“Dearest Virgin Scribe, why not?”
“I don’t know. I’m nervous.”
“Honey, he’s not going to feel any differently than I do.”
Yeah, but as the only born son and the last of the bloodline…and with the whole father/son thing…“Please. Let me tell him face-to-face.” Oh, like that didn’t make him want to throw up. “I should have done that with you. I’ll come as soon as I’m off rotation—I don’t want to put you in the position of keeping something from him—”
“Don’t worry about that. This is your information—you have the right to share it with people whenever and however you want. I would appreciate your doing it soon, though. Under normal circumstances, your father and I tell each other everything.”
“I promise.”
There was a lull in the conversation. “So tell me about work—how’s it going?”
He shook his head. “Mahmen, you don’t want to hear about that.”
“Sure I do.”
“I don’t want you to think my job is dangerous.”
“Blaylock, son of my beloved hellren, exactly what kind of an idiot do you think I am?”
Blay laughed and then got serious. “Qhuinn flew an airplane tonight.”
“Really? I didn’t know he could fly.”
Wasn’t that the theme song for the evening. “He can’t.” Blay eased back again and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Zsadist got injured and we had to get him out of this remote location. Qhuinn decided to…I mean, you know how he is, he’ll try anything.”
“Very adventurous, a little wild. But what a lovely young male. Such a crying shame what his family did to him.”
Blay fiddled with the tie on his robe. “You always did like him, didn’t you. It’s funny, I’d think a lot of parents wouldn’t approve of him—on so many levels.”
“That’s because they buy into that whole tough-guy exterior. To me, it’s what’s inside that counts.” She made a clucking sound, and he could just picture her shaking her head sadly. “You know, I’ll never forget the night you brought him over for the first time. He was this tiny scrap of a pretrans, with that obvious imperfection that I’m sure he’d been given a hard time about at every turn. And yet even with that, he walked right up to me, stuck out his hand, and introduced himself. He met me directly in the eye, not in any kind of confrontation, but as if he wanted me to take a good look at him and throw him out then and there if I needed to.” His mother exhaled a soft curse. “I would have taken him in that very night, you know. In a heartbeat. To hell with the glymera.”
“You really, truly, totally are the best mother on earth.”
Now she laughed. “And to think you say that without my even putting food in front of you.”
“Well, lasagna would make you the best mother in the universe.”
“I’ll start boiling the noodles now.”
As he closed his eyes, the return of the easy back-and-forth that had been the hallmark of their relationship seemed extra special.
“So tell me more about Qhuinn’s bravery. I love to hear you talk about him, you get so animated.”
Man, Blay refused to think about any of the whys on that one. He just launched into the tale, with some judicious editing so he didn’t divulge anything the Brothers wouldn’t want on the airways—not that his mother would ever say a thing to anybody.
“Well, we were out scoping this area, and…”
“Do you need aught else, sire?”
Qhuinn shook his head and chewed as fast as he could to clear his mouth. “No, thanks, Fritz.”
“Mayhap some more roast beef?”
“Nah, thanks—oh, okay.” He backed out of the way as more of the perfectly cooked meat hit his plate. “But I don’t need—”
More potatoes. More squash.
“And I’ll bring you another glass of milk,” the butler said with a smile.
As the old doggen turned away, Qhuinn took a bracing breath and tucked in to his round two. He had a feeling that all of this food was Fritz’s way of saying thank you, and it was odd—the more he ate, the more he started to feel hungry.
Come to think of it…when was the last time he’d had a meal?
As the butler delivered more moo, Qhuinn drank up like a good little boy.
Damn, he hadn’t meant to waste this time in the kitchen. His original intention, when he’d come up from the clinic, had been to go right to Layla’s room. Fritz, on the other hand, had had other ideas, and the old guy hadn’t taken no for an answer—which suggested that it had been an order from on high. Like from Tohr, as head of the Brotherhood. Or the king himself.