With one specific human being, Rhia.
But she was too far away to touch and seemed to be avoiding his gaze, and it came to him that the cramping in his jaws was tension, and that its source was the frustration he felt at being denied what he wanted. Needed.
I need her.
The thought was so new to him, so shocking, he was barely aware of the knock on the door…of the door opening to admit one of the uniformed guards-rather incongruously wearing latex gloves-carrying a medium-sized wooden chest. Still half dazed, he watched the guard march across the room and place the chest on the oriental rug between Weston's feet and Nikolas's. The guard then saluted, did a crisp about-face, and left the room.
As he blinked the chest into clearer focus, Nikolas felt a strange prickling in his scalp. Then a chill flooded him from head to toe, and the room and everyone in it receded, leaving him alone in a whirling vortex. Memories came at him like flying debris, and voices from his past filled his head, blocking thought:
Nikolas, it's past your bedtime. Put your toys away this minute.
Do I have to, Uncle?
Nikolas, are you still reading, boy? Put that book away and lights out. Tomorrow's a school day.
Yes, Uncle.
Nikolas, how do you think you'll do at Eton if you persist in playing games instead of studying?
I'm putting it away now, Uncle.
He became conscious of a choking sensation in his throat, and his lips moved as he silently said the only clear thought in his mind: Impossible.
It was very quiet in the room as King Weston took a key from his jacket pocket and inserted it into what appeared to be a new and very efficient lock. Everyone's eyes were focused intently on the chest-everyone's eyes but Rhia's.
At that moment hers were on Nikolas, which was why she was probably the only one in the room who saw his face drain of all color, his body jerk almost imperceptibly before going still as stone. She was the only one aware that the knuckles of the hands gripping the arms of his chair were bone-white… and that the eyes staring into the chest had gone glassy with shock.
In her concern, she almost… .almost spoke to him, said his name aloud. Instead, with her pulses pounding in her ears, she swallowed hard and shifted her gaze to the chest, forcing herself to think about it, focus on it, catalog every detail in her mind as she'd been trained to do.
In spite of some dirt and wear, it was actually quite attractive, she thought. And obviously very old, Rhia, who had a fondness for old things for their history and character, beautiful or not, felt a strong desire to explore it with all her senses…run her fingers over the smooth wood-cedar, perhaps?-and brass fittings…smell the old-wood-and-dampness smell that always reminded her of the French Quarter in New Orleans. An innocuous, innocent-looking little chest, to contain the cause of so much turmoil…so much grief.
"Where did you find it?"
Nikolas's calm voice startled her. Her eyes jerked back to his face, and she could hardly believe it was the same one they had been focused on a moment ago. His eyes, resting on Lady Zara, were merely curious, now, his face completely composed. Only a hint of white around his mouth and the muscle working near the hinge of his jaw gave evidence-and to her alone-that he'd just received yet another emotional body blow.
Lady Zara glanced at King Weston. "In a moment, Mr. Donovan. I think you should see whatever is in the chest first-don't you agree, Your Majesty?"
King Weston didn't reply. His eyes were shielded, his jaw intent as he leaned over, turned the key and opened the padlock, then removed it from the chest and placed it in his jacket pocket. He lifted the lid, which gave an obligingly gothic creak.
Then the only sounds were the incongruously joyful warble of a bird outside in the garden, and some faint rustlings as the king carefully lifted something wrapped in tissue from the chest.
"Before I show you these things, Nikolas, I must explain." the king said. "Naturally, the essential items of evidence are in Lord Southgate's custody, locked safely away in a forensics lab somewhere. I will tell you that they consist of a lock of hair, and a baby's, er…nurser-uh, bottle-from which they were able to obtain both fingerprints and DNA."
"But that doesn't-" Nikolas all but exploded.
The king lifted a hand to silence his protest. "The fingerprints on the bottle," he said patiently, "though an infant's, are a verified match to yours-" his lips twitched "-which I regret to say are on file with our police department, as well as national security. Your DNA is not. However, since the DNA recovered from the bottle, as well as from the hair follicles, is a close match to mine, it was considered necessary to obtain a sample immediately. Which Mr. Lazlo's agents-" he gave Rhia an acknowledging nod "-were able to do quite easily, from materials found in your office at Dunford College."
Nikolas stiffened and threw Rhia a look that stung. "You… broke into-"
"I did no such thing," she shot back, more calmly than she felt. "The dean was more than glad to-"
"Be that as it may." King Weston said, in a crackling voice that instantly reclaimed everyone's attention. "Your DNA was obtained, Nikolas, and it, too, was found to match the samples from this chest. But there is more." He took a breath, and his voice wavered and lost some of its volume. "There were…two items which I withheld from the forensics scientists. Lord Southgate-the Duke of Carrington-and I-and one forensics expert sworn to absolute secrecy-are the only ones who know of their existence." Almost reverently, he lifted the tissue-wrapped object he'd held concealed in his hands and folded back the paper to reveal a small silver box, quite tarnished but exquisitely carved. "And now…the three of you."
He opened the lid to reveal, nestled in a bed of royal purple velvet, a baby's silver cup, the kind once given to every newborn infant by doting aunts and uncles, engraved with the child's name or initials and date of birth. King Weston removed the cup from its velvet nest and held it up for all to see, turning it so the monogram HRW-Henry Reginald Weston-was plainly visible. Then he rotated the cup.
"This," he said softly, tapping the engraved crest on the other side with one index finger, "is the royal crest of my predecessor, King Dunford. This cup was given to my parents by His Royal Majesty on the event of my birth. I, in turn, gave it to my son, on the day of his birth. This-" with hands that shook slightly he held up the second item-a black-and-white photograph in a gilt oval frame "-is a photograph taken on that day." He handed it to Nikolas, quickly, as if it burned his fingers, and went on in a breaking voice. "That is your mother, Queen Alexis. This was taken just two days before she died- I know, because I took it myself-she would have no one else except the doctors see her. She thought-" He smiled slightly. "She didn't like the way she looked, you see. However, I thought she looked quite beautiful, as always, and I convinced her to let me take this one photograph. The babe in her arms, Nikolas, is you. And the cup you see in the picture, here- your mother was holding it for you-is this one." He held up the silver cup with an air of triumph. "This very same one."
The ringing voice seemed to hang in the air…in the ears… like the tolling of a bell. Nikolas shook his head to dispel the echoes and stared narrow-eyed at the photograph in his hands. Through the clouded glass he could see a gaunt, exhausted-looking woman with heavily lashed light gray eyes, her dark hair hastily arranged in a style he recognized as having been popular in the 1970s. She was propped on a massive pile of pillows, smiling bravely and holding what seemed to him an uncommonly ugly baby with a smashed-in face and puffy, slitted eyes. The child's most remarkable feature was a shock of jet-black hair.