it had been a warm rain and the temperature really wasn’t so low. Perhaps he’d have Fred light the fire. He sat down in the armchair by the cold fireplace to wait.
It wasn’t Fred who came in a few minutes later, though. It was Andrei.
He shut the door behind him softly and then leaned against it, his face haggard and drawn. Oh, God, what had happened? If Andrei looked like that, he must have dreadful news. He imagined Deven white and lifeless, bent at unlikely angles, lying cold by the side of the road with rain soaking his hair.
“Deven?” Fiora choked out. “He — God, did some accident befall him on his ride —”
“No,” Andrei spat. “No, nothing’s wrong with him. More’s the pity.”
“Then what’s the matter?” Fiora’s head still hurt, and he felt too weak for a bloody guessing game. “Tell me straight. Or are you just — worried about me?”
“I’m worried about you as well,” Andrei said grimly. “But — I’m so sorry, my lord. I have something to show you. I can’t in good conscience hide it, and I can’t soften it. I can only be here to help you bear it, God help me. Your parents are well as far as I know,” Andrei hastened to add, as Fiora’s face reflected his terror.
As Andrei stepped closer, Fiora saw he had something in his hand: a folded piece of paper. A letter.
“Mr. Clifton,” and Andrei’s voice as he said Deven’s name fairly dripped with rage and venom, “had a letter this afternoon from one of the Ridley councilmembers. I’m not proud of it, but I intercepted it and opened it myself.” He held up a hand as Fiora began to protest. “I said I’m not proud of it. But I was right to do it, as it turns out, and I won’t apologize for it. My lord, you need to read it.”
“I won’t,” Fiora said. “I won’t read — Andrei, how could you.” His heart was pounding so hard and so unevenly it was about to jump out of his ribs. Whatever was in that letter — oh, God, no, he couldn’t face it. And it was wrong, too. “Opening a letter addressed to someone else, it’s — it’s dishonorable. I can’t read it and I won’t.”
“You will,” Andrei said, “or I’ll be forced to read it to you. You must. I’m sorry, but you must.”
He set it in Fiora’s lap, and Fiora stared down at it like he would have a viper.
At last he picked it up, gingerly, with the tips of his fingers. He ought not, but if Andrei said he must…oh, but it was wrong.
He unfolded it and spread it out on his knees.
Mr. Clifton,
Your aunt came to see me today, and was unable to give me any real news of your progress. Need I remind you that Peter’s life hangs in the balance? He has taken a turn for the worse. Surely by now you must be close to getting a scale. I expect an immediate reply.
Jos. Holling
The words blurred before Fiora’s eyes, and it took him a moment to realize it wasn’t the sender’s handwriting at fault, but his own gathering tears. A drop fell and struck the paper, and the letters of the word ‘balance’ spread in a blot of watery ink.
A scale. One of Fiora’s own scales.
Deven had come to the castle with the intent of acquiring a scale, in order to save the life of the unknown Peter.
The scale. Deven wanted the scale, not Fiora.
He had never wanted Fiora.
When he set up the picnic by the river, when he plucked that blue rose, when he smiled and laughed and carried Fiora to bed and stripped him bare, and spent inside of him, and kissed him afterwards, he had been thinking of the scale. And someone named Peter.
Fiora had given his life on the chance that Deven loved him, or would grow to love him. One night; one night of happiness.
The letter fluttered to the floor, and Fiora bent his head down nearly into his lap with a moan, clutching at his hair. If he’d had anything left in him, it would have come up; as it was, he dry-heaved wretchedly, shaking in every limb.
“My lord. Fiora, my poor boy, I’m so sorry,” Andrei murmured. He crouched down by the chair and pulled Fiora close until his head rested on Andrei’s shoulder. “It’s all right, lad, it’s all right, he’s nothing to cry over. Don’t waste your tears…” Andrei’s soothing