Rosamund Hodge: Gilded Ashes

I step closer to the desk. The silver mail tray teeters on one corner, but just setting the letter on top won’t do. I remember the great vases full of roses on the second landing; if I had stolen some, I could mound them underneath the letter like a pyre. But would that really impress Lord Anax?

What would a duke’s son who has ignored all the blandishments of high society find intriguing?

I pick up the marble skull. It’s lighter than I expected: it’s been carved out hollow. I poke my finger into one of the eye sockets, and then I roll up the letter and poke it inside as well.

Now it looks like the skull has died by letter. It’s ridiculous, and I’m about to pull the letter out again when I hear voices outside.

The doorknob rattles.

I should stay. I should keep my gaze on the floor and my mind full of wainscoting and pretend. But my body has other ideas. A moment later I am curled beneath the desk, my heart beating wildly.

The door slams open.

“—in just a fortnight, and I will declare my chosen bride as the clock strikes twelve. That’s romance for the ladies, profit for the lucky father, and a politic gesture for you. What more, sir, could you possibly want?”

It’s the voice of a young man, well past the awkward squeaks of boyhood, polished and clipped with a nobleman’s accent. Lord Anax.

“For a start?” The second voice is equally polished but deeper, older, more languid. “A son who doesn’t insult my dearest friends.”

I stop breathing. This must be Duke Laertius.

“I didn’t insult them,” says Lord Anax. “I said I was indisposed.”

“For the birthday party of their beloved only daughter, the day after you had been seen riding to hunt. All Sardis knows you meant to snub Lydia, boy.”

“Perhaps I caught a chill on the hunt.”

“Perhaps it’s time you stopped sulking over an engagement three years broken and bore yourself like a man!” The duke’s voice snaps like a whip. “Zeus and Hera, how did I beget such an unruly son?”

“If you’ve forgotten, perhaps you could summon up the dead and ask my lady mother.”

The duke barks a laugh. “You got that tongue from her, that’s for certain. But she was obedient to me for all her carping.”

“Obedient?” says Lord Anax. The desk creaks and shifts; I think he is leaning against it. “We must remember her very differently.”

“Always when it counted, my boy, which is more than can be said of you. I wanted that girl for my daughter, you know.”

“Adopt her, then. I believe it’s legal.”

“First I’d have to kill her parents,” says the duke, “and I am given to understand that’s frowned upon these days.”

“It’s gone the same sad way as the right of a father to execute his sons.”

The duke sighs. “The girl’s still free, you know. You could have her for the asking.”

There’s a silence. When Lord Anax speaks again, his voice is low and soft. “Father. I forced Lydia to break the engagement.”

“That was transparently obvious at the time. But what has never been clear to me is why you acted like the injured party, then and ever since. Or why, if you were so brokenhearted, you did not take the few steps necessary to win her back.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Still the soft voice.

“I understand that Cosmatos would leave her on your doorstep tied up in red ribbons if you so much as winked at her. As it is, he won’t let her accept even a nosegay from another man because you’re still unshackled and he takes that as a sign of hope.”

“Then rejoice, because in a fortnight I’ll be engaged and she’ll have her pick of suitors again.” Lord Anax is back to sounding polished and defiant.

“He’ll keep her on the shelf until you’re wed . . . mmm, and perhaps until your wife has survived her first birth. Cosmatos does not give up any more easily than I do.”

“He can keep her till she’s moldered into a skeleton. I still won’t marry her.”

“That’s a harsh fate to wish on a charming girl.”

“To be a skeleton is a high and honorable estate. Just ask Alcibiades.” I hear a whisper of movement, then a crinkle; I think Lord Anax has picked up the skull and removed the letter from its eye socket.

“Yes, very honorable, I see. So honorable that you use him to sort your mail. When will you get rid of that morbid thing?”

“Alcibiades, please don’t mind my father. He speaks to everyone this way.” From the tone of his voice, I imagine Lord Anax staring deep into the skull’s eyes.

“Then I’ll leave you to your best friend. Do remember that to get engaged at the ball, you will actually need to prevail upon the lady to accept you.”

Lord Anax’s voice is very dry. “I’m son and heir to the Duke of Sardis. I could walk into that ballroom naked with Alcibiades balanced on my head, and they’d still want to marry me.”

“Most likely. But if you try it, I’ll horsewhip you on the front steps.”

“Don’t worry. I will comport myself properly enough to please even you, sir.”

“I highly doubt that, but do feel free to try. Good day.”

Footsteps, and the door clicks shut. For a moment there’s silence, and I let myself indulge in a heartbeat of wild hope that Lord Anax has soundlessly followed his father out of the room. Then he sighs loudly. His boots clank against the floor. One step, two, three. He’s circling the desk.

My heart pounds. He’s going to see me, and if he’s angry, if he hurts me, if my mother can see this far—

Because I had to sneak into the palace. Because I had to help Koré instead of placate her. Because I had to hope , when I should know how useless hope has always been.

I’m an idiot.

He flings himself into his chair and hauls one foot up onto the desk. Just like I imagined.

Then he looks down and sees me.

He doesn’t look particularly lordly. Handsome, yes: he has jet-black hair and a face of aristocratic angles. Square metal glasses frame his narrow dark eyes. But no one can look very lordly with one foot on the floor and the other on a desk, staring down with his mouth open in surprise.

His mouth snaps shut. His foot lands back on the floor, his jaw tightening, and then he reaches down, grabs my arm, and hauls me out. I stand obediently, fixing my eyes on the shelves.

“You,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

I can still feel the fear, a cold, distant burn up and down my body, but there’s no time for terror now. I do what I always do when Stepmother gets angry: I mold my body in perfect submission, shoulders slumped and eyes demurely lowered, and I think myself out of existence. I am wallpaper and curtains and the jumbled papers on his desk. I am not real, I am not here, so there is nothing for him to get angry at.

He shakes my shoulder. “You know I can have you sacked.”

“I don’t work here.” I keep my voice meek. “I came to deliver a letter.” I point at the desk, where the crumpled letter sits next to Alcibiades.

“A letter? When your master could use the morning post? You’re here to spy or steal or—”

“A love letter,” I say. “From my lady.”

“Of course.” He releases me, looking disgusted. “Another young lady who saw me only once but loves me more than life itself. Or is she one of the ones who sees me almost every day and weeps in secret because I never lower my eyes to hers?”

“There are a lot of them?” I ask. I always imagined that girls with money and fathers would be less desperate.

“Oh, dozens, though your lady is the only one bold enough to write me directly. Most of them just recite poems to a nameless cruel beloved in my presence. Or they have their brothers write me letters demanding to know my intentions, since I was so profligate as to say ‘Good morning.’ So tell me: Was it love at first sight, or did I slowly grow in her heart like ivy?”