Arthur did not look at him. He lowered his head, unhurriedly smoothing the creases of his gloves.
"The deeds of the dead are left in picture frames, the names of the dead are printed on the flyleaf of poetry collections, the legends of the dead are told by mothers to their children, passed down by the fireside, generation after generation. But the living need the trust of Kensington Palace, need the recognition of the Hastings family, need to steady their footing in the first years of Victoria's reign. The hero in Flora's letter cannot help me. He is too clean—so clean he cannot bear any kind of power."
He paused. "So I put him away—stowed at the bottom of a trunk, sealed into every last resort and makeshift expedient."
Agares's throat worked. "But you now…"
"Now?" Arthur met those scarlet eyes without flinching, one hand tucked before him as he bowed slightly. "My apologies—now is the hour for tending graves."
...
