Page 108 of Ashborne Forged

I knew precisely how she’d wrinkle her nose. And that thought gave me a sincere smile as she and the servants greeted me—with varying degrees of warmth.

Mrs. Voss, my former favorite, stared at me with wide, fearful eyes, and refused to touch me, crossing herself when I nodded to her.

Meanwhile, Mother placed hands all over me, pretending to convince herself that I was truly real. But I felt her strategic squeezes, and where she pressed my form. She surreptitiously checked for weapons.

She would find plenty.

Our eyes caught as she clamped her hands on my shoulders and pinched them in her steel grip. She did a masterful job of letting her eyes well with tears, choking as she spoke.

“I cannot believe it! Thank God you’ve come home! Bernard! Bernard! Tell cook, we will feast for lunch tomorrow!”

Bernard, the old, graying butler, bowed, completely nonplussed, and turned on his heel to march formally out of the entrance hall and toward the back stairs, where he would dutifully wake cook, only to report to her that her duties for the following day had tripled.

I would receive a very warm reception, I was sure.

As my mother gushed, I greeted each of the servants in turn, nodding to those I’d known.

The men eyed me suspiciously, not that I could blame them. I’d left as a boy of seventeen—strong, but still growing into my frame. But I’d matured in the preceding seven, almost eight years. Thickened. Strengthened.

Darkened. If that were possible.

No matter where I turned, I felt eyes on my back, my profile, measuring gazes, curiosity, and fear. My stomach churned, but I ignored it.

Mother had no hesitation in recognizing me, or believing I’d come home. So, the servants would welcome me. At least outwardly.

But as the hubbub died down, and Mrs. Voss continued to cross herself, and mutter prayers, never quite answering my greetings, Mother clapped her hands.

“Janke, take Vane’s bags to his chambers—and set a fire. Roarke, please ensure the fire is also warm in my office. My son and I have a great deal of catching up to do. The rest of you, make certain everything is in place to allow for a lunch feast tomorrow to welcome my boy home!” She clasped her hands to her chest as if she were overwhelmed with emotion, but I caught the whiteness in her knuckles, and the lines at the sides of her mouth.

If Gil had been here, I would have wagered anything she was about to send them all away so that we could—

“But what am I saying, we must celebrate tonight! With the exception of the guards, all of you take the rest of the evening off! And say your prayers tonight, thanking God for this miracle!”

A small flutter of thank yous echoed in the grand lobby. I fought not to roll my eyes. The hour was already late. Most of the servants had likely already been preparing to move to their beds. But she had a talent for making ordinary circumstances sound as if she’d done others a favor.

One by one, the servants dutifully bid me goodnight, while I handed my bags off to the manservant—who would deftly catalogue everything there and report to my mother after I retired.

He was free to do so. I’d kept anything important on my person. Let him rummage through a bag full of women’s clothing and decide how to report that.

“Good to see that little has changed, Mother,” I said dryly, as she swept toward the stairs, snapping at the servants to get about their instructions, and beckoning me to walk with her.

I shouldn’t have invited her attention. She slowed long enough to let me catch up, and when I reached her, took my elbow in both hands, walking with her chin high, still pressing a knuckle to the corner of her eye, now and then.

“It’s so good to have you home, Vane,” she murmured breathlessly. “And such a surprise.”

Half an hour later, we were in my father’s former office, which she’d now adopted and feminized. I sprawled in his old chair, my elbow on the broad arm, and a tumbler with two full fingers of scotch hanging from my fingers.

Mother stood in front of his desk—the desk she now referred to as hers—sipping at a goblet of wine.

The room was empty, save for us. The doors closed, and locked.

Unless we shouted, no one would hear a word. She’d always made certain of that in our home.

We stared at each other like strange cats, deciding whether or not to fight.

“What did you tell them?” I asked her when it was clear she would force me to begin the conversation.

“There was a fire at the stables. Tragically, you were killed attempting to free Athos. What. a. Hero,” she said through her teeth.