Chapter Text
Quill Kipps had managed to avoid Anthony Lockwood for nearly four years. Well, not completely, of course. There were still those fleeting instances when they would run into each other in the corridors, each interaction never amounting to more than just the scowls on their faces and the quick, snide remarks they exchanged. But, other than that, Quill’s life had been free of any Anthony-induced irritation for some time. He sometimes thought the lasting avoidance was somewhat of a miracle, but after all, it was a big castle.
The son of England’s King William and the late Queen Anne, Quill was a young man (a prince too, naturally, but he usually ignored that descriptor) who focused on his studies almost as much as he focused on his swordsmanship, and was not exactly sociable. It was once a misfortune of his that his studies and swordsmanship were shared with Anthony. Anthony’s parents, Donald and Celia, were two scholars who lived in the King’s castle and had access to all of its academic resources. In exchange, they tutored Quill. He thought the pair a little strange, but good teachers and people nonetheless.
Quill and Anthony did their lessons together up until their incessant bickering, constant nagging, and near hatred of each other became too much -for both themselves and the Lockwoods. The story was the same for swordsmanship. The final nail in the coffin for that arrangement had been when a normal training session ended with a scratch on Quill’s bottom, courtesy of the sharp end of Anthony’s sword.
Quill didn’t know quite what it was about Anthony that annoyed him so much. He supposed it might be because they were so similar. Awfully prideful, they were. Headstrong, too, and very competitive. In fact, their competitiveness was perhaps the biggest reason they couldn’t get along.
“I do hope the lesson was not too difficult for you, Quill,” Anthony had said to him a few years ago. “I know my father and mother had to make it easier for you, bring it down from my level to yours.”
By the time this particular interaction took place, Anthony had grown taller than Quill, despite being younger than him. The boy usually made it a point to look down at him while saying such remarks, the satisfaction he got from such a small victory written plainly on his face.
“You wish that were true,” Quill had scoffed.
Once, the comment would have sent Quill into a fit of rage. But, over the years, he learned to focus on acting indifferent rather than showing his true anger, which was good because it took less energy and annoyed Anthony even more. And, eventually, he hardly saw the boy. However, no matter how hard he tried, Quill never quite could rid himself of his negative feelings toward Anthony Lockwood.
That is, of course, until everything changed.
—
One day, after three years and ten months of avoiding Anthony Lockwood, it was Lucy Carlyle who told Quill what happened.
An apprentice to the King’s portrait artist, Lucy was perhaps Quill’s only true friend. He liked the girl’s wit and talent, along with her loyalty and sympathy. She was a good friend.
Unlike Quill, Lucy had other friends. Much to his annoyance, Anthony was one of them, as well as George Cubbins, an apprentice to the Lockwoods. The three were rarely seen without one another, or Holly Munro, one of the personal attendants to Quill’s stepmother, Queen Marissa. Quill had also seen the group associate with Florence Bonnard, one of the stable hands.
Lucy found him sitting in the courtyard late that morning the day that it happened. He knew something was not right when he saw the puffiness around her eyes and the frantic way she grabbed for his hands when she reached him.
Quill stood up, taking her hands. She gripped them tightly. He stared at her patiently for all of about two seconds before a sickly feeling settled in his gut. “What is it, Lucy?” he asked anxiously.
Lucy could barely look him in the eye. When she finally did for the briefest glance, Quill was alarmed to see her eyes glassy with tears. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out except for a small whimper.
“Lucy,” he urged, “tell me, please!”
“It- it’s the Lockwoods,” she choked out. “George found them dead in their study four hours ago.” The girl brought a hand to her mouth as a sob escaped her.
Quill was stunned by the news. He could do nothing but sit back down, his mind blank with disbelief. Lucy said nothing more as she moved to be next to him. Several minutes passed before Quill found his voice again.
“Was it- was it just-” he could not get the question out.
“Yes, just Donald and Celia,” Lucy said, her voice small and strange. “Anthony was still asleep.”
A great wave of sorrow washed over Quill. He felt a very deep sadness. A sadness for himself and the loss of his tutors, who he had known since his childhood, for George Cubbins who was now without the two people he admired most, and of course for Anthony Lockwood.
Anthony’s older sister Jessica had passed three years ago from scrofula. Quill did not have any lessons for a month because it nearly destroyed the family. And now, how would this not destroy Anthony? He had no one.
“How?” Quill asked.
“Well, after George found them, he came and got me and Holly,” Lucy explained through a shaking voice. “He had left them as they were before he got us. They had been eating breakfast, though hardly any of the food was gone.” She paused before continuing. “Because of this, we think- we think they were poisoned. We searched the whole study and did not find anything else.”
“And my father knows?”
“We all went to tell him. Afterwards, Holly and I stalled him for a little longer so George could go back. He wanted to take some of the remaining food to look it over.”
“I’m going to talk to him.” Quill stood up and started to walk away before Lucy grabbed his hand.
“You are going to see the wrong person, Quill,” she said. “As much as George is hurting, Anthony is hurting the worst. He needs all of us.”
“Even though I think you are probably right, I have never been a part of ‘all of us,’ Lucy. Besides, he wouldn’t want to see me, and I wouldn’t be of any help.” He made it a few paces before Lucy ran to get in front of him.
“Please! He refused to see Holly or I, we could only talk to him through the door to his quarters and he never responded.”
“And you think he would talk to me, then? You’re mad.” He pushed past her.
“He might! You should at least try. It would mean more to him than you know.”
Quill stopped. “What do you mean?”
Lucy sighed, either exhausted or exasperated, he could not tell. “You’re telling me that after all these years, his parents -who were responsible for turning you into an educated and somewhat decent man may I add- die and you still will not move past your petty, childish feelings towards him? Honestly, Your Highness , grow up.”
With a particular emphasis on her last words, Lucy turned and left him. Quill stood still for a short moment, rooted in place by his shame. She most definitely had a point, but he couldn’t bring himself to dwell on it, so he set out to find George.
–
Despite his best intentions, Quill did dwell on Lucy’s words as he made his way through the castle. He could barely think of anything else, in fact. Not of what he would say to George when he found him, or what he would say to his father when he accused Marissa of murder.
Yes, because he knew that Marissa was the one who poisoned the Lockwoods. He was not sure how, but he knew.
Yet, the words for both of those meetings escaped him. He could only think of Anthony, and how right Lucy was about his feelings towards him. What is a prince if not gracious, humble, and mature? Quill had been everything but, especially when it came to Anthony. It mattered not what his father thought of his behavior, but the Lockwoods would be disappointed in him. After everything they had done for him, he owed it to them to be decent to Anthony.
That was step one. Next, he would find out how Marissa managed to kill Donald and Celia. To do that he needed any information George had, which would not be a problem, except Quill could not find the apprentice anywhere . Not in the kitchens, the Great Hall, the library, nor in his personal chamber. George Cubbins was nowhere to be found. While he assumed the Lockwoods’ study would be closed off by now, Quill resigned to look there anyway.
Reluctantly, he headed towards the study, taking the same route he had been since he was eight years old, the year his lessons began. He remembered being angered at the thought of sharing his studies with the younger boy, but by that time his mother was very ill and his father would hear nothing of his complaints.
It hit Quill with a sort of sad irony that now he and Anthony had something in common. Once, the thought would have made his nose turn up with disgust, but now, now he did not know what to think.
He took the noises coming from inside the study as a good sign. Having solid information from George might help clear his mind, give him something to focus on. He pushed past the ajar door, slipping quietly into the room.
“George, I need to know what you’ve found- oh.” He stopped short, nearly choking on air as he cut off his sentence.
Anthony Lockwood stood in the middle of his parents’ study, a book in his hands. In place of his normally well-groomed appearance was a disheveled head of hair, rumpled shirt, and blood-shot eyes. Those were perhaps the worst for Quill to look at, his eyes. So dull when they were usually so full of life, wonder, and excitement. And just below them, a face that was tear-stained. Quill’s presence was evidently unnoticed, because all of a sudden the book was flying out of Anthony’s hand right into the wall. A noise escaped Quill’s throat, this time catching Anthony’s attention.
“Oh, hello Quill. I was just, I was- actually I don’t know what I am doing.”
He had yet to say or do anything and already Quill was kicking himself for being so awkward. What do you say to someone who you’ve practically hated for almost your entire life, whose mother and father were just murdered?
Apparently nothing, at least for the first five seconds.
Finally, the few social skills he possessed kicked in. “I’m so sorry, Anthony. I’m sorry about your parents, and I’m sorry about being here. You probably don’t want people in here. I’ll leave.”
“You don’t have to go,” Anthony said as he looked down and quickly brushed his cheek with his hand.
“What?”
Anthony cleared his throat. “I said you do not have to go.” He sighed. “You’re clearly here to look for something, and I am not in the mood to stop you.” The boy made for the door.
Quill’s mouth opened on instinct before he could stop himself. “What, that’s it?”
His words were met with the expected reaction: an irritated deep breath, a hard stare. “Yes,” Anthony grated out, “as a matter of fact, Quill, that is it. My parents are dead and I don’t feel like standing here and bickering with you like a child. Do me a favor and send Lucy to tell me if you find anything.”
Quill tried to say something, but a slam of the door and Anthony was gone.
—
Night had fallen by the time Quill saw Anthony again. In the time that had passed since their unfortunate meeting in the study, Quill had found George and the two went over his findings. So far the apprentice had confirmed that the Lockwoods’ food had been poisoned, but with what he was not certain. After leaving him to do more research, Quill wandered the grounds. He tried to work out how Marissa did it, but nothing would come to him. Quietly, so as not to catch his father’s attention as he entered their quarters, he returned to his room.
The absence of any revelations left him with nothing but a sick feeling of guilt. It was strange for Quill, foreign really, to feel guilty after a run-in with Anthony. When the feeling did not go away, he resorted to wandering around again, eventually making his way to the kitchens.
Sometimes Lucy would make midnight trips to the kitchens, so Quill thought -and hoped- he might have company. He could see that would be the case; the door was already partially open, and once he stepped inside he saw someone standing by the hearth, their shape silhouetted by the firelight. It was still rather dark, however, and he couldn’t tell who it was.
“Lucy?” he questioned.
The figure gave a sideways glance, the light catching their face. It only took Quill a second and a few more steps forward to see he was wrong. Much too tall to be Lucy. Shorter hair as well, and paler skin. Normally the face was adorned with a smile, but not tonight. Shifting his gaze upwards, Quill saw the same tear-streaked cheeks and tired eyes from earlier. He stood up a little straighter, trying to shake off any weariness that plagued him.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Anthony,” he said. “But, actually, I’m glad I found you again. I wanted to tell you-”
“You found something then? In my parents’ study?” Anthony asked. His demeanor was different than before. He had a sudden, intense energy, his face set in a hard and determined look. He crossed over to where Quill was standing in just a few strides.
A bit taken aback, Quill swallowed before saying, “Well, yes, but didn’t George tell you?”
Anthony’s expression softened a little. “No. He tried to, but I didn’t want to hear it so I sent him away. I had been locked up in my room since, but I couldn’t sleep.” He wouldn’t look directly at Quill, but a strange look fell over his face as his voice grew quiet. “Because the last time I went to sleep. . .”
Quill was quiet for a second or two, unsure of what to say. Then, “Well, do you want to hear it now?”
“You mean what you found?”
“Well, I was actually looking for George, not anything in the study. I wanted information from him, which I got.” Anthony nodded. Continue . “His original theory was correct. Your parents were- were poisoned.”
Silence fell between them for a few moments, aside from a few sniffles from Anthony which Quill could tell he was desperately trying to hide.
“Well,” he said, “It’s not anything I did not know already.” With that he pushed past Quill towards the door.
“Wait! Anthony, please, I wanted to tell you something else.” It happened before he could think; his hand moved and it was on the boy’s arm. Quill let go almost as quickly as he had reached out. Anthony said nothing, but Quill noticed his eyes lingering on the spot he had touched.
“I want to apologize for earlier,” he said. “And I want to apologize for. . . everything, really.”
“Everything?”
“Everything. I- I was recently made aware of how, well, to use Lucy’s words, childish my behavior has been. I owe it to your parents-” he paused, “and to you, to be better. I’m sorry.”
Anthony looked at him and did not break eye contact. “First and foremost, I do not need your pity. Just because you feel bad about my parents does not mean I need to accept your apology. However,” he took a breath, “I do appreciate it, your apology. And your sympathy.”
“Of course. I understand-”
“And,” he continued, “I have also been told by Lucy in the recent past that my behavior has been childish, so I apologize for that too.”
Before Quill could get in another word, like a repeated apology, or how much he truly missed Donald and Celia, or how he was going to expose Marissa, Anthony turned and walked out. For the second time that day, Anthony Lockwood had managed to leave Quill Kipps wanting more of his presence. The dramatic exits were a little annoying, but nonetheless, he was beginning to think this could be the start of something new.