Larksong Grotto Send in the Clowns

it was the wrong thing to say.
masque spoke fairly, evenly. logically. they laid out the reasons why it should be done, appealing to ancelin's sense of rightness. of relief.
perfect future.
it was supposed to be here.
into the sunset.
to cut himself off from the family was one thing. that was his choice. to hear his cousin other him in that moment —! a chance to rebuild peacefully — as if avicus coming and going had not been what broke their peace in the first place.
he stared at masquerade for a long moment, a muscle twitching in his handsome jaw, caught between saying fuck it for good and —
you're the reason things are broken, was the message ancelin received, the only message. 
it was the wrong thing to say for what appealed now was control.
the rise was in his control. he could tear it apart. he could deny them the rebuilding. he could do anything he fuckin wanted.
a tiny smile suffused with malice appeared on his mouth.
avicus did not want peace. she wanted to be in control.
this was no longer about cousins or uncles or well-meaning mother figures; in this moment it even ceased to be about lilia.
this was melonii and ursus and sithis, bearclaw, blackfeather; this was ancelin and avicus, the last of that first accursed family. he was her and she him, and ancelin had never felt closer to her before.
finally — finally — finally; he had something she wanted.
"you should go see augur before this all goes down," he said hoarsely, rising, stepping back.
the wind caught at his nape, and for a moment the coldness of the indigo eyes thawed, leaving a stark affection for masquerade in spite of whatever was going to happen, slowly covered by a seeping resentment.
he turned away.