A weary dreamscape of actions propelled not by conscious efforts, but of unconscious intentions made the night before the coronation a confused nightmare. Revenge rode me as if I were a horse but alongside this rider were its companions, shame, fear, and rage.
My father taught me many things in the hours I spent at his shoulder, and in those hours there were tricks and techniques I employed now to refresh the crushed velvet. Sylvain worked silently by my side, the fox which he’d named Durant, after our grandfather, slept under the table at our feet.
We talked hardly at all, though words hung between us like laundry strung out on a day of washing. It was nearing dawn when the vest was done and in its splendor, I felt nothing. The night had worked its dulling magic on my soul. I was emptie
