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The glasshouse.
Goddamn it, he wanted to see it burn. Wanted to cut the new trees with an ax and see the petals of roses flying through the wind.
The last thing that reminded him of her. Of his pain.
Of the wonderful days she’d gifted him.
Yes. He just needed an ax, oil, a candle, and a tinderbox.
He found a tinderbox and candle on the fireplace mantel in the sitting room. Now he needed an ax and the oil. Oil for lamps would do perfectly well. Whale oil, too. He walked through the hallway where the footman stood at attention the moment he saw Dorian, and Dorian suspected he might have been listening through the door.
He barged through the door into the servants’ area.
Several of them sat around a large table in the servants’ hall, talking about him in quiet, sad voices. Mrs. Knight was there, as well as the cook and her undercooks, the butler, and the footmen. They all sprang to their feet, faces drawn, eyes wide.
“Your Grace,” said Mrs. Knight. “Is the servant bell not working? Can I help you?”
“Yes,” he barked, his hand clutching the striking steel shaking. “An ax and a bucket of oil. No, five buckets.”
The servants looked at each other.
“May I ask what for?” said Popwell carefully.
“No, you may not. Do I have to find them myself?”
“Your Grace, clearly, you’re out of sorts,” said Mrs. Knight pleadingly.
Mrs. Knight never pleaded. She was the perfect image of a housekeeper, especially since she always closed her eyes on his insanities.
“You are on very thin ice,” he growled at her. “Will someone help me or not? I will find them one way or the other.”
“Very well, Your Grace,” said the butler, hiding his concerned expression under the mask of a respectful servant. “They are in the backyard. Please follow me.”
He fetched the ax and a bucket of foul-smelling whale oil. Dorian inspected them and then marched towards the garden, his guts burning with an insane frenzy.
He stopped at the entrance to the garden, feeling the servants’ worried eyes on his back. He turned to look over his shoulder. They were lined up outside, three dozen of them, all staring at him. The footmen, no doubt, at the ready to fight whatever fire he might set.
He looked back at the garden. It was not just the fruit of Patience’s hard labor. But that of many of these footmen. Every stone laid out lovingly and with care, every tree planted with intent, and her roses… Her goddamn, gorgeous roses.
Angry tears burned his eyes like acid, his chest bursting like it had been set aflame.
No. He couldn’t do this to the garden. No matter how much he wanted to hurt himself or her. But he could destroy the place that had made him the monster he was. The place his father had used to forge his son into a blade of wrath.
The place that had made him into a killer.
“Go back into the house!” he roared towards the servants. “Under no circumstances are you to try to save me or come near. Do you understand?”
They didn’t move.
“Otherwise you’re all sacked! I am not jesting!”
Slowly, they turned around and, one by one, disappeared into the house.
He marched along the beautiful, meandering path, white gravel crunching under his feet. Bees flew from tree to tree, flower to flower.
He wouldn’t touch them.
If he had just destroyed the glasshouse like he had intended many years ago…
