The Red King [Book II]

VII

It wasn't that James looked angry. His face was smooth of ugly creases, his shoulders were poised and he held himself with a stable and relaxed ease. Fletcher remained vigilant, trailing behind, silent, like a servant.

ㅤJames stopped at the door to the cellar, his entire body stilling, and Fletcher held his breath.

ㅤAfter a frozen moment, James' head turned, just slightly, over his shoulder. His face was perfectly neutral like a hard statue, and his blood-like gaze was sharp.

ㅤ'Lewin Geste,' Fletcher blurted. 'And friends.'

ㅤJames' eyes slowly focused away, considering the information, and Fletcher resisted the urge to fidget. He couldn't read James' thoughts but reckoned even Harrison would've struggled; there wasn't so much as a twitch, not even a strand of hair that fell over his forehead. It was as if this image had been painted.

ㅤ'I will deal with it,' Fletcher promised.

ㅤ'You shouldn't do dirty jobs,' James spoke. 'You're too sweet for it. That sort of thing is permanent.'

ㅤFletcher wouldn't think about James' response. He wouldn't entertain that notion. He said nothing.

ㅤ'I won't taint you,' James decided. It freed Fletcher of the responsibility. He disappeared through the door, the heavy wood swinging and quietly clicking to a close.

ㅤA slight tremble reappeared in Fletcher's hand and he clenched it shut. The consequences of those uttered revelations wouldn't have occurred to James, otherwise James wouldn't have said them. Those sentiments now stung Fletcher like salt.

ㅤHe wouldn't think about it.

➵ ➵ ➵ ➵

Duke Alexander Chamberlain's new uniform was laid out neatly on his bed. It was the first extraneous item to have breached his bedroom. Unlike the existing furniture, these garments had no place of precise belonging; it was for Alex to decide where it went.

ㅤThere was a white tunica base with two golden stripes woven into the fabric, going down either side of the neck to the bottom. The pattern and thickness displayed his new rank. And, rather than a belt strap, a tartan military kilt. But most important of all, his cloak.

ㅤMade new, it was a dark blood colour, bordered with a dark pattern and the edges lined with thin gold tassels. Alex spread his fingers into it, caressing the soft, thick material. Expensive. It smelt like fresh dye.

ㅤHe felt its weight, holding it up to his shoulders. He saw in the mirror that, despite his height, it fell halfway down his calves. A perfect fit. It'd been created with him in mind specifically.

ㅤHe saw his own reflection, examined his face, his eyes, seeing himself with this cloak. Duke Alexander Chamberlain.

ㅤDelicately, he set it down again, thumbing its creases.