Raised By Wolves Volume four- Wolves (28 page)

yourself.”I sighed. “I keep thinking we have a great deal to think

on. I feel I have been amiss in the thinking, but… What you say indicates that I amin the right in the not thinking, or… But I feel this is a situation demanding my Man, and not my Horse, and thus I should be thinking.”

“I have heard much of your Horse today,” he said. “He has been speaking whenever you spoke.” He frowned. “Mine has been quiet except when He worries that your Horse is being too accommodating.”

A thingoccurred to me. “I have changed.”
He nodded.
“I suppose I have thought I onlychange whenmyManis

involved in thinking on things—or moving me on and solving my woes if possible—but I suppose my Horse changes without the philosophizing and just…” I frowned, struggling for the word: none seemed to taste quite right.

“Grows,”Gastonprovided.
“Oui,”I said witha sighofrelief.
Then another thought bubbled up from my soul. “I feel

no regret about the decisions I have made today—or the things I have promised or set in motion. Gods, I do not even fear the future as alllogic dictates I should.”

He smiled. “I am happy that…” He appeared embarrassed. “I am getting what I came here for. I know what youmeanwhenyousayyouworryabout feelingselfish.”

I was minded of Striker and Pete. “It is good you did a I was minded of Striker and Pete. “It is good you did a great deal of thinking on the Haiti, so that you knew what you came here for. I feel I would be much like Pete if it were left to my Horse alone. I only know I want you. And… I amsorry, but there are times when I wonder if that will be enough to fill my days. But truly, in thinking on it now, I feel that is my Man talking, and not my Horse. My Horse will just settle in to this new pasture and frolic ifnothingdisturbs us.”

My matelot was smiling but his eyes were unfocused on some thought. He met my gaze. “Your Horse, my Man. They can be happy. The other two, perhaps not. As we have said, theyare the armywe willemploywhentrouble comes.”

“Let us have themstand watch,”I said.
“Oui.” He pressed fingers to my lips. “Now sleep. Trust them and the Gods to watch over our little fortress, and we will see what happens.”

Ninety-Three Wherein We Make Ourselves a Home

I woke from a disturbing dream involving a youth I had once trysted with in an alcove between two great moldering bookcases that towered up to reach the high, angel-frescoed ceiling in the Comte de Veloise’s summer house. In the dream, the boy, Martin, had approached with an unreadable mien and asked a question. I would turn away, and he would approach fromanother angle, cornering me again. It was a relief when I at last found myself lying on my back staring up at the bottom of Doucette’s desk, wondering why I could not recall the dream’s

question.I could remember Martinquite clearly:the cupid curve of

his mouth, his fine skin, and the precise curls of his wig. He had been just shy of pretty; ugly to the core with greed and ambition; with an arse as nicely shaped as his lips. Upon entering his loose hole, I had felt I was plunging my cock into a chamber pot. Like so very many of my trysts in Christendom, it had been a thing of venal need, and the shame had been thankfully easy to drown in

wine. The dream’s smell continued to hover about me: the

disturbing scent of decaying books. Even without night terrors, disturbing scent of decaying books. Even without night terrors, that smell had ever minded me of death; more than even the rot of a body. It spoke of the decay and passing of knowledge, and the entombment ofwisdom.

The light was grey and dim, and the cool air filled with raucous bird cries. It sounded the same as the Haiti, but it was so very far away. I needed to piss. I doubted the library had a chamber pot. The latrine in the yard seemed very far away; though not as far as the peaceful, private stand of trees we had watered for sixmonths.

Gaston was not beside me, and when I did see him— sitting with his legs crossed and a tense expression—he seemed veryfar awayas well.

I sighed and rolled over to prop my head on my elbow. “We have not a pot to piss in. What troubles youthis morn?”
He snorted. “We need a proper room.”
“Oui, I will not fuck you here—not in the stench of molderingparchment.”
He sighed and nodded. “True. It troubles me. I feel I should read every book here before they rot away in the humidity.”
“We are, as always, of a like mind,” I said with a grin. “So, shallwe see ifthere is a house to let elsewhere?”
He shook his head and turned to look at me. “Non, it should not be necessary.” He pointed up. “The front of the second floor is occupied by Doucette’s rooms: a parlor and bed chamber. He had this house built with six guest rooms for the convalescing of wealthier patrons and for guests he expected to receive fromFrance. There are few wealthy patrons, and no one receive fromFrance. There are few wealthy patrons, and no one ever came fromFrance.”
“But now those rooms are fullofour people?” I queried, and eased myselfout fromunder the table.
He began to count rooms off on his fingers. “Agnes. The Theodores. Liam and his wife. They mentioned a nursery that Hannahslept in. Rucker. Bones.”
“Rucker and Bones are sharinga room,”I said.
Gaston snorted. “I thought as much; though if they were not, I would ask that they did. Non, it is as I thought: there is an emptyroom.”He stood and walked to the stairs.
I hurried to follow him, and we made our way up, padding silently on bare feet. Then I knew our destination: the roommy matelot had been imprisoned in three years ago, when Doucette sought to cure him.
“How did you know?” I asked as we stood before the padlocked door at the end ofthe balcony.
He sighed. “My gaze was often drawn to it yesterday. I wished to see it and thus dispel that memory, and I wondered who slept here now. But every time I looked here, the shutters and door were closed and there was never anylight.”
I hefted the lock. The hasp had beenrepaired fromwhen I pried it lose. I vividly recalled standing here, in pain, watching Yvette fumble with the keys. Even though Gaston stood beside me, I was afraid ofwhat we would find beyond the door.
He put a hand onmyarmand moved me aside. I saw his foot rise; still, I was unprepared for the deafening crack ofwood breaking as the hasp tore free, and the resounding boom of the door slamming open into the wall. It was as if he had fired a cannon in the morning silence. In its wake, all seemed quieter still:eventhe birds had ceased their cries.
Gaston was, of course, not strapped into the chair in the center of the small room, nor was the room in other ways as I had first seen it. The whips were strewn across the floor where they had been knocked from their hooks in the ceiling. Blood was spattered up the walls in the corner. I remembered Peirrot pinning Doucette there. Just beyond the door, there was another splatter of blood from where I had shot Doucette. The chaotic swirl of my recollection of the few minutes I had spent in this chamber roiled around me and I held the doorframe to steady

myself.I looked to Gaston and found himstilland stolid. He met

 

mycurious gaze and sighed ina reassuringmanner.

Beyond him, I could see heads poking out of doors and shutters. We had woken the house. I waved at those I saw. Theodore and Liam waved back—with pistols in their hands. Bones peered at me fromthe next doorway—his eyes wide with shock and concern. He appeared as awake and lively as I had ever seenhim.

“I am sorry,” I said quietly, and then louder, as I would wake no one now. “We wished to look at the roomwhere…”
“It’s a storage closet,”Bones said.
“Nay, it is where…”I beganto say, but Gastoncalled to me.
I entered the room and found him lifting one side of the massive chair. It was not a thing with which a man furnished a home. It was a great beast of wood designed for the restraint of men and nothing else. I wondered why the Devil Doucette had had it. He had not acquired it for Gaston: he had not thought Gastonmad.
“Why did he have this damn thing?” I asked as I helped Gastonheft it and carryit to the door.
“He had it made for the treatment of madness,” Gaston

snarled.“Not yours.”

 

“Non, some other poor soul. He told me ofit.”

It was too wide to be carried through the door the way we held it. We set it down and slid it out. Once it was on the balcony, Gaston and I attempted to raise it high enough to put it over the railing. I did not question my matelot on the matter, as I did not relish the idea of carrying it down the stairs, yet I felt concern at our being able to throw it over. Thankfully, Bones and Rucker wisely did not question our need to throw chairs about, and assisted us in lifting it. The chair crashed to the courtyard. Wood splintered on the side it landed, but the behemothoftorture did not break apart.

I turned from the sight of every servant in the house gaping up at us in wonder, and found Madame Doucette approaching with a cautious gait and a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders and pinned to her chest with crossed arms. Doucette was limpingalonginher wake, mumblingsomething.

“Bloody Hell,” Bones said with surprise from the hated room’s doorway.
Yvette arrived, and I had no time to contemplate how ironicallyliteralhis utterance was.
“I am sorry,” I told the lady of the house. “Gaston wished…”
She nodded tightly. “I have not wished to…”
“Non! Non!” Doucette howled, his panicked gaze now onthe doorwaybehind me.
I turned and saw Gastonenteringthe room.
“It is evil!” Doucette cried. “No one must go there!” He whirled to face his wife. “I told youto keep it locked. No one!”
“It was locked…”Yvette said kindly. “Perhaps it is time to cleanit, Dominic.”
Gaston had returned with an armful of whips. He tossed themover the railingto land uponthe chair.
“Non!” Doucette sobbed at the sight of him and collapsed to his knees, his face contorted with fear and grief. He beganto rock to and fro.
Gaston came to squat before him, and their gaze held for a time. “It is done. I am well now. I forgive you,” my matelot said.
Doucette hissed like a cat, his misshapen face twisting with rage. “I do not forgive you!” he snarled, and began to scramble to his feet.
My matelot attempted to help him, only to be rewarded with a blow. Then the damned man was off and running toward his rooms, his wife in his wake pleading his name. Gaston watched him go with the mien of a forlorn boy before abruptly turningawayto leanonthe balcony.
I felt the eyes of the entire house upon us. I laid a light hand onGaston’s shoulder.
He tensed. “I amwell,”he said too quickly.
I let himbe and entered the roomto escape the stares. I knew he would follow me ifhe wished. I gazed about forlornly. I supposed this roomwould be better than the library, yet I knew not if I would feel comfortable in it, much less how my matelot would ever come to callit home.
My gaze happened across a chamber pot. I still needed to piss. I picked it up and saw the film of dried urine. I was gripped by the notion it was Gaston’s. This room had not been cleaned since. Doucette must have held the pot for Gaston to allow him to pee while he was strapped to the chair. My empty stomach roiled as anger clawed for release. I tore the shutter open and tossed the pot into the street, following it with a stream that did much to relieve my bladder and nothing to make me feel

better.When I finished I found Gaston leaning in the doorway

watchingme.
“If I find those hooks he used upon your eyelids, I shall
make himeat them,”I informed him.
He smiled wanly. “If I ever get my hands on your father,
I shall fashion a turnip as was used upon you from anything at

hand.”I smiled. “Even if we clean it thoroughly, and… burn the

 

contents, willyouever trulyfeelat ease here?”

He sighed and glanced about before shrugging with resignation. “It is mine.” He looked past me. “And Doucette’s too, I suppose.”

I turned to see the object of his gaze and saw the blood stains fromthe beatingDoucette took.

“If that is how one comes to own a room,” I said, “then… Pete sank myfrigate.”
My matelot chuckled briefly before giving a sigh ofrelief. “I do not know, Will. Let us cleanand see how we feel.”
“I suppose we could ask the pair next door to trade,” I said hopefully.
He nodded, but it was obvious his thoughts had wandered on. “The thing I remember most about this roomis the fear I had killed you.”
“I am sorry that fear added to your pain.” I could not imagine how horrible it would have been to be imprisoned by Thorp thinking I had harmed Gaston in some fashion—or that he was dead. I would have died.
My matelot shook his head. “I cannot envision what my life would have been if I had not met you. What would I have done? I could not have lived here.”
“Canyounow, truly?”
“Oui, with you,” he said with assurance. His gaze met mine and he returned to the present. “I love you.”
The regard in his gaze warmed my heart and made me forget where I stood. “And I you.”
“Let us clean it and go to the market,” he said with surprisingcheer.
We set about emptying the chamber of all but the planks of its walls, floor, and ceiling. It was blood-spattered but bare whenSamcame to ask ifwe would break the fast. I had smelled bacon every time I stepped onto the balcony to heave something

over the rail. I was famished, and Gaston did not appear so

over the rail. I was famished, and Gaston did not appear so driven by our task as to not show enthusiasm at the mention of food, either.

As we left the roomto jointhe others, I was dismayed to see the mound of wreckage heaped below the balcony. Sam asked ifhe and the boys should haulit away. Gastonassured him they could do as they wished with the heap, but added, “I will see to the chair.”

I felt better about the gazes fromaround the tables; even though many were no longer curious or alarmed, and now held that mixture of shared shame and pity I suppose must be accepted when compassionate people know a wrong has been done to oneself.

I sat at a table withYvette and Agnes:it was the furthest fromthe rest. My matelot did not sit:he snatched up a handfulof baconand, skirtingthe pile ofdebris, went to the cookhouse.

“So, youwillbe wellwiththat room?”Yvette asked.

“We will see how we regard it when it is fully clean,” I said.
“He...”She paused withpursed lips.
“I feel I understand,” I said quickly. “It is a trigger... It seems to induce his memoryofthe event.”
Fighting sympathy, I considered how much Doucette might be aware of the loss he had suffered. What would it be to know youhad beenrobbed ofmuchofwhat youwere?
“How is he?”I asked.
“I have drugged him. I must when he becomes so agitated,”she said sadly.