The Lightstep by John Dickinson Read Free Book Online Page A

rose in
him again, like vomit. God damn all aristocrats!
    In the corridors someone was still calling 'Maria', but she
ignored it. She nodded to him to sit, and they settled opposite
one another before the fire.
    'I regret, sir,' she said, 'that we have not treated you with the
courtesy that we should have done.'
    'For my part,' he replied gruffly, 'I regret what I have had to
tell you. I also regret that I – was not permitted to give you the
news in a manner more fitting.'
    'It was unfortunate, sir,' she said.
    (Unfortunate! And that little frown at his words 'I was not
permitted'!)
    'Unfortunate indeed,' he said, his tone hardening. 'Although –
if you wish to treat me with courtesy – perhaps I should say that
I prefer not to be called "Sir". "Captain" will do.'
    If they would be aristocrats, then he would be a revolutionary.
And in Paris no one called another Monsieur now.
    Her eyes widened. She was astonished – astonished, and also
angry. And still she did not understand, because she never could.
She would imagine that she had offered him a courtesy, and the
chance to start again as if that ugly scene in the library had never
happened. Now he had flung it in her face.
    'Sir,' she said deliberately. 'I believe
    And then she hesitated, with her colour rising and her tongue
lost for words. He glared at her, daring her to rebuke him. The
thought niggled at him that perhaps he had gone too far. Perhaps
he had. But he would not show it. And in a few moments,
now, he would be leaving. He would take his hat, cloak, gloves
and be gone; and he would never look back.
    'Sir,' she began again. 'I think it is the custom, in any house or
place . . .'
    But she had to break off again, dropping her eyes and tightening
her jaw in frustration. For with another plaintive cry of
'Maria' the caller from the corridors shambled in to join them.
    He was a young man, perhaps a few years older than either
Albrecht or his sister, with the same fine face that Wéry was
coming to associate with Adelsheim. He wore a fashionable coat
of dark blue buttoned down to his waist, complemented by
yellow trousers and a white open-necked shirt. Oblivious to the
anger around him, he leaned on the mantelpiece. His face was a
picture of woe.
    'She doesn't like me any more,' he said to the flames.
    His sister glanced up at him and sighed. 'She is upset, Franz,'
she said. And looking at Wéry she added,'I believe we all are.'
    Surprised, Wéry swallowed. He managed a curt nod in reply.
Then he remembered to rise to his feet, out of courtesy to the
newcomer.
    The man's face had fallen further, as if he had just remembered
why everyone was miserable today. 'I want to go riding,' he said.
    Riding? thought Wéry.
    'It will be dark soon, Franz,' said his sister.
    'But I want to go riding!' said the man, kicking at the fender.
    I want. I want. This must be Franz, the older brother, the heir
to the Knight. And with his brother dead, and his mother in
hysterics, he could do no more than march in on his sister and
say I want, as if he were a child!
    Indeed, Wéry saw, he was very much a child, although in an
adult's body. Like his father, he must be afflicted in his mind. Father has a good heart . . . Franz is a dear. Albrecht had never said
that his family had an inherited condition. In all the words he had
let fall, in all his dreamy fondness for his house and family, he
had never spoken of this. And yet his brother was a poor, stupid
fellow who at this moment could no more grasp the thoughts or
feelings of those around him than – than . . .
    . . . than he himself, Michel Wéry, who was so wrapped in
himself that he could be rude to a family that had lost its last sane
son?
    The thought hit him so hard that he grunted aloud.
    'You should not ride in the dark,' the sister was saying. 'It is not
safe. And the horses have been ridden today already. But – but
why not go down to the stable anyway, and talk to them? They
will like that, won't they?'
    Misery sat on Franz's