Page 46 of The Falconer

‘It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.’

I don’t know how to comfort someone. I can’t reassure Gavin with words or empathetic expressions. I don’t have the words, and I’ve lost all ability to be gentle.

Gavin shifts closer, leaning over the table between us. ‘Your turn.’

‘I changed. After my mother died.’

When I’m calm, it’s easier to distance myself from the memories. I can pretend my damage is less serious than it is. I can be simple. I don’t have to tell him that if I let go even for a second, the guilt and pain from that night become so unbearable that they could crush me under their weight.

Gavin pauses, whisky halfway to his lips. His gaze softens. ‘Catherine wrote and told me. My sincere condolences.’ He drinks again. ‘But you’re evading the question. What the hell are you doing with a faery?’

‘I told you. He’s my friend.’

‘Are you purposely being obtuse?’

‘It’s the only answer I have, Gavin.’ He’s been gone two years and I’m not obligated to tell him anything. My story won’t fit into a ten-minute conversation, anyway.

Gavin’s jaw tics. ‘Fine. If that’s how you want to leave it.’ He throws his head back and downs another glass. I’m surprised by how sober he still is after all that whisky.

‘Does that help?’

‘Dulls the visions,’ he says. ‘Would you like some?’

I hesitate. I’ve had whisky many a time, but I’m not one to drink to excess. I always have to be alert and ready to fight at a moment’s notice. But perhaps it could help soothe my anger, suppress it for just a while, so I can pretend I’m not really broken.

‘Aye.’

Gavin pours more whisky and hands me the glass. The liquid burns when I drink, leaving behind a warmth that scorches down my throat. ‘Oh, this is good,’ I say. This tastes different from my father’s stock. Stronger.

‘Ideal for brooding.’ He sits and crosses his legs. ‘And it makes society events almost tolerable. It might even work for unruly pixies, too.’

I ignore his obvious attempt to shift the conversation back to Derrick. After all, Kiaran is a master at switching topics, and I have learned from the best. ‘Best stock up. I foresee many more such events in your future.’

‘Do you?’

‘Indeed.’ I take another sip. ‘Lady Cassilis has plans for you.’

Gavin pales. ‘What do you mean? What plans?’

‘She intends to marry you off this season. Congratulations.’

Words that could strike fear in the heart of any bachelor with a title. ‘She told you that, did she?’

‘Catherine did. Your mother and I continue our reluctant tolerance for one another.’

‘Mother reluctantly tolerates everyone. You just happen to be her nearest victim.’ He leans forward. ‘Tell me. Which poor lass has she deemed a suitable match?’

‘None yet. Do you have any idea of your mother’s requirements? I’d be shocked if she found anyone who fit them.’

‘Just a moment.’ He closes his eyes and takes a swift drink. ‘All right, let’s hear them.’

I take another sip myself, then put down the whisky and tick off each finger. ‘Fluent in French and Latin; adept at the pianoforte; dances well; comes from a family of good breeding – preferably Scottish; stitches competently; possesses a modicum of intelligence – but not more than you; is pleasing to the eye; and – most importantly – sufficiently terrified of her future mother-in-law. Now I’ve run out of fingers. There you have it.’

Gavin blinks. ‘You didn’t include “wins every game of croquet”, “reads to the orphan children” and “tames kittens”.’

‘If I had more fingers, they would have been, I assure you.’

‘If this woman exists, I’m not sure whether to be impressed or apologetic.’

---