Chapter 20

"Giles...I don't know what to do." Sidney rested his head in his hands. It was one o' clock in the morning, and Giles had walked into the billiard room where Sidney had been sitting by the fire, unable to sleep. The firelight flickered over the expensive mahogany tabletop, painting a pattern of light and shade that Sidney focused on. He gazed briefly at Giles, whose squarish face was flushed with the firelight.

"Not so easy, old chap," Giles agreed. "Could you duel the fellow?"

Sidney tilted his head. "I could," he agreed. He had long considered dueling with Lord Ridley—ever since he found out the news about Anastasia. "But if I challenge him, he'll choose the weapons. And I don't trust him not to cheat."

"Pistols?" Giles asked. His voice slurred the word, but only slightly. His hazel eyes seemed alert, as though he was taking in all that Sidney said.

"Mm." Sidney nodded. "And we all know that it's not so hard to cheat. I don't know if I want to die." He shook his head. He felt as though his life was not worth living without Anastasia, but there was a small part of him that did not want to end it. He had seen death all too recently—that cut-off silence, the horror of a life ceased before its time. He did not want that—not for himself, and not for his family.

"That's not even a question," Giles said with a snort. "Of course, you want to live. Even an earthworm will fight for its life."

Sidney frowned. "But you..." When Amelia, Lady Amery's daughter, had run away, Giles had hovered in a drunken stupor for weeks. He had come close to death then. It was perhaps only luck that saved him.

Giles nodded. "Mm. And that's precisely why I tell you that you want to live. You know what's the best thing about life?" he asked. He leaned on the table, reaching for a bottle and pouring it.

"No," Sidney murmured.

"Hope."

Sidney frowned. That was one thing he lacked.

"If you're dead," Giles continued patiently, sipping at whatever it was he had poured, "then everything stays as it is. Nothing can change. All your problems stay the same, the future stops. Your mistakes stay and you can change not one piece of it."

"Mm." Sidney nodded. The image of his father's desk returned to him, the pieces of paper, the unwritten correspondence, the pen still dipped in the ink, waiting for him.

"If you're dead, nothing can change," Giles continued. "Not even your mind. But if you live...now...that is something different. In life, everything can change in an instant. What you have lost can be found. What you have wronged, you can right. What you did not know, you can learn. In life, all that can happen."

"Mm." Sidney grunted. In that moment, the words—while appealing—did not make much sense to him.

"When your father died," Giles said, just a little callously, "what was it that hurt the most."

"That he wasn't here anymore," Sidney replied at once.

"Quite so. He wasn't here anymore. His story here—his song—was silent. It stopped."

"Yes," Sidney answered, just a little impatiently. Giles had lost his father, too—he had no right to be callous. He was just about to say that, when Giles continued.

"You don't want your song to stop, Sidney. The best bits haven't played yet." His voice was gentle.

Sidney shook his head. "I don't know that."

"I do," Giles said. His gaze held Sidney's. Sidney stared into his cousin's eyes, watching the firelight flicker there, and wondered why he had never noticed they were so intense. Giles had once been his best friend. He gazed at him, listening to his words. "Want to know how I know?" his cousin asked casually. "How I know that you haven't lived the best bits yet?"

"Yes," Sidney grunted. "I do want to know."

"Because you're not dead. That's how." Giles fixed him with his gaze. "If you were meant to be, you would be. But you're not. Makes sense?"

Sidney let out his breath in a sigh. "Yes," he admitted.

It did make sense. It made about the only sense that anything had made that evening. He had tried to take dinner, but he had no appetite. He had excused himself from the table early and retired to his room, thinking that he could read until he fell asleep. Sleep had not come. All he could think of was Anastasia. Her smile, her pale blue eyes alight with joy and hope and humor. He had come to the billiard room, thinking that he could distract himself with the newspaper or even play a round or two of billiards, but it had already been past midnight, and his brain would not settle.

"So," Giles continued, bringing his thoughts back to the moment. "Since you're alive, stands to reason there's more in store. Am I making sense?" He poured something from the bottle again. Sidney braced himself for the stench of spirits, but oddly, it didn't hit him.

"Yes," Sidney answered. "Yes. You make sense."

"Good," Giles replied, sounding pleased.

Sidney gazed at him. Giles was the only person who had been so candid, who had discussed so openly the pain that he was feeling. It felt good to talk to someone, and especially it felt good to talk to someone who did not judge, who seemed to understand.

"It's just..." Sidney sighed. "She's the only woman who has ever looked at me like that." He looked down at the table. He had never admitted to anyone—not Mama, not Amy, not Henry or anyone else—how he felt. The scarring had not just scarred his face. It had touched his soul. He had always been proud of how he looked. Not vain, just proud. He had enjoyed being handsome, like Papa. He had enjoyed coming from a beautiful family. Now, whenever he went into public situations, people stared and gawped. He hated it. Sometimes he was angry with them, but mostly he wanted to hide. Hide somewhere in the hills and never come out.

"That's not true," Giles countered, sipping his water. "You remain quite fair in appearance. Behold the charm of your eyes; they possess a captivating allure. You are most certainly a dashed heart-breaker."

Sidney bit his lip. "No." The word was hard. "No, I'm not. I'm scarred and hideous. People look away , Giles. Miss Highbury, she..." His throat tightened, not letting him express the pain and hurt he felt when she gazed away as though he was a fearful, hideous sight.

"One person looked away." Giles fixed him with a hard stare. "Not everybody does."

"Mostly the people who don't look away are family," Sidney retorted.

Giles let out a sigh. "Yes. But they like you for who you are. They won't be the only ones, you know. We're family but we're not saints. If we didn't like you, we wouldn't." He laughed. "You're a pleasant person. It counts for something."

Sidney shot him an angry glance. "Maybe."

Giles just smiled. Sidney looked at him closely. He had become used to his cousin having unfocused eyes, his clothes rumpled and his hair a mess. This evening, he did not look like that. If Sidney breathed in, he could smell a little brandy, but nothing like the usual torrent.

"Just don't forget about tomorrow, cousin." Giles gazed at him. "It's the most magical thing we have. We are aware of the events that transpired on the morrow past. The happenings of the day before us remain uncertain—we may hold our assumptions, yet we cannot be certain. As for the morrow to come, well... it is a realm of infinite possibilities."

Sidney swallowed hard. "I know what will happen," he whispered. He knew too well. He would never be happy; he would retire somewhere to a monastery and Giles would take over Willowick. Mama would die of a broken heart and the dukedom would wither away.

Giles raised a brow. "No, you don't. You don't even know what's going to happen in an hour's time."

Sidney shook his head. "Yes, I do. Absolutely nothing. It's almost three o' clock, Giles. Nothing happens at three o' clock in the morning." He felt frustrated. His cousin had made some sense, but now he did not want to hear what he had to say. It was difficult to think about tomorrow. He wanted to sit in the dark and not think.

"The collier's going to come soon," Giles said, stifling a yawn. "And I'm going to go to bed. And the cook is going to get up and start baking the morning bread and pastries. So, you don't even know what's going to happen in an hour. Don't imagine that you can say what will happen tomorrow. Tomorrow, it could all be different."

Sidney just shot him a cross look.

Giles grinned. "You may be as vexed as you desire, my good fellow, yet do not direct your ire towards me. I assure you, I am well informed. Indeed, you shall come to understand as well."

Sidney grunted. Giles walked to the door.

"Goodnight, cousin," Sidney called as Giles stepped into the hallway. He felt a little guilty. Giles had sat with him and talked with him, listening to his sorrow as nobody else had. He had spent time with him when nobody else had and tried to talk to him about his deepest sadness.

Giles grinned. "Goodnight, cousin. The lamps are still burning in the hallway."

"Thank you," Sidney murmured. It was good to know that he could safely walk down the corridor without risking his neck on the stairs. He heard the door shut and he leaned back and closed his eyes.

The blur of conversation drifted through his thoughts like smoke. He tried to sift it for sense. Oddly, after Giles' words, he felt something that he had not felt before. While he did not exactly feel happy, he felt as though fresh vitality had been poured into him. He opened his eyes.

"Maybe Giles is right," he said to himself in the darkened billiard-room. "Maybe I should see what happens."

He shut his eyes briefly again. His head was pounding, a feeling as though he had whirled around very fast making his temples ache.

"I should go to bed," he told himself aloud.

He stretched and yawned, standing up and limping to the door. The fire was burning, and he raked ash over the coals, then went out into the hallway, where, as Giles had said, the lamps were still lit.

He followed the lighted trail to his bedroom, and there he collapsed on the bed, his thoughts whirling, his head aching.

He shut his eyes, images of Anastasia pressing close. He was not going to lose hope. As Giles had said, there was always tomorrow, and he did not know what was going to happen.

He had to hope. He had to hold on just a little longer to see what would happen next.