Book 3: Chapter 64: The Sting of Grief
The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock melded into the dimly somber rays of morning light that crept along the lustrous sheen of the well-maintained mahogany floorboards of the late Prime Minister’s private home study. Before the bookshelves of carefully curated covers of historical and biographical accounts, political and legal treatises, scientific and philosophical works, and the usual assortment of literature and poetry, lay the stately open black coffin with its silver handles, fittings, and ornamental decorations, upon a large white oak table.
Attwood Hargreve lay upon purple and silver silk and velvet lining dressed in his official garments of state, minus the medallion and ring of office he had been granted the day he became Prime Minister. His silver-tinged brows and brown hair were carefully combed and groomed away from his closed, unmoving eyelids. His expression was neither peaceful nor tormented but absent of any emotion, though the natural downward turn of the corners of his mouth implied a certain dissatisfaction.
Vases of flowers of every color, primarily white lilies, roses, and chrysanthemums, overflowed the floor beneath and around the coffin’s table. More than one of the floral arrangements had begun to wilt, their petals scattered by the faintest breeze of the cracked bay window that carried them toward the eastern end of the room where Acheron sat in the quiet shadows of dawn. The Rogue's vacant gaze hovered over the faintly ticking pocket watch in his hand that was one minute slower than the grandfather clock behind his father’s coffin.
Acheron had lost all sense of time somewhere in the hours, days, and seemingly immeasurable intervals of empty space that had followed his father’s sudden death. His mind seemed deliberately unable to acknowledge the rise and fall of each sunrise and sunset that served only as a harsh reminder of the unknown and his painful loss.
As the grandfather clock chimed with the sixth hour of dawn, the Rogue corrected the minute hand of his pocket watch and then tucked it inside his black mourning jacket. The scent of death, flowers, and unwashed fatigue clung to him like a second skin as he stared at the casket and the man within, the politician, statesman, nobleman, husband, and father—who could no longer criticize his wayward son, smoke from his favorite pipe, or sit on the piano bench by Lucy, his wife, while she played their favorite ballad or operatic arias.
Aside from the bookshelves themselves, most of the office furniture had been carefully blanketed beneath white sheets for protection. Even the regal office chair upon which Acheron sat and the study desk between the Rogue and his father was covered from view. It was as if the room itself could no longer function or breathe as it mourned the man who had labored, laughed, and languished within its walls.
“What are we to do without you,” Acheron whispered hoarsely. His hooded, shadowed eyes turned absently toward the bay windows where the lark had begun its morning song. “What am I—supposed to do now?”
As if on cue, the study room door opened as the house butler, Vernen, appeared with four members of staff who busied themselves removing wilted flowers while their supervisor turned to address the young Viscount in the corner.