Solanum Dulcamara

III. Their Cheeks Are Warm; Their Hands Are Cold

 Wednesday night, Brendon's only goal was to get to bed as early as possible, and he even went as far as simply snatching a bowl of stew from the kitchen and taking it back to his cottage instead of attending his usual dinner with the royal family (Ryan narrowed his eyes suspiciously at that, but appeared to accept Brendon's mumbled excuse about stomach pains) in order to achieve it. The plan turned out to work almost too well, as Brendon found himself awake long before the moon looked to be even considering the idea of setting.

At first, he considered heading up to the gardens and finding a nice place to sit and watch the stars, but he'd honestly never really understood the appeal of that. Stars were beautiful, of course, but stagnant, and he'd never been one to sit still for long periods of time without ending up lost inside his own mind. He recalled his father loving them, however- it had been a common occurrence in Brendon's youth to wake up to find the cottage empty, and to peek outside worriedly only to see the familiar silhouette of his father outlined in the light his lantern as he headed up towards his beloved flowers.

It was with that image in mind that, instead of going up to the garden (which was mostly comprised of little green sprouts and skeletal trees that hadn't yet regained all of the foliage they had lost in the last fall and subsequent winter anyway), Brendon found himself kneeling down beside the "kitchen" table (the house did, after all, consist of only one room, so there was really no distinction between a kitchen and dining room table) and pulling out the small bundle of cloth that was wedged between one leg of the table and the wall beside it.

After he had dislodged the object from its hiding place, he set it gently on the table and carefully unwrapped the cloth. It was beginning to smell a bit musty, and definitely looked worn around the edges, but Brendon didn't much care, because, as with most things, it wasn't the wrapping that mattered, but what was inside it.

In this case, that object was a thick, leather-bound journal with the name "Boyd Urie" carved into the front. It was full to the point of appearing to be just on the verge of bursting, with extra notes and papers crammed in between many of the already tightly-packed pages, and, were it not held shut by an attached strip of leather and wooden button, Brendon doubted the book would ever stay closed at all. Indeed, as soon as he freed the button from its hole, the book sprung open, the pages spilling open to reveal their contents.

The place it opened to happened to display a detailed sketch of a sprig of lavender, with notes below and around it listing ideal growing conditions, approximate heights, and the like. The handwriting was rather messy, as, being of common status, Boyd had only had the opportunity to learn to write after receiving a job at the castle, but it was still legible, and somehow the imperfection of it made the journal all the more meaningful in Brendon's eyes. He spent a few minutes simply flipping through the pages, using careful hands so as not to damage the paper or smudge the ink, and simply taking them in. He imagined his father writing these words, perhaps sitting out on one of the benches in the garden on a bright summer's day and sketching a nearby flower, or hunched over this very table under a flickering candlelight, labeling leaves and petals and stems and scribbling down tidbits of information learned from his years of experience.

But it was not these pages that Brendon was in search of at that moment, so, after a bit of perusing, he flipped to the very back of the book. There, nestled between the last page and back cover, was a small sheet of parchment with ragged edges, as if it have been torn from a larger one. Brendon brought his candle closer so he could read it, although he was careful not to bring it too close for fear of getting wax on any irreplaceable pages.

From what Brendon understood, his father had come to work at the castle when Brendon was no more than three years old. Their village had fallen victim to a plague, and the disease had eventually reached Brendon's mother, Grace. Boyd, at the insistence of his dying wife, had been forced to flee so as to keep himself and his son safe.