Seeing is Believing (26 page)

The library door opened abruptly, startling him from his near-trance, and Sabrel looked over disinterestedly. It was probably Miriam, bringing him a tray of food because his father didn't think that after twenty-one years of behaving well that Sabrel wouldn't take every opportunity to wreak havoc.

Only it wasn't Miriam, and Sabrel's eyes widened because it was the man from outside, his blonde hair rain-dark and his jacket missing. He smiled brightly and Sabrel stopped humming, staring without a word because he couldn't think of a single word to say.

*~*~*

Anton flashed a smile at the slender young man sitting in the window seat. Likely Wilheim's mysterious son by the way he was dressed. A bright white shirt, covered by a snug, dark-colored shirt and similarly snug, dark-colored breeches, all in fabric rich enough that only Wilheim or one of Wilheim's relatives could afford it.

"Hello," Anton ventured when he got nothing but a wide-eyed, blank stare for his trouble. Perhaps the boy was simple and that was why Wilheim kept him squirreled away.

"Hello," came the quiet reply. Anton stepped further into the library, wondering how long it would take before someone realized he was taking too long in the privy and came looking for him.

"Who are you?"

"Anton," Anton smiled again, deciding to make his excuse now instead of later. "And who are you?"

"Sabrel," Sabrel answered, his tone of voice not changing from that soft, suspicious tone. His wide eyes never wavered, watching Anton unnervingly closely, and Anton forced another smile to his lips because he'd been an idiot. Wilheim wasn't stupid; he'd proven that on more than a few occasions. He wouldn't leave his papers out and unguarded for Anton to find.

"I'm afraid I've gotten lost," Anton began apologetically, hoping the lie wasn't showing clearly on is face. "Could you point me in the direction of the sitting room?"

Sabrel stared at him for a long moment and Anton fought the urge to squirm. At least Sabrel was smaller than him so if it came to it, he could knock him out and run off. Not that he wanted to hit Sabrel—he was too pretty to hit.

"You're not lost," Sabrel told him slowly. "You're not … supposed to be here."

"I'm lost," Anton protested feebly, trying to maintain his composure.

"You're on the wrong floor," Sabrel informed him quietly. "You're not the one meeting with my father."

Sabrel uncurled slowly from the window seat as Anton's stomach sank.

"Why are you here?" Sabrel asked him, his eyes almost distant as he looked at Anton. His hair hung in dark, frizzy curls, and his clothing fit a little too well for Anton's peace of mind.

"I got lost," Anton answered, not willing to give it up yet. He sounded insincere to even himself though, and Sabrel shook his head.

"You came with your friend?" Sabrel prompted, his fingers moving to shove his hair inelegantly behind his ear.

"Theo?" Anton asked, then nodded. "I came with him. He wanted the support." And he was an excellent distraction while Anton snooped. Sabrel nodded, crossing the room slowly. He paused, staring at Anton for a long moment.

"The sitting room is downstairs," Sabrel told him, gesturing towards the door. Anton hesitated, but moved to leave. He didn't let his eyes stray to the table covered in what was probably all kinds of incriminating materials. He was on thin enough ice as it was.

"You didn't talk to me," Sabrel told him, smiling a small, sad smile, and Anton wondered again why he was kept away from the world—he'd barely been able to find out that Wilheim
had
a son, and nothing past that.

"You didn't talk to me, either?" Anton suggested hopefully, and Sabrel gave him a long look.

"I didn't talk to you, either," Sabrel said slowly, pulling open the door for him. "Downstairs, take the corridor to the left, and it will be the first door on the right."

"Thank you," Anton told Sabrel vehemently, startling a small, shy smile onto Sabrel's face. Anton reached out impulsively and grasped Sabrel's hand, squeezing it lightly in thanks. Sabrel stared at him uncertainly as he let go, and then froze.

Anton froze in turn, wondering what he'd messed up this time—and then Sabrel's eyes glazed over with a film of white and he fell to his knees. Anton swore softly, moving to steady Sabrel as he wavered, gasping at whatever he saw in his vision.

"Oh!" Sabrel yanked away from Anton, his eyes clearing as he stared, and dread crawled into Anton's stomach. Perhaps Sabrel had seen the reason he and Theo were here?

"Are you alright?" Anton found himself asking, and Sabrel nodded, sliding his hands through his hair slowly.

"You're going to be missed," Sabrel told him quietly and Anton nodded, standing slowly. He wanted to ask what Sabrel had seen—but that was probably rude and Sabrel didn't seem too upset so Anton was gong to take his chances for now and consult with Theo over this later.

"Thank you," Anton paused a moment more before turning from the room.

"See you," Sabrel murmured quietly, and Anton might've misheard it but he didn't linger on it, finding the stairs and making his way back to the sitting room before he made Wilheim too suspicious of his absence.

*~*~*

Sabrel stared after Anton for a long moment before he climbed to his feet. His head spun for a moment before settling and Sabrel absently returned to the window seat, curling up as his mind worked furiously.

Anton would be back, dressed in blue and grey that brought out the color in his sky blue eyes. He'd talk with Sabrel in the garden, and the storm would have faded to a few straggling white clouds. Near where the jays had their nests, near the fragrant wildflowers his father had imported for his mother long before Sabrel had been born.

Sabrel's arm tingled from Anton's casual touch. No one touched him. His father certainly didn't, and anyone else who had tried had been fired or worse by his father.

Humming again, Sabrel watched the rain slide down the window. He wouldn't say anything about Anton, because he had no doubt it would only make things worse.

Perhaps if Anton … wasn't like the impression Sabrel had of him. If he did something wrong the next time they met, then perhaps Sabrel would say something. Anton hadn't seemed startled to come upon him in the gardens, so perhaps he'd gone looking for Sabrel?

That was a nice thought, if a bit fantastic. If Sabrel interacted with Anton any further after this, it would be stolen moments that would amount to nothing, or an attempt to get closer so that he could get visions from Anton. Not that Sabrel was having difficulty with that—the first vision of Anton had come completely unbidden.

Time would tell. Sabrel settled into the seat more comfortably, touching the glass again. Perhaps this time would be different, though Sabrel had no idea how to bring that about. Keeping quiet about Anton was probably a good step, and Sabrel smiled a little. Wilheim was too used to him being compliant. He might suspect, but unless he was there when Sabrel had a vision there was no way for him to tell when Sabrel had them. And Sabrel alone knew what passed within them, and he'd made things up in the past to please Wilheim.

Sabrel traced the glass lightly as Anton and his friend walked hurriedly up the path. Anton didn't look up, and neither did his friend, but Sabrel didn't blame them—it was raining even harder now, and his father's information likely hadn't made either of them happy. A moment later and their little carriage was gone, lost past the edge of the window frame, and Sabrel was left to watch the empty street and the rain.

He wasn't sure how much longer it was before the door opened again, as Sabrel had known it would eventually. He didn't move to meet his father's gaze, keeping his eyes fixed on the top of the gate's ironwork.

"Were you disturbed?" Wilheim asked suspiciously. Anton probably had been gone for even longer than he'd been visiting with Sabrel.

"No," Sabrel answered slowly. Anton hadn't really disturbed him after all. Sabrel smiled a little, tracing his fingertips along the glass as one little bead of rainwater started a trail streaking down the outside of the window.

"Good," Wilheim stated after a moment, and Sabrel listened to his footsteps cross the carpet, and heard the squeak of the chair as Wilheim settled in at his table once more. Sabrel sighed quietly and stared out the window again, pressing his fingers flush against the windowpane.

*~*~*

"I don't think this is going to work," Anton told Theodore dismally, frowning unhappily as the carriage rattled over the bumpy road.

"Why not?" Theo grinned, looking well-pleased with himself. "It looks like Wilheim is going to fall for it."

"I met his son," Anton slumped against his seat, wincing when the hard wood dug into his shoulder blades uncomfortably. "He's—"

"Cute?" Theo suggested, smirking and Anton wanted to smack him because this was important and serious and Theo was too high on the success of not being caught yet.

"A Seer," Anton snapped, and the smile slipped from Theo's face.

"Oh," Theo frowned. "No wonder Wilheim keeps him secret."

"And why no one's been able to catch him before," Anton pointed out glumly. "We're going to be found out, and he'll kill us off quietly and my parents will say I told you so—"

"But you'll be dead at that point, at least?" Theo suggested.

"Not helping." Anton glared, crossing his arms and trying to think. Sabrel hadn't seemed so terrible, but he was Wilheim's son. "So what do we do?"

"Tell Charles?" Theo shrugged, not looking as concerned as Anton thought he should be. "But we can't not do this, Anton. Maybe there's some way we can neutralize the son?"

"Maybe," Anton muttered, his mind straying back to Sabrel's dark eyes. "He didn't seem too keen on turning me in for snooping around the library."

"He caught you?" Theo's eyes widened. "You just have to tempt fate, don't you?"

"He was in the library, Theo," Anton snapped, exasperated because Theo was still being awfully laid-back about this. "I couldn't avoid him."

"So what, he likes you?" Theo prompted impatiently when Anton only glared at him instead of continuing.

"I don't know. It was odd," Anton admitted. "He seemed very suspicious at first, and then—"

"And then?" Theo prompted again, shaking his head when Anton didn't continue again.

"When I was leaving, before he had his vision, he said, 'you didn't talk to me,' like he'd be in just as much trouble as I would be for talking to me," Anton finished, scowling a bit in frustration because he didn't really understand it all.

"You should talk to him again," Theo decided. "See if you can't keep him quiet. If he tells what we're up to, or even who you are …"

"I know," Anton grimaced. "When are you meeting Wilheim again?"

"Next week," Theo grinned. "I have a week before I have to come up with the funds."

"We'll message Charles, have him send us the money," Anton muttered. "Do you think we should keep Sabrel's ability quiet for now?"

"Given how likely ole Chuck'll have us give up?" Theo pointed out. "How about we decide next week, after we've been back and you've talked to Sabrel. He seemed okay with not tattling on you so far?"

"Yeah," Anton muttered distractedly, wondering how active a part Sabrel played in his father's work. If they did manage to take Wilheim down, what would become of Sabrel? Would he be implicated as much as Wilheim?

"Then we'll wait," Theo declared, sprawling out even further across the wooden bench on his side of the carriage. "Relax, Anty my boy. We can do this."

*~*~*

Sabrel stood in the center of the lavishly decorated ballroom, his eyes following the distinct pattern of bright gold that was laid out over the scarlet walls. The ballroom was empty except for him. There was no furniture, no people, only the bright walls, the dark floor, and him. He turned slowly, but his view didn't change. The four walls were all the same, and there were no doors or a musician's dais or even a place for sitting.

There was music. The soft, melancholy strains of the only nursery rhyme his father had approved for him when he was a baby, sung over and over by his nurse. It took Sabrel a moment to realize that the music was his humming the song, the words added by memory or illusion.

There were footsteps now, coming from behind him, and Sabrel whirled, the silk of his clothes sliding softly against his skin as he moved. Anton approached, looking far different with his hair tidied and dressed in a stiff, royal purple uniform. The silver trim seemed much less ostentatious than the gold of the walls. His blue eyes were solemn, and he stopped in front of Sabrel.

Sabrel watched as Anton bowed deeply, tucking one arm next to his stomach and letting the other dangle as he dropped. He straightened slowly, his eyes never leaving Sabrel's, and he held out his hand.

"Will you dance?" Anton asked solemnly, and Sabrel stepped forward, holding up his bound wrists.

"I cannot," he whispered, the words weaving into the music seamlessly. Sabrel wasn't humming any longer, but the music hadn't stopped. Anton's eyes dropped to his wrists, bound close together with the blade of a sword, twisted and deformed to twist around Sabrel's wrists in a figure eight. The edge of the blade pressed into his skin, and the floor was catching his blood, coloring it so that it was darker than the walls.