Page 18 of Ashen Torment

Whatever irritates him now?

When the Reverend concludes, the echo of the final word remains suspended in the air. The sermon has ended.

The remainder of the service proceeds without hindrance. The readings follow one another, the prayers spread throughout the aisles.

Occasionally, I perceive that man’s gaze settling upon me, silent yet insistent. At other times, a stifled sigh escapes him, almost imperceptible, or the light rhythm of his fingers tapping against the wood of the pew beside me betrays the impatience he struggles to contain.

A perpetual nuisance.

The service closes with the final hymn from the choir. Elijah’s voice, surprisingly low and baritonal, glides through the nave with an intensity that contrasts sharply with his angelic countenance. His masculine frame renders the divide between appearance and voice all the more jarring.

Lord Presumption rises first. He says nothing, he squares his shoulders, runs a hand through his hair, and slips out of the pew without a backward glance.

No greetings. No comment.

This man possesses not the slightest trace of decency.

Richard places a hand upon my arm.

“Our mothers are conversing.”

I shift my gaze ahead, my mother is immersed in conversation with the Marchioness Brownell, both gathered in measured gestures and calibrated words. The difference is that Richard’s mother appears sincere and genuine.

“Let us go outside,” he adds, gesturing toward the door.

I nod, following his lead.

Exiting the cathedral, to the right and not far distant, I catch sight of Lord Dorian standing beside a carriage. Between his fingers, he holds a thin, hand-rolled cigarette. The aroma that rises is cleaner than I expected, almost floral, with a hint of burnt cedar.

So that is where the aroma that struck me earlier originated.

He inhales slowly, his lips tensing around the cigarette, and for the first time, I see a relaxed expression upon his face.

Nearer to the carriage stands a man with ash-blonde, slightly wavy hair, parted perfectly in the center, and pale green eyes. I presume him to be his valet.

The man seems to have noted my gaze and offers me a polite smile. Lord Dorian, having caught the gesture, turns his eyes in my direction. A shiver runs through my limbs, reaching the very tips of my fingers. I feel as though I have transgressed a rule of which I am ignorant.

Richard overtakes me with a light step and approaches him.

“How did you find the service?”

He casts a fleeting glance at me, narrowing his eyes briefly, then turns his gaze to Richard.

“Illuminating.”

There again is that loathsomely smug smile.

I advance a few paces, the wind lifting a lock of my hair over my face, but my gaze remains fixed upon him.

“Did you grasp, then, the meaning of the sermon?”

“Do you allude, perhaps, to fall down and worship me?”

A wisp of smoke brushes his lips, and he exhales it lightly in my direction.

I feel it barely graze the air before me.

“You ought to consider, Lord Vasiliev Ashford, the notion of confession.”