“Your mother’s orders, milord.”
Tristan was aware of Mirrie coming to her side and laying a hand on his shoulder. “Are they in there?” he demanded. “I wish to speak with them.”
Molly pressed her lips together in distress. “They are inside with the physician but Lady Morwenna said I was to admit no one.”
This was growing more and more concerning.
“Come, Tris. We should wait downstairs.” Mirrie’s voice was soft against his ear.
Tristan wanted to demand answers, but Mirrie’s calming influence prevailed.
“Very well,” he muttered.
“I will tell my lady that you have arrived,” Molly called after them.
Tristan only grunted in reply.
“Will we wait in the great hall?” Mirrie asked.
The great hall at Wolvesley was a vast, public space, usually filled with minstrels and knights and castle servants. Tristan shook his head. The idea of being in full public view did not sit well with him.
“I have no desire for company,” he declared. “Not until someone will tell me what is going on. Let us go to my father’s solar.”
“Will your father not mind?” Mirrie’s eyebrows disappeared beneath her hair.
Tristan made an impatient gesture. “He claims to want to hand the running of the estate over to me. In theory, he already has. Some of it anyway. I have as much right to the books andledgers in the solar as my father. And besides, he will not be using it right now.”
Shaking off a complicated swell of emotion, Tristan marched down the passageway and flung open the carved wooden door to the solar. A fusty smell met him, as if the door had not been opened for several days. The chamber within was stuffy; the shutters fastened closed. Mirrie wasted no time in stepping past him and flinging them open, bringing light and fresh air into the masculine space.
Tristan had been coming in here since he was a boy. He would sit on his father’s knee whilst the earl worked at his polished wooden desk, making his own painstaking marks on old pieces of parchment. Later, he would sit in one of the over-stuffed chairs by the fire, listening attentively as his father explained the running of their vast estate to his eldest son. The chamber was filled with books and precarious piles of parchment. It had always smelled of leather; the scent he associated with his father. Today, it was merely hot and airless, and a feeling of loss washed over him.
“I shall go and fetch refreshments from the kitchen.” Mirrie was practical.
“Nay.” He shook his head decisively. “You should not be running back and forth to the kitchens like a servant.”
Her reply was gentle. “But there are no servants about.”
“And why is that?” He flung his arms wide. “What is happening here?”
“Your father is clearly unwell. Perchance your mother bade the servants to stay away from the family quarters today.” With a meaningful look, she turned away from him and walked from the room.
Tristan balled his hand into a fist. He knew what she was trying to say, but he would not, could not accept it.
His father was not about to die. Not today. Nor the morrow. Nor any time soon.
To kill the time until his mother was available to come speak to him, he wandered over to the desk and lowered himself into a sturdy wooden chair with elaborate carvings on the arms and legs. The chair evoked yet another childhood memory; the face of a roaring lion was carved into the back and young Tristan had spent many happy hours tracing the curving lines with his fingers. Now he drummed his fingers onto the unsettlingly tidy desk as pinpricks of worry broke through his previously impenetrable barriers.
It was the silence that unsettled him so. Wolvesley was not meant to be a quiet castle. He had never known it so devoid of life and laughter. The absence of sound allowed his fears to fester.
He must do something. Talk to someone. Brimming with impatience, he stood up, causing the chair to scrape loudly against the wooden floor—at the same moment the chamber door swung open. Mirrie started in surprise and some of the wine she was carrying slopped over the sides of the pitcher.
“I’m sorry,” they both said at once.
“Here, let me help you.” Tristan rushed forward to relieve her of her burden.
He poured the wine, passed her a goblet and they both drank deeply.
“Forsooth, I needed that.” He wiped his lips with his hand. “Food would make us feel even better. I will go to the kitchens myself and ask for bread and cheese.”
