METANOIA

Honour

The oppressive feeling continued to swell in my chest, and behind the closed doors of my father's study the pressure pressing down on me was concentrated. I sat in the chair that had once belonged to Robert Wollstonecraft, and Vincent sat in front of me, in one of the Italian leather chairs. The night light didn't illuminate his body, and I had to strain my vision to see the outline of his face, but I could feel the coldness radiating from the man. The moment I sat down across from him, a feeling of fatigue washed over me like water from a shower, it was difficult for me to focus my eyes on a man, and my nails dug deeper into the expensive leather of the furniture. I tilted my head slightly to the right and my eyes fell on the grandfather clock against the wall. It was a real work of art: a descendant of an Italian duke gave this to my father as a sign of peace and further cooperation. I was about nine years old when I first saw this big clock, and when my father was not in the office, I sneaked in to look at it. The height of the product was a little over two metres and was made of natural wood, painted white. The entire length was painted with gold, and on both sides of the dial there were two small angels. At the bottom of the clock was a wooden floor globe, the stand of which was also made in the Baroque style.

Nausea pressed in my throat as I tried to distract myself from the intrusive thoughts of distrust in Boyd, but the man remained silent, cross-legged and leaning back in his chair. I needed to ask him leading questions — not only to make sure the temporary alliance was right, but also to find out as much new information about Jensen as I could.

"I didn't go back to Naples after I drove you," Vincent began calmly, keeping his distance between us. I nodded slowly, silently hinting at the continuation of his words, "I headed to Salerno to take care of the trash after the attack," the man undid a button on his jacket and took a deep breath.

"Jensen was intercepted in the Tramonti area," I said with a slight wheeze of exhaustion, lowering my eyes to the wooden table, "I sent my men to scout the areas and look for clues."

In this state, it was hard enough for me to tell whether Vincent's small, barely perceptible movements were restrained or stilted — perhaps he didn't feel as comfortable in my company as I did in his.

"How did you know about the attack?" I asked. Though the thought of contacting Boyd had crossed my mind, I hadn't considered it seriously and was partly grateful that the man himself had shown up on my doorstep with an offer of help, even though it continued to look suspicious. Vincent was silent for a moment before he told the truth:

"Jensen called me," he admitted, causing me to raise my surprised eyes at him discreetly. I couldn't believe that in a situation like this, my brother would choose a new friend over his sister — why? My thoughts covered my consciousness with a flood, a dense shroud, the same way the sky had covered the lands this night. I was completely confused, the word I was on the edge, at the moment when my nerves were giving way; I was sure that at any moment I might tumble off this precipice and fall into an impenetrable abyss — as black as the hopes of a happy future, as cold as the winter in which I had awakened from a fit of sleepwalking. I didn't know how I was supposed to feel about my brother's behaviour.

"No," Vincent said clearly, as if giving me an order — I frowned, looking at the man perplexed, "whatever you're thinking, the answer is no."

"You can't know what I'm thinking," I exhaled. Heat rushed to my stomach and back, and a weight of several dozen pounds appeared on my ribcage as I tried to restrain my urges to give the man a cursory head-to-toe inspection; he remained calm and if I showed any unbalance at the moment, it could have a negative effect on our already fragile interaction.

"You're not as hard to understand as you think," Vincent shook his head negatively, not taking his dark eyes off mine, "I don't need to know your whole life story," he continued as I slowly retracted my cheeks and monitored my accelerating heartbeat, "you don't drink alcohol, preferring it to cigarettes and coffee. When you go into your thoughts you frown all the time," the man touched the spot between his eyebrows on his face where I had a crease with his index finger, "your hair is falling out a lot and your body is slow to recover," I swallowed, dropping my eyes to the table and stretching my palm out in front of me.