Raylen knows he should probably visit his father in the hospital, but his irritation at the old man's antics keeps him away. It is not like his father will recover faster if he visits him sooner.
He has someone else he wants to see anyways.
As he steps out of his mansion, he is greeted by the sight of autumn's falling leaves. He wonders how many more times he will get to see his children tumbling about in little heaps of golden leaves.
"It will be the winter solstice soon," he remarks out loud to no one in particular.
He slowly makes his way to the garage. There is, after all, no rush at all. He is not visiting anyone impatient.
This is also a chance to get some quietness and peace after his father's heart attack and the disagreement with Livia.
Of course, he can always summon one of the several drivers employed by the Vale family to transport him to his destination. When going out with his family, he certainly prefers that option as it allows him to spend more time with Cornelius and Cornelia.
This time, however, is different. He is going alone to a place he has never brought—and will never bring—the twins to. A place so secret to him that even Livia is unaware of its existence.
The edge of his lips threaten to curl up into a sardonic smile. Perhaps this is what he deserves for marrying a young, naive woman. She loves him, but she does not understand him. He is not sure he wants to be understood by her either. A lack of understanding is probably better—and less painful—than a partial and fragmented understanding.
He picks a simple sedan—his car of choice because of how much it differs from the other cars in his father's large and ostentatious collection. Slipping on his mask, he begins driving towards town.
He stops at a newly-opened flower ship to pick up two bouquets of flowers—one of pink and white carnations and one of red roses—before making his way to the historic city centre of Sicaster.
To his left is a row of domineering townhouses built and decorated according to the principles of Art Nouveau.
It is a familiar sight. One that fills him simultaneously with nostalgia and bitterness.
He parks his car and begins strolling towards the townhouse at the corner. It is the residence that his favourite stepmother managed to wrangle from his father during their divorce. As a child, he spent many fond and not-so-fond summers here.
He rings the doorbell. Once, twice, thrice. "Glynis," he calls as he knocks on the door in frustration, "Glynis, it's me."
"I know. You can stop ringing the goddamn bell."
"Do you want to visit Laney?"
"No. Not today. I am not ready." There is a trace of sadness in her hard voice.
"Can I," he asks hopefully, "come in?"
"No. You only visit me when you have problems and I am not in the mood to be a free therapist today."
"Alright." There is no point in arguing with Glynis when she has made up her mind. The years have only made her more stubborn. It is little wonder that her marriage with his father did not last.
In addition, much as he wants to deny it, there is a lot of truth in her complaint as well. He places the bouquet of carnations on the doormat of his father's first trophy wife—not his first wife, mind you, for that is his late mother. "You know you can always call me when you want to see Laney," he says.
"I know. You don't have to remind me every time," grumbles the harridan.
"I will take my leave."
"There is really no need to announce your arrival and departure like you're someone important."
"Have a nice day, Glynis. I will come again soon. Goodbye."
The rest of the trip is going to be much harder without her.
He drives out of the city and onto an empty road cutting across a small forest.
It goes without saying that Sicaster Cemetery is not a popular destination for either tourists or locals. Especially not at this point in the year. There's really not much to see but dead dreams and lingering regrets.
Raylen walks among the numerous dead before stopping by a simple marble tombstone decorated with nothing more than a plain border. There is no photograph on the tombstone. It only has a name, birthday, and date of death. Not even a charming quote to inspire or warm visitors' hearts.
He sits before the tombstone and places the bouquet of roses down as an offering. Then, he begins to do what he has done countless times before. He starts to lightly trace the carved name of the deceased.
He has done it so many times that he knows exactly how long it will take him to finish tracing Delaney's full name. It is precious to him. He rarely says her name now, preferring to hoard it in his heart like a treasure that may burn up if exposed to the outside world.
Besides, what does he have except her name to remember her by? He dots the first "i" in her name.
Tracing her name makes him feel somewhat connected to her. As if he is still calling out to her in a different way. He is at the third and last "n" now.
She would have been thirty-four this year. She wanted to visit at least twenty countries before her thirtieth birthday. That goal is forever stopped at fourteen countries. He reaches the one "s" she has.
He wonders if her hair would have lightened or darkened with age. Would she have looked like Janus Allister? He is finally at the "t" and he opens his mouth for the first time since arriving.
"Are you happy now, Laney? My marriage is in utter shambles, my children are terrified and crying, and my old man is dying in some hospital bed. You must be laughing, just laughing, with joy."