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The grandfather clock at the end of the hall had stopped working when Wylan was twelve. It was a quiet wing of the house, far from the rooms cared for and tidied for guests, and so in its neglect, it had gone years unfixed. In that hall, through an old mahogany door, was the music room.
Ivy clawed fingers up the aging brickwork. On the shaded side of the house, the plant life festered and feasted on the dampness of dew. In the garden, the rose bushes had once been more neatly trimmed, but now grew wild, leaning over the stone bench where they used to sit.
Now, on the cusp of midnight, the grandfather clock ticked. Four months ago, under Wylan’s suggestion, it had been fixed. Across the hall from the music room, Wylan’s hand closed hesitantly around the brass doorknob. It should have been locked. There was a plan, at one point, to convert this to a studio. Since the auction, it had been left abandoned and untouched.
He had an anger that couldn’t be sated. For so long, it had been dampened down, pushed out, swallowed, rejected. To let it rise only made himself sick. And yet, it appeared he could only digest it for so long. Like a cord pulling taut, it was destined to snap.
Wylan took a careful breath and turned the knob. What was he doing? What am I doing here? Nothing waited for him here but an outlet for his misery. Then again, what waited in the rest of the house? Reminders of the life he could have had, of the choices he had made, of the venom he had spit. His mouth tasted bitter, of regret. He pushed the door open and forced himself inside.
The air, thick with dust, filled his lungs and stole his breath. The door fell shut behind him far too loudly, and then he was trapped. The bookcases towered above him. The desk waited in the corner.
Why was he doing this? To punish himself? To find the one place in the house free of those memories, just to plunge himself into something worse?
Because you deserve this, that voice whispered back. Because you need to remember what kind of person you are. The kind of broken that was never going to let this work. You need to believe this was inevitable.
Out in the hall, the clock chimed midnight, its sound muffled by the heavy door. Wylan sank to his knees and tried to breathe. Through those beautiful windows, the black night crept ever closer. He traced his fingers on the rug and tried to count all of the times he’d been reduced to this position in this room before. That kind of pain was something he could wrap his head around. His knuckles burned. There were tears stinging his eyes, and he fought them back. Childish.
The dust within this room could have been years old. Had his father ever taken a step within here in his absence? Had the servants ever cleaned it, or had they been forbidden, just as they were when Wylan assumed command? What they must think of him. What they must say behind his back, in passed notes or silent murmurs, in the streets, in the gossip, in the meetings of the merchants that he felt with certainty were occurring while he sat here uninvited. What would he do now? How would he keep up the façade?
It had been far past midnight when they’d fought, but by the chiming of that clock, Wylan was back. He was pacing the house, witnessing each bell as it passed. It was impossible to shake the panicked feeling of this house. Distract from it, perhaps, let it slip to the back of his mind, but never fully discard it. On that night, it was all-encompassing. He couldn’t free himself from it. Half of him believed that he was worrying himself into a mess again, always the most sensitive, frustratingly oblivious, idiotic and ill-minded. The other half was certain that Jesper was dead.
The worst storm of the season had at last hit Ketterdam. The waters of the canals rose up, unbidden, nipping at the doors of the Geldstraat mansions like a beggar come to call. As the moon rose, the winds only worsened, rattling the shutters and whistling down the chimney. It was a night to stay in, warm in each other’s company, and yet Wylan was alone.
It had been weeks of this. Late nights and misunderstandings and half fights that fizzled out the second the real sparks began to fly, as after the first big flinch on Wylan’s part Jesper had dedicated himself to never raise his voice at him again. Only now, curled up like a baby in the shadows of his worst traits, choking on the dust of unread books, Wylan wished he’d just given in and screamed at him. He could take it. He wasn’t given the chance to take it.
Their last fight had been over nothing at all. A simple job that had gone wrong. Jesper bursting back into the house, hands buzzing with the thrill of a fight, and Wylan standing in the kitchen like a mourner at a grave.
“You’re late.”
“Am I?” Jesper’s eyes glinted as he glanced over Wylan’s shoulder to read the clock up on the wall. “Ah. I see.”
“Very late,” Wylan added. He couldn’t help the venom that seeped harsh into his tongue.
Jesper hadn’t even apologized. He’d made a joke of it. Was that the final straw? Here in the library, Wylan shivered though he wasn’t cold. His knees dug into the rug. Tears were pricking at his eyes again. He needed to be braver than this.
The fight was bad. Worse than it should have been. Money was gone, yes, but Wylan had never been the one to care about a fortune, and besides, there was still plenty to sustain them. The problem was that Jesper knew how badly he’d screwed up, and he was sick of screwing up, and so he lashed out. Badly.
Wylan’s hands were shaking. He was standing in the kitchen, through with the excuses. “Tell me straight. Don’t talk around it. Jesper, please.”
“I fucked up. What else is there to say?”
“Say you’ll stop. Say you’re working on it.”
“What if I’m not?” he demanded, taking a step to close the space Wylan had deliberately left between them. “What if nothing ever changes and I’m like this forever? Will you love me then?”
“Jesper.” He shuffled back subconsciously, placing himself behind the center counter. His heart was racing so hard he feared Jesper could hear it pound. “This isn’t fair. I’m not saying I don’t love you, I just—”
“What? You just what?”
“I just – I just—” The tears were spilling, hot and thick, drowning him. He was a blubbering child again, unspeaking, unthinking. “Fuck you,” he spit. “Why am I bothering trying to help you?”
Jesper scoffed, not kindly. “Because you want to feel useful?” he suggested.
His chest was burning. “Stop it.”
“You treat me like a project.”
“Because you have a problem.”
“And I said I was sorry!”
“No, you didn’t!” Wylan shouted.
“Saints, I get it!” As his tone raised, so did his arm – an exasperated gesture, a habit, nothing to overreact about – and Wylan jolted back.
Keep your hands down. His body flooded with adrenaline. Look me in the eye, son. His limbs were stiff with panic.
“Wylan—”
“Leave,” Wylan forced out. His whole body ached.
“I didn’t—”
“I said get out.”
“Wylan—”
“GO!” he screamed. “Go – get out of my house. Find someone else stupid enough to think you care about them! Fuck off!” And then it was his arm swinging, arcing through the air like a thousand fists before, colliding hard with Jesper’s shoulder. He was sobbing hard, his vision blurred. He couldn’t breathe.
“Fine!” Jesper snapped. “I’m fucking going! Don’t expect me back for work!”
Wylan’s glare scalded into him. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t come back.”
His hands were shaking now, alone in this room. This was the only room Jesper never ventured into, at least not with Wylan as company. It was untainted. It was a clean dark hole, a black pit of his past that dug its claws into his heart and poured its contents on the floor. No more Jesper. No more pain. He was safe in the empty misery, and let it in.
When the tutors struck him with the ruler, he would cry for his father. He knew, even then, that they were doing something cruel, but he couldn’t imagine that this cruelness would have been sanctioned by someone who loved him so dotingly. Love, as he learned, was a means to an end.
In the darkness of this room, sinking deep into the dust-logged rug, Wylan wondered if Jesper’s love had been nothing but a tool. A way to take what he wanted from Wylan – money, physical affection, attention – yet a flimsy thing to toss aside the second trouble rose. In their bed, when he’d promised forever, had he meant it? Had Wylan?
In the days since the fight, Wylan had done nothing. He’d claimed sick to miss the council meeting. He’d lied in bed, then cursed the sheets for once harboring the two of them. The cook had forced him to eat. He’d wandered the halls.
Wylan still wasn’t sure if he meant what he’d said. He missed Jesper like mad, but things had been getting worse and worse before that fight. In a way, it felt inevitable that it would end like this. They were two people that had never been all that compatible, and in the time that they’d shared, they’d both proven themselves irrevocably incapable of change.
When he was young, he used to imagine that his father would see error in his ways. It was tricky, as though Wylan did feel as though his father acted with reason, he selfishly wished for a world in which they could both look past his affliction.
Never, not even as a fantasy, did he imagine that he himself would be fixed. He was cursed like this for life.
“Saints, Wy, you’re as bad as Kaz.”
Wylan blinked. There, beneath the gaping window of the library, was Inej, bathed in shadows. She crept forward, regarding him with something close to pity.
“What business?” he mumbled. His mouth felt thick and heavy. He was lying on his side like a body bound to die.
“I was sent to check on you.”
“By who? I doubt it was Kaz.”
“It could have been.”
“It wasn’t him, was it?”
“Wylan.”
He felt mean. He felt like a small child throwing a tantrum. “I don’t want to speak to him.”
“You’ve both been wallowing for days.”
“I thought you’d only just checked on me.”
She ignored his accusation. “What are you doing in here, Wylan?”
With a sigh, he pushed himself up to his knees again. He wanted to be struck. He wanted to be rid of this rottenness that lived inside him. Inej was perched upon the table beside him, waiting for an answer. “I don’t know,” he said hoarsely.
The corners of Inej’s mouth tugged downward as if by a puppet’s strings. “Wylan,” she sighed. She crouched before him and opened her arms, and before his mind could take a hold of him, he fell into her embrace.
When he retreated at last, it took a moment to find his voice again. “How is he?”
“He took it hard,” Inej answered. “He’s been drinking. He refuses to sleep.”
The guilt writhed with him, sickening. “I didn’t do it just to hurt him.”
“But you wanted him to hurt.”
“I wanted him to feel what I’ve been feeling.”
Inej nodded thoughtfully. “You are very much like Kaz.”
Out in the hall, the grandfather clock began to chime again. One bell. It only worked because Jesper had agreed to Fabrikate the chains together once again.
“You don’t have to invite him back,” Inej said, “but I think you should come down to the Slat.”
Wylan shook his head. “I can’t. I don’t know what I’d say.”
“Think about it,” Inej said. Then, like she was merely a mirage, by the time he looked up, she was gone.
Though his lips throbbed, Wylan couldn’t help but grin. His body sank into the mattress, and he pressed up, mind spinning with Jesper, Jesper, Jesper. Fingers curled into his hair, and his own nails dug into the meat of Jesper’s back, and he felt drunker than two glasses of wine should have gotten him. They’d been living here for six days, and this was Jesper’s idea of taking it agonizingly slow. Wylan certainly didn’t mind. Now that most of his injuries from the auction had been healed, he was eager to take a step into those fantasies that kept him up. And then, in an action that was definitely supposed to be nothing but hot, Jesper set his hand on Wylan’s collarbone.
It wasn’t even wrapped around his neck. It was nothing at all, yet Wylan’s body froze like he’d been plunged into the icy waters of the canal again. In a pathetic attempt at defending himself, he put a hand flat against Jesper’s chest and shoved.
Jesper shuffled back across the bed, shirtless and in shock. “Hey, Wy—”
“Sorry,” Wylan gritted out. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” The panic rose unbidden, consuming him. Those grubby fingers dug into his windpipe, nails biting. He was drowning.
“Hey. Hey.” Jesper’s hands encircled Wylan’s wrists gently, pulling his hands away from his neck. “Talk to me, merchling.”
“Please don’t do that,” Wylan wheezed.
“I won’t,” Jesper promised. “Never again. You have my word.”
“I think I’m dying.”
“Stay with me, Wy. Look at me. You’re not dying.”
Keep your hands down. Look me in the eye.
“Feel this?” His hand was guided to Jesper’s waist, to a knotted scar just above his left hip.
Wylan forced himself to nod.
“It’s from the first time I was stabbed,” Jesper said. “I was cornered in an alley, shook down for all I had. For weeks afterward, I couldn’t go out in the Barrel after sunset without shaking. I thought everyone wanted me dead.”
“That isn’t true,” Wylan protested. “You’re—”
“Brave?” Jesper filled in. “Only because I made myself. When I first came to Ketterdam, I had a constant headache from the noise. I thought I’d go mad. I missed home.”
Wylan tipped forward to press his forehead against the heat of Jesper’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Don’t be. No more apologizing, not to me.”
It took Wylan three more days to follow Inej’s advice. He simmered in his own self-pity as long as he could. Then, at last, as the sun began to set, he tucked a knife and a packet of smoke bombs into his belt and set off towards the Barrel with a script of forgiveness.
Jesper. I’m sorry for what I said. I know you said no apologies, but you deserve one for this. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I would like to try again. It’s not your fault you’re sick, and it’s not all there is to you. I want you around, and not just because I can’t do my job without you. I want you because you’re you. I love you even when you’re stupid, and I hope you can love me likewise. I know you’d never hurt me. I don’t want to hurt you ever again. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—
Wylan froze. He was lost in the middle of the chaos of the East Stave, hair windswept and sticking with mist, legs aching, when he glimpsed a familiar face through the open doorway of a gambling hall.
Saints, Jesper looked a proper mess. His shirt was unbuttoned, face and chest gleaming with sweat. He was chatting lively, face torn in two by a lopsided grin, but his eyes were unfixed, glazed with booze. He cast the dice.
Wylan stormed into the building with an echo of his father’s fury. He gripped Jesper by the arm and pulled him out of his seat. “What are you doing?” he asked loudly, not quite shouting. “What are you doing?”
Jesper stared back, uncomprehending. Then something flickered in his eyes. He smiled. “Hey, merchling.”
Wylan wanted to slap him. He almost did, then hated himself for it. He wanted to be hit. Instead, he dragged Jesper out of the chaos and noise, out into the street where the misty breath of rain soaked through them.
Jesper blinked at him. He reeked of liquor. “Wy?”
“You know, I had this whole speech planned,” Wylan said. He had meant it to come out angry, but he only sounded like he was trying not to cry. Childish.
“Was it any good?”
Wylan’s face twisted into something awful. “Fuck you.”
“Wanted to,” Jesper mumbled.
“Is that all?” He hated that he didn’t know. Hated that he was stupid enough to even have to ask. Hated the answer already, either way.
Jesper was shaking his head, gazing at Wylan like he wasn’t quite sure if he was real. “Of course not,” he breathed. “Even if you never let me touch you again, I would follow you to every room. And if you didn’t let me in, I would sit out on the street. I’d sit in on every dream. I’d be quiet for you. Unless… unless you really want me gone.” His voice broke, fracturing the image of composure, and his eyes glistened with tears. “Tell me now, Wy, please. Don’t give me hope.”
Wylan had released his arm. He hadn’t even noticed. His whole body was numb. The rain soaked through his clothing, through his skin, and formed pools within the marrow of his bones. He was an empty well, a drain. “You don’t want this, Jesper.”
His face crumpled. “Then – then what are you doing here?”
“I just told you, I’m here to – to fucking apologize!” Wylan snapped. “You’re so dense sometimes, you know?”
“I would never call you that,” Jesper said quietly, and he sounded truly hurt. Wylan’s heart ached.
He took a step back, leaving Jesper in the light of the club. “That’s the point,” he said. “You don’t want someone you have to coddle like a child.”
Jesper’s eyebrows pinched together, like he was putting all of his dwindling mental energy into determining the correct response to give.
“I came to say I’m sorry,” Wylan went on. “I’m sorry. There.” That stabbing pain was back in his chest, the twisting feeling that had sent him spiraling back to the library that night. “I can’t do my job without you, Jes.” He hadn’t meant to say that. He had explicitly meant to avoid saying that. I want you because you’re you. He’d already abandoned his speech. It hadn’t been that eloquent anyways.
“I’ll go mad in that house,” Jesper admitted. His clothes were soaked through now; if he wasn’t warm with booze, he’d join Wylan in trembling from the cold. Standing here, free from the glamour of the Geldstraat and the glitz of the gambling hall, he looked pathetic. He looked young and lost. He was gazing at Wylan like he was already mourning him.
“It’s a maddening house, but I think you’re prone to madness,” Wylan said. It wasn’t dismissal, but it wasn’t an admission that Jesper’s rules were right. As much as Wylan had wanted Jesper to be safety, somewhere to fall into and free himself from the burden of the world, Jesper was a person intent on his own destruction. He would tear the earth open beneath him if it meant escaping the gift that he had been convinced was a curse upon him, and if Wylan wasn’t careful, he would take him with him. While Wylan had returned to his own demons in their time apart, Jesper had done the same. Here he was, wasting what few savings he had left on foolish drinks and even more foolish bets. He was Wylan in the library, falling deep into that hole. “I lose my mind in there alone,” he added.
Jesper’s expression had shifted to one of cautious optimism. “Is this an invitation back?” he asked.
“For tonight, at least,” Wylan relented. It wasn’t everything, but it was a step. “You’re drunk. You’ll be glad to sleep somewhere quiet.”
“Funny how you consider yourself quiet, merchling.”
“Not when you’re there, I suppose,” Wylan mumbled, ducking to hide his blush.
Jesper barked a laugh. His grin was dazed. “Lead the way, merchling. For tonight.” Still, Wylan couldn’t help but notice, he kept his distance, apparently content to stagger just behind Wylan all the way back to the Geldstraat. With an eyeroll, he pulled Jesper’s arm over his shoulders, closing the gap. The heat of Jesper’s body fought the chill.
For the first time since he’d forced Jesper out of the house, Wylan allowed himself to remember the feeling of Jesper’s flesh beneath his fist. He’d struck hard in his upper arm, plowing through the defense of his coat to land a force upon the bone. He’d wanted him to hurt. He didn’t know how else to express the anger he was feeling. No, not anger, not really – frustration. He was fed up with the lies and the half fights and the tip-toeing around each other. Jesper’s body recoiled from the strike, and Wylan had felt good. And then the door had slammed behind him and that fleeting rush of satisfaction burned and blackened to a searing pain. What have you done? Throwing a tantrum like a child? Striking out in anger? You know who you learned that from.
By the time they arrived at the Van Eck estate, Jesper had overcome his qualms with touching Wylan. They’d barely made it up the stairs before his hands were on his waist, slipping under his shirt, and Wylan did little to dissuade him. The hunger rose within him, more easily convinced than his heart, and the door to their bedroom was pulled shut for the first time in days. Jesper’s lips were brushing down his neck and Wylan’s whole body was burning. He hated to ruin it.
“Wait.”
Jesper retreated, watching him carefully. Wylan’s heart was pounding. The fear that filled him at the mere idea of this was almost to send him fleeing, but it had to be done. If there was something to recover here, he had to do this. He took Jesper’s wrist in his hand, loose but sure. He tried to meet Jesper’s eyes but could not maintain it. Instead he stared at his chest, at the constant rising and falling as he drew in breath. Slowly, he guided Jesper’s hand to his collarbone and pressed his palm against his skin.
“Wylan—”
“I’m not a child,” he said firmly.
“I never said that.”
“You believed it. That night, you should have fought back.”
“Fought back?”
“I attacked you.”
“No offense, Wy, but you didn’t even bruise me.”
“You need to fight back.”
“Wy—”
“You can’t – you can’t let me—”
“I’m not letting you anything,” Jesper retorted. He pulled his hand back and took a step backward to give space. “I wouldn’t let you really hurt me. And I never even think about that because I know you wouldn’t try.”
It was all too much. Wylan wanted to kiss him. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to be hit. Instead, he pushed his words out, soft and splintered. “I’m worried about you.”
“Me?”
“You’re dying. You’re – you’re sick, Jes, and I know you don’t like to admit it, but using your powers is the only thing that helps—”
“That’s not true. You help.”
“Do I? Or do I just distract you?”
“If you do, you’re a very good distraction.”
“Stop it.”
“I’m sorry.”
There was silence. Deep in this quiet, on the far end of the house, the clock still ticked. The ivy clawed its grasp into the bricks. The dust lamented.
“Wylan,” he said quietly. “Why’d you put my hand there?”
Wylan swallowed hard. He flexed his fingers and felt a phantom ache across his knuckles. “When you were gone, I went into the library.”
Jesper drew in a sharp breath. “Saints, Wy—”
“I felt safer there. Like I knew how it would hurt me. And thinking about you hurt in a worse way. So, now I – I wanted to prove that you’re safe. You’re safe to me.”
Jesper looked down at Wylan’s neck, which was far too exposed, but Wylan didn’t flinch. Jesper’s gaze peeled back the ghosts of the bruises, leaving blank pale skin behind. “Because you were hurt,” he said.
Wylan was silent. He had never recounted the events of that night to anyone, not even Jesper. To relay that pitiful tale would be to admit that he had never had the braves to leave of his own accord. That he had known exactly the sort of monster that his father was and had let his friends fall for his trick in ignorance. That he’d been so idiotic as to not even check that the papers he’d been sent with were anything but blank.
Jesper’s hand caressed his cheek, and his thumb swiped the tears away. “I’ve been stupid, Wy. Stupider than usual. I want to be good for you. You deserve better than me.”
“And you deserve better than me,” Wylan argued. “So what’s that make us?”
Jesper shrugged with a half-smile. “Pretty shitty lovers, it turns out. But I’d like to make the effort.” He paused. “I’m sorry for that night. I was out of control.”
“No,” Wylan said. “Don’t hold yourself in for me. And don’t call yourself stupid. It’s more like… you know what I do when I make explosives?”
“Magic?” Jesper guessed.
“Close. Basically, when two chemical compounds combine to create an explosion, you have to separate them physically. You don’t just pour them together and get mad when they react. You keep them in separate compartments, and sometimes when one compound gets exposed to other elements, it becomes neutralized. That means the bomb’s a dud. You combine them again and nothing happens.”
“Right,” said Jesper. “Not that I don’t love a glimpse into that brilliant brain of yours, but how is this relevant?”
“I think we should get out of Ketterdam,” Wylan said. “I think I’d like to see your farm. And we can file leave with the Merchant Council, and Kaz can handle the business until we get back.”
“He would love that.”
“Yes.”
“So.”
“What do you think?”
Jesper stared for a moment. He was looking at Wylan’s neck, then up to his lips, then higher still to lock with his gaze. “I think,” he said slowly, his hand on Wylan’s waist again, “I think I’m glad you came to find me tonight.”
As he leaned in, Wylan remembered the sight of the brass chains of the grandfather clock fusing back together, fixed at last, and the seam that remained where they had split apart all of those years ago. On the far side of the house, twelve bells began to chime, and Wylan was reminded with a start that his flute was waiting in the music room, untouched for days, collecting suffocating dust, and that Jesper had promised to teach him the tune of a Kaelish wedding song, and the chimes of the grandfather clock were just an eighth step flat since the chain had been repaired, but the melody was still clear.