The sky was striped with smudged pastel colors. Grayish blue, pink, a dash of orange. The contrast to the heavy colors of the drawing room was too stark and made Sawyer withdraw his eyes. Warm air gushed on him from the fireplace, and candles flickered all across the walls. He didn't want to be in the dark.
A servant entered the room, holding a tea tray. She poured a cup full of licorice tea, added a sprinkle of cream, and curtseyed.
"My lord."
The spicy smell of licorice filled the room, but Sawyer was not thirsty any more. He picked up a slice of buttercherry cake, tasted it, and dropped it down. His eyes glided over the paintings on the wall and stopped above the fireplace. His father looked at him in his best attire, his blond hair sleeked back and his hand resting lightly on his hip. A dusty circle of light shone behind him. Sawyer's eyes moved to the spot beside his father's portrait. There was a large lighter patch on the wall, not completely hidden by a painting that had replaced the original one. His grandmother, sitting in a chair with her graying hair up on an intricate hairdo and a fan in her hand.
Sharp steps echoed from the corridor. The Marquess came into the room and stopped hesitantly behind the bust of the seventh Earl of Clermont.
"I'm going to Londinium for a few days," he said, not unkindly.
"I see."
"I have my Squilli with me."
"Good."
The Marquess studied Sawyer for a while, and then inclined his head and left the room. Sawyer gazed into the depths of the crackling fire, not really thinking anything.
This was what he had done for weeks; going to bed late, rising early, coming to sit in the drawing room, and blocking away all thoughts. The window had been his amusement, his view into the outside world. He had followed the maids and the servants doing their chores and occasionally eyeing each other in the yard, his father coming and going, villagers passing by on the road behind the iron gate, and ducks parading around the recently melted pond under the sprawling, old oak tree.
Steam was no longer rising from the tea, and Sawyer drank a mouthful. The flavor was not particularly strong; Dexter had obviously embarked on another spring cleaning crusade and left the maids in charge of the tea.
A light knock on the door made Sawyer startle and drop the cup on its saucer.
"My lord." Juniper curtsied, her eyes twinkling.
Sawyer felt his lips stretch into a reluctant smile.
"If you want to follow proper etiquette, you shouldn't even be here without a chaperone."
"At least I'm trying," Juniper said. She settled on a couch opposite Sawyer and bundled her hands neatly in her lap. "Mom sent me here to cheer you up."
"Nice try. Where's the balaclava? You almost look like a proper Aristo lady."
Juniper's hair was combed up, although several frizzy strands had escaped the hairpins, and she was dressed in one of Nanners's famous frocks, a blue satin dress with ivory adornments.
"My life is not all about the Force, you know."
"How do you manage to keep it a secret from Nanners? I've never managed to look her in the eyes and lie."
"She never asks about it, so I don't have to lie. She knows nothing about it and thinks I only wanted to attend Miss Pettipenny's school because of its scholarly achievements, not because it's conveniently situated in Londinium."
Sawyer let out an amused murmur and looked out of the window. A servant was walking a horse up the grovel alley and into the stable. As he passed the pantry, he winked at a maid carrying a bucket of milk.
"How are you?" Juniper asked. "Your leg?"
"Okay, I suppose." Sawyer touched the walking cane by his chair. "Doctor Briers says it might be back to normal within five or six months. Darlington's Slashers went into the bone and the nerves."
Juniper sighed compassionately, but Sawyer turned his head away. He didn't want to look into blue eyes. Juniper was quiet for a moment, and Sawyer could sense what she was about to ask, so he spoke before she could.
"How did you get into Willard that morning?"
"Our hackers monitor the Force Center, and they saw your friend Piper get into the News section. They hadn't been able to get in, so they followed in his trail. The plan to kidnap you was there, so we set out for Willard immediately."
"I see."
"Thanks for your donation, by the way, very generous. We bought several new state-of-the-art Squillis and printed a couple of thousand study courses to distribute. The rest is in a high-interest savings account."
"Good."
"How's Maddox? And your other friends?"
"Maddox is fine, he's walking already and doing some school work. Everybody else is fine, too."
"Everybody except you." Juniper leaned closer, and Sawyer shifted uneasily in his chair. "Listen, Sawyer, judging by the stories your friends told me, it was a real nightmare. You handled it very well, and you were really brave."
"You think I handled it well?" Sawyer said, unable to control himself. "You think I was brave? I bloody well was not! I just stood there and let someone else take the hit! She was the brave one!"
"You were both brave. You couldn't have done anything differently."
"I could have taken the Mort like a real man!"
"It was not your choice, Sawyer," Juniper said quietly. "It was her choice."
Sawyer threw his head angrily against the back of the chair. The pain pounding on his leg made breathing difficult, and the memory he had tried to suppress so hard came back...the soft singing, the hazy, blue eyes... He bent over the tray to hide his trembling lips.
Juniper sat still for a while, watching him.
"You loved her, didn't you?"
Sawyer didn't reply, just fumbled a tablet into his tea from a bottle on the tray.
"Did you go to her funeral?"
Sawyer shook his head and swallowed the remaining tea. Juniper's shadow rose up and moved beside the table. Sawyer could smell a faint whiff of roses.
"Go, Sawyer. You need closure."
Juniper touched his arm and left the room. Sawyer wiped his nose in his sleeve and took out his Squilli, desperate for something else to think about. He had carried his Squilli with him every day, and he had saved every Parchment he had received, but he hadn't replied to any. Not those from his uncle praising him, not those from Maddox congratulating him on helping to capture the Force leader, not those from Piper describing his newest crocheting projects, and not even those from Caspar. Caspar never wrote about the actual happenings from the Dining Hall, only casual news from school, which now had a new Headmaster, Professor Kingsbury.
"Apparently, Seymour had a gambling problem, and he had accumulated quite a large debt. That and the decaying Seymour mansion that was swallowing his funds drove him into borrowing money from questionable Paramagi businessmen. They had connections with the Force, and they promised him that his debts would be forgotten if he agreed to help the Force," Caspar had written in his last Parchment.
Sawyer put the Squilli back in his pocket. A young girl was running on the road, her boots splashing in the mud and her long, thick braid swinging against the back of her jacket. Sawyer ran his hand down his leg and felt the bandage under the fabric. It had been changed only an hour ago – it would manage without changing until the evening. He was alone in the house, free to go and do whatever he wanted to.
Yes.
He took out his Squilli again, and within seconds, the Search had found him the Center he wanted. After dispatching a quick Parchment, he called for a maid.
He was lucky. Within three quarters of an hour, he stood in the yard, holding a parcel and watching a shining silver carriage spur across the grovel path.
"Mr. Satoya-Sabinsky?" A footman hopped on the ground.
"Yes."
The footman unfolded the steps, and Sawyer thrust his cane and the parcel in first. He refused the offered help and wrenched himself onto the bench, stifling a cry as his leg bumped against the edge. The footman gave a small, pitying smile and closed the door.
The carriage trundled on along the dusty road. A delicate aroma seeped through the paper of the parcel, a lulling, sweet smell. Sawyer watched the world fly by. Beautiful, lush groves changed into cozy villages and mighty mansions, valleys into hilltops that provided a view to the blinking, sun-strewn sea.
After two hours, the carriage slowed down and came to a halt. Sawyer closed his eyes; he didn't want to get up, he wanted to sit there forever. Fresh air streamed in as the footman opened the door and took out the parcel. He reached to help Sawyer down, but again Sawyer refused the help. His leg was throbbing, but the pain was bearable and the cool breeze felt good on his hot face. He gave the footman short instructions to wait for him, then limped toward an ornamental, black iron gate flanked by two stone pillars.
The graveyard was small, and many of the tombstones had slanted or fallen down. A towering, ancient Chapel stood in the middle like a stone eagle. Narrow paths criss-crossed everywhere under gently rustling oaks and birches, and the shrill cry of the seagulls rang over the quietness. Sawyer wandered around in the cool shadows, reading the names in the tombstones and musing over the stories that lay buried underneath. When he came to the section on the side of the sea, his eyes fell on a polished, arching stone with a golden angel figure. A bouquet of lilies fluttered on the ground.
IRIS VICTORIA
DUCHESS OF BUCHANAN
1973 – 2001
Dearly beloved Wife & Mother. Forever missed.
MIA IRIS
MONTAGU-CAVENDISH
2000 – 2015
Sono giveth, Sono taketh. Rest in peace, my darling girl.
Sawyer's lips shook as he unwrapped the parcel and pulled out a bouquet of red roses. He didn't look for a vase, just placed the bouquet on the ground by the lilies. The flowers wouldn't blossom ripe; they would dry out and die, too early, too soon. The thought made Sawyer's lips shake even harder, and he sat down on the velvety grass. The breeze blowing from the sea drove the tears along his cheeks and toward his ears, pushed them on his collar. He didn't brush them away, for each one drew out something dark and heavy from his chest. Voices and memories from the past fall drifted through his mind, pumping out more and more tears. Yet, through the grief, a new spirit was arising like a small, tender bud. Winter had gone by fast that year; there was already a promise of spring in the wind. A bird chirped jubilantly high on a birch tree, and sunlight glinted in the golden letters of the tombstone. Sawyer touched the cool, smooth surface.
"You win, Mia. I'll read a couple of sentences from that book. For you."
~THE END~