“Shall I translate that to mean you are in compliance?”
G closed his eyes. “Yes.”
“Very good, my lord.”
What G wouldn’t give at this moment to be able to change into a horse at will. Then he could put fifty miles between himself and his father’s nose. (He would probably need forty-nine of those miles just to get out from under the sniffer.)
Twilight transformed into deep dusk as G made the trek up from the stables to the side door of the apartments. His mind was galloping at breakneck speed wondering what his parents wanted to speak to him about.
From the time he was old enough to sit at the supper table, he’d been aware of his inferior position in the family. Stan always got served before G—the main course and all the side dishes. When their father introduced the two of them, it was always, “This is Stan, the next Duke of Northumberland, heir to the Dudley fortune.” Long pause. “Oh, and this is my other son, Stan’s brother.”
Here, your narrators will point out two facts that may have contributed to the Duke of Northumberland’s embarrassment surrounding his second son. One: the E?ian power was widely considered to be hereditary, and neither the duke nor his supposedly devoted wife had the magic. Two: the duke had an epic nose, the proportions of which were legendary; Gifford’s nose was the perfect size, and the shape could’ve been the inspiration of sonnets.
The combination of these two details made the duke often glance sideways toward his wife, and repeatedly treat Gifford as if he wasn’t there.
That was why at the age of thirteen, Gifford had requested his name be reduced to just G, since nobody seemed to care what his name was anyway.
Billingsly led G from the side entrance down the third main hall, where G caught a glimpse of himself in a hanging mirror and paused to fish a stray piece of hay out of his chestnut-colored hair. His mother had strict rules of civility inside the castle, the most important of which was, “All signs of equestrian escapades are to be left in the stable, where they belong.”
His mother had always approached his curse as if G wanted to spend his days as a quadruped. As if it were just another way for a privileged teenage boy to rebel. She often forgot that he didn’t ask for this curse, and that if he could find a way to control it, he would give Billingsly’s right arm for that information.
As if he could hear G’s thoughts, Billingsly pulled his right arm in front of his body, and away from G’s line of sight.
“In here, my lord,” he said as he swung open the doors of the drawing room, using his left arm.
Inside the room, his father sat behind an ornate wooden desk, his mother, Gertrude, standing behind him. Her hand rested on Lord Dudley’s shoulder as if they were posing for a portrait. His little sister, Temperance, was on the couch, playing with her knights-and-ladies doll set.
“Giffy!” she said when she saw him enter the room. Tempie was the only one in the world who could get away with calling him Giffy.
“Hi, Curly,” G answered, for Tempie had the curliest blond tresses in all of England.
“Ah, son,” Lord Dudley said. He motioned to a woman standing in the corner, Tempie’s nurse, who immediately took hold of the little girl’s hand and led her from the room. Tempie waved awkwardly as she balanced her dolls and held her nurse’s hand. “Thank you for joining us with such haste.”
“Father,” G answered with a slight bow of his head, although now he knew something must be wrong, because “joining with haste” was the best compliment his father had given him in two years. (His previous compliment had been in recognition of “keeping to the background” when Rafael Amador, the emissary from Spain, was visiting.)
“We have some excellent tidings for you,” his father continued. Gertrude stood a little taller at this. “And for your future happiness.”
Uh-oh, thought G. Future happiness was always code for—
“You have grown into a fine young man, and a stout, er, stallion,” his father said. “We may not have a handle on controlling the equestrian situation, but this minor daily divergence from humanity does not preclude you from leading a relatively normal life, nor will it strip you of the rights and privileges afforded any nobleman.”
First of all, G was annoyed that neither of his parents could tell it like it was and use the phrase “horse curse,” instead referring to it as his “equestrian condition” or a “minor daily divergence from humanity” or some such nonsense. But the more worrisome part of his father’s speech was the bit about the “rights and privileges afforded any nobleman.” Because this could only mean—
“Marriage, son,” Lord Dudley said. “Marriage to a well-vetted and—as far as can be anticipated without being tested—fertile young lady, of excellent lineage and equally verifiable family connections.”