"Today?"

"Yes, at six o'clock!"

"That's... ridiculous. How are you to pack all your things in time? It's already four forty-five!" Eiren looked up at Lorian with a stunned face.

"In time?" Lorian raised an eyebrow.

"What is it?" he asked. Eiren was usually a sensitive person, but Lorian could hardly be expected to know everything that struck quick at his friend. Eiren pursed his lips and turned away from the bed. He had called Lorian up to the room, after simmering in shock for several minutes, to peruse the contents of the letter, but the gravity of the circumstances proposed within seemed not to affect Lorian as they should.

"What is it?" Eiren repeated, not exactly trying not to sound annoyed. "Have you no desire to fight against this preposterous demand? Would you be rid of me so quickly?" He threw a quick glance back at Lorian. No, somehow, the fight was lost there. A sense of resolve seemed to emanate from him, a resolution that perhaps things wouldn't be too bad, if Eiren really did return home. "It's understandable," he added hollowly. "I am a drain upon your family's hospitality. It would be cruel of me to ask you to house me any further."

"Eiren, that's ridic- that's insane." Lorian had walked in front of Eiren, and now he brought his hands up to the slumped shoulders of Eiren. He peered nervously in his friend's eyes, but Eiren would not meet his gaze, staring vacantly instead at the window. "I didn't mean that I wouldn't fight for you, only..." He dropped his hands and sighed. "You've been running from home for so long, I don't know that this is it."

Turning away again, Eiren crossed silently to the dresser, on the opposite side of the room. He pressed his palms in the wood and leaned forward. His head weighed and turned down. Life with the Lutton's was easy. It was a carefree world, in the North, and everybody lived with joy and pleasure. He knew that his father's land, and the horrible castle within which the Van Wyk's lived, was oppressive, rigid. There could not have been an area of the world so unlike Perrinton as Kelfordshire Estate. I may just die there, he thought with an inward groan. I've spoilt myself in the honey of these lands! How does that wretch propose I survive in such conditions?

"Eiren," began Lorian, "I think... I believe that you should embrace this change. This could be the very thing that gives your life purpose! A wife, your own land, the chance to prove yourself as one of the most worthy men of this age!" Lorian continued, too desperate to stop. Has he already convinced himself that this is the right thing to do? Eiren shook his head and faced Lorian, who continued to chatter about land and worthiness. "Is it even so far outside the realm of possibility, to presume you, as Lord of your own holdings, be able to travel as you please?"

"Stop this, Lorian," Eiren said quietly. Lorian paused, his eyes watering. "You shall be rid of me. I beg only that you leave me to pack my things and depart peacefully." There seemed to be a sort of numbness creeping along his skin. Already, it had dulled his concern for their supposed friendship.

"I can send someone to assist," Lorian started, but Eiren raised a hand and closed his eyes.

"There will be no need. I ask only for a few final moments of peace." He waited a moment, and when he opened his eyes, he was relieved to see that Lorian had left. It disappointed him that such a friendship, so long-lasting, was simply a deception. I have been fooled, he thought, the conviction that Lorian was a soft-bellied traitor growing with each passing second. He took pity on me, and now that someone has come to relieve him of that burden, he cares no more for me than a stray dog. Eiren began to pick up his books, but he realized that they were, in fact, the Lutton's. Disgusted, he threw one aside and watched it flip over the dresser, the pages folding and bending out of sight.

. . .

In a half-hour, Eiren had managed to separate the things he had brought with him, and the things he had acquired from the Lutton family. Nearly half of the books were not his, and though he once would have ached to part with so many, they were now the soiled reminder of the false relationship he had fostered for so long, and it was with a perverse joy that he was rid of them. His clothes were few; though he enjoyed fashion and expressing his various moods with outfits, he was conscious of having a refined, limited taste. It was with grim humour that he reminded himself of where he was going. No brightly-coloured shirts or elegant coats were needed in a land where it would be swallowed up by oppressive greys. Though it had been more than ten years since he was last near Kelfordshire or Kenton Abbey, Eiren remembered all too vividly how the constant rain sapped the life out of the area.

With the books sorted, and the clothes sorted, Eiren was left only with art and his notebooks. The art he immediately threw into the pile of things he did not own: they were all gifts from Lucella and Ludmila. They practiced watercolour and acrylic painting, and bestowed upon him all of the lovely images they created. The pictures - portraying sheep and flowers and even the lake - were all horrid to him now. Every one of them seemed so childish and simple. The sisters hadn't the respect to create anything of substance, and inwardly, he shuddered to think that such simple imagery had pleased him so.

At last, he beheld his notebooks. These, of course, would go with him, despite the years of deceit he had written through. Such false portrayals of friendship will serve as a reminder, he thought firmly, a warning of things best not repeated. He wrapped each book in a soft cloth and tucked them in the suitcase he had dredged up from under the bed. There was nothing left. He looked up at the clock and sighed, breathing in deeply. He had forty-five minutes of this life left. What was there to do while he waited? Farewells were useless - if Lorian had hidden his desire to be rid of him so well, how long had the rest of the family grown tired of his presence? The sisters were attractive, desirable young women; they would have no difficulty in finding another man to give them attentions. Of that, Eiren was sure. Lorian had, as far as Eiren was concerned, already said his piece, already uttered his goodbyes.

Eiren threw himself back against the bed and closed his eyes. His stomach grated in the silence, but he ignored it. Some passive and childish part of him wondered if he would not be able to escape his future if he was dead. Surely, the Caelony Van Wyk would not marry an emaciated and near-death young man?

He laughed aloud and flinched at the sound. It was with a shock that he realized he never did so - demure smiles, or sly grins were his expressions of... joy? happiness? The realization stunned him momentarily, but he threw it aside at once. What does it matter if I don't laugh? There will be no causes for mirth where I am headed. He gazed at the ceiling and felt his chin quiver. Expressions of emotion, though easily enough summoned, were not always displayed, and the quivering of his chin annoyed him. As the clock swung closer and closer to the hour of his departure, he grew increasingly frustrated. When the clock finally read five-fifty, he rose like a corpse from the bed, picked up his light suitcase, and descended down the stairs. The doorway was empty, save for the few signs that summer was ending. He remembered grimly that the Lutton's always returned to town during the fall months, away from the cold air the lake blew in. Their summer shoes were all piled by the door, besides their parasols, ineffective against the stronger winds to come. This would be the first summer in eight or so years Eiren would not accompany them to town. He swallowed hard as he saw the shoes, and stepped outside.

The sun was a thing of the past. The soft yellow lines that marked its descent had already begun to fade, and were quickly being replaced by the smooth grey of evening.

Perched silently on the side of the street was a black coach. Its horse and driver were black as well. The beast did not move, whether from expert training or from death, Eiren could not tell. The driver's cloak was pulled up high enough, that only his forehead was visible. There would be no use in speaking to him; Eiren was sure the man would not answer. He approached the car and reached forward, but the door swung open, pushed out by a porter. He nodded briskly at Eiren and reached for the suitcase. Reluctant to part with the case, even for a car ride, Eiren handed the luggage over and stepped inside.

"Do you have the letter, sir?" Eiren jumped slightly and flushed. He had not expected this man to be any different from the driver in speech, or the lack thereof. He nodded and pulled the abused letter out of his trouser pocket. Ignoring the creases and tears in the envelope, the porter gave it a quick glance before tucking it out of sight in his coat. He gave a quick rap on the back of the car, and with a smooth, well-trained movement, the coach began to roll forward.

Preparing for a long, silent ride, Eiren settled back in his seat and stared emptily out of the window. The elegant, white architecture of Perrinton became a gentle, grey blur as the coach rolled past it. Soon, the city gave way to the edge of the town, and the edge gave way to the bare roads and flat fields beyond. The light eventually faded, and sightseeing became impossible. Eiren moved and rested his head against the window. As the car rocked him to sleep under the impeccable driving, the hope that Caelony had taken ill, or perhaps been torn apart by wild animals in the night, nestled in his thoughts. It gave him a small measure of comfort, for he knew that such a character as hers would never find improvement or redemption.

And so, through the long hours of the night, comforted by images of the death of his betrothed, Eiren drew closer to the Kelfordshire Estate, until the carriage at last pulled to a silent stop at the gates of the castle.