“Not going anywhere in particular,” Wynne said in her loudest voice. “Ay, only wondering where Rafen was off to in the dead o’ night.”
Roger sat bolt upright.
“Rafen, light the torch,” he said in a deadly voice.
Rafen remained frozen.
“Light it,” Roger said.
Dragging himself to his feet, Rafen furiously flicked a finger in the direction of the torch on the wall. A spark flew, and then the torch flamed brightly. It illuminated the faces of Roger and Elizabeth, who were both upright in their beds. Roger was thin-lipped with anger, but Elizabeth was heavy-lidded. Francisco had risen too. He now stood in the middle of the room doubtfully. Rafen wished he had had the sense to curl up on the floor and pretend to be asleep, but Francisco did not deceive instinctively, if at all. In the wide doorway of the room, Sherwin skulked behind Wynne, who stood as tall as him, willowy and smug in the pale pink dress.
“What is going on here?” Roger hissed.
“I needed to relieve myself,” Rafen said, almost before Roger finished his sentence.
“With Sherwin, Francisco, and Wynne,” Roger said, “you needed to relieve yourself. Is that right, Rafen?”
“Wynne woke me,” Sherwin said. “I think she was lyin’ in wait… fer someone.”
Roger’s eyebrows lowered as he glanced at Wynne.
“I was only passing by,” Wynne said.
“I doubt it very much!” Francisco said shrilly.
Roger indicated for him to be quiet. “And what are you doing, Francisco?”
Francisco’s expression became blank as he started slowly concocting a lie.
“He was woken by the voices, of course, Roger,” Elizabeth put in for him. She rubbed her eyes in a girlish way. “I thought it was nighttime.”
“So it is,” Roger said. “Francisco, lie down. Sherwin, go back to wherever you came from and—”
“’ey,” Sherwin said, “yer not my father.”
Roger’s face blackened. “And you are not my son,” he snapped, “so stay away from the family area.”
Sherwin retreated, looking injured. Wynne remained, her eyes calculating.
“Wynne, your presence is not encouraging my son to relieve himself,” Roger said, rising and laying a long-fingered hand on Rafen’s shoulder. Rafen felt the usual cold tingle run down his back. He still remembered those fingers at his throat.
“Ay, I’m sorry,” she said unapologetically, before vanishing around the edge of the doorway. Rafen knew she wouldn’t be far away.
“Lie down, Francisco,” Roger said, “at the foot of your mother’s bed.”
Francisco lay down, staring up at Roger suspiciously. Neither of the brothers felt particularly safe at Roger’s feet.
“I will accompany you part of the way, my son,” Roger said to Rafen.
The Sianian Wolf Page 36