“Brown,” he said, without hesitation.
I wrinkled my nose. “Brown? Nobody’s favourite colour isbrown.”
“Mine is,” he said firmly. “My turn. How did you end up running a tavern, alone, in the middle of nowhere?”
I blinked, a little thrown by the sharp turn in the conversation. I clutched my tumbler tight in both hands, taking a moment to sort my thoughts.
“I grew up here, it’s not the middle of nowhere to me. I mean, I suppose it was for a while, but I’ve never really imagined myself ending up anywhere else. This was my parents’ place, and… now it’s mine. Well, they left it to me and my brother Magnus, but–” I took another gulp, and let it burn away the very sudden lump in my throat. “Mags left.”
“Why?”
I hesitated. Even with what Caelan knew about my magic, it felt like a betrayal to admit that Magnus was afraid. And as angry as I still was – might always be – I couldn’t do that to my brother. Besides, how could I explain his fear to a loyal servant of the crown?
My brother ran because we’re too close to Kingsborough.
Because Kingsmen like you are arresting magic users left, right, and centre.
He ran because the master you serve seems poised to stamp out magic altogether.
“Because he – didn’t feel we fit in around here.”
But the Captain was far from stupid.
“Because of his magic.”
I didn’t confirm, but it seemed I didn’t need to. Caelan nodded thoughtfully to himself, frowning down at the tumbler he held on his knee. I would have given anything, in that quiet moment, to know what he was thinking. And as it turned out, all I’d had to give was a truth of my own – because in the next breath, he glanced up and prompted; “It’s your turn.”
Gods. Here it was, served up on a silver platter. It seemed too easy, and yet unfathomably complicated. Because how in the world could I ask him what I wanted to ask? The options flitted around my head as I stalled with a long sip of whiskey.
Why are you so at ease around me, knowing what I am? How can you, a Kingsman, sit here with a Class C magic user like it’s nothing? How are you nothing like I expected?
I couldn’t ask him any of that; in the end, I chose the safest and most veiled phrasing.
“Alright, erm – same question, I suppose. How did you end up a Kingsman?”
He cocked a brow. “What, I don’t seem the upstanding lawful type to you?”
I cocked my own brow, and he laughed.
“Fair enough. Similar story, I suppose. Family.”
“Your father’s a Kingsman?”
“No,” he laughed, “no, if there’s a polar opposite to a Kingsman, that was my father. He was a rogue, and proud of it. He’d be rolling in his grave to see me wear the red cloak.”
Caelan was silent for a very long moment, and when the slightest frown etched a line between his brows, I felt the air shift.Rolling in his grave,he'd said. “He died,” I said quietly.
Gentle horror settled over us both before he even spoke his next words, quiet and distant enough that it felt as though he suddenly sat very far away.
“When I was eight. Murdered, actually. My mother, too. My sister and I saw the whole thing, and she was –gods, she was so young. Too young. I don’t think you’re ever old enough to witness your parents skinned alive, but –”
My entire being seized up and I watched, frozen, as he paused to take a long drink from his tumbler, his hand trembling ever so slightly. My throat was suddenly raw, chest cold as a cavern.
Skinned alive.
And he’d seen the whole thing, they both had –children,forced to watch as their parents were brutalised.
“My sister, Brigid, was barely four years old. Never stood a fucking chance.”
