The Weight of Legacy

…Little girl, you are eviler than you know.

Those simple words had been all it had taken to send his father and former friend into a quiet frenzy, and Anselm could not be gladder for it. This was the exact kind of delay—and most importantly, distraction—he just so needed.

When his young half-sister had spoken, Anselm had been only a few steps behind Kristian and Bernadette, still feeling more than a bit responsible for trying to keep them from ruining the event. That was now out of his hands—a blend of helplessness and acceptance came with that realization.

He couldn’t exactly go and tell them not to question Alaric, not after he and Theo had failed to immediately rebuff Adelheid for her comment. This would be their problem to deal with, because Anselm was about to leave.

If he was lucky, he would manage to come and go before anyone even noticed his absence, and his attendance to Thekla’s wedding would go unquestioned still, should anyone detect a disturbance where he was going. If they had yet to calm down by the time he returned, well… He would entertain the thought only if it truly came to that.

Slipping through the inner halls of their home with none of the staff there felt eerie in a way only matched by dreams. For all it lacked the surreal nature of that imaginary version, it was somehow just as lifeless—a place, without its people, looking and feeling absolutely wrong to the senses he could hardly admit he’d developed.

For all the sluggishness of seasickness had never truly left him, a few levels and months of forcing himself to simply move had been all it took for Anselm to find a degree of his mobility not only returned but changed. He crossed half the estate much, much faster than seemed reasonable, each motion carrying with it a fluidity he would never take advantage of in front of witnesses.

Especially not when he thought he had a fairly close idea as to where it came from.