Though he told himself it would be a cold day in hell before he set foot in Westlake Manor again, Talbot feels the need to check in on Jessica. The last he'd seen of her was the pale girl riding away on her borrowed horse back to Palisade, with her fierce little yearling trotting at her heels. What has become of the gypsy he doesn't know, but he has a feeling, low down in his gut, that he will see him again. He is, after all, Chosen. There might come a time when they are all needed, like Maeve hinted. To fight against the wolves. Having seen no wolfstones in the Wardwood himself, he cannot conceive of the wolves being a threat. But that does not mean they are not real. He remembers the intensity in the woman's voice.
As he travels up the cobblestoned, oak-lined path to Westlake, astride Cesambre, the Guardian is curiously calm. Cesambre does not often worry about much; in fact, it is the Chosen on her back who feels his spine stiffen with worry, his shoulders bow. It is only through a willful act of military bearing that he straightens up, unbends, and assumes a posture of confidence.
He is forty-three years old, a man grown. He is a captain in Her Majesty's Royal Navy. He is Chosen.
He can feel a subtle thread of approval come up his Bond.
He dismounts, one hand lingering on her flank, and regards the manor house before him. As if she has heard his train of thought inside of his head, Cesambre whuffs delicately behind him and sets her nose against his shoulder in a silent gesture of support. He strides up the pathway, nods to the manservant who opens the doors for him without question -- he is, after all, still a Talbot -- and enters.
He is directed not to his mother's solar, which so often happens -- Lady Westlake is fond of her middle child -- but straight up the grand flight of stairs to the upper level of the house, and down one of the broad hallways to his father's office. Why he should be brought here is unknown to him. It makes him glance over his shoulder at Cesambre, who ascends the stairs behind him; she pauses, ears fanned out and nostrils flared, and glances around. This is clearly not a familiar or comfortable place.
"You can leave," he offers, his voice quiet, "If you don't like it here. There are rose gardens, they ought to be --" which earns him a flat look of reproach. Cesambre delicately ascends the last few stairs between them and places her head squarely into the small of his back, all but pushing him up. He attempts to dissuade her, looking over his shoulder at the top of her cream-colored head, and nearly bumps into his father: Richard Talbot is standing at the head of the stairs.
Stonefaced, Talbot's father raises an eyebrow at him -- or perhaps it is at his deer -- and then nods. "I see you've been Chosen," is his greeting, which sets Talbot himself on edge, though he later would not be able to say just why.
Instead, he finds himself nodding. "Yes," he says; "this is Cesambre." So named, the deer steps to the side of her Chosen, regarding Richard with her inscrutable gaze, and Talbot places a hand on her neck. Underneath he can feel her quiver. She is not comfortable.
Richard nods understanding, his mouth a thin line -- not disapproval, but certainly not enthusiasm -- and then gestures down the hall. "Would you care for some brandy? In celebration," he adds, as an afterthought. "And to think. Jessica was Chosen as well."
His eyes are lingering on the deer, roving over the slim lines of her neck, the muscles of her flanks, and Talbot draws himself up to his full height. He is as tall as his father, but Richard's aura makes everyone feel small.
Talbot nods. Duty dictates. "Of course," he finds himself saying, trying to stop from grinding his teeth. He thinks of anything but that look: he thinks of Elias, of Jessica and the gypsy, of Cesambre climbing into bed with him as a foal, all gangly-legged. "We have much to talk about."
