Immortal and the Madman (The Immortal Chronicles Book 3) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Gene Doucette
this imaginary courtship, how it is that I have become the great hope for your parents in a claim for your hand?”
“I don’t think they have any great hopes or expectations. They’ve only run through all the other possible combinations they could think of for lighting the necessary spark and appear to be reenacting their own courtship at this stage.”
“How is that?”
“Oh it was a scandal, such as these things go. Papa was wounded in a minor skirmish with uncle Brandon—have you met uncle?”
“I don’t know that I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Yes, well, a scoundrel by all accounts. Brandon and papa were close friends at a young age, up until they had a dispute that coincided with too much ale and two swords too many. Papa was wounded, and it was mother that nursed him back to health. It’s how they met.”
“I understand. So now you are here—”
“—to nurse you back to health.”
“I’m afraid I have no wounds to dress.”
“We take what we can get. And you are far more tolerable than any of my prior madman suitors, for which I’m thankful. As for dressing your wounds, I don’t believe I can be of any real use to you aside from conversationally, unless you’d like to tell me what exactly is so fascinating about a tree.”
“It’s not the trees,” I said. “It’s the shadows between them.”
She looked at the woods. “Yes, I do see the shadows, but no more than that.”
“That’s the problem with shadows, isn’t it? They keep secrets.”
“Surely whatever secrets might be contained within that darkness is limited in scope, sir.”
“Not in my experience.”
As I said this, another dragon poked its head around one of the trees, winced in the face of the sunlight, and retreated.
It wasn’t there.
My attention must have drifted obviously at the sight of the dragon, because it was at this point that Joanne stood.
“Well, I have overstayed,” she said. “I will leave you to your shadows for now, but perhaps I can stop by again tomorrow?”
“I would like that.”
I was being honest. Something about engaging her in conversation did a good deal to keep away the madness I could feel lurking at the edge of my vision.
“But before you go,” I said, “I have one question I don’t think I can leave unasked for a day.”
She glanced into the darkened sitting room, where there actually were lurkers in the shadows. “Proceed, sir. Much longer and I’ll be hearing nothing but stories of young women who appeared too desperate, but proceed.”
I took her hand, so it looked as if this was perhaps an extended goodbye. “It’s only the most obvious. Why have you not found a suitor by now?”
“Perhaps I am just exceedingly picky. That would be the consensus.”
“You dismissed me as a viable candidate before we spoke a word with one another. More than picky, milady.”
“’Milady’. Very courtly, Mr. Bates. I hope that you take no offense at this, and further that you don’t relay it to anyone else, but I know what men want from a woman, and I know what women are supposed to want from a man, and I neither wish to give nor to receive those things.”
“At all?”
“Not from a man , no.”
* * *
I accidentally ended up speaking to the madman from the lawn later that evening.
It was after sunset, in the library. By coincidence I had gone there to get a book to read on the theory that if reading was helpful to a genuine lunatic, it would probably be of use to me as well. It was also pretty clear that staring at the trees wasn’t doing me much good. Maybe disappearing into someone else’s make-believe was a better idea than staying in my own.
The lighting in the library wasn’t splendid, which was really true anyplace after sunset up until electricity but seemed especially true in this cavernous room. It made it difficult to see the titles on the spines—vast, leather-bound collections taking
“I don’t think they have any great hopes or expectations. They’ve only run through all the other possible combinations they could think of for lighting the necessary spark and appear to be reenacting their own courtship at this stage.”
“How is that?”
“Oh it was a scandal, such as these things go. Papa was wounded in a minor skirmish with uncle Brandon—have you met uncle?”
“I don’t know that I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Yes, well, a scoundrel by all accounts. Brandon and papa were close friends at a young age, up until they had a dispute that coincided with too much ale and two swords too many. Papa was wounded, and it was mother that nursed him back to health. It’s how they met.”
“I understand. So now you are here—”
“—to nurse you back to health.”
“I’m afraid I have no wounds to dress.”
“We take what we can get. And you are far more tolerable than any of my prior madman suitors, for which I’m thankful. As for dressing your wounds, I don’t believe I can be of any real use to you aside from conversationally, unless you’d like to tell me what exactly is so fascinating about a tree.”
“It’s not the trees,” I said. “It’s the shadows between them.”
She looked at the woods. “Yes, I do see the shadows, but no more than that.”
“That’s the problem with shadows, isn’t it? They keep secrets.”
“Surely whatever secrets might be contained within that darkness is limited in scope, sir.”
“Not in my experience.”
As I said this, another dragon poked its head around one of the trees, winced in the face of the sunlight, and retreated.
It wasn’t there.
My attention must have drifted obviously at the sight of the dragon, because it was at this point that Joanne stood.
“Well, I have overstayed,” she said. “I will leave you to your shadows for now, but perhaps I can stop by again tomorrow?”
“I would like that.”
I was being honest. Something about engaging her in conversation did a good deal to keep away the madness I could feel lurking at the edge of my vision.
“But before you go,” I said, “I have one question I don’t think I can leave unasked for a day.”
She glanced into the darkened sitting room, where there actually were lurkers in the shadows. “Proceed, sir. Much longer and I’ll be hearing nothing but stories of young women who appeared too desperate, but proceed.”
I took her hand, so it looked as if this was perhaps an extended goodbye. “It’s only the most obvious. Why have you not found a suitor by now?”
“Perhaps I am just exceedingly picky. That would be the consensus.”
“You dismissed me as a viable candidate before we spoke a word with one another. More than picky, milady.”
“’Milady’. Very courtly, Mr. Bates. I hope that you take no offense at this, and further that you don’t relay it to anyone else, but I know what men want from a woman, and I know what women are supposed to want from a man, and I neither wish to give nor to receive those things.”
“At all?”
“Not from a man , no.”
* * *
I accidentally ended up speaking to the madman from the lawn later that evening.
It was after sunset, in the library. By coincidence I had gone there to get a book to read on the theory that if reading was helpful to a genuine lunatic, it would probably be of use to me as well. It was also pretty clear that staring at the trees wasn’t doing me much good. Maybe disappearing into someone else’s make-believe was a better idea than staying in my own.
The lighting in the library wasn’t splendid, which was really true anyplace after sunset up until electricity but seemed especially true in this cavernous room. It made it difficult to see the titles on the spines—vast, leather-bound collections taking