They leave. And the castle is now unbearably quiet, achingly without noise, like the stones are absorbing even stray brushes of wind.
I drop my coat on a hook in the foyer and head up the hall, steps muffled by the thin carpet.
My body stops by a door. I don’t let myself think about why.
I push into it and drop down the spiral stairs. At the bottom, I can already feel and hear music. It’s moodier this time, full volume John Legend reverberating as I inch forward.
The door to his studio is open.
Chapter Fifteen
The wall-sized canvas he was working on is gone, replaced by a smaller one—well,smallcomparatively. It’s taller than he is, and it’s mostly blank, the outline of shapes in a rough pencil sketch, a few clusters of preliminary colors, this one looking to be greens and gold with accents of red.
He’s shirtless again, those paint-splattered sweatpants slung low on his hips. Standing in front of that canvas, one arm acting as his palette this time with globs of paint all the way up to his elbow, he dabs at the paint, wipes some on the canvas, back and forth in frantic motions so I know he’s channeling all his anxious energy into this.
I knock on the open door loud enough to cut through the music.
He suspends in the motion of reaching for the top corner. Every muscle along his bare shoulders winds so tight he looks liable to sprout wings.
Slowly, he pivots to face me.
I drag one hand across my mouth, wishing I’d thought more about coming down here, wishing I’d grabbed that notebook and looked back over things—
I’m here. Be here, damn it.
I step into the room.
Loch goes back to painting. “You’re drunk. I do na want you to do or say anything you’ll regret when you sober up. Go to bed, boyo.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Yeah, I buy that. Out in Belfast for how long? With that girl of yours.”
“Iris? I’m pretty sure she would have entertained the idea of going home with Finn if she hadn’t been so drunk herself.”
That earns me a startled frown. “Finn?” He swallows his surprise with a grunt. “Good on Finn, then.”
But he resumes painting, focused on one particular streak of green, fingers going over it, and over it, and over it.
I take another step forward. “How did the meeting with your court go?”
He twists his hand to dig his knuckle into a smear of paint. “Fine.”
I could push him, call him on his bullshit, but he knows that answer isn’t enough. He knows in the way he drops his hand with a growl that devolves into a sigh.
“It was good,” he expands to the canvas. “They—they had no idea what I was—” He clears his throat. “They know now. What I’ve done. Most of it.”
“What about Malachy?”
He shrugs and mixes a few paint colors in a new spot on his arm. “I did na tell them how they should feel about Malachy. I… gave them the truth on my end. It’s all I can do.”
“But it’s stillbig.I’m proud of you.”
Loch’s shoulders go to his ears. “Shut it, boyo. Just—don’t.”
“Your sisters will be too. Well, after Finn gets over it. What you did today, opening up to your court—I’m really—”
“Go to bed,” he says abruptly, a whip-crack of command.
