Page 38 of Ashen Torment

Julian turns, intrigued. “What was that, Viscount?”

He doesn’t even lift his eyes from his plate.

“Lord Dorian took five.”

Lord Dorian.

Will he claim I imagined it this time, too?

Richard’s eyes widen, genuinely impressed.

“Five! That’s remarkable.”

Then he leans toward him. “I only got one.”

Duke Durant sneers into his glass, without a hint of grace.

“It doesn’t seem to fall within your capabilities, Lord Brownell.”

His wife places a gloved hand on his forearm. “Lord Richard has other talents, dear.”

Richard shifts in his chair as if bitten by an insect. The Viscount watches him for a few seconds, then briefly lifts his eyes to mine.

It’s a breath. A flash. A contact that breaks before it even exists. And he returns to his plate.

“The Viscount took three.” I say it without looking at him, as if I didn’t know exactly where every breath that boy takes is located.

Julian lets out a short laugh. “Did you two keep count for each other?”

I continue to eat, the meat has no flavor, it feels like chewing sawdust. The silence between us is an eloquent enough answer to make Julian’s smile fade, though he recovers quickly.

“Viscount, I saw you arrive with your cloak stained with mud. May I ask what happened?”

“What do you think happened? The ground was damp. We lost our balance on the terrain.”

I clear my throat, trying to mask how much the artistry with which he lies irritates me. And how much it irritates me that he did it for me.

As if I needed it.

Does he truly believe he is doing me a favor?

Has he forgotten that he dared strike me? Dorian Vasiliev Ashford?

I have reduced men to dust for far less.

“Father, we spotted a deer in the woods. A magnificent creature.”

“A deer, you say? We didn’t glimpse any.”

Richard places his hand on the back of the Viscount’s.

“Did you see it, Evander? A fawn, with white spots on its back. It looked like it stepped out of an illustration.”

He moistens his lips. “I believe I caught a glimpse of it, fleetingly.”

In that cursed instant, everything lives again: the rifle, his arm diverting the barrel, the shot exploding against the tree, and him lunging at me with that air of indignant martyr.

I look up.