Page 39 of The Gambler's Prize
I start to speed-read. The letter is written in Rhennian with a dashing, careless hand. I could almost guarantee it’s by a Rhennian aristocrat.
My dearest friend Grimes,
I write this from the freedom of a green meadow. I’m lying on my back with wildflowers nodding beside my head, their sweet perfume lulling me almost to sleep. Blue sky stretches above me; clouds of the purest white chase each other across the vault. All feels right with the world. But of course it isn’t, because you aren’t here to enjoy this beauty with me. I can’t wait for that day. Soon.
I’m writing primarily to thank you for your many kindnesses to me while we were staying together. I would have said all this to your face, but I could think of nothing more calculated to make you uncomfortable and embarrassed, which is the very last thing I would want. I know that you are modest to a fault. So I hope you will accept this letter as a token of my sincere and deep gratitude, read it in comfortable solitude, and accept how much you have done for me. When we first met, I never could’ve imagined I would one day write such a letter. That first night when the door closed on us, I was absolutely terrified of you. I must have given you such a look, as though I feared you would beat me to a pulp. You must have seen it on my face. It was offensive and unfair of me. I prejudged you due to your appearance and class. But you didn’t take offense. Instead you treated me with nothing but kindness. You protected me time and again, asking nothing in return. You comforted me when our unfortunate circumstances threatened to overwhelm me, though you yourself were sorely in need of comfort. You’re the kindest man I’ve ever met, even if you would rather die than show it.
Now I know what you’re doing. You’re shaking your head and contradicting me even as you read. You think that I give you too much credit. With the greatest of respect, my friend, you are a fool. You saved my life several times over, and even if you refuse to accept my gratitude, you must accept the bare facts.
I have another reason for writing. You were right when you told me that I would eventually forget Keres. I was sure you were lying to save my feelings. I thought I could never love again. But now I’ve met the most wonderful woman, and…”
Awoman? Judging by the adoring tone, I assumed this guy was in love with Grimes. It was starting to make me feel ill with envy. Now the jealous knot in my stomach eases.
I scan down the rest of the letter, skipping over a lot of gushing stuff about this “wonderful woman”, to reach the signature at the bottom.
Your loving best friend always,
Jos
Grimes has a best friend who admits to loving him? And isn’t afraid that saying so will result in concussion? I didn’t think he hadanyfriends. I wonder how he saved the guy’s life... multiple times. Jos, whoever he is, has a rosy view of Grimes’ character.The kindest man I’ve ever met. Then again, it tracks with what Prevana told me: how he sat up all night out of worry when Beveen was ill. And it tracks with how he treats me…sometimes. And then at other times, he treats me like a nuisance or worse, the most annoying man he’s ever met. The letter hasn’t explained anything. It’s only raised more questions. Where were he and Jos “staying together”? What made the circumstances so unfortunate? And what did Grimes protect Jos from?
The letter is a rare and tiny glimpse into his life, barely anything. Even so it makes me realize how little he’s opened up to me. And even though the letter-writer is only a friend, my jealousy slithers back. I bet Grimes didn’t scowl and snap at Jos the way he does with me. Jos talks as though he’s a prince of a man. How do I get Grimes to treatmelike that? With me it’s one step forward, two back. It’s like he’s forcing himself to keep his distance. How can I break that shell of resolve? I’ve tried so hard to please him, and nothing is enough.
Then the staircase floorboards creak; I’ve hung around for too long. I shove the letters back in the box and put it back under the floorboard, jamming it down with my foot. Then I run. Ijustget the bedroom door closed behind me as Grimes appears at the top of the stairs. I probably look guilty as anything, but at least I’m in the landing where I have every right to be. I stick on an innocent smile, my nose still twitching from the dust.
“What’s with you?” Grimes says, back to full-on churlishness.
“Nothing, Boss.”
I sneeze a couple of times. When I cover my nose with my hand, I realize my hands are covered with dust. I stick them behind my back and lean against the wall, hiding the evidence. Grimes comes closer, suspicious.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he says. “Your nose is all red.”
I shrug. “No idea.”
“Are you ill? Coming down with something?” he demands.
“I don’t think so.”
“Let me look at your nose.”
He reaches for my face but I pull away, embarrassed but still not daring to move my hands.
“No, Boss, I don’t want you staring up my nostrils.”
“You’re so fucking vain, do you know that?” he complains.
He takes my chin between thumb and forefinger and forces my head back, staring quizzically at my nose. What does he think he’s going to be able to see? Does he think I’m on some kind of drugs? I wouldn’t bet against it, considering his opinion of me. But I forget all that as my body takes note of his firm grip on my chin. It’s a nice feeling. Held, cared for. Dominated. Heat radiates through my body and I meet his eyes. Desire flares in his expression, plain as day. I’m not imagining it. He lets go of my face fast.
Then he scowls at me. “Florian, your nose is bleeding.”
He says it like it’s my fault. Punishing me for his moment of desire, no doubt. I’ve been getting more nosebleeds since I moved to the desert due to the dryness of the air. This is an inconvenient time for one to hit. Grimes is looking at me, wondering why I don’t try to staunch the blood. I slip one hand into my pocket, trying to hide the dust on my skin, and grab a tissue to hold to my nose. It’s soon stained red. Grimes’ expression is a weird mix of annoyance and something softer.
“Come on,” he says.
I go downstairs with him, rubbing the dust on my trousers when he isn’t looking. We go outside so I don’t bleed all over the inside of the house, not that it would make much difference considering the state of the décor. Redkiveflowers blossom over the yard, brought to life by the last rainstorm. They trail from the window ledges and creep up around the worn stones that surround the well. I didn’t even look at them when he first brought me here, I was so downcast, but now I love their brightness, how they bloom so defiantly in the punishing landscape.
“Boss, don’t you ever want to… talk?” I venture. Maybe I can get him to open up about the contents of the metal box without asking directly.
