Page 14 of Ashen Torment

Always under judgment.

I extend my finger and push the teacup slightly away from me.

“The performance garnered a satisfactory outcome,” my mother says, dabbing her lips with a white handkerchief.

“But you could do better.”

And to think she would not even have me play. The only reason she allowed me to continue was because he convinced her.

Now, every performance I give has become little more than a stage for her to show herself off.

The sickly sweetness returns beneath my tongue.

“Certainly, Mother,” I reply, my thumb brushing the rim of the displaced cup.

I return my gaze to the newspaper. A name arrests me.

Vasiliev Ashford.

NOTABLE FIGURES IN ATTENDANCE AT SILVERBROOKE VILLA

Among the personages gathered at the recent recital held at the residence of the Duke and Duchess Durant, Lord Dorian Vasiliev Ashford commanded significant attention.

Nephew and sole heir to Augustus Ashford, Marquess of Ashford, the young nobleman springs from lineages of ancient and formidable nobility. His mother, Elizaveta Vasilieva Ashford, a Russian Countess, and his father, Lord Theodore Ashford, son of the Marquess, both met a premature end sixteen years ago in a most tragic carriage accident. His Lordship observed the assembly with an attentive eye and a composed mien that betrayed a discreet reserve. His presence, at once elegant and measured, was much noted and remarked upon by those present, further underscoring the charisma of the young heir and the undisputed lineage of his house.

Composed mien... discreet reserve...

Arrogant, conceited, and overbearing, I should rather say. Insipid, as well.

Every word of the article seems to pale before what I witnessed that evening, and a faint, ironic smile brushes my lips before I can suppress it.

“Does something please you, Evander?”

The smile vanishes instantly.

“Nothing of note, Mother.”

She nods, then rises slowly from her chair. I remain seated for a moment, observing her.

After a few heartbeats, I rise behind her, keeping several paces back as I follow her out of the room.

The carriage jolts slightly upon the cobblestones, slick with the morning damp.

I watch the landscape sweep past: leafless trees swaying like shadows against the dark earth, the gardens vanishing behind us. I remain motionless, allowing the chill and the motion of the carriage to penetrate my very bones, while my thoughts empty, suspended between the journey and the expectation of the cathedral.

The cobblestones end and the horses slow, the creak of the hinges and the screech of the carriage brakes announce our arrival. George, the family coachman, dismounts and reaches for the door. Without averting his gaze from the horses, he inclines his torso toward my mother.

“Viscountess.” He proffers his hand.

She accepts the gesture with her customary composure. After her, I set my foot upon the wooden step of the carriage and descend.

Étienne, having also dismounted, stands beside me with his hands behind his back.

“Je vous attendrai ici, Vicomte.”

I nod briefly and stand still for a moment, letting the air strike my face before turning toward the entrance of the cathedral. The light filtered through the stained-glass windows traces evanescent figures upon the pews and columns, and the low hum of the faithful fills the space between the aisles.

My eyes slide over the front pews, Marquess Frederick Brownell and his wife Catherine, with their youngest children—Isobel and little Cecil—beside them. Cecil turns his face and greets me with a wave of his hand and a smile that only a child of his years can possess. I return the gesture with a fleeting smile.