Lemon Cake

"Witches!"

The Governor of Kar was a stout man in his mid-forties. Broad shoulders, strong build, hair that may have been grey now but was thick enough that he still needed to tie it back at the base of his neck like younger men did. He had a temper, though not with the citizens. No good governor kept his position by being hard to handle or difficult to reach. In the manor, however, he forwent his otherwise logical demeanor to let his every feeling and thought fly through the house like a plate whipped across the hall by an angry dish-maid.

"Some no name, bleach collared bastard has the nerve to prance into my city like the goddamn pied piper of the Temple and accuse us of harboring Witches!"

He slammed a now emptied crystal whiskey tumbler to the table in front of him. The colorful dinner conversation roused reactions from neither his son nor Gil. Governor Benedict Salphus could bolster himself with just about as much hot air as a weatherman could a surveying balloon, and his anger wasn't directed at them.

"He didn't use those words, Father," Warren said, sticking a small, roasted potato with the end of his fork.

"He didn't have to say those words! We all know he sure as hell meant them!" He thundered. A particularly startled maid shuffled into the room to place a fresh decanter on the table for the men. "Thank you, Love," He grumbled over the sound of his own bellyaching. Gil always felt bad for them when they were new. The Housekeeper and the Stewart were too concerned with their job to warn them that, in most cases, the Governor was just about as dangerous as a hungry house cat to his own people.

"They'll move on as soon as they discover there's nothing to warrant their time or money here," Warren assured his father.

"Unless they are packing up their suns and prodding sticks right now then they've already been here too long!" He snapped, spearing a helpless piece of roast pork. "I want you checking up on them, Warren. It's your duty to make sure that our people feel safe, and I won't have these "priests" make them feel like they are suspect in their own homes." He seemed to use to term priest loosely here.

"Of course, Father," Warren agreed obediently.

Gil was less than enthused by the idea of having more interactions with those men. He was hoping to keep as much space between them and himself as possible, but it seemed that ever since Warren had opened that blasphemous book nothing had gone his way. Maybe that was the magick of it all. That he had been cursed with bad luck for the rest of his pointless and miserable little life.

"You seem distracted Gilbert," the Governor said, setting his fork down to refill his glass.

Gil's eyes tore away from his plate to meet the steady gaze of the far too drunk to be this observant governor. He searched the room for an excuse since admitting that he and his companion were the ones harboring the secrets of the witch wasn't a viable deterrent.

"Ahh, that's right, forgive me I've forgotten. It's about that time of year, isn't it?" the Governor asked, answering his own question. He leaned back in his seat, setting his glass down. "It was only a few years ago, it must still be fresh," he said.

Gil felt a soft tug at his heartstrings as his mood swam softly to the bottom of the recesses of his memory. He'd forgotten as well. His mother had died two years ago near the equinox. He still had the letter that had brought him word of her passing folded up in the bottom of a box he kept tucked at the back of his bookshelf. Still covered in small water stains, edges rumpled and worn away from the constant folding and unfolding of the letter, hoping that he'd find a new message every time.

Lydia Greaves had passed away in the spring from a bought of black lung that hadn't escaped her with the thaw. Gil already hadn't seen her in several years because she moved to his father's home state near the sea. His father, the weak man he was, broke under the weight of her casket and escaped across the ocean to the Green Isles with a woman who poured beer at the tavern three blocks from their home.

Young Gilbert had fallen silent and a dark storm had moved across his face. His eyes were fixated on the plate before him.

Warren's lips turned down in a soft frown as he put his hand gently on his friend's shoulder, but Gilbert shuttered and pulled away. Warren knew how close to his mother he had been and knew how harshly the memory of her absence hurt him. It was probably too much to hope that in the chaos of everything that was happening, he might forget what time of year it was.

Thanks to the governors poorly voiced observation, the dinner fell silent and it didn't take long for Gilbert to excuse himself from the room. He left like a ghost, eyes fixated on the patterns of the carpet and the swirls of the hardwood beneath it as he made his way towards his room. On the top floor at the end of the hall was his room. It wasn't as large as the young Master of the House's was, but it was still a beautiful room. He'd been so excited when he first came to the manor to live alongside his companion, but now it seemed to hold nothing but miserably precious memories.

He didn't realize that he'd sunken into the recesses of the couch in front of the small fireplace until he had to sit up at the sound of a knock on his door. Before Gilbert could bid him entry, Warren opened the door. He never did bother to wait. Then again, it was his house.

"You know how mad Mrs. Dotty will be if you skip out on her dessert," Warren said with a soft smile as he set down some tea and a small slice of cake on the table before seating himself besides Gil.

Gil felt a bit of relief when he felt Warren's presence beside him, but that was quickly replaced by guilt. "I don't really feel like sweets at the moment," He muttered.

"And I don't really feel like getting an ear full from the cook about wastefulness," He said, holding the plate towards Gil, but he wouldn't take it.

Warren sighed, setting the plate to the side and placing his hand on Gilbert's knee. He leaned forward a bit to catch the poor boy's downcast eyes. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't find words that hadn't already been said over the last couple of years. So instead, he just gently squeezed Gilbert's knee. "How about a story then, I'll read to you," he offered with a bit of a laugh and a small grin.

"I'm not a child anymore," Gilbert said in retort.

"I never said you were," Warren said right back, standing up. "What's the point of having a library filled with stories of daring adventure if they can't be useful in moments like this," He said. "I'll be right back, I know just the one," he added with a grin. Once Warren had made up his mind on something it was near impossible to stop him. It was like trying to stop the summer breeze. It was going to go where it fancied.

"Warren," Gil called to him as he made his way to the door. "You're not going to stop me," Warren replied. Finally, a soft smile broke at the corner of Gil's lips.

"Thank You."