It was only when he drew near and took her hand did she realize that his eyes were not brown but a deep forest green, surrounded by thick lashes. “Oh,” she exclaimed, struck by their singular hue.
He smiled kindly. “That is not the usual response I receive when meeting guests, but quite lovely all the same.”
Mary flushed to her toes. She hadn’t meant to say a thing. But those eyes struck a chord within her, and her instincts clamored for her to think clearly and stop fiddling about with niceties.
The archbishop straightened, a smile still hovering about his lips. “Ah, but it is far too dark in this room, is it not?” He reached out to a small lamp resting upon a side table. With a click, bright white light illuminated the space around them. The archbishop beamed. “An incandescent lamp. Isn’t it glorious? I do so love modern advancements. It is my mission to see the whole of the palace wired for electricity within the year.”
A surprising and extravagant expense to say the least. But Mary merely murmured her agreement and let him guide her to a seat. She glanced at Talent, who stood hovering in the shadows, his face white and his teeth bared. The archbishop noticed her attention straying and followed it.
The archbishop’s benign expression crashed, revealing one of disgusted horror. Another second and it shifted to icy cold disdain. It happened within a blink of the eye, yet Mary took it all in and noted a similar change overcome Talent. Only his expression went from careful blankness to utter rage.
His green eyes glowed with it, the square hinge of his jaw bulging as if he ground his teeth together.
A terrible tension thickened the air as the two men glared at each other. Talent was bigger, pure brawn, and topped the other man by five inches, but facing off, she could see the similarities in their features, cut from the same model, only Talent’s was harder, his life experience having given him a rough edge.
“You dare return here.” The archbishop’s tone was pure frost.
Talent cocked his head and regarded him. It was almost indolent the way he took his time, but there was no mistaking the way he held his body in tight readiness. “I did not think you’d recognize me.”
The archbishop’s lip curled. “You’ve the look of her.” The coldness in his eyes grew frigid. “Her male counterpart. A grotesque version of all that was good and true.”
Talent took a hard step in his direction before halting. His fists curled, the corner of one eye twitching. “You ought to know depravity when you see it.” His voice was almost controlled, almost normal. “Having practiced it before.”
“Enough!” The archbishop smacked an open palm against his thigh. “Get out, spawn. Go back to the darkness from which you came.”
“Stop.” Mary could hear no more. Both men flinched as though they’d forgotten she was there. She tried for a reasonable tone. “Surely we can all calm—”
“Miss,” interrupted the archbishop, “I am going to assume you know not with what you’ve come in contact. However, I implore you to come with me. For your safety.”
“Mr. Talent is not a thing,” she said incredulously.
A growl rumbled in Talent’s chest at that moment. Mary stepped closer to him, but kept her gaze upon the archbishop, who looked at her with false patience. “Your Grace, I do not understand what lies between you and my partner, but surely—”
“What lies between His Grace and me,” Talent cut in sharply, “is murder.”
The archbishop went livid red. “Murder is the killing of a human. Otherwise it is simply a necessary extermination.”
Talent sprang with a roar, tackling the elder man and crashing to the floor with him.
“Talent!” She hurried over, her heavy, voluminous skirts hampering her progress. Any moment now guards would come. His life would be ruined.
But Talent was past hearing. He hauled the archbishop up, and the man’s head bobbled, even as fervent prayers rattled from his pale lips. “ ‘He cast upon them the fierceness of his anger, wrath, and indignation, and trouble, by sending evil angels among them.’ ”
“Prayer will not help you,” Talent shouted over him.
“ ‘He made a way to his anger; he spared not their soul from death, but gave their life over to the pestilence.’ ”
Talent bared his teeth, his fists curling into the man’s cassock. “You were supposed to help. You were supposed to save us all. You destroyed my family—” His voice broke.
“No, you did. With your unnaturalness.” Spittle flew as the archbishop snarled up at him. “You killed your mother. Your father—”