Page 175 of Swords of Soul and Shadow
Oh shocks. Les.
Harlan shoved back from his chair and leapt to his feet, a knee-jerk reaction, before straining to slow his galloping heart. The orderly recoiled with the sudden movement, his hand going to the sword at his waist.
Good instincts.
Harlan gripped the edge of the desk and willed himself to calm down. If something had happened to his wife, someone would’ve immediately sent word from the Manor or faced his wrath. They wouldn’t have sent his brother-in-law. Ezekiel was hardly one to relay time-sensitive information these days. Randall and Sullivan were graduating from upper school soon, but the only reason Harlan was aware of the date and time was because of Les’ contact with the headmaster.
“I apologize, Private Grantham.” Harlan smoothed his mustache and found his seat once more. “Did Lord Fairchild give the reason for his visit?”
“No, Sir.”
If ithadbeen an issue with Les, he would’ve said so. Harlan cleared his throat. “Send him in, please, and ensure my motorcoach is ready. I’ll be leaving shortly.”
It would take several minutes to relay the request and crank the Yalvar fuel engine.
With another salute, Private Grantham left and moments later, the door opened once more.
Ezekiel Fairchild looked little different than the portrait in the papers. The ridges and valleys in his face were there, though more pronounced. Along with a gas lantern chandelier casting a soft glow upon the office, the golden sunlight of an early March sunset yawned across the mahogany desk and reflected off the clock face. It deepened the sadness in his brother-in-law’s face.
The mostly gray curls hanging around Ezekiel’s face were almost molten in the office light. It aged him nearly twenty years. His eyes had not dimmed, though they no longer lit with laughter.
Harlan rose and gestured to the leather seat in front of his desk. Ezekiel fell into the chair, but then straightened, perched on the edge. Elbows resting on his knees, his hands hung between them like the blooms of a bleeding heart. It’d been over a decade, but it still took Harlan back when Ezekiel didn’t smile or make a quip at Harlan’s stiff gestures and solemn demeanor.
“Good to see you,” Harlan ventured, tapping a few fingers on his desk. It was free of clutter. The reassignments and memos he’d need to respond to tomorrow lay beneath a simple Zuprium paperweight engraved with the Jaydian emblem. Nothing else decorated his desk. Too much visual distraction would lead to lost details and focus. In his office, the only indulgence he allowed himself was the clock.
Ezekiel pressed his lips together and his fingers into the armrest until both were white. “I’ve come because…” His eyes flicked to the window, to the opposite corner, and the door before resting on Harlan. “I’ve needed to…I think…”
Harlan just waited. Thetick-tockof the clock filled the silence. His chest was empty in such a way that it ached. A soft and subtle tingle like the zing of electricity under his skin started in his left small finger. The stirrings of a headache.
He tried to focus on the ticking of the clock. He wouldn’t be able to make a poultice until he returned to the Manor. The herbal mix inside would help quell the worst pain, and he needed to be present that evening at the dinner. He prayed it was a manageable migraine.
Ezekiel rubbed a hand down his face. “I…I’ve discovered something, and I’m not sure how to…”
Even the way he spoke had changed. Instead of a steady, gentle fire, it’d become the lingering rain after a storm, sputtering and unstable.
“Your work?” Harlan prompted.
“I know how to save them.”
Ezekiel didn’t look at Harlan, only at his knotted fingers. Harlan blinked. “Save who?”
His brother-in-law and friend opened his mouth and closed it again, as if the words had withered on his tongue. Harlan pressed his nails into the desk until they hurt. The tingling like needles in a pincushion spread from his finger into his hand.
“Speak plainly, Ezekiel,” Harlan said firmly. “What are you on about?”
The man fumbled with the neckline of his wrinkled collared shirt as if searching for something only to find it missing.
“Rose.” Ezekiel’s voice was hoarse. “Emilia. Asa.”
It was Harlan’s turn to be silent. What did he mean? Rose and the newborn girl, Emilia, had been Burned over a decade ago. There was no saving them. The tingling made it to Harlan’s wrist.
He didn’t know the third.
“What do you mean? Who is Asa?”
Ezekiel opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He fidgeted and cleared his throat. His eyes swept the room again as if to assess if they had an audience.
“I…I had another…son, but he…didn’t…”
