Their lessons encompassed all subjects without definition or true structure. Some days they would spend pouring over a world map, Teresa pointing out great cities and capitals, their history unfolding from her stories in a way that always seemed like an adventure. On others they would read snippets from Shakespeare, and she would ask him what the great writer had meant after each section. Quinn would attempt an answer, and Teresa would tilt her head on her slender neck, her smoky hair tipping also, saying yes, he was right. It was only when he was twelve that he finally answered that he had probably meant several things all at once. Teresa’s face had lit in a smile that followed him throughout the rest of the day, and the squeeze of her hand told him that he’d finally understood.
At night his father would read to him after dinner, sometimes for hours in the library containing high mahogany shelves filled with books. They would rest on the leather couch before a fire crackling in the immense hearth if it was winter and holding cool glasses of iced tea if it was mid-summer. James would read, his voice sonorous and strong from years of projecting lines before a camera, the subtleties of his speech changing with each character until the story filled the room. The library would disappear around them and they would be on Mars, the red dirt glistening beneath a baking sun at their feet, or the walls would become massive trees, towering beyond sight so that their branches and leaves were lost in the blinding white of a forever sky.
Quinn would sit beside his father, sinking toward him as the night spooled out, his shoulder gradually resting against the older man’s arm until James would cuddle him in closer, stroking his hair and running his fingers over Quinn’s eyes until sleep carried him away.
These were the days of before, his life as the months became years and the world turned without him witnessing it for himself. And no matter how hard he stared across the ocean, he could never see the other side.
Chapter 2
Jackals and Buzzards
The day after his sixteenth birthday, he heard his father and Teresa argue about him for the first time.
He’d drifted off on a settee in the solarium, a book of Robert Frost poems open on his chest. Soft rain drummed against the half-domed ceiling of glass, the drops exploding as they hit only to reform into stitching rivers that flowed down the slanting wall and out of sight.
Quinn sat up and closed the book, marking his place before setting it aside. It was early evening, the sun lost somewhere behind the storm clouds and dense pines to the west. Lightning walked in a twisted stream across the sky and he listened, counting off the seconds until the thunder replied.
He made his way down the hall toward the stairs that led to the second floor and his waiting room. His muscles ached from a long run and climbing the cliffs all morning. It had been a glorious spring day, one of the first, the smell of melting ice and the air strangely warm, like an unexpected blanket placed over you during a nap.
Quinn paused, his foot on the first tread, as a voice filtered down the hall from the furthest room, his father’s study. The tones of conversation were off, unsteady and varied, sounding like the cook’s voice did when arguing over a recipe with the housekeeper or telling a joke. When heard from a distance, humor and anger sounded almost the same.
He walked down the hall, his sock-feet silent on the oak floorboards, ignoring the long mirror on the wall when he came even with it. He was good at not seeing mirrors now. He’d had them all removed from his room when he was fourteen and barely noticed his gliding reflection when he passed them in other areas of the house.
When he came to the T branching off to the rest of the home, it was empty. Mallory, the housekeeper, had left for the day, as well as Graham, the cook, and Foster the groundskeeper, each retiring to their respective guesthouses a short distance down the lane. The house was devoid of life save his father, Teresa, and himself, the way it was every evening. A word echoed to him that sounded like can’t, and it was Teresa speaking. Her voice would’ve been recognizable to him in the middle of a tempest. Quinn edged closer to the door and saw it was open a fraction of an inch. He stopped, waiting and listening, holding his breath.
“Do you think I haven’t gone over it and over it, Teresa?” His father’s voice, strong but without force, tired sounding, like he hadn’t slept for years and only wanted to lie down. “I’ve lain awake nights weighing it out, turning it over, worrying it like a stone.”