Page 39 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

He smiled ruefully. It was odd how, despite the fact that he hadn’t considered the de Valois house his home in far too long, the word still came so easily to his tongue.

Rey brushed at Eli’s hair. “Try not to terrify this one. I am not going back out in that storm, thank you.”

“Only if you don’t try to trick him into buying magic hair oil,” Eli said. Rey made a face, and Eli smiled. “All right. I’ll be civilized, I promise.”

“His Grace will see you now,” a servant said, materializing like a ghost from a side room. Eli almost jumped. Even the servants in the de Valois house, who were used to slipping meekly under Aline de Valois’ imperious gaze, weren’t that quiet. The servant bowed and gestured toward the open door.

Eli approached carefully. There were only a few people who could use the term “His Grace,” and they were all in Duciel. That meant whoever was in the other room was either one of them, which was highly improbable, or was so egotistical he didn’t mind risking the ire of the crown, since impersonating a title you didn’t own was tantamount to treason. Given how pleasant the baron had been, Eli wasn’t holding much hope that this man was any better.

Eli crossed the hall next to Rey and stepped into the doorway, dripping melted snow onto the polished floor as he went.

He stopped, his entire body locking up in a twisting mess of panic, fear, and disgust, as one of the men in the room turned to face him.

Emile de Guillory looked Eli up and down as wind rattled the windows and snow pelted the glass, and he slowly set a crystal cup on the windowsill.

“Well,” he said, as Eli’s heart leapt to his throat, “isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”

* * *

Eli de Valois was a mystery to Emile, and one he did not know how to solve.

When he’d had the grave exhumed and there’d been no body, he’d felt the most curious sensation of relief followed by the very reasonable concern that anyone would feel upon discovering a grave was empty that should not be. Even with archmages who tortured remotely through mirrors and the existence of talking foxes—be they the spirit type, or the demonic sort that bedeviled Emile for sweets—the dead rising to walk again was a bit much.

He’d been told what happened by Adrien, who’d been slightly confused as well, but had told him that Sabre had a brother who was now a knight, and was wandering about Staria saving people or some such thing. Emile was still waiting for someone to explain the part where Eli was alive and not in the ground, but then he’d recalled Sebastien d’Hiver and how odd the man was, and decided maybe he didn’t want to know. Emile wasn’t a man who regretted many things, and he’d never feel bad about hanging that bitch Aline, but he’d meant those words to Sabre that day at the gravesite. He should have found another way, with Eli. Strange to think that grave had been empty, even then.

Eli looked much the same as he had last time, perhaps a bit less bedraggled and more settled, and while Sabre was the spitting image of Arthur, Eli resembled Emile’s old friend just as much. But there was something else, and maybe not a physical resemblance as much as something more ephemeral, something that made Emile see himself in Eli. Distant cousins they may be, but he had a feeling it was more than that.

Before he could even suss out what it might be, however, Eli de Valois gave him one long stare, unimpressed and wary, and then turned on his heel and walked right of the door.

“No,” said his companion, the man who’d turned into a fox. “Let’s not. Please?”

“There’s no need to–” he sighed, hearing the front door slam.

“Emile,” Bazyli said, disapproving. “It’s snowing.” He gave a pointed look at the door. “We’ll wait for you.”

“Bless you and the demons that made you,” the fox said.

“Emile,” Bazyli said again.

“Oh, he’ll come back, surely. It’s quite chilly out,” Emile said.

“I’ll get your coat,” Bazyli said, in a tone that said Emile would not be getting out of this one.And people were foolish enough to think dominants were in charge.Emile dressed in his coat and gloves, pulled a fur hat over his messy hair, and went out into the storm.

It wasn’t hard to find Eli, as there were only a few places someone would go to escape the snow that wasn’t the warm, comfortable house he’d left behind. Emile found him in the stable, perched on a hay bale and staring into space.

Emile pulled the stable door closed, which did nothing to warm the chilly interior, but at least gave him something to do. He and Eli looked at each other, the silence heavy in the air between them, the wind outside a low, mournful sound like someone was crying.

“Appropriately dramatic,” Emile said, after a moment. “Don’t you think?”

Eli had something in his hand, maybe a knife. It occurred to Emile that he might have just been sent to his death by his submissive, who was taking tea with a man who could turn into a fox in the house and would certainly feel very bad in the morning when he found Emile’s frozen corpse by the water trough.

“Could be worse,” Eli said, in a tone of voice that suggested he’d make sure of it before too long.

“Could it?” Emile crossed his arms over his chest. “I fail to see how.” He did not think he was in danger of losing his life, but that didn’t make this any less fraught. “If you have any ideas, keep them to yourself lest the universe oblige.”

Eli said nothing, and Emile cocked his head, considering him. “You were mouthier with Isiodore, de Valois. No dressing-down for me, hmm?”

The moment he said it, he realized that of course there was a reason for that. Isiodore had signed Eli’s death warrant. Emile had been there that morning, smiling to watch him die. Eli was likely afraid of him and, given he was a de Valois, hated that more than anything. He was at a loss for what to say, but in an attempt to navigate this strange encounter, Eli finally spoke.

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