Battle Royal

by Lucy Parker

  He picked up another bubble and examined it. “You were quite right,” he said grimly. “He did rip off the recipe. Or at least part of it.”

  “Yup.”

  “Going to tell me what’s in this emulsion?”

  “Nope.”

  He settled the bubble on his tongue. “Boysenberry. White chocolate.” He made a little considering noise in the back of his throat, a honeyed purr that she somehow felt as a twitch on the back of her neck. “Agave?”

  “Sorry,” she said, with zero remorse. “House secret.” She wiggled a bottle at him. “But I’ll throw you a bone. You can take this with you. Study to your heart’s content.”

  “Which you confidently anticipate will come to nothing.” By his tone, he expected to have the recipe in its entirety in about three minutes. “Thank you.” As he moved to take the bottle, he knocked over her propped-up iPad. “Sorry,” he murmured, rescuing it before it shot to the floor.

  Sylvie took it and thumbed back to the news item she’d been reading earlier with disgust. “Did you see the latest headlines on Rosie and Johnny? Having failed to dig out any hot titbits about the wedding, the Daily Spin has resorted to fabricating stories in which Johnny is both a callous heartbreaker, who left a string of weeping maidens around his parents’ estate, and a thwarted lover, still pining for his ex-girlfriend.” She turned the screen and he gave it a cursory glance. “Imagine having such a hate-on for Johnny. He wouldn’t make the most effective figurehead, but it’s not like he’s in line for the top job. And he’s adorable.”

  Dominic’s brows shot up. “Is he?”

  “Adorable. Like a puppy that hasn’t grown into its feet yet.” He looked slightly revolted. Unperturbed, she went on, “There’s a lot of critical press about this wedding. I know the royals are perpetual cannon fodder for the tabloids, but I always thought Rosie was popular—”

  “With younger people, very, according to Pet, the font of royal gossip. Less so with the older guard. Rosie’s not quite the standard pearls-and-pillbox-hat royal, is she, and the press loves to punish individuality.”

  “Pet sounds usefully connected, like Jay.”

  “Name anyone in London and my sister could probably tell you where they went to school, what they like to eat, and which train they take in the morning.”

  Sylvie was smiling. “Has she always been so . . . exuberant?”

  Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. The traces of amusement disappeared from his face as if she’d hit a button.

  The silence stretched before he said, “I don’t know.”

  Averting her eyes to give him some semblance of privacy, she bent over the cauldron she hadn’t touched yet, in which a thin sugar solution simmered. It was a milky white in color, touched with gleaming pastels when it caught the light. She stirred it as delicately as if she were collecting unbroken cobwebs.

  “May I ask you something?” Her voice was low, blending in with the rhythmic pat-pat of raindrops falling on leaves, winding from hidden speakers.

  “Can I stop you?”

  Her hand paused midstir. Their eyes met. “Yes.”

  That muscle in his jaw jumped. “Go on.”

  “It’s extremely nosy.”

  The faintest flicker of another smile in that watchful gaze. “I would expect nothing less.”

  Outwardly, Sylvie redirected her attention to the contents of the cauldron, watching a little bubble rise and pop in a sparkling second. “When Pet came into the studio, she was obviously so proud of you. But she also made a comment about not knowing you very well. Is that just because of the age difference, or—”

  “I . . .” Dominic broke in, and then stopped. She shot a quick glance sideways, and saw his hand on the table, fisted so tightly that his knuckles were showing white.

  Sylvie dropped the stirring stick and impulsively moved to place her hand tightly over his. “Don’t,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I asked.”

  He stared at their stacked hands. “I haven’t talked to anyone about this since my grandfather died.”

  “And you don’t have to.” Sylvie started to draw her hand back, but his fingers suddenly turned over and caught hers.

  It was a light hold; she could have broken it easily if she wanted to. Her skin was tingling again.

  “I was born nine months after my mother had an extramarital affair.” The words were expressionless. “From an early age, I suspected it was one of many affairs, but at the time, I was the only living, breathing result. And Gerald, my stepfather, hated me. Not resentment, not antipathy—hatred.” He looked at her. “I don’t know if you’ve ever looked at someone and seen pure, undiluted hatred seeping out. Gerald’s aggression was of the passive variety—occasional digs if he thought they’d strike home. Which they rarely did. He was a blustering, pathetic, relentlessly dim man. For the most part, he just ignored my existence. But when he did look at me, I could see it.”

  Her mouth was dry. “What about your mother?”

  “Lana generally backed up Gerald in whatever arrogant, shortsighted comments he made on any topic. I don’t think she actually liked him very much, but she didn’t want to deal with problems in the household.”

  “Problems.” The welfare and well-being of her own child.

  “I was left in the care of a nanny most of the time.” Dominic’s tone was typically matter-of-fact. “She wasn’t exactly Mary Poppins. Thank God,” he added. “I can’t imagine anything worse than spontaneous outbursts of daily musical theater.”

  He had noticed her tendency to bust out random lyrics when she was deep in concentration; his look was both sarcastic and amused, and invited a retort.

  For once, Sylvie couldn’t oblige.

  Her life so far had been punctuated by periods of soul-shattering loss, but that grief had come amidst decades of warmth and love. She’d known herself the light and center of someone’s existence. No, she’d never experienced hatred.

  But as she wrapped her fingers tighter around Dominic’s, she could feel the flickering beginnings of it for two strangers who didn’t deserve to be called parents, and a woman who ought to have been a child’s only hope of comfort.

  She was under shrewd observation. “You know some of this already,” he said, and it was a statement, not a question.

  “Only that you had a nanny. Dolores didn’t say much more than that.”

  His expression didn’t change. “She doesn’t know much more than that. Isobel worked with my mother and used to come around to the house when I was very small. She would always have something for me in her bag. A chocolate bar. A small toy. I’ve never forgotten the scent of her perfume.” A flicker of a smile. “She still uses it now.” There was deepening warmth in his voice. “I’m thirty-eight years old and she still occasionally presents me with a bag of sweets.”

  Sylvie was very conscious of the feel of his hand in hers, the skin so silky-warm along his fingers, so shivery-rough on the tips. “Is Pet your only sibling?”

  “I have another sister, Lorraine, who’s four years younger than I am. Gerald doted on her, and she’s still his carbon copy in every way. But Pet, she was an unexpected, very welcome surprise, born when I was twelve.”

  “And you loved her.”

  Another of those semi-smiles. She’d do quite a lot to see a real one. “From just a few months old, she was such a cheeky, happy little kid. Once she started crawling, she followed me everywhere. She almost made living in that house tolerable.” He was looking at their linked hands again, turning them slightly, absently measuring his fingers against hers. “Almost. But when I turned thirteen, I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d been saving scraps of money doing odd jobs around the neighborhood. I was tall for my age. People usually thought I was older. On my birthday, I managed to get a train ticket, and I left for London. I came here. To Magnolia Lane, to find my grandfather. Who took me in without the slightest hesitation. Like your aunt, I don’t think he ever regretted it.”

  Opening the door of De
Vere’s that day must have been like walking through the Narnia wardrobe: a whole new world and way of life.

  Ultimately, the way home at last.

  “And Pet?”

  “Initially,” Dominic said, “I left a note and took Pet with me. She was still a baby, not even walking yet.”

  “You . . .” Sylvie pursed her lips with a silent breath. Barely aware of what she was doing, she stroked his fingers.

  “I wanted the only member of my family who felt like my family to be with me. I thought my grandfather could adopt us both.” His thumb ran along her palm before he suddenly released her, sitting back with a grimace of self-derision. “As we weren’t living in a Disney film, however, it didn’t quite work out that way. Lana and Gerald had Pet back by dinnertime, and Gerald contacted the police to see if he could have me charged for abduction, as a minor—”

  “Oh my God.” Sitting on the edge of a stool, she stared at him, appalled.

  “After Pet was returned home, Sebastian went to see them and spent over an hour talking to Lana. When he came back to the bakery, they’d agreed to abandon any punitive course and sign over full custody of me. I think the former required considerably more finesse and persuasion than the latter,” Dominic added wryly.

  There was a slight burn behind Sylvie’s eyes. She blinked it away almost viciously. He’d think she was offering pity. And of the multitude of emotions she’d felt listening to the bare bones of his early years, pity didn’t enter into it. But she was intensely sorry, and helpless, that it was impossible to somehow reach back, to help. “And your grandfather started training you in the family business.”

  “A gold-plated legacy to live up to.”

  She was quiet. Then: “Sebastian was a marvel. An absolute icon. But you’ve made De Vere’s your own, you know. You’re forging a new legacy here. And I suspect your grandad would be pleased as punch about it.” There was a glimpse of something in his eyes, then, that made her stomach explode into flutters. She looked back at him steadily. “You were happy with Sebastian.”

  This was her main professional rival. The man who’d repeatedly insulted and undermined her work. Whose own aesthetic she belittled in return. The man she had, at one time, profoundly disliked.

  And if he still hurt, it mattered.

  “Yes, I was.” No hesitation now. “He’d been alone since my grandmother died five years before, and my mother rarely contacted him. She’d both inherited and made enough money that she had no use for him or De Vere’s. There was very little emotional attachment on her side. On his, she was a constant absence, a forever loss. He wanted me. He was always interested in what I’d done, what I thought, what I wanted to be. And he made it possible.”

  The Dark Forest encouraged confidences, and not just because buckets of alcohol were consumed amongst these tree branches. Sylvie knew from experience that it was easier to talk down here, to open up in the dim light and dancing shadows, to be truthful; with others, with yourself.

  Carefully, she said, “In the archives, you said that you and Sebastian had a rocky beginning—”

  When he finally responded, she was very aware of how far he was stepping out on the precipice with her right now.

  “When I moved in with Sebastian, he enlisted an excellent therapist for guidance in how best to . . . redirect the emotional path I was on. And, hell, did he try. He pushed himself out of his comfort zone in every way to counteract as much of my previous life as he could. He was incredibly generous with his time, no matter how busy he was, and provided everything I needed in a material sense. Including a piano and music lessons, because he believed everyone needs at least two creative outlets for their mental well-being. But . . .” Dominic’s jaw shifted. The tinge of dull red under his cheekbones could have been a reflection from the pink cauldron, but she didn’t think so. She folded her fingers together to avoid slipping a hand back across the counter. In clipped staccato, he confirmed a little of what she’d begun to suspect. “I was a very guarded teenager. I found it almost impossible to initiate any gesture of physical affection. I would want to, sometimes very badly, and I couldn’t. I struggled less on the receiving end, but—that, too. Sometimes.”

  Because before the advent of Sebastian, the only person in Dominic’s life who would have offered the comfort of their arms—or wanted his own—was his baby sister.

  Jesus. His fucking parents.

  He didn’t need to voice the obvious inference, but he added, still curtly, “Thanks to Sebastian, I left the worst of it behind a long time ago. But engrained instinct is hard to shake completely.” And buried pain periodically raised its head; Sylvie knew that. “Outside of purely casual or sexual touch, and unless there’s significant inherent trust, my brain can still throw up a barricade in that respect.”

  Exhaling, Sylvie gestured at the table surface where their hands had rested, entwined. “A few times recently, I—we . . .” Heat was pressing back into her own cheeks. “Does it make you uncomfortable when I . . .”

  Seemed to be increasingly drawn to reach out to him—and with nothing casual about it.

  Abruptly, he rescued her from the pit of awkwardness. “No.” Then, more slowly, with a frown in his eyes, as if he were acknowledging something to himself tonight, as well, “It doesn’t.”

  They were both silent again until Dominic said tersely, “Pet was upset today. She thinks I want her to leave.” One brow lifted. “What did you once call me? A human ice block?” She grimaced, hard. “I looked at her and just for a moment, I was back in that house and I couldn’t move. It’s been twenty-five fucking years. Her parents are dead, Sebastian’s passed on as well, and if I’m an ice block, Lorraine could have single-handedly sunk the Titanic. Pet’s a family-oriented person with, to all intents and purposes, no family. I’m not what she’s obviously looking for and needs.”

  That comment caused a tiny, deep-buried personal pang, but every instinct in her mind and body was focused outward right then. She leaned forward. “Dominic. At thirteen years old, you loved that girl enough to take her and run. A child and a baby, all the way to London, with only a few pounds in your pocket. Everybody should have someone in their life who cares that much.”

  It was some time before he spoke again. “I tried to see her a number of times when I was a teenager, but Gerald blocked contact. I finally managed a meeting when she was eighteen, but she wanted nothing to do with me then. He’d probably been feeding her God knows what poison.” He shook his head. “She asked me not to contact her, so I respected her wishes, and mentally closed a final door on that side of my family. In retrospect, though, she was profoundly uncomfortable that day. Shutting anyone out, it’s not in Pet’s nature. Even when it should be.”

  Tiredly, Dominic rubbed his hand over the dark shadow on his jaw. “She started tentatively reaching out a few years ago, just showing up at the bakery for ten minutes at a time, making phone calls on some weak pretense. And then she installed herself as a full-time fixture. At least temporarily.”

  “Maybe temporarily in your workplace. In your life, the plan is obviously to become a permanent fixture.” Sylvie hesitated. “And underneath, it sounds like that’s what you want, too.”

  The only sounds were the continuing pad-pad of the raindrops and the occasional birdcall.

  “Sylvie.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think I might have hurt you when I said Pet needed a family and doesn’t have one. I’m sorry.”

  He caught her so off guard that an unexpected wash of vulnerability made her vision misty.

  Feeling like a Beatrix Potter character scuttling back to hide in her burrow, she returned to the cauldron, stirring with extreme concentration. If she didn’t have hips, boobs, and a fairly large head, she might have just climbed on in.

  He was still watching her levelly, but with something very unsettling in that usually saturnine face.

  It shook something loose. “I’m not alone,” she said, with just the tiniest hint of a wobble. She s
topped to steady her voice. Continued. “I still have family—I have my friends. Particularly Jay. I couldn’t love him more. Even Mabel, as horrified as she would be, I think of as a sister. Or a really irascible grandma. Depends on the day. And I have the business.”

  Dominic was very quiet, all his attention focused on her. Even his body was angled toward her, his muscles tense and tight.

  Keeping one hand on the stirring stick, Sylvie pointed. His gaze traveled to a little ceramic pot, in pride of place on the shelves. It was painted with the simple words: YOU MAKE MY WORLD A BETTER PLACE. “Mallory was a beautiful glass artist, but she dabbled in pottery. She made me that. Not for any special occasion. Just one afternoon, on a Wednesday. She really loved me. I’ll live my entire existence knowing someone loved me that much. The way Sebastian loved you. Death is not the end of love. In any and all of its forms.” She stared blindly into the sparkling pot. “I’m not alone,” she repeated. The sugar solution moved in waves and curls, an iridescent sunset shimmer. “But every so often, just for a second or two, I’ll be in my flat or standing on a busy street surrounded by strangers, and I feel so alone my heart hurts.”

  She reached for the smallest size of blowpipe and dipped it in the mixture. “I still have Mallory’s phone. I keep it charged so I can look at her photos. Sometimes, if there’s something I really want her to know and I can’t get to the cemetery, I send her a text message. And once I texted myself from her phone. Just to see a new message from her on my birthday.” Her mouth twisted. “How pathetic is that?”

  “It’s not pathetic at all.” Straightforward, implacable.

  She stood still and silent, then placed the blowpipe to her lips and drew up a little of the mixture, carefully exhaled. An iridescent sphere slipped effortlessly from the pipe and floated toward Dominic, caught by the faux breeze that rustled the Dark Forest leaves.