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He’d feel better. More sane.

Maybe destroying it would heal him, make him a normal man. A man who didn’t burst into angry flames, who didn’t hit walls and furniture, who didn’t yell at people who cared about him.

A man who didn’t kill.

Twelve years… he thought as he stood before the door to the glasshouse. He hadn’t been inside for twelve years. Even during Patience’s work to restore the glasshouse, he had never been inside, the sight of it still unbearable.

He swallowed hard, and his hands ached as he remembered the cuts and the blood. His father’s cold indifference.

The glasshouse stood tall and intact, glass panes clean and transparent, held by a freshly painted iron frame. Within the walls, he could see plants. Droplets of condensation clung to the glass, catching the sun and casting playful specks of light.

He lifted the iron bar latch and opened the door. He stepped in.

Behind him, the door shut more forcefully than he expected, and he heard the soft sound of metal knocking against metal.

His heart pounded hard. It smelled just like all those years ago. Wet and grassy, like water and damp earth. He could feel the humid air on his lips. The central aisle of the glasshouse stretched out before him, flanked by citrus trees, palms, ferns, and figs, their leaves almost brushing against each other overhead, creating a tunnel of greenery.

Just like then, he felt small, insignificant, powerless. His only way to deal with his deep emotions, his passionate nature, was to rage.

As his father wanted.

Rage was acceptable—tears and tenderness and laughter were not.

That was what Papa had taught him. To be powerful and successful as a man and as a duke, the only emotion he could have was wrath.

To hell with him, Dorian thought as he poured whale oil over the lemon tree, the ficus, and a palm.

He wanted a strong son? He’d have him.

He poured oil on the ferns and on the flowers he didn’t even know the name of to his left. He was shaking. He was not actually sure this would work given the dampness in the air and the foliage. He struck the flint and steel over the tinderbox, and once a spark caught, he used it to light the candle.

He touched the flame to the plants glistening with oil. The oil began burning, and then the dry strands of a palm tree. Slowly, fire began blackening and consuming green parts of grasses and plants. Black smoke rose from the palm tree and the plants. The stench of smoke was acrid and sharp in his nostrils, tickling his throat.

He then threw the still-burning candle to the other side of the glasshouse. That side was a little harder to light because there weren’t many dry parts, but the oil did its work. The ferns had some dry tips, and those caught fire quickly, then the thin leaves.

He began coughing. Smoke could escape slowly through a few panes that were open for ventilation, but most of it was trapped in the glasshouse. Despite the humid air, the fire was winning. It was a wet fire, with plenty of smoke.

Dorian watched the fire burning, waiting for the raging pain to subside, for the anger and resentment against the tyrant who’d dictated his entire life to die away.

He waited for the healing to come.

It didn’t.

Instead, his lungs were filling with smoke, and soon it was hard to see. His eyes burned, and he was coughing in rough, dry heaves.

More and more plants down the aisle were consumed by fire. It became very hot, and he was sweating.

What was he doing? Chasing a ghost from his past? Trying to kill himself?

He didn’t want to die. He wanted the wrathful part of him to die, the part that had gotten him into so much trouble in the first place. So that he would become worthy of the one person who mattered the most to him.

His wife.

He loved Patience. He wanted to live for her.

And to be worthy of her.

He needed to get out.