NOVEL NEXT Chapter 44: Dinner
The dining room, bathed in the warm light of the setting sun, was meant to be a place of solace, a reprieve from the world’s troubles. Yet, in the Alburn household, it was always a battlefield, something that Minerva Alburn hated the most.
“The Curidians have done nothing but disrupt our government since its inception,” Baldwin declared, his fork stabbing the air for emphasis. “Riots, protests—nothing productive. To offer them a peace deal is to surrender to thuggery.”
Hartman sighed, his tone more weary than angry. “Now, now, Baldwin. You know as well as I do that the docks have stood idle since the Curidian sailors and laborers withdrew. Our businesses depend on their work. Mr. Vials has been pleading for conciliatory efforts. Sooner or later, this matter must be resolved.”
“They’ve been given a council, a governor,” Baldwin retorted, leaning forward. “Equal distribution of provisions, despite their lack of contribution. It’s a mistake, and I won’t pretend otherwise.”
“Stop this talk at once!” Mrs. Alburn’s voice cut through the room like a blade. She rarely raised her voice, but when she did, both husband and son fell silent, their tongues tied as if bound by an unspoken pact. “Politics have no place at my table. If you must discuss this nonsense, do it elsewhere.”
“It wasn’t Papa's doing,” Victoria mumbled, avoiding her mother's steely gaze. “Baldwin brought it up.”
“Because I have real concerns, Mother,” Baldwin said with a huff.
“Be nice, Baldwin,” Victoria interjected, her tone sharp but measured.
“I see your bias, Mother. I see it clearly now,” Baldwin jibed, a bitter edge to his voice. “I should’ve realized sooner—I’m not truly your son, am I?”
Victoria pressed her lips into a thin line, her hands steady on the table, though her knuckles whitened. She glanced at the maid, who placed a silver tray before her. A letter rested atop it, the name scrawled on the envelope halting her breath for just a moment.
Minerva Alburn chuckled softly, a poor attempt to defuse the tension. “Ah, God saw fit to give me these two for a husband and a son. I’ll never win.” said she, cutting into the meat.
“Not in this life,” Baldwin muttered.
“I’ve not been so bad a husband,” Hartman added lightly.
Minerva lifted her eyes, calm but resolute. “You’ve not been so bad a husband, indeed. But you’ve never let me win an argument, not even once. A woman falls in love with what she hears, you know. What a pity I’ve never had that luxury.”
“A pity indeed,” Hartman quipped. “If all women wanted was to win arguments, they’d be better off with a parrot than a husband.”
“An argument is a small sacrifice,” Baldwin exclaimed, a faint note of amusement mingling with his disapproval.
Hartman raised his hands in mock surrender. “You’re right, son. That was unkind of me.”
Minerva's eyes narrowed. “You yield to your son but never to me. Why is that, Hartman?”
“That’s simple, my dear,” Hartman replied with a mischievous smile. “I’ve taught Baldwin never to agree with anyone and never to lose an argument. He’s become better at it than I am. Best I yield now than argue till midnight.”
Minerva laughed, a genuine sound that softened the room’s earlier tension. “Perhaps I should take lessons from Baldwin on how to make you yield.”
Hartman leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Perhaps you should, my love. But beware—he’s a far tougher opponent than I ever was.”
“What is it, my dear?” Minerva asked while nudging Victoria, her eyes dead set on the letter that had been placed neatly before her.
“It’s from Nicholas,” Victoria said meekly, her words coming in a low, hushed tone.
“Nicholas Vials?” Mr. and Mrs. Alburn asked in unison.
Victoria shook her head.
“So, he finally remembered he had commitments to keep?” Baldwin asked as he took a morsel of vegetables.
“Baldwin! Be kind to your sister,” their mother said sternly.
“I’ve not been harsh. I’m simply saying what I have always said,” Baldwin clarified, his eyes dead set on his sister, who was staring back jarringly.
“What you say does not matter to me,” Victoria replied.
“And what he says does? He has never asked about your well-being once, not even out of common courtesy.”
“That is not a big deal, Brother. You men are all alike in this regard. It is just us women who have to—” Victoria tried to clarify, but he did not allow her any time to speak.
“Say what you want, but he is not attached to you as much as you are to him. All these theories and ideas you craft to consolidate your opinion of him do nothing—”
Victoria had already dragged her chair out, ready to leave when their mother cried, “That’s enough, Baldwin!”
It was enough for Victoria. She stood from her chair and slipped out of the dining room, tears swimming in her eyes as she clutched the letter in her hands.
“You are a horrible brother, Baldwin!” Mrs. Alburn cried, her voice cutting and sharp.
“I will not allow her to be deluded over love,” he said as he got off his chair and left behind his sister.
Mrs. Alburn held her head in her hands, her eyes closed shut as she looked at her husband, who was cheerfully drinking his tea and reading what seemed like a joyous piece of news. His laughter mingled with the clinking of a porcelain cup against its plate, filling the room with something that felt almost like peace. Mr Alburn found the news of Curidian casualties very amusing.
...
Clyde pulled his coat tighter as the wind brushed against him, cool despite the sun hanging low and golden in the sky. The fields stretched endlessly, their frost-kissed tips crunching faintly under his boots as he walked. He didn't know much about the night Nicholas Vials had vanished—only whispers carried through the hallways, fractured and pieced together by over-eager mouths. Yet, the southern wall of the castle remained a constant in every tale. It was there Clyde was headed, though he wasn’t sure what he hoped to find.
His luck in avoiding trouble after his ill-advised stunt—slipping into Nicholas's bed to throw off the headmaster’s late-night patrol—still amazed him. The risk had been great, the consequences potentially graver. Yet here he was, trudging through the grounds unscathed, the heavy guilt of mischief sitting alongside his sharper curiosity.
Clyde leaped over a wide pipe sprawled across the field, the cold metal slick under his hand as he steadied himself. When he straightened, his gaze drifted upward to the towering silhouette of the castle. Its spires seemed to pierce the very clouds and from this angle. A shiver danced down Clyde’s spine, though he wasn’t sure if it came from the wind or the castle's quiet watchfulness.
He kept walking, eyes scanning the grounds until he came upon a shallow depression, a kind of plateau sunken into the earth. His boots slid slightly as he descended, his heart thrumming with a mixture of dread and determination. At the centre of the hollow sat an old well, its mouth bolted shut with thick, rusted iron. It shouldn’t have caught his attention—just another relic among many—but something about it felt wrong. The air around it seemed heavier, weighted with the unspoken.
Curiosity gripped him, as it always did, and before he could second-guess himself, Clyde knelt and worked at the bolts. They groaned in protest, the sound echoing unnaturally in the quiet. When the last bolt clattered to the ground, he lifted the lid and peered inside.
Dark, murky water lapped at the base of the well, its surface disturbed by faint ripples. His breath caught as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Floating there, half-submerged and sodden, was a coat. Nicholas’s coat.
Clyde’s stomach twisted, a sour knot of fear and guilt tightening in his chest. He slammed the lid shut, his palms trembling as he fumbled to replace the bolts. When he finally straightened, his breath puffing in uneven clouds, he glanced toward the distant trees. Beyond them loomed the southern wall, its jagged outline stark against the horizon. It was there that the stories said Nicholas had climbed, slipping away into the night.
Clyde swallowed hard. He hadn’t come to find Nicholas Vials. He hadn’t expected to stumble into anything, let alone this. But now, standing in the shadow of the well, he felt the weight of something far larger than himself pressing down on him. Something that demanded answers—and maybe even courage.