King of Swords [ Regulus Black ]

Chapter 31

If I don't hold my breath I am afraid it will all cascade from me at once like a popped balloon. I stalk down the hallway toward the night chamber, past the room of mirrors.
I think about stopping and opening it, letting Maslin out and tussling his hair.
There is no time for goodbyes, and I wouldn't know how to compose one with enough emotion to make it count anyway.

I wait at least an hour outside on the bench in the hallway. Even in my ire, I don't suspect I can take Haro as well whoever he is meeting with. I will pause for the door to open, for an invitation inside. My fingers are steady but my heart thunders in a way that makes my throat feel full of chalk.

Great pains are made to remind myself of who I am dealing with. It is easy to lose my train of thought while thinking of every excuse Haro might have. To imagine him preaching at me about saving Maslin's life or twisting his words to gain my sympathy. If there is one thing I know for certain, Riverina and Haro are wrong in that we must save our familial skin first before those of others. There is always a choice.

This sentiment is coming from a parentless daughter. I may have not have turned out fine, but my flesh is thick. Maslin is softer than he lets on, but is possibly more capable of surviving than any of us.

I will go forward and make the crooked paths straight.

When the door opens, it is the Rosier patriarch. The father looks much like his son, as all of them seem to. Similar sandy hair and pillowy eyes, but this one is harder, carved from marble and not in an attractive way. He looks me over with familiarity but doesn't nod a greeting.

Evan's poisoning should have been rectified by now, or at least I pray it has. Staring into this looking glass as it taps a silver cane down the hallway, I would not wish to find the younger counterpart coming at me with his lips puckered.
Regulus likely left Evan just as he was out of entertainment.

Regulus, I think about him now as I take to stand and enter the chamber. The ceiling is coated in an enchantment of constellations, shifting by season. I look for the summer triangle amongst the burning embers and find it hovering just over the plush seat Haro relaxes in.

The night room is relegated to foes, traitors, the likes of which Haro is unpleased to meet with. I wonder what Rosier did to land him an afternoon in the chamber with the record player on the wall that turns an inaudible tune of screams and terror. I listen for it in the doorway, watching the vinyl shift. The faintest of sounds flicks at my ear drums and makes my skin stand on edge. Or perhaps that is just Fawley's breathing.

Haro's back is to me, and my steps are lighter than air. I clutch the dagger as I walk, but find myself stopping mere feet away. I don't know how I expected to do this, how I convinced myself it would be easy. I count his shallow breaths until they reach the twenties, wondering if I am even capable of halting them for good.

I have been a coward before, but this doesn't feel the same. There is shame in it, attacking a man from behind. Everyone else has looked me dead in the eye. Suddenly my anger feels awash with questioning. I want to dive forward, turn the chair around and plead for answers.

My faltering has cost me the opportunity. Haro rises from the chair and gazes me down with a pained expression. The dagger drops to the azure carpet.

Haro looks as if he is going to dive into a lecture, a campaign speech directed toward a lost voter. I hold my hand up to him. The world is descending with every passing second. Whatever well practiced charade he is wearing, it must be cast off.

"They finally let you out?" He asks.

"I escaped via Evan," I quip. Let there be no falsities here today, only the truth.