The Goblets Immortal by Beth Overmyer (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

“What I saw,” Aidan cut in, “was a burning barn explode. I sent them somewhere, Tris. I just – I just don’t know where.” He tucked the remainder of the pastries in his torn pockets. “Thank you for thinking of me. I really must return to my work.”

“He beat you?”

Aidan flinched at the mention, but laughed. “When he can find me, which isn’t often.” He still hadn’t told his friend about his trick. It was difficult, and perhaps dangerous, but every time his uncle went into a drunken rage, Aidan would use his ability to make himself disappear. It was uncomfortable, but it had saved him several beatings.

Tristram did not share Aidan’s smile. “I worry about you.”

“You worry about everything.”

Tristram wouldn’t back down. “That’s not true. You do all the worrying, save when it comes to yourself.”

“You need to forget—”

“Boy, where have you gotten to? The fire’s dying in here.” The old man’s voice carried all the way down to the road. Uncle sounded drunk. And he hadn’t had his supper yet. He’d be meaner than a wet cornered rat.

“I really must go.”

“Think about what I said.”

With a smirk, Aidan turned back. “Which bit?”

Tristram looked at him meaningfully and started walking backward. “You know.” He mimed putting a glass to his lips, then grabbed his throat and writhed.

Aidan gave him a stern look. “When I wish to be hanged, I’ll think on it.”

“Boy!”

“Coming, Uncle.” Aidan returned to his dropped firewood, recovered it, and trudged up the hill back toward the house. Four stories tall, the gray stone mansion had fallen into disrepair over the last three years. For all his talk of investing and making himself properly rich again, Aidan’s uncle had failed miserably. He lost twice as much as what he invested, and the staff was reduced to four people: a serving wench, a butler, a farmer, and Aidan.

“What took you so blasted long? Did you have to grow the trees?” The old man let out a bark-like laugh and rapped his walking stick in time to his merriment on the floor. He frowned as he looked up at his nephew. “You look too much like your father, the scoundrel. Dark hair. What Powell would wish to have such dark hair? As black as sin, your unruly mane. Chop it off. All of it.”

Aidan ignored the man’s ramblings as he set about building up the fire again. He jumped when he felt the stick strike his back.

“Impertinent fellow, turning his back to me, ignoring my words as if he were my equal. What do you think, boy? You think you’re something special, do you?”

“No, sir.” Aidan ignored the throbbing pain where he’d been struck, and repaired the blaze. “Shall I see to your supper, sir?”

“‘Shall I see to your supper,’ he says. What, you haven’t begun it already? Should have been done hours ago.”

Aidan wished to argue that he only had one set of arms and one set of legs, but he was not a fool. In truth, the maid had told him she would see to the dinner preparations. He ought to have known better than to trust her.

Hurrying out of the room before he could suffer another whack with the stick, Aidan did not watch where he was going and walked right into a late courier who was sniffing about the entry hall. When the funny-looking man spied Aidan, he straightened up at once and put on an air of self-importance. “Where is the lord of the manor?”

“You make it your business, sir, breaking into this house and demanding to see the master of the manor?”

The man frowned and looked down his nose at Aidan. “Is the master in or is he not?” He waved around the piece of correspondence, lily-white parchment with a black wax seal closing it at the fold. “Mr. Dewhurst requires an immediate answer.”

“What does that old fool want?”

That earned him a clap on the ear. “You scamp! Such cheek. Such nerve. I ought to—”

“I shall bring the lord of the manor the letter, unless you wish to be met by a drunken Mr. Powell in all his wrath.”

The man peered around Aidan, who stood his ground. Eyes narrowed, the self-important delivery boy bent down to Aidan’s level. “You speak so of your master?”

Aidan laughed without humor. “Master? In faith, I hope not. Shall I have the letter, or shall I not? I’ve a many good things to do, and—”

“Mr. Dewhurst expects a reply.”

“Does he, now?”

“Your master owes my master quite the sum. S’put my master in a terrible mood.”

That made no sense. Mr. Dewhurst loved it when people owed him money, especially Aidan’s uncle. Before he could snatch the letter from the man’s hand, a loud, drunken grunt sounded behind him.

“What’s takin’ the fool boy so long? Got lost on his way to the kitchen.”

Aidan tensed. He should have been paying better attention to the man’s location. In truth, the messenger had thrown off his sense of where things – and people – were in the house. “Uncle, I—”

“Who’s this? Collectors? I haven’t any money, take the boy, if you must, but I haven’t a penny to my name.”

Aidan had the pleasure of watching his uncle turn ashen gray, spittle spraying from his jowly cheeks as he prepared to plead his debt away.

“I’ve, er, a message for you, milord. From Mr. Dewhurst.”

That caused the man’s spine to straighten considerably. “Dewhurst? What does that old sot want?” The old man sneezed.

The messenger, who had already been baptized with a wave of spit, took a quick step back. “My master said you owed him.”

“Owe Dewhurst? I’ve paid him back in full.” The drunken man laughed heartily, and staggered into Aidan. “Tell that old wart that he’s remembering wrong.”

Now the messenger fidgeted and went rather pale. “Sir? My master said that on pain of unemployment I should deliver this message to you and not leave until I had a reply.” The letter passed by Aidan, so close he could have