Page 174 of Ashen Torment

Richard lets out a sigh, more weary than ironic.

“And I thought I knew how to read between the lines...”

“Understanding is not a gift, Richard. It is discipline.”

“Everything must be discipline, in your opinion,” Richard mutters.

I advance a piece, attempting lateral pressure.

“Like Baudelaire, then,” I say. “Investigating the shadow beneath the words. The pain that hides beneath beauty.”

Nathaniel merely responds on the board, neutralizing my initiative with a simplicity that forces me to revise my entire strategy. The match has already begun to lean in his favor.

“If you wish to call it that. But those who seek comfort in verses, I fear, will be disappointed.”

Richard shakes his head, running his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“I wouldn’t speak of disappointment. It is intense. It forces one to look where one normally averts the gaze.”

“Intense,” I confirm, lowering my eyes to the wine as I swirl it gently, “or cruel, depending on the reader.”

“Then I would say you and Baudelaire have something in common. Both French and inclined to discern the shadow before the light.”

“I was not born in France, Richard, but in England, if you remember correctly.”

“Yes, but your father was French.”

The word falls upon the table, heavier than any chess piece.

Whenever he is mentioned, my chest tightens, as if someone were crushing it from the inside.

Nathaniel halts his hand in mid-air, his fingers stiffening, then he sets the piece down with a sharp thud.

When he finally looks at Richard, he does so without tilting his head, his eyes steady, ruthlessly lucid. Richard lowers his gaze. His shoulders slump by a fraction. I fix my eyes on the fire in the hearth as the wood crackles, too cheerful for the silence that has settled.

“I am sorry...” he mumbles. “I did not mean—”

“Be silent.” His brother’s voice admits no reply. “It is not the time for apologies. Nor for misplaced curiosity.”

Richard remains still, his face pale, his lips parted.

I lean back against the armchair. “Do not fret, Richard. You are not about to be torn to pieces... at least not today.”

He swallows. The knot in his throat loosens just enough to allow for a hesitant half-smile.

Nathaniel fixes his eyes on me. “Have you decided?”

Richard looks up. He does not intervene. But he, too, awaits the answer.

“Perhaps.” I bring the glass to my lips. “In all probability, yes.”

On the chessboard, Nathaniel reaches out his hand. The game resumes.

“Let us know the place and the day,” Richard says, with an enthusiasm that tries to set the room back on its axis. “We shall come to listen to you.”

Nathaniel offers a brief nod of the head.

“It was spoken of as a private performance,” I observe. “It will be for the duke to decide whom to invite, I fear.”