Chapter 13 — Suspect

Alaric had spent the week investigating the murder. He came up short every time. No one had seen or heard a thing.

“Perhaps you should speak to Fallon in person.” Rhys huffed, twisting his hair into a braid.

“No. I trust Fallon. He would tell me if he found anything, there’s no need to hold a meeting.”

“Well, why are you so against one?” Rhys spun around to face Alaric with a raised brow. He dropped his hands after tying off the braid, folding his arms over his chest. He tapped an impatient foot, feeling rather snippy lately. “The wedding still isn’t for another month, and I told you I don’t want anything elaborate. It’s political, so we don’t need to have a grand ball.”

Alaric’s brows furrowed, tongue pressed to his cheek. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated, Rhys.”

“What, are you two not pals? I thought you knew him when you were young. Don’t tell me he stole your girlfriend—”

“Rhys, please.” Alaric rolled his shoulders, pulling his coat on, then his cape—it was magnificent. Bear fur lined the outside, heavy and suited for winter, red linen lined it underneath.

Rhys sighed, sitting back down on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other.

“Why don’t you go occupy yourself at the infirmary? The soldiers are looking forward to seeing you.”

“It’s complicated.” Rhys mocked him, watching Alaric close the door.

It wasn’t, not really. Rhys had simply seen enough blood and despair and illness for a lifetime. Fern had fallen ill around Rhys’ fifteenth birthday. Then Callum and Aris both went off to war, and they never returned. And now, there were four more found dead by the bridge. Atop the stress of the upcoming wedding, Rhys felt all of these events wash over him until he was floating in a sea of his own tears and sorrow.

The last month had been trying, to say the very least, and Rhys was at his wit’s end. He could not fathom the sight of the sickly, injured soldiers, and for that, he felt much more guilt. But he simply couldn’t do it.

He had not left the tower in three days.

Instead of working in the infirmary, Rhys cleaned and cooked alongside the two servants Alaric still had around. He had learned how to bake bread and wash clothes and even scrub floors and carpets. It was an entirely new field of work for him. Rhys had grown up learning to analyze maps and political dis[utes. He learned to read and write and wield a sword on the rare occasion, despite his great displeasure. He’d never before worked alongside servants. 

Rhys did not mind, however, he was rather curious about how servants worked. And baking was fun. He even got to watch the bread rise after dropping just the tiniest bit of yeast into the mixture. It was like magic.

Washing clothes was much less fun. His fingers pruned and it stunk of sweat and he could feel the grime of dirt and blood on his hands. Rhys swore then, silently, that he would not ever take for granted the clean clothes his servants brought him each morning again. 

Rhys sighed, sitting back down on the sofa. The two servants, who Rhys learned were named Isla and Penelope, followed suit, taking a quick break.

Isla was younger than Penelope, perhaps thirty. She was short with blond hair and wide doe eyes. Rhys found her rather beautiful. Penelope was in her late forties. She was Isla’s mother, just seventeen when she had her. Rhys couldn’t imagine.

“And what of your husband?” Rhys asked curiously, “Was he also so young?”

“He was nineteen.” Penelope smiled fondly, though it did not quite meet her eyes. Rhys didn’t push.

Isla grinned more mischievously, “So,” She began with a sing-songy voice, “how are you and His Majesty? Is he spoiling you rotten?”

Spoiled? Rhys nearly scoffed. Alaric had burned down his castle and taken his mother’s life, and the soldiers under his command caused Rhys to lose his brother and father, as well. Rhys wasn’t sure what part of that gave Isla the connotation of spoiled, but it was almost laughable.

“Not really. We keep to ourselves.” Rhys finally replied, taking a slow sip of his tea. “He is not around much, anyhow.” Not that the prince really minded. He actually preferred it that way. If Alaric was gone every day like this, it would feel as though Rhys was not married to him at all.

“Isla, that’s enough with the invasion. His Highness doesn’t want to talk about such things.”

Rhys wasn’t entirely sure what ‘such things’ Penelope was referring to, but he wasn’t too eager to find out. He simply nodded, taking another sip of tea.

“Right, of course. I apologize.”

“No need,” Rhys waved a dismissive hand. “Truly, there was no invasion.” Well, perhaps a little.

Just then, the doors opened and Alaric stepped inside, removing his furs then coat. Penelope and Isla both stood up, bowing before they returned to work.

Rhys did not greet Alaric. He simply watched him, his tongue still pressed to his cheek. Rhys wondered if he was annoyed or if his face was naturally always twisted in anger.

“That snake.” Alaric muttered, hanging his coat up with a huff. 

“What snake? Did you find the murderer?” Rhys perked up, curious.

“Not quite, but I may know who it is.”

“Well?” Rhys urged, impatient. Alaric seemed to drag things out on purpose for dramatic effect.

“I can’t tell you.”