31

It was there when Raoul awoke this morning, reposed on the desk among the scattered envelopes, so free and open it is as if it wanted to be found. He did not want to read it, at first, as his interest was elsewhere and Erik's wrath would be swift if he found the boy meddling, but it was the name at the top of the peeking yellow note that caught his eye. Addressed, formally. It is to his father.

Now he swears he can hear the silent clock in the background, ticking, booming the quiet to heavy pieces. The note sits at his feet, torn in half and not forgotten as easily as he would like. He tries to, and the more he tries, the more it will not go away. From the contents of the message he gathers that correspondence has been continuing for some time now. Talk of the young man's condition, various graceful threats, and negotiations for his ransom.

Raoul is ambivalent, and it leaves him out of place, physically awkward and uncomfortable. His mouth is dry, his throat sticky. He cannot decide on a feeling. Is he angry? Is this quickening of his pulse, the throbbing of his veins, the hollow ache in his stomach, the flushed heat of his face and nerves, is it all a result of anger? Erik has lied to him, kept things from him, that is to be expected. Erik is ransoming him and letting him go, ultimately.

Is that happiness? Erik will leave him. It will be over. The world will rush back, the sky and its burning idol, the sun, all at once. Raoul should be excited, relieved, overcome with grievous joy, but he can barely bring himself to look at the note. He yearns for a more fitting end. Something more than this.