Page 22 of The Toymaker's Son

He watched me as I watched him, and the weight of our gazes grew heavy with past baggage.

“Did your father have any enemies?” I asked. While he was relaxed, perhaps he’d be more inclined to talk.

The light snuffed out of Devere’s eyes. “No. He was a… good man.”

“In my experience, people are rarely worthy of the pedestals we place them on. Nobody is perfect. Jacapo appeared to be the perfect father, but appearances can be deceiving.”

He stilled, as though he might turn away. He dropped his gaze to the floor. There was more going on here, more between father and son than the town knew, than I knew. If he’d just open up and speak to me, I could help him.

“He gave me everything,” Devere said. “He was my world.”

But that wasn’t all. If anything, it was just the visible surface. The same as everyone saw. A father with his beloved son. The perfect life. One thing I’d always wondered about, and nobody had ever mentioned, was Devere’s mother. There were no photographs of her, no talk of her, and no grave in the graveyard.

“What happened to your mother?”

He laughed, but it was one of those bitter laughs, the opposite of humor. “I think it’s time you left.”

“Yes.” I straightened away from the vanity and stroked the creases out of my clothes. I’d need to change, but all of my belongings were at Rochefort Manor. “I wonder… would you accompany me somewhere?”

“What?”

“Never mind, it was a foolish idea.”

I brushed by him, my arm briefly touching his. This close, he smelled of the shop, of cinnamon and toffee, and that thought almost tripped me as I hurried down the stairs. I shouldn’t have asked. What had I been thinking? Although, if I could get Rochefort and Devere together, their secrets might begin to unravel. Neither would tell me anything of use in isolation. Together, their proximity might shake the truth free.

“Mr. Anzio?”

I turned at the door, my hand on the handle, and found Devere standing by the store counter, his all-gray clothing against the colorful backdrop of toys like a rain cloud on a summer day. That thought lifted my lips and made my heart stutter.

Devere frowned. “Where do you intend to go?”

“I have to pay Rochefort Manor a visit.”

He immediately turned his face away, toward the fire. “Why?”

“There was a minor misunderstanding, and my belongings were delivered there by mistake. I’d like them back.”

“I’m busy.”

“Of course.” I obviously hadn’t expected him to agree.

“Valentine?” he said the moment I’d turned again.

I looked back as he reached under the counter and withdrew the pistol, then crossed the shop floor and held it out. His eyes gave nothing away, and his face remained expressionless, which likely meant he was trying to hide his true thoughts.

“I fear if I take that, I’ll be tempted to use it,” I admitted, adding a smile, as though in jest.

He pressed his lips together, frowned and, with a great sigh, returned to the counter and scooped his coat from off the stand, throwing it around his shoulders in a single sweep. A purple scarf came next. He flung it around his neck and marched toward me. “I have errands to run. I’ll accompany you. The carriage will be cheaper with the fare shared.”

Always so practical. But why had he agreed, and why offer me the pistol? He knew something terrible had happened, and he suspected the lord. Offering me the pistol was a kindness I had not expected.

Perhaps he did not hate me quite as much as he claimed.

The storm had passed, and as we stepped from the store, Devere tipped his face toward the blue sky. “I do not understand why you remain in this town,” he said, “when you could take the coach and be far away anytime you wished.”

That made two of us. Although, if I told him he was the reason I was staying, he’d likely not react well, and we’d only just begun to get along. “You always did say I was mad.”

The tick of his lips almost became a smile. “Madness is rather like art.”

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