Deven and the Dragon - Eliot Grayson Page 0,64
nonsense went on and on, until Fiora quieted.
Fiora blinked, the last of his tears falling into Andrei’s shirt. His eyes felt dry and achy, like they were a size too large for their sockets.
He gently disengaged from Andrei’s embrace, feeling more awkward than he ever had in his life. Andrei didn’t touch people like that, he never had. For him to hold Fiora like that, to comfort him like that…it was the last straw, a sign that even Andrei had no better ideas to offer and had fallen back on simple grief.
Fiora leaned back in his chair, and Andrei got up and moved to stand by the fireplace, clearing his throat.
“I need to see him,” Fiora said, his voice surprisingly steady and clear. He was done; quite done. There would be no more histrionics. He would see Deven, and he would say what needed to be said, and they would be done. He could muster the strength for that, because he had no other choice. “Please tell him to come up here, and while he is here, have Fred pack his things and put them in a wagon. As soon as he leaves me, Marius should be ready to drive him to his family’s inn.”
“No, my lord, no, we ought to throw him off the top of the turret, and there’s no need for you to see him yourself —”
“I’ve given you my orders, Andrei.” Please, please let Andrei simply do as he was bid, for Fiora didn’t have the energy for another confrontation, not when he would be facing Deven in a few minutes. “I’m going to go to my study. Have Dev— have him come to me there. In fifteen minutes.”
Andrei opened his mouth, frowned, shut it again, and nodded shortly. He left the room without another word.
It took Fiora all of the fifteen minutes to go to his dressing room, equip himself with a shirt and cravat and coat, and slip the letter into his coat pocket. It felt like it singed his fingers, and he rubbed them on his trousers to remove the taint of it.
When he reached his study, the rose still stood in its glass of water on his desk. In a burst of rage, Fiora struck it with his arm. It crashed to the floor in a tinkle of shattering glass, the rose lying broken-stemmed and pitiful in a pool of water and glittering shards. Fiora stepped over it and sat in his chair.
He might collapse after this and never rise again, but he would face Deven like a dragon and a gentleman.
“Mr. Clifton.” Deven started and turned away from the rose garden, at which he’d been staring for God knew how long — though he hadn’t really seen it. He’d never been summoned for dinner, and hadn’t even noticed, moving from the library to the terrace as the last of the afternoon’s light faded away and the rain slowly stopped. Andrei stood in the door from the drawing room to the terrace, his black silhouette against the lamplight and elongated shadow on the terrace flagstones a sinister sight. “Come with me, please.”
He sounded like he was summoning Deven to a funeral. His heart gave a lurch. “Fiora? Fuck, is he really ill? Andrei, what’s —”
“Lord Fiora wants to see you,” Andrei said, his voice thick with some emotion Deven couldn’t define. Anger? Disgust? It wasn’t pleasant, anyway. “Now.”
Andrei turned without waiting for a reply and stalked back inside, his spine ramrod-straight. Deven followed, as afraid as he was eager. Something was horribly wrong, that was clear. “Andrei,” he tried again, overtaking the man and trying to look him in the eye. “Andrei, will you at least tell me —”
“I’ll tell you nothing!” Andrei snarled, walking faster. “You’re lucky I can’t transform into a dragon myself, Mr. Clifton. I’d snap your spine with my teeth and savor every moment of it.”
Deven frowned. Had Andrei discovered he’d spent the night in Fiora’s bed? But no, Fiora was a grown man, not Andrei’s ward. Andrei would be angry about that, no doubt, because Deven wasn’t good enough for His Excellency — but that wouldn’t look like this.
Andrei stopped at the foot of the stairs to Fiora’s tower. “He’s in his study.”
Deven took the stairs two at a time, his heart racing and with sick, heavy foreboding settling in his stomach.
When he careened around the doorjamb and came to a halt in the study, the first thing he saw was Fiora’s set, haggard face, with even