Page 103 of Envious Of Fire
He did not think it was by George’s hand, but rather entirely by Markadian’s. Was it all, in fact, real? Or did George innocently ask Markadian to touch up his illusions in the tower?
Was this not Markadian’s act at all?
“Ah, there, yes, I see it,” says George, drawing closer, his odd eyes zeroing in upon Tristan, “that realization as it blooms within your stupid irises. You ought to wear this … thisstupidlook more often. It betrays theinnocent childyou all the time pretend to be.”
Tristan thinks on all the details he saw. The yellow flowers. The chandelier. The tapestry of Markadian’s smirking face.
“Did you love the bloody rug?” asks George, drawing even closer still.
And the bloodied Persian rug.
“I thought it to be a fitting souvenir. Both for you. And for your destroyed love. And for your destroyed love’s friend.”
The sting is deep.
Bone deep.
But Tristan is masterful in deflecting bone-deep stings with his own.I wonder if your ears are red, he says to George overthe blood martinis, their eyes sparkling in the green light from the fountain, looking like aliens.The directors in the ballroom were all talking about you.It seems many weren’t aware of your Feral past.
George’s smug smile withers to a thin, sagging line.
Our Lord Markadian seems to be considering your replacement as casually as you replaced the décor in my tower, Tristan goes on.It was noted how very much you love spending time wasting away in the book rooms, the store rooms…anywhere that collects dust, really.
“But it is behind me,” says George, like reciting a line from a script, robotic, emotionless. “My past … I put it behind me. It was another me … that George … another George …”
But can we really escape what we are? Can we escape what we’ve done?Tristan takes a step forward. The tray nearly presses into their chests between them.Can we escape what we’ve…drunk?
George stares Tristan down.
It’s a cold, silent, murderous stare.
One might easily miss its murderous nature, mistaking it for the same stare one makes when gazing emptily at the night sky for a certain star, or into a murky pool looking for a fish, or at a blank wall with no thought in mind at all.
Then George’s eyes slowly drift down to the tray between their bodies, very slowly, as if tracking a single snowflake on its journey from the sky, his eyes land upon a martini glass.
He says to that glass: “Found something else in your room. Something rather out of place. A box.”
Tristan’s heart leaps.A…box…?
“Wrapped in a simple ribbon and bow. What did you keep it for, I wonder? A present Raya once gave you? It mystified me.”
Mance’s gift. The gift meant for Markadian.You…opened it?
George’s eyes remain on that martini glass. Every second his eyes remain glued to it, his breathing strengthens, like the tide rushing in, building. “Of course, I did.”
And…what was in it?
“Nothing.” His eyes pour into that martini glass, becoming one with the irresistible blood that glass holds. “Nothing at all. A waste of a box, sitting there in your room. So out of … of place.”
Tristan casts his gaze to the tray of glasses, stunned.
The box contained nothing?
It was empty? Truly empty? This whole time?
Are you…Are you quite sure nothing was in it at all…?
“I haven’t had a drop of blood in so long,” says George, his full attention returning to the glass, as if addressing a long-lost lover, someone he truly adores, with whom he once nursed a deep and unhealthy obsession. “Not since I was punished for taking the lives of that woman and her … her child … Patrick’s family … told I must contain my thirst in punishment. Markadian’s orders. I am … such a different person … when I … partake.”
