AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Harley shook his head and sighed. “Perhaps another day, Mister van Dijk.”
When he was out of sight, Lightfoot growled in defeat and punched the oak tree nearest to him. Pain swallowed his clenched fist and he instantly regretted flying off the handle. That damned whelp! He thought, knowing very well a sneer was coming to life on his mug. And yet, if anything, Lightfoot couldn’t exactly pinpoint how he felt about meeting Harley. Sure, the interaction had angered him more than anything had in quite some time. He was simply unsure of whether he wanted to smack the lad… Or kiss him.
Lightfoot straightened himself and massaged his injured hand. Time was slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. Aqib’s freelance job would end soon, and so would Lightfoot’s miserable period at the Colony.
Chapter Nine
Whenever Theodore was nervous, he combed his hair. Ever since he was a chavy, he found the ritual would pacify him in ways a bottle of milk or brisk walk in the garden never could. It helped him occupy his mind. With every stroke of the comb, Theodore imagined peeling layers of apprehension and concern from his being. Perhaps it also had to do with his inherent need to mask his inner turmoil whenever it spun him into oblivion. If his outer appearance was flawless, it would juxtapose the war in his mind, and in some rather ignorant way Theodore believed that helped him control his raging chaos. Psychology aside, he also found the feeling of comb teeth raking gently over his scalp to be rather therapeutic.
Theodore had folded his ivory toothed comb back into its golden case in his bedroom when he heard the muffled sounds of someone knocking at the front door downstairs and Thibault’s shoes clicking along the marble tiles to answer. His heart wedged itself into his throat and for a startling moment he couldn’t breathe.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.
He’d been fearing this meeting since his father had told him the news a few weeks ago before Christmas. The antiquarian had received Theodore in his study and bluntly told him of the events that were due to unfold on January sixth. Theodore had no choice in the matter. He didn’t know what his father’s ties were with the Dutch girl. Theodore Quick Senior’s past was as dark as night, and just as nightmarish. The stories he would tell Theodore and his sister to go to sleep when they were children kept them from closing their eyes. To be so young and to have a mind permeated with intrusive thoughts of wartime terrors and incomprehensible atrocities brought out a troubled side to Theodore that took years to ease.
His father wasn’t just an antiquar”an a’d owner of the South African Museum, and the girl he was forcing Theodore to meet was more than a lady from the Netherlands. Far more.
Theodore only began to understand the meaning of normality, or something close enough to it, when he had met Harley in boarding school four years ago. It was what made his words to his beloved friend in that morning’s confrontation all the more deplorable. Of course, he didn’t mean what he had said. Naturally he wanted to be a part of Harley’s life forever. But Theodore’s future didn’t allow it, and he wouldn’t dare challenge that.
He waited for the echoing footsteps on the marble floor to disappear before taking a shuddered breath. He considered writing Harley a short letter, explaining how he didn’t want the polar storm rushing his way, that he lied about being engaged and he was sorry and loved him and would give anything to taste him once again, but Theodore couldn’t risk it. If his father or the Dutch girl were to ever find out…
A firm knock at his door made his bones jilt, and Theodore dropped his favourite comb to the Persian carpet. Briefly taking in his reflection one last time in the oval mirror that hung on his wall, he opened the door and was greeted by an apathetic Thibault who informed him of his guests. A young man and woman. They refused to give their names, but Thibault had been told in advance by Theodore’s father that they were expected so he’d let them in.
A cold sweat broke out on Theodore’s forehead as something vile curdled In the pit of his stomach. He thought of making a quick escape — either by pushing past Thibault, down the staircase and through the front door or simply by throwing himself out his bedroom window and hoping for the best. But suicide was no answer, and Theodore still suffered from memories of Thibault beating him and his sister as children, with his father’s delighted consent.
Resigned, his shoulders sagged as he picked up the comb, placed it on his dresser and exited his bedroom.
* * *
Both of his guests were waiting for Theodore in the very same sitting room he’d found Harley that morning.
The man seemed to be of Cape Malay descent. He was dressed like a detective — olive Garrett Plaid suit, plucky bow tie and Hamburg black wool hat to boot. The lady, who Theodore assumed was the Dutch girl, wore a stiff box-pleated skirt that hugged her miniscule waist and hung straight down to the floor. Her apron drape rose to a band of folds high across her stomach. Her hair was fixed into a tight bun.
She spoke first, to her companion. “He wasn’t what I expected.”
Theodore was too scared to take a seat.
“No,” the gentleman said. He cast a disdainful look at Theodore. “Do you think he is capable?”
“His father certainly thinks so.”
“And his father is wise.” The gentleman took off his hat and ran a hand through his thick black hair. His fingers snagged a few curls in the process. He wasn’t wearing product. “But Theodore Quick Junior is not his father.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He’ll need to be broken in.”
“I’m not a stallion,” Theodore said through gritted teeth, surprised by the spurt of courage that had emerged from nowhere.
“You are correct,” the lady said, her sharp eyes drooped with boredom. “You are the son of the October House’s most extraordinary and notorious operative. That makes you a thoroughbred colt.”
Theodore’s throat swelled and his bottom lip trembled. What the devil is she on about?
The man sat back on the crocheted couch and crossed his arms. “But is he capable?”
The woman reached for the man’s Hamburg and dug into its satin insides. “There’s only one way to find out.” She produced a white card no larger than her hand. It was partly crescent shaped from its time spent in the man’s hat. The woman handed it to Theodore and he accepted it with tremulous fingers.
It was a photograph, of a man. Taken at a close-up angle, capturing him from his chest upwards. He was very handsome, with a remarkable beard and eyes that soldered Theodore’s core.
