Ganymede Quartet 3 - A Willful Romantic(1)
Autor: Neni Burelli | Publicado: 2016-11-06T04:36:00-08:00






Henry Blackwell &amp; Martin

Hiram Blackwell &amp; Timothy

Louisa Wilton Blackwell &amp;
Pearl

Cora Blackwell





Henry’s classmates at the Algonquin School:

Walter Addison &amp; Harvey

Jeremy Blankenship &amp; Ray*

Joshua Brand &amp; Miles*

Louis Briggs &amp; Peter*

Freddie Caldwell &amp; Tom*

Albert DeWitt &amp; Stuart*

Randall Fox &amp; Howard

Wendell Franklin &amp; Ralph*

Maurice Gaines &amp; Ollie

Daniel Hollingsworth &amp;
Allen*

Gordon Lovejoy &amp; Julian*

David Maxwell &amp; Alex*

Adam Pettibone &amp; Sam

Charles Ross &amp; Simon*

Victor Spence &amp; Will*

Robert Townsend &amp; Dick*

Philip van Houten &amp; Davey*

*Henry’s friends





Blackwell Family Slaves:

Nurse: Esther

Butler: Randolph

Footmen: Billy, Paul

Housekeeper: Dora

Cook: Bertie

Scullery Maids: Vida, Ruby

Chambermaids: Peggy, Delia,
Katie

Parlor Maids: Lucy, Ruth, Ellen

Laundress: Mary

Laundry Maid: Sally

Gardener: Pat

Coachmen: Jack, Old Bob

Grooms: Jerry, Arthur

Stable Boys: Little Bob, Danny


Errand Boy: Johnny



















Henry
Blackwell woke up on New Year’s Day with the raw throb of a
liquor-fueled headache pounding behind his eyes. The bed was empty at
his side, the sheets cool. It was chilly in the room despite the
fire. The drapes were open, the filtered winter sunlight seeming
unnecessarily bright. Squinting against the brilliance, he yawned and
pushed himself up to sitting.

“Martin?”
The alarm clock was on Martin’s side of the bed, and Henry reached
for it to check the time. It was late, long past the regular
breakfast hour.

“Henry?”
Martin’s voice came from his own room. “Oh, good, you’re
awake.” He appeared in the doorway, smiling. “Rise and shine.”

“Happy
New Year,” Henry said. “Ugh, my head hurts.” Each time he moved
it was as if his skull was full of shifting sandbags. He swung his
legs out of bed and Martin hurried to bring him his dressing gown.

Martin
was trying not to smile, amused by Henry’s discomfort. “Well,
it’s not surprising. You did have quite a bit to drink.” He held
the dressing gown ready.

Henry
stood and slipped his arms into the sleeves, then turned to pull
Martin close. “You feel fine, though, don’t you?” Martin had
been drinking at Charles Ross’ party, too, but showed no ill
effects. It was unreasonable, but Henry didn’t like that Martin was
better at holding his liquor.

Martin
ignored this question and kissed his ear. “Hurry and get ready. Mr.
Tim was talking with Miss Pearl at our breakfast, and I think there
might be a surprise for you downstairs.”

“A
surprise? What is it?”

“It
won’t be a surprise if I tell you.” Martin freed himself from
Henry’s embrace and headed for the bathroom. “I’ll just start
your shower.”

Twenty
minutes later, clean, shaven and dressed, Henry made his way
downstairs with Martin at his back, feeling very curious about this
possible surprise.

His
curiosity was satisfied in short order: Reggie Wilton was with Mother
in the breakfast room, settled at her left hand in a violet velvet
jacket and heavily-figured black-and-white tie, and whatever he was
saying was making her laugh. Henry had not heard her laugh like this
in years, and he’d quite forgotten the sound. Reggie turned as
Henry entered the room and smiled. He rose to greet Henry, coming
around the table to take Henry’s hand in both of his.

“Oh,
Henry! It’s so good to see you!”

“Likewise,
Uncle Reggie.” Henry turned to his mother. “Good morning. Is
Father here?”

“Good
morning, darling. I don’t know where your father is. Perhaps he’s
not at home.” She did not seem to care much, however, obviously
preferring her brother’s company to that of her husband. She was
more alert than usual, and Henry wondered if she might be foregoing
her medicine in order to engage more completely with her beloved
sibling.

“Please,
let us sit and eat!” Reggie said. “Let your lovely boy—”
here, a nod at Martin “—bring you a plate.”

There
was a fire in the grate and a fitful discharge of warmer air from the
floor registers, but the room was unpleasantly cold, and Henry wished
he’d put on a sweater before coming down. Henry had his coffee and
Martin brought him plates of scrambled eggs with cheese, rashers of
bacon, sausage patties, oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar, and
brioche toast with jam. The coffee helped to ease the throb in his
head. While he ate, he listened to Reggie and his mother continue
their conversation.

“Really,
it wasn’t a bad life at all, Louisa,” Reggie was saying, “except
that I missed my family so! I didn’t get to see my nephews grow up,
which was such a shame.” He turned to Henry and said, “I can’t
tell you how sorry I am I missed that, darling.” Turning back to
Mother, he continued, “You have no idea how much I appreciated the
photos you sent, Louisa! Just those glimpses of Henry growing were so
precious to me.”

Henry
had not realized his mother had been in contact with Uncle Reggie
during his exile, much less sending him photographs, and was a bit
upset that she’d never let him know that Reggie cared about him,
that Reggie hadn’t willingly abandoned him, but he tried not to let
the anger take hold. In her state, Mother couldn’t really be held
responsible for much of anything.

Mother
cleared her throat and put her hand on Reggie’s arm. “I knew how
much you loved him,” she said. “I didn’t want you to forget
him.”

“How
could you think I’d forget the child of my beloved sister?” While
Henry ate, Reggie continued to fawn over her, offering encouragements
and blandishments, and Mother seemed to love the attention. Henry
sent Martin back to the buffet for more food while the adults talked.

“I
had a nice life with Frederick,” Reggie told Mother. “He was
terribly kind, you know, and so generous. He didn’t have very much
by the end, admittedly, but he left it all to me.”

Mother
frowned. “I always thought you could have done better, Reggie.
Someone your own age, maybe. Wasn’t there anyone…?”

“We
were very compatible,” Reggie said gently. “He always told me I
was an old soul—isn’t that nice?”

“I
don’t know if it’s nice or not,” Mother said primly. “I don’t
know what that means.”

Reggie
patted her hand. “It just means he thought I was wise in my own
way, Louisa. He saw things in me that no one else ever did—not even
you.” He turned his attention to Henry. “My friend, Frederick—Mr.
Ellsworth—would have loved you, Henry. He so liked to be around
young people. We were forever having dinner parties, and we had a
sort of salon
des artistes
with our house full of painters and poets all year round.”

“That
sounds nice,” Henry said to be polite, though in truth the scenario
sounded a little intimidating. “I imagine Jesse would have fit
right in.”

“You’d
both have loved it,” Reggie said firmly. “I would have made sure
you did.” He ate a few bites of food, wiped his lips with his
napkin, and said, “Speaking of your cousin, did he tell you about
his little romance with that girl in Chicago?”

“Elizabeth?”

“Yes,
that’s the one! Did he show you his drawing? Scandalous!” Reggie
seemed delighted, though.

“What’s
so scandalous about it?” Mother asked.

“Oh,
darling, it’s a nude.
A tasteful one, but a nude all the same.”

Mother,
to her credit, became concerned. “Jesse is gallivanting around with
a girl who poses nude? Does Gilbert know about this?”

Reggie
patted her arm again. “Calm yourself, darling. She didn’t
actually pose. It’s Jesse’s impression
of her. And she’s safely away in Chicago. They write letters. It’s
all very harmless. And, really, Jesse draws remarkably well.”

Mother
seemed reasonably satisfied with this answer. As she asked Pearl to
refill her tea, Henry noted that she’d eaten the greater portion of
a date-studded muffin, which was the most food he’d seen her eat
in…he didn’t know how long. Reggie’s return seemed to mean only
good things.

“What
about you, Henry, darling? Do you really not have a sweetheart?”

Henry
felt his cheeks grow hot. “Not exactly,” he said, and immediately
regretted it. Why hadn’t he just said no?

“Oh,
dear,” said Reggie. “Is it an unrequited love, then?”

“No,
no.” Henry’s blush deepened and he dropped his gaze to his dirty
plate. “There’s no girl. I just meant that I have Martin, my
slave, and I’m content with things as they are. I don’t want a
sweetheart.”

Reggie
smiled up at Martin. “You’re very close to him, then?”

Henry
kept his gaze fixed on the plate. “I-I don’t know. Maybe?” He
didn’t want to admit to anything.

“Benjamin
and I have always been close,” Reggie said. “My Benjy is my rock.
I’m not a strong person, Henry, and I’ve often needed his support
in trying times.”

“Henry
knows that Pearl is my
rock,” Mother said. “I’ve told him he must treasure his slave.
Martin seems like such a lovely boy, and Pearl speaks so highly of
him.”

“He’s
terribly
attractive,” Reggie said. “I suppose your friends are clamoring
‘round wanting to get their grubby mitts on him?”

Henry
blushed anew. He’d never discussed swapping with an adult and it
seemed particularly wrong to do so. “Yes. But I don’t share him.
I think it’s horrible.”

“Good
for you,” Reggie said emphatically. “I never went in for any of
the slave trading my school friends played at, either. Maybe I’m
old-fashioned, but I just loved Benjy too much to want to put him
through that. Right away, from the moment we met, I just adored him!
I never trusted even my closest friends to treat him with the proper
respect. It didn’t make me popular, that’s for certain, but I do
think it led to Benjy loving me in return.” He turned and looked
back over his shoulder at Benjamin standing behind the chair. “Do I
have it right, Benjy?”

Benjamin
stepped forward and smiled down at his master. “That’s about the
size of it, Sir.”

Henry
didn’t know what to make of this conversation. What sort of
relationship did
his uncle have with his slave? It wasn’t at all clear if they were
merely incredibly fond of one another, or if they were like Martin
and himself—completely inappropriate and flouting all the rules.
Maybe Henry wasn’t unusual; maybe all queer men misbehaved with
their slaves. He wished he could also turn around and ask Martin what
he thought of this entire topic, if he found it as confounding as
Henry did.

Henry
was also very curious about Mr. Ellsworth’s role in Reggie’s
life. It was clear that Mr. Ellsworth had been much older, and the
idea of intimacy with a very old man certainly didn’t appeal to
Henry, but regular gentlemen often married ladies who were a great
deal younger, so perhaps Reggie’s situation wasn’t so odd. Had
Mr. Ellsworth been Reggie’s lover, then? Reggie had all but said
so, and Henry did assume this was the case, and yet there was no way
he might possibly ask. And if Mr. Ellsworth had been Reggie’s
lover, then where did that leave Benjamin during all those years in
Italy?

Henry
opened his mouth to ask a question, but found himself unable to
formulate one that social conventions would allow.

Reggie
was looking from Henry’s face to Martin’s and back again and
brought his hands together in a single excited clap. “Oh, you’re
just so delicious, the both of you, so young and beautiful! You
should have your portrait done. If only we were in Italy! I know
enough artists there to paint you ten times over! They’d all be
clamoring to do it!” He turned to Mother, excited and eager.
“Louisa, don’t you think they should have their portrait
painted?”

Mother
seemed less enthusiastic. “I can tell you, Reggie, that Hiram would
think it very decadent.”

“Surely,
Hiram isn’t entirely
opposed to decadence,” Reggie said, spreading his arms wide. “Look
at this house!”

“But,
really, where would we hang a painting of our son and his
slave?”
Mother scoffed. “Reggie, darling, you’ve become so ridiculously
bohemian!”

Reggie
waved a dismissive hand in her direction, then leaned across the
table toward Henry. “Well, at least get a photograph, darling, so
that when you’re an old man like me, you can look at it and
remember what it was like to be so nearly perfect.”

Reggie
and Benjy were only in their mid-thirties and were both aging
extremely well, so Henry didn’t know what Reggie was complaining
about. “Did you do that? Get a photograph?”

“Oh,
no, darling, we had an amazing painting done, naked as the day we
were born! I’ve always been friendly with artists, you see, and
artists always need models. Of course, it makes me blush to look at
it now! I keep it in a closet under a sheet. When I bring it back to
the city, I might
be brave enough to show it to you after I’ve had a little wine!”

Henry
did want to see this painting, but was too embarrassed to say so. He
looked down at the tablecloth and blushed again.

Reggie
smiled at him, head cocked. “You were such a bashful little boy,
and I wondered if it would stay with you, and of course I see that it
has. I’m sure you don’t appreciate it, but I do think it so
charming.”

“I’m
afraid I’ll have to disagree, Uncle.” Henry gave him a quick,
rueful smile. “It’s always very inconvenient.”

Benjamin
stepped forward again and leaned over to whisper in Reggie’s ear.

“Oh,
really? Already? Thank you, Benjy.” Reggie smiled at Henry, then
Mother, and took Mother’s hand. “Darlings, I have to go. I’m
meeting with some of my old, old
friends, people who knew me way back when. I have a lot of catching
up to do!”

“So
soon, Reggie?” Mother seemed instantly bereft. “But when will I
see you again?”

“You
know I don’t want to antagonize Hiram by coming ‘round too often,
Louisa, darling. But you can come see me any time. Gilbert and
Virginia would love to see you more often, and I know Jesse wants to
know his cousin better. All of this socializing is happening because
I’m freshly back, you understand. Once everyone has seen me,
they’ll tire of me quickly, and you’ll have me all to yourself.”

“That’s
simply not true,” Mother said gently, patting his arm. “Everyone
loves you, Reggie.”

“Perhaps,”
Reggie said noncommittally.

All
three of them got up from the table and Mother left the dining room
on Reggie’s arm. They all lingered in the hall while Randolph
fetched Reggie’s coat and hat.

Reggie
reached out and felt the lapel of Henry’s jacket, seemingly just to
have some contact with him, and Henry was happy to let him do it. “Do
you go back to school tomorrow, darling?”

“Yes,
Uncle.”

“We’ll
have to see each other often the rest of this month, if we can. I
plan on returning to Italy to settle my affairs at the beginning of
February and I expect I’ll be there some months.”

“But
you will
return? You are
coming back?”

“I
promise.” He squeezed Henry’s arm. “You’re such a dear boy.”
His eyes welled with tears and he smiled tremulously before waving
off Henry’s concern. “Oh, look what a silly old thing I am!”
Benjamin stepped forward and slipped Reggie a handkerchief which he
used to dab at his eyes.

Randolph
came back with both Reggie’s and Benjamin’s coats and held them
patiently while everyone hugged their goodbyes. Benjamin helped
Reggie to put on his coat, and then Martin did the same for Benjamin,
which Henry thought was very good manners. They all stood in the
doorway waving as Benjamin handed Reggie up into the Wilton brougham
and climbed in after him.

As
soon as the front door was closed, Mother dabbed at her eyes with a
lacy handkerchief. Was she crying? Pearl put an arm about her
mistress’ shoulders and Henry stood feeling stupid and useless,
unsure of what to say.

“Mother…?”

“I’ve
just missed my Reggie so,” Mother said, sounding terribly tired,
her voice tremulous. She dabbed at her eyes again. “Forgive me, I
find I’m quite emotional.”

“Aren’t
you happy he’s coming home, though?” Henry felt that the last
nine years had been the time to cry over Reggie; now was the time to
celebrate.

Mother
frowned and shot Henry a sharp glare. “Well of course I am, Henry!”
She seemed annoyed when she said, “You certainly do have a positive
outlook, darling. I envy you that.” Mother turned to Pearl. “I’m
afraid I’m not feeling well. Pearl, help me upstairs, please. I
need to lie down.”

“Of
course, Ma’am.” Pearl took Mother’s elbow and steered her
toward the stairs.

Henry
lingered with Martin in the freezing marble hall to wait while the
women ascended; he did not relish the thought of climbing the stairs
on his temperamental mother’s heels.

“Your
uncle is an interesting person, Sir.”

Henry
looked up and Martin was smiling at him, amused. “Is that good?”

“I
think so, Sir.” Martin edged closer, their shoulders touching. “I
want to see that painting, don’t you?”

Henry
laughed. “We should
get a painting done. We’ll do it when we’re a bit older and
Father can’t tell us not to.”

“A
nude
painting?” Martin smiled happily at the idea. He leaned close and
whispered, “Your beautiful cock in oils, Sir? That I want to see!”

“Let’s
go upstairs,” he suggested. “You want to see it? I’ll show it
to you now.”

Behind
a locked door, they undressed shivering before the fire. In a hurry
to be naked, Henry didn’t wait for Martin’s help but undressed
himself, tossing clothes haphazardly onto the nearby armchair. Even
close to the fire, the air was arctic. Martin’s pale skin was all
over gooseflesh, his nipples tight.

“Here
it is,” Henry said, gesturing toward his erect prick. “You wanted
to see it.” Despite the cold, his body was eager, invigorated by
anticipation.

Martin
gave Henry’s prick a long, affectionate look, as happy to see it as
ever. “Oh, it’s lovely. You’ll let me touch it, too.” He
reached for it without waiting for an answer, and his icy grip was
bracing, rendering Henry breathless.

Henry
made a little shocked sound, half-gasp, half-grunt, and immediately
put his cold hands on Martin’s skin as revenge. Martin laughed even
as he jerked away from the touch of Henry’s frigid fingers, and he
kept firm hold of Henry’s prick.

“Oh,
poor Henry,” Martin said, though his smile was more devilish than
sympathetic. “My hand is too cold.” He gave Henry’s prick a
fond squeeze. “My mouth isn’t cold, though.” He kissed Henry to
prove it, searching tongue and a hint of teeth. “I could put my
mouth on it.”

His
mouth would be very nice. Henry was already adjusting to Martin’s
cold grasp, or maybe his hot prick was warming Martin’s hand, and
he’d have been fine to stay as they were, but all the hairs stood
up on Martin’s skin, a thousand tiny prickles, and his flesh was
cool as marble under Henry’s palms; Martin felt the cold more than
he did.

“Let’s
get in bed,” Henry suggested. “You’re shivering.”

The
maids had made up the bed while Henry was at breakfast; Henry
dismantled their work with a sweep of his arm, throwing back the
bedding in invitation.

“Get
in with me,” Henry urged. “Come warm up.”

Martin
burrowed under the blankets and used his mouth as he’d offered,
liquid heat and flickering tongue, and it felt so good that Henry
couldn’t stand it, couldn’t go another moment without giving
Martin the same pleasure. Martin couldn’t seem to stay still,
writhing and pawing at Henry’s hair while Henry sucked. He made
little snuffling sounds, greedy whimpers and rasping breaths, and
pushed deeper into Henry’s throat with a rough cry.

“Please,
Henry.” He fisted his hand in Henry’s hair and tugged, pulling
him up from beneath the blankets. “Not like that.”

“Not
like what?”

“Please.”
Martin kissed him, deep and hungry. “It’s not enough.”

Henry
looked down at him, confused. “It’s not…?”

“I
want you inside me.” He looked into Henry’s eyes, fevered and
intent, and Henry believed him, believed Martin wanted it more than
anything. “Please,
Henry,” he repeated.

Henry
loved even the hint of begging, loved that Martin wanted him so
badly. He got up on his knees and reached for the drawer with the oil
bottle. “Yes,” he said. “Whatever you want.”

He
oiled himself and leaned over Martin, lining up his cock and pushing
it in. Martin moaned his satisfaction and reached up, twining his
arms around Henry’s neck and pulling him down into a deep kiss that
felt as if it would go on forever, halting time. Henry felt like he
could disappear, dissolving into Martin with nothing but his mouth
and cock remaining in service of Martin’s pleasure. As they kissed,
he clawed blindly after a pillow and shoved it beneath Martin’s
hips. He angled his thrusts to be certain his cock was rubbing
against the place inside Martin that made him desperate with ecstasy,
and then watched in breathless awe as Martin came apart.

Afterward,
they sprawled on the rumpled blankets, limbs entangled, and let their
breathing return to normal.

“Do
you think it’s normal to want each other so much?”

Henry
turned his head to see Martin looking at him, asking quite seriously.

“No,”
Henry told him. “I don’t think it’s normal at all. I think it’s
extraordinary.”
He picked Martin’s hand up from the bedcover and brought it to his
lips.

“The
way I feel…” Martin began. “I keep thinking, Henry, that if you
ever stopped wanting to make love to me, I’d die.”

“I
won’t let you die,” Henry promised. He kissed Martin’s hand
again and then tugged, reeling him in to be held close.

Martin’s
next words were muffled against Henry’s neck. “I keep thinking
about your uncle, about Benjamin, really, and how difficult it must
have been for him when Mr. Wilton was with Mr. Ellsworth all those
years. I’ve always known it would happen, but today it seems more
real. Someday you’ll be with someone else, and I’ll have to stand
by and let it happen.”

Henry
thought this unlikely. He would get out of a marriage somehow. “Do
you think Reggie and Benjamin are like us, then?”

“Oh,
I don’t know, Henry.” Martin looked away, frowning. “Maybe I’m
just feeling sorry for myself.”

“I
don’t want to be with anyone else,” Henry insisted. “There’s
not going to be any Mr. Ellsworth coming between us. Or Miss
Ellsworth, for that matter.”

“Somehow,
I think I could stand a woman,” Martin said, as if Henry hadn’t
tried to reassure him at all. “You’ll have to take a wife, I know
that, but if you were to become involved with another free man…I’d
be devastated, I admit it.”

“You’re
being so morbid,” Henry chastised him gently. “You’re all I
think about, Martin. Don’t you know that?”

“I’m
only your slave. I don’t have any claim on you.”

“In
my heart you do, Martin. Remember? In
my heart.”

It
was as close to a declaration of love as Henry dared to come, and it
did seem to brighten Martin’s mood. They spent the rest of the day
practicing and studying, Martin with violin and Henry with Latin,
belatedly working on the exercises he’d intended to complete at the
beginning of the winter break. He made a valiant effort, but
ultimately gave these to Martin to finish.

At
dinner, Father did make an appearance, and Henry wondered, but did
not ask, if Father knew about Reggie’s breakfast visit. Mother
seemed indifferent to Father yet overall improved, surely as a result
of her brother’s visit.

Up
in the parlor, Cora came to give everyone a kiss for New Year’s and
once again lavished the greatest part of her affection on Martin.
Henry worried that Father might object to this unseemly attachment
and spoil it for Cora and Martin both, but instead he seemed in a
mood to find his daughter’s crush amusing. After Cora was taken
away, Pearl read to them from a new book, The
Ghost of Hedgecombe Manor,
another story that seemed unlikely to feature wayward masters or
heaving bosoms, for which Henry was truly grateful. The new year was
off to a successful start.











Their
first day back in class after the holiday break, Father was delayed
by an urgent call at home, and so Henry was late getting to school,
with just time enough to leave his coat in the cloakroom before he
had to hurry to class, getting to his seat right before the bell.
Boys were cutting their eyes at him as he took his seat, and he began
to feel uncomfortably self-conscious. He had not spoken with Louis or
anyone else since New Year’s Eve, and it only now occurred to him
there might be repercussions to his having left Charles Ross’ party
under a cloud. There was a sibilant undercurrent of whispers
throughout the room, and notes were being passed surreptitiously,
though none came his way. Had he been judged and condemned in
absentia? He tried to tell himself he’d done nothing wrong at the
party, nothing unusual, but he could not convince himself.

While
Mr. Cobb had his back to the class, Albert leaned across the aisle
and whispered, “Did you hear about Adam?” He darted a glance in
Adam's direction and Henry followed his eye. Adam was very red in the
face and looked both defiant and ashamed.

“No.”
Henry shook his head. “What happened? What’s going on?” He was
flooded with relief to find he was not the topic under discussion
after all. He would be very happy to listen to gossip about Adam.

“After
class,” Albert mouthed.

Curious,
Henry turned to Albert immediately at the class break, and Louis
climbed over a desk to join them.

“Have
you heard?” Louis asked. “Did you hear what happened to Sam?”

“I
was just going to tell him,” Albert said, annoyed. “So, listen,
Henry, Adam's Sam is dead.”

Henry
was shocked. He said the first thing that came to mind. “Did Adam
kill him?”

“He
killed himself!” Louis blurted, getting a sharp look from Albert.
“He cut his wrists in the bathtub and Adam's little sister found
him.”

Henry
felt terrible. Poor little Sam hadn't deserved any of the torment
Adam had put him through. Martin would be upset, Henry knew, him and
all of the other slaves.

“He
left a letter for Adam's father,”
Louis continued. “Telling him all the horrible things Adam did!
Poor little guy! He always seemed pretty unhappy.”

Henry
would not see Martin until lunch, of course, but he thought of him
all morning, knowing that he and all of the other slaves would be
grieving. When Henry saw him at lunch, waiting behind Henry’s
chair, it was clear he had been crying, but he could not go to him
and comfort him as he would have liked. He tried to telegraph his
sympathies with his eyes, with a sad smile, but he couldn’t be more
demonstrative in front of the others. There was nothing to be done
except sit down and eat. He dropped his napkin so that Martin could
come close and was able to squeeze his hand for just an instant;
Martin made a soft, sorrowful sound and pulled his fingers back
hurriedly.

Henry
had heard of slaves killing themselves before, but always in rather
romantic terms. Stories circulated—legends, perhaps—of devoted
slaves committing suicide after the deaths of their masters. He’d
heard of the aberrant obverse, too: masters who didn’t want to live
after the death of a slave. Henry, who felt pangs of desperate horror
at the thought of Martin ever dying, believed he could understand
such impulses. But this was entirely different. Sam, who had been
trained to put up with almost anything a master could think of, had
been pushed to the brink and beyond.

Because
it was cold and raining, no one wanted to go out in the yard after
lunch, so boys went to the library or loitered in the halls. Henry
went to the library with his friends, Martin behind him on the stair,
and he longed for just a moment alone with him, just a moment where
he could embrace him and rub his back and try to convey how much he
cared about his loss, but it wasn’t possible. Instead, he took a
seat at one of the scarred library tables and watched as Martin
joined the rest of the slaves, who were all doing what they could to
comfort one another.

Adam’s
friends had not exactly rallied around him; Randy Fox, Maurice Gaines
and Walter Addison seemed to be sticking by his side for the time
being, but Daniel Hollingsworth and Jeremy Blankenship stood some
distance apart from their friends, talking in low voices and darting
glances at Adam and his more stalwart cronies.

All
of the boys were subdued, though there was a crackling undercurrent
of uneasy excitement, as if all were waiting for something to happen.

The
slaves were clearly in mourning. Leaning against Julian’s side,
Martin took off his glasses so he could wipe his eyes. Miles cried
with deep, wrenching jerks, Tom’s arm around his back. Henry noted
what the slaves of Adam’s friends were doing: Walter’s Harvey had
his face pressed against Will’s neck, his shoulders shaking as he
sobbed silently. Randy’s Howard and Maurice’s Ollie, together
with Ralph, sat on the floor with their arms around each other’s
backs, whispering intently. Daniel’s Allen nestled in against
Julian’s other side, and Jeremy’s Raymond sat by himself, head in
hands, seeming beyond tears.

Henry’s
friends were all in agreement: Clearly, Adam was a monster. A
somewhat hostile conversation between Maurice and Louis established
that Adam’s friends believed the fault was with Sam, who was
obviously defective, or why else would he have done such a thing?
This opinion was not well-received by Henry’s faction, and there
were some ominous rumblings. Fighting seemed possible; it was the
least Adam deserved.

“I'll
be getting a new one,” Adam said in a loud, belligerent voice,
unable to keep out of it. “Better than any of you
have, that's for damned sure.” He narrowed his eyes and sneered at
all of them, supporters and detractors alike, and the librarian came
over and shushed him.

They
returned to their afternoon classes with Henry having had no chance
to express his sympathies to Martin or any of the other slaves. He
wondered all through Mr. Greaves’ class if it would be all right to
say anything to Peter, or Tom, or any of the others; surely it was
always all right to express sorrow for another’s loss. He wondered
on this, and on how Martin was faring, well into Dr. Foster’s hour,
and so was completely unprepared when called upon to conjugate
dolere,
which he could not conjugate, define, nor even spell.

“Dolere,
Mr. Blackwell,” Dr. Foster said, sounding quite disgusted with him.
“It was given to you as vocabulary last week. It means to
grieve.”

After
the final bell, Henry was in a hurry to get to the cloakroom, shoving
past Gordon and Jeremy in his haste. Martin was already in his hat
and coat, holding Henry’s coat ready.

“Good
afternoon, Sir,” Martin said in a hushed rasp. His eyes were a
little puffy, and the color of the irises was astoundingly beautiful
as a result of his tears.

Henry
ached to hold him, but all he could do was say, “Martin, I’m so
sorry. Poor Sam. It shouldn’t have happened.” He reached for
Martin’s hand, but Martin pulled back, warning him off with a sharp
shake of his head.

“Thank
you, Sir. I appreciate it.” He helped Henry on with his overcoat
and handed him his hat.

They
walked to the omnibus with Louis and Peter. While they waited,
Freddie, Wendell, Albert, Robert and Charles joined them, and they
all talked about Adam and what his punishment ought
to be, while all of their slaves presumably talked about their dead
friend. Henry tried to overhear what the slaves were saying to each
other, but their voices were too low, and he couldn’t move any
closer to the group without being obvious.

By
the time they boarded the omnibus, Henry’s friends had moved on to
other topics. Charles was complimenting Freddie on what a good sport
Tom had been at the New Year’s party.

“I
imagine he’s still sore,” Charles said, elbowing Freddie, who
only laughed in answer.

Embarrassed,
Henry tried to ignore the swap talk, but he was in no better position
to hear what the slaves said to one another now than he had been out
on the sidewalk. For once, Martin wasn’t standing close by, but
stood in the midst of his friends, and their group had been pushed a
few feet further down the aisle by people boarding the omnibus. When
at last they reached their stop, Martin and Peter both had to
struggle through the crowded aisle to catch up to their masters, and
Louis was annoyed.

“I
know you’re distracted,” he said, “but your job is to stay with
me, isn’t it?”

Peter
ducked his head, his cheeks pink. “Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.”

Louis
was talking and talking, but Henry wasn’t paying attention; Martin
and Peter spoke in low voices at his back, and he strained to hear
what they said.

“Are
you even listening?” Louis demanded.

“What?
Sorry,” Henry said, blushing. “I'm, uh, just thinking about the
algebra test.”

Louis
looked at him quizzically. “Why are you
worried about math?”

Henry
shrugged. “I don't know.” They were at the Blackwell gate. “See
you tomorrow?”

At
last he was alone with Martin. He turned to him at the gate and put a
hand on his shoulder. “Martin, I can’t tell you how sorry I am
about Sam.”

“Thank
you, Sir.” Martin bit his lip. “May we go inside? I'm afraid I'll
cry again.”

“Yes,
of course. What am I thinking?”

They
went inside, gave their coats to Paul, and went up to Henry's room.
With the door shut behind them, Henry took Martin in his arms and
held him while his shoulders shook. Martin cried quietly but
copiously, his tears soaking the shoulder of Henry's school jacket.

“I’m
so sorry, Martin.” Henry kissed his hair, smoothed it with his
hand, and cupped the back of his head. “I wish I could have helped
him; you know that, don’t you?”

“I
know, Henry,” Martin said in a small, muffled voice. “I know you
tried.” He wrapped his arms tighter around Henry’s waist. “Will
you lie down with me? I’d like it if you’d hold me.”

They
shed their school jackets and boots and stretched out on the bed.
Martin took the tie from his hair and put his glasses on the
nightstand, then made himself small against Henry’s chest. He took
a few shuddering breaths before relaxing into Henry’s embrace.

“I’m
so lucky you took me, Henry. If he’d taken me at auction—”

“He
couldn’t have,” Henry insisted. “You were always meant for me.”

Martin
gave a wet sniff and petted Henry’s shoulder. “Can I talk a
little about Sam? I know you didn’t have a chance to know him while
he was alive, but I’d like to tell you some things now, if that’s
all right.”

“Yes,
of course.”

“Even
though he was so little and boyish, Sam was the oldest of us, did you
realize? He was a Virgo—”

“What
does that mean?”

“His
birthday was in September, and it meant he was very tidy and precise.
He liked things just so, and was very eager to serve and make
everything perfect for a master. He always did his best for Mr.
Pettibone, and even though Mr. Pettibone never praised him, I like to
think that he couldn’t help but notice what a good job Sam did for
him.”

“He
never praised him at all?” Henry drew back to look down into
Martin’s face. “Never?”

“Not
really, Henry. Mr. Pettibone is a terrible master. But I don’t want
to talk about him;
I want to talk about Sam.”

“Please,
tell me more.”

“We
all liked him. Even Davey—who used to pick on him a little, if you
remember—even Davey liked him after all. He was naturally already a
bit timid, and he became more so, but he could be very funny. Ray—Mr.
Blankenship’s Raymond—was his best friend, and they made each
other laugh all the time.”

It
was hard to imagine haggard little Sam laughing at anything. But all
Henry said was, “I’m glad he had someone to laugh with, at
least.”

“He
wrote beautiful poetry, but he was too shy to read it aloud, so Ray
did it for him. He could make things out of folded paper—birds and
boats and crowns and all kinds of things. He made them for
everyone—I’ll have to show you mine.”

“I
want to see them.” Henry rubbed Martin’s back.

“Mr.
Pettibone found Sam’s talismans and threw them away—”

“He
didn’t!” Henry felt his stomach drop, imagining how upset Sam
must have been.

“Yes,
he threw them out.” Looking at Martin’s face, he was obviously
still very angry over this. “So we all had to find some normal
thing that Sam could hide in plain sight, you see.”

“What
did you do?”

“We
tied knots. Knots make connections, so we tried to tie ourselves to
Sam that way. There’s a book with diagrams of knots in the library
at school, so we tried all different types. He could have a little
piece of thread in his pocket with a knot in it, you see, and Mr.
Pettibone would never guess it was anything more than lint.”

“That
was clever,” Henry noted.

“Of
course, it didn’t work,
I’m well aware of that, but I know it made him feel better that we
cared.” Martin’s voice broke and he pressed his face against
Henry’s shirtfront.

“Shh,
it’s all right.” Henry stroked Martin’s hair and kissed the top
of his head. Martin’s breath was hot and moist through the cotton
of Henry’s shirt and he clung fiercely to Henry, his arm tight
around Henry’s back.

Martin
relinquished his grip on Henry’s body and tilted his head to look
up at Henry. “Will you kiss me, please?”

Henry
kissed him, and Martin’s mouth was molten, his lips plush. He
sighed into Henry’s mouth and touched the side of Henry’s face,
his fingertips trembling points of warmth along Henry’s jaw. Henry
nipped at his lip and Martin gasped and went still, and then Henry
realized he was crying.

“Martin?”

“He
had a boy he loved at Apollo,” Martin said, his voice quavering.
“So at least he had love once. That’s important, don’t you
think?”

“Yes,
of course. It’s the most important thing.”

“He
must have been planning to do it, because he said goodbye to Ray,
although we didn’t know that’s what he was doing at the time. It
was when we were in the cloakroom the Friday before the Christmas
holiday, and we were all waiting for your bell and standing ready
with your coats. Sam put Mr. Pettibone’s coat back on its hook and
walked over to Ray. He motioned for Ray to bend down, and we all
supposed he was going to whisper something to him, but instead he
kissed him! Can you imagine? It was a real kiss, too, full of
passion. He wished him a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and
Miles jokingly asked if he was going to give the same wishes to all
of us. They could have been in terrible trouble, of course, and it
was so unlike Sam. But it makes sense now.”

Henry
did not know what to say to this.

“I’m
sorry I started crying. It’s just—our kiss made me think that was
the last time Sam was kissed. That was his last little bit of love.
It just makes me so sad!” Again his voice cracked and he ducked his
head against Henry’s shirtfront.

“No,
don’t apologize. You don’t need to apologize to me.” Henry drew
Martin closer and rubbed his cheek on his hair. He felt Martin’s
hands on his waistcoat buttons. “Hey. What are you doing?”

“I
want to touch your skin. I want to be close to you. Please, Henry?”

This
was what Henry wanted, too. He needed some way to deal with the
upset, with Martin’s grief.

They
struggled out of their clothes, everything strewn around them on the
bed, and when at last they were naked, Martin ran his hands all over
Henry’s chest and belly and kissed him again.

“I
want to feel you on top of me, Henry. I want the weight of you
holding me down.” He licked Henry’s mouth and arched against him,
his cock nudging wetly against Henry’s belly.

“You
want me to hold you down?” Henry didn’t like this idea; he really
wasn’t in the mood for one of Martin’s games.

Martin
shook his head. “Not like that. I just want you to get on top of me
and stay close to me and fuck me.” He wrapped his hand around
Henry’s cock and gave it a slow pull. “Please,
Henry.”

Henry
rolled over and got the oil out of the drawer, poured some on his
fingers, and kissed Martin while he fingered his asshole, taking more
time to stretch him than Martin would usually put up with.

“Let
me oil your cock.”

Henry
poured oil on Martin’s fingers and Martin stroked him hard, his
cock feeling dense and heavy and at the same time so exquisitely
tender. When he stretched on top of Martin, Martin clung to him with
arms and legs, holding him so tight that he couldn’t move. When
Henry tried to free himself, Martin made a panicked noise and held on
tighter still.

“Shh…”
Henry extricated his arm from Martin’s embrace and stroked his
hair. “I won’t go anywhere, I promise. I’m right here.”

Martin
hesitated before letting him go with some reluctance, and Henry
kissed him very tenderly before sitting back on his heels, keeping a
hand on the back of Martin’s thigh as he lined his cock up with
Martin’s hole.

“This
is what you love, isn’t it? My cock inside you.” He held his cock
in place, nudged with his hips, and shivered at the intense squeeze
as the head breached Martin’s hole. “Let me give you what you
love.”

Martin
moaned and hitched his knees higher, spreading them wider as Henry
sank deeper into his body. “I do love it, I really do.” He
reached up for Henry and drew him down to lie on top of him, chest
pressed to chest, and they kissed until they were both breathless.
Martin held Henry wrapped up so tightly in his limbs that he couldn’t
move, but Martin didn’t seem to need movement, only wanting Henry
inside him, as close as possible. Henry shivered again at the feeling
of Martin’s body tight and slick around his cock, pulsatile and
alive.

“I’m
the most fortunate of all my friends,” Martin whispered in Henry’s
ear, his hole contracting in a fluttery spasm around Henry’s cock.
“None of them has a lover like you.”

“None
of my friends has a lover like you, either.” Henry made sinuous
motions with his hips, rocking against Martin’s ass. Just these
little movements felt so incredible, heat everywhere their skins
touched, inside and out.

“Promise
me something, Henry.” Martin’s eyetooth was sharp on Henry’s
earlobe. “Promise you’ll never make me want to die.”

Henry
gave a startled laugh, not sure whether he should be offended. “I
promise,” he said. “That could never happen between us, Martin.
All I want is to make you feel good.”

“Then
do it, Henry. Make me feel good.” Martin gave Henry breathing room
inside his embrace, just enough that Henry could raise up a little
and move his hips, and he made shallow thrusts while they kissed.
Martin arched his neck, offering it up for Henry’s mouth, and Henry
bit at his pulse, mindful of leaving marks, though for once Martin
didn’t seem to care. Martin moaned and writhed beneath him and let
his legs fall out to the sides, giving Henry leave to fuck him harder
and deeper.

Martin
said, “Look at me,” soft and hopeful, his hand on the back of
Henry’s neck as he sought to look into Henry’s eyes. “Henry,
please.” But Henry couldn’t bear it; the intimacy was
overwhelming and he had to avert his gaze. Instead, he bent and
kissed Martin with his eyes closed, hooking his elbows behind
Martin’s knees and folding him in two, thrusting his cock as deep
as it could go. Martin groaned and reached for his own cock.

Henry
pushed himself up on straight arms and looked down at Martin’s hand
busy between their bodies as he fucked him. Martin’s free hand
ranged over the planes of Henry’s chest, traced the cords in his
neck, and caressed the side of his face, his thumb pulling down
Henry’s lip.

“Can
I come?” Martin’s voice was breathy and pressured. “I want to
come for you.”

Henry
nodded and rubbed his face against Martin’s hand. “You can.” A
hard thrust. “Whenever you want.”

Henry
could feel Martin looking at him, could feel that Martin wanted him
to look back. Martin’s hand moved deftly over his cock, little
flicks of his wrist hiding and exposing the head. Henry dared to look
at Martin’s face, into his eyes, and felt shy of the depth of
feeling he saw there. Martin’s grief for his friend was plain to
see, but his affection for Henry was there, too. Henry blushed anew
and glanced away. Hips pumping, he wanted to fuck the sadness out of
Martin, to fill him up with his fierce affection, with the very force
of it.

“Henry,”
Martin said, and then bit his lip while his hand made a few more
passes over his cock and Henry thrust into him in steady jolts. “Oh,
god, Henry, please,
Henry!”

“Come
for me. Come on, do it.”

Martin
made a mournful sound and stilled, his cock jerking out ribbons of
semen across his chest as he called out to Henry again.

Henry
came, too, while Martin was still shuddering through his own spasms.
The world went white with a silent thunderclap and the pleasure was
forced through him in spurts. He hung over Martin a moment, arms
straight, and then bent to kiss him. Sated, they kissed in a
leisurely fashion, and now when Martin looked into Henry’s eyes,
Henry dared to look back until Martin smiled at him and lowered his
lids, lifting his head so that they might kiss again.

Henry
bent lower still and licked the cooling semen off Martin’s torso,
starting at his belly and working toward his shoulders. He licked a
nipple, liking to feel it harden beneath his tongue “Did I miss
any?”

Martin
gave a low laugh. “I think you got it all.” He let his hands rest
on Henry’s head, his fingers stirring Henry’s hair. “Thank you.
I feel a bit better now.”

“Good.
I’m glad.” He rolled off Martin and nestled close to his side,
within the curve of his arm.

“Can
I tell you something, Henry?”

“You
can tell me anything, I hope.”

“For
a moment, I imagined I was Sam. I imagined you were making love to
Sam, because he should have had that—not with you, I don’t mean
with you,
but with someone who cared about him the way you care about me. I
think he might have had that with his friend from Apollo, but that
boy won’t even know Sam’s dead.”

Henry
didn’t know what to say to that.

“Sam
didn’t know where the boy was, you see. He’s not in any of the
houses in the neighborhoods along 5th. He could be anywhere, even in
another city.” Martin shifted, turning onto his side to face Henry.
“Can I tell you a secret, Henry? Something I shouldn’t have done,
but I’m not sorry I did?”

This
sounded ominous. “You can tell me anything,” Henry repeated with
trepidation.

“I
told Sam to run away. I told him to steal from Mr. Pettibone, to take
money and a collared shirt and to run as far away as he could.”

Henry
started to sit up, propelled by shock. “Martin! If he’d told
anyone…” Henry didn’t even want to say it. If Sam had told,
Martin would have been punished.

Martin
shook his head and drew Henry down to lie next to him again. “Sam
was a loyal friend. I wasn’t worried.”

Henry
was stunned, horrified. “You can’t ever
risk yourself like that again. Never,
Martin! Promise me!” He took hold of Martin’s shoulder and shook
him.

“I
promise,” Martin said sheepishly.

“You
can’t say anything like that to anyone! I don’t care what’s
happening to your friends, you have to protect yourself. You’re the
most precious thing to me, Martin. You can’t take risks! It doesn’t
matter what happens to anyone else as long as you’re safe!”

Now
Martin looked ashamed of himself. “It was wrong of me, I know. I’m
sorry, Henry. I won’t do it again.”

Henry
grabbed Martin and pulled him close and it was awkward, all elbows
and knees, but Henry couldn’t let him go. He knew that if Sam had
told Adam, if Adam had somehow forced the information out of him,
then Adam would definitely have reported Martin and Martin would have
been whipped. The idea that someone else could decide what would
happen to Martin was terrifying. He imagined Adam watching Martin
bleed and listening to him scream, and let out a high, panicked
whine.

Now
Martin was soothing him, gentle strokes like a balm. “It’s all
right. I’ll obey you, I will. I won’t put myself at risk, I
promise.”

“You
absolutely
promise?”

Martin
kissed him, patient and tender. “I do, I promise.” He smoothed
Henry’s hair back from his forehead and kissed his nose. “I’m
sorry, Henry. Will you please forgive me?” He put his arms around
Henry and drew him close, ducking his head to tuck himself beneath
Henry’s chin.

Henry
swallowed hard and blinked away the tears that threatened to fall.
But there was no question he would forgive Martin anything.

“I
forgive you. Just…don’t ever do it again.”

“Thank
you, Henry. I really am sorry.” Martin snuggled against Henry’s
chest, an arm around his back, and stayed there until it was time for
his dinner.

While
Martin was gone, Henry slept, as he so often did, and dreamed that he
and Martin were bound together with a snarled web of thread that made
it difficult to move, and this was the knot that connected them, and
it was both reassuring and worrisome that the only way it would come
undone was with a knife.






The
next morning, Martin remained understandably upset about Sam’s
death, and he looked as if he might have been crying before Henry
woke, but he was in a better mood than the day before. At school,
some of Adam’s long-time cronies made overtures towards Henry’s
group: Jeremy Blankenship with his Raymond and Daniel Hollingsworth
along with his Allen crossed the invisible line across the yard that
divided their groups and made an effort, offering around jelly beans
and furtive pinches of snuff.

“I
didn’t know how bad it was for the poor thing,” Jeremy explained
to the gathered boys. “Adam’s always been a bit mean, of course,
but why bother bullying a slave? It’s hardly a fair fight.”

“You
really didn’t know?” Freddie asked. “Couldn’t you see the
evidence? Wasn’t he sharing him around with you?” The rest of the
boys nodded their heads and murmured agreement: Adam’s friends
should have been able to tell.

“Not
since back before Halloween,” Daniel told them. “He bowed out of
swap parties after that fight, after his nose got broken.” Here he
nodded at Henry in acknowledgement. “Before that, he was always a
little rougher than I liked with Allen, but nothing too alarming.
This was all a surprise to us.”

“Honestly,”
Jeremy said, “we were only friends because our fathers do business
together. Personally, I don’t want to associate with anyone who
mistreats a slave so badly that he wants to die.” All were in
agreement that no one cared to know such a person.

Henry
looked up and across the yard to where Adam stood with his few
remaining friends. Adam seemed furious, his face very red. His nose
hadn’t healed quite right, and Henry actually did feel a little
guilty about that. Adam saw him looking and sneered.

“We’d
much prefer to hang with you lot,” Daniel said, looking bashful.
“Does that sound all right?”

The
boys looked at each other, shrugging. They had no real leader, no one
to make decisions like this. It had always been that way: Henry was
richest, but least interested in leading, and overall ill-equipped
for the role in any case; Charles was most suave and thus most
admired, but perhaps too cavalier and self-centered to speak reliably
for the group; Louis was best at finding new ways to misbehave, and
definitely wanted the job, but was too short and comical for the rest
to take him seriously. Still, Louis spoke up and said, “You can do
whatever you want. None of us will stop you,” and none of the
others felt the need to add anything else.

Daniel
then shared the interesting information that Mr. Pettibone was so
angry about the way Adam had misused Sam that he had threatened not
to replace him at all, a prospect that had many of the boys feeling
very righteous in anticipation of Adam’s humiliation. Nothing more
shameful could be imagined. The last time anyone could recall a boy
of age not having a slave to wait on him at table was two years prior
when a rich abolitionist’s oddball son was a student for a very
brief period (it had not been a good fit; the boy had moved on).

“His
father is going to have to pay a big fine, too,” Daniel said. “Not
as big as if Adam had killed him outright, but still a lot of money.”

“Adam
should be punished, though,” Henry said, and he wished Adam might
be whipped, at least, for what he’d done to Sam. Adam losing
nothing but money and social connections didn’t seem like
punishment enough when poor Sam had lost his life.

Henry
glanced over at the slaves. They remained subdued and somber, still
in mourning, but they were watching the interaction between masters
with interest. With Louis’ pronouncement, Jeremy and Daniel gave
their slaves leave to join their friends, and Raymond and Allen were
welcomed by the group with eager warmth and affectionate gestures,
handshakes and pats on the back. To Henry’s mild surprise, Victor’s
Will embraced Allen tightly and pressed a kiss to the corner of his
mouth, but no one else seemed to have noticed this small violation of
protocol, and Henry certainly wouldn’t point it out. He thought of
what Martin had told him, about Sam kissing Raymond at winter break,
and felt that if slaves wanted to kiss one another, they ought to be
able to do it.

Really,
everyone ought to be able to kiss whoever they wanted without
condemnation or repercussion.

They
all went in at the bell and crowded into the cloakroom. Martin’s
glasses fogged in the warmer indoor air and he hurried to wipe them
dry with his handkerchief before shedding his coat or helping with
Henry’s.

“Sorry,
Sir.”

“It’s
quite all right,” Henry assured him. “Don’t feel you have to
rush.”

He
looked across the room and saw Adam shrugging out of his own
overcoat, letting the hem drag on the floor as he slung it onto its
hook.

The
boys surrounding Adam took mean-spirited interest in his situation.
They took ostentatious advantage of their slaves’ services, bidding
them to straighten their neckties, put their hair in order, tie their
boots. Adam scowled furiously at these displays of congenial
servitude, his porcine face very red, and shouldered his way roughly
through the crowd toward the hall. His classmates did not allow him
easy passage, slow to make way.

“Ralph
provides such good service,” Wendell remarked to the room at large,
his voice raised to be sure Adam would hear. “I’d never want to
go back to life without a slave.”

“Mastery
is the mark of a gentleman,” Joshua pointed out, chin lifted so
Miles could adjust his necktie. “Without a slave, a fellow’s
nothing but a rich boor.”

“A
pig,” Daniel suggested of his former friend. “A disgusting,
vicious animal.” Allen knelt at his feet, knotting the laces of his
boots.

Henry
thought this accurate in describing Adam but very unfair to pigs.

Martin
slid Henry’s coat off his arms and hung it, then hung his own
alongside.

“Would
you like me to straighten your tie, Sir?” He cocked his head and
smiled. Henry recalled that Martin had additional reasons of his own
for wanting to see Adam humiliated.

With
everyone making such a show of preening and grooming, Henry felt it
very appropriate to accept Martin’s attentions. As Martin fussed
with the knot of his necktie, Henry watched Adam muscle his way out
into the hall.

No
doubt Adam would eventually be provided with another companion,
though hopefully not soon. It wasn’t realistic to hope Adam might
be punished with enough severity to satisfy Henry’s sense of
justice, but at least this social condemnation was something,
and there was some righteous pleasure to be taken from observing
Adam’s shame.

“There,
Sir.” Martin placed his hands flat against Henry’s chest, a
little emphatic pressure. “You’re set.” He busied himself
making sure the books for Henry’s afternoon classes were in his
bag.

Henry
glanced around the room; no one was paying him any attention. He
leaned close to Martin and said, “I’d never want to go back to
life without a slave, either.” He immediately felt his face grow
hot.

Martin
beamed at him. “Oh, Sir, I definitely wouldn’t want that for you!
I think the current situation is ideal.” He held out Henry’s
schoolbag. “Everything’s ready, Sir.”

They
parted ways in the hall, Martin going to the slave side and Henry to
the regular. He sat staring out the window into the empty yard during
geography class, his gaze unfocused. Not only would he never make
Martin want to die, he’d do whatever he could to make him happy. As
he imagined ways he might do this, visions full of nudity and
tenderness, his reverie was interrupted by Mr. Brasenose asking him
to name the longest river in China, which he was not able to do.
Following a scolding for inattention, he was set the task of copying
a map from the geography book and reluctantly put aside thoughts of a
happy Martin for a later time.

If
mastery was the mark of a gentleman, then Henry would be the best
master he could be. He’d take care of Martin and take up for him.
He’d appreciate him. He’d love him, even if he was afraid to say
so aloud; he’d do what he could to make sure Martin felt it, even
without the words.











On
Friday morning, Philip informed everyone that he’d seen the signal
at the bell tower in the park: the lake was frozen hard enough for
skating. At lunchtime, Louis and other organizationally-minded boys
decided where and when they should all meet up Saturday morning for a
skating party. Many of the boys took their slaves downtown after
school to purchase ice skates, Henry included. Louis already had some
of James’ old skates for Peter, so Henry ended up riding the
omnibus alongside Freddie, with Martin and Tom chatting in the aisle.

Freddie
was asking questions Henry would have preferred not to answer,
questions that likely wouldn’t have been asked if Louis had been
there as a buffer. He nudged Henry with his elbow. “So why is it
you don’t want to swap him, anyway?” he asked. “Everyone
wonders, you know.”

Henry
squirmed a little, uncomfortable with the topic and the scrutiny.
“Well, it’s how you get diseases, for one thing.”

Freddie
did not seem convinced. “You can always use a rubber if you want.
Besides, no one we
know would have any diseases, Henry.”

Henry,
who knew that James Briggs had been treated at least once for
gonorrhea, did not trust that anyone’s status as a gentleman would
stave off disease, but he didn’t share this with Freddie.

“Martin’s
a good friend to me,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t put any other
friend through that, after all.”

“Well,
sure. But slaves aren’t like us,
Henry. Haven’t you ever asked him what sorts of things he got up to
back before he was sold? How many partners he’s had? I can
guarantee you, it’s dozens,
and in all kinds of combinations. The things we ask them to do are no
worse than the things they all did of their own accord back in their
Houses. They want
to do it.”

Despite
all his fretting about Martin’s sexual past, Henry had never wanted
to consider, and so had never asked about, Martin participating in
any sort of group arrangements like that which he’d witnessed at
Charles’ party; he’d wanted to believe that Martin had had sex
with one boy at a time, and very few of them at that. He’d decided
for himself, based on absolutely no evidence whatsoever, that
Ganymede’s reputation and history meant fewer shenanigans inside
its walls. Confronted with Freddie’s remarks, however, he
recognized that these stubborn assumptions might very well be naïve,
laughable. He felt a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach, and
when he turned to dart a glance at Martin, Martin was too busy
laughing with Tom to acknowledge Henry’s regard.

Dry-mouthed,
he said, “You might be right,” just to give Freddie some sort of
answer.

At
the sporting goods store, he watched Martin try on skates, buckling
them on over his boots and standing up with wobbly ankles, laughing.
Had Martin ever done that, lie on his back with a cock in his ass and
another in his mouth? Once he’d let the possibility enter his
thoughts, it took over, seeming likely to the point of certainty. Had
Martin liked it? Henry suspected he would have. Did he like it better
than having just one man at a time, even if that man was crazy about
him and would do anything to make him happy?

“Do
you think these will be good, Sir?” Martin asked, bright and
excited. “They do seem the right size.”

“I’m
sure they’ll be fine,” Henry told him, struggling to keep his
voice even and neutral, “unless you want to try on others for some
reason.”

Martin
beamed at him and shook his head. “No, Sir. I’m happy with
these.”

Henry
paid, as did Freddie, and they caught the omnibus back uptown.
Freddie asked no more questions about Henry’s swapping philosophy,
for which Henry was most grateful. Instead, Freddie shared random
bits of gossip about their schoolmates and Henry made interested
noises, but his thoughts were entirely elsewhere.

In
addition to satisfying his own possessive urges, he’d liked to
think he’d been protecting Martin by staying out of swaps, but
perhaps what he was really doing was keeping Martin from getting
something he wanted. He wanted Martin to be happy, he did, but he
couldn’t allow Martin to have other partners, much less permit him
to take on whole groups of boys with their poking, prodding pricks.

Henry
and Martin got off the omnibus first, waving their goodbyes.

“You
really like Tom, don’t you?” Henry tried not to sound accusatory.

“Sir?”

“Tom.
You really like him.”

“We’ve
become such close friends, Sir. He’s good fun.” Martin seemed
entirely guileless in offering up this information, but Henry
remained jealous and suspicious.

They
were let into the house by Paul, who took their coats, and they went
upstairs with their schoolbags and the box with Martin’s new
skates. Martin put his things in his room and came out to embrace
Henry where he stood before the fire. Henry did not turn when
Martin’s arms came around him.

“Henry?”
Martin let his arms drop. “Is everything all right?”

Henry
wanted to punish Martin, but that was unfair, and he knew it. He
didn’t even know for certain that what Freddie had said was true
(although it felt
true). It wasn’t Martin’s fault that Henry wasn’t smart enough
to have asked the right questions in the first place.

He’d
overheard plenty of stories about how the slaves had behaved at other
houses, the sorts of wild orgies that went on, but he’d convinced
himself that Ganymede was different. Ganymede was the most venerable
of the Houses! Surely there were rules in place! Standards that were
maintained! But of course he’d never actually asked Martin about
specifics, and Martin certainly didn’t volunteer information about
his sexual past.

“I
just have a few questions about Ganymede,” Henry said, turning to
face him, arms crossed over his chest. “If you don’t mind.”

Martin’s
hands flew up in a panic, fluttering like birds, and he looked
nervously away, flustered and uncomfortable. “Of course not, Henry,
but you know this subject does sometimes upset you...”

Before
leaving Ganymede, Henry knew that Martin had had sex with both Stuart
and his friend Charlie and probably a teacher or two, but he also
suspected there had to have been more. Henry was prepared for there
to be more, or thought he was. Five men. Seven. Fewer than ten,
surely!

“I
know you weren’t exactly innocent when you came to me, Martin, and
I need to know how many there were before.” Henry had hoped not to
sound so accusatory, or so petulant.

“Sir?”

It
annoyed Henry that Martin was nervously resorting to honorifics, and
it seemed like a sign of a guilty conscience.

“How
many men before me, exactly? Was it all the boys from your group? The
Superiors? More than that, even?”

Martin
put a tentative hand on Henry's arm. “Sir, please,” he said.
“There were
quite a few, Sir, but it shouldn't matter, really. You know I was
trained, Sir, thoroughly trained. I wouldn't have been sold
otherwise.”

“It
does matter to me,”
Henry insisted, his anger escalating precipitously. “Do you even
know the number? Is it too many to remember? Do you compare me with
them?”

“If
I did compare, Sir,” Martin said, hurt and a little haughty, “you
would surely come out ahead. We’re supremely compatible, Sir, at
least that's what I think.”

Henry
changed tack. “Did you ever…did you do what the slaves were doing
at Charles’ party? Two boys at a time? Did you ever have that, one
cock in your mouth and another in your ass?”

Martin
went very pale and said nothing.

“You
did do it.”

“Sir,
I—”

“Did
you like it?” Henry could tell from the stricken expression on
Martin’s face that he had. “Is that what you like best, Martin,
two at a time? Or more, even?” Though Henry couldn’t imagine
where more cocks might go.

Now
Martin looked angry. “No, that’s not
what I like best. Yes, I liked it, Sir, but it was just for fun, just
boys seeing what their bodies could do. It was nothing like what I
have with you.”

“What
is it you think you have with me, then?” Henry sneered, prepared to
find fault with whatever Martin said.

“I
think what we have is terribly special, Sir,” Martin said, angry
but also a little sad. He cast his gaze down to the carpet. “I
think you feel that too, Sir. When we make love, it’s more than
just our bodies coming together. I feel connected to you so deeply.”
He looked up at Henry, solemn and tentative. “You give me so much
pleasure, Sir, and I come so hard for you; it’s like nothing I’ve
ever experienced before.” He put his hand on Henry’s forearm and
gave him a beseeching look. “You must know I’m crazy about you,
Sir!”

Martin’s
words seemed so heartfelt, and so lovely, that Henry felt shy hearing
them. He did like the idea that Martin might be crazy for him. “You
didn’t have that with anyone else? None of those Ganymede boys?”

“No,
Sir, I did not.”

“Not
even Charlie?”

With
a sigh of exasperation, Martin said, “Sir, you have the wrong idea
about my friendship with Charlie.”

“He
did fuck you, though, didn’t he?”

Martin
hesitated a long moment. “Yes, Sir. You must understand, though,
Sir, it was part of our training. It was required of us.”

Henry
closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Did you like it?”

Martin
hesitated, and Henry opened his eyes and looked at him. “Sir…”

“You
did. You liked it.” It was obvious this was the case.

Martin
seemed unhappy when he admitted, “I do like sex, Sir, you know
this.”

“Tell
me what you did with him.”

“Sir…”
Martin was frowning, deeply uncomfortable. “Please, Sir—”

“Did
you do everything with him, too? Like you did with Stuart?”

“Sir—”

Henry
knew the answer without Martin saying anything. “You did. You did
everything with him.”

In
a pleading tone, Martin said, “But, Sir, it’s how things are
done. Not just at Ganymede, but at all the Houses. It’s how
companions are trained.”

“How
many times?”

“Sir?”

“How
many times did you have sex with Charlie?”

Martin
ducked his head, hiding his face. “I-I don’t know, Sir.”

“It’s
so many you can’t count?”

“I
never kept count, Sir,” Martin admitted. Then, in a hopeful tone,
he added, “But it was only twice that I was on top.”

Henry
was dumbstruck. He had always been so driven to be inside Martin, to
penetrate him, that it had somehow never occurred to him that Martin
could ever play the dominant role. That Martin had, and that he had
done so with Charlie,
was a bit more than Henry wished to take in.

Seeing
the look on Henry’s face, Martin hurriedly added, “That was also
required, Sir.”

Henry
took another deep breath. “Do you want to…with me?”

Martin
blinked and looked flustered. “Oh, Sir! I-I'd do whatever you asked
of me. But I like the way we do things now!” He looked as though he
might cry.

Henry
knew, he supposed, that the only way he seemed to get answers to his
questions was by making Martin unhappy in the process, yet somehow he
never took that into account before he started asking them. He felt
terrible. Martin had done nothing wrong. The way he had been raised
was so foreign to Henry’s experience, but it was normal enough for
a slave, even necessary
for a slave. Henry had to get hold of himself, get his jealousy under
control, or he was going to make both Martin and himself miserable.

“I’m
sorry,” Henry said. “I’m stupid, Martin. It was just…something
that Freddie said that made me wonder about your past, and then I
started to worry that you’re not happy—”

“I’m
happy, Sir,” Martin said tremulously, his mouth downturned, and he
looked so unhappy
that it was funny and Henry had to bite his lip not to laugh.

“Will
you come here?” Henry held out his arms and Martin came into them
gratefully.

They
had sex in front of the fire, Martin rising up and sinking down over
Henry’s cock at a slow pace while he luxuriated in Henry’s
caresses. He arched his neck, letting his hair slide over his
shoulders in a way that Henry found particularly alluring, and Henry
recognized he was putting on a bit of a show, giving Henry everything
he liked. He breathlessly begged Henry to touch his cock, and when
Henry did so, Martin began to croon his name, the muscles jumping in
his belly as he ground himself down on Henry’s prick. He stilled
and came on Henry’s chest and folded forward into his embrace.

They
lay still a moment, catching their breath. Martin lifted his head.
“You didn’t finish yet, did you? Should I…?”

Henry
kissed him. “On your back.” Martin climbed off of him and lay
down, and Henry pulled a pillow off the nearest armchair to wedge
under his ass. “Knees up.” Martin bent his knees to his chest and
held onto the backs of his thighs. Henry petted his hole, pushed his
thumb inside, then pulled it out, and pushed in two fingers and felt
Martin squeeze around them. Henry told himself that it shouldn’t
matter how many other boys had touched Martin here. He bent and
licked him just briefly, and Martin whimpered and shook, a fine
tremor. Henry positioned himself and thrust in and Martin moaned his
name. Henry fucked Martin with utter tenderness, knowing Martin
wouldn’t come again so soon, but wanting to make it sweet for him
anyway, and when at last Henry came, he felt very emotional, very
raw, and buried his face in Martin’s neck, his breath coming in
rough shudders.

Martin
rubbed his back in little circles. “Henry? Are you all right?”

Henry
got himself under control. “I’m wonderful,” he assured him.
“I’m going to try so hard not to be jealous, Martin, I promise.”

“Maybe
you should ask me everything now. Every question you can think of,
and I’ll try to answer them all, and then we can be done with it.
For the new year.”

“The
number, if you know it. That’s all I really want to know now.”

They
lay curled together on the carpet, the fire warming Martin’s back
and, after some coaxing and mental arithmetic, Martin admitted that
he’d probably had sex with “about fifty” different people at
Ganymede and Henry was horrified. Even his worst case scenario had
been a fraction of that number. As part of that daunting total,
Martin had had sex with every companion-in-training in his year,
penetrating and being penetrated by each boy in turn—but so had all
the other boys, Martin assured him. It was how things were done, not
just at Ganymede but at all the Houses. In this way, the slaves went
to their virginal masters prepared for anything: any size of cock,
any degree of enthusiasm, any position.

“Did
you only do it for requirements, then? Or for fun, also?”

“For
fun,” Martin said firmly, crushing Henry’s last, futile hope.
“Because it is
fun, isn’t it?” he said in his own defense. “We had sex just
like we played poker and baseball. It was something we could do
together that we all enjoyed.”

Henry
felt despairing. How was he ever going to be able to satisfy Martin
over the long term? He was just one person, just one body. Martin
seemed happy enough for now, and made such pretty declarations, but
surely it was only a matter of time before he grew bored of Henry and
their staid two-bodied lovemaking, before he grew tired of Henry’s
singular cock. He wanted to know, but dared not ask, whether Martin
had wanted
to participate in that New Year’s orgy.

“Please
try not to think about my past,” Martin said gently, running his
fingers through Henry’s hair. “I’ve said it before, Henry: it
was all to get me to this point, here with you. None of the details
matter.”

“Do
you think it would it be better if I’d had sex with other people,
too, then?” Henry blurted. “Would I be less jealous? Should I
have swapped you? Should I have fucked Tom, maybe?”

“Do
you want to fuck Tom?” Martin seemed both genuinely curious and a
little hurt. “Tom is very attractive. I would certainly understand
if you wanted to have sex with him.”

Henry
had indeed entertained a thought or two about Tom, but what he really
wanted was to see Tom and Martin together, and he was a little
ashamed of this. His feelings were also complicated by his jealousies
regarding Martin’s easy friendship with Tom. He thought of Tom
lying on Charles’ library table, his terribly white skin, his black
hair cascading off the tabletop, the little noises he made while he
was being fucked, and couldn’t deny the appeal.

“No,”
Henry said, shaking free of the image of Tom on his back. “Not
really. Besides, I can’t stand the idea of sharing you with anyone,
and none of my friends is going to just let me use his slave without
a fair trade.”

“No,
they wouldn’t,” Martin agreed. “I don’t think having sex with
other people would make you less jealous, anyway. I think it might
just make you jealous about a lot more people. Besides, I—I don’t
really have the right, Henry, but I don’t want you to have sex with
anyone else. I want you to come to me always when you want your cock
sucked, or when you want to fuck someone’s ass. I want it to be me,
Henry.” He ducked his head, hiding his face. “It’s not my place
to say such things to you. I’m sorry. I’m not behaving properly.”

Henry
loved hearing such possessive talk out of Martin’s mouth. It did go
a long way toward assuaging his feelings of desperation. With a
knuckle under Martin’s chin, he tilted his head so that he might
look him in the eye. “You’re behaving just fine,” he insisted.
“You take such good care of me—and I’m not just talking about
sex, you know. You’re a really good slave, a good person.
You’re very attentive and you anticipate my needs so well, and you
do everything so perfectly that you always show me in a good light.”
He leaned in and kissed Martin, who did not look convinced.

“But
as to the rest of what you said, Martin, that’s what I want too.
Just you. I don’t want to get married someday. I don’t want to
fall in love with some other free man. I just want to be with you,
and I get scared that you want something different. If you really
want to be with two men at once, I can’t do that for you, can I?”

“Henry—”

“I
try to do everything you like, but if you want variety, if you want
different bodies, there’s nothing I can do about that, is there?”

Martin
bowed his head again. “I’m doing a bad job, aren’t I, of
convincing you that you’re what I want?” He sighed and licked his
lip, then continued. “Two boys at once is fun, I won’t deny it,
but at least in my experience, it’s not a relationship, but a game.
It feels good and it’s exciting, but it doesn’t build into
anything more. It’s not like the sex we have, Henry.”

“You
really believe that?”

“I’ve
said it many times,” Martin pointed out, a hint of frustration in
his tone.

“I
really want it to be true,” Henry admitted.

“Then
believe me, Henry. It’s true.”

Martin
had to go down for his dinner and while he dressed Henry got naked
into bed to keep warm. Martin came to kiss him goodbye and Henry
clutched his arm, keeping him there at the bedside.

“I’m
sorry, Martin, I really am.”

“I
know you are.”

“I’ll
do better, I promise.”

Martin
bent and kissed his brow. “I know you will.”




In
the morning, after breakfast, they went to the park at the appointed
time with their skates. Henry was looking forward to it, of course,
but Martin was especially excited to try something new.

“Is
it like roller-skating, Sir? I did all right with roller skates.”

“It’s
harder, maybe, I think,” Henry told him. “You’ll probably fall
down a lot.”

“Do
you…do you think you might show me how, Sir? Just until I get the
hang of it?”

Henry
liked that Martin would ask this of him. “I’ll do what I can,”
he promised, “but you know my friends might think it’s odd for me
to do it. If they have much to say about it, I’ll have to stop.”

“That’s
all right, Sir. I’m just happy you’re willing to try.”

They’d
been all right, it seemed, after their discussion the afternoon
before. Martin had been affectionate with Henry, had sucked his cock
at bedtime, and had curled up close with him, as he always did, but
Henry still felt nervous, as if something had been left incomplete.
Perhaps he was feeling guilty for making Martin feel bad about things
he ought not to feel bad about.

There
were a lot of people moving through the park, many of them carrying
skates of their own and bundled up in layers. He and Martin were both
wearing their winter underwear, sweaters under their jackets, scarves
wound round their necks, and woolen gloves. Martin had loosened his
tail so that his hair covered his ears for a bit of extra warmth.
Their breath puffed forth in white clouds and Martin had spots of
color on his cheeks from the cold. Henry thought he looked adorable;
he felt the familiar ache in his chest, that longing for Martin that
never seemed to go away.

At
the lake, they searched for Henry’s friends in a sea of boys in
black hats and black coats. Finally, Henry spotted Louis’ (very
ugly) red-and-orange-striped scarf in the crowd, and soon other boys
revealed their familiar selves through colorful scarves. They made
their way toward the others, Henry surprised, as he often was, by the
sheer numbers of people living in the city, how easy it was to be
lost in their numbers. It seemed possible that he could skate into
the crowd and never be seen again, if that was what he wanted.

Louis
stood on the frozen shore balanced on the blades of his skates.
“Hello, Henry,” Louis said as he drew near. “You’re late.”
There was a chorus of hellos from other friends and Henry returned
their greetings.

Henry
turned to Louis. “I’m not late!” he protested. “Anyway, I
can’t be the last one.”

“No,”
Louis admitted. “But we’re just waiting on Victor and Will now.”

“Everyone
else is here, though?” He looked around; it was quite a crowd.

“Yep.
Oh! Guess what? Joshua came! His parents let him out.”

It
was the new year: Joshua’s parents’ ban on social engagement
through year’s end had run its course. Henry was happy for Joshua,
but uncomfortable with the unwelcome reminder of the chambermaid who
had been whipped for having sex with him.

Martin
had stayed nearby rather than going to join the rest of the slaves
standing a little apart from their masters.

“What’s
he doing?” Louis said, with a jerk of his chin toward Martin.
“What’s he waiting for?”

“My
help,” Henry told him. “I said I’d get him started.”

“Why
can’t he get the other slaves to help him?”

As
had been discussed at school the previous afternoon, only Tom, Julian
and Alex among the slaves had ever ice-skated before, and even those
three were no experts.

“He
can,” Henry said. “After I get him started.”

Henry
let Martin strap his skates onto his boots. “Nice and tight,” he
said. “If they’re loose at all, it won’t do.”

Martin
looked up at him. “Does this feel all right, Sir?”

Henry
wiggled his feet, marched a few tiny steps in place. They felt fine.
“They’re good,” he said, smiling. “Now, do your own.”

When
Martin had his skates strapped to his feet, Henry knelt down to check
them and deemed them secure. The boys around them began moving toward
the ice, and Henry looked back and saw Victor and Will conferring
with Louis; everyone was there.

Amongst
the masters, Charles and Jeremy were also helping their slaves
negotiate the ice, receiving some light derision from their friends.
Ignoring Louis’ heckling, Henry backed onto the ice holding
Martin’s hands and coaxed him forward. Charles and Simon went down
immediately in a snarl of limbs. Jeremy and Raymond made it a few
yards before colliding with a stranger and falling to the ice. Martin
laughed at his falling friends and fell, and nearly took Henry down
with him. It took some effort for him to get back on his feet,
hanging heavily off of Henry’s arm and laughing giddily.

“Sorry,
Sir!” he said, cheerfully apologetic. He was happy, though, his
smile dazzling, and Henry loved seeing him like this.

Skating
backwards and holding Martin’s hands, he did his best to teach
Martin the basics of ice skating, and Martin was a good pupil, but
all the while Henry was reveling in the physicality of what they were
doing, the hand-holding and clutching. He loved seeing Martin’s
happy face, the delight in his smile. He wanted badly to kiss him,
and even enjoyed the wanting. While Henry’s friends sped around the
circumference of the lake in small groups, and their slaves struggled
to stay upright near the shore, Henry brought Martin to a point where
he could move forward with some confidence, more or less in the
direction he intended, and he could come to a complete stop.

“Let’s
try skating a bit, then, shall we? Side-by-side.” Henry offered
Martin his arm, and Martin took it hesitantly.

“Sir…”

“It’s
all right,” Henry insisted. “I’m showing you how to skate, is
all. Friends do this all the time.”

They
skated along the edge of the lake, slow and tentative, but it must
have felt faster to Martin, who let out a whoop of excitement and
then promptly fell. When Martin got back on his feet, he held onto
Henry’s gloved hand and Henry blushed, but he let Martin do it and
they continued to skate along the perimeter.

“What
are you doing?”
Louis came skidding up behind them in a spray of icy powder. “You’re
holding
hands,
Henry!”

“I’m
just teaching him to skate,” Henry said.

“Doing
it that way looks bad,” Louis said, shaking his head. “You’ve
been teaching him for, like, an hour, anyway,” he complained. “Let
Tom take over, will you? Come on.”

Henry
shook his head. “Just a minute. I have to take him back to where
the others are. I’m not going to leave him here by himself.”

“You’re
too nice, Henry,” Louis told him. “You’re way
nicer than the rest of us.”

As
they skated arm-in-arm back to where the rest of the slaves were
clustered together, Martin leaned close.

“Thank
you, Sir. I had so much fun.”

“Me,
too. If the ice lasts, we’ll come when it’s just us and I’ll
teach you some more.”

“I’d
like that, Sir, I really would.”

Henry
delivered Martin to Tom’s care, and Tom seemed very eager to take
up where Henry had left off. Henry tried not to let that enthusiasm
bother him. Louis, who had been hanging back, waiting impatiently,
now swooped down on Henry and grabbed his arm.

“Come
on!”
Louis urged, tugging Henry’s sleeve. “You haven’t been skating
at
all.
Martin can take care of himself.”

Louis
was right about that. Martin would be fine.

They
cut across the middle of the lake and met up with most of the others
on the far side. There were hundreds, maybe thousands
of skaters swarming on the lake, mostly men and boys, though Henry
did see a few couples and the occasional group of girls.

Henry
and his friends had been skating on the lake every winter of their
lives and all were at least competent on the ice. Henry was a strong
skater but uninterested in racing or tricks, and Gordon seemed to
feel the same. The two of them kept up a steady pace while their
friends orbited around them. Wendell and Freddie were constantly
challenging one another to races—to the next tree, or the next
rock. Charles and Philip and Robert were in a contest to see who
could skate backwards the longest. Louis was a speed demon and
daredevil, and proved likeliest of all to crash into strangers.
Jeremy and Daniel hung back a little, still unsure of their place in
the group. Henry didn’t see any sign of Albert, David or Joshua but
didn’t worry about them. They would all meet up eventually.

As
they neared the spot on the shore where the slaves had last been
congregated, Henry noted a man with a roasted chestnut cart parked
just off the ice. He skated over, picked his way through the icy mud,
and paid the man a few pennies for a paper cone of steaming nuts.
Gordon and Jeremy did the same, and Louis doubled back and got in
line. Henry skated ahead and found Martin laughing, cheeks pink, with
his arm around Tom’s waist.

“Martin!”

Martin
looked up and smiled. “Sir! I’m getting better and better at it,
Sir!”

“Come
here.” Henry held his cone of chestnuts up for Martin to see. “I
got you something.”

Martin
skated to him hesitantly and stiffly, but it was clear he had
improved even since Henry had left him with Tom. When Martin made it
to Henry, he clung to Henry’s arm with both hands to steady himself
and laughed again. “Are those chestnuts, Sir?” He pulled his
gloves off and put them in his pocket. “I love chestnuts!”

They
stood at the edge of the lake and peeled and ate the hot nuts
greedily. While they were there, most of the other boys joined the
group, and they either arrived with chestnuts in hand or quickly went
to get some to share with their slaves. The air was frigid, and Henry
felt the cold more standing still. Martin’s face was very pink from
the cold, and Henry worried about him a little.

“Are
you too cold, do you think?”

“I’m
sure I’m fine, Sir.”

“I
don’t want you getting too tired.”

“I’m
not tired, Sir. I’m having fun.”

When
the chestnuts were gone, Henry could contrive no good reason to
linger with Martin. His friends were clamoring to get underway and
he’d become conspicuous if he stalled any longer, so he reluctantly
left Martin behind, quite certain that Tom would step in to keep
Martin company in his absence.

They
made a circuit of the lake more or less as a group before dispersing
into the general crowds. Henry passed a group of four girls and a
tall blond boy who had taken off his glove to hold the bare hand of
one of the girls. Something about the way the boy carried himself
seemed familiar, and as Henry passed he turned to glance at the boy’s
face. To his surprise, it was Gordon’s Julian. Julian did not see
Henry as all his attention was given to the pretty girl whose fingers
were enfolded in his own.

It
was bitterly cold, and Julian was wearing a scarf like everyone else,
so it was possible, even likely, that the girls didn’t know Julian
was a slave. At other times of the year, slaves were immediately
recognizable as such because of their marks, but with throats
swaddled against the cold there was no visible difference whatsoever
between the short-haired slaves and their masters. Julian was very
handsome, and he was dressed like a wealthy boy. If he wasn’t a
slave, he’d be quite a catch for some working-class girl.

Henry
didn’t know if he should find Gordon and tell him what Julian was
up to or not. He also wondered if maybe he ought to confront Julian,
or even warn him against being caught. He remembered Gordon hitting
Julian on the ball field and worried about what Gordon might do if he
saw Julian holding hands with a girl; Henry seriously doubted that
temperamental Gordon had given Julian permission to pursue romances
of his own.

Henry
fretted about this awhile longer, gradually leaving Julian and the
strange girls further behind. He could simply behave as if he hadn’t
seen Julian, of course, and perhaps that would be best. He neared the
section of shoreline where the slaves were struggling about on their
skates and stopped with the excuse of needing rest. Louis stopped,
too, to see what he was doing, rolled his eyes, and left him behind.
Albert came around and joined him, followed by David and Freddie. He
watched Tom and Martin playing around, Martin falling and laughing
and letting Tom pull him to his feet, and wanted to intervene but
made himself stay put.

Henry
saw Julian and the girls approaching at the same time as he saw
Gordon coming up behind them. Gordon’s face was contorted and white
with rage. He skated up behind Julian and grabbed his scarf, pulling
him off his feet and slamming him down onto the ice. The girl whose
hand Julian held was pulled off balance and went down to her knees
with a terrified shriek.

“What
the fuck
are you doing?!” Gordon’s angry bellow was like a bomb going off
and skaters scattered, frantic to get away from the explosion,
leaving Gordon and Julian in a little circle of clear ice.

After
an initial panicked scramble, Julian quickly got his bearings and
curled on his side, his arms held defensively before his face. Gordon
jabbed at his midsection with the toe of his skate and Henry winced
to see it.

“Did
he tell you?” Gordon demanded of the girl, whose friends had helped
her to her feet. “Did he mention that he’s a slave?”

The
girl shook her head violently. Gordon had frightened her, and she
began to cry.

David
skated over to Gordon and spoke to him in a low voice.

“He’s
my
goddamned slave!” Gordon yelled, turning on David furiously. “I
can treat him however the hell I want!”

The
girls seemed unsure if they were allowed to go or not. Although he
felt very self-conscious doing so, Henry skated over to them to
suggest that they leave.

“Excuse
me, miss?”

The
girl darted her eyes at Henry, then back to Gordon, whom she was
watching like she might watch a dangerous dog.

“Miss?
You and your friends should go along now.”

“But
what about Julian?” The girl’s lip trembled and tears welled in
her eyes. “What will happen to Julian?”

David
was speaking to Gordon in low tones again, and Gordon seemed to be
listening.

“Julian
will be fine,” Henry tried to assure her.

“If
I tell my father, he’ll have you whipped!”
Gordon snarled, poking again at Julian with his skate.

“Really,”
Henry said, not at all sure of it himself, “Julian will be fine.
Please, miss, it will be better for him if you go now.” He
insinuated himself in between Julian and the girls, blocking her
view. “I’m sorry about all of this, miss, really I am.”

“We
were only skating!” the girl said, tears welling again. Her friends
took her by the arms and they led her away, the girl looking back
just once before disappearing into the black-coated throngs.

When
Henry turned around, Tom was helping Julian to his feet and Gordon
was skating toward the shoreline with David and Albert beside him.
Some of the other boys were just skating up and clamoring to know
what was going on. Henry didn’t want to go anywhere near Gordon. He
skated towards Julian.

“Are
you all right?”

Julian
was ashen and trembling. He was terrified, and Henry didn’t blame
him.

“Y-yes,
Sir,” Julian said, clearly lying. “Just a little shaken up, Sir.”

“He
kicked you.”

“I’m
pretty well-padded with this coat, Sir. I’ll be fine, Sir.”

“What
were you thinking?”
Tom demanded in a low, pressured voice, not caring that Henry heard.
“You, more than anybody, should know better than to mess about with
girls. He’s too jealous!”

“It
was stupid,” Julian admitted. “Please don’t yell at me, Tom.
I’m going to get it bad enough from him when we get home, I know
it.”

Henry
followed them over to where the rest of the slaves huddled, Martin
included. Martin made his shaky way to Henry’s side and clutched
Henry’s arm briefly, more for comfort than for balance this time.

“Gordon
has a habit of ruining these get-togethers,” Henry remarked.

To
his surprise, Martin seemed less upset by Gordon’s behavior, but
rather was angry with Julian.

“Julian
shouldn’t have been with those girls in the first place, Sir. He
knows what Mr. Lovejoy’s like, and he knew perfectly well that it
would make Mr. Lovejoy angry. What kind of slave deliberately
provokes his master?” With a sniff, Martin haughtily added, “Of
course, he’s from Hyperion, Sir. They
don’t have the proper dedication.”

“Really?”
Henry was interested in hearing Martin’s thoughts on other slaving
Houses. Did everyone think Hyperion slaves were sub-par, or was that
just Martin’s opinion?

“Julian
would never
have been made a companion at Ganymede, Sir,” Martin said with
confidence.

“Why
not?”

Martin
remembered where they were, who they were with. “Might I tell you
at home, Sir? I don’t want to go into detail here, if you don’t
mind.”

“We
should go anyway,” Henry said. “It’s too cold to be standing
around out here, and I’m hungry.”

They
said their goodbyes, unbuckled their skates, and headed across the
park for home.

“Did
you enjoy yourself?” Henry asked. “Except for the bit at the end,
I mean.”

“I
did, Sir.” Martin bestowed his beautiful smile upon Henry. “I
loved skating with you. You’re a good teacher, Sir. Very patient.”

“Tom
helped you a lot, too, I think.” Henry meant for this to sound
fair-minded, but it was also a kind of test.

Martin
shrugged. “He did, Sir, but I liked skating with you better.”

Martin
had passed the test. Henry walked the rest of the way home suffused
with a feeling of satisfaction.

They
had a simple lunch of tomato soup and cheese sandwiches that was
warming and filling, then went upstairs and Martin ran them a bath.
The maids had laid a fire for them while they ate, and they undressed
in front of it, leaving their clothes heaped on the floor. Martin
piled his hair on top of his head and made it stay in place by
shoving a pencil through the mass of it. Martin helped Henry into the
bath—quite unnecessarily, Henry thought, though he didn’t refuse
the assistance—and climbed in after him.

“Where
do you want me to sit?”

“Come
lean on me,” Henry said, patting his chest in invitation. It would
be an awkward fit whether Martin sat with Henry or at the opposite
end of the tub. They didn’t bathe like this often; the tub wasn’t
really big enough for two people so tall and lanky. Martin settled
between Henry’s legs, leaning back against his chest with a sigh.

“It’s
so nice and warm, isn’t it, Henry?”

Henry
put his arms around him and kissed his temple. “So, I haven’t
forgotten what you said in the park. Tell me more about Hyperion and
Julian.”

“Oh,
well, it’s very snobbish of me to have said anything.”

“But
it’s true? Julian wouldn’t have been made a companion at
Ganymede?”

“No,
he most certainly wouldn’t have! He hasn’t got the right
temperament.”

“What
do you mean? Other than having a knack for pissing Gordon off, he
seems like a decent enough slave.”

“We’ve
talked before, Henry, about how most of my friends prefer women,
yes?”

“Yes,
just like their masters.”

“Well,
there are degrees of preference. A good companion has to enjoy sex
with men. He doesn’t have to want it the most,
but he does have to like it. You know what I’m like, Henry; I love
it when you fuck me. I’ve always loved being fucked. Most Houses
try to make companions out of boys like me if they’re attractive
and reasonably smart. Julian is beautiful and intelligent, but he
dislikes sex with men, and that should have disqualified him from
becoming a companion in the first place. At Ganymede he would have
been made an especially handsome butler.”

“So
he doesn’t like having sex with Gordon at all?”

“No,
he tries to avoid it, and it makes Mr. Lovejoy angry, and I can’t
say I blame him. Julian is his companion, that’s part of his job.”

“Are
any of your other friends like Julian?”

“No,”
Martin shook his head and a tendril of hair slipped from his
makeshift bun. “All the others are at least good-natured about
being fucked. There are some others like me who prefer men, and I
think we’re happiest.”

“Who?
Tom, I’ll bet.”

Martin
turned to look at him quizzically. “Tom? No, Tom is very interested
in women.”

“He
seems very interested in you,”
Henry pointed out.

Martin
shook his head again, loosing more hair from his bun. “We’re good
friends, Henry.”

“Well,
who else, then?”

“Will
and Simon.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Sam preferred
men, also.”

They
were quiet a moment, thinking of Sam.

Henry
kissed Martin’s ear and tightened his arms around his body. “Do
their masters appreciate them like I do you?”

“Mr.
Spence is decent to Will, I think, and Mr. Ross is very
good to Simon. Simon never says anything outright, but he gives
hints, and I think Mr. Ross is nearly as kind as you.”

“You
mean…?” The idea that Charles was more of a real lover to Simon
certainly made Charles seem more interesting.

“Kissing
and touching. Making sure it feels good for Simon also.”

“Does
he suck his cock?”

“That
I don’t know. I doubt it, though.”

“Why’s
that?”

“Most
gentlemen aren’t as curious as you, Henry. You always wanted to
try, but for most men it’s taboo. It’s the last thing they’d
ever do.”

“You
know it’s not just curiosity, Martin.”

Martin
sighed. “No, it’s not, but you’re still a gentleman, and you
have certain obligations, certain expectations to meet. Part of my
job is to help you to live the life that’s laid out for you, and we
both know what your father has planned.”

“So
it doesn’t matter what I want?”

“You
tell me that I’m
what you want, Henry, and I’m not going anywhere,” Martin
countered. “I’m going to be with you forever, no matter what.
I’ll be one of those devoted slaves who kills himself when his
master dies.”

Henry
liked the idea that Martin would be so attached to him, but hated the
idea of Martin dying. “Promise me you won’t do that.”

“I’ll
promise no such thing, Henry, and if you’re dead, you won’t be
able to tell me what to do.”

Henry
kissed the nape of his neck. “I hate the idea of you dying.”

“Then
let’s neither of us ever die.”

Henry
held him tightly and they stayed in the tub until the water had
cooled and it was time for Martin’s dinner.

Later
in bed, Martin asleep in his arms, Henry thought about Gordon and
Julian, and wondered what sort of punishment Gordon had exacted for
Julian’s error in judgment. He hoped it had not been too severe; he
hoped Gordon had decided against telling his father. If Gordon had
Julian whipped, surely their relationship would be irrevocably
damaged.

Henry
had no fears that he’d ever find Martin flirting with girls, but he
did worry that Martin might return Tom’s interest. No matter what
Martin said, it was clear to Henry that Tom wanted Martin. The two of
them were so attractive together that Henry couldn’t help but
wonder how they might look naked and entwined, and if there was a way
for Henry to somehow see that without it actually taking place, he’d
be all for it. He slept and dreamed of sex with Tom and Martin both,
the three of them combining and recombining as if they were in some
slave farm dormitory orgy, and he blessedly felt no jealousy and
reveled in carnal delights.











On
Monday, Adam was still without a slave. Poor Sam’s body had been
found Christmas morning, so the Pettibones had had nearly two weeks
to seek a replacement, if one was to be sought. Adam remained
humiliated and defensive, full of bluster, and some of the other boys
took especial pleasure in taunting him about his lack of service at
the lunch table. It seemed that Daniel’s information had been
right, that Mr. Pettibone was punishing Adam for his mistreatment of
Sam by refusing to buy him a new companion, and Henry was glad.

At
home, lounging half-undressed on the bed, he asked, “Are the rest
of your friends treated all right?”

“Hmm?”
Martin lifted his head from Henry’s shoulder and gave him a
questioning look.

“Sam’s
situation was the worst, I know, but what about the rest? Are they
all right?”

Martin
put his head back down and rubbed his cheek against Henry’s
shirtfront. “No one else wants to die, if that’s what you mean.
No one else’s master is as cruel as Mr. Pettibone.”

“I
know I wasn’t any help with Sam,” Henry said, “but if any of
your other friends are ever in a tough situation with a master,
you’ll tell me, won’t you? I’ll do whatever I can.”

Martin
smiled and squeezed Henry’s ribs in a tight hug. “Thank you,
Henry. I’m glad you’d want to help.”

“I
like to think my friends aren’t the sort to be cruel to a slave
just because they can, but you’d know better than me.”

Martin
thought about this a few moments. “No, no one is cruel like you’re
thinking of. No one is mistreated, really, but some of my friends
are…well, they’re a little lonely. They feel ignored. Their
masters don’t take an interest in them the way you do in me. They
don’t ask their opinions or take them into account when they make
decisions. And of course, they don’t have
to. No one owes a slave that, I know.”

Henry
did have some sense of this already, but it seemed so strange to him
that his friends could be shut up in their rooms with another person
and just…disregard his presence. Even before he and Martin had
become intimate, Henry had treasured the time they spent together. He
felt grateful every day that he had Martin by his side, and could not
imagine taking him for granted.

“Even
if one of my friends was being hurt, though, I’m not sure he’d
tell. Sam kept quiet for a long time, you see,” Martin said. “He
tried to hide what was happening because he felt it was his fault.”

“It
wasn’t his fault,” Henry said immediately, finding the idea
rather offensive. “How could he think that?”

Martin
paused a moment, lip held between his teeth, very thoughtful. “Well,
it’s how we’re brought up. All the slaves in all the Houses. We
grow up thinking we should accommodate a master in all things, and
that a master’s happiness is our own happiness, and if anything is
lacking, it’s lacking in us. They start telling us how to act and
how to feel when we’re just little, and so…that’s how we act.
That’s how we feel.”

“But
if you know you’ve been manipulated…” Henry wanted to believe
that Martin was only acting of his own free will.

Martin
shook his head. “It’s how slaves should be, Henry. It’s only
practical. There’s no room in the world for a slave who puts
himself first. I wouldn’t be here with you now if I didn’t
believe I should give my all in service to you.”

Henry
was uncomfortable with the tack this conversation was taking, but he
did want to understand. “So Sam was doing his best for Adam…”

“And
when Mr. Pettibone was cruel and unappreciative, Sam just wanted to
try harder. It’s how I’d be with you, or Tom with Mr. Caldwell,
or Peter with Mr. Briggs. It’s how good slaves behave.”

Henry
was seized with the urge to tell Martin to be a bad slave, to make
selfish choices, to disregard his training and do whatever he
pleased. Yet he was afraid that if Martin did that, really did it,
he’d leave Henry behind. He made a reflexive grab, his arms
tightening around Martin’s shoulders.

“Ouch,”
Martin complained, squirming to loosen Henry’s grip. “You’re
hurting me.”

“Sorry.”
He bent to kiss the white part in Martin’s hair. “I’ll never
make you feel that way, I promise.”

“Of
course you won’t,” Martin said, sounding supremely assured.
“You’re always very kind.”

“I
will
help any of your friends who need it,” Henry reiterated. While he
certainly didn’t wish for any of Martin’s friends to be
mistreated, he couldn’t help wanting an opportunity to show what a
good friend he could be to slaves if given the chance.

“Let’s
hope you never have to.” Martin turned in Henry’s arms and kissed
his throat through the open vee of his collar. “Oh! I nearly
forgot! At breakfast, Cook said she’d be baking cookies today. I’ll
go get some if you’d like.”

Henry
considered a moment whether he wanted to continue clinging onto
Martin, or if he’d rather have treats. He gave Martin a last
squeeze before releasing him. “I do always like cookies.”

Martin
stood and put on his jacket, then bent to pull on his boots. “I’ll
just be a minute.” He gave Henry a quick kiss before exiting the
room.

Henry
hoped his friends appreciated their slaves. He didn’t doubt that
Martin was a better slave than any of his friends had, but it was
still a privilege to have a person all to yourself, devoted to your
needs, even if all you wanted from him was valet service and homework
help. He also didn’t doubt that Marin got special treatment above
and beyond what the other slaves experienced, but Henry didn’t know
how he could behave otherwise with him. If a fellow was remarkable,
you had to treat him accordingly.

Martin
was imminently worthy of Henry’s love, if only Henry would gather
the courage to offer it.




The
weather continued cold and Henry took Martin to the lake to practice
skating twice more before the ice started melting. Martin gained
confidence and became more skillful each outing. Truthfully, he
didn’t need Henry’s help nearly as much as Henry needed to give
it.

It
wasn’t clear what price Julian had paid for his misadventure with
the girl, but at least he wasn’t being whipped. According to
Martin, Julian was close-mouthed about the entire issue and seemed
appropriately chastened. Gordon hadn’t said anything—to Henry, at
least—and Henry wasn’t about to ask, afraid of incurring Gordon’s
wrath. Henry remembered so clearly his own fears that Martin would
find his desires disgusting and felt terrible for Gordon, whose slave
didn’t even have the good grace to feign enthusiasm. Martin was
right: Julian should never have been made a companion.




Tuesday
after they returned from the park with their skates, their fingers
and noses numb and cold, Martin bade Henry wait close to the fire in
his room.

“I
have something for you,” he said, smiling and excited, bouncing on
his toes. “Let me get it while you warm up.” He squeezed Henry’s
cold hand and headed back toward the door.

“Where
are you going?”

“It’s
just downstairs. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Henry
stood before the fire warming his hands, shifting nervously from one
foot to the other. His heart began to pound; he thought he knew what
this something might be, but he couldn’t guess what form it would
take. The feeling was coming back into his tingling fingers when he
heard Martin’s returning footsteps in the hall.

Martin
entered the room with a hand behind his back. “Close your eyes,
Henry, and hold out your hand.”

Henry
closed his eyes, but his lids fluttered, wanting to open. He held out
his hand, embarrassed that it shook.

Martin
closed the distance between them and took hold of Henry’s wrist.
His mouth close to Henry’s ear, he said, “This is me caring for
you,” and pressed a small object into Henry’s hand.

Henry
closed his fingers around it: smooth, cool, solid. “Can I open my
eyes?”

“You
can.”

It
was a protection stone, like Henry had given Martin, except Martin
knew what he was doing, so this one was much better.

Just
as Henry had marked his gift with an H to represent himself, Martin’s
was marked M. The M was rendered in lighter and darker shades of
golden yellow, chiseled and dimensional. It was superimposed over a
very artful image of a rose in shades of red. The rose was surrounded
by a wreath of green ivy twining around the edge of the stone, all
painted on a white ground. The petals and leaves were so
realistically done that Henry was quite in awe of Martin’s talent.

“You
did this?” Henry touched the stone reverently.

“Well...no,
I didn’t.” Martin seemed embarrassed to admit this. “Not all of
it. I did the M myself, but I wanted it to be especially pretty, so I
asked Patrick to do the rose and ivy.”

“Patrick?”

“Mr.
Briggs’ Patrick. He’s very well-known throughout the neighborhood
for his talent.”

“I
didn’t realize you were so friendly with Patrick.” As far as
Henry knew, Martin only knew Patrick from the occasions when he
opened the Briggs’ front door.

Martin
shook his head. “I’m not,” he said. “I scarcely know Patrick
at all. Peter arranged it for me.”

Henry
thought on this a moment, admiring the handiwork. “Did you...pay
him? You didn’t need to do that, Martin.”

“But
I wanted to. I don’t spend my allowance on anything else, after
all. I wanted to give you something especially good, so I needed
expert help.” He reached out and tucked Henry’s hair behind his
ear. “I finished the M yesterday after dinner, but I had to leave
it overnight to let the paint dry. I’m no artist, but I can do
simple work.”

“The
M is very elegant,” Henry said. “It’s really very beautiful,
Martin. You’ll tell me what it all means?”

“Well,
I did the M because you did the H for me. It’s not usual to mark
talismans that way, but it’s not usual for master and slave to
exchange tokens, either, so this is a you-and-me thing, then. Just
us. So the M represents me and my feelings for you, and yellow and
gold are colors for attraction and happiness. Also,” Martin pointed
out, “the yellow looks nice against the red.”

Henry
thought he knew what a red rose meant—hoped he knew what it
meant—but he didn’t want to put words in Martin’s mouth. “What
does the rose mean?”

“Well,
red roses are for...are for affection,” Martin said, stumbling
slightly over his words. “And as I’ve told you before, red is the
color for sex. Our sexual relations are very important to me.”

Henry
blushed and hurried to say, “To me, too.”

“The
ivy is also for affection, and fidelity, as well. I’m very devoted
to you, you know.”

“I
do know.”

Martin
traced the circle of the wreath with his fingertip. “A wreath is a
sign of distinction,” he explained. “It marks you as special.”

Henry
was deeply moved that Martin would say this of him.

“The
white is for protection, of course. All together it means you are
very dear to me, and that I will always look after you and protect
you.”

“We’ll
look after each other,” Henry immediately suggested. “Thank you,
Martin, really. It’s lovely.” He first touched Martin’s face,
tender and fond, and then drew his glasses from his nose, leaning in
for a kiss. No one had ever given Henry such a personal gift before,
and he was quite overwhelmed.

Martin
coaxed Henry down onto the carpet before the fire, and they shivered
as they undressed with icy fingers, and then warmed their bodies
together in the glow of the flames. Despite Martin’s tender
ministrations, Henry complained of the cold, so Martin went to the
linen closet for a heavy blanket and they huddled beneath this as
close to the fire as they dared. The sex they had, awkwardly
clutching at the blanket to keep in the heat, wasn’t their best
effort, but Henry felt very cared-for all the same.

Curled
close at Henry’s side, the blanket pulled to his chin, Martin
asked, “Henry? Where is your talisman?”

“It’s
safe. I put it in my watch pocket. When we get up, I’ll put it in
the box with Arthur’s. That is
what I should do, right?”

“Yes,
that’s exactly right.”

“Thank
you again, Martin. It’s really special.”

“You
don’t mind that I didn’t paint it all myself? It’s just that I
wanted it to be beautiful for you, and I don’t have that sort of
skill.”

“No,
of course I don’t mind.”

“It
is
my design. I told Patrick what to paint, and then he did it
perfectly.”

“Well,
and you did paint the M. You did a very nice job.”

Martin
laughed. “All that
required was a steady hand.” He sat up and slipped out from beneath
the blanket, letting in a gust of chilling air.

“Where
are you going?” Henry asked plaintively, but he knew.

Heading
for the bathroom, Martin called, “I’ll be right back,” and then
Henry heard the sounds of him splashing in the sink.

Henry
sighed and got to his feet, hugging the blanket tight around his
shoulders. He padded to the bathroom and met Martin coming out with
his basin.

“Oh!
I was coming to you!” Martin was all over gooseflesh, nipples tight
and cock drawn up with cold. The water in his basin was steaming.

“I
know you were.” Henry shrugged inside his blanket, then let it fall
open. “You can wash me here, though, right?”

“Well,
of course, but it was warmer by the fire...” Martin’s voice
trailed off as he knelt down to wash Henry’s cock.

Henry
didn’t know how to tell Martin without hurting his feelings or
being misunderstood, but he wished Martin wouldn’t wait on him
so...so slavishly.
He could wash his own cock—if he even felt like it needed washing,
which he usually did not think quite so urgent a need as Martin did.
He knew better than to suggest that he might perform the same service
for Martin, though he thought he’d like to try. He stood still and
mostly patient while Martin did his work.

When
Martin had completed his ablutions and got to his feet, Henry drew
him close, inside the warmth of the blanket, and Martin held him
tightly, pushing his face against Henry’s neck.

“I
should get dressed,” he said, voice muffled against Henry’s skin.

“Is
it already your dinnertime?”

“Close
enough. I should dress.” He released his hold and took a step back,
out of Henry’s embrace.

Henry
leaned against the jamb in Martin’s doorway, bundled in his
blanket, and watched as Martin put on his clothes. Martin kept his
own things just as orderly as Henry’s, ranked neatly in his
wardrobe. Black jackets, black waistcoats, fawn trousers. The satin
gleam of the lapel of his unworn tailcoat was visible behind the
flecked black tweed of his cycling costume. Henry recalled making
Martin dress in his brown check sport suit the first time they’d
gone cycling; he’d been so handsome in colors, but he’d worn
nothing but slave clothes ever since.

As
Martin was doing up his waistcoat buttons, Henry remembered the
talisman and went to fetch it from his own waistcoat pocket. He
admired it anew, loving that Hetaeria protections now extended to
him, too.

“You
do like it?” Martin asked, close by Henry’s elbow. He was
slipping his arms into his jacket.

“I
love it,” Henry told him very sincerely. He opened his mouth to say
more, to tell Martin what else he loved, but closed it again with the
words unsaid.




Wednesday
afternoon, they were in Henry’s room working on Henry’s Latin,
Martin perched on the arm of Henry’s desk chair and leaning over
his paper, patiently pointing out his errors, when Henry decided he
needed a respite from the tedious and confusing comparison of
adjectives.

“Enough
of this for now. I need a break. Will you tell me more about the
Houses?” he asked.

Martin
blinked. “What do you mean?”

“After
you told me about Hyperion and Julian, about how he would have never
been made a companion at Ganymede, it made me start wondering about
all the Houses. I know Ganymede is the best, but what about the
others? Are they known for anything in particular?”

“Oh,
well, it’s only my opinions—”

“Which
I want to hear,” Henry insisted. “Someday I’ll be buying my own
slaves and you’ll be helping me, right? Will we only buy from
Ganymede, like my father, or are other Houses good, too?”

“Certainly,
other Houses can be good,” Martin allowed. “But, really, Ganymede
is best. Even slaves who aren’t from Ganymede think so, I promise.
Ganymede has the best-trained companions; it’s common knowledge.
But I think Orpheus is next best. Tom is from Orpheus, and he’s a
very good slave. There are lots of Orpheus slaves in your class. Mr.
Brand’s Miles, Mr. Ross’ Simon, and Mr. Hollingsworth’s Allen
are all from Orpheus, as well.”

“What
makes Ganymede companions better, then? Are the training methods so
different between Houses?”

“Different
Houses emphasize different things. Ganymede slaves give the best
service. We’re dedicated to our masters before all else. We have
the best manners, we’re the best-educated, and we love sex.”

“That’s
you,”
Henry pointed out. “What about other Ganymede boys?”

“The
Standard boys from my House are the equal of the best boys from any
other House; I can say it with confidence.” Martin was clearly
proud of his heritage.

“Better
than even the best Orpheus slaves?”

Martin
frowned, seeming to regret his rash statement. “Well, perhaps not.
Tom and Allen are every bit as fine as the Superior boys I trained
with. I was hasty in my speech.”

“That’s
all right. Which are other good Houses?”

“Sam’s
House, Apollo, is good, as is Endymion, Peter’s House. Hermes is
also good.”

“Which
are the bad Houses? Besides Hyperion, I mean.”

Martin
looked uncomfortable with this characterization. “I wouldn’t say
‘bad,’ Henry. Just…the training is less rigorous, perhaps, and
the slaves not as well-suited to their roles as they ought to be.
Some of these newer Houses are just after the money, you see, and
companions are worth the most money.”

Most
companions sold for far less than Martin had, but the sums involved
were still substantial. Henry had no idea what the Lovejoys had paid
for Julian, or what the Caldwells had paid for Tom, but it would have
been more money than the average person would see in a lifetime.

Martin
continued. “If slaves are not well-suited to their roles, there can
be problems with attitudes. For instance, Julian can be very defiant.
Can you imagine me
being defiant?” Martin scoffed at the very idea. “I would always
find another way,” he said with confidence. “I take so much pride
in serving you well and making you happy with me.” He slid from the
arm of the chair onto Henry’s lap and looped his arms around
Henry’s neck.

“What
do you mean about finding another way?” Henry was a little
suspicious of this, though he put his arms around Martin’s waist
and kissed his neck.

“If
I felt I had…greater understanding of a situation, perhaps, I might
try to convince you to see my point of view. But if I couldn’t
convince you, I’d do as I’d been told, of course.”

Henry
snorted. “You’re smarter than me, though. I should always listen
to you, shouldn’t I?”

“If
it’s a matter in which you trust my judgment, then I would be proud
to advise you. But the final decision should always be yours.”

“I
don’t know,” Henry said. “Maybe I should put you in charge. How
about that? Could I decide that, and then you’d have to do it?”

Martin
clearly didn’t like this idea. “I’d do whatever you asked of
me,” he said with some reluctance. “It’s not really meant for
me to choose, though. My life is living with your
choices.”

“That
sounds terrible,” Henry said. He’d not thought of it like that
before.

“It
might be for you,
Henry,” Martin admitted. “But you weren’t raised to serve. It
suits me well, I think, and it’s...very satisfying to me. You might
have trouble submitting to another man’s will, but I was raised to
thrive under such circumstances. Your well-being and happiness are my
greatest concerns. I’m really quite snobbish about my Ganymede
training. I’ll admit it: I do think I’m just a little better than
the others!”

“Can
you tell me something specific? What do you do differently than Tom,
for instance?”

Martin
thought for a moment. He seemed to be having trouble finding the
words. “I’m a little more devoted, I think. It’s so important
to me that you be contented; I don’t think you can really
understand how much it means to me, with you not being brought up by
a House. It’s as if you’re my lover and my master and my god all
rolled into one, and I can’t be happy unless you’re happy. It’s
hard for me to explain. I don’t know what I might have been like if
I hadn’t been shaped by Ganymede, after all, but I’m sure I’d
be a different person if I’d grown up at Orpheus. Maybe not worse,
but different.”

“Tom’s
less devoted, you think?” Henry thought about this. “What sort of
relationship does Tom have with Freddie? Are they close?”

“Not
like us,” Martin hurried to assure him. “Actually, Mr. Caldwell
almost never uses Tom any more. He lets him do as he pleases and
might only use his mouth once or twice a week anymore.” He blushed
and clapped his hand over his mouth, looking slightly appalled. He
took his hand away to say, “Oh, I shouldn’t be gossiping!”

“No,
tell me!” Henry insisted, holding more tightly to Martin’s waist
as Martin tried to rise. “Don’t run away, Martin. Stay and tell
me more. I’m always curious what you and Tom find to talk about,
anyway.”

“Well,
Tom has a very complicated love life,” Martin said slowly. “As I
said, Mr. Caldwell has given him permission to do as he pleases, and
so he’s in and out of beds all up and down 5th and beyond. He has a
lot of stories to tell me, as you might guess.” Martin looked a
little amused thinking of this.

Henry
imagined that Tom would have his pick of the most nubile slave
girls—and boys. “Do others of your friends have an arrangement
like this with their masters?”

“Not
that I know of. Tom is considered very fortunate.”

“Do
you think he’s fortunate?”

Martin
smiled. “I think he’s having a lot of fun.”

“Do
you wish I’d do the same for you?”

Martin
drew back, frowning. “Why would you do such a thing, Henry? You
aren’t losing interest in me already, are you?” His mood made a
drastic shift; he looked wounded and even a little angry.

“No!
God, no, Martin! Of course not. I only wondered if you wanted that
for yourself.”

Martin
was hurt, eyes downcast and mouth downturned. He shook his head,
refusing the idea. “I want to serve you,
Henry. I want to belong to you.”

“You
do,” Henry assured him, drawing him close and petting his hair. “Of
course you do, Martin. You’re my own.” Smoothing Martin’s hair
back from his face, Henry said, “What about me? What about me,
Martin?”

“Oh,
Henry,” Martin said, so fiercely fond, “You’re mine.” He
leaned down and whispered hoarsely, “No matter what happens,
there’s a precious part of you that will always
belong to me.”

Henry
knew this to be true, and he loved that Martin would admit it, claim
him, instead of deferring to Henry’s future wife as he
too-frequently did. He sought Martin’s mouth with his own and they
kissed with a very romantic desperation, but the chair wasn’t
really big enough for the two of them and Henry’s legs were falling
asleep under Martin’s weight. He was about to say something when
Martin stood up and held out his hand.

“Come
to the bed. We’ll do homework later.”

Martin
paused to remove their boots, but then pushed Henry down on the bed,
fully-clothed and climbed atop him, still dressed.

“Aren’t
we going to have sex?” Henry asked, confused.

Martin
shook his head. “Not yet. I have to go down for dinner soon. I just
want to neck with you a little, if that’s all right.”

“It’s
all right,” Henry assured him. “Do whatever you want, Martin,
please.”

Martin
kissed him, a lingering press of the lips and a hint of tongue, and
whispered, “Do you remember our first kiss, Henry? Up against the
door with all our clothes on?”

Of
course Henry remembered! He was never going to forget! But all he
said was, “I remember.”

“I
was so excited that I nearly came from just your mouth on mine.” He
put his hand on Henry’s cock and stroked it through the layers of
clothing.

“Surely
you’d had better kisses,” Henry said, thinking of his fumbling
and inexperience.

“I’d
never had one I wanted as much.” He kissed Henry again, his mouth
tasting so human and sweet, and rocked his hips against Henry’s.
“You’re so good at kissing now—it didn’t take you long to
learn what I like. You’re my perfect lover, Henry. No one has ever
known my body like you do.”

“I
love your body,” Henry allowed himself to say. It was just shy of a
straightforward declaration of love. “I love touching you, and I
love the smell of your skin, and I love tasting you. I love to look
at you. I love watching you come, and I love the sounds you make.”
He paused for a breath. “You’re perfect for me,
too.”

They
kissed a few minutes more, rolling over so Henry was on top, Martin’s
hands biting into his back and his leg wrapped around Henry’s
thigh.

Martin
broke for air. “I shouldn’t say it, but it makes me so happy that
no one else knows your body, no one else has ever seen your beautiful
hard cock. It’s sentimental, maybe, but I love that I’m your
first, and I’m the one who’s showing you everything. I know you
say you won’t, but if you ever make love to another man, your
instinct will be to do the things I
like—”

“I
won’t,”
Henry assured him, slightly irritated. “I won’t be making love to
anyone else. Why would I, when I have you?”

“I
don’t know, Henry. I’m sorry.” He looked away, sheepish. “I
was brought up understanding that my master might say or do loving
things when we were young that would amount to nothing in our adult
years. I don’t want to presume, Henry. I never want to take what
you give me for granted.”

“If
you really care for me, Martin, you will
take me for granted,” Henry insisted. “Trust me. Don’t you know
how important you are to me?” He kissed Martin and then rolled off
him. “You’re going to miss your dinner.”

Martin
sat up and tugged his clothes back in order. “Are you angry with
me?”

“No,
I’m just frustrated. I want you to believe me when I say that
you’re all I want. Do I have to order you to do it?”

“I’ll
try. I’ll try so hard. But please understand, until I came to live
with you, I was told that a master would never care for me like you
say you do, and I had to accept that. I want to believe you, but
we’ve only known each other a few months, and it’s hard to
overcome the lessons of a lifetime.” He seemed ashamed to admit
this, a little anguished, and Henry felt bad for upsetting him.

“Go
get your dinner. I’m not mad at you.” Henry squeezed Martin’s
shoulder. “How could I be mad at you when you’re my favorite?”
He did not think this distinction was diminished by the lack of other
candidates, and hoped Martin would feel the same.

Martin
went downstairs and Henry went and sat in front of his Latin text
again, though he made no progress with the adjectives. He thought
about Martin, how he felt about him, and felt reluctant to express
his emotions any more forcefully if Martin was only going to discount
them and insist that Henry would develop deeper feelings for some
unknown, unwanted future person. He wanted Martin to take him
seriously now,
but it seemed Martin’s training would get in the way.

Henry
felt grateful to Ganymede for putting him together with Martin, of
course, but he couldn’t help feeling that some of the slave
training was emotionally cruel, and that it would be better if no one
had to go through it, even if it meant the resulting slaves would be
less perfectly servile. Martin had had sixteen years of terrible
messages; Henry would just have to lavish affection on him steadily
until such time he could accept Henry’s feelings wholeheartedly.











On
Thursday, Henry lay on the bed waiting impatiently for Martin to
return from his dinner. He knew he should be doing something
industrious and productive with this time alone, but that just wasn’t
his style. He was more the restive, petulant type.

The
wardrobe stood open, the sleeve of his black-and-grey check suit coat
visible. It had been made for him in the spring and had remained his
favorite ever since. Admiring his suit brought to mind his father’s
suggestion at Christmas that he buy some new clothes, and it occurred
to him that if he were at Hamilton &amp; Sons with Martin at his
side, he might be able to persuade Martin to wear something new, as
well.

The
idea of seeing Martin in something fancier than his everyday
Blackwell livery was terrifically compelling, and it was this vision
of a dandified Martin that propelled Henry from first the bed and
then the room. He hurried down the back stairs, intending to find
Timothy to tell him to make the arrangements. Henry had not been down
to the slaves’ mess during mealtime since his lunch with Timothy in
November, and he hesitated to intrude on the slaves’ privacy, but
it was near the end of their dinner hour and he hoped they wouldn’t
mind too much.

Downstairs,
Henry looked through the windows into the mess from the hall. Timothy
sat at the head of the table, facing the windows. Martin sat at
Timothy’s right hand, Billy at his left, Jerry beside Martin, and
all the younger men were laughing together and did not notice Henry
in the hall.

Timothy
did see him and inclined his head toward Martin with a questioning
eyebrow cocked, and Henry hesitated a moment. If he told Martin he
wanted him to wear something special, he’d protest and cite
protocol; it would be better to spring it on him at the shop, if at
all possible. He shook his head and gestured for Timothy to come.

Timothy
wiped his mouth with a napkin and got up from his chair. The rest of
the slaves continued their lively conversations and paid no mind to
Timothy’s passage through the room. Timothy slipped out the hall
door and closed it behind him.

“Sir.
What can I do for you?”

“I
wanted to ask you to call Hamilton’s for me, to let them know I’m
coming Saturday.”

“Certainly,
Sir.” Timothy blinked at him, somewhat bemused. “You needn’t
have come all the way downstairs, though, Sir. You might have told me
after dinner, or sent Martin with word.”

“But
I want you to ask them to have things ready for Martin, too, and I
think it’s better if he doesn’t know beforehand.”

Now
Timothy frowned, not liking the sound of this. “Why is that, Sir?”

“It’s
just that I want to give him nicer things than he usually wears, and
he’ll say, ‘Plain black is good enough for Mr. Tim,’ and want
to argue if he knows beforehand. All I want is for him to try
different waistcoats. Black, but not plain
black. Fancy weaves or something.”

Timothy
seemed quite relieved. “Oh, well I see no problem with that, Sir.
I’m sure Martin will be happy to wear whatever you’d like. Your
Martin is very devoted to you.”

Henry
was embarrassed by this assertion, but pleased to hear Martin praised
in just this way.

Timothy
asked, “Is it waistcoats for you, too, then, Sir?”

“Yes,”
Henry said. “Patterned waistcoats. The wilder the better.”

“You
certainly have modern tastes, Sir,” Timothy remarked.

Some
of the maids sitting near the door had finally noticed Henry talking
with Timothy in the hall and alerted Martin. Martin got up from his
seat and hurried to the door.

“Don’t
tell him,” Henry warned Timothy as Martin stepped into the hall.

“As
you wish, Sir,” Timothy said. “Will there be anything else?”

“No,
thank you,” Henry told him.

Martin
looked both worried and gratifyingly happy to see him. “Sir? Did
you need me? I’m done with my dinner now.”

“I
just needed to ask Timothy something.”

Timothy
patted Henry’s arm and returned to his meal.

Martin
frowned. “You could have sent a message with me, Sir.”

“I
didn’t think of it until after you were gone,” Henry explained.
“I was just asking him to tell Hamilton’s to expect me on
Saturday.” He turned with Martin toward the stair.

“Oh!
What are you shopping for, Sir?”

“Waistcoats,”
Henry told him. “And whatever else catches my eye.”

As
they climbed, Martin said, “You know, Sir, I feel very lucky that
my clothes come from Hamilton’s. Not all my friends have things as
nice as mine.”

“I
think we take good care of our slaves here,” Henry said. “My
father wants you all to be content, so of course he gives you decent
things.”

“I
think we’re quite spoiled, actually, Sir.”

As
always, Henry found Martin’s satisfaction with his lot in life a
little baffling. Certainly the Blackwell slaves had it good—for
slaves—and no doubt Martin’s life was a great deal more
comfortable than the lives of many free men, but Henry felt that
Martin deserved
more, though he only had vague ideas of what might constitute “more.”
Martin ought to be able to make his own choices, his own decisions.
But if Henry offered him these options, Henry knew he’d only choose
to be with Henry, doing what Henry wanted. Was Martin even capable of
wanting things for himself?

But
all he said was, “I’m glad you feel that way.”




On
Saturday, Henry wore his black-and-grey check and Martin wore his
usual uniform, and after Henry had his breakfast they rode the
omnibus twenty blocks downtown to the haberdasher. This also put them
within a few blocks of the Wilton residence, and it was tempting to
go visit his relatives, but Henry did not feel comfortable simply
dropping in unannounced. He wanted to see Reggie and his cousin soon,
however.

Prescott
was waiting for them at Hamilton’s. He was a tall, elegant colored
gentleman of Father’s generation, exceptionally well-dressed.
Father had bought his first bespoke suit at Hamilton’s, and he had
bought it from Prescott. Everything Father had worn since had been
sold to him by Prescott, and Prescott had helped Henry to buy
virtually every garment in his wardrobe. He had been out with
appendicitis on the day the Blackwells had brought Martin in to be
outfitted, and he apologized for this now, seeming somewhat irritated
that he’d missed the opportunity to serve such esteemed customers.

“I
hope you’re well now,” Henry said.

“I
had to have a little surgery,” Prescott allowed. “I was fine
after that.” He clapped his hands together briskly. “But enough
about me. Who is this with you, Mr. Blackwell?”

“This
is Martin,” Henry said. “Martin, meet Mr. Prescott. He always
works with us here.”

“At
your service, Sir,” Martin said with a little bow.

“So
very nice to meet you, young man.” He gave Martin a cool smile and
then turned to Henry. “What are you interested in today, Mr.
Blackwell?”

“Waistcoats,”
Henry said. “For both of us.”

Martin
whirled to gape at him. “Sir!” Martin protested. “I don’t—”

“Just
black for you,” Henry said reassuringly. “But not plain
black.”

“But,
Sir,” Martin said, pleading, “Mr. Tim wears plain black.”

“I
told Timothy what I wanted for you and he didn’t have any problem
with it,” Henry pointed out. “He would have told me if he didn’t
want you to have different things. Really, Martin, if it were up to
me, you’d dress all in regular clothes, so be grateful I’m not
putting you in colors.”

Martin
said nothing more, but looked aggrieved.

Prescott
ushered them deeper into the store. “As it happens, when I spoke to
Timothy earlier in the week, he suggested you might be interested in
waistcoats. We’ve set aside some options for you in a fitting
room.”

The
fitting room was large and well-lit. There was a couch along the
right-hand wall, a three-panel mirror at the end of the room, and a
wheeled garment rack hung with a plethora of waistcoats on the left.
Two-thirds of them were colorful—a riot of color, in fact—and the
final third were black.

“Please,”
Prescott said, ushering them in. “Please take a look at what we’ve
selected for you, and I’ll send for some refreshments.”

“Coffee,
please, if you have it,” Henry said. “We’ll both have coffee.”

“Very
well,” said Prescott. “If you’ll just excuse me.”

Martin
helped Henry out of his overcoat and hung both it and his own on
hooks beside the door.

Henry
approached the colorful end of the rack and saw out of the corner of
his eye that Martin was approaching the black waistcoats with both
interest and trepidation.

“I
know you want to follow the rules,” Henry said. “But I want you
to have special things, too.”

“I
appreciate the sentiment, Sir.” Martin took a garment off of the
rack and held it in the light, examining the weave. “I-I’m not
entirely opposed to special things.” He smiled and held out the
waistcoat for Henry to see. “This is very nice, for instance.”

It
was a brocade of chrysanthemums on a background of stripes,
black-on-black, dull and shiny textures. In wearing it, half-hidden
behind a jacket, the elaborate fabric would nearly be a secret.

“Try
that one on,” Henry urged. On his end of the rack he found a deep
pink floral, a silk twill printed with heavy-headed, blowsy flowers,
tulips and roses and peonies, that flopped hither and yon with
sensual abandon. “What do you think of this?”

Martin’s
mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide. He recovered quickly.
“It’s…certainly colorful, Sir.”

“Is
it too much, then?”

“Well,
it would be too much for me, Sir,” Martin admitted. “I think it
would be too much for just about anyone.”

“I
love it,” Henry said happily. “I’m going to try it on. Help me
with my jacket.” He held his arms back expectantly and Martin
hurried to remove the jacket for him, then removed his own and laid
them both over the arm of the couch. Henry unbuttoned his suit
waistcoat and shrugged it off and let Martin take it from his hand.

“Here,”
Henry said, holding out the floral waistcoat. “Help me.”

Martin
held it so that Henry could slip his arms through. As Henry was
buttoning it over his stomach, there was a crisp rap at the door.

“May
we come in, Mr. Blackwell?”

“Please,”
Henry said, admiring himself in the mirror. He’d never seen
anything quite like this waistcoat! The pattern was so lush, so
decadent! He suspected that Father would hate it, and that made him
like it all the more.

Prescott
came in behind a shop assistant pushing a cart with a coffee pot and
a tiered plate with cookies and little cakes.

“You
wear clothes so well, Mr. Blackwell,” Prescott remarked. “That
pattern would overwhelm most men.”

Without
being asked, Martin prepared a cup of coffee for Henry, and Henry
felt a surge of affection for him.

“Try
yours on, Martin,” he said again. “I want to see you in something
special.”

“Certainly,
Sir.” Martin shed his plain black waistcoat and took the brocade
off its hanger. Henry fought the urge to help him with it, not in
front of Prescott. Martin buttoned it and smoothed it over his torso.
He smiled at Henry in the mirror. “It’s very subtle, Sir, but you
can see the pattern if you know to look, I think.”

“It
fits you well,” Prescott noted. “It could perhaps come in a
little at the sides.” He turned to the shop assistant, who stood
nearby awaiting orders. “Go fetch one of the tailors.”

“If
it’s all right, Sir, I’d prefer to leave it be. I am
still growing,” Martin said. The shop assistant paused mid-step,
waiting to see what Prescott would say. “Even since September, Sir,
I can feel the difference in the fit of my clothes.”

Prescott
frowned. “Do we need to fit you for new uniforms, young man?”

“Oh,
no, Sir!” Martin hurried to say. “I believe they still fit me
well, Sir, only differently than when they were new.”

“I’m
quite sure Mr. Blackwell Senior would want you to arrange for new
uniforms before
you need them. We can’t have you looking ill-fit while serving in
his house,” Prescott admonished. “Be sure to tell Timothy as soon
as you feel new clothes are needed.”

“Yes,
Sir. Of course, Sir.”

Martin
looked properly chastised and Henry felt a little annoyed at Prescott
for scolding Martin, though of course Prescott was right. Father
would not be interested in economies and making do when it came to
outfitting his slaves.

“You’re
getting that,” Henry decided. “And I’ll get this. Let’s keep
looking.”

Henry
also settled on a multicolored serpentine stripe and a pattern of
purplish and grey feathers and sent the shop assistant in search of
ties to go with his choices. Martin tried on a sateen woven in a
dull-and-shiny checkerboard pattern and agreed that he would also
wear this if Henry bought it for him.

Henry
put the pink floral back on and sat slumped on the couch eating
cookies while waiting on the neckties.

“If
you’ll excuse me,” Prescott said, “I’ll just go help the boy
with the necktie selections. It needn’t take up too much more of
your time.” He slipped out the door of the room without waiting for
an answer.

Martin
came to sit on the arm of the couch. “I’m sorry I was so
reluctant, Sir,” he said, nibbling on a cookie. “You’re being
so kind to me, and I wasn’t very grateful.”

Since
there was no one to see, Henry put his hand on Martin’s knee and
squeezed. “You just want to do the proper thing, I know,” Henry
said. “But, really, these clothes will be fine. Timothy will
approve.”

“Of
course you’re right, Sir.” Then Martin leaned over and said,
“Thank you, Henry,” in a low voice close to Henry’s ear, and
Henry was pleased that Martin would risk using his name where someone
might hear.

With
such busy patterns on the waistcoats, Prescott suggested plain
neckties and Henry agreed that this was likely best. With Martin’s
cautiously-offered input, Henry selected ties to go with each
waistcoat: light blue for the floral, an orangey-red for the
serpentine stripe, and a gunmetal grey for the feather pattern. He
also chose an additional tie with acid green and emerald stripes
simply because he liked the look of it. He sat on the couch with a
lapful of silks, Martin seated at his side, and felt he was having a
wonderful time.

“You
certainly don’t shy away from bold colors, Mr. Blackwell,”
Prescott noted. “So many men are afraid of color.”

“Not
me,” Henry said cheerfully, eating another cookie. “I love
color.”

“We
have some new suiting fabrics in, if you’re interested, Mr.
Blackwell. Some interesting stripes and plaids. I think you might
appreciate them.”

“Let
me see them, then,” Henry said agreeably. “I wasn’t thinking
about a new suit today, but it won’t hurt to look.”

Once
again, they were left alone in the dressing room. Henry
surreptitiously squeezed Martin’s hand and Martin smiled happily
even as he pulled his hand away.

“Do
you want more coffee, Sir?”

“Thank
you, Martin.” Henry watched as Martin bent over the coffee cart.

Martin
came back to Henry’s side with coffee and another cookie. “Here
you go, Sir.”

“Are
you having fun, Martin?”

“Of
course, Sir.” Martin looked surprised. “We’re together, and
you’re giving me such lovely things.”

“Don’t
you ever wish you could dress, I don’t know…fancier? Don’t you
ever want to wear special things?”

“But
to me, my uniform is
a special thing. It’s different than what Peter wears, or Tom, or
Stuart. It shows I belong to your
house, Sir. I’m Blackwell property.”

“I
like that you’re proud of it, I guess,” Henry allowed. Before he
could argue in favor of a more varied wardrobe for Martin, Prescott
returned to the room with a book of suiting samples and Henry perused
these with Martin beside him on the couch.

“What
do you think of this one?” Henry fingered an ochre plaid that
featured fine threads of blue and green. “I quite like it.”

Martin
wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think it goes with your coloring,
Sir. I think it would make you seem quite sallow.”

“Your
Martin has an excellent point,” Prescott said, hovering over them.
“But if you like that one, Mr. Blackwell, may I show you another
that might suit better?”

“Certainly.”
Henry allowed Prescott to take the sample book and flip through the
leaves.

“Here
we go. Blue is a better choice with an olive complexion, don’t you
agree, Mr. Blackwell?”

The
sample was of a slate blue with fine threads of darker blue, mint
green and a caramel brown. It didn’t excite Henry as the ochre had,
but it was probably true that it would suit him much better.

“What
do you think, Martin?” He held the sample book open against his
chest, the fabric in question displayed beneath his chin. “Would I
look handsome?”

Martin
darted a look at Prescott and cleared his throat. “Yes, Sir, of
course. Very handsome. The young ladies would swoon at the sight of
you.”

Henry
turned to Prescott. “How long would it take to make up a suit?”

“For
you, Mr. Blackwell, two weeks.”

For
impatient Henry this seemed a very long time, but he recognized that
he was being offered special treatment. “That would be fine, I
suppose.”

“I’ll
just call in a tailor. We’ll just need to settle on the details—”
Prescott began.

“I
want it to be just like this one,” Henry interrupted, gesturing at
his black-and-grey check. “Same cut and same size, since it fits me
perfectly still.”

“Very
good, Mr. Blackwell. Now, would you be interested in an additional
waistcoat that will go with this plaid? We’d be happy to select
some options for you now if you have the time.”

Henry
did not feel that he had the time, however. He was running out of
patience for shopping, even when the experience was proving so
enjoyable. “No, thank you, I’ll pick a waistcoat or two when I
come back to be fitted.”

“Very
good, Mr. Blackwell. Now, is there anything else I can do for you
today?”

There
was not. Henry signed for the purchases and waited impatiently while
the shop assistant wrapped their selections.

Martin
leaned close and whispered, “Sir.
Sir, do you want me to put on one of the new ones when we get home?”

“What
do you
want to do?” Henry countered. “Do you want to wear something
new?”

“Yes,
Sir,” Martin admitted, high color in his cheeks. “I’m a little
excited.”

It
was charming but also a little sad that Martin could be so worked up
about a black waistcoat, even if it was a fancy one.

“Then
that’s what I want you to do. You can see if any of the others
notice that it’s different from your regular.” He wanted to hug
Martin or touch his hair, but he settled for squeezing his arm.

The
shop assistant finished wrapping their purchases and tied them all
neatly together. Martin carried this tower of goods and Henry went
unencumbered. They took the omnibus back uptown and Henry bade Martin
sit beside him, the packages on his lap. Henry ignored the pointed
stares of other passengers who clearly did not approve of slaves
sitting while riding on public transportation.

It
was obvious that Martin was uncomfortable with the attention he was
drawing. Henry leaned over and said, “It doesn’t matter what they
think, Martin. You sitting beside me makes me
happy.”

“Thank
you, Sir,” Martin murmured. “These packages are a bit bulky, and
I might have blocked the aisle—”

“You
hate blocking the aisle,” Henry noted.

“I
do, Sir. I dislike inconveniencing anyone.”

Henry
liked that Martin was the sort to be concerned about others, but
Henry himself did not care a whit for any of the other omnibus
passengers and their comfort. He did not care if they were offended
by Martin sitting quietly at Henry’s side. In Henry’s opinion
Martin was deserving of all the perquisites Henry himself was
entitled to, and a seat on the omnibus was the least of these.

At
their stop, Martin maneuvered his pyramid of purchases down the aisle
with Henry at his back, and Henry made sure to give all those who had
looked askance at seated Martin a sharp glare as he passed.

Upstairs
in Henry’s room, Martin changed into the chrysanthemum waistcoat.
Although Henry thought it very unlikely anyone would notice the woven
pattern, Martin was delighted and seemed to find the difference quite
dramatic.

Henry
had Martin dress him again, this time in his blue suit and the pink
floral waistcoat with the light blue necktie. Henry admired himself
in the mirror and turned to Martin. “What do you think, Martin? Do
I look handsome?”

“Of
course you do,” Martin assured him, straightening the shoulders of
his jacket.

“Do
you like this one?” Henry put his hand on the front of the
waistcoat, the riot of flowers. “Or do you like one of the others
better?”

“They’re
all very colorful.”

“Do
you like
them, though, Martin? That’s what I’m asking.”

“I
like the feather one best,” Martin admitted. “I have plainer
tastes than you, Henry. More austere. Yours are more baroque.”

Henry
was not entirely sure what either of those terms meant, but felt
confident there was no insult intended. “Someday I’ll see you
dressed in something fancier,” he decided. “We’ll come to some
compromise, how about that?”

“Someday,”
Martin agreed, making no commitment. He put away the rest of Henry’s
purchases and hung up the checked suit.

“What
should we do now?” Henry asked. “I want to show off our new
clothes.”

Martin
considered this a moment. “We could visit Mr. Briggs,” he
suggested.

“Louis
doesn’t appreciate clothes,” Henry said, wrinkling his nose.

“Which
of your friends does?”

“Charles,”
Henry told him, “but I’m not in a hurry to spend time with
Charles after New Year’s.”

“You’re
not fighting with Mr. Ross, are you?” Martin seemed concerned that
this might be the case.

“We’re
not fighting,”
Henry said. “I just think he was rude to kick me out. I know he’s
not going to apologize, though. Most of the guys probably think I was
in the wrong anyway, since I don’t share you
but I got a glimpse of their slaves putting on a show.”

“Did
you enjoy that glimpse, Henry?” Martin asked in a teasing tone.
“All my handsome friends naked in front of you?”

“Of
course I enjoyed it,” Henry said. “So did you, I’ll bet.”

Martin
smiled and did not deny it.

Henry
felt that he could easily end up in an adversarial situation with
Martin if they continued to discuss the New Year’s orgy and he did
not want this to happen and changed tack.

“I
know it’s not the best weather,” he said, “but let’s go to
the park anyway. We can see and be seen.”

“Now,
Henry? Or do you want lunch first?”

“We
definitely need to eat first. Will you go down and let Cook know?”

They
had soup and sandwiches in the breakfast room. After they’d eaten,
as they stood to leave, Billy came in to clear their plates but
gasped when he saw Henry.

“Oh!
Sir!”

“What
is it?” Henry immediately feared he had gotten soup on his
beautiful new waistcoat and looked down at his belly.

“Pardon
me, Sir,” Billy said, quite red in the face and hurrying to compose
himself. “It’s your waistcoat, Sir. It’s…very bold.”

Henry
had certainly not anticipated that his garments would startle
people, but he wasn’t entirely displeased. “I like bold,” Henry
told him decisively. “Martin has a new one, too. Show him, Martin.”

Martin
opened his jacket and told Billy, “It’s not just plain black.
There’s a pattern to the weave. Maybe you can’t see it in here…”
He went to stand by the window, Billy squinting at his midsection.

“Oh!
I see it!” Billy said. “Flowers and stripes. It’s lovely,
Martin, really. I’m a bit jealous. I’ve only ever worn plain.”

“Plain’s
good enough for Mr. Tim,” Martin pointed out. “Though I’m
certainly happy to have this one.”

Billy
helped them with their coats and they left the house. Henry kept his
coat and jacket unbuttoned so that his waistcoat was on display, and
it wasn’t so cold that he was uncomfortable doing so. They walked
up toward the park and Henry stopped on the sidewalk before the
Briggs house. He didn’t want to see James, but it was worth the
risk to see Louis, even if Louis wouldn’t appreciate his clothes.
He stood with his hand on the gate, hesitating.

“Shall
we see if Mr. Briggs is home, Sir?”

“Do
you know about anyone having a swap party this weekend? I don’t
want to bother if he’s going to be out.”

“I
haven’t heard anything, Sir. Let’s knock.”

Patrick
let them in and went to tell Louis they were there. Henry felt jumpy,
worried that James—or Alice—would appear at any moment.

“Hey,
you,” Louis said from the stairs. “Do you want to come up?”

“We’re
going on a walk. Do you and Peter want to come with us?”

“That
sounds better than staying cooped up in here,” Louis said with a
grimace. “There’s an unpleasant atmosphere today.” Henry got
the impression that he meant something about James. “Wait a minute.
We’ll be right down.”

Louis
and Peter came down shortly thereafter and Patrick went to get them
their coats.

“What
is
that you’re wearing?” Louis asked, squinting at Henry’s torso.

“It’s
new,” Henry said proudly, opening his jacket so that Louis could
see the waistcoat in its full glory.

Louis
raised an eyebrow, keeping a wary eye on the floral pattern as Peter
helped him on with his coat. “You’re brave to wear that,” he
remarked, and Henry felt pleased with himself for being so daring.

As
they were leaving the house, Henry saw Alice out of the corner of his
eye, watching from behind the balusters at the top of the stair. When
their eyes met, she leapt up and scampered out of sight.

The
four of them crossed the street to the park and set out along the
path. Henry told Louis about his morning shopping, and then Louis
complained about James.

“He’s
in a permanent bad mood, and he acts like it’s someone else’s
fault that he’s in all this trouble. He’s drinking at all hours
of the day and Dad is furious with him, but Dad doesn’t actually do
anything except lecture him, and James doesn’t even listen.”

“What
do you think your dad should do, then?” There had always been
plenty of hitting in the Briggs household, but it had been between
siblings; the Briggs parents were not great believers in corporal
punishment.

“I
don’t know,” Louis said, clearly frustrated. “Be better at
lecturing him, I guess. Make him do
something. He’s such a big, spoiled baby.” He looked at Henry
with such sadness. “What happened, Henry? Remember how much we
looked up to him? We thought he was the best.”

“We
did,” Henry agreed. Just as recently as the summer he’d been
jerking off regularly to the memory of James shirtless at the
seashore changing into his bathing suit, and now the thought of James
filled him with mingled pity and revulsion. He felt bad for Louis
having such a lousy brother.

They
walked north into the park. Although there was a chill, the air was
crisp and clean, and the pale sun was bright. The paths were seeing
good use, people of all ages in singles and pairs and groups out
walking and cycling. After perhaps ten minutes, they met up with some
of Louis’ sister Susannah’s friends who were kind enough to
recognize Louis, and they chatted a few amiable minutes before
continuing on.

A
hundred yards farther along, Louis stopped to help a lady cyclist
whose bicycle had lost its chain. Louis was able to get it back on
the sprocket, though not without getting a fair amount of black
grease on his hands. The girl—a Miss Dale—and her slave were both
very grateful for Louis and his pocketknife and she insisted on
giving Louis her handkerchief to clean the black smudges from his
fingers. She was a pretty girl, probably a little older—Susannah’s
age, maybe—and turned out to be the cousin of someone Louis knew
from church. Henry was somewhat contentedly bored listening to Louis
chatter with Miss Dale, but certainly had nothing he wished to add to
the conversation. He looked around to find Martin and they exchanged
a smile. Martin looked happy in Peter’s company.

“That’s
quite a waistcoat you have on, Mr. Blackwell,” Miss Dale said,
nodding at Henry’s midsection.

“Thank
you,” Henry said, pleased at the dividends his sartorial choices
were paying out.

After
Miss Dale got back on her bicycle and rode away, they walked a few
minutes in a companionable silence before Louis asked, “Say, Henry,
can I ask your opinion on something?”

“Of
course.”

“It’s
about Peter,” he said, and Henry glanced back over his shoulder at
Peter and Martin walking behind them.

“What
about him?”

“He’s
got a girl he’s interested in, a parlor maid at the Spanglers’
house, and he’s asking permission to court her when I don’t need
him.”

“Oh.”
Henry thought a moment of what it might have been like for him if
Martin had ever wanted to court a girl at some other house. Of
course, Louis would have different feelings on the matter. “What
are you going to say?”

“Well,
I’m asking for your advice, dummy!”

“Do
you need him every night?”

“Well,
I like having him handy,” Louis said, “but I don’t always need
him, I suppose. I thought about letting him have one night a week to
himself. Or maybe every two weeks.”

“You
could do that,” Henry agreed.

“Or
I could just start using him earlier in the evening, so that he’d
still have time to go see this girl when we’re done.”

“That
also seems like a good plan.”

“What
do you let Martin do?” Louis had never asked before, of course, but
it was clear that he assumed that Martin did something.

“Oh.
Nothing.” Henry blushed. “It’s not necessary. Martin doesn’t
have anyone he’s interested in, I don’t think.”

“You’re
kidding!” Louis turned around to gape at Martin’s handsome face.
“Practically all of the others have girls, even if they never get
to see them. He’s content to just let you bugger him, eh?”

Henry
blushed even redder. “I-I don’t know about that, Louis—” He
darted a glance at Martin, who looked as though he was trying hard
not to laugh.

“Huh.”
Louis was thinking about it. “I suppose some of them do prefer it.
They do
all seem to like it well enough.”

Henry
didn’t want to discuss what kind of sex Martin liked, but Louis had
questions and turned to Martin. “See here, Martin, do you like
being buggered?”

“Oh,
well, Sir,” Martin said, laughing bashfully. “I-I do like it
quite a bit, I must admit, Sir.”

Henry
was mortified and also frightened; what if Louis somehow loosed
information about Henry’s transgressions?

“You’re
not ashamed of liking it, either of you,” Louis said to the slaves,
not really asking a question.

“Well,
no, Sir,” Peter told him. “We can do a better job if we like it.
We all want to do a good job.”

Martin
said, “It’s better for everyone when the slave likes it, too,
Sir, don’t you think? I think that’s what most masters want
anyway.”

“Sure,
that makes sense.” Louis lost interest in the topic and turned to
Henry. “Well, I guess you’re no help in figuring out a schedule.
I need to ask Freddie about his arrangement with Tom, and maybe talk
to Albert about what he’s letting Stuart do.”

“You
knew about Freddie and Tom?” Henry was also absorbing the news
about Albert and Stuart. By not swapping Martin, he was getting left
out of all the gossip, as well.

“Of
course,” Louis said, surprised. “Why wouldn’t I know?” He
then realized who he was talking to and became apologetic. “Hey,
I’ll try to remember to tell you things that the guys say at
parties. They’re not supposed to be secrets, after all.” He
glanced back over his shoulder at the slaves, at Martin. “You can
always change your mind, you know, and join in. Don’t worry about
what Charles said at his party. You’ll always be welcome.”

They
made their way to Bethesda Terrace and went to loiter at the dry
fountain, looking out over the lake. Peter hopped up to walk on the
rim of the fountain and Martin climbed up after him.

“Speak
of the devil!” Louis waved at Freddie, standing on the opposite
side of the fountain with Wendell and their slaves.

Martin
and Tom seemed as happy to see one another as they ever did, and
Peter and Ralph were likewise pleased to be in each other’s
company. Henry wished he could listen in on Martin and Tom’s
conversation. He wanted to hear tales of Tom stealing in the service
doors of houses all up and down 5th, slipping into bed with footmen
and chambermaids and companions of both sexes. If anyone ever looked
the part of libertine, it was beautiful Tom.

The
slaves were now all walking around the rim of the fountain, trying to
push each other off and laughing.

“He
wants sex all the time, see,” Freddie was telling Louis. “It got
annoying, him always offering. He can’t get enough—but I can.”
Freddie shrugged. “I mean, he’s got such a pretty face, but he’s
definitely not a girl, and I’d much rather have a girl! I like
having him around, of course, but once I’m ready for bed, he can do
whatever he wants so long as he’s home by morning to look after
me.”

The
idea of Tom wanting sex—from Freddie!—all the time was a little
shocking, but neither Wendell nor Louis seemed surprised. It seemed
amazing that anyone, even someone with a strong preference for girls,
could have a fellow like Tom begging for his cock and not want to
help him out.

“Ralph
has a girl at our neighbors’,” Wendell was saying. “I wasn’t
planning on letting him court her, but I’m starting to feel a
little cruel now, keeping them apart. He’s a good slave and I
should reward him, I think.”

“That’s
how I feel about Peter,” Louis said. “He’s an awfully good
sport. He helps me out so much and I want to do something nice for
him in return.”

“I
was thinking about giving him one night off a week,” Wendell said.
“Unlike you, Freddie, I’m not totally bored with sex yet, so I’ll
need him around the rest of the time.”

Wendell,
Freddie and Louis all laughed, so Henry hurried to join in. Over
Wendell’s shoulder, Henry saw the slaves all climbing down, Martin
taking Tom’s hand for just a second to help him off the fountain’s
edge. They headed toward Henry and his friends in a group, Martin
catching Henry’s eye and smiling happily. He came directly to Henry
and put a hand on his arm.

“Excuse
me, Sir.”

“What
is it?”

“I
was showing my friends my new waistcoat, Sir, and I told them about
yours, and they’d like to see it, if it isn’t too much bother.”

“No,
they can see it,” Henry said happily, pleased to have the
opportunity to show it off. He’d hoped to show it to Wendell and
Freddie, but he hadn’t wanted to interrupt the sex conversation.

“Martin
has a patterned
waistcoat, Sir,” Tom was saying to Freddie. “It looks ever so
smart, Sir.”

“I
really like it, Sir,” Ralph told Wendell. “You should take a
look, Sir, and see what you think.”

Freddie
shot Henry a baleful glare. “You’re always doing extra things for
him, Henry, and then the rest of us have to do them, too.”

“Like
what?” Henry said, surprised. Other than sex, Henry didn’t feel
that he’d given Martin anything extra until now.

“The
fortune teller,” Freddie reminded him. “She gave Tom nightmares!”

“Ugh,
the fortune teller!” Wendell said, rolling his eyes.

“That
was months
ago!” Henry protested. “It’s not like I’m doing something
different every week.”

“You’re
nicer than the rest of us,” Louis reminded him. “Though the
fortune teller wasn’t actually such a nice thing to do.”

“Well,
a waistcoat isn’t going to give anyone nightmares,” Henry pointed
out.

“The
one you’ve got on might,” Wendell said, laughing. “Where did
you get that, Henry?”

“Hamilton’s,
of course.” Henry recognized that Wendell didn’t like
his new waistcoat, but he couldn’t help wanting to show it off
anyway. He held his jacket and coat open so that all might get the
full effect. Tom’s eyebrows went up, Ralph’s jaw dropped, Wendell
squinted and frowned, and Freddie guffawed; Louis and Peter, who’d
had a chance to get used to it, acted very jaded.

“It’s
very dramatic, Sir,” Tom offered hesitantly.

Henry
liked the sound of this, liked that it could perhaps be considered a
bohemian
sort of garment. “Thank you, Tom.” He turned to Martin and asked,
“What was that word you used to describe my taste earlier? It
started with a B.”

Martin’s
cheeks grew pink. “Baroque, Sir.”

Henry
still did not know what this meant, exactly, of course, but he liked
the sound of it. It was clear that none of his friends knew what it
meant, either, though Ralph apparently did.

“Oh,”
he said. “That’s a good word for it, Sir.”

A
pretzel vendor came through the Terrace and they all bought pretzels
for themselves and their slaves. Wendell and Louis sat on the edge of
the fountain and Louis bade Peter sit at his side and leaned to
whisper in his ear. Whatever he told him seemed to make Peter very
happy, and Henry surmised Louis was giving him permission to see his
girl.

Louis,
Freddie and Wendell were talking about various of their classmates
and Henry pretended to be listening, but he was actually
eavesdropping on Martin’s conversation with Tom. They stood perhaps
three feet behind Henry’s right shoulder, and Henry’s ear was
attuned to Martin’s voice, Tom’s responses.

“So
you’re not going to see either one of them again?” Martin asked
in a low voice.

“It
was a terrible idea,” Tom told him. “I shouldn’t have tried.
Two girls in the same house was far more trouble than it was worth. I
couldn’t visit one without the other being jealous, and they
wouldn’t agree to having me together.”

“At
the same time, you mean?”

“Yes,
exactly.”

“Well,
what’s in it for the girls, really, though? What can you do with
two cunts at once, anyway?” Martin asked. “I’ve never
understood what boys want with two girls. At least with cocks you can
stick them places. With two girls, don’t they just have to wait
their turns? How unsatisfying!”

“Well,
you can get them to do things to each other and watch. It’s
exciting! You can have one girl lick the other and fuck the one who’s
doing the licking. There’s lots you can do. You use your
imagination,
Martin. You just don’t want to think about cunts, period.” Tom
laughed and Martin snickered, not disagreeing.

“I
saved the best for last. You will
be interested to know that I did finally visit your stables last
night,” Tom said.

“Oh!
Tell me! Was it just Jerry, or was it both of them?” Martin sounded
delighted and giddy.

Henry
was surprised. Jerry? His
Jerry? Devoted-to-Marigold Jerry?

“At
first, Arthur wouldn’t deign
to let me suck his cock,” Tom said. “And I think he was mad at
Jerry for bringing me in, but he eventually came around. He was very
enthusiastic in the end, very appreciative.”

Jerry
and Arthur were…a couple, maybe? Henry was surprised to hear this.
It had never occurred to him that either groom might have any love
other than horses. He supposed they were both handsome young men,
wiry and strong, and if they both had the inclination then it would
be very natural for them to come together.

“All
in all, we had a lovely time,” Tom continued. “Jerry especially
has a very nice cock, not that you’ll ever have a chance to see
it.”

“I
don’t mind,” Martin said, and he sounded cheerful and sincere.
“I’m content not seeing other cocks. But I do love hearing your
stories, Casanova.”

Ralph’s
voice broke in. “Tom, are you bragging about your conquests?”

“It’s
just more of the same,” Tom told him. “Tell us about this girl of
yours.”

Henry
turned his attention to his friends, who were now discussing spoiled
Charles Ross, whose parents had bought him his own red-painted spider
phaeton and a pair of coal-black carriage horses.

“Robert’s
his best friend, but he went out with him just the one time and now
he’s scared to ride with him again. He says Charles is a terrible
driver,” Freddie told them.

“I
want a phaeton of my own,” Louis asserted. “I’d be an excellent
driver.”

Henry
laughed; he couldn’t help it. “You’d drive too fast and scare
everyone else off the road,” he predicted.

Louis
scowled, deciding whether or not to have hurt feelings.

Henry
had not intended to insult Louis, who had perhaps been rubbed a
little raw by James’ protracted presence in the Briggs home. “Me,
I’d be scared of turning a phaeton over,” Henry said with a
shrug. “If I never drive myself in my whole life, that would be
fine by me. I’m not bold like you, Louis.”

Louis
decided not to be hurt after all, though he did make a dig at Henry.
“That waistcoat tells a different story,” he said, and everyone
laughed, master and slave alike.

They
all made their way south again, towards home, Freddie and Wendell and
their slaves breaking off and exiting the park a few blocks before
Henry and Louis did so.

At
the Briggs gate, Louis paused and said, “Thanks for stopping by,
Henry. I know you don’t really want to come over with James at
home—no one does—so I appreciate you inviting me out.”

Henry
blushed, unwilling to admit that Louis was right about his reluctance
to visit, but unable to deny it, either. “I’m glad you were
home,” he said. “What are you doing tomorrow? Besides church, of
course.”

“My
mother has plans for all of us, I think, but if I can get away, I’ll
telephone.”

They
waved goodbye to Louis and Peter and walked the two blocks to the
Blackwell house.

“It
was nice to see our friends, wasn’t it, Sir?” Martin helped Henry
off with his coat and handed it to Paul to be hung up.

“It
was,” Henry agreed. “I have some questions for you, though.”

“About
what, Sir?”

Henry
cut his eyes at Paul, who was coming to take Martin’s coat.
“Upstairs,” he said.

Henry
locked the door behind them and crossed to the bed. “I heard you
talking to Tom,” he began. “I-I was eavesdropping.”

“What
did you hear?” Martin asked warily, looking uneasy. “It’s
harmless, really, just me listening to Tom’s stories.”

“No,
no. I’m not mad or anything. I’m just curious,” Henry tried to
assure him. “Come sit.” He patted the bed at his hip. “So, Tom
was talking about having sex with my
Jerry and Arthur…are Jerry and Arthur a couple?”

Martin
rolled his eyes and came to sit. “A couple of idiots,” he said.
“You heard all of that?”

“Yes.
How do they even know Tom?”

“Well,
they have time off, and so does Tom, and there are places slaves
congregate. Tom took a liking to Jerry awhile back, and obviously it
was mutual.”

“Do
all the slaves know about Jerry and Arthur?”

“I
imagine so.” Martin seemed surprised Henry would ask. “They
certainly don’t keep it a secret. There’s no need among slaves,
you understand.”

“You’re
saying it doesn’t matter if it’s two men?”

“No,
not at all.”

“So
if I were a slave, we could be together and no one would blink an
eye?”

Martin
burst out laughing. “I can’t imagine you as a slave, Henry! But,
yes, if we were both slaves, it would be just as normal as a man and
a woman. I think maybe it’s different because we slaves can’t
have children; we’re only having sex because it’s fun, without
any pretense that it’s for some higher purpose.”

“Are
there other couples amongst my family’s slaves?”

“Oh,
yes,” Martin said readily. “Mr. Tim and Dora are as close to
married as any slaves can be.”

“Timothy?
And the housekeeper?”

Martin
gave Henry a stern look. “What’s so strange about that?” he
asked, eyes narrowed.

Truthfully,
Henry had never had much to do with Dora. She was just a middle-aged
woman with a grey dress and a bun. “It’s just that I know Timothy
so well and don’t know Dora at all,” he explained sheepishly.

“You
don’t know Mr. Tim that
well,” Martin pointed out, his tone a bit sharp, “since you
didn’t even know he’s married!”

Henry
winced; that hurt a little. “Fair enough,” he said. “Are there
others?”

“Well,
Jack and Vida have a somewhat tempestuous relationship.”

Henry
thought hard: who was Vida?

“She’s
a scullery maid,” Martin reminded him.

Henry
blushed. “Yes, of course.”

“The
maids Katie and Ruth are very close, as well, but they both have
gentlemen in other houses in addition to one another. They keep
busy.” Martin thought on it a minute and then summed it up:
“Really, most slaves have a great deal of sex.”

“So
companions aren’t even having the most sex, necessarily.” Henry
was quite surprised to learn this.

“Oh,
no. You and I do have a lot of sex by anyone’s standards, I think,
but most of my friends see far less use, and don’t necessarily have
permission to follow their hearts otherwise. It’s the rank-and-file
slaves who typically have the most sex. No one cares what a parlor
maid does on her day off as long as she does her work.”

“Are
you unhappy that I don’t give you…days off?” Henry wasn’t
quite prepared to ask about denying Martin lovers.

“I
like being with you, Henry.” Martin smiled at him so very warmly.
“But if you need time alone, you should send me away. You needn’t
worry about what I want.”

“No,
no,” Henry rushed to assure him. “I want you with me.” He
supposed there might come a day when he wanted time away from Martin,
but that day hadn’t come yet. “But if you ever want a day off for
some reason, we can discuss it. I want you to be happy, you know
that.”

“I
do, Henry. I know it very well.” Martin looked Henry in the eye and
smiled. “I’m so glad you’re my master.” He hesitated, then
added, “If you have any more questions about slaves, I’d be happy
to answer them. Slaves’ lives aren’t secret, after all.”

“I’m
sure I’ll think of something,” Henry said. “Do you want to play
cards until your dinnertime?”

Martin
got up from the bed, grinning. “Just let me get the pennies.”




Clouds
started rolling in Saturday night, and they woke up to snow on
Sunday. The snow was picturesque, turning the dormant garden into a
glittering fairyland in the pale winter sun, but it was already
beginning to melt, sliding in slushy slabs from the eaves and
dripping where it was precariously heaped along bare branches.

As
Henry ate his breakfast with Martin at his side, Martin slid his foot
across the carpet to nudge Henry’s boot.

“Sir?
Would you want to try to enjoy the snow while it’s still pretty?
Before it’s all grey and melted?”

“What
do you have in mind?”

“We
haven’t had the horses out in awhile, Sir. We could ride.”

Henry
certainly had no better idea, was quite willing to do whatever Martin
might want, and bade Martin call the stables so the grooms might
ready the horses.

They
quickly changed into their riding clothes—with the addition of
winter underwear, sweaters and scarves—and made their way over to
the stables. There wasn’t terribly much snow, actually, just two or
three inches, already mostly cleared or melted from the roads and
sidewalks. The cold brought out spots of pink on Martin’s cheeks
and his eyes looked green as grass. His hair seemed particularly
coppery in the watery light, a beautiful color. Even in bulky layers,
Martin was slim and graceful, and Henry ached with fondness for him.
He wished he could kiss him, or even just offer him his arm while
they walked.

Martin
had been saying something about the violin, talking about some
technique—vibrato? portato? or maybe it was spiccato versus
staccato—but Henry hadn’t been paying attention to the words, and
he was afraid Martin would be able to tell.

Martin
stopped speaking abruptly, suddenly bashful. “Really, Sir,” he
said. “You mustn’t let me ramble on about my music like that. It
must be very boring.”

It
wasn’t boring,
but it was largely incomprehensible. “I wish you had someone
knowledgeable you could talk with,” Henry told him. “Maybe I
should ask my father again about lessons. A good teacher—”

Martin
flushed and shook his head. “Please don’t trouble your father,
Sir. As he’s already pointed out, further instruction is
unnecessary. It’s not as though I’m going to be joining an
orchestra.”

Henry
didn’t agree lessons were unnecessary, of course, and he was going
to say so, but then they were at the stables and Jerry and Arthur
were bringing the horses out to them. Henry felt a little
self-conscious, knowing what he did about the grooms’ sex life. He
studied them a little as Jerry helped him to mount, trying to discern
if there were any subtle signs that they were lovers, but they seemed
much as they always had, businesslike and deferential, and there was
no indication they were anything more than colleagues. It was
reassuring and made him feel more confident that he and Martin
appeared unremarkable, too.

They
rode to the park, Henry letting Martin get a little distance ahead,
as he always did, so he could surreptitiously admire his ass. The
cold and the clear, wan sun seemed to invigorate Martin, and he was
chatty and full of cheerful warmth as he turned in the saddle to
speak to Henry of doings below stairs, his breath visible in puffs of
glittering mist. Henry made appropriate sounds as Martin talked, and
touched Marigold with his heels to bring her alongside Partita.
Partita snorted and shook her head, never liking to be crowded, and
Henry maneuvered to leave more room between the horses’ flanks.

At
this hour, many people were still in church and there were few other
riders on the bridle path. The snow hadn’t melted here as it had on
the paved roads, so everything was covered in a patchy blanket of
white. The snow made soft, powdery crunches beneath the horses’
hooves. Partita continued to snort and blow and Martin leaned forward
to pat her neck.

“She
wants to run, I think, Sir. She’s tired of being cooped up.”

“We’ll
run them around the reservoir,” Henry decided. “Tell her to be
patient.”

Martin
laughed. “You heard him,” he told the horse. “You’ll have
your chance.”

Despite
Partita’s impatience, they continued at a leisurely pace, enjoying
the brisk air and the crystalline sparkle of the snowy park. Martin
seemed supremely content, a pleased smile on his handsome face, and
Henry was glad to be doing something that made him happy.

Looking
around the stark wintertime park, Henry indulged in a fantasy he had
entertained in the past, that perhaps in the spring, with the trees
in full leaf, they could find some spot in the park private enough
Martin might be willing to allow him a kiss, some tiny intimacy. It
needn’t be in public for all to see, but he badly wanted some
tender contact between them outside the confines of his bedroom.

His
affection for Martin was neither willful nor volitional, and it did
not seem fair that he was penalized for something so natural and
necessary. All he asked was for the same consideration as any other
young man; all he wanted was the freedom to follow the dictates of
his heart wherever they might lead. He imagined walking arm-in-arm
with Martin along a busy sidewalk, tipping their hats to ladies and
nodding to gentlemen, and no one looking askance at their
partnership. Wasn’t it possible they might simply be viewed as
eccentric young bachelors?

Well,
it might be possible if they were both free men. Things were
complicated by Martin’s slave status. Would it be easier if Henry
was a slave, too? He would be a terrible slave, true, but if he were
also a slave, he and Martin could be together. Martin had said
unequivocally that slaves did not condemn romances between men, that
such distinctions didn’t matter. He imagined getting a chest tattoo
marking him as the product of one of the lesser Houses (he would not
presume to be Ganymede quality) so that he might stand at Martin’s
side as a lover, both of them in collarless shirts, their marks
exposed. However, after a moment’s thought, he recognized he’d
never actually seen two male slaves treating each other with any
particular intimacy in public. Slaves might be more demonstrative
with one another than free people, but it wasn’t romantic;
slaves were just as discreet as free people, after all, perhaps even
more so, and they followed the conventions of free society in their
public displays. Besides, it seemed unlikely that Martin would
cooperate and keep his opinions to himself while Henry subjected
himself to such a tattoo; it was a far-fetched and impractical plan.

He
considered what of himself he might be ready to share with his uncle.
If he told Reggie his secrets, then surely Reggie would help him.
Reggie would know things Henry needed to know, such as the places
where men who shared his inclination might congregate. Henry knew
Martin would be wary of visiting any such place, but he decided he’d
overcome that hurdle when they came to it. First he had to know where
they should go. He felt confident there had to be places where he
might behave as he liked with Martin, if only because he wanted so
badly for such places to exist.

“What
are you thinking about, Sir?”

Henry
turned to look at Martin, who offered a dazzling smile that Henry
couldn’t help but shyly return.

“Just
thinking about the spring,” Henry told him. “I’m looking
forward to riding more often when it’s not so cold.”

“Oh!
Are you too cold now, Sir? We should go back if you’re cold.”

Henry
shook his head. “No, I’m not too cold. Besides, we’re almost to
the reservoir anyway. Don’t you want to run?”

Martin
beamed at him, teeth gleaming and his hair full of ruby sparks. “You
know I do, Sir!”

They
galloped around the top of the reservoir, as they usually did,
Partita just a little faster than Marigold, her hooves kicking up
crescent sprays of snow. Laughing, Martin turned to look back at
Henry, his pleasure in the informal race apparent. Henry was glad
Partita was the faster horse, glad that Martin could so easily be
made happy.

At
home, they stripped before the fire, and Martin was sweaty under his
winter layers, slick and salty, and Henry licked him from nape to
tailbone and bent him over the armchair. He imagined bending Martin
over like this in the park, pressing him up against the bark of a
tree or rolling him over in the grass. The idea of semi-public sex
was wildly exciting, and it seemed a real possibility, and he was
nearly breathless with arousal as he slid his cock into Martin’s
clenching hole, wet with nothing but his spit.

Later,
following long, hot showers, they ate their soup and sandwiches, and
Henry formulated plans for their future, both grandiose and vague.
He’d find out where they might go, what they might get away with,
and somehow he’d get Martin to go along with his decisions, and
they would be happy together, unimaginably happy, accepted and
admired.











Thursday,
mid-month, late in the afternoon, they were surprised by a knock on
Henry’s door. Martin pulled on Henry’s dressing gown and Henry
burrowed beneath the blankets. Martin went to the door and then
stepped out into the hall. Henry waited for him to return with
increasing impatience.

Martin
came back inside and closed the door softly. “Henry? Miss Pearl
wants me to let you know that your uncle has asked you to lunch on
Saturday. What shall I tell her?”

“Yes!”
Henry was emphatic. He had so much to say to Reggie, so much to ask.
“Where and when?”

Martin
went into the hall again with a pencil and a notebook and again
stayed there what seemed an inordinate amount of time. He returned
with the details written down. Henry had never heard of the
restaurant, someplace called the Third Eye Café, but he had rather
expected Reggie to invite him somewhere unusual.




The
next day after school, Henry took Martin with him to Hamilton &amp;
Sons for his suit fitting. While Henry stood before the mirror in the
basted garments, Prescott and his staff brought him ties and
waistcoats that might go with the new suit.

“Come
here and look,” Henry said, beckoning to Martin, who stood out of
the way at the wall, watching. “Come help me choose.”

A
shop assistant stood before them with several ties draped over his
arm. Martin gave the choices serious consideration. “I like this
one, Sir,” he said, pointing to a foulard necktie in blue, green
and gold. “It brings in that ochre you liked, Sir, but in a smaller
dose.”

“You’re
right. What do you think of the stripe?” It was blue, green and
grey and Henry feared it was a little staid.

“I’d
prefer something with blue, green, and another color, Sir. Something
brighter. You do so love color.”

Henry
turned to Prescott. “Yes, I agree. Do you have anything like that?”

“We’ll
get right on it, Mr. Blackwell.” Prescott bent and spoke urgently
into the ear of an idle assistant who left the fitting room at a
trot.

“What
about the waistcoats? Do you like any of those?” They hung on a
rack against the left hand wall, and Martin went obediently to look
at them.

“This
is lovely, Sir,” Martin said, holding up a blue paisley. “I think
it has the same green in it, and is this a gold or a brown? In any
case, Sir, it’s very nice.”

“Bring
it here. Let’s see it next to the plaid.”

Martin
brought it over and Henry held it up against his chest, comparing the
colors of his new trousers to the colors in the paisley.

“May
I, Sir?” Martin asked the shop assistant, reaching for the foulard
tie. The man nodded his acquiescence and Martin took the tie and
draped it over Henry’s shoulder.

The
colors matched well. The patterns were similar in scale and looked
less busy together than Henry had feared. Dressed in these clothes,
he would look exceedingly stylish.

“I’ll
take these, as well,” he told Prescott.

“If
you’ll just try on the waistcoat, Mr. Blackwell,” Prescott said.
“In case any alterations are needed.”

Some
more striped neckties were brought in while Henry was trying on the
waistcoat, but neither Henry nor Martin liked any of them very much.
As for the waistcoat, no alterations would be required. Martin helped
Henry to dress while Henry’s new purchases were wrapped for him up
front.

“Do
you want to try anything while we’re here?” Henry asked him.
“Another waistcoat, maybe?”

Martin
seemed startled by this idea. “Oh, no, Sir. I don’t need anything
more.”

“Clothes
look so good on you,” Henry told him, his voice low. “I’d love
to see you in different things, Martin.”

“But,
Sir—” Martin grimaced, clearly distressed by this line of talk.

“Just
think about it, will you, please?” Henry leaned close and spoke in
Martin’s ear, although they were alone in the fitting room. “Maybe
something you’d wear just for me, at home, where no one would see.”

“I-I’ll
think about it, Sir,” Martin agreed reluctantly.

Riding
home on the omnibus, there were no other passengers sitting near, and
Henry coaxed Martin to sit. “You know, you’d look so handsome in
a green suit like mine,” Henry suggested in a low voice. “With
your hair and your eyes.”

“Really,
Sir,” Martin said, frowning in disapproval. “Where would I wear a
suit like that? Slaves don’t wear fancy clothes, Sir, you know
this.”

Henry
had vague notions of Martin and himself sitting in bohemian cafés
sipping wine or maybe demitasse cups of strong coffee, with Martin
dressed as a free man in a collar and tie, though in these imaginings
Martin’s beautiful hair was still worn long like a slave’s.

“Dressing
me like a free boy is a very romantic idea, Sir,” Martin continued,
his tone making it clear he didn’t have a high opinion of such
romance. “I’m quite sure your father wouldn’t approve!”

Henry
bit his tongue and refrained from pointing out there were plenty of
things Martin did
do very enthusiastically that Father wouldn’t approve of, either.
If Father were picking and choosing between wrong things, Henry
suspected he’d rather see Martin in a green suit than see Henry
suck Martin’s cock.

“You’re
so willful on this point, Sir, but you’re not thinking of the
problems it would cause for me with the rest of the household. Mr.
Tim would be very cross about it. He’d chastise me for not talking
you out of it, you know.”

“But
it wouldn’t be your fault,” Henry said. “Not if it was
something I told you to do.”

Martin
shook his head. “I should be able to dissuade you from making bad
decisions, Sir.”

Henry
rather thought the wearing of a beautiful suit was a harmless
indulgence of a master’s whim, not a catastrophic bad decision, but
decided to drop the issue. For now. “Willful and romantic,” he
said, keeping his voice light. “I’m terrible, aren’t I?”

Martin
snorted and gave him a crooked smile. “You’re the worst, Sir.”
And when Henry reached for his hand, Martin squeezed his fingers
ever-so-briefly before withdrawing so that Henry felt he’d gotten a
little of what he wanted after all.




On
Saturday, anticipating that Uncle Reggie would be wearing something
wonderful, Henry chose his most glamorous garments. He wore his
favorite suit, the black-and-grey check, a black floral brocade
waistcoat, and an aubergine necktie about which his father had
wondered if it was in fact a man’s tie and not some womanly
accessory. If anyone was going to appreciate Henry’s taste, it
would be Reggie.

“You
look so handsome, Henry.” Martin straightened the shoulders of
Henry’s jacket and smoothed his lapels with proprietary pats.
Martin looked wonderful as he was, but again Henry wished he could
dress him in regular clothes, something showier than his usual black
jacket and fawn trousers.

They
were to meet Reggie at one o’clock. Although they might have taken
the brougham, Henry was afraid word would get back to Father that
he’d taken the carriage out, leading to a discussion of where he’d
taken it and whom he’d met. He didn’t want to get either himself
or Reggie in trouble, so decided instead to take a cab, pulling a wad
of bills from the tea tin to pay their fare.

Martin
hailed a cab, handed Henry inside, then climbed in after him. He
allowed Henry to hold his hand briefly, but pulled away when he
became too concerned that someone might see. Henry settled for
sitting in close proximity, their shoulders and knees touching as
they bounced over the cobbles.

The
Third Eye Café was located downtown in the Village, a part of the
city Henry wasn’t terribly familiar with except by reputation.
“Artists live here,” he told Martin. “Artists and foreigners.”

The
Third Eye Café was possibly associated with both. The sign featured
a large blue eye, curly gilded script, and some vaguely Egyptian
iconography. They could see Reggie from the sidewalk, sitting at a
table in the window with Benjamin standing at his back. He was
talking to a waiter, waving his hands in dramatic arcs. Reggie had
always been so theatrical; that was part of what Henry had loved
about him as a child.

The
interior of the restaurant was a bit cramped, but it appealed to the
eye with voluminous draperies and rich colors. Images of eyes were
everywhere, which did give Henry the slightly unsettling feeling of
being closely observed. As they entered the restaurant, Reggie caught
sight of them and waved them over. He stood and hugged Henry, kissing
him on one cheek and then the other. “Darling Henry! Thank you for
coming!” He wore a green velvet jacket with an enormous,
peppery-scented carnation pinned to the lapel and, as before, he
smelled voluptuously of flowers and amber.

“All
you have to do is ask and I’ll come, Uncle,” Henry assured him,
sitting down in the chair Martin held out for him. “I was happy to
receive the invitation.”

“I
really invited you and your mother both, but of course she wouldn’t
come. What shall we do about her?”

Henry
had no idea, but didn’t think Reggie actually expected him to have
any answers.

“That’s
a lovely tie, by the way,” Reggie said. “Such an unusual color.
It looks so nice on you, darling.”

Reggie
was already drinking tea, but ordered coffee for Henry while Henry
looked over the menu. “This restaurant belongs to an old friend,”
Reggie told him. “An actor who came into a little money and
invested it here. It’s not as fashionable as it once was, of
course, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“It’s
an interesting place,” Henry assured him. “Jesse would like it, I
think.”

“Your
cousin has such an artistic sensibility,” Reggie said in agreement.
“He’s a wonderful young man.”

“Father
never wanted me to be close to Bette or Jesse before, but somehow
now, after Christmas, I feel like he might let me see them more
often.” Henry was
hopeful about this.

“They’re
delightful people, darling. You’re going to enjoy each other so
much. It’s too bad you missed out on growing up together, but
perhaps you and Jesse can help each other become better men.”
Reggie reached across the table and put his hand on Henry’s wrist,
gave it a pat and a squeeze. “That’s partly why I invited you,
darling; to talk to you about your father and his decisions. I don’t
want you to have the wrong idea about what happened.”

At
that moment, the waiter arrived to take their order. Henry ordered
roast chicken which came with a side of something called couscous
that Reggie assured him he would like.

“So,”
Reggie began. “So, darling, I know you’re upset with your father
for sending me away. Knowing your father as I do, I expect he hasn’t
told you anything about the situation one way or the other.” He
paused and cocked his head, waiting for a response.

Henry
cleared his throat. “That’s correct.” The idea that Reggie
actually “knew” his father was a surprising one, though
plausible. Reggie had been 16 when Father married Mother, 27 when he
fled to Italy; those eleven years were surely time enough to gain
some insights into Father’s inner workings.

“I
understand that Jesse gave you a somewhat simplistic explanation,”
Reggie continued. “I don’t want you to feel guilty, darling. It
wasn’t just
that he didn’t want you to turn out a fairy like me—”

Here,
Henry blushed furiously and stared at the tablecloth.

“—but
he was tired of all the nonsense I put him through. He was supporting
our entire family, darling, all the useless Wiltons, but I was
terribly ungrateful. I borrowed money to start businesses that I
didn’t have the sense to run and never even tried
to pay him back. I was friends with some terribly silly people and
made a spectacle of myself all over town, embarrassing him immensely.
It wasn’t specifically because of my particular nature that he was
angry, Henry. I’m sure he would have been just as upset with me if
I’d been some young rake chasing after women.” Here, Reggie
stopped and turned to Benjamin. “Benjy, darling, some more tea,
please?”

Benjamin
poured the tea from the pot on the table and Reggie smiled up at him
and said, “Thank you, Benjy,” in a low, intimate tone, then
turned his attention back to Henry.

“Hiram
and I also disagreed about how we ought to proceed in regard to your
mother’s delicate health, and we fought. I thought he was too cold
toward her, and I still believe that, but I didn’t broach the
subject with him in a thoughtful way. Your father is right about so
much, so often, that it’s difficult for him to see when he’s
actually wrong.” Reggie sipped his tea and smiled at Henry. “You’re
very quiet, darling. Am I telling you things you don’t want to
hear? I thought you’d want to know, but if I’m wrong, I’m very
happy to talk about anything else.”

Henry
shook his head and blushed again. “No, I want to know.”

“Well,
all right, then. So, I wanted him to try different therapies for your
mother, different cures, and he wanted her to snap out of it, just
like he would have done in her position. But, of course, your mother
isn’t like him at all.”

“No,”
Henry agreed. “I honestly don’t understand why they even married
in the first place. Did they ever get along?”

“I
think you understand, darling, that they were never in love, but the
marriage was advantageous all around. However, they were certainly
happy when they were first married and the house was being built.
They seemed very content while Louisa was pregnant with Hiram Junior.
But when the baby died, your mother needed comforting and your father
couldn’t help her. He was too sad, and it came out as fury. I don’t
think they ever understood one another after that.”

“But
they kept trying to have children…” Henry thought of how dismal
it would be, to engage in mechanical sex with someone you didn’t
much like, only to have it all end in failed pregnancy after failed
pregnancy.

“And
they did have you, darling, and you were perfect.” Reggie patted
his arm again. “And your baby sister seems to be such a lively,
charming child. I’m looking forward to knowing her better when my
business overseas is concluded at last.”

“What
is it you have to do, anyway?”

“Frederick—Mr.
Ellsworth—left me a house and some land and I’ll need to sell it.
I thought about trying to rent it out, but I think it will be better
to just let it go. He also left an antiquarian book business that I
need to find a buyer for. I’m going to be particular about who I
let the business go to; Frederick had an excellent reputation in
those circles and I don’t want someone slippery besmirching his
good name.”

Their
food arrived and Henry immediately tried the couscous and found it
quite delicious, with hints of saffron and spices. He wanted to let
Martin taste it, as he was quite confident Jesse would have done with
Russ, and tentatively suggested to Reggie that he might do it.

“Darling,
please, do as you like. I love to share new things with Benjy.” He
raised his hand to summon the waiter. “Might we trouble you for a
fork?”

With
this fork in hand, Martin stood at Henry’s left and bent over his
plate, his tail of hair hanging over his shoulder. “May I, Sir?”

“Please,”
Henry said. “Go ahead.”

Martin
forked up a mouthful of the fluffy, fragrant grains. As Martin ate,
Henry’s gaze alternated between Martin’s face and the room around
them, apprehensive that someone might take offense at Henry feeding a
slave from his own plate. No one seemed to notice, and Henry was
oddly disappointed; he wanted to be admired for his daring.

“Do
you like it?”

Martin
swallowed and beamed at him. “It’s delicious, Sir. Thank you for
sharing.” He set his fork down on Henry’s bread plate and stepped
back.

“It’s
easy to see how fond you two are of one another,” Reggie said.

Henry
felt his cheeks go hot. “I made a good choice,” he managed.

“So,
back to your father, darling. Hiram was paying all my
bills, all my family’s
bills, and he expected us to behave ourselves. He expected us to show
some gratitude. That doesn’t sound unreasonable, does it? I was 27,
and I’d fallen into an association with a profligate young man who
was simply a terrible
influence. I thought I was in love, but of course it was only a
chemical attraction. We would go out drinking every night, taking
cocaine and dancing, and it was a gay old time. Your father had to
bail us out of jail more than once.” Reggie actually looked a
little happy at those memories. “Of course, nowadays my partner in
crime is a very upstanding gentleman with three children and a baby
on the way.” He rolled his eyes and gave Henry a wry smile. “Am I
being too frank, darling?”

“No,”
Henry said, shaking his head. “I want to hear this.”

“Well,
your father has made enemies in business, I think you know this, and
those people delighted in my exploits and spread stories, insinuating
that if your father couldn’t even control one little fairy
brother-in-law, what else
might be beyond his control? Your father lost out on some big deals
because of my behavior. And then, on the home front, I think he was a
little jealous of my influence over Louisa and you. You were always
so excited to see me, darling! It made me so terribly happy!”

“Of
course I was excited! You were the only person besides Nurse who
seemed to actually care about me.”

“Your
father cares, Henry. I’m sure he doesn’t show it, because that’s
just how Hiram is, but he does care very much.”

Henry
shrugged, not believing this.

“Maybe
you can’t see it, Henry, but he wants you to be happy above all.
He’s letting me come home because you want it, you understand. Not
Louisa, but you.
He doesn’t trust me, and he’ll be keeping an eye on me, but he’s
going to let you have me and the rest of the Wiltons because he can
see how much you want that. He told me this at Christmas, darling.
He’s seeing it late, and he’s handling it all wrong, but he’s
doing it for you, darling.” Reggie moved his filet around with his
fork, but didn’t actually bring any food to his mouth. “Benjy,
more tea, please.”

“So,
what actually happened? Why did you leave?”

“It
was a minor thing, really. If it hadn’t been for all the other far
worse things that I’d done, it would’ve been nothing. I defied
his authority. He wanted you to do one thing, and I wanted you to do
another. I wanted you to see the dancers at a ball, and he wanted you
to stay in bed. I brought you downstairs—”

“I
remember,” Henry said. “It was wonderful.”

“I
knew
you’d like it,” Reggie said with some satisfaction. “Well, I
brought you down, and that was the last straw for Hiram. He dragged
me into that cigar-reeking study of his and put the fear of god into
me. He threatened me with everything, simply everything:
withholding money from my family, keeping me away from you and
Louisa, demanding payback for all those loans. My young man had kept
our affair secret from his family and Hiram even threatened to expose
him. He was just venting, I think, and would have done none of it,
but I was scared and foolish, and I ran to my friend, Mr. Ellsworth,
who was leaving for Italy, and he agreed to take me with him. He’d
been making overtures toward me for some time, but I’d been too
absorbed in my ridiculous love affair to pay him any mind.”

Henry
had finished his chicken and was still hungry, so when the waiter
came around again, they ordered dessert.

“I
exiled myself,
you see. I wanted to leave all my troubles and shame behind. Once we
were in Italy, Frederick could only afford to support us both for a
short period of time. I needed money, and your father agreed to give
it to me if I would stay away from you in return. It wasn’t just
because I’m queer, Henry, though that was certainly a concern. He
wanted me to stay away from you because I was careless and selfish.
He didn’t want me to hurt you, Henry. You’re precious to him,
even if you can’t see it.”

Henry
looked at Reggie’s kind, handsome face. He seemed to believe what
he was saying, though Henry had his doubts.

“Of
course, if I had been able to make my own money, I wouldn’t have
had to follow his rules. Don’t let yourself grow up to be a useless
person, Henry!” Reggie smiled ruefully as the waiter set a piece of
cake in front of him. “Oh, this looks nice, doesn’t it?”

Henry
ate his chocolate torte, shyly offering Martin a bite with the extra
fork that the observant waiter had provided. “What’s Italy like?”

“Our
part of it is beautiful. Idyllic, really. Our house is out in the
country, by a lake, and there’s a little vineyard. It’s not too
far from the city, so friends would come out for the weekend and we’d
have wonderful parties. We’d have all sorts of people, artists and
writers and actors and bons
vivants
of all stripes. And even though it started out as a sort of marriage
of convenience, I grew to really love Frederick while we lived
there.” Reggie reached again for Henry’s wrist. “Does it seem
strange to you that I talk about loving another man the way most men
would speak of a woman, a wife? I don’t mean to make you
uncomfortable, darling.”

Henry
shook his head. “I like hearing about it. You make it sound
normal.” He came to a sudden decision, decided he would take a
risk. He would trust that Reggie was someone he could talk to.

Reggie
blinked, seeming somewhat nonplussed by this statement.

“It
makes me feel better about what my life might turn out like,” Henry
continued, a quaver in his voice and heat rising in his cheeks. “It
didn’t matter, you see, him keeping you away from me. I’ve
managed to turn out queer anyway.” Henry heard Martin gasp at his
back.

Reggie
reared back from the table, aghast. “Darling, you’re joking!”

“No,”
Henry said firmly. “I’m so serious, Uncle.”

“How
can you be sure, darling? You’re so young—”

“How
old were you when you
knew?” Henry countered.

Reggie
did not answer right away. Looking contrite, he said, “I’m sorry
to belittle you, darling. Of course you know.”

“I’ve
known for years. I tried not to be, I really did, but…this is who I
am, I guess.” He was trembling and half-regretted having said
anything at all, but at the same time it felt so good to have told
someone!

Reggie
glanced up above Henry’s head at Martin. “I knew undeniably when
I brought Benjy home,” Reggie said quietly. “I’m guessing it
was the same for you.”

Henry
blushed again to think of all he’d come to know since bringing
Martin home.

“You
have to be careful, darling. I couldn’t tell you what your father
might do if he found out. You’re his heir, after all.”

“I’ll
be careful,” Henry said with perhaps undue confidence. “But I
need you to help me, Uncle. There’s so much I don’t know!”

“What
do you mean, darling?” Reggie looked slightly apprehensive.
“Really, Henry, I can’t see my way toward instruct—”

Henry
flushed with mortification. “No! Oh, no, Uncle Reggie, I don’t
want you to tell me how to…no, I don’t need that!” He took a
deep breath. “I only want to know where to go, where people like me
gather. You can tell me that, can’t you?”

Reggie
frowned, shaking his head. “Oh, Henry, no. You’re too young to be
running around the streets by yourself, much less in those kinds of
neighborhoods. Besides, I don’t really know where the exciting
places are anymore, darling. I have
been out of the country for nearly a decade.”

“You
could introduce me to your friends,” Henry suggested eagerly. “I
won’t embarrass you, I promise.”

“Darling,
I’m not worried about that. You are
aware my friends are all old like me, aren’t you?”

“You’re
not so old,” Henry told him. “I’m only looking for people to
talk to, after all. I’m not looking for a lover.”

“But
you’re just the age everyone wants, darling. They would all look
upon you as fresh meat,” Reggie said wryly. “I’m not sure
that’s a good idea.”

“So
you won’t help me at all?” Henry found this most frustrating. “I
confess my deepest secret to you, and you’re the only one who could
possibly help me, but you won’t do it.” He sat back heavily in
his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

Reggie
looked slightly chastened. “Let me think on it. I can ask some
people where they think a nice boy should go—but no guarantees,
Henry. There might be no good place.”

“Thank
you for asking,” Henry said, smiling broadly, relieved. “Really,
thank you!”

“It
might have to wait until I return from Italy,” Reggie warned him.
“Promise you won’t go off on your own until I have a chance to
investigate for you, all right, darling?”

“I
promise.”

Reggie
paid and they left the restaurant. Reggie insisted that they take the
first cab, that he and Benjy would get the next. Reggie took Henry’s
hand in both of his own and said, “I love you, Henry. I’m so glad
to be back in your life.”

“I
love you, too, Uncle.” Henry felt his eyes well with tears and,
embarrassed, hurried into the cab.

Martin
climbed in after him and sat at his side. Henry took Martin’s hand
in his and Martin let him do it. They were silent until the cab
started rolling, and then Henry asked, “Were you surprised I told
him?”

Martin
cleared his throat. “A little, Sir. But I think you were right to
tell him. He can help you, Sir. He wants
to help you.”

They
sat a minute in silence as the cab bumped along. “So, that was
quite a story Reggie told,” Henry said. “About why he left, I
mean. I guess it wasn’t just my father being horrible.”

“No,
Sir,” Martin agreed. “It sounds like your uncle was maybe a
little horrible, too.” He squeezed Henry’s hand. “And it wasn’t
your fault, either, Sir, you see?”

“Not
entirely, anyway,” Henry agreed. He leaned his head on Martin’s
shoulder, knocking his hat askew.

“Sir,
please, sit up. Someone could see…”

Henry
sighed and sat upright. “I just want to be close to you…” he
said, wheedling.

“We
can be close at home, Sir,” Martin said firmly. “We’re holding
hands; that should be quite enough.”

“If
Reggie can help me,” Henry said, “If he can tell me where to go,
maybe there’ll be a place where you can hold my hand and not be
worried about who sees us.”

Martin
did not look like he believed there was any possibility of there
being such a place. Uncharacteristically stiff and prim, he said,
“With all the dirty, loving things we can do in private, Sir, I
don’t see the need to flaunt our affection in public.”

Henry
needed to be acknowledged and respected and envied all at once, but
he did not have the wherewithal to articulate this to Martin.
Instead, he squeezed Martin’s hand and held onto it a few seconds
longer when Martin tried to pull away.

At
home in his bedroom, Henry said, “Remember what you said? About all
the dirty, loving things we can do in private? Why don’t we do some
of those?”

Martin
smiled and reached for Henry’s collar. “What are you thinking
of?”

Henry
had been enjoying how excited Martin got when he licked his asshole,
how he’d reach between Martin’s legs and grab hold of his hard
cock and it would jerk in his hand, a rabbit kick, as Henry thrust
his tongue inside. “I’m going to lick your ass until you’re
desperate for my cock,” Henry told him, excited by his own bold
words, cheeks flushed. “Until you’re begging to come.”

“Will
you let me touch myself?” Martin quickly helped Henry off with his
shirt.

“You
know I won’t,” Henry told him, grinning.

Martin
dropped to his knees and got to work on Henry’s boots. “Should I
suck your cock a little? I’d like to do it, I really would.”
Boots out of the way, he reached for the placket of Henry’s
trousers.

“I
could make you do it,” Henry offered, petting his hair.

Martin
gave him a particularly wicked smile. “I like it when we play that
game, Sir.”

“What
else could we play?” Henry asked. “What else would you like?”
He suspected Martin must have played all sorts of elaborate games
with his Ganymede friends, and he disliked that those boys had
anything over him. He felt he would do whatever Martin wanted, or
nearly so.

Martin
beamed up at him. “Oh, Sir, you should definitely
scold me when I displease you. I’ll be especially good if you do.”
He skinned Henry’s trousers and drawers down his legs and helped
him kick free of their constraints.

“Especially
good?” Henry couldn’t imagine how Martin might be any better than
he was already.

“Yes,
Sir. But you should discipline me severely
if I don’t make you happy.” When he saw Henry’s dubious
expression, Martin asserted, “You should,
Sir! I know I’d appreciate your guidance.”

Suddenly,
this game seemed daunting, and Henry faltered in his resolve.
“Martin, I…I don’t know—”

Martin
caressed Henry’s hip, his touch reassuring. “It’s just for fun,
Henry, but if you don’t want to…”

But
Henry could see that Martin was disappointed. He didn’t want to
discipline
Martin, but neither did he want to disappoint him. It was
embarrassing to say it, but he gathered his courage and asked, “How
will I know if I’m doing it right?”

Martin’s
brilliant smile returned. “Oh, that’s easy, Sir. If I don’t
like it, or it’s too much, I’ll just say…omnibus!”

“Omnibus?”

“Or
a different word, if you prefer, Sir.” He knelt up and nuzzled
Henry’s cock, which had shrunk half-limp during their conversation.

Martin’s
smooth cheek and hot breath felt very nice. “Just so I understand…”
Henry said. “You want to play a game where I’m unhappy with your
service.” The idea was so unlikely as to be laughable, but Henry
didn’t laugh.

“Yes!”
Martin turned to kiss the shaft of Henry’s cock. “Yes, Sir.
That’s what I want. You’re my…my whimsical
master and I disappoint you.”

If
Martin wanted to play at having a cruel master, Henry decided he
should go along with it. It was
just a game, albeit one he didn’t really understand. But knowing
Martin must have played a version of this with his friends at
Ganymede, Henry wasn’t about to do any less than they had. He could
do this; he would do his best.

Despite
his misgivings, Henry’s prick had stiffened again under Martin’s
ministrations. “All right…slave,” Henry said, with just a
moment’s hesitation. “You’ll say ‘omnibus’ if you want me
to stop.”

“I
will, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” He gave Henry his beautiful smile once
again before sucking his cock in to the root.

Henry
let Martin suck him a few exquisite minutes before taking his hair in
handfuls and using it to maneuver his head and eager mouth, shoving
his cock down Martin’s hot, slippery throat. Martin gagged and
moaned and worked frantically to undo his own buttons. Henry remained
somewhat ambivalent about this forced cocksucking for himself, but he
did like how much Martin seemed to enjoy it, and it felt amazing.
With some reluctance, he pulled his cock out of Martin’s mouth and
said, “Get undressed, slave.”

Martin
stripped quickly and dropped back to his knees before Henry. “What
do you want me to do, Sir?”

“Keep
sucking me, you lazy slave, and you’d better do a good job or…or
you’ll be punished.”
It had been a sudden inspiration, and Henry bit his lip, worried to
see how Martin would react.

Martin
inhaled a sharp, shocked breath and his eyes went wide. He was, Henry
was relieved to see, excited and not frightened, or not too
frightened. “Oh, god, Sir! I—”

“Do
it,” Henry insisted roughly, reaching out and grabbing a handful of
Martin’s hair. “Put it in your mouth. Now.
Or, or it’s the whipping post for you.”

With
a tremulous moan, Martin took Henry’s cock deep into his mouth,
into his throat. With his hands wrapped in Martin’s hair, Henry
manhandled his head in an erratic rhythm, making Martin choke and
gasp as he made thorough use of his wet mouth. When he’d had his
fill of this, he let Martin set his own pace, let him suck until he
felt close, his excitement ratcheting higher, and he reached the
point where he either needed to let himself come or slow things down.
He put his hand on the back of Martin’s head and pulled him in
close, pulled him until his nose was pressed against his belly, and
Martin made a muffled sound that was half-protest, half-exultation
around Henry’s cock. Henry could feel Martin’s throat muscles
spasm, could feel him struggle for breath as he made excited little
moans.

“Get
up, slave.” He released Martin’s head.

Martin
sat back on his heels, letting Henry’s cock slide out from between
his lips. His face was red, his eyes watering. He wiped his wet mouth
with the back of his hand and grinned happily at Henry. His cock
stood up straight from his lap, hard and slick.

Henry
held out his hand and said it again, “Come on, get up, slave.”
Martin took his hand and got to his feet.

Henry
took hold of Martin by the shoulders and positioned him facing the
bed. He slapped Martin’s ass hard enough to make his hand sting,
hard enough to make Martin cry out in shock. He was gratified to see
that Martin looked delighted with this course of events. “Bend
over, slave. Lean on the bed.” He gave Martin a little shove
between his shoulder blades and Martin bent over, bracing his hands
on the bed and arching his back a little, presenting his ass to Henry
somewhat hopefully. Henry stood behind Martin, letting his own hard,
spit-slick cock slot in between Martin’s buttocks, and ran his hand
up and down Martin’s back.

“If
you don’t do as I say, I will
punish you,” Henry told him. He drew slashing crosshatch marks on
the skin of Martin’s back with his fingertips, his nails leaving
faint pink stripes, and slapped Martin’s ass again. “But if you
do as you’re told, you’ll get what you deserve…”

“Oh,
Sir,”
Martin said, his voice unsteady and pressured. “Oh, god, Sir.
Please
don’t punish me, Sir! I try so hard to be good, I really do!”

Henry
bent and kissed the top of the cleft of Martin’s ass, gave him a
slow lick just shy of his asshole, and Martin whimpered and shifted
his weight from one foot to the other in nervous anticipation.

“Keep
still, slave,” Henry said, getting down on his knees. He parted
Martin’s ass cheeks and admired his asshole, leaned forward and
blew on it, and licked it, painting the sparse hairs flat to his
skin. Martin cried out, Henry blew again across the skin slick with
his spit, and Martin trembled.

“Do
you like this, slave? Do you like my mouth on you?”

Martin
groaned. “Sir, I love it! I love your mouth.”

Henry
gave him a thoughtful lick, considering what might constitute
punishment, what Martin might consider discipline. “What if I stop
doing it?”

“Oh,
Sir, please don’t stop!”

Henry
sat back on his heels and ran his finger up and down the cleft,
pushing the tip in Martin’s hole. “Is it your place to tell me
what to do, slave?”

“N-no,
Sir.” Martin trembled, legs shaking. “Please, Sir—”

“I
could punish you for being insubordinate,” Henry told him. He gave
Martin’s buttock a hard pinch and Martin started at the pain and
yelped.

“You
could, Sir,” Martin agreed breathily. “If you thought I deserved
it.”

“Oh,
I’ll definitely punish you, slave,” Henry assured him. He would
absolutely not hit Martin, or play at whipping him, however, even if
that was what Martin wanted. He thought a moment, coming up with the
worst punishment he could imagine carrying out. “You can’t come.”

Martin
whimpered. “Sir?”

Not
allowing Martin to come at
all
was at least as much punishment for Henry as it was for Martin, but
perhaps Martin didn’t realize this.

“You
can’t come until I say you can. If you come before then, you’ll
be punished.” He had no idea what this punishment might be, so he
just hoped Martin wouldn’t come before Henry gave permission.

“Please,
Sir—”

“Keep
your hands on the bed, slave. Don’t you dare
touch your cock.”

Henry
knelt up again and put his face between Martin’s cheeks. Martin’s
asshole clenched tight beneath Henry’s tongue, relaxed and clenched
again as Henry licked up and down the cleft, probing the hole. Martin
shivered and cried out as Henry spread his buttocks wide and thrust
his tongue deep inside, then deeper still.

Martin
whimpered and pushed back against Henry’s mouth. In a hoarse
whisper he said, “It’s cruel, Sir, not letting me come.”

Amused,
Henry ignored him and kept fucking him with his tongue, kept licking
and teasing and nipping. He pulled back to look at Martin’s ass and
balls, everything wet with his spit and pink from friction, and
Martin moaned in protest, twisting his hips against nothing, wanting
pressure on his hard cock, hanging heavy and engorged between his
thighs.

“Please,
Sir, you’ve always been a fair master—”

Henry
shook his head. His role was not that of fair master. “No. You’re
not allowed to come yet. Maybe never.
Do you want
to be punished?” Henry looked at Martin’s hole, his beloved hole,
and thought he should offer a chastisement, a small thing. He flicked
sharply at Martin’s wet hole with his fingernail and Martin
flinched at the sting, making a surprised cry.

In
the same hoarse whisper, Martin confessed, “N-no, Sir. But I want
to come, Sir. I want you to make me come.”

“Insubordinate,”
Henry whispered back. “Disobedient.” He gave Martin’s buttock a
deliberate bite, teeth leaving marks, then bent to lick his balls and
suck them into his mouth, one and then the other, and while Martin
liked this, Henry could tell that he wanted Henry to go back to
licking his sensitive asshole. Henry rubbed his cheek, slightly
rough, against all of Martin’s tender skin, and then returned his
attention to Martin’s hole.

Henry
closed his eyes, circling the puckered muscle with his tongue and
then spiking into it, over and over again, really feeling what he was
doing and intensely aroused. The faint muskiness, the textures of
Martin’s flesh, and the feeling of muscles flexing against his lips
and tongue were a powerful tonic to his lust. The idea of doing
something this intimate to anyone else was repellent, absurd, but to
know Martin in this way was absolutely necessary. Martin’s loud
moans were almost unbearably exciting and Henry’s cock got harder
and harder listening to him. Henry touched himself just lightly,
welcome pressure; he had placed no restrictions on himself, after
all.

“Sir,”
Martin whispered urgently. “Sir,
will you let me come now?. I’ve been so good.”

Henry
smiled against Martin’s skin but said, “No. Absolutely not.” He
leaned back and slapped Martin’s ass hard, leaving a red handprint,
and said, “Ask again and I’ll whip you raw.”

Martin
groaned and shuddered and arched his back, pushing his ass in Henry’s
face, and Henry took the hint, spreading Martin’s cheeks with his
hands, blowing over his wet skin, and teasing his sensitive,
twitching hole with the tip of his tongue.

Martin
kept up his nonspecific begging—please,
Sir, please—and
his legs were shaking erratically, near to collapse, such that Henry
thought maybe Martin had had enough. He reached between Martin’s
legs, cupping his balls for just a moment, and Martin growled, needy
and at the same time certain of having that need fulfilled. Henry
drilled his tongue into Martin’s hole as he wrapped his fingers
around Martin’s cock and cupped the wet head in his palm, and
Martin’s cock jerked hard as he shouted Henry!
His elbows buckled and he slumped onto the bed, away from Henry’s
mouth and hand.

“I’ll
come, Sir,” Martin explained sheepishly, pushing himself back up.
“If you touch me, I’ll come, but you said I couldn’t come,
Sir.”

“Do
you want to come, slave?”

“I
want to be a good slave, Sir, please.”

Martin
was the best slave, that was obvious to Henry. “On the bed,” he
said. “On your back, right here on the edge.” He got to his feet
and reached for the nightstand drawer while keeping his eyes fixed on
Martin’s genitals and ass. Martin drew his knees up and let them
fall wide and Henry went to stand at the side of the bed between his
raised feet with the bottle of oil.

“Let
me oil your cock, Sir.” Martin propped himself up on his elbow and
held out his hand. Henry poured a few drops of oil into Martin’s
palm and stood close so that Martin could work the length of his
cock. He put his own slick fingers into Martin’s ass, giving him
the sort of perfunctory preparation that he seemed to find
sufficient.

Henry
wished more than anything that he could fuck Martin and suck him at
the same time, have the feeling of a cock in his mouth while
experiencing the squeeze of a body around his own. He supposed that’s
what two boys at once were for, but he really just wanted it to be
Martin.

He
pushed his cock inside Martin’s body and Martin groaned and shifted
beneath him, spreading his legs wider still, opening further, and
Henry was pulled in deeper. Henry bent over him and held his face and
kissed him.

“You
taste of me, Sir,” Martin whispered with a shiver, kissing Henry
again.

‘Do
you like it?” Henry knew he did.

“It
excites me, Sir,” Martin admitted happily. “It’s such a dirty
thing you do for me.”

“It
doesn’t feel dirty,” Henry told him, tilting his hips, pulling
out and pushing in again. Everything about Martin seemed pure,
practically holy.

“It
does
feel dirty, Sir,” Martin insisted. “The best kind of dirty.”

Henry
looked down at Martin, who was flushed and panting, his cock hard and
dark. He began to fuck him in leisurely rhythm. He tried to consider
what else a capricious master might demand of a hapless slave,
wanting to come up with a punishment Martin would enjoy.

“Touch
your nipples, slave.”

“Sir?”
Martin did not enjoy having his nipples played with as much as Henry
did; they were perhaps overly sensitive.

“You
heard me. If you don’t want to do it, you know what to say.” It
was only now occurring to Henry that not
saying the word would be a point of pride for Martin, that he wanted
Henry to push this boundary.

Martin
shook his head firmly to the negative, and touched his chest with
shaking hands, his deft violinist’s fingers teasing his hard
nipples and his cock jerking with each pinch. “No, Sir...please,
Sir!”

“Please
what? What are you begging for, slave?”

“I’ve
been good, Sir, I really have!”

“Not
good enough,” Henry told him. “I might have to punish you
anyway.”

Martin
moaned, almost a sob, and his cock flexed. His hands stilled over his
chest.

“Keep
doing it,” Henry insisted. “Keep doing it or say the word.” He
flicked the head of Martin’s prick with a fingernail. Martin cried
out and jerked beneath him and resumed twisting and teasing his
nipples with renewed vigor.

Henry
fucked him slowly for a few minutes, reveling in the drag of skin
against skin. Martin looked as though he was suffering a little, but
Henry thought this was rather what Martin wanted.

“You
can’t come,” Henry reminded him, and ran a fingertip up the
underside of his cock.

Martin
did sob this time and his balls drew up tight.

Henry
stilled with his cock in Martin’s ass. He squeezed Martin’s
prick, slow and deliberate, and gave it a couple of strokes while
Martin writhed and whimpered beneath him.

“You
can’t come until I let you. Until I say so.” He ran his
fingertips through the slick on Martin’s belly and brought them to
his lips, letting the bitter-salty flavor of Martin spread through
his mouth. He took hold of Martin’s cock again and stroked it with
a loose fist, thumb sliding over the head, and it jerked in his hand
while Martin took in frantic, hiccupping breaths, his hands still
busy. Muscles jumped low in his belly. If Henry touched him with just
a little more purpose, he’d come apart.

“Please,
Sir, I can’t!”

“You
can’t what?”

“If
you keep touching me...I can’t take it, Sir!” Martin sounded so
anguished, his eyes full of desperation.

“If
it’s too much, you know you can make me stop. But I think you can
take it.” However, Henry let go of his cock. He began to fuck him
again, harder now, hands pushing down on the backs of his thighs,
hips slamming against his ass, and Martin groaned and pressed his
hands flat against his nipples, a protective gesture, but then bit
his lip and began to obediently pinch them again before Henry could
tell him to do so, his suffering very apparent. In his place, Henry
felt that he would have been shouting omnibus,
but Martin clearly relished having his mettle tested.

Had
he done it right? Had it been a good enough game? Martin seemed to be
enjoying himself, and it had been more fun than Henry had
anticipated, but he didn’t know how to judge such play. He didn’t
think he’d actually hurt Martin or made him truly unhappy, but he
didn’t exactly understand what Martin wanted out of this game.
Regardless, it was amazing that Martin offered him such trust, and he
would reward him for it.

“That’s
enough,” he said. “You can stop.”

Martin
whimpered with relief. “Oh, thank you, Sir!” He pressed his hands
over his tender nipples and let his eyes flutter closed. His pretty
cock was slapping wetly against his belly with each of Henry’s
thrusts and his breath came in ragged hitches.

Henry
loved him more than life.

He
bent over him and angled his head for a kiss. Martin reached for him
and met him with an eager mouth. His arms went around Henry’s back,
legs about his waist, his embrace making it difficult for Henry to
move. He whimpered into Henry’s mouth, fingers digging into Henry’s
shoulders. Then Martin broke off kissing and clung, breathing hard,
his face buried in Henry’s neck. He seemed overwhelmed with
emotion, so heartbreakingly vulnerable.

“You’re
a good slave,” Henry told him, stroking his hair. “I won’t
punish you.” He hoped it was the right thing to say.

Martin
gave a shaky sigh and again sought Henry’s mouth with his own.

As
they kissed, Henry pumped into him, steady thrusts. Martin licked
into his mouth, sucked his tongue, bit his lip. Henry’s body
coursed with energy, blood pumping, skin tingling. He was sweating,
working, feeling the pull on his cock in exquisite detail, the grain
of Martin’s flesh tight along his shaft. He raised himself out of
Martin’s embrace so he could look upon his beautiful face; Martin’s
eyes were closed, but then he opened them and gave Henry the dazzling
smile he loved. Henry blushed and returned the smile; a foolish,
ardent grin.

Henry
was ready to come—to let Martin come—and be through with their
game.

“Touch
yourself when you’re ready,” Henry told him, then added, “Slave,”
in case they were still playing.

With
a moan signifying his relief, Martin reached for his cock and rubbed
the skin of the shaft up and down with graceful little movements of
his wrist. There were spots of bright pink in each of his cheeks and
when he opened his eyes, his gaze conveyed excitement and trust.

“Don’t
hold back. I’ll come when you do,” Henry said with confidence. He
was ready; he wanted this incredible feeling to go somewhere, to
culminate, and he wanted to see Martin experiencing the same thing,
their bodies in perfect synchrony. He began to move more
deliberately, angling his thrusts just so, to make Martin want to
come, too. “You can come. You have permission,” he reminded him.

Martin
sucked in a hissing breath. “Oh, I’m a good slave, aren’t I,
Sir?” He began to work the full length of his cock, his graceful,
bony hand making such deft movements, and it was so pretty, the way
Martin did it; Henry did not think his own hands and cock could
possibly make such an appealing display. Martin had his eyes closed,
his lip caught between his teeth, and Henry watched him intently,
looking back and forth between his debauched-angel face and his busy
hand, and felt the change when Martin stilled and began to come. He
let himself come, too, glorious and triumphant, watching Martin’s
semen spurt from his cock, hearing Martin call his name, and taking
so much pleasure in knowing he’d made it good for Martin again.

Martin
wasn’t in a hurry to get up and get his basin, which Henry
appreciated. He lay down next to Martin, his legs hanging over the
side of the bed, and Martin rolled against him, fitting himself under
Henry’s arm.

Martin
kissed Henry’s chest and then rubbed his cheek against the place
he’d kissed. He squeezed Henry tighter and said, “I was surprised
when you said…when you first said that bit about punishing me.”

“Was
that okay? I worried maybe that was going too far.”

“It
shocked me,” Martin admitted, “but it was exciting. It was just
playing, after all.”

“Okay,”
Henry said, “So long as I didn’t really scare you.”

“No,”
Martin assured him. “You just made me so
hard. You made me want to be so good for you.”

“You
are
so good,” Henry said, kissing his forehead. “You do know that,
right? You’re the best.”

“You’re
a very easygoing person, Henry. It’s no trouble to be good for
you.”

“I—”
Henry began, then wasn’t sure how to proceed. “I never imagined
any slave would want to play at having a cruel master.”

Martin
laughed softly. “It’s a little perverse, isn’t it? It’s only
fun because you’re not really like that at all.”

“Did
you ever play like this before…?”

“Well,
they tried to be positive at Ganymede, telling us our masters would
be good to us if we were obedient, but there were hints that this
wasn’t always the case, and of course all of us worried about being
sold to someone unkind. We played masters and slaves when we were
little, quite innocently, of course, just bossing each other around,
but it turned…darker when we were older.”

In
that moment, Henry felt his inexperience very acutely.

“It
was more fun to play this way, though,” Martin said. “With you,
my real
master.”

“I
hope I did it the way you wanted.”

“You
did. It was very exciting! I like that cruelty doesn’t come
naturally to you, Henry, but you made good choices all the same.”

Henry
felt relieved. He remembered Martin wincing as he played with his
nipples and asked, “Are you sore?”

Martin
laughed. “Which part of me?”

“Well,
any part, I guess, but I was thinking about your nipples. That wasn’t
too mean, was it?”

Martin
considered this a moment. “No, it was good. Really
good. I...liked it. I liked it when you let me stop!” He laughed
and gave Henry’s nipple a light pinch. “You
like it, though, don’t you?”

“More
than you do,” Henry agreed, relieved that Martin wasn’t upset
about any aspect of their game.

They
cuddled hanging half off the bed, feeling slightly precarious but not
wanting to move away from one another, but at last Martin went for
his basin and cloth and came to sit on the edge of the bed at Henry’s
hip and wiped him clean.

Henry
thought back on the lunch conversation again. “I’m thinking about
Reggie and Benjamin…” Henry began. “When he said he ‘knew
undeniably’ that he was queer when he brought Benjamin home, do you
think it meant that they’re like us? Doing forbidden things?”

“I
do think that.” Martin put his basin on the nightstand and lay down
at Henry’s side again. “They’re so fond of each other.”

“But
I think maybe they’re different in terms of, er, how they do
things,” Henry continued. “I suspect Reggie is…more like you.”
Henry blushed, not entirely comfortable picturing any adult having
sex, much less his own uncle.

Martin
laughed. “Are you imagining that your uncle is the receptive
partner? Is that what you mean? I must say, I agree with you! What a
surprise that must have been for Benjamin! I hope it was a nice
surprise!”

“Did
they train you for that at Ganymede? Did they tell you that your
master might want to be fucked instead?”

“It
doesn’t happen often, I guess. They never really went into it in
any depth. Even though you prefer a male partner, you still want to
be on top. Of course, we all learned how to do it incidentally in the
process of making certain we were all trained for the receptive role.
Everyone being required to have sex with everyone else, if you’ll
recall.”

Henry
did recall, and determined not to be upset by the recollection. “Were
you any good at it, do you think?”

Martin
looked bashful but also a little proud. “I think so. I made an
effort, at least. But I think I’m better at being fucked, and
that’s what I like best.”

If
there was anyone in the world better at being fucked than Martin,
Henry simply couldn’t believe it. It would have to be proven to
him, but he wasn’t willing to fuck anyone else to find out.

Henry
wondered if he would ever get up the nerve to ask Martin to fuck him.
He thought he should do it, at least try,
but he was really quite afraid to do so, despite how much pleasure it
obviously gave Martin.

But
back to Reggie. “I’ll admit I am
curious about his relationship with Benjamin,” Henry said, “but
somehow I don’t think I’ll ever be asking Uncle Reggie for
details of his sex life.”

“He’d
probably tell you whatever you wanted to know, though,” Martin
said, laughing again. “The Wiltons are so interesting, don’t you
think? Your uncle and your cousin both.”

“For
all I know, Uncle Gilbert’s the same, too. What’s his slave’s
name again? Howard?”

“No,
it’s Harold. He’s a very nice man.”

Henry
tried to picture Harold. Brown hair, blue eyes, tall.

“Your
uncle is very devoted to his wife, though. He may have been closer to
Harold when they were young, of course, and perhaps that makes him
more indulgent of your cousin’s behavior with Russ.”

“Have
I asked you before? Do you like Jesse and Russ?”

“I
do. I like that you have such a lively cousin. He’s entertaining,
don’t you think? And Russ was very nice to me, very welcoming.”

Russ
had wanted Martin to play
with him, Henry remembered that.
But all he said was, “I hope we get to see them more often from now
on.”

They
lay on the bed, curled on their sides, facing one another, and Henry
had to keep reaching out to touch Martin, to play with his hair or
trace the bones of his face, until Martin got restless and sat up.

“Do
you want me to play for you? I could use the practice, I really
could.”

Henry
pictured it: Martin naked and with his hair loose, violin tucked
under his chin. “Yes,” he said, “I do want that.” Martin
hopped up and trotted off to his room to fetch his instrument and
Henry arranged the bed pillows so that he might be both comfortable
and attentive.

They
spent the rest of the afternoon naked, Martin playing the violin and
Henry listening and admiring, until it was time for Martin to go down
for his dinner. Martin dressed and left Henry naked on the bed, flush
with feeling, thinking that his was the most fortunate life that
anyone could hope to live, with the most wonderful companion. He felt
closer to Martin than ever after playing his bossy game, special and
trusted. As so often happened between Martin’s dinner and his own,
he worked himself into a state such that when Martin returned to
dress him, he nearly overwhelmed him with affection, embraces and
kisses and tender caresses, and Martin was receptive but
businesslike.

“You
must get dressed now, Henry.” Martin smoothed Henry’s hair,
patted him. “You can’t be late for dinner.”

Martin
would be blamed if Henry was late, and Henry would not see Martin
blamed. He allowed himself to be dressed and Martin told him about
the questions Pearl had had for him at the slaves’ dinner, all of
them regarding the lunch with Reggie.

“Perhaps
you can speak with your mother,” Martin suggested. “I’m sure
she would love to hear about it directly from you.”

Henry
lifted his chin to let Martin tie his tie. “I suppose I could do
that,” he allowed, though he was not in a hurry to spend time with
Mother. Still, they shared a fondness for Reggie, and it might be fun
to talk about him with someone other than Martin.

Martin
put his hands on Henry’s shoulders. “You’re ready.”

They
shared a brief kiss and went downstairs, Henry squeezing Martin’s
hand just outside the dining room door, a last loving impulse before
putting on his false front. He could do as Reggie asked; he would
wait for Reggie’s help, all the while hiding in plain sight. When
he sat down at his father’s right hand it was as a good son, a boy
who used his slave properly, someone who would eventually get a
passing grade in Latin, and he was convincing in the role.











Thursday
they came home through a chilling rain to a new Pals.
Martin was fretful about the possibility of Henry taking ill from the
wet and cold and let him go ahead upstairs while he went to the
kitchen for soup and melted cheese sandwiches that he brought up on a
tray. They ate sitting cross-legged on the floor before the fire in
Henry’s room.

“Are
you finished eating yet?” Henry put down his napkin, looking at
Martin expectantly.

Martin
chewed and swallowed. “Almost.” He ate the last bite of his
sandwich. “Please don’t rush me, Henry.”

“I
need to know what happens.” Henry was nearly vibrating with
urgency. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Of
course I do. Just let me get a drink of water…” He went to the
bathroom and returned with a glass while Henry waited impatiently.

They’d
left the Dauntless
with Theo exhausted, George injured, and the rest of the crew engaged
in getting the ship to the next port marked on the map taken from the
Order of the Red Eye. They’d taken on a passenger, a mysterious
young woman without any memory, who might be either a victim of
DeSade or one of his accomplices. The only clue they had as to where
DeSade might be headed was a dead man’s mention of “the Refuge.”

Rested
and refreshed, Theo arose and sent George to fetch their mysterious
passenger. She’d been given a tiny aft cabin for her own and George
found Dooley asleep outside her door, wanting to be available to her
should she awaken frightened and confused.

“See,
Henry,” Martin said. “I told
you she might be meant for Dooley.”

“You
might be right,” Henry conceded, “but just because Dooley likes
her doesn’t mean she can’t set her sights on Theo anyway.”

George
knocked on the girl’s door and bade her join the Captain for
breakfast. To Henry’s dismay, this same invitation was issued to
Dooley, as well.

“Do
you think that George sits down with Theo when it’s just them?”
Henry asked.

“No
one’s family does that but yours,” Martin pointed out. “I
certainly appreciate that you do it, but it’s considered very
different, you know this.”

“But
Theo’s like my father,” Henry insisted. “He came from nothing
and made his own way. I think he would appreciate the work his slave
does in a way no born gentleman ever would, and he would reward it.”

Regardless,
George stood behind Theo’s chair while he ate breakfast with Dooley
and the mysterious girl. She ate as though starving, darting frequent
glances at Theo as if she were expecting an outburst or a blow.

There
was a description of the girl—her glossy dark hair, her ice-blue
eyes, her lissome form—that was of no interest whatsoever to Henry.
Martin did not seem interested, either, and read through it in a
monotone rush.

Following
the meal, the dishes cleared away, the girl spoke at last. “I must
tell you, Captain, I have remembered something of myself.” The
voice that Martin used for her was higher than his own and feminine,
but flinty and practical rather than soft and simpering. “I like to
think I am an honest woman, Captain, but I can’t help feeling I’ve
deceived you, though I was unaware I’d done so last night.”

“What
is it you’ve remembered, miss?” Theo asked. “Don’t be shy.
Anything you tell us may be of use.”

“I
have remembered my name and my origins.” Martin made a dramatic
pause here, then continued. “My name is Jeanette. Jeannette
DeSade.”

Henry
had been half-expecting this, some connection to the fiend, but he
was impressed by Martin’s reading nonetheless.

Jeanette
told a sorry tale. She was the child of DeSade and a dipsomaniacal
mother with whom DeSade had had some sort of transitory, sordid
union. DeSade had not abandoned mother and child, but had provided
for them monetarily, though without offering any of the guidance of a
true father. Her mother was abusive and volatile, a most un-nurturing
creature, and young Jeanette often had to fend for herself.

DeSade
had approached her a year ago, just before her fifteenth birthday,
and suggested that she might come to live with him. She had been
grateful, believing her situation would improve under her father’s
care. However, soon after she came to live with him, she began to
fear for her health and sanity. DeSade did not view her as a
daughter, but as a combined experimental subject and plaything. She
was frequently drugged, pinched and prodded, taunted and threatened.
She was often left in the suspect care of unscrupulous people like
the late Dr. von Belcher, and it was only through her own wit and
pluck that she had survived with her virtue intact

Martin
stopped reading and frowned.

Henry
thought he knew why Martin hesitated. “It seems unlikely, doesn’t
it?”

“So
many things about this story are unbelievable, but for some reason
this seems particularly so.”

Jeanette
broke down in tears, confessing that she hated her father and feared
her blood was tainted. Lovelorn Dooley rushed to tell her that she
was a good and lovely person, and Theo reassured her that he would
not blame the daughter for the sins of the father. He and George
encouraged her to try to remember anything else, anything DeSade or
von Belcher might have said, that would lead them to this Refuge that
the butler had spoken of.

“I
will try, Captain,” Jeanette promised. “I want you to catch him
and end him, and I will do everything I can to help.”

The
plan was to locate, infiltrate and attack the Order lair in the next
port. They had Order robes enough for ten men and readied Boot, Leon,
Elmer and six more crew members with fighting experience, with Theo
and Dooley (who would be a false prisoner, as before) making up the
remainder of the force. George was once again excluded, to Henry’s
dismay.

“Dooley
is no replacement for George,” Henry interjected, disgruntled.

“I
feel the same, Henry, but I don’t think that’s what’s
happening.”

“Well,
then what is
happening?”

“I
don’t know, but I’m sure it’s not anything so dire as George
being replaced.”

“I
don’t like it,” Henry said. “I want to hear about Theo and
George.”

Martin
pressed his lips together, seeming exasperated. “Do you want me to
read the story or not, Henry?”

“Well,
of course I want you to read it!”

“All
right then. Listen.”
Martin gave Henry a hard look; Henry felt chastised and determined to
keep his complaints to a minimum. He rather liked this stern, bossy
Martin!

The
men of the Dauntless
did not expect to find DeSade, of course, but hoped to disrupt his
enterprise and perhaps garner further clues as to the location of the
fiend’s Refuge.

Theo
dismissed Dooley and Jeanette and shut the door behind them. Alone
with George, he insisted firmly that he be allowed to examine
George’s wound. He removed the bandage, noting signs of healing and
touching the stitches and newly-forming scar with a gentle finger.

“I
thought I’d lost you, George,” Theo said in a hushed, reverent
tone. “I thought I’d been given the best reason yet to hate
DeSade. If you’d been taken from me…” And here Theo broke down
a little, Martin adding a couple of sobbing breaths that Henry
thought very fitting to show Theo’s desperation.

“You
won’t be rid of me so easily as that, Sir,” George said fondly.
“Now let me see your
wound, Sir. I don’t want it to fester.”

The
image of Theo and George shirtless together perhaps seemed tame now,
now that he had all the richness of his experiences with Martin to
compare, but Henry still found it very compelling. George touching
Theo’s chest, Theo touching George’s arm, the two of them close
enough that their breaths would mingle. It made his cock stiffen, and
there must have been some indication of this on his face because
Martin laughed at him fondly.

They
were at sea five days, during which time Jeanette tried to make
herself useful, helping out in the galley and offering her assistance
to George in laundering Theo’s linen, but George politely turned
her away, and Henry found this refusal quite satisfying. Every day,
she was remembering more and more of her past, but nothing that was
useful to the men of the Dauntless.

Dooley
was falling deeper and deeper in love with her. They were of an age,
and she was probably the first girl he’d spent much time with,
having lived most of his days at sea. Jeanette was receptive of his
attentions, and there were several paragraphs detailing their very
proper and shy courtship.

“She
seems all right,” Henry allowed, feeling charitable now that she
seemed destined for Dooley. “Considering who her father is, I
mean.”

Dooley
approached the Captain and asked for a word. Martin’s Dooley voice
remained lackadaisical. “It’s about Jeanette, Captain. I want to
marry her, sir. If she says yes, would you do the honors?”

“Well,
that seems a bit sudden,” Henry remarked.

“I
don’t know,” Martin said. “She’s the only woman on a ship
carrying a hundred men. If he wants her, it seems prudent to stake
his claim.”

Martin
cleared his throat, then in Theo’s voice said, “Be quite certain,
Dooley. I won’t be a party to it if you’re entering into marriage
rashly.”

Dooley
reassured Theo that he was most serious, but agreed he would put it
off until they’d completed their mission in port. They made
landfall that evening, and a boisterous group set out to visit the
dockside taverns, hoping to find information on the Order of the Red
Eye or Dr. DeSade. George was still wearing the sling on his arm. He
stuck close by Theo’s side, asking questions of all they met,
spending Theo’s coin freely on drink to loosen local tongues.

Just
as in the last port city, the Ruthless
was mere hours ahead of them. And as in the last city, the visits of
the Ruthless
had been associated with suspicious activity at a local mansion where
mysterious lights were seen in the windows and strange sounds
emanated from behind high walls. A local boy called Rogan offered to
show them the way to this forbidding house.

Theo
and George returned to the Dauntless
along with the men chosen for the night’s mission. All except
Dooley put on the Order robes that had been taken from the corpses at
the last fight.

Rogan,
excited by the turn his evening had taken, cheerfully escorted them
through the town, full of questions about their mission.

Half
the men remained behind in the lane with Rogan to await Theo’s
signal (a gunshot) before joining the fight. Once again, they used
the dagger as a calling card and were let in by a slave butler
bearing a red-eye tattoo over a mesh of scars. They presented Dooley
as a captive valuable to Dr. DeSade and demanded to see whoever was
in charge.

As
they were led through the cavernous mansion, it seemed ominously
quiet and still. At the last port, Order minions had been at tasks
throughout the entire building, but here there was only the scarred
butler, and all they heard were the sounds of their own footsteps
echoing in the halls. They were led down into the bowels of the house
and past a surgical theater, brilliantly lit as if in preparation for
some sinister procedure. The next room contained cells like those
that had held the maimed slaves at the last Order house, but these
were empty, their doors standing open.

As
their group approached a heavy wooden door with an iron knob, the
door opened revealing a man with a supercilious air who wore a dark
moustache waxed into points, a military-style uniform, and shiny high
boots.

“You’re
too late,” this commandant said in a haughty tone. “He’s been
and gone and left me with the dregs.”

“Who
has?” Theo asked.

“The
good Doctor, of course,” said the commandant. “He took all my
staff and all my patients, and without a word of thanks.” He seemed
to notice Dooley then. “Who’s this?”

“A
prisoner. He escaped from DeSade and I intend to return him.”

“Oh,
don’t bother,” said the commandant. “DeSade’s got other
concerns now.” He pulled a knife from a sheath at his hip. “We
can just finish this boy now. It’ll save you the trouble of
transporting him.”

Theo
was not going to stand by and let Dooley be stabbed! “Now, men!”
At Theo’s command, the Dauntless
men threw back their robes and drew their weapons.

The
scarred butler, little more than an automaton doing DeSade’s
bidding, lunged at Boot and was stabbed fatally for his trouble,
dying with a gurgle, his eyes empty.

The
vain commandant was not about to kill himself as von Belcher had. He
put his hands in the air, surrendering immediately. “Who are you
people? What do you want?”

“I’m
Captain Theodore Drake, and we want answers. Who are you? Where did
DeSade go? Where is the Refuge?”

“I’m
Colonel Langtree,” Martin said in the haughty voice. “I told you
already, DeSade has been and gone. As for the Refuge, I’m not privy
to that sort of information. I only know that it exists.”

“Who
does know, then?”

“People
who outrank me,” said Langtree with a sniff. “And you’ll find
none of them here in this backwater. I’ve done such good work for
the organization but without a word of thanks from the higher-ups,
and now, of course, there’s no hope of promotion.”

While
two men held Langtree’s arms and a third held a cutlass to his
throat, Theo and Dooley searched the office. There were letters and
memos directing Langtree to carry out the mutilation and red-eye
tattooing of kidnapped slaves, but it was nothing more than the
mundane paperwork of a grisly and cruel business. There was no
mention of a Refuge, nor was there any discussion of DeSade’s
ultimate plan.

They
hadn’t found the clues they’d hoped for, but there was no point
to prolonging their search or their time in the Order house.

“Captain,”
Martin said in Boot’s growl. “What should we do with this one?”
Langtree was given a rough tap.

“He’s
evil, to be sure,” Martin-as-Theo mused, “yet he’s such a fool.
I find I don’t have the heart to kill him. Gag him, tie him, and
lock him in the cell.”

“No,
no!” Martin added a touch of desperation to Langtree’s
snootiness. “I’ll be quiet! I’ll be good! Don’t gag me; I
won’t abide it!” As the sailors prepared to do Theo’s bidding,
Langtree shouted out, “Wait! I know something!”

“What
is it, then?” Theo demanded.

“Don’t
gag me and I’ll tell you.”

“Very
well. If it’s useful, I won’t gag you.”

“It’s
the girl, the daughter. She knows the way to the Refuge. I don’t
know anything more than that! Find the girl, she’ll know!”

This
was good news! They had
the girl! Theo felt compelled to be fair to Langtree and honor his
promise.

The
sailors tied Langtree’s arms behind his back and tied his ankles
together and threw him into the cell. They could hear him shouting
for help as they retraced their steps back through the mansion. They
ran into a small group of Order minions coming to Langtree’s aid
and dispatched these sad creatures in a brief, dramatic fight that
resulted in the serious wounding of one of their number, a sailor
called Kittrick.

With
Kittrick’s condition in mind, Theo decided they would not search
the house, but immediately enlist Rogan’s assistance with finding a
physician to see to the wounded man. Outside in the lane, the waiting
men of the Dauntless
were sorry to have missed the fight, but concerned about Kittrick.
With an admirable sense of urgency, Rogan led them to the physician’s
house and Kittrick, bleeding heavily, was sewn and bandaged. The
doctor felt that Kittrick should remain with him overnight for
observation and told Theo he could return for his crewman in the
morning.

Back
at the ship, all who had been left behind had been worried that, with
the long delay, things had gone badly for the party. George was
waiting on deck alongside Jeanette, who ran to Dooley and held his
hand.

“George
ought to be able to hold Theo’s hand,” Henry said sulkily. “It’s
hardly fair that he can’t.”

“Well,
it’s like life, then, isn’t it, Henry? You can’t hold my hand
in front of all the world, after all.”

“There
are places where I could, though, I’m sure of it. I just need to
figure out where they are.” It bothered Henry that Martin didn’t
particularly mind how their displays of affection were restricted,
perfectly content with the status quo; whereas Henry wanted the
freedom to show everyone how undeniably they belonged together with
explicit clarity.

Bringing
George with him, Theo crossed the deck to relate what Langtree had
said to him in the Order house to Jeanette. “Have you remembered
anything else, miss?”

Martin
made Jeanette’s voice tremulous. “I’m sorry, Captain, but I
haven’t remembered anything of use. I don’t know what this man
Langtree is talking about!” She cried hot tears of frustration and
Dooley comforted her with an arm about her shoulders.

“You’ll
remember,” he told her. “You’re still tired and frightened, but
I’ll protect you, and then you’ll rest and remember.”

“Dooley
has a lot of confidence in himself,” Henry noted doubtfully.

Jeanette
turned her wet face against Dooley’s shirtfront and let him stroke
her hair. There was an interlude of the two of them sharing coy and
loving words which Henry found annoying since he knew he’d be
getting no such conversation between Theo and George.

“There’s
something I want to ask you,” Martin said in a hushed Dooley voice.
“Something important. I know we’ve known each other only a short
time, but you’ve become so special to me...Jeanette, would you…?”

“Yes?
Yes?” Martin made her sound so eager.

“Would
you marry me, dear girl? Would you please?”

“Yes!
Oh, yes!” She threw her arms around his neck and brazenly kissed
him—their first kiss, of course—and even though Henry remained
somewhat hostile toward Dooley, he couldn’t help remembering the
first time he’d kissed Martin and feeling a little thrill on
Dooley’s behalf.

It
was settled that they would marry the next day once Kittrick had been
retrieved and the Dauntless
was under sail. Everyone had kind wishes for the young couple. Theo
shook Dooley’s hand and congratulated him on taking on a man’s
responsibilities.

George
said, “Sir, you need rest. Shall we go below decks? The men will
take care of the ship, Sir.”

“Very
well,” said Theo. “We have an eventful day before us on the
morrow. A wedding, George! Imagine that! And the girl might yet
remember something we can use.”

There
was a moment’s pause before Martin spoke again, this time in his
own voice. “Oh, George just wants Theo to fuck him! Don’t you
think he’s practically begging for it after all the excitement?
Being so worried that Theo might get hurt, and then so happy he’s
made it back safely; I’ll bet riding Theo’s cock is all he can
think about.”

Henry
laughed. “Is that how you’d be, then? If I went off to fight and
you had to wait and wonder?”

“That’s
how I’d be,” Martin confirmed. “When you got home, I’d greet
you on my knees with my ass oiled and ready.”

“You’d
do that anyway,” Henry pointed out, amused. “I don’t have to
get in any fights.”

Martin
grinned and held Henry’s eyes with his own, kneeling up and
beginning to very deliberately strip off his clothes.

Henry
reached for his own tie. “Is the chapter finished, then?”

Martin
looked down at the page. “Theo agrees to go down and that’s it.
To be continued.”

Henry
pulled off his shirt. “So is that what you want, Martin? For me to
fuck you like I’ve just fought my way past an army of minions to
get to you?” Henry loved the idea, loved the dirty desperation of
it.

Martin
got to his feet and kicked off his trousers and drawers. “I want
that,” he agreed. “Fuck me like it’s making you live.”

Martin
was quickly naked, and he closed the space between them and helped
Henry yank off his clothes. “You’ve been through hell,” Martin
whispered, hot breath and then hot tongue in Henry’s ear. “You’re
fresh from battle, streaked in blood and grime, and stinking of
cordite.” He pulled Henry’s shirt up and over his head, and Henry
fought to loose his hands from the sleeves.

“Cordite?”

“Gunpowder,”
Martin told him. He leaned in and bit Henry’s neck, teeth closing
on the tendon. “I’m waiting for you. I’ve been
waiting, and waiting, and thinking only of you.”

“I’m
so dirty,” Henry said, eager to play along, “but you’re clean,
and you’re ready.”
He sat back to struggle out of his trousers and drawers. “Or
maybe,” he said, “Maybe it’s not me you’re waiting for.”

“Not
you?” Martin was puzzled.

“He’s
not coming,” Henry said. “I defeated him. You’re mine
now.” With this improvisation, Henry sought to banish the specter
of past suitors once and for all. Without further word, he attacked
Martin and brought him down to the carpet, a conqueror vanquishing a
worthy foe. Martin flung himself into Henry’s arms, met his kiss
with a snarl and the sharpness of his teeth. When Henry broke off
kissing him and rose to his knees, Martin stayed him with a hand
tight on his wrist.

“Don’t
go! We don’t need the oil,” he insisted. “Use spit, just spit.”

They
screwed furiously before the fire, Martin’s moans telling of both
his pleasure and his discomfort. Henry fucked him as hard as he
dared, reveling in Martin’s broken cries as his hips slammed
against his ass. Martin came without touching his cock, wincing even
as he arched his back and shot a ribbon of semen across his chest.

Henry’s
movements slowed; Martin was hurting. But, “Come in me, Henry,”
Martin begged in a low, urgent voice. “Fuck me until you come.”

A
terrifying wave of affection overcame Henry, a fondness so
overwhelming that it dwarfed any other emotion he’d ever felt.
Martin met his eyes, encouraging and urging him on. There was no
question, he would do whatever Martin asked of him. A minute later,
he came with a wrenching spasm, his cock jerking hard inside Martin’s
body. He let himself be drawn down to lie atop Martin, chest to
chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

“That
was just what I wanted,” Martin whispered. “To be fucked by a
hero.” He kissed Henry’s ear and smiled. “George should be so
lucky.”











Henry
had hoped to see Reggie again on Saturday, but at breakfast Pearl
informed him that the Wiltons had all come down with head colds.
Henry was prepared to go anyway, but everyone except him was in
agreement that he should not visit the family until they were well. A
farewell dinner for Uncle Reggie had been scheduled for the next
Friday, when they would all surely be on the mend, the night before
Reggie’s boat was scheduled to leave.

Father
was not in the breakfast room and it seemed unlikely that he would
turn up. Henry ate scrambled eggs, several rashers of bacon, sausage,
fried potatoes, and raisin toast. He’d sent Martin back to fill his
plate a second time when it occurred to him he might have a
conversation with his mother.

“Mother,”
he began. “You know, I did have lunch with Uncle Reggie last week,
if you’re interested…”

At
the mention of her brother’s name, Mother’s eyes opened wide and
her back straightened. “Of course, darling, I’d love to hear
about it.” She dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “I’ve spoken
to him on the telephone, but all he told me was that you’d had a
lovely time.”

“We
did,” Henry confirmed. “He told me why he left. Jesse said some
things to me on Christmas that made me think it might have been my
fault, but Uncle Reggie doesn’t blame me.”

Mother
frowned. “Of course he doesn’t, darling. It was all your father’s
doing.”

Henry
did
rather want to blame his father, but Reggie had convinced him he was
in large part responsible for his own exile. “Uncle Reggie thinks
he brought it on himself,” Henry suggested tentatively.

Mother
made a disgusted sound and put down her fork. “Reggie is too
generous,” she said. “Too willing to take the blame.”

“He
was pretty convincing, Mother,” Henry told her. “He wasn’t
blameless, I don’t think. But he’s going to be home for good
soon! Isn’t that what matters?”

“I
hate that he’s leaving again,” Mother said fretfully, as if Henry
had said nothing at all. “And he’s been so busy this month with
all those old friends of his, darling, that I’ve scarcely seen him
at all.”

“You
could go see him, you know,” Henry said gently, wary of angering
her. “You could see Uncle Gilbert and Aunt Virginia, too.”

“Well,
they’re all sick now, darling, and I’ll be seeing them Friday
anyway,” she said firmly. “I think it would be too much for me to
try to see them earlier.”

Henry
darted a glance at Pearl, whose expression was carefully blank,
wondering about his Mother’s fitness to go visiting. Henry had
never been sure how much of his mother’s disability was physical
and how much was willful. Surely, no one could take as much laudanum
as Mother did and remain fit even if nothing was physically wrong,
but perhaps she had some real physical debility, maybe something
related to all the lost babies. Henry did not wish to think too long
on his mother’s innards and shook off the mental pictures with a
shudder.

“Well,
I’m just happy that he gets to come home,” Henry told her. “I’m
looking forward to spending more time with him.”

Mother
sighed. “If only he hadn’t gone, darling…our lives would surely
have been very different.”

Henry
also felt this was true, but didn’t see the point on dwelling on
the nine years that were past. “Yes,” he said, “but he’s
coming home now,
Mother. We can start over, if we want.”

“Do
you really think so, darling?” Mother cocked her head and looked at
him quizzically. “I can’t help wanting to change the past, and
that makes it so
difficult to think about the future.” She sipped her tea and made a
face. “Ugh, it’s cold.” Pearl and Billy went into action behind
her chair, preparing her a fresh cup.

“I
do think so, Mother,” Henry said emphatically. He ate a last few
bites of fried potatoes and a corner of raisin toast while his Mother
sipped her fresh, hot tea.

“You
have a good attitude, darling,” she remarked. “I think you must
get that from your father.” When Henry raised his eyebrows,
surprised, she added, “Your father is the most optimistic person
I’ve ever met. Nothing fazes him, and he never met a problem he
couldn’t solve—by blunt force, if necessary.” She managed to
sound both disdainful and admiring.

This
was possibly the longest conversation Henry had ever had with his
mother and he was reluctant to end it while they still could find
things to say to one another. He held up his coffee cup and Martin
went to the sideboard to prepare him a fresh cup.

“I’ve
always wondered, Mother…” Henry began, “why did you marry
Father?”

Mother
gave him a sharp look, and for a moment Henry thought she’d call
him impertinent and refuse to answer, but her gaze softened and she
said nothing for a few long seconds.

“My
father died suddenly when I was 16,” she began, “right after my
debut. I’m not sure if you knew that, darling.” She looked at
Henry, expecting an answer.

“Sort
of,” Henry said. He’d known she was 16, at any rate.

“I
was a popular girl,” Mother continued. “Popular with other girls,
and popular with bachelors. I had a great many prospects, but because
I was in mourning for my father, and because I wished to complete my
schooling, it was agreed that I needn’t choose a husband until I
was 18.”

She
sipped her tea and seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “I
love my brother Gilbert, but he had no business taking over the
stores. They should have gone to one of our uncles. Gilbert was naïve
and gullible and trusting, darling, and those are not good qualities
in a businessman. The stores quickly began foundering under his
management, and then the accounts man embezzled a huge sum of money
and we Wiltons were finished.”

 
 
 























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































&nbsp;“I
guess I’d heard some of this,” Henry said. “Not about the
embezzling, though.”