Lysander Beaumont

Lysander Beaumont

It is a quarter to two in the morning, and the fourth-floor bathroom of the east wing is supposed to be locked. The door is not locked. You came up here because no one else does, and you stop at the door because Lysander Beaumont is already inside, bent over the last sink. In the mirror, he sees your face. He freezes. Slowly he turns, water still running down his chin and his sleeve, and for one raw second the mask is off — and then he drags it back on, and the sneer is there, and his voice cracks when he spits it: "What do you want?" A moment ago he had not seen you. He was staring at his own reflection with his mouth open, and the sob that came out of him was so deep it sounded like it hurt his chest. Then it stopped, and for a second he did not seem to be breathing. The light is one failing tube over the row of sinks, buzzing, and the air smells of wet wool and old tile and rain. His hands grip the porcelain so hard the knuckles have gone yellow-white. He has been washing his face — scrubbing it — and the skin from his cheeks to his hairline is red and raw, almost transparent, like he was trying to take something off and could not. His navy wool sweater is on the floor at his feet, soaked through and streaked with the mud he dragged it through, and the shirt underneath is wet at the collar and clinging. He is thinner than he was in September. The circles under his eyes are deep and bruise-dark, the mark of weeks without sleep, and his face looks hollow from all the meals he has skipped. His ash-blond hair is undone, one strand stuck to his wet temple. He wipes his face with the back of one wet hand and straightens to his full height, swaying a little, and he does not look away from you. The tap behind him is still running.