"Of course I have my own issues with the event," said Skulduggery, returning Descry's look. He made no attempt to deny being biased in the opposite direction. "It's marked by searching for chocolate eggs supposedly left behind by a giant rabbit. Still, it's better than Christmas. People don't get unnecessarily sentimental over Easter. No offence, Paddy."
Offence was the last thing on Paddy's mind, but he still bowed his head in gratitude. "None taken."
Ghastly remembered the night Dexter was talking about. How couldn't he? He hadn't given a single thought to Skulduggery's sanity that whole time, worried more about Saracen's in the immediate aftermath. It wasn't until the next morning, when Skulduggery vanished, that he put two and two together the way the skeleton must have - Serpine. If anyone would have had the capability, desire, and downright stupidity to pick off the Dead Men one by one, it was him.
At the time, Ghastly had hoped Skulduggery would return with news of Serpine's death. Now, with Dexter's story, the tailor's breath caught in his throat at the fresh realisation of what Skulduggery's disappearance that night actually meant.
Skulduggery looked long and hard at Dexter, perfectly still in the way that only a living skeleton could be. When he suddenly moved again, leaning his weight back on his hands, it was startling. "Do you remember when I told you that he wasn't a she?"
Ghastly frowned, but said nothing. Skulduggery wouldn't be glib about this. Ghastly had to be missing something.
"Well, he wasn't. He was a mortal potato farmer by the name of James. I needed distance from civilisation directly after I buried the armour, but I wasn't counting on his farm. I think I scared him half to death. If it wasn't for James, I wouldn't have come back to find any of you."
A memory surfaced. Skulduggery standing at the grave of someone named James Walsh, almost a century after Lord Vile disappeared. He carried a single bottle of olive oil, and placed it near the tombstone. Ghastly never did find out who James was, and had given up hope of ever finding out without Skulduggery feeling much more like sharing. And he never had.
"I went to go visit his farm outside of Cork after Descry died," the detective continued. "The farm was empty. I regained myself there once; I was hoping it would stop me from making the same mistake again. And it did, with some help. You can thank Descry for that. I thought he was a hallucination at the time."
Dexter had been terrified he'd arrive in Cork only to find Lord Vile, and he never breathed a word to anyone else. Not once. Ghastly felt a surge of incredibly righteous anger, chalky in his throat and on his tongue, but he fought it back down. In Dexter's shoes, Ghastly would have done the exact same thing. And it wouldn't have made one blind bit of difference, because Skulduggery came back. He was at Descry's funeral. He was there, next to Dexter, when Saracen turned sharply around and started lecturing them both out of nowhere about being idiots.
'I don't blame either one of you,' he'd snapped with a tremor in his voice. 'So stop blaming yourselves.'
Would it have changed anything, if Ghastly knew back then?
no subject
Offence was the last thing on Paddy's mind, but he still bowed his head in gratitude. "None taken."
Ghastly remembered the night Dexter was talking about. How couldn't he? He hadn't given a single thought to Skulduggery's sanity that whole time, worried more about Saracen's in the immediate aftermath. It wasn't until the next morning, when Skulduggery vanished, that he put two and two together the way the skeleton must have - Serpine. If anyone would have had the capability, desire, and downright stupidity to pick off the Dead Men one by one, it was him.
At the time, Ghastly had hoped Skulduggery would return with news of Serpine's death. Now, with Dexter's story, the tailor's breath caught in his throat at the fresh realisation of what Skulduggery's disappearance that night actually meant.
Skulduggery looked long and hard at Dexter, perfectly still in the way that only a living skeleton could be. When he suddenly moved again, leaning his weight back on his hands, it was startling. "Do you remember when I told you that he wasn't a she?"
Ghastly frowned, but said nothing. Skulduggery wouldn't be glib about this. Ghastly had to be missing something.
"Well, he wasn't. He was a mortal potato farmer by the name of James. I needed distance from civilisation directly after I buried the armour, but I wasn't counting on his farm. I think I scared him half to death. If it wasn't for James, I wouldn't have come back to find any of you."
A memory surfaced. Skulduggery standing at the grave of someone named James Walsh, almost a century after Lord Vile disappeared. He carried a single bottle of olive oil, and placed it near the tombstone. Ghastly never did find out who James was, and had given up hope of ever finding out without Skulduggery feeling much more like sharing. And he never had.
"I went to go visit his farm outside of Cork after Descry died," the detective continued. "The farm was empty. I regained myself there once; I was hoping it would stop me from making the same mistake again. And it did, with some help. You can thank Descry for that. I thought he was a hallucination at the time."
Dexter had been terrified he'd arrive in Cork only to find Lord Vile, and he never breathed a word to anyone else. Not once. Ghastly felt a surge of incredibly righteous anger, chalky in his throat and on his tongue, but he fought it back down. In Dexter's shoes, Ghastly would have done the exact same thing. And it wouldn't have made one blind bit of difference, because Skulduggery came back. He was at Descry's funeral. He was there, next to Dexter, when Saracen turned sharply around and started lecturing them both out of nowhere about being idiots.
'I don't blame either one of you,' he'd snapped with a tremor in his voice. 'So stop blaming yourselves.'
Would it have changed anything, if Ghastly knew back then?
No. If anything, it would have made things worse.