Thornlost (Book 3) (34 page)

“Mieka. I’m not the one who needs an apology.”

“I can’t go back in there—I can’t face her—”

“You can, and you will. Right now.”

“Fa,” he moaned, “I’ll say I’m sorry, I really will—I just can’t do it now, I’ll do it tomorrow—”

“No. Tonight.” Hadden stood. “No son of mine will do what you did and not make amends as soon as may be. I won’t have it.”

Mieka nodded, and pushed himself out of the chair. No charming himself out of this one. No laughter, no jokes, no taking his usual role of family clown.

But she’d been lying to him; he’d heard it in her voice. She’d lied about how she got the card.

The card that said
Finicking
, not
Finchery
.

He didn’t know which part of it she’d lied about. He couldn’t ask. He didn’t want to know.

His mother had left the bedchamber. His father paid him the undeserved compliment of not waiting to make sure he apologized. Mieka heard the door close with a little creak of ancient hinges and dragged his gaze up from the floor. She curled on the bed, her beautiful eyes bloodshot and drowning, the left corner of her mouth swollen. One slender bare foot and ankle peeked out from beneath her hem. So fine and fragile, so exquisite, so thoroughly his—but she had lied to him. He no longer knew whether he’d slapped her because of the card or because of the lie.

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “Please—forgive me, I’ll never do it again, I swear—”

She flinched at the sound of his voice. He had sense enough not to approach her, even though he was sure that if only he could hold her and kiss her and make love to her, everything would be all right again.

“I swear,” he repeated. “By all the Old Gods, I swear I’ll never—”

“You hit me,” she breathed.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry—I love you so much—it will never happen again, I promise—I’ll do anything,
anything
, if only you forgive me—”

Her soft lips trembled, and after a long hesitation she nodded. And began to cry again, very quietly.

He couldn’t stand it. He took a few steps towards her, intending to comfort and promise—and she cowered back. He couldn’t stand that, either. He turned and fled the room, slamming the door behind him, and didn’t stop until he was in his tower lair.

Hunched in a corner amidst threadbare old carpets and pillows leaking feathers, he remembered that the thorn-roll in his bedchamber wasn’t his only supply. He supposed it was awkward, preparing the mixture with spit instead of water, and having no
brandy or whiskey to cleanse the glass thorn before or afterwards. He didn’t much care about any of that. All he really wanted was to sleep, and dream pretty dreams, and have his hand stop hurting, and forget this awful night had ever happened.

* * *

T
wo of his wishes were not granted. He slept, but didn’t dream, and when he woke midmorning his hand no longer hurt from too-close proximity to his own magic, but he still remembered everything.

By now he was hungry. He couldn’t go downstairs; he couldn’t face his wife or his parents or his brothers and sisters or anybody. He just couldn’t. He wanted to stay right here where nobody could find him and confront him with eyes that were angry or disappointed or hurt or frightened. So he fixed up another thorn and curled into a corner and slept again.

This time he did dream, and it was both comforting and terrible. He dreamed that Cade had found him—Cade, who alone knew about this aerie because he was the only one Mieka had ever shown it to—and was seated beside him with long legs folded, waiting for him to wake up. He was so glad Quill was here. His presence meant that Mieka was safe from everything and everyone. It had always been like that with them: Mieka never felt scared and Cade never had bad dreams. But the last person in the world he wanted to see was Cade Silversun, because he knew he would have to admit to what he’d done, and that would be worse than the look in his father’s eyes last night, worse even than seeing her cringe away from him.

But maybe he didn’t have to tell. Maybe he could keep it secret.

No. Not from Cade.

And Cade had seen much worse things about Mieka in the Elsewhens, hadn’t he?

“I know you’re awake.”

No dream at all, of course.

“I can hear you thinking up excuses.”

Oh dear Gods—did Cade already know?

“You missed rehearsal. Nobody here knows where you went—they all think you crept out of the house sometime early this morning. They thought you were with us. Your father is confused, your mother is worried, and your wife took the baby and went back to Hilldrop at noon.” Cade stretched out his legs and sighed. “Nobody, not even Jinsie, will tell me what happened.”

Famished—it had been a whole day since he’d had anything to eat—he sat up and wasn’t at all surprised when his brain spun round a few times inside his skull.

“But I suppose it can wait until you’re fed and watered. No beer,” he warned. “Not on an empty stomach. We’ve a show tonight.”

He scrubbed his fingers back through his hair and groaned.

Cade wore a tiny smile. “You
are
Mieka Windthistle, right? It’s just that I’ve never heard you go so long without saying anything unless you’re sleeping or passed out.”

“Fuck off.”

“That’s more like it. Come on. Food and a wash, and a hire-hack to the Keymarker, and no bluethorn so don’t even think about it.”

Somehow Cade managed it so that he didn’t have to see anybody. The climb out of his little tower lair; the walk to his bedchamber where all the evidence had been tidied up as if nothing had ever happened, though the blue counterpane was missing; a quick soap-and-rinse in the garderobe down the hall while Cade went for something to eat—within the hour he was clean, fed, and clothed, and all without having seen a single person except Cade. Incredible, in crowded Wistly Hall. As he crunched into an apple on their way downstairs, Mieka reflected
that it would be a nice life, this. With the addition of liquor, it would be just about perfect. Food and drink, peace and quiet, Cade to talk with, nobody to perform for except their audiences. Well, except to be clever and mad every so often, for Cade’s sake.

That night at the Keymarker wasn’t their best show, but it wasn’t their worst, either. Megs was not present. They did “Dragon” and “Dwarmy Day” and stayed for just one drink before Cade hauled him into a hire-hack.

“Redpebble Square,” Cade told the driver. Then, to Mieka: “You’re staying at my house tonight. I told your mother before we left.”

He discovered in himself a sharp loathing for Cayden when he was being helpful and understanding. He didn’t want to be helped or understood. He wanted a good bottle of whiskey and another night alone in his aerie with his thorn-roll. Performing onstage hadn’t done for him what it usually did. There was little of the release, the relief of emotions spent, the fulfillment of knowing they’d done well.

“Had a fight, did you?”

Mieka turned his face to the window and said nothing.

“The Prince was angrier, and the Dragon was horrider,” Cade went on. “So
you
must be feeling angry and horrid, and put that together with her going back to Hilldrop and you hiding in your tower all day—”

“We had a fight,” he conceded.

The horse clopped on.

In a completely different voice, Cade asked, “You hit her, didn’t you?”

Mieka’s head turned so quickly that he was certain sure he heard his neck bones crack. But it was dark in the hack, and he couldn’t see Cade’s face.

“More than once?”

“No.”

“Did she hit back?”

“No. But I think she wanted to.”

“I don’t blame her.”

After another half mile or so, he heard himself whisper, “I slapped her—just the once, I swear—and I threw things and—and I broke a glass. With magic. I had it in my hand and I broke it.”

“I wondered why you were a little wary tonight, reaching for the withies. Actually, I’m surprised you still have the hand.”

“Quill—I don’t know what scared me worst. And that makes me a complete shit, doesn’t it?”

“Yeh. It does.”

Mieka sagged back into the worn leather seat. “Can we go right up to your room? Please? I don’t think I can face Mistress Mirdley.”

“She doesn’t know. Nobody knows.”

“She’ll know there’s something to be known, and I couldn’t stand that.”

The hack rolled to a stop. Cade got out, paid the driver, and preceded Mieka through the front door. The tall, narrow house was silent, all the way to the fifth floor. No sounds from the kitchen; none from Lady Jaspiela’s chamber, nor Dery’s. Just their footsteps on the wrought-iron stairs, just the hush of their breathing.

Cade lit a candle and closed his bedchamber door. He pointed Mieka to the overstuffed chair in the corner: a new acquisition, covered in nubby black wool, big enough to curl up in comfortably without cramping Cade’s long limbs. Mieka hoped that Bompstable didn’t sneak up here often for a nap; that white fur would be impossible to clean offthe black upholstery. It must have been awful getting the thing upstairs, though possibly Cade had found somebody with a Hoisting spell to help. (Mieka supposedly knew one, but he’d never been much good at it—witness the Wintering Night when he’d tried to relocate just the blankets but instead moved the whole mattress.) Cade must be starting to gather things for the move to his own flat. Mieka had
heard nothing about where.

“Sit down and start talking.”

“I need a drink.”

“Probably so. But not right now.”

Mieka felt small and insignificant in the big chair. He folded his legs to one side and leaned on the padded arm and stared at his hands. “I found a card that I thought was from the Finchery, and I started yelling and throwing things. Fa came in, and Jez, and Jinsie took care of the baby. After I settled down, I told her I was sorry. I went to the tower and that’s where you found me.” He looked up, knowing better than to use The Eyes but needing to know if Cade was as disgusted as he feared. “Can I have a drink now?”

“No. You left out the part where you shattered the glass with magic.”

“I shattered a glass with magic,” he echoed dutifully.

“And the part where you hit her.”

“I hit her.”

Cade sat on the bed and propped his elbows on his knees.

After a long silence, Mieka burst out, “Why aren’t you shouting at me? I’d be shouting at me right now.”

A wry smile twisted his lips. “You’ve been shouting at yourself all day. And especially during the show tonight.”

“I’ve been trying not to hear,” he admitted. “But I don’t understand why you’re not—I mean, what I did, it was horrible—”

“Yeh, it was.”

And then he knew he’d been right. “But you’ve seen me do worse. In an Elsewhen.”

Cade nodded slowly. “Much worse.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” he cried.

“Would you have believed me?”

Mieka wanted to fling back a
Yes!
He knew it would be a lie. He would not have believed Cade. He would have said that he did, just to shut Cade up. But he would not have believed.

It wasn’t in Mieka’s power to shock Cade with what he’d done. He’d seen Mieka do much worse. Cade was sickened and disappointed, but he’d been waiting for something like this. Mayhap he’d been waiting for years.

“And you
expect
the worst of me, don’t you?” he challenged, sudden anger clenching his fists. “Whatever you saw—no warning, not a fucking word! You could change it—isn’t that how it works? You only see things you have the power to change—”

Temper flared black in Cade’s eyes. “What do
my
choices have to do with
your
marriage? If you can figure that out, you’re a whole lot smarter than I am—and we both know you’re not!”

“You’re going to let it happen—you
want
it to happen because you hate what I have with her, you’re envious, you can’t stand it that we’re happy!”

Cade met his gaze steadily, coldly. “Are you?”

Mieka pushed himself out of the chair. Before he could take more than two steps across the room, Cade added, “Planning on hitting
me
, now?”

He wanted nothing more in the world. Instead, he swung round and slammed the door behind him and ran down to the kitchen, where he knew he’d find the next morning’s breakfast ale in a jug on a shelf.

He couldn’t drink it. He couldn’t even pick it up.

There was money in his pockets, his winnings from the races. He could find a hire-hack and go—where? Not to Wistly. He didn’t want to see any of his family. Not Hilldrop Crescent. Gods, no. The Threadchaser bakery? Rafe would carve him into very small pieces with a very dull knife if he upset Crisiant by showing up at this hour. Jeska was undoubtedly entertaining a lady friend—or, considering the effect Kazie had had on him, lying alone in his bed moping.

An inn where they didn’t know him, where he could sit in the taproom half the night and drink himself forgetful and then
somebody would haul him up to bed—if they didn’t simply rob him of what was in his pockets as he slumped inert over a table and then chuck him onto the street with the rest of the rubbish.

He sat beside the banked fire, listening as the mantel clock chimed one, and then two. At last he stumbled to his feet and climbed back up the stairs. Cade was in bed, asleep or pretending to be. Mieka was too tired to be more than remotely angry to find that a blanket had been spread on the shabby old couch. Cade had expected him to return. He knew as well as Mieka did that Mieka had nowhere else to go.