“I will speak to the gamekeeper this afternoon,” the general said cordially.
“Forget it,” the Patriarche spat. “I’ll speak to him myself. Apparently if you want anything done right around this place, you have to do it yourself.” And with that, he rose from his chair and stalked out of the room, promptly ending the meal.
General Bonnefaçon rose too, which was Marcellus’s cue to wipe his mouth and push back his chair.
“Please excuse us, Madame Matrone,” the general said. “Officer Bonnefaçon and I have much to do to prepare for today’s Ascension ceremony.”
The Matrone slouched in her seat. “Oh, not another dreadful Ascension! If you keep letting Third Estaters into Ledôme, we’ll be positively overrun.”
“I assure you there is plenty of room in Ledôme,” General Bonnefaçon said. “And the Ascension manoirs are a long way from the Palais.”
The Matrone waved a dismissive wave, sending her rings clacking together once again. Then she stood up, teetering somewhat on her feet. “Come, Marie. Come walk with Maman in the gardens.”
Marie let out a wail and burst into tears. “No! Birdy! Birdy!”
The governess immediately ducked under the table and scooped the child up into her arms, cooing into her ear. “Yes, yes. We’re going to see the birdies right now in the gardens.”
“If my husband hasn’t shot them all,” the Matrone said under her breath.
“No!” The little girl’s voice was almost muffled by sobs now. “Birdy! Birdy!”
Nadette attempted to shush the child again as she followed the Matrone out of the banquet hall. Marcellus’s gaze fell to the floor next to the edge of the tablecloth, and he noticed his white swan lying abandoned under a chair.
For some reason, he felt a strong urge to pick it up and run after the little girl, but then he saw that his grandfather was already halfway out the opposite door. Marcellus turned and followed behind him, grateful that the meal was finally over and he wouldn’t be expected to sit through another one for an entire week.
As Marcellus and his grandfather walked back to the south wing, Marcellus’s mind filled with more questions about his dead father that he longed to ask.
What were his last words?
Was he all alone?
But he knew there was no way he could ask such things. Curiosity could easily be misconstrued as concern, and concern could just as easily be misconstrued as grief.
And you don’t grieve traitors.
So he continued down the corridor in silence, following the general into his large, oak-paneled study. The walls were covered with First World paintings and relics, including the head of an antlered beast (never successfully bred on Laterre), which hung above the fireplace with its dead eyes watching over the room. Marcellus’s grandfather took a seat behind his vast, imposing desk and immediately began to watch the many AirLink messages that had appeared on his TéléCom since they’d left for brunch.
“Will that be all?” Marcellus asked.
He knew he’d be expected in the Marsh soon for the Ascension, but he secretly longed for a few moments alone before then, so he could process the news about his father in private.
“No, actually,” his grandfather replied, still staring at his TéléCom. “Your father’s body is in the morgue at the Vallonay Med Center. They’ve requested that you go to sign off on the disposal.”
A wave of nausea instantly passed over Marcellus. “Me?”
His grandfather looked up from his screen, a knowing smile dancing on his lips. “First time seeing a dead body?”
Marcellus knew his grandfather was teasing him, the way everyone at the Ministère liked to tease him. He had a reputation for having a weak stomach—something he was working hard to overcome. He straightened up, reprimanding himself for losing control. “Yes. But I’m fine. Obviously, I have no connection to my father. His body will be like any other . . . body.”
He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. He needed to stop saying “body.”
His grandfather set down his TéléCom and flashed Marcellus a sympathetic look. “It’s perfectly normal to feel uneasy. I remember my first. Sols, I damn near fainted.”
Marcellus perked up. “You did?”
His grandfather chuckled at the memory. “Yes. I was working in the Policier, and my inspecteur had sent me to Montfer to investigate the murder of an exploit foreman. It was dreadful. The man had been ripped open with a mining pick. His insides were spilled out all over the ground. I took one look at him and I swear every planet in the System realigned.”
Marcellus felt himself grow woozy at the image and quickly sat down across the desk from his grandfather. “What did you do?”
His grandfather leaned forward conspiratorially, as if sharing a long-kept secret. “I clenched my teeth so hard to keep from passing out, my back molar cracked right down to the gum. Spent the rest of the day in the Med Center. Told them it was a piece of overcooked sheep bacon I’d bitten down on at lunch.”
Marcellus let out a laugh, instantly feeling lighter.
“But it gets easier,” his grandfather went on. “Eventually you see enough dead people that they stop being people and start being . . . bodies.”
A memory from earlier this year—almost three months ago—suddenly drifted into Marcellus’s mind. He could still see his grandfather’s vacant eyes as he’d returned from claiming the remains of the twelve men and women who’d come back from their mission to assassinate the Albion queen. The rebels on Usonia had eventually won the war, but that particular mission had failed.
He knew those soldiers were not just bodies to his grandfather.
One in particular.
“But, Grand-père,” Marcellus began with a shaky breath. “What about when it’s someone you know? Maybe even someone you’re close to?”
The general’s eyes narrowed, and Marcellus knew he was treading on uneven ground. But he pressed forward anyway. His grandfather had to talk about what had happened at some point. Didn’t he?
Marcellus tried to wet his lips, but his tongue was as dry as sand. “Not my father, obviously. I barely even remember him. But when you saw the body of Commandeur Vernay . . .”
Marcellus saw the shift in his grandfather’s expression immediately. Like a curtain being drawn.
“It’s already after 13.30,” his grandfather said, picking up his TéléCom again and swiping at the screen. “You should get on your way to the morgue. I’ll message Inspecteur Limier and let him know you’ll be late for your Ascension duties in the marketplace.”
Marcellus searched his grandfather’s eyes for a hint of the levity and openness he’d glimpsed just moments ago. But it was gone. Stamped out. Like a planet passing in front of a Sol.
Since childhood, Marcellus had trained himself on the complex workings of his grandfather’s worn and weathered face. Like an explorer mapping out rugged, uncharted terrain, he’d memorized every wrinkle, every muscle, every subtle movement and what it meant. He’d learned to recognize the rare moments when his grandfather was open and exposed, and more importantly, the all-too-frequent moments when his grandfather was closed. Locked. Bolted.