Sherlock
I find him in the throne room, drunker than my mother on Christmas.
There are dozens of wine bottles littered across the broken stone. If I were the betting kind, I’d wager that wine is all he has consumed since Arietta claimed she was mine. Without the glamour, I see how truly bad it is. He’s thin, frighteningly so. The circles under his eyes are now as black as his hair. His stubble is thicker, spotted with blood from a cut on his lip that hasn’t closed. He stumbles, slurs. It takes him a long time to see me standing in the doorway.
When he does, he grins, lopsided and languid.
“My bride has come,” he murmurs, lifting his bottle. “Or her spirit set to sit upon the throne my father promised.”
“Hello, Griffon,” I say, soft and sure.
“No longer Griffon,” he tells me, drinking
