“What kind of monster names a cat Fillet?”

“When she’s curled up,” Benedict offered, “with her markings—she looks a little like a fillet of beef. With a stripe of fat along the side.”

Judith cast Christian a scornful look. “Who names a cat ‘Fillet’? Someone who has eleven kittens to name.” She put her hands on her hips. “I will hear no criticism from anyone who has named a smaller number of kittens.”

Christian just nodded thoughtfully. “An excellent point. I am not a professional kitten-namer. I am not even a hobbyist. I suppose I ought to leave the kitten-naming to the kitten-naming-specialists. This young man is one of them?”

A tiny smile touched Benedict’s lips. A real smile, and Judith’s heart twinged. Oh, Christian was good. She’d forgotten how good he could be at this. No—forgotten was a lie. She had purposefully purged all of his good qualities from her memory.

Christian sat in a chair, and Judith followed suit.

“Your sister,” Christian said, “when she asked if you remembered me, was asking if you remembered me from eight years ago. I was a friend of your elder brother’s. I visited your home over a great many holidays. Before you were born, and after.”

Benedict sat straight up at that. “You knew Anthony?”

“I did,” Christian said. “We went to Eton together.”

Benedict’s shoulders slumped and he shot Judith an accusatory glance. “Oh,” he said in an entirely different tone.

Christian ignored this. “We both know that there are a number of ways that boys mistreat each other there. I had nightmares when I was a child—ones that made me scream and kick out. Sometimes I would walk in my sleep, too, and I’d fight anyone who tried to stop me. And worst of all, I could never recall any of it in the morning.”

Judith blinked at him in surprise. She’d never heard of any of this—but then again, boys of that age were unlikely to confide in their friend’s younger sister. There was a ring of truth to his voice.

“Boys at Eton are like a flock of chickens,” Christian continued. “You know what chickens are like.”

Benedict shook his head. “We’ve never kept chickens.”

“Ah, well.” Christian shrugged. “Then I’ll tell you what chickens are like. They’re stupid, cruel, prone to fighting. If they think one chicken is weak, the others will peck it. If one draws blood, the rest move in and if nobody intervenes, next thing you know—dead chicken.”

Benedict nodded pensively.

“I was weak,” Christian said. “And what was worse, I thought it was my fault. I thought there was something about me that demanded henpecking, the same thing that made me thrash about at night. So I thought I would tell you three things that your brother told me then, three things that changed my life. Since he’s not here, I’ll tell you in his stead.”

Benedict leaned forward.

“Number one,” Christian said. “It—whatever those boys did to you—is not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. You aren’t to blame, whatever they or anyone else told you.”

Benedict inhaled. Judith felt a sore spot in her chest. When Christian spoke, he unconsciously leaned back against the chair and looked at Benedict. For a second, she had caught a hint of Anthony in his voice, in the cadence of his words. She could almost see her elder brother, sitting in that chair, saying those things.

“Number two.” Christian didn’t seem aware that they were both watching him. “You’re better than them. Anyone can be a chicken pecking in the yard. But the top chicken never lasts. It is always dethroned. Some day, there will be a younger chicken, a stronger chicken. The only way to win is to not be a chicken. You’re not a chicken, are you?”

“No.”

“There you are. You’re better than them.”

Benedict considered this. “What is number three?”

“Number three.” Christian folded his arms and smiled. “Ah, that’s the fun one. It’s this: They will pay, and you will make them do it. Since you were the one they wronged, you will determine what you think is adequate recompense. But we—your sister, of course, and me, if you wish it—will help you execute your vengeance. Whatever it is you think you need to feel better.”

Benedict took this in. He closed his book and stroked a kitten’s head. “I don’t want vengeance. If I do to them what they did to me, I’ll be no better than they are.” He very carefully did not look at Judith.

“That’s the other thing.” Christian looked over at him. “For me, it was the usual—some ritual beatings, a great many snide remarks, the occasional dunking of my smallclothes in the communal chamber pot. I gather that you experienced all that?”

Benedict nodded.

“They likely stole your food, too—anything sent from home, and the choice bits from your meals.”

Another nod.

“See? I told you they were nothing but chickens.”

Benedict smiled.

“I suppose they jumped you more than they did me. Daily? Twice daily?”

“At least.”

Oh, she hurt just thinking of what it must have been like for Benedict.

“And made it out to be your fault, so that if anyone interfered, you were punished more than they, I suppose.”

Judith felt her fists clench.

Benedict shut his eyes. “Yes.”

“Anything worse?” Christian asked casually.

What could be worse?

Benedict didn’t look up from his kitten. “No.” His voice broke. “Nothing worse. It wasn’t even as bad as it could have been, and I still can’t go back.”

“There.” Christian shook his head. “You’re allowed to hate the way you were treated even if it could have been worse.”

What could be worse than what had happened? She stared at him in confusion for a moment—and then came to a realization, one that choked her voice from her. She hadn’t even thought to ask, didn’t know what she would have done in any event. Thank God. She wanted to vomit.

But Christian nodded, as if this were all entirely normal. “Remember: You’re not to blame. You’re not a chicken, Benedict. What do you want to do?”

Benedict considered. “What did you do? What was your vengeance?”

Christian shrugged. “Well, they would always steal the sweets my mother sent me from home. So I asked her to send me an enormous hamper. The worst offenders gat

hered in my quarters one Saturday, gorging themselves on cake and cordial, to which I had added a generous libation of spirits.” He looked upward and smiled. “They fell asleep. Your brother and I removed the door to their room from its hinges. We nailed a sheet of wood in its place, and then covered the wood with a thin coat of plaster. We had just enough time to apply a matching coat of paint.

“They left my room late that afternoon, staggeringly drunk, only to discover that they had nowhere to go. No room. No door. Nothing. There was only an empty hallway where they’d once lived.”

Benedict grinned. “That’s brilliant.”

“It was utterly glorious. They were sent down for knocking holes in the wall.”

Benedict considered this. “I still don’t want to go back. I’d have to go back to do that.”

“You don’t have to go back to get even,” Christian countered.

“But how?”

“Well, that’s the trick. You’ll have to figure it out. It has to be your idea, see. Because they stole something from you. They stole from you the belief that you could make a difference in your life. You have to take it back. I know you can do that.”

Benedict stroked his kitten’s head once again. “Hmm.”

“They’re chickens,” Christian said, “but…” He leaned down to him. “Who is the greatest chicken-killer in English literature?”

Judith choked in her seat.

Benedict, though, looked up, his eyes wide. “Who?”

If he said Hamlet’s uncle…

“You will be,” Christian said. “I promise you.”

If anything, Benedict looked more perturbed. “But—”

“Metaphorical chickens,” Christian said. “Figurative killing.”

“Oh. I suppose that isn’t a problem.”

“Think on it.”

They left Benedict looking thoughtful rather than wary. It was a marked improvement.

Judith, too, was immersed in thought. She frowned as they descended the staircase.

She shook her head and gestured upstairs. “That was very kind, what you just told my brother. I’m not sure it will work—he’s refused to listen to all talk of his returning—but—”

Tags: Courtney Milan The Worth Saga Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net