Though he’d told his father otherwise, Phineas was only packing now, and he packed with a fury. He and Cass would leave the next morning, the tenth of September.
His bedroom windows were flung open. Outside, the air was finally a bit crisp, and a little breezy too. Every so often an invisible breath stirred the gossamer curtains.
Phineas’ large trunk lay open on the floor, clothing and objects scattered around it. The bureau drawers hung open at dangerous angles, underwear flowing out like foam on a full tankard of beer. The wardrobe doors too were flung wide. Discarded hangars scattered the floor around its base. Phineas hadn’t made his bed or straightened the room in months.
He was terrible at packing. It was partly his lack of organization, but mostly his complete inability to focus on the task. He paced up and down his room, flinging clothes into his trunk, not caring if they draped over the edges or missed it altogether and settled on the floor like complacent little jellyfish. Every few minutes he’d forget what he was doing, stop, look around helplessly, and wander the room a few times before remembering he was supposed to be packing and continue pitching things aimlessly in the general direction of the trunk. He’d stacked his favorite books up in teetering piles around his bed to go in another trunk—he would pack them with more care, but clothes could be washed and ironed.
Precisely at noon he heard the knock on the door that signaled a servant had brought his midday meal. He waited till he was sure they had gone before he went to get it. He opened the door cautiously, peeked up and down the hall, and darted out to snatch the platter and bring it back into his room. He gobbled down the food with a feverish haste, hardly tasting it. He couldn’t have told an hour later what he’d eaten.
He paced anxiously for a while before resuming his erratic packing spurts.
The servant who brought his supper knocked at his door around seven, wanting to collect the dish from earlier. She got no answer, so she slipped in. The young lord sprawled on his unmade bed, surrounded by the day’s tornado damage, fully dressed and fast asleep.
She took the dish and slipped out, closing the door.
A little evening rain wet the windowsill as Phineas slept.
~
He woke early the next morning, and left his room for the first time in days. The sky outside his window was still pre-dawn gray, a couple stars winking in the dimness. He wiped the condensation off the windowsill with his sleeve, closed the window, and went out into the hall. The rest of the upstairs was still asleep. He crept down the sweeping main staircase, crossed the house, and went down the narrower, dingier staircase to the servants’ quarters and the kitchen.
These were busy. He snuck into the kitchen, where Ambrose was baking rolls for breakfast. The air was warm and smelled nice. He sat down.
Ambrose smiled at him. “Coffee, young master?”
Phineas nodded, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “Yes, please.”
“I just brewed a pot.” Ambrose filled a mug of steaming coffee and handed it to Phineas. Still sleepy, Phineas stared at the flat black surface, like the eye of a wild animal, little golden bubbles sparkling around the perimeter. Coffee—so beautiful, so mysterious…an enigmatic brew, a magic potion of wakefulness…
“Young master?”
Phineas looked up from the mug, surprised.
Ambrose was struggling with a smile. “Would you like cream or sugar?”
“Oh. Cream, please. Just a little bit. Thanks.”
Ambrose poured a dash of cream into the mug, then got himself a cup of coffee and sat beside Phineas. The smell of fresh rolls wafted through the kitchen as they drank together, savoring the quiet.
“I’m leaving this morning,” Phineas mumbled when he’d finished his coffee.
Ambrose looked at him, thinking of the best answer. Finally he rubbed the boy’s head. “Ask Jeremy for a hair trim before you go. He’s in the other room. He’d be happy to spare a moment for you.”
Phineas had resented the order coming from his father, but from Ambrose it was alright. He nodded and slipped off his stool. “Okay. Thank you for the coffee.”
He wandered toward the kitchen door.
“I’ll miss you, boy,” Ambrose said.
“You too, Ambrose. I’ll be back for Yuletide.”
“Wonderful. Breakfast in half an hour, young master.”
Phineas poked his head into the servants’ quarters. Amid the bustle and laughter as they prepared for the day, Jeremy sat on a low three-legged stool by the fire, lacing up his boots. He was younger than Ambrose, but no less grizzled.
“ ‘Scuse me, Jeremy?”
The man looked up and grinned. “Young master!”
“Ambrose sent me to get a hair trim.”
Jeremy stood up and stretched, grunting. “Ah, my bones! Alright, sit down here, young master. I’ll be right there.”
He went into the bathroom and came back with a small basin of water, a sheet, and a pair of shears. He swathed Phineas’ shoulders, wet his hair, and began snipping.
“How much off, lad?”
“Only a little. Father wants me respectable.” He suppressed the sigh at the end of his words.
Jeremy pursed his lips. Snip snip, went the shears. Small dark clumps of hair littered Phineas’ shoulders and tumbled into his lap and onto the floor. An elderly maid, who’d worked for Lady Clade before she died and gone on to be Phineas’ nurse, swept past with a pile of laundry and bent to peck Phineas on the cheek on her way. The smell of sausage filtered in from the kitchen. The room was beginning to empty; they all had tasks to attend to.
Jeremy finished. He brushed the snippets of hair off Phineas’ neck and removed the sheet, rolling it carefully so as not to make a mess.
“There you go, lad.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Have fun at school, young master. Don’t work too hard.” The man winked and patted Phineas on the shoulder. Phineas smiled at him, wishing things could really be that way.
~
The early hours dragged for Phineas and flew for Cass. The younger prince was no better of a packer, but he at least knew himself better and had started a few days out. Around ten, his carriage was outside the door of the Clade mansion, glistening in the morning sun, and he stood just inside the door, washed and combed and blushing with embarrassment as Phineas and his father fought.
Phineas liked simpler clothes in subdued colors, and today he’d dressed in his typical white shirt, leather breeches, jacket, and riding boots. He’d tried to comb his hair, but despite that and the trim, his head still resembled a natural disaster. And of course, his father didn’t like any of this at all.
“You look like a commoner,” he was fuming. “I can tolerate this at home, but you are going to university. To—Twdich University. Where the heir to the throne has gone. And you, my son, will turn up at their door looking like a commoner.”
“It’s too late for me to change, Father.” Phineas was beginning to lose his temper—Cass could see it in his eyes, even more turbulent than usual.
“Look at your friend Cassander! He’s dressed as a noble should be. You should follow his example more often.”
Cass blushed even more. Phineas glanced at him and gritted his teeth. His friend was impeccably dressed, as usual. He really was the perfect prince, with his delicate, handsome face and his blue eyes and his flawless fashion sense. Even his hair, though an unremarkable color, was such a luscious texture that people who saw it immediately forgot it was mouse. Phineas wasn’t jealous, though he was a lot worse looking than Cass, but he wished his father wouldn’t compare them.
“He’s different, Father.”
“Different? You’re my heir. I don’t see why you should dress so badly. I don’t see why he’s different.”
“I’m leaving,” Phineas yelled, angrily picking up his trunks. “ ‘Bye, Father! ‘Bye!”
Lord Clade scowled, knowing his son had won this fight. “Fine. Just promise you’ll change when you stop.”
“Of course,” Phineas lied, one foot out the door.
“I’ll miss you. Work hard.”
The door slammed and his son was gone. Cass still stood in the foyer, smiling awkwardly. He bowed, mumbled a few formalities, and made a quick retreat.
Clade scowled at the door for a while before whirling up the stairs to his study.
Hektor stood outside the closed room, waiting patiently for him as usual. In that soothing, discreet way of his, he noticed his lord’s anger and bowed.
“Some wine, my lord? Some tea?”
“Tea, Hektor.”
The boy bowed and left. Clade went into his study and sank into his favorite chair with a weary sigh, massaging his forehead. Soon Hektor was back with a hot cup of herbal tea, just a dash of milk, the way Lord Clade liked it.
“My lord. Shall I leave you alone, or is there anything else you want?”
“Just stay here with me, Hektor.”
“Of course.”
Hektor sat cross-legged on the floor and whipped a knitting project out of an enormous pocket. His needles clicked industriously, and Clade sipped his tea, feeling his anger begin to fade away.
After a little while, Hektor looked up from his knitting. “My lord?”
“Yes, Hektor?”
“You know how you asked me to investigate Zarael’s movements with ESAIC, and that soldier? And I said I couldn’t do both, so you said prioritize the soldier?”
“Yes?”
“Well, I can do both. The kid’s been selected for ESAIC training.”
~
The carriage rattled along the uneven cobbles of the highway, the luggage tied to the top and back bumping around dangerously as the vehicle swayed back and forth. They were half an hour out of Toragon, the capital city, and neither of the boys had said a word. Phineas sat sulking, his face a thundercloud. Cass tried to act like he didn’t notice, staring out the window at the passing countryside, but he couldn’t help glancing worriedly at his friend now and then. They happened to make eye contact for a moment, and Cass blushed.
“I’m sorry,” he said over the clattering of the wheels.
Phineas’ hands instinctively felt around for something to throw, but found nothing, and clutched the cushioned seat instead.