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[Victor Lark]

Summer 31, 509

“Who is she?” Alessa called from the dining room, when she saw her son pass in the hall.

Victor stopped. “Who?”

She grinned something sly through the heat from her coffee. “The girl that put that smile on your face.”

He frowned. “No one. There is no girl.”

“A boy, is it?”

“There’s no one. I was just—” He paused to consider, turning to her. “Practicing.”

“For what?”

“For girls,” he admitted, shrugged. “And boys.”

“That’s my boy.” A short, sweeping nod invited him to the table. He stepped to the threshold and lingered there, leaning. She cooed, “You’re a regular man on the town. A gentleman, who could have any lady he likes. And does. I’m proud.”

“Are you?”

She savored a sip of coffee. “Yes.”

“Most women would not be proud to see their sons take sport in spoiling noble virgins.” It was only partially a lie.

She was not phased. “Is that what you do?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t think it is.”

He stood straight and glanced at the door. “Maybe I’ll prove it.”

“And how will you do that?”

“I’ll have her on the table here.”

“I’ll clear a space.” She did not move.

He laughed.

She could tell he had not prepared himself for such a response, so she added, “What, you take me for one of your unspoiled flowers?”

“No. You’ve never been that.”

“What could you possibly mean?”

“They call you a slut.”

“Who does?”

“Everyone.”

“I suppose I deserve it.”

“Why?” Her face remained smug, almost coy. He thought he might have caught her off guard with that one, and hated that he had not. “Well, are you?”

“Hardly.”

[Victor Lark]

“Then why do you let them say it?”

“It’s only a name, child. Sometimes it does me good.”

He stepped into the room. “And Bastard, is that only a name?”

“You are not a bastard.”

“Aren’t I?”

“I married him, if that was your question.”

“And you never wore a ring.”

“I misliked the symbolism of it.”

“But you’re content to be named Whore?”

She sighed, setting down her cup with a small tink. “There are some things we can control, sweet son, and some things we cannot. You’ll get along well if you can tell them apart.”

He rolled his eyes. “Where is he then? My father.”

“He died.”

“When? How?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

“You think?”

“Yes.”

She paused, eyeing him as she tipped the decanter to an empty cup and pushed it to the other side of the table. “What matters to you, son?”

He hated that game; he had played it too many times with others, and he did not appreciate feeling examined. Nonetheless, he obliged. “That my cousins call me bastard when I am, apparently, not.”

She seemed satisfied with that answer. He should have said something else. “It’s only an insult if you let it—”

He thought of something, spat, “And that I never got to see his face, or learn from him, or love him, as you did.” As he sat, he thought he saw a spark of displeasure flicker across her cold grey eyes. He could have smiled.

“How do you know I loved him?”

“I guess you didn’t.”

“I never said that.”

“You did say, You donnot need to love a man to make a baby with him.”

“Well, that’s true. But I did. Love him, I mean.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why?”

“You don’t love anything.”

“I love you.”

[Victor Lark]

He glared. Her smile had drooped, but had not faded entirely. There was something else in her eyes. He did not know what it was, so he scoffed and replied, “And I you, mother.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“What does it matter, if you already know it’s a lie?”

“Maybe it isn’t.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” He pushed on the affect of irritation into his tone for emphasis, hating how she could fluster him. He tugged his coat as if it would give him back his composure. He thought he saw the flourish of a bird in the window, but when he looked, it was not there.

Before he looked back, she said, “Never mind it. Tell me where you were off to tonight.”

There was a man at the tea shop. Not one for his smiles, but one that had taught him the sport of people-watching, of assumptions and stories. “No.”

She was right; she wasn’t like the unspoiled flowers who painted their emotions on their faces and changed their masks with the turn of a tongue. It was in the twitch of her lips and the dip of her eyes. She was upset. At least, she was pretending to be.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I bend the truth.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“Is it?”

He heaved an audible sigh and pushed out his chair.

“You’re so cruel to your poor mother. Drink your cup before you leave.”

“Only if you tell me who he is. Was.”

She hesitated.

“It’s not Uncle Vernon, is it?”

She laughed. It was a hollow, strained noise. “No, I’m not— No.” She laughed again.

“What was his name?”

“It was your name.”

He should have guessed. It did not help, anyway. “And you married him? For how long?”

“We were bound, in our hearts.” She smirked.

“Did you marry him before or after you got pregnant?”

“Before.” It seemed to content her, to answer questions without really elucidating anything.

He changed his tactic. “And then he died, so you vowed abstinence and played at mother.”

“Of course.”

“But then it got boring, so now you’re the slut of the district.” He picked up the little cup and downed its contents in one gulp. He stood to leave, searching for the surprise or disgust in her hard eyes.

She traced the edge of hers with the end of her finger; all he could see of her eyes was the dark silver on her lids and the black embellishment on her lashes. “You’re no different.”

“I take after the best.”

“Or maybe you are.”

He leaned against the table. “How is that?”

She looked up and their eyes met. “At the end of the night, I don’t actually fuck them.”

His face dropped. He took a moment to stare at her, to detect her lies, then to consider the door. His hands did not leave the table. It took him a few too many seconds to collect his thoughts, but she was patient. “You’re right,” he sighed. “I’ll fuck them all. And I’ll tell them I love them. Then I’ll forget about them, even when they have sons. And someday their sons will ask about me, and they’ll say they loved me because it makes them feel like their sons aren’t bastards.”

Her eyes were shining as she nodded. “I’ve taught you well.”

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I love you, mother.”

He took her sudden exhale for a laugh. Someone else might have confused it for a sob. “I love you, too.”

He made for the door.

“Have a good evening, Victor.”

It slammed behind him.

[Verilian]

Victor Lark +2 Interrogation +1 Observation +1 Subterfuge You Question My Logic? : As always if you have any questions regarding your reward, feel free to PM me. I had trouble deciding what to give you, so if you feel something is more appropriate, let me know. Lores: Back and Forth with Mother, Learning from the Best Notes: I simply can't express how much of a fan I am of you. Even a simple thread like this has me itching for more. I loved the back and forth between the two of them. As I always say, keep up the good work!