The Wolf Esprit: Lykanos Chronicles 3

Affliction.

Father’s last word to me rang in my head for the rest of my final day at camp. It colored my view of my surroundings, and I never felt more apart from the world I knew.

When left to my own devices, and the time came for my last actions of the day, I considered what to take with me. Beyond my attire, I didn’t have many possessions. I considered taking my pillow and blanket but thought it pointless considering where I was headed.

My mother had given me four small books that belonged to my grandfather. She couldn’t read, but she gave them a loving touch before handing them to me on my fifteen birthday. They reminded her of him, and it seemed to give her such joy to present them to me. Her bid for me to read them seemed an afterthought. But how could I take them now?

I resolved to leave with nothing but the clothes on my back. How would this ruse function if there was any question of my being attacked and killed?

Before she attended to her pre-performance duties, I managed to pull Mother close to hug and kiss her. She giggled at the gesture, unprepared but girlishly delighted to be in my arms. I realized I’d pulled away from all her hugs over the past years. They embarrassed me and were something I tolerated, meaning to pull away as soon as I could. Tonight, Mother seemed happy that I held to her like I had when I was a small child.

“We’d better go,” she said a moment before I released her. With a final smile, she turned to gather her basket and set out to attend to her duties.

After taking in the tent one last time, my first home, locking the vision in my memory for all time, I stepped into the light to make my way toward my next home.

“Gabrielle will be so delighted,” Maximillian beamed once I was in the carriage, and we’d pulled away. “She was adamant she failed to convince you, but I felt certain she’d made her case well enough.”

Though I nodded to him, it took me time to respond.

“I wasn’t sure I would do it until this morning,” I said. “I had a frank conversation with my father. The first one we ever had, I seemed.”

Maximillian cocked his head without a sound and waited until I gathered myself to confess Father’s last words to me.

“He believes me to be cursed,” I said when I’d finished the story. “He didn’t confess as much, but I realized he meant to leave me in Dijon, no matter my answer. And so the choice was simple: accept your offer or wait a few days to face what awaited me—”

“It’s not true,” Maximillian said, sitting forward and startling me. His green eyes absorbed me as they stared into mine with an intimate gaze. “You’re no such thing. He misunderstands.”

Maximillian touched my knee to offer comfort, though his touch startled me. From his mind, I felt he would reach to console me if he could but for the sway of the tight compartment.

After a moment, he sighed and withdrew.

“He’s just a man, Esprit,” Maximillian said with light sorrow. “Don’t harbor him ill will. Like any other man might, he misunderstands.”

I didn’t know if I could feel anything for my father again that wasn’t washed in pain. Better to lock him out of my heart altogether.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, I suppose,” I answered.

“On the contrary,” Maximillian said with solemn regret in his voice. “It will always matter.”

If I’d wanted to be alone on my first night to think about what I’d done, or if I’d needed to mourn in privacy the family I’d never see again, the Roussades wouldn’t have heard of it.

“You mustn’t be alone in a time of sorrow,” Gabrielle insisted, taking my arm like a big sister would—like Thérèse would have.

“There’s only one thing for it,” Maximillian advised, and he placed a drinking glass before me filled with wine.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a goblet made from glass, but it was the first time I’d held one in my hands. The men of my troupe most often drank directly from the bottle at the end of the night after a performance, sharing it with each of them.

But my mouth was unprepared for the delicious taste of what Maximillian served me. There was no bitterness or sharp aftertaste of vinegar. Instead, it was smooth and velvety and rich. It is the glass, I wondered.

“It’s many things,” he explained, eager to answer my thought. “It’s how we made it—the grapes we picked, their concentration, and how we let them rest undisturbed in the cool, dark cellar. Then there’s how long we let the wine rest, only being touched by the air several years later upon uncorking the bottle. The hour we let it breathe the air before reaching your lips. Then there’s the bread and cheese that worked in concert to awaken just the right parts of your tongue to taste all that’s exquisite in the wine. And, yes, it is the glass; hard and tasteless, without the flavor of wood or stone or metal to interfere. It’s the width of the rim that decides how concentrated the fragrance that reaches your nose will be. All of it accounts for how the vintage tastes as it does.”

“It’s a passion of his,” Gabrielle said with a repressed giggle when I could say nothing in response. “A passion for the both of us.”

“Our father owned the finest fields north of Milan,” Maximillian added. “I’ve been chasing those memories here, but I can never quite achieve it.”

“It’s the grapes, Max,” she countered. “They’re a different flavor altogether, but the wine is just as delicious.”

He nodded his concession.

I took another sip. And then another. Unexpected flavors exploded in my mouth the more I drank. And in time, I relaxed, even as I pulled at the tight-fitted clothes for comfort and relief. I forgot my troubles and laughed along while these two beings, who were not the older siblings they appeared to be, joking and playing as if it were the most natural, youthful thing in the world to them. They loved each other—it was inescapable. They loved each other’s company, and from their laughter as clearly as from their minds, I understood how they loved having me among them.

It was this glimpse that changed everything.

As delighted as they were to have me there, I wondered how I would ever find this arrangement satisfying. Even seated among them, gifted with this incredible, intimate method of communication, to say nothing of the riches and comforts of their home, I realized I would never have what they had.

The Roussades had each other. They were man and wife. Lovers of the most intimate kind. Anyone could see they were different parts of the same flesh.

I felt I would always be nothing more than a guest here—that I was apart from the world of people who could love each other like this. And when Maximillian reached to kiss Gabrielle’s lips after she’d made a joke, I felt a pang of jealousy more than anything.

Was it the wine? I didn’t feel drunk, but I must be. Bottles had arrived, one after another, and each to a chorus of ovation from Maximillian, who became more and more excited for me to try the next unique vintage. But what I felt as each sip passed my lips was the exposed truth of my situation. And the strange loneliness I’d tried so hard to escape from, now found me just as easily while I hid intoxicated among their finery.

It was Gabrielle who sensed it first. She’d already quieted and rose from her chair to sit beside me before her husband’s voice lowered. She took my hand in hers and pulled at my hair, freeing it from the ribbon that bound it so she could run her affectionate hand through the heavy locks.

“It will be all right,” she said. “I promise you. This is just the beginning. Happiness will find you here.”

I realized there were tears in my eyes when she wiped at them like a mother would a grieving toddler. Her words came again and again, whispered with love, and paired by thoughts of devoted affection.

“He’s had enough for one day, ma chér,” she said to the baron.

With a sigh, Maximillian reached to take my other hand and pull me up from the sofa.

“Here we go, mon fils. Time for bed.”

At the rumbling on the floorboards, the door to the salon opened, and Ducasse appeared.

“Gion will take him, my lord.”

“No bother,” Maximillian said, and he lifted my arm high over his shoulder. “I’ve got him.”

I don’t remember the journey through the fortress back to my room. But I recall him relieving me of my clothes, one by one, as I struggled to stand and sit upright for him. When he had my shoes and breeches off, he lifted my legs onto the bed and my head fell back onto the pillow. In seconds, I felt the cool linen sheets touch my naked chest as he covered me. Then he retired to let the intoxication pull me to sleep.

The last thing I recall were his lips on my cheek as he kissed me good night.