Qhuinn glanced back to the bed. Refocusing, he called up a blank text message, and then tried to figure out what he was trying to say.
In the end, he could only plainly state his request of Vishous.
Not all journeys were literally on foot. Whether they were or were not, however, there was always a first step. And after that?
Qhuinn looked across to the rolling tray.
Abruptly, he frowned. Figuring he was seeing things, he got up and went over… to inspect the two burgundy bundles that had been left on the bedside table, next to the remote to the TV, the call button for the nurse’s station, and a blue Bic pen.
Which undoubtedly had been the writing instrument used by Luchas when he’d composed his last letter—which remained unopened, exactly where it had been left.
Qhuinn reached out and picked up one of the burgundy wads. Unfurling it, he saw that it was a sock, a cashmere-and-silk-blend sock.
He recognized whose it was, but he checked the tag that had been sewn inside anyway.
“Blaylock,” he said softly.
* * *
Blay returned to the mansion right before Last Meal. He’d ended up helping his mahmen in the basement for hours, rearranging plastic tubs of seasonal clothes, family mementos, and decorations. It had been pretty clear from the outset that there was a make-work component to the effort, but he’d been so grateful for the distraction and the parameters of the job. The project had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and it required not only physical effort, but just enough mental concentration that he couldn’t juggle the tasks at hand along with worrying about Qhuinn.
There had even been a break for another meal in the middle, and a cup of satisfaction cocoa, as his mahmen always called it, at the end.
He had wanted to stay the day, especially after Qhuinn had not responded to his text about where he was going. But Wrath had called a meeting, and however brokenhearted Blay was, his duty to his King was a responsibility he was honor- and duty-bound to carry out.
Hitting the grand staircase, he was fifteen minutes early, so there was time to put his coat away and gather his thoughts. He didn’t have to worry about running into Qhuinn. The male would be downstairs in Luchas’s room. That was where he always went after he worked out, and for the last four nights, he had stayed there until well after Last Meal.
Blay had tried not to take the withdrawal personally. And failed.
At the top of the stairs, he looked through the open doors of Wrath’s study. The Brothers were already gathering, and he lifted his hand in greeting. Several nodded in his direction, and he flashed them a pair of fingers, the universal language for: I’ll be back in two minutes.
Maybe Qhuinn would join them all tonight.
Maybe Santa Claus was real.
Heading down the Hall of Statues, Blay stripped off his parka and then zipped up both of the side pockets so his gloves didn’t fall out. As he opened the door to his room, the familiar scent that greeted him was fresh, not faded… and the male who was sitting on the edge of the bed was not a ghost.
Blay stopped dead.
“Hi,” the figment, who certainly seemed to be Qhuinn, said. In the correct voice.
Blay stepped in and closed the door. “Hi.”
“I, ah, I’ve been waiting for you.”
Keeping a recoil of surprise to himself was a difficult camo job. “You should have called. Or texted. I would have come right away.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt your visit. How are the ’rents?”
For some reason, the fact that Qhuinn was using the casual term he always did felt like some kind of positive portent. Which was nuts.
“They’re good. They send their love—and their condolences.”
“I appreciate that.” Qhuinn looked at his hands. “Listen, I just want to apologize—”
“Please don’t move out—”
They both stopped. And said “What?” at the same time.