The Poisoner's Game

Chapter 32

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A.

The breeze whispered through my hair. A part of me wished it were a gale blasting me from the docks and into the sea. Maybe the pounding wind would knock some sense into me. I liked to think that's what my father thought when he put me in the Royal Navy.

The smell of the sea, decaying fish, salt, and bird droppings, shouldn't have been a pleasant mix, but it was always more familiar to me than the place of my birth. All around me the coarse cries of sailors, the creaking of tethers as shipments were loaded, heavy tread against thick wood, and the sharp cries of seagulls' that filled the air were more soothing to me than the most renowned symphony.

If my father hadn't forced me back to London, back to land, I wondered if I would have ever left. A sort of freedom could be found at sea, unlike anything on land. A floating island free of the land's mores and laws. Ranking existed, of course, but at sea, you could earn your standing. On land, it seemed, the more I tried, the farther I fell. What happened to the thirteen-year-old who decided to forge his own path? I thought the years away would prove to my father that I was capable. At least, prove to myself that I was capable. Instead, I found that I was still that small boy, groveling for his father's approval. None of my accolades, my metals, my adventures, or my successes meant anything to him. Did they even mean anything to me?

Every time I stepped foot in that house, I became something different, timid even. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and moved closer to the water, careful to avoid those at work. I could not return to the Royal Navy unless my father allowed it, and the thought filled me with a bitter rage. Often, that thought alone made me wish I weren't the son of a duke. Made me wish, I could do as I pleased and let my accomplishments, not my name, be my signifier. I'd always known my father wanted me to follow his example. I wanted that too, but no longer did I want to please him. I didn't know if they could be mutually exclusive.

When I brought him the evidence I had gathered, he barely turned his gaze to it before dismissing it. There had to be something there, something of significance in the red velvet bag. After all, it was worthy of murder and I had done nothing to protect Margaret. I squeezed my eyes shut, gritting my teeth and trying to ignore the solemn grey eyes that stared at me with condemnation. They pained me more than my father's ever could.

#

That night, I dreamed of my mother and the Frenchman. The walls of the closet closed in on me and I could just hear a man's voice. It never occurred as a full picture only snippets of remembrance dashed by pain.

"You told me you'd get me the information, Eleanor."

"I know, I know. Please give me more time. I beg of you."

Silent moments ticked by but for the rustling of papers. "This is it?" the Frenchman asked.

"Yes." My mother's voice trembled. "Please let me go to my son. He's probably frightened. Please, he's just a child."

Glass shattered. Heavy panting. My mother screamed and then silence. The Frenchman opened the closet door and pulled me to a stand. I saw my mother lying on the floor, her eyes open, and blood pooling at her side. In her hand, she held her handkerchief embroidered with the initials E.E. The Frenchman pulled my chin up and took my gaze away from my mother. With his knife, he notched a line down my chin.

"Qui n'a coeur, ait jambes. Let him that has no heart have legs," he said, even behind his black mask I could see the coldness of his brown eyes.

Warm blood dripped down my neck.