Devil's Half + chapter 1

Sunlight filtered into the room through the great open French windows, landing dappled on the carpet and bedclothes.  Faint strains of spring birdsong echoed through the room, the entire world enjoying this new snap of warm weather.

On a chair by the bedside, however, was one who was not enjoying any of it.  Ozmund Cashiel sat hunched, his elbows on his knees, the expression on his ordinarily Roman handsome face quite morose.  He usually dressed like a storm crow anyway, but now it seemed he was acting the part as well.  He had reason.  His mother was dying.

She lay on the bed, half-propped up by the pillows, looking very serene, with her nearly white-fair hair spread out around her, getting lost in the white of the pillow slips and her nightgown.  Although her eyes and cheeks were hollow, she was still a beautiful woman; she was not that far past forty.

"I fear I am almost gone," she said softly, reaching out a hand to Ozmund.  He shook his head mutely, taking her hand in both of his.

"Don't say such things," he said, swallowing.  "You don't know that."

"Ozz, I of all people should know," she said, mouth quirking into an expression much more familiar to him; the face she made when she was making fun of him.  "It's me dying, after all."

"You don't need to remind me," said Ozmund, although it was hard to talk around what felt like rocks in his throat.

"I think I do, Ozz," she said.  "I'm going to be gone quite soon, and before I am, I need to tell you a few things.  I've lied to you, Ozz."

"Of course you have," said Ozmund, smiling faintly.  "White lies keep the world smiling.  You always said that."

"This isn't a white lie.  It's quite a bit darker," said his mother, fixing him seriously with her pale eyes.  "Literally.  Do you remember the color of your father's mustache?  It was always black, like his hair used to be before it went iron-gray."

"Of course I remember," said Ozmund, starting to frown.  "I'm not sure what you're getting at, though."

"My dear boy," she said, with a shaky laugh.  She reached up with her far hand, petting the white-blond hair of her son's temples.  "You never thought it odd?"

"You're very fair," he said, shakily.  "I'd assumed-"

"That isn't how it works, and you're learned enough to know it," she sniffed.  "Ozz, when I'm dead, you won't be as alone as you assume."

"Of course not, I've got more aunts and uncles than I can bear to think about," said Ozmund, chewing on his lip.  He didn't want to hear what he guessed she was going to reveal.  She shook her head impatiently.

"Stop coddling me, you silly little bugger," she said, a little crossly.  "They're all horrid people and you're not going to so much as glance at them once the funeral's over.  Ozmund, look at me.  Yes.  My husband was not your father."

Ozmund bowed his head, letting out a sigh.  "You've never told anyone else, I assume?  Else I wouldn't still be the heir."

"No, of course I never told anyone.  I'm not thick.  But you need to know, because your real father, he's still alive.  And I fear that when I am gone he will come looking for you."  Her eyes searched his face worriedly.  "You must be careful around him.  Perhaps he will look upon you kindly, but I do not know.  It has been twenty years since I have seen him."

"Why?  Who was he?" asked Ozmund, voice hushed, his mind running through the possible candidates.  It wasn't pretty.  If he were, say, a flighty young girl, he might have presumed a handsome stable boy, or a foreign prince.  As it was, he was running through the roster of his uncles and the family's social circle, trying to think of someone blond and not completely odious.

"A very strange man," said his mother, eyes going dreamy for a moment.  "A strange… compelling man.  No, son, you've never met him.  You'd remember if you had.  You look quite like him, you know."

Ozmund recoiled briefly, and then recovered.  He'd always thought he looked quite like his mother, and not…

"But you are not like him otherwise," his mother continued.  "Of which I am glad.  You're a good boy, Ozz."

"I don't try," he said apologetically.  "I'm surprised you still think so."

"Oh, Ozz," she said fondly.  "They'll think you tiresome and cynical if you keep on that way."

"I know," said Ozmund, bowing his head once more.  "I'm not sure if I'll be able to help it, though.  Without you there-"  he couldn't continue.

"You'll come into your own without me," said his mother softly, reassuringly.  "You'll see.  Now, I trust I don't need to tell you to keep quiet about what I've told you."

"Of course not," said Ozmund, half-smiling.  "I'm not thick."

"Good," said his mother, relaxing back into the pillows.  "Then… if you would… go see if they've made up that tea tray for me, and be sure they didn't skimp on the brandy this time."  She closed her eyes, to be sure that he knew the conversation was over.

He stayed by her side a few moments longer, sighing, and then got up, padding out of the room as quietly as he could.

*

They put Lady Cynthia Cashiel in the ground a week and a half later, in a cemetery that was almost obscenely green and lively with spring blooms and singing birds.  There had been a warm front come in that day, so Ozmund in his black suit and overcoat and umbrella had an expression of morose suffering that was entirely genuine.

He still had rocks in his throat, but how could he cry when his mother had been so serene?  Well, truthfully, he knew that most of the reason Cynthia had faced the afterlife with such aplomb was the staggering amounts of laudanum the doctor had prescribed her for the pain.  There were still leftover bottles of it in the house, but Ozmund had found that he had a bad reaction to laudanum.  It made him cry like a little girl at the tiniest things.

Even so, he wasn't sure he had space in his head to be emotional at the moment.  His gaze drifted over to the headstone of the grave next to the hole they had dug for Cynthia; the previous Lord Cashiel's resting place.  Lord Jonathon Cashiel, who was apparently, not Ozmund's father.

It made sense, after all, and being a practical man, Ozmund had always considered the possibility.  Jonathon had been more than twice Cynthia's age when they were wed, and he had come out of a previous marriage with no children.  Still, he'd never thought of the man in the ground as anything but his father, although it had been ten years since his death.

The priest's graveside rite came to an end, and Ozmund bent to toss the first handful of dirt onto the coffin; with his other hand he dropped a bouquet of white roses.  

He didn't wait around after that, but folded up his umbrella and wandered off among the headstones, listening to birdsong.  It wasn't long before the rest of the funeral throng started to break up and go home.

Tomorrow, the reading of the will, and then it would be business as usual.  He was Lord Cashiel, and he had responsibilities.  It was too late to join this year's Season in London, but plans would need to be made for next year.  The world would not stop for his mother's death.