“Fortunately, wealth matters far more than handsomeness. Or charm. Or a gaze which does not freeze a lady’s slippers. Despair not, my boy. With wise counsel, you may yet claim victory, despite many shortcomings.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Earl of Holstoke in a letter expressing optimism for his matrimonial prospects.
Phineas Brand read triumph on his sister’s delicate features a bare second before she took his bishop with her knight. Briefly, he considered letting her win, but the last time he’d done so, Hannah had explained with devastating care that treating her like a child was not kindness but condescension.
“In my life, I have borne a good deal more than the loss of a game, Phineas,” she’d said softly. “Pray, allow me the dignity of a fair fight.” Her eyes had been brittle as frosted leaves.
Indeed, she had borne more. Unspeakably more.
He hadn’t let her win since. He didn’t intend to now. “Are you certain—”
“I have taken your bishop,” she crowed, a black curl tumbling against her white cheek as she leaned forward in her chair. “Prepare for defeat.”
He sighed. Plucked his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “I should be off.”
“No. I shall have my victory at last.”
His father’s daughter was a beauty—soft-featured and striking with hair black as a night sky and eyes the same as his. Had she not been a by-blow, titled suitors doubtless would be flooding Holstoke House at this very moment, begging his permission to marry her. She should be married. She should be playing chess with a husband, not losing to her brother every night.
“Do not look at me that way,” she said, her natural dignity slumping as she began to suspect her long-awaited victory was not, in fact, at hand. “Phineas. I have won.” She perused the board, her fine, black brows drawn together in puzzlement. “I have.”
Gently, he slid his rook into place. “Check.”
“But …”
He stood, stretching his neck side to side. Evenings such as this tended to end in a headache. “Lady Randall’s fete began a half-hour ago. If I wait any longer to arrive, she will think me unforgivably rude.”
“Why should you care what Lady Randall thinks of you? Her dog ate your hat.”
Indeed, the fattest of Lady Randall’s seven pugs had pounced without hesitation. Phineas had been standing outside an apothecary shop on Oxford Street, arguing the proper application of grafting with Lord Gilforth, who had refused him entry into the Horticultural Society of London. Lady Randall’s escaped horde of pugs had trotted by, promptly entangling their long, loose leads around both his and Gilforth’s ankles. As Lady Randall’s shouts had shrilled along the street, Gilforth had gone down, Phineas had wheeled away to avoid being pulled down with him, and his best hat had rolled across eight feet of cobblestone. The walleyed little beast had snatched the “exquisite beaver” hat between its jaws, shaken it viciously, slobbered and gnawed, growled and grunted, then sprinted away with the crown dragging along the pavement. Fortunately, the dog’s girth dragged in a similar fashion, slowing its pace considerably. Phineas retrieved his hat in a few strides, but not before much damage had been done.
Lady Randall had been first mortified at her dog’s misbehavior, then aghast when she’d realized whose hat her “beloved Dicky” had purloined. As she’d recognized Phineas, her apologies had stuttered, her mouth working like a fish’s. Her face had drained of color. Finally, she’d issued a reluctant invitation to this evening’s fete.
He assumed the overture had been meant as compensation for his inconvenience. She’d likely hoped he would decline. He probably should have. But offers like hers were rare—at least, for him.
The trickle of invitations Phineas had received at the start of the season had been granted out of curiosity. In time, even those evaporated. Few hostesses desired the son of the Primvale Poisoner at their tables. Understandable. Among his mother’s victims had been some of the ton’s own members.
Glancing down now into Hannah’s eyes—slightly tilted, pale and serious, so like his own and their father’s—he wished for the thousandth time he had been the one to remove his mother from this world. But he hadn’t realized the depth of Lady Holstoke’s evil until it had been far too late.
Until his fragile, innocent sister had been tormented. Hunted. Forced to defend herself in a way that had added to her scars.
God. He pivoted and made for the parlor door, an unwelcome black tide rushing up to choke him. “I shan’t be too late getting back,” he said, forcing his voice to steady.
“Phineas.”
He pulled the door open, the knob creaking inside the pressure of his fist. “Do not wait for me.”
She followed him into the corridor. “Phineas.” Her gentle voice was a plea.
He slowed.
“Why must you put yourself through this absurdity?”
For you, he thought. He could not say it. She would be wounded. She would object that he must never make sacrifices for her. But, in truth, he was “dancing this tedious dance,” as Lady Eugenia had put it, for Hannah’s sake. To show her it could be done.
Ten years of Hannah’s life had been a horror, imprisoned by a madman named Horatio Syder, who had used a young, innocent girl as a bargaining chip against Phineas’s mother. It had made his sister bitter toward men, fearful of being in their control. She trusted Phineas, of course, but few others. He was heartened that she had improved since they’d discovered one another’s existence six years earlier. Constant nightmares, weeks of silence, fearful starts at the slightest clatter—all had diminished in both severity and frequency. Only last week, upon spying his old walking stick, she had remained seated, calmly cradling her teacup. A year ago, she would have gone bloodless and fled to her bedchamber.
Hannah was healing. Yet, despite being two-and-twenty, she refused to consider marriage. As her brother, he must see to her happiness. She deserved to know what having a family meant. She deserved to know marriage was not some leg trap waiting to bite into her flesh. No matter how he tried, he’d been unable to explain these things to her satisfaction.
No, he needed a wife—a proper, suitable wife to establish a proper, suitable family. Which was why he continued thrusting himself into the marriage mart, despite ample evidence he was unwelcome.
He gentled his voice. “It is time for me to marry, little one. You know this.”
Her nose flared in vexation. “They are unkind to you. You. After everything you did to set things right.”
“They fear me.” He sighed, rubbing at the ache behind his right temple. “Reasonable reactions, given—”
“Stay. Let us finish our match.”
He glanced back toward the parlor and raised a wry brow. “Our match is finished.”
She frowned. “I could still win.”
“Only if I suffered an apoplexy and lost my senses.”
“I am an excellent player, you know.”
“Or the rules altered so that castling is permitted whilst your king is in check. Come to that, one must still assume the apoplexy.”
“Do not even speak of such things.”
“Alas, none of the aforementioned scenarios is likely to occur. Therefore, our match has concluded. Study the board. You will see.”
“Stay.”
He bent to kiss her cheek, taking care to move slowly and keep the contact brief. Hannah still struggled with being touched. “I shall return in a few hours.”
Gently, he withdrew, striding the length of the corridor to the main staircase.
“I am an excellent player, Phineas,” she called after him. “One day, I shall even be better than you.”
A half-hour later, he entered Lady Randall’s drawing room with a pounding head and a marked sense of doom. The room teemed with bright silks and dark tailcoats. Wealthy, milk-skinned misses murmured in low tones, casting him fearful glances from behind their fans. Like a school of fish, mothers and chaperones clutched their charges and guided them away from his position near the archway to the music room. Behind him, two ladies performed a duet of pianoforte and harp. Each note drove another dagger through his right temple.
This evening would be abominable.
Still, it was not the worst he’d endured.
“One hopes you have a better plan than freezing them all with your gelid glare.” The sonorous female voice, raspy with age, approached from the music room. Its small, white-haired owner came to stand at his left side.
He glanced down. Many called her a dragon. To him, she had always resembled a bird. Not some delicate finch or wren, despite her size. No, she was a falcon. Bird of prey. A species known for its bold females.
“Lady Wallingham.”
“Lord Holstoke.” She raised her quizzing glass to one sharp, emerald eye. “You have not answered my letters.”
Returning his gaze to the crowd, he noted Lady Randall calming one of her guests as the woman sent him furtive glances. “No.”
A sniff from beside him. “Never took you for the daft sort. Mad, perhaps. Peculiar, certainly.”
He opted for silence. It did not help.
“What else should one conclude?” Her voice was a snap. “You refuse my assistance when it is most desperately needed. Daftness is heritable, you know.”
“My father was not daft. He was poisoned.”
“Yes. By your mother.” The dowager shifted, raising her quizzing glass again to assess the crush. A ring of empty floor wreathed their position as though he were a noxious weed known for giving young ladies a rash. “Have you considered conducting your wife hunt in Scotland? Perhaps news of your unfortunate pedigree halted at the Roman Wall.”
The throbbing inside his temple grew. “I was in Edinburgh earlier this year.”
“Ah. Walls are not what they used to be, then. Ireland? Nothing but sheep and rain, but one is bound to find more biddable wifely stock than in Scotland.”
He rubbed at the bitter ache behind his right eye. “Lady Wallingham, your advice is …” He wanted to continue. Intended to.
But he could not. Because, in that moment, a laugh he had not heard in six years reached his ears. Joyful and tumbling, it spanned a room full of revelers and musical cacophony. It bridged six years and a lifetime of distance.
Maureen. Instantly, he knew.
He found her standing near blue draperies at the edge of a far window. Golden-brown hair fell in perfect, looping curls around her sweet face. She was older, of course, her cheeks a bit fuller, but as lovely as he remembered. Radiant and flushed, she lightly stroked the arm of her lean male companion.
That man wore a black coat, scarlet waistcoat, and a rapt expression.
Phineas watched him caress Maureen’s lower back and grin down into her eyes with both longing and possession.
“Dunston refuses to abandon his penchant for preposterous waistcoats. I have told him a father of five children should show greater dignity.”
He frowned. “Five?” It was four. Maureen had four children.
“Perhaps you should have read my letters.”
Phineas’s gaze flew to where sun-hued silk flowed over Maureen’s belly. Was she rounder there? He looked at her face. Glowing. Shining for the man she had married.
After declining to marry Phineas.
“Three months along, I’d wager.” The old woman beside him stared across the room through her quizzing glass. “Of course, you would know this if you were not suffering from rampant daftness.”
The towering plume extending from the old woman’s turban brushed his chin. He swiped it away and cleared his throat.
“I read your letters,” he said. He had. All seventeen of them. She’d made no mention of Maureen expecting another child. He would have remembered.
“And yet, no reply. How are we to solve your intractable problem if you do not engage, dear boy?”
He had no answer, for he did not understand her interest. Lady Wallingham was an interfering busybody, true. But she had no particular connection to him. Her bosom friend happened to be Maureen’s mother, Lady Berne, so perhaps that explained her relentless focus upon Phineas’s matrimonial prospects. Otherwise, it confounded reason.
Recalling another female who had recently offered unsolicited advice, he nearly shuddered. Was he the topic of discussion at the Huxley dinner table? Did they all amuse themselves by debating his prospects and lamenting his failures?
Good God, what a nightmare. The thought of Lady Berne, Lady Wallingham, and Lady Eugenia pitying him over parsnips and lamb was enough to turn his blood cold. Imagining Maureen as part of the conversation made his head throb with renewed fervor.
In fairness, Lady Eugenia was different. He was damned if he could make sense of it. The woman’s presumptuousness was nearly the equal of Lady Wallingham’s, and yet the dowager vexed him far more.
Eugenia Huxley had long treated him with a perplexing degree of familiarity, as though they’d known one another from the cradle. They hadn’t. She’d been sixteen and he seven-and-twenty when he’d begun his courtship of Maureen. While Maureen had affectionately called her “brat,” he hadn’t found her bold, forthright nature exasperating so much as a curiosity. He’d never met another female quite like her.
His frown deepened as he recalled their encounter in the hat shop. The scandal had taken its toll. Her cheeks were slimmer, her jaw gaining delicate definition. Her eyes had acquired new shadows. For a moment, he hadn’t recognized her. Perhaps it had been the context. She was working. In a hat shop. On the end of Oxford Street most ladies of quality avoided. Furthermore, she answered to a harpy who could scarcely blink for the tightness of her hair, and, unlike the Eugenia he remembered, she’d silently begged him to let that harpy treat her like a servant.
Bloody outrageous.
Of course, not all the changes he’d observed were for the worse. Eugenia’s eyes sparked with the same challenging humor, yet inside, they were steadier than he would have predicted. Her wit was sharper, wry and unapologetic. Her hands were slender. More … womanly.
Her bosom was fuller, too. Round. A lush counterpoint to her hips. He shouldn’t have noticed, but he was male and not currently blind.
Still, her circumstances had deteriorated abominably, and it irritated him like a thorn inside his boot. Quite why, he did not know. Perhaps he should speak with Lady Berne. Something must be done. An earl’s daughter should not be treated with such condescension.
“What about Miss Froom?” The crackled voice of Lady Wallingham pierced his thoughts, adding to his headache.
“Who?”
Her plume bobbed in the general direction of the punch bowl. “The plump one, there. Resembles a canary.”
He blinked. Looked. Miss Froom did, indeed, resemble a canary. Yellow gown. Sharp, short nose. Small, dark eyes. “What of her?”
A tsk of impatience. “Have you bothered to approach—”
“Yes.”
“And?”
He glared down at the diminutive dowager. “She swooned when I said, ‘Good day.’”
“Bah! You surrender too easily.”
“Then screamed for her mother upon awakening.”
A sniff. “The young are prone to dramatics.”
“Her mother likewise screamed and subsequently swooned. I believe the pattern might have continued in perpetuity had my salutations persisted.”
An emerald gaze narrowed upon him. “Hmmph.” Returning to her perusal of the crowd, Lady Wallingham and her quizzing glass spotted yet another candidate. “Ah, yes. Lady Theodosia.” She nodded toward a gaunt woman whose elbows could sharpen knives. Come to that, so could her chin. “Eight-and-twenty. To be on the shelf, she would first have to be removed from the attic. Truly a desperate—”
He sighed. “At her father’s insistence, we took a turn about the park.”
“Promising. Go on.”
“She spent the entire interlude in silence.”
“Some men appreciate a quiet woman.”
“Yes.”
“Have you asked her to dance?”
“No.”
“Whyever not?”
“Her butler relayed her request that I make no further overtures. Evidently, Lady Theodosia is smitten with Lord Muggeridge.”
White brows dropped low over sharp green. “Muggeridge? He is riddled with gout and drowning in debt. Good heavens, is she mad?”
“No,” he answered absently. “Fearful.”
Letting his attention wander across the room to the woman he’d once thought to marry, he paused. Why had he never noticed the lack of resemblance between her and Lady Eugenia? They were Huxleys, so naturally, both were curvaceous and petite with hair and eyes in shades of brown. But the two sisters must have branched from opposite sides of the same tree. Maureen’s nose was shorter, rounder, like Lady Berne’s. Eugenia’s was slim and straight like her father’s. Maureen’s eyes were rounder, too. Eugenia’s were more cat-like—impish and rich. And while Maureen’s hair was light brown, Eugenia’s was the color of polished mahogany. An uncommon shade. Dark and deep. Lustrous and silken.
“Cowardly chits,” Lady Wallingham scoffed. “Given their hysterics over a few measly murders, one would suppose plump-pocketed earls were as plentiful as the hairs in Lord Muggeridge’s ears.”
How he despised the marriage mart. Every calculating part. Even if the matrons and their charges had clamored for his attention rather than fleeing from him, he would still have a bloody headache. Only one person had appeared to understand his position, and she’d been consigned to work in a milliner’s shop where she was treated no better than a scullery maid.
He glared down at the Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham. “If you are so keen to wield your influence in someone’s favor, perhaps you could begin with Eugenia Huxley.”
The quizzing glass slowly lowered. A white brow arched. “Lady Eugenia made her bed. Beside a footman, no less.”
“She is employed.”
“Yes. Much to her mother’s dismay, I assure you.”
“You are one of the most influential—”
“I am the most influential, Lord Holstoke. Make no mistake about it.”
True enough. Lady Wallingham wielded astonishing power among the ton. Enough to sway opinions from one pendulum peak to the other. Enough to have eased a scandal involving an earl’s daughter and a footman, had she chosen to do so.
“You should have helped her.”
Assessing eyes sharpened. Glinted. “I did. I gave her a reference, didn’t I?”
He waited.
“The girl was caught wearing a footman in place of her skirts,” she snapped.
His stomach tightened. He did not like picturing Eugenia that way. Perhaps because she was Maureen’s sister. Perhaps because he’d known her when she was but a girl of sixteen. Perhaps because he admired her family—enough to want something similar for himself. Regardless, he now had a gut ache to match his headache.
“The incident was witnessed by two Almack’s patronesses, two gossipy lords, and Lady Gattingford for good measure,” the dowager continued. “Foolish girl. She did not even have the decency to dally with her own footman, instead choosing one of Lord Reedham’s. God Himself could not have spared her, dear boy. I did what I could.”
“Not enough.” His words were low and cold.
Lady Wallingham’s gaze grew calculating. “We were discussing your prospects, not hers. And while yours are scant, hers are nonexistent.” The quizzing glass resumed its duty. “Now, then. Clearly, the waters in which you have cast your line are sparse, Holstoke. Either bait your hook with something more desirable than last year’s stale pudding or move on to slower fish.”
He glanced across the crowd. He could plead thirst, he supposed. Escape to the punch bowl. Greet Miss Froom again and watch her swoon like a downed canary.
“I should leave,” he muttered to himself, his fingers digging into his temple.
“Widows.”
“What?”
“A more seasoned pool of candidates will prove less skittish, I daresay.”
Hannah had been right. He could have played out their chess match. Gone to bed. Awakened early for a ride. Purchased a new hat.
He could have avoided every word of this conversation.
“You know, my son married a widow. They said she was barren, but Charles takes after his father in many respects.” The old woman chuckled. “Have I mentioned I have three grandsons? Three, Holstoke.” Her plume swiped his jaw as she trained her quizzing glass on the far corner of the room, where a broad-boned, black-gowned, ruddy woman with massive hands stood conversing with Lord Randall’s niece. “Ah, yes. Mrs. Steventon. A bit long in the tooth, perhaps.”
He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “She recently buried her sixth husband.”
“Precisely. A history of unexpected deaths will not send her dashing for the smelling salts, will it?”
“She is in mourning.”
“A technicality. Where other men hesitate, a clever one finds his advantage.”
Yes, leaving was the best idea he’d had all day. He pivoted toward the music room, bowing briefly to his unwanted companion. “I fear I must bid you good evening, Lady Wallingham.”
Ten feet after the dowager’s “hmmph” followed him through the archway, he heard the sweet voice he’d once imagined would awaken him every morning. Now, it halted him as surely as ropes.
“Holstoke? Is that you?”
Her scent was different than before, though still laced with vanilla.
“Lady Dunston,” he said, closing his eyes briefly before turning on his heel.
She gazed up at him with a dawning smile, warm and affectionate, her dimples on full display. “It is you. Oh, how splendid. Hannah has visited several times, but I was beginning to despair of seeing you before Henry and I return to Fairfield.” She tilted her head. “How have you been?”
Apart from being the prettiest of the Huxley sisters, Maureen might also be the kindest. She’d long reminded him of daffodils—cheerful and domesticated and sweet. A welcome answer to winter’s desolation.
“I am well, Lady Dunston,” he lied, inclining his head. “And you?”
Despite Phineas’s efforts to ignore the man at her side, Dunston drew her closer with an arm about her waist and interjected, “Busy. Children occupy a good deal of one’s time, old chap.” The man’s eyes flashed hard as steel. “As does keeping one’s husband thoroughly satisfied.”
“Henry!”
Despite Maureen’s warning, Dunston did not look away.
She shook her head in wifely exasperation. “Ignore him, Holstoke. He’s forgotten his manners.”
“On the contrary, pet,” Dunston said softly. “I’ve forgotten nothing. Neither has he, I’d wager.”
The arrow flew straight and true. Yes. Phineas remembered everything. The smell of her hair. The touch of her hand upon his arm. The soft curve of her lips. The despair of discovering something perfect—something he’d never known existed—only to lose it in a single conversation in Hyde Park.
He remembered well. But he did not appreciate being reminded.
Maureen clicked her tongue and waved away her husband’s possessiveness like a vexatious insect. “My mother and father are hosting a dinner tomorrow evening. You simply must come,” she pleaded. “Mama and Papa are ever so fond of you.”
Eugenia had said something similar. Why did the Huxley family have any interest in him at all, let alone feel “ever so fond”?
“I’m certain Holstoke hasn’t the time,” said Dunston, casually examining his own waistcoat before giving Phineas a mocking smile. “Gardens to tend, you know. Follies to construct. A bride to acquire.”
Phineas was not angry—of course not. His stomach might be twisted into thorny ropes and his neck might be hard enough to crack walnuts, but he was not angry. Phineas did not allow anger to control his actions. It was unproductive.
Maureen’s expression melted into a soup of maternal sympathy. “Of course, how thoughtless of me. The season can sometimes be … all too short.”
Pity. That was pity on her face. Pity for him and his doomed quest to find a wife who neither fled from him in terror nor caused him to contemplate celibacy.
Bloody hell, it was galling. Her pity. Dunston’s smugness.
He straightened. Raised a brow and his chin. “When shall I arrive, Lady Dunston?”
Minutes later, as he exited Lady Randall’s house and donned his second-best hat, he breathed deeply the cool spring air. His headache yet pounded. His stomach yet churned. Nothing good had come of this torturous night.
But he had not allowed it to defeat him. A small victory, perhaps. Lately, small seemed to be the only size he was permitted.
He blew out another breath and started down the street, passing a pair of young gents conversing beside a waiting carriage. Neither paid him any mind.
“… five daughters in all.”
“The youngest is a fair one, I reckon.”
The first man laughed and jostled the second man’s shoulder. “Fair of face or fair of bosom?”
“Why not both?”
The two men guffawed.
Phineas released another breath and continued on his way.
“I don’t know. If she’s anything like her sister … well, I’m loath to wed a chit who might be another Huxley Harlot.”
He stopped. Every muscle hardened. He closed his eyes. Reached for rationality. If two vulgar cretins wished to insult one of the Huxley sisters, it was none of his concern.
“Wouldn’t mind lifting the sister’s petticoats a time or two, I daresay.”
“Bit of practice before you offer for Lady Katherine, eh?”
A sharp laugh. One of them leaned toward the other. “The Harlot’s tastes run to footmen. Likely she’d be grateful for a change of mount. Do you suppose sisters are the same between their—”
“Gentlemen.” Although Phineas’s voice was quiet, the word jerked the two cretins around like a shot. Both were young—boys, really.
He should not be doing this.
It was stupid.
Reckless.
“I could scarcely help overhearing your discussion,” his anger said softly.
The taller one, who appeared to have imbibed too much of Lord Randall’s port, stumbled back into the carriage wheel.
The shorter one—Phineas recognized him as Randall’s nephew—swallowed convulsively. “L-lord Holstoke.”
He politely fingered his hat brim, keeping his motions smooth and his expression still. “I have seen you at Reaver’s, I believe.” He glanced at the taller one. “Both of you.”
“Y-yes, my lord. We were guests of my uncle. Lord Randall.”
“Reaver’s serves excellent coffee,” Phineas commented casually. “And Lord Randall serves superior port.”
The taller one’s head began to tremble visibly.
“Curious fact: Either coffee or port—any liquid with a strong flavor, really—makes an ideal vehicle for, shall we say, delivery of medicinal compounds.”
The shorter one squinted a bit. Soon, his eyes rounded. “P-poison?”
Phineas slowly blinked. Only once. Then he stared. “If you like.”
“N-never cared for coffee. Or port.”
“There are other options.” Phineas moved his gaze calmly between the two men. “One must be clever when delivering medicine.” He took a single step forward, and the shorter one retreated three. The taller one appeared to be having more trouble than his companion. Each breath emerged with the edge of a whimper attached to it.
Phineas stopped. Clasped his hands at his back. “A pity no cures exist for the crassness of youth. Alas, all we have are punishments.”
The whimpering grew louder.
“Now, then. I must be on my way. Tomorrow I dine with Lord and Lady Berne and their lovely daughters. Good evening. Gentlemen.”
He’d likely damaged his own cause, he thought, as he strolled into the deepening night. Confirming everyone’s worst suspicions about him was far from helpful. He estimated he’d worsened his chances of acquiring a suitable wife by fifteen percent. Perhaps twenty.
But he was smiling as he turned the corner toward Holstoke House. Despite his headache. Despite seeing Maureen again. Despite everything, he was smiling.
He’d relished those men’s pallor, their palpable fear. It was satisfying. Nearly as satisfying as picturing her reaction. She would laugh, he suspected. Cat-like eyes would spit fire at the cretins. Then, she’d congratulate him for putting his “peculiar nature” to good use.
His smile grew into a grin. He only wished she could have been there to see it.
*~*~*
The girl already showed signs of failing: White edged with green. Glassy eyes darting about. Convulsive swallowing.
She clutched at her mother—as plump as she—while the yellow pair climbed into the carriage.
“Once we are home, your father will send for the physician,” the mother crooned frantically. “Simply a fever, darling. A bit of laudanum will help.” He heard the woman’s desperate platitudes continue as the coach door closed.
He covered a grin with his gloved hand, shrinking back into the shadows of Lord Randall’s house.
Laudanum would not help. Laudanum would only carry her further along the river of death.
He hunched and leaned a shoulder against the bricks of the house, biting his fist now. His chest shook and shuddered.
Her death was a divine thing. An ordained thing.
And that which had been ordained could not be undone.
*~*~*