Page 20

Lord Dorian slides the cigarette between his fingers and, with a decisive gesture, flicks it away.

“Perhaps the smoke brings you discomfort?”

The ash falls slowly upon the pavement, the smoke dissolves in the cold air, and his gaze returns to me.

It is not the smoke that discomforts me.

“Or, perhaps, the very idea is so absurd to you that—”

“I am well, I never sai—”

“Evander!”

My name rushes toward us faster than the footsteps that accompany it. I lift my gaze just in time to see Cecil emerge from behind a group of faithful departing the church. His chestnut curls bounce with every step, while his emerald-green eyes are wide in a mixture of joy and trepidation.

Richard draws himself up for an instant, as surprised as I.

Cecil reaches me and enfolds my legs in an impetuous embrace.

“Cecil...” My voice softens as my hand slides through his untidy curls.

His freckled cheek is pressed against my knee.

Richard lets out a short sigh, resigned yet amused. “Cecil, do not run. Conduct yourself with decorum.”

The boy slowly lifts his gaze toward me, a flush of shy emotion reddening his cheeks.

“I have missed you...”

I sense Lord Dorian’s attention like a shadow before I even see him. I turn my head slightly.

He is motionless, his hands empty now that he has discarded the cigarette, his gaze fixed upon us.

“Is he your brother, Lord Richard?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the child.

“Yes, exactly. He is the youngest among us. Cecil, introduce yourself.”

His fingers tighten against the fabric of my sleeve. I give him a nod, that small gesture enough for him to find the courage to let go.

He steps away slowly and offers a slight bow toward Lord Dorian. He is timid, yet his upbringing sustains his voice.

“I am Cecil Bartholomew Ray Brownell...” he hesitates for a heartbeat, then composes himself, “...it is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lord Cecil.”

The word falls from his lips with an affected softness. Cecil flinches ever so slightly at the address. His eyes widen, astonished to be elevated by a title that no one ever uses with him.

Dorian perceives it. I see a subtle satisfaction brush in the corner of his mouth.

What the hell is wrong with him now?

I narrow my eyes at him in a silent warning.

Stop it, damn you. He is just a child.

He remains unshaken. Or perhaps he feigns ignorance.

Then he extends his hand toward Cecil. “I am Lord Vasiliev Ashford.”