Chapter 86
My intention was to be productive until Phelan arrived, however, a comfortable chair and an open window with a soft breeze proved ideal for taking a nap.
I woke with a start at exactly noon to the clock in the study, chiming the hour. In an instant I was on my feet, disoriented in my half-sleep as I registered my unfamiliar surroundings. Bessie decided that my sudden movement was quite exciting and she leapt to her feet, jumping up with her paws on my thighs.
Bessie weaved through my legs, apparently under the impression that we were in the midst of a game as I made my way to the front door and looked out. I sighed in relief when I found the drive empty, grateful that Phelan cared nothing for punctuality.
I left Bessie outside for a moment to relieve herself and gathered my shoes and a hat that Julia had set out for me before returning to bed.
"Is your brother here?" Julia asked, peeking her head out from the bedroom.
"Not yet," I answered.
Despite my rush to prepare, it was half past the hour when his cranberry red carriage finally pulled up, led by a frazzled young driver and a team of two black horses.
Phelan peered at me through the glazed window once the horses came to a stop, his expression unreadable. I waited a moment to see if he wished to step out of the carriage, but he made no such move once the driver opened the doors.
"Make haste, Kire," Phelan said, lips quirking into a smile as I muttered to myself. "And quit mumbling."
"You are a half hour late," I grumbled.
Phelan sat back, arms stretched out against the backrest of the carriage. Once I was seated on the dark red, cushioned bench, the door closed and the driver hopped back into his seat. A moment later the carriage lurched forward and my brother looked me over. "I left Conforeit at noon, just as I said."
"You said you would be here at noon."
Phelan gave a shrug. "Twelve, twelve-thirty. It's practically the same time."
"Indeed."
My irritation seemed to entertain him, as did a bone-rattling rut in the road that sent me nearly flying into his lap.
"Careful," he droned, barely able to contain a snort of amusement.
"Did you sleep well?" I asked tightly.
He inhaled, eyeing me briefly. "I did not."
I hadn't expected honesty and my expression immediately sobered with concern. "Is that common?"
"No, it's not common," he said, sounding far more exasperated than I expected. "Every stray cat in Conforeit yowled outside the house until first light. Such intolerable creatures."
I said nothing in return and decided it was best not to mention I had an intolerable, one-eyed creature, whom I had saved and quite enjoyed, residing in my home.
"Common indeed." Phelan snorted. "Normally I sleep like a baby."
Clearly my brother knew nothing of the sleeping habits of infants as Alex was up twice a night from the time he was six weeks until he was at least four or five years of age.
"What of you, Kire? Sleepless?"
"We've enjoyed a relaxing holiday thus far," I answered vaguely.
Phelan turned his attention to the window and the scenery we passed. I followed his gaze and did the same, finding the road wended toward the sea and gave a decent view of cottages similar to the one Archie owned before the road meandered further away from the shoreline and onto higher ground. On the other side of the road was mostly tall grass and the occasional tree with houses interspersed along the landscape.
"How long do you intend to stay in Conforeit?" I asked when the silence felt intolerable.
"Until I am bored to death and wish to return home."
"To Belgium?"
Phelan nodded. "Outside of Brussels, to be exact."
My brother was much more forthcoming of details surrounding his life than he'd been previously, but he still seemed somewhat annoyed when he spoke.
"What drew you to Brussels?" I asked.
Phelan crossed his legs and tapped his fingers against the top of the backrest. He continued to stare out the window without sparing me a second glance and eventually enough time passed where I was certain he would not answer at all.
"It wasn't Paris," he said, his voice low.
"Paris was not good to you?"
At last he looked at me and lifted a brow. "Has Paris been good to you, little brother?"
"No better or worse than most places I've traveled," I said. Outside of Tormage and the time spent with the female members of the Batiste Family, I had not been anywhere that I belonged or felt the slightest bit of acceptance. Time and again I was met with contempt from the time people saw I wore a mask, and when I was not on display, I kept to myself.
Phelan grunted and continued to look out the window. "And where have you been?"
"The outskirts and undesirable corners of every major city in all of Europe," I answered. "Although most of the places the fair traveled I saw only from the caravan and tents. I was not permitted to wander without consequences."
Phelan swallowed but didn't look at me or reply. I doubted he expected such an honest answer.
I scratched my neck and shifted in my seat. "And then when I was twenty years of age, I desired a change of scenery from the mundane daily activities of the Opera House and ended up in Persia."
My brother turned his full attention back to me. "Persia? For how long?"
"A considerable amount of time." Far too long, I should have said.
"And what, pray tell, were you doing in Persia?"
My breath caught, heart hammering as I considered his question. "Architecture."
"Architecture?" Phelan asked incredulously. "Designing palaces for the shah, were you?"
"What else would I be doing?" I asked, matching his sardonic tone.
Phelan offered an appreciative chuckle. "Is there anything you cannot do, Kire?"
I looked away from him, considering my greatest limitation and the reason I had been paraded around Europe and ultimately drugged and sold to the shah of shahs. I could write music, but I had never been able to be seen without drawing the ire of polite society. Thousands of people celebrated my music, but if they had seen my face, they would have never attended another performance penned by the son of the devil.
"What are your complaints concerning Paris?" I asked, attempting to change the subject.
"Everyone I dislike lives there," Phelan answered quite plainly.
His reply was so unexpected that I couldn't help but chuckle. "I pray the people of Brussels stay on your good side."
"If they do not, I hear Amsterdam is pleasant."
The carriage slowed and the conversation ended as the road turned from bright and sunny to shaded by plane trees on both sides. Through the rectangular glazed window behind the driver I saw the trees stretched on for quite a distance and led toward a horizon of houses and buildings that seemed more crowded together than I recalled.
Conforeit.
The temperature in the carriage dropped drastically once we were out of the sun. My fingers felt numb, my heart beating wildly as we neared the village. It struck me that I had not seen the sprawl of homes and businesses by the light of day, but the stand of trees made it seem dark even on an otherwise perfectly sunny day.
I stared out the window like a child seeing the world for the first time, my stomach in knots and heart beating wildly. We passed one building I thought for certain had to be the tavern with music in the summer, then another. Nothing looked familiar and yet everything looked the same, which frustrated me despite how many years had passed since I'd seen the small town.
"They blatantly stare," Phelan said.
Sure enough, a stout woman with her blond hair pulled into a tight bun stood on her front step, hands on her hips, and watched us pass by. Two men walking down the street paused and stared, their eyes briefly meeting mine. A group of children whispered to one another like little imps prepared to report back to their parents that we had entered the village. Curtains moved in windows, obscuring the faces of people who watched us travel past their homes.
"Why are they so interested?" I asked.
"Rumors."
"Of?"
"Kimmer's son."
Goose flesh rose along my arms. Instantly I thought of my uncle approaching me in a darkened alley, his hand like a bird's talon gripping my arm.
"Are you Kimmer's son?" he had asked me. I had gaped at him, unsure of his intentions or the correct answer. I knew little of my parents, so few details that I wasn't sure of my own surname.
We rounded another corner and took a more narrow stretch of road that took us deeper into the woods and further from the center of Conforeit. The crowded buildings gave way to a newly built church, a house here and there, and then nothing but trees.
Chestnut and ash trees left the road dappled in sunlight. The air smelled like salty ocean air, rotting, wet leaves, and burning wood. The road became much more uneven, each rut in the road churning us back and forth as though the invisible hand of a giant shook us.
And then I saw it through the glazed window behind the driver, the small wooden house that had belonged to my parents set in the middle of a glade. Phelan twisted and glanced at the house before he turned back to me.
I couldn't pinpoint what precisely I recognized, but I knew we had arrived. The narrow windows that had never allowed enough light in had been replaced, thankfully. The two in the front of the house had looked like giant front teeth to me, angry and bared, waiting to bite into me like the strap I knew awaited my return at the top of the cellar stairs.
The slanted steps in the front were overgrown with weeds and hidden from view, but I could still picture the knots in the wood and the crack in the bottom board.
Emotion overwhelmed me and suddenly I had no desire to be anywhere near the house where I had been born. Far too many terrible memories surrounded the house.
"Here," Phelan said as he rapped on the window. "This is far enough."
We came to a halt some two hundred meters from the house itself. Phelan opened the door without waiting on the driver and hopped out, stretching his arms out and twisting his spine.
I sat back for a moment, steeling my nerves before I forced myself to follow him out.
"Why did you stop so far away?" I asked.
"Because the carriage will get stuck," he answered, nodding to the drive ahead, which was narrow and covered in vegetation drowning in vast puddles of standing water.
"When did it rain?"
"Two nights ago."
He started toward the house, long-legged strides cutting through a narrow trail crowded with ferns, moss, and weeds. The closer we walked to the house, the more sunlight drenched our surroundings. Birds sang from high up in the trees while squirrels barked in protest, bushy tails twitching as we trespassed their domain. Dragonflies darted above the wildflowers, zipping here and there while paper white butterflies meandered in less exact routes.
I took in a deep breath of sweet, summertime grass and flowers, my initial trepidation giving way to an unexpected sensation of tranquility.
Given my brother's fondness for avian, it came as no surprise that there were small bird houses nailed to several trees and feeders set up around the property. Distantly I heard crows cawing and wondered if they were welcoming his return.
"Does the house flood in the rain?" I asked.
"No."
I rolled my eyes and sighed at his single word reply.
From the angle at which we approached, I saw there had been an addition built onto the back of the house. Wildflowers consumed the rear of the property while the ground that had been tilled for a garden was mostly a plot of dirt and opportunistic weeds.
"There was a very large bush here," I said, stopping in my tracks a hundred meters from the front of the house. "Mulberry, I think."
I had crouched behind that unkempt mass of a bush the night my uncle had permanently taken me from the house. A coward's hiding place, I thought, suitable for a boy too afraid to move a muscle in fear of being caught by his own father.
"It died years ago," Phelan said over his shoulder. He proceeded toward the rear of the house and I followed him, glimpsing the front to see that the wooden stairs were no longer there.
I nearly lost my footing in a slick patch of mud when I turned my attention to a ladder propped against the house and a box of shingles. At the last moment I righted myself, arms straight out for balance and a curse loudly escaping.
"What are you doing?" Phelan snapped. He paused with his hand on the railing and shook his head.
"Walking," I grumbled. "Through your treacherous pit of mud."
"Ah, yes my apologies for not controlling the amount of rain that falls from the sky and pointing out the very obvious stone pathway."
"What path-" I stopped speaking the moment I saw the neatly cut stone squares that led toward the rear of the house.
Phelan shook his head in dismay. "If you followed behind me, you would have seen it. Leave your shoes here to dry in the sun then. You can brush off the dirt when we leave."
I half-listened to him, my eyes pinned on the barred cellar windows partially obscured beneath a covering of last autumn's leaves. At once my feet were leaden and my heart slammed against my rib cage, the tranquility of my surroundings ripped away by the onset of unexpected panic. Breathing became a challenge as my chest felt constricted and my ears filled with the familiar, deafening rush of blood through my veins.
Phelan opened the back door and strolled through, heedless of my plight. Faintly I heard Elvira scream a greeting to her master while I forced my eyes to a different point of interest. I stared at wood siding and the windows in the back that did not match the front. I stared at the peeling paint and a crack in the window and a nail protruding from one of the long boards that was warped and in need of replacement. The heady scent of overturned earth and leaf rot threatened to make me sick. Suddenly everything felt distant but overwhelming, as though every terrible moment of my youth stood at the edge of my vision, waiting for me to make the first move, waiting to charge at me from all sides when I let my guard down.
I couldn't do it.
I couldn't force my feet to take a step forward or backward. It was nightmarish in intensity, the sensation of fighting against something invisible only to wake, lathered as a racehorse and exhausted from the struggle, tangled in my damp bed sheets. I clenched my fists and felt my nails dig into my palms, a reminder that this was no nightmare.
I couldn't do it.
No matter how I looked away, my eyes were drawn back to the rusted bars that were my only source of light in the darkened cellar. Metal flakes covered the dried leaves and a spiderweb that looked silvery in the light. I had broken many fingernails and sloughed off layers of skin from my thumb and forefinger turning the screws to escape. Always a terrible child on the run, always looking to get away from the damp, cold confines where I was forced to live.
I couldn't do it.
I couldn't voluntarily return to the place I had escaped from time and again as a child, savoring each moment of freedom. Barefoot and silent as a cat, I wandered far from the house, heedless of the punishment I knew would follow. I would bleed and I would bruise, but first I would dine on scraps and swim in the salty, cool ocean water.
After the sun set and the moon rose, I was safe to wander for a few hours, able to hide in the shadows and glimpse what it would be like if only I had been born normal. Ordinary. No different than anyone else. What a privilege to be simply a boy with a face that was not terrible. What a blessing to be born human, not a frightful creature.
But I was a monster standing outside of an old, rusted cage. Captured animals were smart enough to stay a distance from their prisons, yet I had asked to be brought back.
And then suddenly, in the midst of my silent terror, Phelan's face was before mine and all I could see was the concern in his gray eyes. The house and its barred cellar were no longer before me, the grip of panic replaced by steady, protective hands on my shoulders.
"Erik?" His voice was distant at first, the feel of his hands heavy and uncomfortable as he shook me from the haze. "Erik?"
I blinked at him, the rush of blood loud in my ears subsiding, the cold in my bones ebbing.
"You look unwell. Return to the carriage," he said sternly.
"No," I blurted out. I couldn't turn away, not when I stood five paces from the core of my most paralyzing fears. The house was a house; nothing more and nothing less. My parents were long dead and the premises had been vacant for months before my brother purchased it. "I want to see the inside."
Phelan held my gaze for an unnervingly long moment. "I do not think that is wise."
"It is not your decision," I said firmly.
At last he conceded and stepped aside, giving an exaggerated flourish. Other than the movement of his right hand, the rest of his body remained rigid, his expression a hardened mask of consternation. "Very well," he said through his teeth. "After you, Erik."
Hands in fists, I stalked past him and entered the house, bracing myself for a flood of painful memories. Instead I was met with a nearly unrecognizable interior that caught my breath in my throat. I paused just inside the threshold and looked down at my feet, expecting a dirt floor and realizing I had not removed my mud-covered shoes.
"I've made a few modifications," Phelan said before I could comment on the pristine hardwood flooring and a small woven rug already covered in splatters of mud.
My brother stood beside me, arms folded over his chest and gray eyes scrutinizing my every move. I met his eye briefly, noting that his expression was not judgmental in nature, but brotherly concern. "But do watch your step," he added. "A tree fell on the east side of the house over the winter. Floor boards have not all been replaced."
"That is why the roof leaks and the windows are different?" I asked.
Phelan shrugged. "Yes, but to be honest it was rather drab and in desperate need of change with or without the tree falling," he said. "The damage was a blessing, I suppose. I was forced to make amendments to the house or abandon it altogether."
"You've repaired the roof yourself?" I asked, noting that the rug was not wet and the house didn't smell musty despite the recent rain.
"Of course I did."
"What about the additional room? Did you build that as well?" I asked, nodding toward a closed door off the kitchen.
"Not alone, but I did my fair share several summers ago."
"Another bedroom?" I asked.
"Dining room," Phelan said. He slid the pocket door open and revealed a room that was surprisingly large and brighter than I expected. The walls were yellow and undecorated with a rectangular table in the middle and dark wood buffet against the back wall. "Quite the array of birds show up in the morning when the feeders are full. I find it relaxing to sit at the table and drink coffee."
"What else have you done?" I asked.
"See for yourself, Kire," he said, nodding toward the main part of the house.
For the life of me I could not recall what color the walls had been painted-if they had held color at all. A listless gray, I assumed, or a dirty shade of white with multiple holes from my father's angry fist.
Phelan had patched and painted the walls sapphire blue in the kitchen where we stood and I could see the main room was emerald green. Through the doorway I spotted several paintings of different sizes, some oval portraits and others rectangular framed landscapes.
"Are they yours?" I asked.
Phelan tore his gaze away from me briefly and nodded. "Most of them."
I started to walk into the main part of the house, floorboards creaking with each step when my brother cleared his throat.
"Would you kindly remove your shoes?" Phelan asked tightly.
I did as requested and entered the main part of the house, gaze sweeping first to the left where the hallway led to the bedrooms and cellar door and then to the right where the fireplace I had rarely seen lit was located.
To the right was where my mother would have sat rocking for hours on end, mumbling to herself and occasionally shouting something incoherent at the demons she saw and heard. Her place had been taken by an empty cast iron grate for firewood and a matching stand with an iron shovel and poker. On the other side of the fireplace-which had been a blackened, mouth-like hole in the wall-was a red settee with lavish gold trim and two matching chairs. A bookcase, which was mostly empty, had been built into the wall and contained a few brass statues and a marble bust of Michelangelo's David.
The fireplace itself had been widened and tiled with a great mantle and painting of a peacock hanging above it. The horrid mouth I saw as a boy had been transformed into an inviting space more suited for gatherings.
"I would advise that you stay off the rug," Phelan suggested. "There is a missing floorboard beneath it. Given the rain, I thought it would be wisest to fix the roof and leave the floor for a later time."
Wisely I obeyed and turned to face him. "This must have taken a considerable amount of your time and resources."
He shrugged. "A decade with very little consistency on my part," he told me while I continued to look around. "In another ten years I believe I will be satisfied."
Elvira was on her wooden stand behind my brother, quietly preening her feathers. I almost didn't see her as the stand was behind an easel with a large canvas painted solid gray. Several more blank canvases were propped up against the wall.
"How long does it take for you to complete a painting?" I asked.
"As long as necessary."
I gave an exasperated sigh in response, to which my brother rolled his eyes.
"How long does it take to write an opera?" he retorted.
I absolutely refused to give him the satisfaction of answering him in the same way he answered me. "Typically six months, however, sometimes much longer depending on my mood and how frequently I'm interrupted."
"Fascinating," Phelan said dryly.
"How often do you stay here?"
"Seldom," he answered, which earned him a glare. "I typically visit a few times over the year, usually on my way to and from Paris."
"It sits mostly vacant?"
"A few artists use it as a retreat throughout the year. They pay a small fee to feel inspired by natural surroundings."
"Does Joshua ever return?"
"We have never discussed the house," he said brusquely.
I wasn't sure why the house was a topic of contention, but I decided against questioning my brother further. "What do you intend to do with the house when it's complete?"
Phelan inhaled. "Burn it to the ground."
I snapped my attention back to him. "Surely you would not."
He shrugged. "I suppose in ten years we shall find out."
"Why would you put twenty years of work into a home you intend to destroy?"
"It's a house," he said plainly. "It feels nothing."
I didn't argue with him. Instead I glanced down the short, narrow hall to what would have been the doorway to the cellar. I blinked at what appeared to be a solid wall instead.
"What happened?" I asked.
Phelan followed my gaze. "Sealed," he said, frowning at me.
My feelings were torn at the unexpected sight. Relief washed over me in that I would never step foot through that doorway again, but I felt the tug of despair as well. If I could see it with my own eyes, then perhaps I could confirm that the very core of my nightmares had once existed but was now nothing more than brick and dirt.
"Why did you seal it?" I asked, my voice low as though I feared my father's ghost would punish me for speaking.
"Honestly?" Phelan asked.
I nodded.
"There were sticks bound with twine made into figures and carvings in the wood and in the bricks," he said. "Crude, rudimentary playthings and etchings of a child."
"They were mine," I confessed.
"I know." Phelan stared at the end of the hall. "The sticks and twine had mostly rotted, but the initials and drawings beneath the stairs and by the window remained. What did you use?"
"Nails," I said. "And sharp rocks."
"There must have been hundreds if not thousands of etchings."
Goose flesh rose along my arms as I considered his observation and the time I had languished. It struck me that I had been confined within a cellar for more years than my own son had been alive. "I had almost nine years," I answered quietly. It had seemed like an eternity.
Everything about Phelan darkened. Not simply the look in his eyes, but the way he held himself as though the words I spoke animated him differently. "There should have been none or there should have been twice as many," he growled.
He didn't look me in the eye, but I stared at my brother for a long moment, not quite registering fully what he meant by his words. His jaw twitched, his nostrils flared and face hardened into an unrecognizable mask of white-hot anger.
"No," I said quietly. The very thought of the two of us confined together sickened me. "Not twice as many."
Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the house back the way we had entered. I started to follow, but paused to retrieve my mud-covered shoes.
Phelan was half-way through the barren back garden by the time I managed to pull my shoes on. He stood with his back to me, body rigid and hands on his hips. With his head down and intimidating stance, I saw someone else, someone I never wished to see again.
"It should have been me," he said as I approached. "I wanted to take your place. Once I saw you again on the beach, when I saw your condition, I begged to be left behind."
Silently I wondered what would have happened if our roles had been reversed, if I had been the older brother and Phelan younger and taken by our father. I wanted to believe that I would have done the same to save him from a heavy hand, that I would have exchanged places to end my brother's suffering or stayed with him so that we tended each other's wounds, both physical and emotional.
"It should not have been either of us," I corrected.
"No. I was the one who didn't..." Phelan's lips parted, but whatever was on his mind did not receive a voice. He bared his teeth, his features twisted in rage.
"You were seven years of age when we were last together," I reminded him. Younger than my own son by nearly two years, I thought, and far too young to be forced into the role of a caretaker. "The burden should not have been yours."
"Burden," Phelan said through his teeth.
The way in which he spoke a single word made me shudder. I swore I felt his anger surround us, charging the air like a bolt of lightning ready to strike. "You were too young-"
"You were far younger," he snapped. "By three years, six months-"
"And five days," I finished on his behalf. "I know. My brother," I added fondly.
At last Phelan turned his head and stared at me. The hardness in his eyes softened as he looked me over. The way in which his mouth twisted in malice relaxed, as did the rest of his frame.
"There were enough hardships waiting for you beyond Alak's doorstep," he said with great remorse. "This should have been mine. Every single minute of it. I could have at least protected you until you were old enough to understand."
"Understand? Some days I still don't fully understand," I replied. "I know why I have been shunned for as long as I can remember, but for the life of me, I still don't understand the cruelty and malice that has accompanied such feelings from others."
"I failed you," he said softly.
"No," I whispered. "You did not and I do not blame you."
"Of course not. How could you blame someone you didn't remember existed?" he said under his breath.
Phelan looked away and swallowed hard. He gave the slightest shake of his head, his bottom lip quivering while I stared back at him, bewildered and speechless by his words.
My gaze dropped to his tightly clenched left fist and the marred flesh creeping out from beneath the cuff of his sleeve, the scar he had carried for simply feeding the fire to keep himself and his infant brother from freezing to death.
"Forgive me for not remembering you," I said. "If you are angry with me-"
"I was never angry with you," he said firmly. He shifted his weight and turned to fully face me, his expression a mix of melancholy and indignation. "I was angry when I could not find you the night you went missing. I was furious when weeks turned to years and I knew you were alone and I could not find you. And most of all, I have been enraged with myself every day since the fire at the Opera Populaire and the obituary that ran weeks later in the newspaper when I realized there would never be a moment to see you again and reconcile. I am livid, Kire, but not with you. The cellar, the traveling fair, the theater...none of it should have happened to you."
My breath hitched and I involuntarily shivered at his words. It was difficult to meet my brother's eye, to see the anguish and regret staring back at me.
"Have you nothing to say in return?" he asked through tightly clenched teeth.
"You are correct," I said evenly. "None of it should have happened."
His anger faltered and I recognized the shame beneath the first emotion. When I spoke again, my words were meant for my brother as well as myself.
"We should have grown up together and our parents should have cared for us properly. This house should have been our home, not an institution where our mother wasted away and our father neglected our care. We were not to blame. They were."
I looked past him at the back steps where I had been left to die moments after birth, a newborn so hideous that the only solution was to allow nature to take back its unnatural thing and for the monster to die alone.
"That is where I was left?" I asked.
He followed my gaze. "At the bottom of the stairs, wrapped in a single blanket. You were not dried off completely from birth and there were snowflakes in your hair. I wiped your face with my sleeve and you opened your eyes to look at me."
A smile played at the corners of his lips, and I thought of the first time Alex had looked at me and how complete and unwavering my love for him had been in an instant. There was no question that I would have given my life for my son from the very second he was in my arms, and I knew without a doubt that my brother had felt the same about me.
"And then your lips parted and you wailed until I gathered you in my arms and held you as tight as I could," Phelan told me. "You stopped crying when I spoke to you. When nothing else would console you, I would speak and you would settle down and listen."
"Were our parents upset that you brought me back inside?"
"Truthfully I don't think they noticed, but I don't quite recall their reactions. I took you into my bedroom and hid you behind the bed so that no one would take you from me."
Tears pricked the back of my eyes and my chest ached with grief for an unwanted newborn and the child who had taken it upon himself to save his discarded brother.
"Why were you not afraid?" I asked, my voice trembling and barely over a whisper. "When you first saw me?"
"Why would I have been afraid of a newborn?" His tone matched mine.
"Because I am not like everyone else," I shamefully answered.
Phelan looked at me again, his gaze pinned to the masked side of my face. "The only two people I knew at that age were Bjorn and Gyda. He was heavy-handed and she was lost in her own terrible world. I was quite pleased you were not like anyone else."
"Yes, but-"
"It did not matter then and I assure you, Kire, it does not matter to me now what is beneath your mask. I have never found you frightful nor did I ever think of you as an oddity, not for a single moment." He offered a wan smile. "Aside from perhaps the times you threatened to tell Alak when we were both up to no good. Then I was terrified of what you might say."
I grunted. "You obviously mean when you were up to no good and I was innocently following at your heels."
Phelan sighed and narrowed his eyes, his gaze still drawn to the mask. "Innocent indeed, Kire. You were quite spirited, but as the older brother, I graciously took the blame so that you would not be punished with an early bedtime or no supper."
I smiled to myself. I had a feeling that if I had been sent to bed early or hungry, he would have smuggled part of his supper to me when our uncle wasn't looking.
Phelan sniffed and crossed his arms. "I've no beer or wine. There is some coffee and a limited supply of tea if you would care for a refreshment," he offered. "Unless your wife is expecting you to return soon..."
"I don't care for coffee, but I would gladly accept a cup of tea and an hour of your time. I do believe Julia will appreciate an extended afternoon of uninterrupted relaxation."
Phelan nodded. His anger subsided and he relaxed at last. "Then by all means, little brother, please return inside."
