#elystan liddick

And like 99% of the time Josiah shuts him down but sometimes Elystan drags him to these things anyway and he mostly just stands around not saying a word and wishing he were about a foot shorter (i.e. less noticeable...hard to disappear in a crowd at 6'3") and on another planet. He won't play the piano, he won't sing, and he definitely won't talk to the girls Elystan tries to introduce him to who initially are fascinated by this mysterious deposed ex-prince.

“Pick up,” said Amarantha through gritted teeth. “I know you’re there.”

It was, after all, only nine in the morning, and Elystan seldom left his Loriston flat before noon.

The telephone rang and rang and rang until finally a familiar voice, as if from the bottom of a well, replied.

“Wha…?”

“Elystan! Have you seen the papers?”

“Who?”

“Oh, you know perfectly well who this is! It’s Amarantha. I need you to look at this morning’s Lamplight. Or whatever rag they bring you. It’s all over the front pages.”

“Most people,” said Elystan, “purchase their own copies. There’s probably a newsboy a few yards from your door. He’ll appreciate your business. Or do you need me to loan you two-narry for it too?”

“Since when do you know what a paper costs? You’ve never bought one yourself in your life. Never mind that. It’s Lady Grandvin. You know, a client of mine. She’s been accused of murder!”

“And she would do it too. You should see the looks she gives my mother over tea.”

“She probably means them for you. But seriously, she can’t possibly be a murderer. I know her. I’ve spent hours staring at her, trying to capture her soul on canvas, and honestly, she’s got the soul of a—of a sheep.”

“A lot of theologians would debate you on that point.”

“You know what I mean! She’s harmless. She didn’t do it. And I’m going to prove it.”

“With what evidence?”

“Well, that’s where you come into it. I need you to come over here at once.”

“I’ll drop by this afternoon.”

“No, this is urgent.”

“But I have urgent business to attend to first.”

“What—getting dressed? You haven’t even got out of bed yet, have you?”

A moment of silence on the other line. “How did you… Well—yes, but give a fellow a break. I had a dashed late evening. I was the life and soul of Sir Riderick’s little soiree and they just refused to let me go until all hours of the night—”

“You went to bed early but you were up late with another attack, weren’t you?”

Silence. Annoyed huffing. “I don’t know why you even bother to talk to me, since you clearly already know all the answers.”

“Are you feeling better? I could come to you if this is one of your bad days…”

“I need coffee. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

“That’s an insane amount of coffee,” she started to say, but he had already hung up.

Two hours to get ready. She shook her head as she paced around her studio, tidying it up less because of her visitor and more because she needed something to do with her hands. Only Elystan could turn a quick and simple matter like getting ready for the day into such a drawn-out ordeal. He probably needed a solid half hour to convince himself to get out of bed at all. Another to loll around in his dressing gown. His valet was efficient, but Elystan was known to change his mind about ties half a dozen times in a single morning. Throw coffee into the timetable, and it would probably be closer to three hours before she could ever hope to see him.

Oh well. It would give her some time to get in a little work, if she could settle down enough to concentrate. Lady Grandvin’s portrait was mostly done but needed final touches—adjustments to coloring, lighting, the background and objects surrounding the sitter. Amarantha stabbed a paint brush onto her palette and aimed it contemplatively at Lady Grandvin’s gown. A pair of mild brown eyes stared back at her. Hands in their red gloves reached out, almost pleadingly.

All in red from head to toe. Good gracious, what had this woman been thinking? What an unlucky portrait to commission right before such an accusation. Thank goodness it was unfinished and not on public display, for surely quite a few people would see it as a sort of admission of guilt. But anyone who saw Lady Grandvin’s face could hardly believe such a thing of her—could they?

Amarantha couldn’t work like this. She flung the brush into a jar of water and resumed pacing. The morning sun poured into the windows, right into her eyes. As she reached for the curtain, a car zipping down her street and stopping outside her building caught her attention. Could it—? 

She flew downstairs and threw the front door open. Parked outside was a gleaming red New Spectre, with the chauffeur opening the door to reveal a young man sprawled across the slippery leather backseat. His hat was tipped over one ear, and his tie did not coordinate with his socks.

It just clicked that I could make more of it.

"You know who you are." You know that you're your father's son, and you're just like him, and I hated your father, so I hate you too, and I don't want to see you.*

"You know who you are." You know that you are a king's son, a prince, even if you don't have that title anymore, so you should know better than to act so recklessly, thoughtlessly, impolitely. You are unworthy of this behavior, so get in line and act the part that you've been trained for your whole life.

"You know who you are." You know who you are. And I don't. I feel like I don't know you at all anymore, even though I'm your own mother. Perhaps I never really knew you. And I never shall, because you won't let me in.

"You know who you are." You know that you're my son, even though you distance yourself from me so vehemently. You act on your compassion. You fight with your words. You're bright and curious and fascinated by the world. When you allow someone into your affection, you're all in. I look at you and I see my own eyes looking back at me. And you want nothing to do with me.

I don't love it, it's probably way too on-the-nose, everything is subject to change, of course, but getting her and Elystan to outright yell at each other? Fun to write. And awful.

This is right after Elystan unexpectedly brings Josiah and Tamett home with him.

The painting depicts a young man lying asleep on a sofa. He wears white-tie evening dress, much rumpled as if he's been in it a long time, and his shoes are still on. His dark hair is likewise a bit of a mess, and his position suggests that he just sort of flopped down on the sofa and passed out there--limbs going everywhere, head at an almost uncomfortable angle. His top hat, with gloves tucked inside, lies on the floor carelessly, in a reflection of his posture. He is surrounded by a mess of papers--newspapers, magazines, but mostly scrap paper with words and doodles scribbled on it, presumably by his own hand, although another separate handwriting (a woman's?) is visible on some of the papers. An ashtray on a nearby table is filled, and a silver cigarette case is open in one of his hands. Despite the frazzled nature of his surroundings and pose, the expression of the man's face is notably relaxed, at peace, childlike, perhaps--he seems to be almost smiling. On one side of the scene, a hand reaches for his opera cloak (flung over the back of the sofa), about to pull it over him like a blanket. The owner of the hand is unseen.

But we know who it is. If you look closely at the room, you will see that it is an art studio--Melbray's. The hand is hers, and the young man is her friend since childhood, Elystan, Duke of Gorchester.

Elystan as a young man was making a name for himself as a writer, critic, patron of the arts, and a popular member of society. He had an active social life--as active as his conditions would allow--that he threw himself into with enthusiasm, as if to make up for his rather isolated youth. After attending parties or performances, he often did not return to his own residence but went straight to Melbray's, where he knew she would be up late working. She would paint, and he would talk and talk and talk, bouncing ideas off her, often until he wore himself out and fell asleep on her sofa. This happened often enough that an amused Melbray chose to paint it.

Elystan in his forties and onward would like everyone to shut up about, you know, that book. The one about the insufferable, overly dutiful young nobleman who sacrifices his interest in a delightful but socially unsuitable childhood friend to please his father by molding himself to the role required of him. Unfortunately, this requires him to compromise a lot of his values and takes him down a rather dark path--until he is by chance reunited with the girl whose heart he broke and he's no longer so certain what he wants out of life.

Elystan considered this a trite, sappy story that he claimed he only wrote because he was out of other ideas, and he expressed a lot of distaste for the protagonist (whom he tantalizingly told a fan who wrote to him was based on someone he knew--but this inspiration's identity remains unknown to this day). But something about this novel struck a chord with readers, and it's often one of the first titles that modern-day fans of Elystan's work will recommend to new readers. They say the romance is "really good, actually," and they love the portrayals of sibling relationships, both with the girl's large, lively family who treat the protagonist like one of their own (much to his secret delight) and with the protagonist's complicated, dysfunctional family.