Page 37 of The Death Wish

‘I think that is rather the whole point of the occasion,’ Silas said. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’

‘Fucking ludicrous, is what it is, and you absolutely love it, don’t you? You gloriously odd man. I can just imagine you, searching days for the perfect tree to cut down, fussing over the number of branches, the right girth, the perfect pinnacle bow for the star. But then despairing over how many birds you might deprive of nests –’

‘They wouldn’t be nesting at this time of year, but it would be best to search the branches in case there are any old nests, or broken egg shells that might attract the ants. Wouldn’t want them taking over the parlour.’

Pitch gave him a sidelong look, and Silas grinned. But darker thoughts had stirred; he wondered if he had shared this time of year with family, loved ones…or had he sat alone in a quiet house, no decorations on the mantle, no one to sit at the table with?

But Silas could not seem to find it in himself to wonder too deeply. His past life memories were every bit as lost as those they mourned.

What was not lost was right here, with him. Beside him. And it was a glorious place. His veins brimmed with vigour, his heart bulged at the seams with love. He lifted Pitch’s hand, and kissed his knuckles.

‘Now, please, enjoy, everyone,’ Robert called from the doorway with his empty trolley. ‘But keep some room for the kedgeree, you won’t regret it.’

‘Dunno what that is, just hope it don’t stink like that feckin Cullen stinker you ‘ad at ‘Arvington ‘All, Charlie.’

The lad laughed. ‘It was called a Cullen skink, and I assure you it is a delicacy.’

‘A Scottish delicacy,’ Silas muttered, mostly to himself, something stirring in the faded recesses of his mind.

‘You’ve tried it, Silas?’ Charlie asked.

He nodded, frowning. ‘I have…’

‘And didn’t think much of it apparently,’ said Pitch.

‘I don’t know…I’m not sure what I thought of it. Only that I know it. Well.’

Blast these vague, half-baked memories. But no one pressed him further; far too busy with piling their plates. Their conversation moved on. All save for Pitch, who kept watching him.

‘Didn’t you say you thought that lake of yours to be a loch?’ he asked. ‘Now the foul Scottish food stirs you, and you’ve mentioned Edinburgh Castle as seeming familiar. Perhaps it’s not just your death that occurred in the north, my fine fellow, but your life too.’ Pitch dolloped an enormous serve of mashed potato onto his plate. ‘A pity you did not retain the accent. I’d have no clue what you were saying most of the time, but good gods it would harden me to listen to you.’

The daemon’s lewd wink lifted Silas from the melancholy that had found him.

‘A pity indeed.’

He had far more than a hunch that he’d spent time in the north. Aside from his terrible visions of the loch where he’d drowned, there was Charlie’s Scottish origins, with their residence a fancy Northern estate.

When Nemain chose to drown him at the greensward, Silas had learned that it was Charlie’s ancestor who’d tried in vain to rescue him the day his brother killed him. He understood that the goddess had put her Blessing upon the meagre bandalore thrown to him in the rough waters, and made it her scythe. Heknewthat it found its way to someone of Charlie’s bloodline during the times Silas was human, and returned to him when hewas not so. But just like heknewof the dish, Cullen skink, he did not know any fine details.

But really, what did any of that matter now? The scythe was upon its last journey. As was Silas.

‘Bon appetite, everyone.’ Jane grabbed at a plate laden with smoked haddock.

‘You mind your mouth there, girlie. Don’t be swearin’ at me with your fancy French.’ Tyvain reached for a bowl of glistening green peas, where a dollop of yellow butter slowly melted in their heat.

There was spirited activity as everyone filled their plates, passing bowls, swapping condiments, and refilling wine glasses. Pitch leaned over the table, adding an astonishing array of extras to his mashed potatoes. Silas chose to sit back and wait until the way was clear to fill his own plate. He topped up his glass, and Pitch’s too, enjoying the brimming of life in the room, the chatter and easy alliance.

‘Here we are, then.’ Mary had returned, arms laden once more, with the most unexpected cargo. The lass held a small spruce, planted in a wooden bucket. The slender branches of the young tree were drooping under the load of tinsel and shiny balls bestowed on it. ‘Cook had this little wonder set away for our Christmas opening, but said it was better off in here, with you all.’

‘It is beautiful!’ Jane sighed.

‘Looks pitiful small.’ Isaac spoke through a mouthful of roast chicken.

‘Remind ya of bits of yaself then, does it?’ Tyvain goaded the coachman, who was too hungry to give her more than a dirty look.

Mary carried the tree near to the fireplace, setting it down where the flames could illuminate the tree’s sparse decorations; causing them to sparkle, diamond-like, in the glow.

‘There we are then.’ A hessian bag hung from looped strings over her arm, and she dug into it’s depths now. ‘And here’s your hats.’ She moved around the table, handing out coloured paper hats, each cut roughly into the shape of crowns. ‘A white one for you, my lady. Will suit you no end.’ Sybilla smiled widely at her over the top of her glass of wine. ‘And green for you, sir. Them eyes of yours are wondrous.’