In Which Lettie Contemplates the Difference in Beliefs

November 2, 1180

If Lettie could rely on the testimonies of her in-laws, men in her husband's family rarely snored if they went to bed sober. Based on Searle himself, she could believe it. She'd never heard a thing in the earlier nights of their marriage, not even if the evening had been spent in celebratory revelry after a wedding or birthday party or holiday feast.

Since Alina's birth, however, she'd been forced to seek refuge in the room they'd been saving for Arkon if she wanted any wink of sleep. Now that Arkon was settled there, she'd claimed the largest guest chamber for her own and set up a makeshift nursery in the next room for the younger two. As fascinating a study of the effects of early sleep experiences she could have performed with the older two as a control, she didn't care to subject her own children to such dubiously ethical experiments. They already had enough stress in their young lives with the increasingly distant, increasingly inebriated father.

As for Lettie herself, that breaking point wasn't so far out of reach either. She hadn't gone into the marriage expecting love, but she had expected respect, and it wasn't unreasonable to demand that, not when she'd done nothing to deserve anything less. But to be fair, it wasn't as if anyone else was getting any more. "Thank you for helping me get him to bed."

Her brother-in-law nodded. "Figured it would be rude, bringing him all the way from the village and leaving you to deal with the aftermath."

"You still didn't have to." But a selfish corner of her heart was glad he had. At this point, she would have had no qualms about leaving Searle to pass out in the front room, but it was nice to have another adult in the house again, if only for a few minutes. Five-year-old Rennie was usually the most she could count on in that regard.

"I did, though. He's my baby brother." Odd that Searle got that term when Jadin had four other brothers, all younger than Searle, three of them still children even. Odd, but fitting. "Sorry that he's being stupid. He doesn't even like ale or wine or anything. He has to get drunk to appreciate drinking."

"But apparently the not feeling is worth it." If she got any satisfaction out of that, it was that making her miserable didn't make him happy.

"I don't know. The need for not feeling sounds like feeling to me." Jadin's hand hovered toward her, bridging the gap between them. She didn't reach back but didn't shy away when he took her hand. It had been far too long since another adult had paid her that gesture. "You deserve better than this. And he is better, really. He's just... lost a piece of himself."

Lost a piece of himself. God, that sounded corny. But it also sounded apt. "You can't substitute for that."

"And on his behalf, I apologize for his trying."

If only Searle would wake sober and apologize himself. He'd forgotten Rennie's birthday. He'd forgotten Alina's birthday, or at least as her birthday--he had remembered the day he'd lost Sparron for good, and he'd grieved by locking himself in the wine cellar. After Lettie had received news of her sister's death, it had been a week before he stopped needing reminders as to the reason behind her melancholy. He was better than that. She remembered him as better than that, and he wanted to be better than that--surely he must have?

Lettie was not a romantic. She did not believe that there was one perfect person for everybody. She did not believe that anyone needed to be 'completed' by some missing half. She barely believed in love beyond the natural functions and urges of the human body. She didn't believe any of it, but Searle did, and that was the problem. As far as Searle was concerned, he was broken.

And there was only one person who could fix him.

"You've already done enough, but do you think you could keep an eye on him for a while?" Jadin nodded, not even a blink to hint at questioning. Poor, stupid Searle had once been like that too. "I need to speak with someone."

NEXT CHAPTER: