Page 147 of Ashen Torment

“For you,” he says, offering them slowly.

The first is a yellow gold cravat pin, the tip is surmounted by a Bohemian garnet gem.

“Vienna.”

Then he points to a small volume, its cover slightly worn: Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal.

“Marseille.”

Finally, he holds up a solid silver tailpiece puller, engraved with a tiny Florentine lily.

“Florence.”

I brush the objects with my fingers.

“You shouldn’t have...”

“You brought me the Madeira.”

“You couldn’t have known I would bring it to you.”

“We always do this, do we not?” he asks, and for a moment a smile touches his lips, fleeting as a flash of lightning through the clouds.

He is right. Every time he leaves for a journey, even a short one, he always brings me something when he returns, and I welcome him with a gift in return.

A way of saying: I think of you even when I do not see you.

He reaches out and delicately taps my head with the tailpiece puller. I look up and, inevitably, a smile spreads across my lips. He moves toward the bureau, pours some Madeira into his glass, and then turns toward me.

“Would you like some more?”

I place the objects on the sofa, stand up, and offer my glass.

He pours the wine slowly.

“You seem quite pensive.”

I take a sip, feeling the liquid slide warm down my throat.

“Tomorrow I must go to the countryside,” I reply, lowering my gaze to the glass. “Some peasants have requested an audience.”

“Do you wish for me to accompany you?”

“Are you not busy? Future Marquess of Houghton.”

He runs a hand through his chestnut hair, darker than Richard’s.

“I have only just returned,” he says, “I have a few days to breathe.”

“No, thank you, but I can manage on my own.”

“I never said I doubted your abilities.”

I set the glass down, letting my gaze fall to the floor for an instant.

“Do you know a certain Duke of Lestrieux?”

He thinks on it, his fingers drumming lightly on the rim of the glass before answering.