The house was one of the smaller ones on the sprawling Skull compound, a bungalow covered in ivy, surrounded by towering oaks and sweeping maples. Inside, however, was a far from idyllic scene. Dishes and glasses lay shattered in the kitchen, splintered shards scattered over the tile floor. Books were flung all over the living room, pages torn, covers cracked and hanging from their spines. Huddled in the midst of the carnage of paper was Geoffrey, hands over his head, clenched fists pressed tightly to his forehead as he took deep, ragged breaths to calm himself. Clutched in his right fist was the reason for his temper exploding all over his house - a crumpled, torn piece of heavy parchment, formal black lettering creased and jagged:

Your marriage to the Lady Aunjolie Giavonette will be held in two week's time. If you persist in your folly, and fail to return to fulfill your betrothal, you will no longer be a son of mine.

His Excellency Harold J. Palimore, Ambassador-at-Large

Geoffrey's knuckles whitened around the letter, his nails digging so hard into his palm blood stained the ivory parchment. A month ago, he had spent what should have been a happy visit home arguing vehemently and violently with his father over the arranged marriage to the Lady Giavonette. Aunjolie was a spoiled, pampered girl who had grown into a cold, calculating young woman, one who's only concern was how to get the things she desired. And when she wasn't given what she wanted, she took it for herself - and her family's high social status meant eyes looked the other way, even if what she wanted crossed over legal lines. And the last time Aunjolie and Geoffrey were alone together, the outcome drove Geoffrey to plead with his mother to get him out of Foresthaven, and the Lady Palimore used all her connections and influence to secure her youngest son a place in RhyDin - a place he was not willing to give up. Not for a loveless marriage and a lie for a life.

The mangled parchment fell on top of a coverless book as Geoffrey ran both hands through his hair, finally trusting his voice to work in something other than a scream of frustration. Standing, he pulled a thin black phone from his front pocket, pressing buttons with shaking fingers, pacing, pacing, until he spoke:

"London, it's Geoffrey... I - I need to talk, but not on the phone. Call me, so we can set something up..." He took a breath. "Please."

He pushed the button to end the message, sliding the phone back in his pocket. He then headed for his kitchen to start the arduous task of cleaning up his mess, his jaw set as he reached for the broom. His mind was made up, he was staying where he could be who he was, not what his father thought he should be.