Speaker 1: A forest of Earth and Moon, an Arcane Heart Studio production,
created and written by Eansley Bay. Chapter twenty one, The Closet.
I find my father in the closet, not metaphorically literally,
I've been looking for him for twenty minutes. The daily
briefing was scheduled for nine sharp, and Malcolm Slate is
never late. He is a man who treats punctuality like
a moral imperative, and a clock like a commandment. When
he using in the study, isn't in the kitchen, and
isn't on the terrace, staring broodingly at the tree line,
I start to worry. I check the perimeter clear. I
checked the basement clear. I check the garage. The Mercedes
is still there, gleaming and cold. It isn't until I
pass the master's suite that I hear it. A low,
rumbling murmur, my father's voice, and another voice, lighter, reedy,
with a cadence that sounds like dry leaves skittering on pavement.
It is coming from the bedroom. I pushed the door open.
The master's suite is empty. The bed made with military precision,
but the gore to the walk Hyphening calls it a
room large enough to be a small apartment in most cities.
Is standing ajar. The woolen canopy is dense. The reedy
voice says it is a suit collection. My father replies,
his voice is tight, strained, and you are wrinkling the ARMANI.
I step into the doorway and stop. The closet is changed.
It's still a closet technically. The rows of hanging suits
are still there. The shelves of shoes are still lined
up against the back wall. But the light is wrong.
It's dappled, shifting, filtering down from a ceiling that looks
less like plaster and more like a sky. The air
smells of cedar and old magic and mothballs. No, not mothballs,
something sharper, like dying flowers. My father is standing in
the narrow aisle between the winter coats and the dress shirts.
He is not alone. The cousin is sitting on the floor.
He has arranged a circle of ties around him, like
a ritual boundary, silks and reds and blues and grays,
twisted into shapes that hurt my eyes if I look
at them too long. He is holding a pair of
dress ears, and as I watch, he reaches up and
snaps a loose thread from the hem of my father's
favorite charcoal blazer pruning. He murmurs, dropping the thread into
a pile of lim that looks suspiciously arranged. Essential for growth, pruneing,
I say. The cousin turns to me and his eyes
light up. Yes, I'm not so old fashioned that I
channeled the gruff. I like the direct and yes, painful
efficiency of pruning. I am a bit of a what
do you say, a rebel, and that you're printing the suits,
these suits that aren't even alive. I still am trying
to wrap my arms around the cousin. He is so
different than sorta um, I could give them life. No,
my father nearly shuts. He turns to me. He looks
haird That's the only word for it. Malcolm Slate is
a man who has stared down armed federal agents and
feral werewolves without blinking, but standing there in his own closet,
squeezed between a rack of jackets and a fake creature
playing gardener with his wardrobe, he looks defeated. Karnan, he says,
thank god, what is happening? He has moved in, Malcolm says,
gesturing vaguely at the cousin. He says, the atmosphere is
conducive to his work. The cousin looks up. His eyes
are black beads, unblinking and entirely devoid of anything human.
He offers me a smile that is all teeth and
no warmth the air. He says, welcome to the grove.
Do you come to pay tribute to the silk? I
come to get my father for the morning briefing, I say,
keeping my voice steady. I glance at my father. He
clearly would like nothing more in the world than to
have the cousin move out of his closet and to
ask why you chose his closet. I told you, the
cousin says, stroking the sleeve of a navy pinstrike. It
reminds me of the forest. Also, it is dark and
quiet until you arrived. We have guess quarters. I say,
there is a suite in the east, wine, a bed, windows,
actual furniture. Do not assess my needs in human terms.
The cousin dismisses. You speak of dead wood forced into
unnatural shapes. Here he gestures to the hanging clothes, the
branches fall, and the leaves sway, and suddenly a breeze
blew through the closet, swaying the suits on their hangers.
He refuses to leave. Malcolm says, his voice lowering to
a whisper. That was more of exhaustion than an attempt
to hide his words from the cousin. I tried to
order him out. He told me my authority has no
purchase in the ruling wood one would I don't know.
Malcolm snaps, He's been here since dawn. He calls the
shoe rack the leather cliffs, Kirnan. I have to get dressed.
I have a council meeting at noon. I cannot conduct
pack business in my pajamas. I look at the cousin.
He is currently braiding three silk ties together, a red,
a gold, and a black pattern. Looks like a snake
eating its own tail, Cousin, I say. He ignores me.
Cousin sharper. This time he sighs, a sound like wind
and dead grass. You are loud, like your boots. We
need to discuss your role. My wil is balanced, he says,
not looking up. I am the weight on the other
side of the scale. Sortia, I say, invoking the name
like a weapon. Sortia was more than balance, and he
didn't live in a closet. The cousin pauses, the sheer
still Sorchaw, he says, testing the name. Sorchaw was industrious, involved.
He liked your noisy little world. He liked your tea
and your politics. He was our liaison, our advisor. He
was a gardener who got too attached to the weeds.
The cousin says coldly. He looks up and for a
second the boredem in his eyes is replaced by something
ancient and chilling. I am not Sorchaw. I do not
care for your tea. I do not care for your politics.
I am here because the debt must be paid, and
I will pay it from here, he gestures to the
closet from this forest. You are paying the debt, I say,
through clenched teeth, Viviz. I take a step toward the cousin,
and he doesn't look scared so much as curious. You
are lying. I say the words, and unlike my physical approach,
the hit with what appears to be real force. The
cousin stands up. He looks angry, but I don't care.
You are here to fill a roll not restore balance,
and you are not filling that role. So you are failing.
You are in fact not bringing balance, you are creating
in balance. It is like a stab the cousin. He
staggers a bit, but then stands upright. He's pissed. I
can tell, or at least whatever emotion pissed is with Faye.
Perhaps I handled the role differently than Sortia. What do
I care if you aren't happy? What are you gonna do?
Change into a dog and bark at me, and the
cousin laughed in a way that made my blood run cold. Still,
I didn't back down. I stared at as impossible ancient,
impenetrable eyes and simply said, I'll go to the hollow
and tell them you are not fulfilling your required role.
The cousin fell back a step. Fine, I will embrace
this role, but be careful what you wish for. Dog
Tensions were high, and father broke in. Go. Malcolm says
to me, I I'll handle this. I nod and back
out of the room. I can't watch. I can't watch
the Alpha the slave Peck, the most feared predator in
West Virginia, argue with the magic creature about whether his
pants or leaves while discussing the contractual details of a
pact signed when George Washington was president or even earlier.
I leave him to his woul and the shears. The
closet door clicks shut behind me, but I don't hear
the latch catch. I heard the sound of a forest sighing.
What was that? My father? Maybe both? I walk down
the hall, the weight in my chest just a fraction lighter.
I scared him. He understands that he has to honor
the pact. It's something, and we're going to survive this
follow if my father doesn't murder him for wouining the
ARMANI first, the shadow moves where the light one stood.
So then whispers in the ut. The wind did cry.
It calls mind a fleeting acles signal box rosing fir