Page 9 of Oleander

“Caspien.”

I made a snorting sound. His name really was ridiculous. Caspien. Who on earth called their kid Caspien? I didn’t like how Luke said it, either. Like he knew him. When he’d first told me his name on the way home that first Tuesday, I’d felt a weird sensation in my gut. A fluttering. Like nerves or fear. Which I didn’t understand because I wasn’t afraid of him. I could take him easily.

I learned a little more about Caspien each day I went there. And sometimes, even when I hadn’t gone there, Luke would come home and offer some new and incredibly predictable fact about him: he went to school in Switzerland, because of course, he did. He spoke three languages. Not only was he good enough to ride his horse at the Olympics, but he could also play tennis like a professional and was excellent at fencing.Fencing.Fencing was for James Bond films.

On the fifth day, Luke sent me to the large conservatory on the east side of the house and asked me to take some photos and clear out anything ‘that hadn’t ever been alive’. Now, there was a distinction, which I’d been taught early on. Some plants died off in the winter months and looked dead, but would grow back in the spring. I needed to leave these be for now, and Luke would decide what should go when we were replanting.

The position of the conservatory meant that it was in the sun for the first portion of the day. It was almost brutal until I flungopen the French doors at the far end. Then, the place became almost pleasant to work in.

I was going to use the small toilet beneath the kitchen stairs when Caspien appeared in front of me. He had his nose stuck in a book and a half-eaten apple in his other hand as he walked out from a room to my left and almost into me.

I managed to seeThe Count of Monte Cristo. It was an aged hardback with a navy cloth-bound cover. I hadn’t read it, and I hated that I hadn’t.

Before we collided, I stepped out of his way.

He stopped, lifted his pale gaze from his book, and fixed it on me instead.

I was covered in dirt, sweat, and grass stains while he stood looking immaculate in another big shirt, shorts, and those brown house slippers—also too big.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said before taking a bite of his apple. He sounded almost bored, but his gaze was sharp and terrible. I felt like an insect under a microscope.

“Hey,” I replied. It was the weirdest sound I’d ever made. “I’m in the conservatory today,” I said as though to prove to him I knew actual words.

“Arboretum,” he said.

“What?”

He smiled with one side of his mouth and bit into his apple again. It felt like he’d caught me doing something I should be embarrassed about, but I’d no clue what.

“It’s called anarboretum, gypsy.”

He skirted past me and headed toward the stairs. When I turned to look at him his head was lowered, reading again. Christ, I loathed this boy. Hated him. Hated the way my voice shook when I spoke to him. The way my body tremblednervously at his closeness. Hated the way his eyes made me feel small and insignificant. I hatedeverythingabout him.

“Don’t forget to wash your hands after,” he said without looking back.

I had an image of charging after him, grabbing him by the hair and forcefully slamming him against something until he cried. Instead, I watched as he turned a corner and disappeared upstairs.

When I turned, I almost pissed myself. A man stood in the entryway of the room the twat had just come out of.

Then, I’d taken him to be in his fifties, perhaps even older. It was a child’s way of guessing the age of adults, because Gideon was forty-one when I met him. His hair was dark with some grey at the temples, and he stood tall with angular, sharp cheekbones and a long-pointed chin. Navy eyes glittered like sapphires, and his red slash of a mouth smiled strangely at me.

“And you must be Jude,” he said and came toward me. “Finally we meet.”

Neither his expression or tone was unkind, but there was something in his eyes that made me feel slightly uneasy.

“I’m Gideon.” He stretched out his left hand. “Gideon Deveraux.”

This was the mad queen of Deveraux? I knew that he was a lord, though he never took his seat in the house, and that he was rich, though he’d let the house fall into some disrepair. I knew he lived alone in a mansion that had his name with only his nephew. This last was something people liked to talk about in town though I’d rarely paid it any attention, imagining the nephew to be a young child. My own mind being that of a child, I didn’t really understand the implication of the rumour at the time.

Lord Gideon Deveraux was dressed impeccably in a three-piece morning suit with a brocade waistcoat – the kind a groom might wear to a wedding. I’d rarely see him in anything else in all my time at Deveraux. Knowing what I came to know, I wonder if it was indeed the suit he’d imagined himself being married in.

I stared, a little open-mouthed. I’d never seen a picture of him and had imagined him to be some old, grey, stooped man. But he wasn’t. He was young and handsome; dark hair cut neatly, and blue eyes that always seemed to be smiling.

“Hi, sir, Lord, Deveraux,” I tried, stammering like an idiot. I was so glad Caspien wasn’t here to witness it. I tried again. “I’m Jude, sir. Luke’s nephew.”

He smiled wider. “Nice to meet you, Jude, Luke’s nephew.” He shook my hand firmly. His own was ice cold. “And I see you’ve met mine.” He gestured in the direction the twat had just gone in.

I tried to keep my face impassive as I gave a nod. I suspected I’d failed when Gideon laughed.