His father would be in his library, the chosen theater for almost all confrontations between father and sons throughout the years, and as Rhys opened the heavy double doors leading to that room, he felt immediately transported back in time.
Not just in his own memories, although he had plenty of those from this room, but literally. His father’s library was somehow, impossibly, even more Gothic than the rest of the house. There was black wood, more velvet, heavy silver candelabras covered in years of hardened wax. Overhead, a chandelier made of stag antlers cast gloomy light on the parquet floor, and Rhys had never longed for the bright light of his flat in London more. The open windows, the white linen on the bed, the comfortable couches that didn’t dispel clouds of dust whenever anyone sat.
Not one velvet item—not so much as a fucking pillow—in the whole place.
No wonder he never came back here.
Simon Penhallow was standing in front of the large mirror he used for scrying and communicating with fellow witches, his hands clasped behind his back, wearing, as Rhys had predicted, his robes. Black ones, of course. His hair was black as well, although sprinkled through with gray, and as he turned around, Rhys thought he looked a little older now. A few more wrinkles around his eyes, more white in his beard.
“Do you know how long it’s been since you were last in this house?” his father asked, and Rhys bit back a sarcastic reply.
He had at least three of them, but his father was never the biggest fan of Rhys’s wit, so he just stepped into the room, mimicking his father’s posture, hands behind his back. “I’m not sure, exactly.”
“Half a year,” his father replied because why say a normal thing like “six months”？
“It has been half a year since you last visited your father and your family home.”
“Okay, but in my defense, that’s still got to be better than Bowen, right?”
Rhys offered his father a grin, but as always, Simon was the one person Rhys had never been able to charm. “Bowen is involved in something that actually benefits this family. As opposed to you, living the bachelor life in England.”
Rhys’s father had a tendency to say “England” as though he meant a sordid pit of debauchery, and not for the first time, Rhys wondered if his father’s idea of what his life must be like was not actually far more interesting than Rhys’s actual life.
All right, to be fair, there was a bit of debauchery, but on the whole, Rhys lived as normal a life as most young men in their late twenties. He ran his travel business, he watched rugby at the pub with his mates, he dated.
Nothing out of the ordinary except for the role that magic played in all of those things.
His customers always had a smooth and easy trip. His favorite team always won. And while he never used magic on the women he dated, he might’ve used the occasional charm to make sure he could get a reservation at the restaurant he wanted, or that traffic would never be a hassle.
He didn’t abuse his powers, but there was no doubt that magic made the path smoother, something Rhys had always appreciated.
“You are wasting your potential as a warlock,” Simon went on, “engaging in all this frivolity.”
“Warlock isn’t a thing anymore, Father, I’ve told you, we’re all witches now. Have been for literal decades.”
Ignoring that, Simon continued, “It is time for you to likewise do your duty for this family, Rhys. Which is why I’m sending you back to Glynn Bedd.”
Glynn Bedd.
Graves Glen.
Vivienne.
He didn’t think of her that often. It had been years; what they’d had burned hot but brief, and there had been other, more serious relationships since her.