A Dictionary of Fools (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 2)

by P. J. Fox

  “What if I hate it?” Talin demanded.

  “Have you ever had it?” Kisten asked.

  “What if I want a glass of wine?” he challenged.

  “Then you may have a glass of wine.”

  Talin absorbed this news, temporarily stymied. Giving in, he tried his lamb. And appeared to find it tolerable, if the chewing noises were any indication. A few minutes later the plates were cleared, and the next course was served. Talin glared at it, too, and Kisten wondered if they were now doomed to repeat the whole tiresome process over again. “Elbows off the table,” he ordered, almost conversationally, before responding to some comment of Aria’s.

  “Why does it matter where my elbows are?”

  “Because,” Kisten replied, pleased that Talin had for once asked a question, however insincerely, instead of letting forth with some dockside expletive, “nowhere is a man’s breeding, or lack thereof, more evident than at the table. He may pass muster by dressing well and may even sustain himself tolerably in conversation, but if he be not perfectly au fait, dinner will betray him.”

  “Um…what?” Talin just stared, slack-jawed to the point where he was in serious danger of letting a wasp fly in.

  Kisten stared back, not understanding what the problem was.

  “What he means, darling, is that girls won’t like it if you slurp your soup.” Aria smiled encouragingly. Her summation was, if pedestrian, accurate. Kisten wondered at his apparent need for a simultaneous translator. He’d expressed himself perfectly clearly the first time.

  He poured himself a glass of wine. “Would you in fact care for some?”

  His recalcitrant offspring nodded. “Alright,” he said, his previous interest in the notion dissipated in the wake of finding out that drinking was allowed. Kisten might as well have offered him a goblet of pureed slug. Talin sipped, grimaced, and turned to Aria. “But what do girls have against elbows?” he demanded, evidently signaling her out as the more reasonable party.

  Aria giggled.

  Kisten arched an eyebrow in disapproval; this was supposed to be a united front, and here she was encouraging the boy.

  Talin turned toward him, and shrugged. “She’s a lot closer to my age than yours, chief.”

  Aria burst out laughing, and Talin smiled complacently. At that moment, Kisten could cheerfully have strangled the little rodent. The constant reminder of Aria’s age was unwelcome, as was the equally constant reminder that this—this appalling situation was his own goddamn fault.

  He wondered how on earth he’d ever explain the situation to his friends. Not that he had an illegitimate child, he couldn’t care less what anyone thought of that, but the fact that said child was little better than a wild animal. Polite society? Talin wasn’t fit for the kitchens. Although, according to the cook, he was already very popular with the scullery maids. Kisten hadn’t mentioned the issue earlier, not because he wasn’t concerned but because he couldn’t bear the thought of discussing amatory conquests with his son. His own father’s attempts at education in that particular department galled him to this day.

  Dinner progressed. Talin complained ceaselessly throughout the rest of the meal, right through to a bread pudding made with unappetizing local berries. “There are too many rules,” he protested, for the tenth time. “Don’t play with your fork, don’t crumble the bread, use this knife for this food and that spoon for that food. Don’t talk too loud, but don’t talk too quietly, either. Don’t sneeze! What sense does that even make, don’t sneeze?”

  “And don’t,” Kisten added helpfully—and relevantly—”talk with your mouth full. As fascinated as we undoubtedly are, there is no need to show us how you masticate your food.”

  “How I what?” Talin looked alarmed.

  Aria laughed again. Talin had, Kisten realized, mistaken his meaning. He let the subject drop.

  Coffee was served.

  At first the distraction had been a mercy, at least giving everyone at the table something to do. Aria’s spoon chinked against the side of her cup as she mixed in a generous amount of cream. In addition to cream, Talin added several heaping teaspoons of sugar to his own cup and then poured the pale mixture into his saucer. Kisten watched in mounting horror as his son waited for a few moments and then—apparently thinking nothing of it—lifted the saucer to his lips and slurped loudly.

  “What,” he asked pointedly, “are you doing?”

  “Pouring the coffee into the saucer,” his son replied, in the indulgent tone of one speaking to an idiot. “To cool it down,” he added helpfully.

  “That is…not appropriate.”

  “That’s how everyone drinks it at The Lion Rampant. Get it? Rampant?”

  Through a supreme act of will, Kisten remained calm. Talin looked disappointed in his father’s lack of reaction. His not so subtle hints as to his opinion of Kisten as a treacherous letch were never-ending; Kisten wondered if he’d have to endure this every night. If so, then he wanted a prize. A large one. It was at this point in the meal that, if he still smoked—and God, he wished he did—he’d light a cigarette and pretend that he was thinking about something important. And after savoring that one thoroughly, he’d light one or two or ten more.

  He finished his drink. The stones in his rings glinted dully in the low light. Talin stared at them curiously.

  “You wear a lot of jewelry,” he commented, “for a man.”

  “I suppose,” Kisten agreed. “I won most of them, fighting.” He held up his hand, indicating the signet ring on his little finger: rose gold, and carved with a miniature of his personal crest. “Except this, which was a gift from my brother. You remind me of him, sometimes.”

  “Then I feel sorry for him,” Talin said darkly.

  Kisten smiled. Talin stood up. “Where are you going?” Kisten asked.

  “Away.”

  “Haven’t you forgotten something?” Kisten asked, his tone deceptively mild.

  “Perhaps,” Aria interjected, “Talin would prefer to join us in the library. I’m sure the dishes can wait.”

  Kisten gave her what was, for him, a fond smile. The corner of his mouth turned up in the faintest movement, and his eyes softened. “You’re much kinder than I am,” he told her honestly.

  She smiled in return, pleased. She was still too thin, but she looked well; the color was returning to her face. Especially now; she was blushing. For someone so very outspoken, his little elf was easily embarrassed. “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” she said.

  “I love you,” he replied, surprised by how much he meant the words. And he did give himself enough credit; more than enough. But he loved her, too, for being kind to him.

  Talin paused, standing behind his chair, and looked back and forth between his father and stepmother. He suddenly seemed uncertain. Seeing the change come over him, Kisten frowned. He didn’t understand this person who lived in his house, who went from being obnoxious one minute to sullen the next and who vacillated between seeking comfort and rejecting those who tried to offer it. Kisten was beginning to develop some distinctly unsavory notions about what Talin’s life, abuse aside, had been like. He had even less experience with people being kind to each other than Aria.

  That either of them should be subjected to Kisten as their tutor in human behavior was truly discouraging. Kisten knew as little about kindness as he did about the domestic arts. In those ridiculous books Aria read, the dashing hero went around saving the world and romanced a different girl with every mission. All of the girls were madly in love and none of them seemed to mind it when they got dumped—as they must have, otherwise no fortune in the universe would be equal to the crippling weight of alimony payments. In reality, the fallout from a life like Kisten’s was illegitimate children and venereal disease. He was, in his own way, as inexperienced in this realm as his consort and child.

  “What?” Kisten asked his son.

  “I”—confusion had replaced disdain—”I’ve never heard people talk to each other like that.”
The admission had, quite obviously, cost him something and for a minute the mask slipped as he and Kisten regarded each other. Seeing Talin so vulnerable reminded Kisten of how young the boy really was. And then the mask was back and Talin’s eyes hardened as he wrapped himself in his anger, the only defense he had. “You never talked to my mother like that,” he accused.

  No, he hadn’t. “Talin—”

  “You had her killed, didn’t you?” Talin’s voice broke slightly; he looked to be on the verge of tears, and Kisten thought he’d finally seen his first real emotion from the boy.

  “No,” he said calmly, meeting his son’s eyes, “I did not.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I had her removed from Haldon. But the last I saw her, she was well; and I have no reason to believe that she still isn’t.”

  “But she’s not coming back, is she.”

  Kisten had been dreading this conversation but, strangely, now that it was finally upon him it wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d anticipated. Only tiring. He felt for the boy, even though Talin undoubtedly thought him incapable of feeling. There was hurt in his eyes, and a slowly dawning realization: that his mother would never transform into the woman he wanted her to be.

  Into the woman he’d been hoping that, if he only loved her enough, she’d become. And now, instead, he was trapped with a father he loathed in a world he didn’t understand.

  “No,” Kisten said slowly, “she is not.”

  “Did she want to leave?”

  “She and I…wanted different things for you.”

  Talin summed himself up. “I hate you!” he cried, and fled the room.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Kisten poured himself another drink and walked over to the window, where he stared out at nothing. After a minute, he felt Aria’s small hand on his arm. She leaned her head against him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted her there, or if he wanted to be left alone. She’d annoyed him at dinner, partly through no fault of her own. He wondered if she didn’t have more in common with Talin than she did him, tried to dismiss the thought and couldn’t. He was being unkind, he knew, but sometimes he wished she weren’t so goddamned ill-educated and young.

  “Somehow,” Kisten said dryly, “I doubt that he’s run off to scrub pots.”

  “No,” Aria agreed, “that seems unlikely.”

  “He’ll find out what the penalty is, in the morning.”

  “I think it’s wrong to be too rigid,” Aria said. “He’s had no discipline in his life so far and—”

  “Don’t,” Kisten said, turning, “tell me how to parent my own child.”

  Her mouth firmed. “You’re an expert, then?”

  “Watch it,” he warned her. He wasn’t above beating sense into her if the occasion called for it, and right now he felt less than pacific. She knew better than to push him at the best of times, but this threatened to become one of those occasions where she threw caution to the wind in favor of making some ridiculous point for which he cared nothing and upset them both.

  “I think it’s more effective,” she continued, “to give him the illusion of choice.”

  “I have no intention of pandering to his insecurities.”

  “It’s—”

  “It’s psychological manipulation,” he finished for her. “He’ll learn to do as he’s told, regardless of how he feels. His willingness to accomplish a particular task shouldn’t revolve around his self-esteem. If it’s that fragile, it deserves to get broken. And life isn’t about doing whatever makes one feel good.” Said he, the libertine. With that admission of his own hypocrisy, he felt even crankier. But life was about duty, and realizing that fact sooner rather than later might save Talin a few of the mistakes that his own father had made.

  “Then you’ll fail,” Aria said bluntly. “Talin—”

  His hand connected with an audible crack, snapping her head back. She touched a pair of tentative fingers to her cheek. He’d hit her open-handed, but there’d be a mark. They stared at each other. The only sound was the faint patter of raindrops against the glass.

  Both Aria and Talin found him disgusting, he knew; Aria with fond tolerance and Talin with loathing and disappointment. Aria might have a point, in that manipulating his son onto the desired course might produce more results and quicker than forcing him to take the hard path; but she was also wrong. Coddling him now would only be putting off the inevitable. Aria might be kinder but Kisten, at least, knew more about being a man than she did. And he couldn’t stand it when she defied him like this; not because she had her own opinions—she was entitled to those, he supposed—but because he needed her to believe in him.

  She turned.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

  “Into the other room,” she replied. “Unless you’d like to hit me again,” she added with a touch of asperity.

  “Aria….”

  “Yes?”

  He was still in a foul humor, but the idea of her leaving did nothing to relieve his spirits. Quite the opposite. He hated the thought of her being elsewhere and hated even more the thought of her enjoying being elsewhere. He wanted her to want to be with him, which, given his usual treatment of her, was probably unrealistic. She undoubtedly rather enjoyed her time away from him. Perhaps even looked forward to it. The idea brought a renewal of dark musings. He’d never entirely gotten over his desire to lock her away in a closet.

  She waited.

  She made him feel like a child having a tantrum, without even saying a word. He put his drink down on the delicate pietre dure table to his right and pulled her toward him. She came, willingly enough. “If you want the boy coddled,” he said, after a minute, “you’ll have to see to that particular program, yourself.”

  “Is that an invitation to co-parent?” she asked, voice amused.

  “No,” he said grimly, although they both knew he was being an ass. And that she was his partner in this, as in everything. “You already have one man to take care of.”

  He began undoing the line of buttons that ran between her shoulder blades, tiny silk-covered things, and bent down to kiss her neck. A spectator to this interchange might have found it strange, or not understood what must come across to the uninitiated as a sudden about-face. But Aria knew Kisten too well to be surprised, by this action or any other.

  Always lurking beneath the anger, and the need for control, was the fact that he loved her desperately. Indeed, his dependence on Aria was the principle cause of his negative feelings about her and their relationship. He knew perfectly well that, without him, she’d go on to lead a perfectly happy life. She might mourn him, at least for a little while, but she’d be fine. Without her, he’d die. It was as simple as that. And from the first time he’d held her, he’d been terrified that she’d leave him.

  Her clothes fell to the floor, a lovely confection of deep pink georgette covered in embroidered shells. Her flesh shone alabaster in the moonlight, prickled with cold. She leaned in against him, her hard nipples brushing his chest through his shirt.

  “You’re afraid of not being the center of attention,” she murmured, her small fingers undoing his buttons.

  He looked down at her, wondering again how he’d gained possession of such a lovely creature. “I’m always the center of attention,” he told her. And then, before she had time for some saucy remark, he swept her up and carried her toward the bed. She shrieked, surprised. And then he was on top of her and his mouth was on hers and she was kissing him back just as passionately.

  She didn’t like to admit it, but pain aroused her. His control over her aroused her. According to the bizarre set of rules she’d internalized as a child on Solaris, good girls didn’t do certain things. Didn’t enjoy certain things. She’d had a mother who told her, almost from infancy, that actually wanting to have sex with a man—and, God forbid, having sex in something other than the missionary position and for purposes other than procreation—made him lose respect for you. Acceptable forms of romance included
dinners, flowers, boxes of chocolate and other forms of pleading; all other overtures were to be avoided. Especially those not holding a woman up to be some sort of perpetually inviolate goddess.

  Which was why, he supposed, Aria enjoyed herself the most when she felt like she didn’t have a choice. The burden of guilt, for actually wanting him to throw her down on the bed and ravage her, was removed. She didn’t like boring, vanilla sex any more than he did. Quite the opposite. She liked it rough, and she’d thrown herself at him enough times—especially when she’d had a few drinks—for him to have discovered this.

  She arched her hips, scoring his back with her fingernails as she bit down onto his shoulder. He crushed her to him. Some time later, when he could think again, it was to wonder how someone so small and fragile could be so strong. He propped himself up on his side and stared down at her. Gently, he reached out and touched her bruised cheek. She didn’t move, only looked up at him with that expression he’d come to know so well.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She smiled slightly. “Because you’re frightening.” She reached up, trapping his hand with her own. “But I love you, and I wouldn’t want you to change.”

  He held her, feeling conflicted; he wanted to frighten her, wanted to terrorize her, but at the same time he didn’t. He wanted her to trust him, and feel safe with him. But most of all, for her to be his. Aria had given him no reason to doubt her whatsoever, as Renta had pointed out on more than one occasion, but even so he couldn’t quite shake the conviction that if he loosened his grip he’d lose her. She’d realize that she wanted to go home; see her family, be with a man whose ideas were more akin to her own. If he were a better man, he’d want her to be happy—and he did want her to be happy. But with him. Only with him. In his darkest moments, he had to admit to himself that he’d rather she be miserable with him than the happiest woman in the world with someone else.