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“My apologies for the intrusion.” With a nod, his cousin backed himself out of the room and closed the door behind him.
After dressing, the baron made his way to his mother’s drawing room, where she often spent her afternoons working on embroidery, or painting. She stood with her back to him, as he entered, a paintbrush in hand while she stared off toward a blank canvas propped on its easel.
“You called for me, Mother?”
“Come. Sit.” She did not bother to look at him, as he strode across the room and took a seat on the empty chair beside her. “Ahhhh, there it is. My inspiration.”
“If I am a source of inspiration, perhaps you should seek a new hobby.”
She chuckled, dragging her brush through one of the many colors smudged across her palette. “You make for a handsome muse, my love.”
“You flatter me, Mother. Might I ask if that is the purpose of our meeting?” he asked with a smile in his voice.
Her smile faded to something more serious. “Drystan tells me you were taken to the undercroft.”
“Drystan could use a bit of embroidery work across his lips.”
Tipping her head, she set a freshly dipped paintbrush to the canvas and moved her arm in long strokes. “What was the nature of this meeting?”
“Why else does the bishop call upon young boys, but to exorcize the evil inside of them?”
“So, your father was behind this?” She kept on with her painting, her strokes becoming more aggressive at the mention of Lord Praecepsia.
“When is he not? Bishop Venable heels to his every command.”
“While such conversations are safe with me, I caution you to speak so candidly, Son. And what took place at this meeting?”
Images from days ago, when he’d first been taken to the undercroft, flashed through his mind. When he’d refused simple questioning, and the bishop had resorted to more physical means of coaxing out his confession.
“Tell me. I demand to know,” his mother urged.
“I was thoroughly flogged.”
Eyes wide, she dropped her palette and rushed toward the baron, pawing at the hem of his tunic. “I want to see.”
“Mother, please. I am not in pain.”
“Show me!”
The baron lifted the garment he wore and sighed. “Not so much as a scratch.”
“You were, in fact, flogged.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you not bear the wounds of such punishment?”
“I would prefer not to say.” Biting back a smile, he lowered the garment and sat back in his chair.
“I insist that you do.”
“They were quick to heal.” The amusement in his voice failed to appease his mother, whose frown deepened.
“No. Floggings are only quick to heal in child’s play. Not when you are at the mercy of Claudius Van Croix. You were not taken to that undercroft for a ruse. You healed them yourself. Tell me, is this true?”
“To speak such things would label me aRaver. Is that what you want?”
“I am your mother.” Warm hands gripped tight to his jaw, drawing his attention to the sincerity in her eyes. “I would sooner take every secret to the grave. Now, tell me.”
