The Glass Château by Stephen P. Kiernan

Author:Stephen P. Kiernan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-06-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

Morning light beamed through the dining room windows, everyone squinting till the nameless man yanked a drape across the glass. Brigitte was breakfasting with the men for the first time since Marc’s stroke: cheese, berries, slices of cold chicken. She wore an old smock that day, a more revealing one. The men noticed, but said nothing about it. They spoke only to ask someone to pass a platter, or the salt, until Asher broke the peace. His arm hurt and he needed distraction.

“Give us some news,” he said. “Please.”

Brigitte lowered her spoon to the plate. “Telling you will make it real.”

“It is already real,” Etienne answered.

Brigitte looked up at the men, their hunger for news. “It’s his left side,” she said. “Marc’s arm and leg are paralyzed. And not improving.”

“I’m sorry,” the nameless man said. Asher glanced over, surprised to hear him express sympathy.

“His swallowing has made progress,” she continued. “Yesterday I heard him recite the Lord’s Prayer. The doctor remains optimistic. But without his left side, I don’t know how he . . .”

Brigitte trailed off, rising and bustling back into the kitchen. When she reappeared she wore a hat, and held a basket of food. “I’ll see you at dinner. Pray.”

She was gone—and, seemingly with her, the month of July. Some days Henri accompanied her. Etienne also visited often. Asher kept quiet, his arm mending more slowly than he’d expected. Meanwhile, Simon, when he could not find port or wine, would amble into the atelier seeking someone to lecture, and if there was no prey, fashioning himself a better place to nap. The nameless man read in his room, at the table, anywhere he pleased. Some days Asher spied him stretched atop the courtyard wall. He’d used a little wooden ladder, which he pulled up after himself.

“What are you reading?” Asher asked one afternoon.

“Virgil.” The nameless man closed his book on one finger. “The Aeneid is as superior to the Iliad as Latin is to Greek. Lyricism, imagery, human universality of theme. And you have no concept of what I’m saying.”

Asher squinted up. “Do you like being up there? It doesn’t look comfortable.”

“Privacy is a luxury superior to any upholstery.” Reopening the book, he held it up like a barrier.

Anger simmered in his belly, and Asher imagined yanking the man down. But his arm was sore, and then a donkey brayed.

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