through the hall’s windows and watched Allison talk with haunted eyes. Although it was against orders, he was sure that she was recounting their tale, and his stomach sank. He no longer felt hungry at all. He sighed and headed home, his footsteps echoing through empty streets.
*
Alexander waited in the gloom while the supplies were packed away. He paced back and forth until the job was done and the others stumbled away into the night.
By then, Lucian was taking a last look around at the pavement for forgotten scraps. He then affixed the storeroom door with its enormous padlock and stowed the key in his pocket with great care. It wasn’t until he was on the verge of turning for home that Alexander stepped from the shadows.
“Thought you'd gone home,” Lucian said, apparently unsurprised to see him materialise from the darkness.
Alexander said nothing—Lucian had always had a sixth sense about being watched—and approached until they were no more than a few inches apart; close enough for Alex to smell the several days’ worth of perspiration that had accrued on Lucian's body. “Welcome, brother,” he said.
They embraced, but for a moment only. Lucian stepped back and frowned at the proximity. “How are things?” he said slowly.
“They’re fine,” Alex said.
“Did something happen while we were away?”
“No. It’s been quiet here.”
Lucian’s eyes narrowed. “Then what’s wrong?”
“I can’t give my brother a hug when he comes home?”
“You haven’t given me so much as a handshake since I got old enough to piss without sitting down. And don’t call me ‘brother’.”
Alex was quiet for a moment. Then he merely nodded, ignoring the unsettled lump in his throat, and held out his hand. “Here.”
Lucian received the perfectly kept pigeon feather, a silver slick upon his palm in the artificial light.
The two of them looked at it, frozen in place for a long time, uttering not a sound. So quiet had it become that the trickle of the Stour seemed deafening. Alex could almost see the cogs turning in Lucian’s mind as the atmosphere around him took the long road from bemused surprise to confusion, through disbelief and finally to a muted, distant fear.
When Lucian spoke, his voice was cracked. “What's this?”
Alex swallowed hard. “I found that on my doorstep this morning,” he said.
Lucian’s stance remained unchanged by the news, and yet to Alex’s eyes his entire manner had shifted. His eyes were suddenly trailing the edge of their sockets, his lips parted and his breathing quickened. Alex knew to exactly what extent Lucian’s inner calm had been shattered, because the very same thing had happened to him that morning.
“You’re sure that it isn’t a coincidence?”
“I’m sure.”
Lucian ran a hand through his hair and grumbled to himself. He turned in a wide circle and threw myriad glances out into the night. “This can’t happen,” he whispered. “It can’t.”
Alex said nothing and watched him whirl on the spot, distantly pleased to see him react so well, and slightly ashamed that he himself hadn’t taken the news with quite as much grace.
After only a minute, Lucian was standing still again and was looking down at the feather. “It’s not possible,” he said. “It’s ridiculous… It’s not poss—” He muttered to himself for a while longer. His whispering dissipated only after several emphatic grunts, and his voice began to come back to him. Soon after, his usual irritability returned.
Still, Alexander said nothing, and watched while Lucian paced and ranted, waiting for the storm to quell itself.
Eventually, Lucian stood still again, and they were staring into each other’s eyes.
“What do we do?” Lucian said.
Alex exhaled through his teeth and looked away, along the road, to where Norman had been not long before. “I don’t know,” he said.
IV
Donald Peyton kicked at the horse’s ribs, urging it on. As they accelerated, the icy
*
Alexander waited in the gloom while the supplies were packed away. He paced back and forth until the job was done and the others stumbled away into the night.
By then, Lucian was taking a last look around at the pavement for forgotten scraps. He then affixed the storeroom door with its enormous padlock and stowed the key in his pocket with great care. It wasn’t until he was on the verge of turning for home that Alexander stepped from the shadows.
“Thought you'd gone home,” Lucian said, apparently unsurprised to see him materialise from the darkness.
Alexander said nothing—Lucian had always had a sixth sense about being watched—and approached until they were no more than a few inches apart; close enough for Alex to smell the several days’ worth of perspiration that had accrued on Lucian's body. “Welcome, brother,” he said.
They embraced, but for a moment only. Lucian stepped back and frowned at the proximity. “How are things?” he said slowly.
“They’re fine,” Alex said.
“Did something happen while we were away?”
“No. It’s been quiet here.”
Lucian’s eyes narrowed. “Then what’s wrong?”
“I can’t give my brother a hug when he comes home?”
“You haven’t given me so much as a handshake since I got old enough to piss without sitting down. And don’t call me ‘brother’.”
Alex was quiet for a moment. Then he merely nodded, ignoring the unsettled lump in his throat, and held out his hand. “Here.”
Lucian received the perfectly kept pigeon feather, a silver slick upon his palm in the artificial light.
The two of them looked at it, frozen in place for a long time, uttering not a sound. So quiet had it become that the trickle of the Stour seemed deafening. Alex could almost see the cogs turning in Lucian’s mind as the atmosphere around him took the long road from bemused surprise to confusion, through disbelief and finally to a muted, distant fear.
When Lucian spoke, his voice was cracked. “What's this?”
Alex swallowed hard. “I found that on my doorstep this morning,” he said.
Lucian’s stance remained unchanged by the news, and yet to Alex’s eyes his entire manner had shifted. His eyes were suddenly trailing the edge of their sockets, his lips parted and his breathing quickened. Alex knew to exactly what extent Lucian’s inner calm had been shattered, because the very same thing had happened to him that morning.
“You’re sure that it isn’t a coincidence?”
“I’m sure.”
Lucian ran a hand through his hair and grumbled to himself. He turned in a wide circle and threw myriad glances out into the night. “This can’t happen,” he whispered. “It can’t.”
Alex said nothing and watched him whirl on the spot, distantly pleased to see him react so well, and slightly ashamed that he himself hadn’t taken the news with quite as much grace.
After only a minute, Lucian was standing still again and was looking down at the feather. “It’s not possible,” he said. “It’s ridiculous… It’s not poss—” He muttered to himself for a while longer. His whispering dissipated only after several emphatic grunts, and his voice began to come back to him. Soon after, his usual irritability returned.
Still, Alexander said nothing, and watched while Lucian paced and ranted, waiting for the storm to quell itself.
Eventually, Lucian stood still again, and they were staring into each other’s eyes.
“What do we do?” Lucian said.
Alex exhaled through his teeth and looked away, along the road, to where Norman had been not long before. “I don’t know,” he said.
IV
Donald Peyton kicked at the horse’s ribs, urging it on. As they accelerated, the icy
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