And now the milk is getting cold.
I pick it up and head for Lanz’s room.
Lanz. Lanzelin Dell’Acqua, a ridiculous, ostentatious name for someone so…neither of those things. The first of these boys I really met—met properly, anyway, since stumbling over Kingston in the chapel my first day hardly counts. The first one who showed me any sort of kindness. Certainly the first one I kissed. The one who carried me back to Camlann the night of the formal hall. The only one to buy me flowers—until Callahan, anyway, and the little pot of winter roses now on my windowsill.
I’ve always liked Lanz. I’ve nevernotliked Lanz.
And now, maybe, I even…
“Yeah?”
Lanz’s voice is rough when I knock on his door.
I certainly don't want him to be like this, I think.
“It’s me,” I say. “Can I come in?”
A long pause. The soft sounds of bedclothes, then the pad of footsteps. The door opens, but not all the way.
“What do you want?”
He sounds more tired than irritated. And the half of his face I can see is sharply shadowed. Even the bright blue of his eyes looks dull.
“I brought you something,” I say, holding up the mug.
“Oh.” He hesitates. “I’m…I’m good. But thank?—”
I stick my foot into the door before he can close it. “Lanz. Wait.”
To his credit, he doesn’t try to slam the thing shut and crush me. Just pauses, and then, at last, opens the door more fully.
When I get a good look at him, I almost gasp. He’s always been slender, more so than any of the others, but now he looks almostthin,the loose warm-up clothes practically hanging off of him. His dark hair is in disarray, his lips pale, and I’m hit with the sudden compulsion to drop the mug of milk and fling my arms around him, press his face into my neck, beg him to tell me what’s wrong.
But that won’t work.
“Here.” I hold out the mug. “I made this for you.”
Lanz stares at it. “What is it?”
“Poison, Lanz. I’m trying to kill you.” I roll my eyes. “Look, could I just come in for a second?”
Lanz’s expression goes taut, like he wishes I hadn’t asked. But I don’t like standing in the hall like this, as though I’m begging for a second of his time. Slowly, he presses a hand to his forehead, and when he speaks again, his voice is low.
“Sure.”
He doesn’t exactly welcome me in, just lets the door fall open and steps out of my way.
His room is the same as always—slightly untidy, bedsheets rumpled, the clean, spicy smell of his body heat. I stand a bit stupidly, mug to my chest, and cast my eyes anywhere but his as Lanz sinks down to half-sit, half-lean, on the foot of the bed. My gaze settles on his desk, just to his right—to the stacks of books and papers, the lone framed photograph.
“That’s your dad,” I say, nodding. A statement, not a question, because with those blue eyes and that dark hair, who else could it be?
Lanz looks as though I’ve slapped him. “What?” he croaks. He darts a glance back, barely registering what I’m talking about, and swallows. “Yeah.”
Obviously, I’ve stepped in it. “He looks…” The wordslike youdie on my tongue, again too obvious a statement to merit saying aloud. “…happy,” I finish.
“He was,” Lanz says. Pauses. “Then.”
His eyes are fixed on the mug in my hands.
