Two hours later the house had gone unnaturally quiet. Windstone had spirited Mia, Lucius, Alistair, and even Benjamin off to guest suites in another wing with the kind of smooth efficiency that only decades of butlering could produce. The corridors outside Lucas's rooms smelled faintly of fresh linens and sandalwood polish, a neutral veil over the cedar and honey that still hung in the air.
Lucas had lasted exactly twenty minutes at his desk before the creeping heat and the noise in his head had driven him out. His laptop sat abandoned on the blotter, screen gone to sleep. Now he was in the wardrobe off their bedroom, a cave of dark wood and cedar-scented fabric, trying to build a nest out of Trevor's clothes. Sweatshirts, shirts, and even one of Trevor's tailored jackets were heaped in a circle, soft and smelling like him. Lucas crouched in the middle, knees drawn up, eyes half-shut, breathing slow and shallow.
