

Grayson's chest was tight. "No."

Penny took a tentative step forward. "Thomas..."

"No." He shook his head vehemently. "No. You don't call me that."

Penny glanced at the door. "Maybe I should go."

"You're not married," Grayson said, and his voice was ragged. "You're not. You're..."

Mine. The word caught in his throat. Penny was looking at him with something like sadness or pity, and she took his hand. Her skin was soft; not the chapped, coarse hand that he remembered from days on the road.