The Wrath of the Innocent

3. Alastor

It's a long walk from the front doors to my office. I get a cup of coffee on my way up the countless flights of stairs and nearly identical hallways. The bitter liquid is almost gone when I reach my office. It's a small, hexagonal room with two floor to ceiling windows with dark red drapes and a desk facing the door. Bookshelves and maps line the walls. This is a mistake, Evan didn't think any of this through. I thought that at least what he so greatly lacks in ability to fight, he makes up for in intelligence. I was clearly wrong. Opening a drawer in my desk, I pull out a piece of paper and a pen. This can't be a mistake, Evan is far from an idiot. The country will collapse and I won't be able to do anything about it if this isn't fixed now. Once the first domino falls, there's no chance of stopping the rest.

Shit, I've wasted so much time. Father is dead set on this, and nothing I can say is going to make him see that he is wrong. I have to do this myself, then. I need to tell him about this. I need evidence that there's a flaw, so Evan can fix it before the mistake is finalized. Nothing too bad has happened yet, nothing I can't fix. There's still time to help him see it, and everything will be fixed and over with; but before anything else, I need evidence that I'm right. I need a written plan, he told me that he had written it all down. I need to go over his idea and find the flaws for him before something happens that I can't prevent. My stomach growls and I look out the windows to see that the sun is almost set. I walk out the door and through endless hallways to the kitchen. When I push through the doors, all of the cooks stare at me. I step forward to the closest chef that I can see.

"Could I have my dinner taken to my office? And can you please inform the King that I will not be attending dinner tonight? I'm not feeling too well." I ask. The chef blinks a few times, staring at me before answering.

"Of course, Mister Halloway. Anything else?" The cook asks, nodding.

"No. I'm alright, thanks." When I walk out, I hear the cooks turn their attentions back to their work. I make the trip back to my office and sit back in my chair. A bell rings in a hallway far from here. Dinner. Evan will be at the table, and a perfect opportunity presents itself. I can search his bedroom for evidence. I creep out the doors, running into the chef bringing me my dinner.

"Here's your dinner, sir!" she chirps, handing me a platter. I take it back into my office, place it on the desk and slip back out. Evan's room is only a few hallways down from mine, a short walk away. I walk as silently as I can, but don't pay attention to the ground. A few doors down from my brother's, I trip over something that I didn't see in my way, crashing onto the floor. When I get up again, I see a black cat trotting away. The cat is Evan's, and it wears a little blue sweater that Evan knit for him.

"Sorry." I run my hand over the cat's back, scratching him behind the ear in apology. When he walks away, I continue towards Evan's door. The door is open a crack, nearly closed but not quite. I slip in, and look around. Evan's room is filled with houseplants and bookshelves, with no space going without a plant or a stray book. Half painted canvases dry next to an easel, which holds a painting of a pond. On one wall is a board with designs for suits, shirts, pants, even dresses which sit folded on a chair, unfinished. I go to a bookshelf, looking for papers hidden between pages. I look through poetry books, fairy tales, plant identification guides and novels. Nothing. I rummage through his desk, looking through half-written letters and placing them back where they once were once I'm finished with them. They all bore me half to death, full of either thanks or apologies that he couldn't attend something. Everything lies in a stack, or a designated drawer. It should be easy to find what I'm looking for with a desk so organized, but it's proving to be harder than I thought. The only thing even mildly interesting is the bolts of fabric that are propped up next to his desk, and the designs for a dress on the surface of it. I search through drawers and cupboards, I check floorboards for loose spots, I knock on the walls in hopes of finding a hollow spot. A book lays on Evan's dresser, its cover spells A Criminal History of Venuaii: Vol. XIIII. The other volumes of the book are on a shelf across the room. I open it to the page where Evan had placed a small, leaf shaped bookmark and stopped reading.