Page 55 of The Lost Art of Revealing Hidden Truths (The Lost Arts #3)

He walked along the shore, though, and rambled through the hills.

With the rides, the picnics, and the gardens, he whiled away hours of his time.

He tried reading, but it wasn’t terribly productive.

He seemed always to be imagining the book that Brannal had gifted him, or the terrible book Molun had borrowed out from the library at Summus’s direction, or the books in the Old Tongue that Renny thought were so very boring.

He decided it was a good thing, after all, that Brannal had never come here, that he didn’t have actual memories of the man in this place to tease him as he tried not to imagine the life that he could have had here with the man he loved.

His life here was different, and he was going to have to get used to it again.

It would be the Earth Festival soon, and Perian would go sit on the beach alone, and he’d think about Arvus telling him that not every Mage needed to be ostentatious.

He would have his own tiny ceremony and not think about the fact that under other circumstances, he would be enjoying it with them.

He couldn’t even go to the celebration in the little town near him.

If he were ever to consider sneaking out, then it should certainly not be during a festival, when there was a concentration of people.

If Mage Warriors or Warriors were looking, they might think he was going to feed.

He was going to be questioning everything for the rest of his life.

How was he going to explain to everyone year after year that he was never leaving again?

And was that itchy restlessness going to get worse?

What did happen if a carnalion didn’t feed?

Perian wished he had a lot more information. He was pretty sure his health and safety might depend on it.

But… maybe that was something he could remedy.

Would it be too dangerous to try to acquire more books on demons?

He needed actual tomes full of information.

The Mages at the Great Library might have some, Perian supposed.

He could write to them, but would they want to know why he wanted to know?

Would Cormal inform them about Perian? Was it worth the risk?

They weren’t the ones who were usually hunters, but that didn’t mean they would take it well that a carnalion was trying to find out more about itself.

(Even for researchers, that might be a step too far.)

He’d think about it. Each day at home felt like an eternity.

Each morning, there was a heartbeat or two where he woke up and hadn’t remembered yet that everything had gone wrong, that Brannal would never be there beside him.

And then it would crash over him, like it always did.

Some mornings, Perian gave in to a bout of tears.

Occasionally, he just pulled the covers up over himself and tried to go back to sleep.

But most mornings, he made himself get up and face his new life.

Was there a hobby he could pick up? Should he try his hand at carving like Chamis? Should he see if he’d retained anything the doctor had told him and try his hand at making his own salves and tonics?

What else could he do? He was managing all right with the physical exertion, but the mental stimulation and emotional support were lacking.

Should he try to write any of this down?

Would it even help? Was it too dangerous?

Did he care if it was? Maybe it would help him to get the thoughts and emotions out.

Maybe one day, he’d even want to go back to them.

It might all feel keen and sharp right now, but surely it would fade.

He loved his father, and he missed him, but he couldn’t recall him as clearly as he had when his father was alive.

Perian had changed, in ways that were interior and profound, thanks to his time at the castle.

Maybe he would never change back to what he had been, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t continue to change.

Perhaps he would manage to successfully adapt back to someone that could flourish here on his own.

Just because he couldn’t imagine it right now didn’t mean that it wouldn’t happen.

The days were long, too many hours where his brain could be active.

(Should he try to learn a new language? Should he declare that now was the time to become a good cook and haunt the kitchen until he was an expert?

Or at least less prone to burning things?

Should he try to take up painting? Darts?

Horseshoe toss?) None of the activities that he could think of were what he was looking for.

It still felt too close to the events at the castle for him to start trying to write them down now.

In lieu of making a decision, he spent most of the day rambling.

If his body was tired, there was at least the chance that he was going to sleep at night.

When he finally rambled back into the house and Evalon told him that dinner would be ready in half an hour and he had a guest in the parlor, he assumed he’d forgotten that his steward was coming.

He hadn’t exactly been tracking things very carefully these days.

But it meant he was altogether unprepared when he strode into the parlor and the figure turned from where he’d been staring out the window and it was Brannal , all muscles and leather and presence . He was here .