2 - A Proper Lover(3)

Blackwell Family

Henry Blackwell & Martin

Hiram Blackwell & Timothy

Louisa Wilton Blackwell & Pearl

Cora Blackwell

Wilton Family

Gilbert Wilton & Harold

Virginia Wilton & Dolly

Bette Wilton & Vera

Jesse Wilton & Russ

Reggie Wilton & Benjamin

Eli Carmichael & Owen

Lyle Benson

Darwin Hatch

Blackwell Slaves

Nurse: Esther

Butler: Randolph

Footmen: Paul, Billy

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: Old Bob, Jack

Grooms: Jerry, Arthur

Stable boys: Little Bob, Danny

Errand Boy: Johnny

Algonquin School

Walter Addison & Harvey

Jeremy Blankenship & Ray

Joshua Brand & Miles*

Louis Briggs & Peter*

Freddie Caldwell & Tom*

Albert DeWitt & Stuart*

Randall Fox & Howard

Wendell Franklin & Ralph*

Maurice Gaines & Ollie

Daniel Hollingsworth & Allen

Gordon Lovejoy & Julian*

David Maxwell & Alex*

Adam Pettibone & Sam

Charles Ross & Simon*

Victor Spence & Will*

Robert Townsend & Dick*

Philip van Houten & Davey*

*Henry’s friends

They arranged themselves in the middle of the bed, head to tail. Henry loved the bitter-salty taste of Martin’s prick, loved the slippery heat of Martin’s mouth. They writhed together, moaning and slurping, lost in sensation, when there came a crisp knock at the door.

Martin jerked away, eyes wide, saying, “Under the covers, Sir!” in a hoarse whisper. He slid from the bed and ran for the dressing gown hanging on the bathroom door as the knock came again.

“Just a moment, please,” Martin called out, shoving his arms into the dressing gown and wrapping it tight around his torso. His prick was still hard, pushing at the heavy flannel and tenting it out from his body. Henry scrambled to get beneath the blankets as Martin unlocked the door.

“Yes?” Martin kept as much of himself behind the door as possible, which he opened little more than a crack.

“Mr. Blackwell’s father is wondering if he plans to come down for lunch,” Paul said. In a lower voice, he added, “I don’t think he’s meant to have a say in the matter, actually, Martin.”

“Oh! Please tell him Mr. Blackwell will be down directly,” Martin said. “Thank you, Paul.”

He shut and locked the door again. “Did you hear that, Sir?”

Henry nodded; he’d also heard the nervous honorifics. “I did. We’ll go down, I suppose. But if I’m having lunch with him, that means you’ve missed yours entirely.” Martin hadn’t taken lunch earlier with the rest of the slaves, and he couldn’t sit down and eat with Henry with Father also at the table.

“Perhaps I’ll eat later, Sir.” Martin did not seem concerned with getting a meal, but rather with getting Henry dressed. “Please, Henry, get up. Don’t dawdle.”

Henry swung his legs out of bed and stood to allow Martin to dress him in the clothes he’d had on in the morning. Martin quickly dressed himself and tied his hair neatly back. It had only taken them a few minutes, but doubtless Father would still be annoyed at Henry’s tardiness, though Henry did not think it fair for Father to judge him harshly when he hadn’t realized there were any expectations of him in the first place.

Down in the breakfast room, Father and Timothy were seated at the table. Timothy gave Henry a smile; Father gave him a long, hard look, quite critical.

“You’ve found something engrossing to do on this dismal day, I take it?” Father asked.

Henry flushed with mortified dread. “Uh…yes, sir. I’ve been…reading.” He did not sound confident of this, however, and he suspected Father did not believe him.

Father scowled at him until he felt his face was on fire.

“Aren’t you going to have Martin prepare you a plate, son?”

“Oh! Yes, please, Martin, will you fix me something?”

“Of course, Sir.” Martin went to the sideboard and began to select sandwiches.

Looking at Timothy serenely eating his lunch, Henry wished he could follow his father’s example and ask Martin to sit down, but he was not at all sure his father would allow it and did not want to ask and have Father deny Martin the privilege outright. He resolved that he’d make sure Martin was properly fed as soon as possible.

“It’s been some time since I’ve seen you on a Saturday, Father.” Henry’s voice went up a register at the end of his sentence, making him sound shamefully unsure of himself.

Father dabbed at his mustache with a napkin. “Is that a question?”

“Er…no, just an observation, sir.”

“I had a rare free hour,” Father said. “I expected I would see you at table at noon.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I-I don’t come at any set time.”

“You might consider keeping to a schedule,” Father remarked. “It’s a form of discipline, and you could certainly use more of that.”

Sullenly, Henry said, “Yes, sir,” and began to eat his lunch.

“Does your mother ever join you?”

Henry swallowed. “Almost never, sir,” he admitted. He didn’t feel compelled to cover for Mother; after all, Father knew what she was like.

“Hmph. Another person who could use some discipline.”

“Now, really, Sir,” Timothy said, his tone amused and slightly admonishing. No one else would dare speak to Father in such a way.

Father did not mind Timothy’s mild scolding. “Are you almost done, old man?”

Timothy coughed behind his napkin. “Yes, Sir. I’m quite full.” He stood and went to help Father out of his chair.

Martin also hurried to pull out Henry’s chair so he could stand to shake his father’s hand.

“Discipline, Henry.”

“Yes, sir.”

Father gave Henry a doubtful look and shook his head before leaving the breakfast room, Timothy at his heels.

Henry sat quietly and listened to the sounds of Father and Timothy preparing to leave the house echoing down the marble-floored hall. When the front door had shut behind them, he turned in his chair and looked up at Martin.

“They’re gone. You can eat now, don’t you think?”

Martin nodded. “It should be all right, Sir.”

After Martin was seated with a full plate before him, Henry leaned close and in a low voice asked, “Do you think my father knew?”

“Knew what, Sir?”

“Knew what we were doing.”

Martin thought a moment. “He couldn’t possibly know the specifics, Sir, but I’m sure he had some idea I was helping you achieve release.”

Henry felt heat rise up from his collar, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He’d rather hoped Martin would say otherwise, but Martin wasn’t a liar.

“But, really, Sir,” Martin said, “it’s an entirely respectable activity. You needn’t be ashamed. It’s a large part of what young gentlemen have slaves for, after all.” He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed.

Henry wished he could be relaxed about it, just as Martin was.

“You’re a very private person, Sir,” Martin continued. “It is important to keep—” and here he lowered his voice “—some things secret, but not anything any of your friends might do without concern.” He thought a moment, then added, “It might even be a good idea to share a little more with your friends, Sir. Just things you have in common with them. You’d stand out less, Sir. It’s something to consider.”

Martin was probably right—no, Martin was definitely right—but Henry couldn’t countenance relating any of the intimacies he shared with Martin to his friends, even a heavily-edited version. He did not trust himself to get it right, to share just the right amount, and felt quite certain he’d give too much away.

They ate their sandwiches, followed by yellow cake with chocolate icing, and left the dining room. Upstairs, Henry pushed Martin up against the door and kissed him hard and thoroughly, enjoying the sugary sweetness of his mouth. They undressed on their way to the bed, leaving a straggling trail of clothing on the floor behind them. Martin insisted on straightening the bedding that Henry had earlier put into disarray, but then they climbed up onto the bed and picked up where they’d left off.

Martin let Henry’s cock slide out of his mouth. “Henry, Henry please.”

“What is it?”

“Put your fingers in me, please, Henry.” He sucked Henry’s cock back into his mouth and moaned around it as Henry did as he’d asked. Henry crooked his fingers inside Martin’s body and Martin was shuddering still and spilling down his throat in short order.

It didn’t take long for Henry after that; he felt he could come at will once Martin was satisfied. Martin lay with him a few minutes enjoying the afterglow but soon became restless.

“Henry?”

“Yes?”

“While you’re resting, could I play my violin?”

“Naked?”

“Would you like that?”

Henry loved the idea of watching Martin play nude, dipping and swaying with his pink-and-white skin bared and tawny hair hanging loose. “Yes, of course. I’d love that.”

“I’ll just go get it, then.”

Violin held ready, Martin stood naked a few feet from the bedside, elegant and poised, and began playing the first movement of the partita, the allemande. He quickly lost himself in the music, eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration. Henry lay back amongst the pillows and took full advantage of the opportunity to admire Martin at leisure, appreciating the play of lean muscles beneath pale skin. As Martin shifted his weight from side to side, the fans of tendons across the tops of his feet were in fleeting evidence; likewise, the cords stood out on the back of his bow hand, and the muscles tensed and relaxed in his forearms as he played. Sharply-defined muscles were taut in his long thighs. Eyes still closed, his handsome face was shaped by effort into something almost saintly, suffering beautifully as his fingers formed the notes. His pretty cock lay limp in its nest of curls at first, but began to thicken as he played, and surely this was because Henry was watching him.

Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed while Martin played the first four movements with surety and skill, the music leaving his bow in silvery, sparkling ribbons. Over the course of these few months, Henry had become very familiar with this music, but he never tired of it. Martin’s love of the partita was exalted, spiritual in nature, and Henry’s was just dumb, animal pleasure, but it was love all the same. He didn’t know one note from another, but he knew the tunes and recognized the movements, and this knowledge made him feel sophisticated and allowed him to feel closer to Martin. The partita was definitely something they shared now, something of theirs.

Martin hesitated a long moment at the end of the gigue and then began the difficult chaconne. He played only a minute or so before he lifted the bow from the strings, and smiled at Henry. “Do you remember when you touched yourself? While I was playing?”

Henry reddened. Of course he remembered! How could he possibly have forgotten? But all he said was, “Yes, I remember.” It had been mortifying and exhilarating in equal parts.

“We could do that next.” Martin’s half-hard cock lurched toward vertical at the idea.

Henry looked at him quizzically. “While you play?”

Martin laughed. “No, we could just touch ourselves. And each other, too, if you’d like.”

“We could…” Henry agreed slowly. He felt a little shy of doing it but was unwilling to give in to this reticence. He could do this with Martin, to make Martin happy.

Martin beamed at him. “Let me just put away my violin.” He hurried into his own room and returned a few seconds later with a stiff prick and a look of happy anticipation on his handsome face. He got up onto the bed and sat close at Henry’s left side, their shoulders and hips rubbing, back against the headboard and legs stretched out before him. His prick stood upright, close to his belly, slick at the head. He reached for Henry’s prick, still soft, and Henry was embarrassed of this.

“I-I feel a little shy,” Henry admitted. He’d really only let Martin see him do it the one time.

“You know you don’t have to be shy with me,” Martin reminded him gently. “You can show me anything, anything at all.” He touched his own hard prick with a graceful gesture. “If you want, you can just watch me for now. Just until you feel in the mood.”

Martin put on an appealing show. His left hand stayed busy on his prick, but the right ranged over all his skin, all his body, touching his nipples and throat and ticklish sides. The little noises Martin made as he petted and stroked himself were like a muted version of the sounds he made when Henry touched him, when Henry was inside him, and the timbre of his voice went straight to Henry’s prick, which bobbed drunkenly upright from his lap.

Henry determined to act like a man and took up his cock with resolve and purpose, though his stomach was fluttery with nerves. He started with a few firm strokes, setting a pace, very aware of Martin’s eyes on his moving hand.

Martin made a pleased sound and bent his head to kiss Henry’s shoulder. “I know I always tell you this, Henry, but you have the most beautiful cock.”

“Yours is much prettier,” Henry said, believing it with all his heart.

Martin shifted closer, fairly glued to Henry’s side. Henry was very aware of the sound of their rasping breaths and the wet, slick slip of their hands moving over their cocks. He watched Martin’s deft fingers slide his foreskin up over the glistening head of his cock and then off again, over and over, and he felt the pattern in his own body, unintentionally duplicating Martin’s rhythm, picking up speed.

Martin leaned harder still against Henry’s side, nearly on top of him, and made an impatient little grunt, as if he still couldn’t get close enough. He got up on his knees and turned to straddle Henry’s lap, which Henry had not been expecting and it threw him off his rhythm.

Martin said, “Keep going.” He braced his hands against the headboard, and kissed Henry tenderly, searchingly, making a little throaty sound of satisfaction as Henry licked past his lips. He did something sinuous and melting with his tongue that caused Henry to squirm with arousal, and that combined with his own hand moving erratically over his slippery prick made him moan into Martin’s mouth.

Martin rested his forehead against Henry’s and together they looked down at Henry’s hand moving over his length. Martin gave a low moan and his prick jerked against his belly.

“It makes me so hot to see you like this, Henry,” he murmured, his lips brushing Henry’s. “Showing me what feels good.”

It made him blush to admit it, but he said, “I-I want you to see.” He wanted Martin to know him utterly and completely. “You,” he emphasized. “Only you.”

Martin held Henry’s face between his hands and gave him such a fond smile. “Oh, Henry.” He kissed him again, lingering and ardent. “I want you to touch me now.”

“Yes.” Henry immediately reached for Martin’s pretty cock and found it hard and eager. “You touch me, too.”

Martin’s hand felt better than his own, a thousand times better, and he wondered if it was the same for Martin. They stroked and jerked one another while they kissed. Martin came whimpering Henry’s name, and Henry came with a tragic groan and crushed Martin to his chest.

Afterward, there was semen on their hands, their thighs, their bellies, and Martin frowned at the mess.

As Martin wiped spunk from the shallow cup of his navel, Henry asked, “Are you a little sore?”

Martin laughed. “A little. Just when I come. But it still feels good.”

“Oh, yes, of course it feels good anyway,” Henry agreed. “But I’d never considered that maybe there’s a practical limit to how many times we can do it, that it might hurt too much to keep going.”

“Well, we won’t torture ourselves.” Finished with his work, Martin put his basin down on the nightstand. “If it hurts too much, we’ll have to stop.” He lay down and curled against Henry’s side, within the curve of his arm.

“I can still keep going. Can you?”

Martin turned his head to kiss Henry’s chest. “Yes, I can, too.”

“Do you want to take a nap?” Henry asked. “Just a little one?”

“We can’t sleep too long,” Martin cautioned.

“We’ve done it five times,” Henry said. “We’ve already set a record.”

Martin shook his head, not content to rest on their laurels. “We can set a better record, I know we can.”

“Nap first,” Henry insisted, kissing Martin’s forehead. “I’m sleepy.”

“I’ll set an alarm, then,” Martin decided, rolling to reach for the clock.

Henry fell quickly asleep and dreamed he was called on in Latin class, and when he stood to give his answer, his hard prick jutted out the open fly of his trousers, and his answer wasn’t a declension, but a demonstration of his masturbatory technique. Unashamed, he took himself in hand, and when he finished with a flourish, Dr. Foster said, “Very good, Mr. Blackwell,” and gave him an A.

“Henry. Henry, wake up.” Martin shook him gently, breath warm against his cheek.

Henry yawned and rolled to face him. “I’m awake.”

“Do you feel rested?” Martin smoothed Henry’s hair back from his forehead and stroked his cheek, his jaw, the line of his throat, with an expression of such melting tenderness that Henry felt quite overcome with gratitude, so thankful for Martin’s boundless affection. He felt full up with love and wanted to give it all to Martin.

“I feel good,” he said, tracing the edge of Martin’s tattoo with his finger. “I’m ready to do whatever you want.”

Martin propped himself up on his elbow and smiled down at Henry. “I want to ride you and come on your chest.” He reached for Henry’s wrist and pulled Henry’s hand to his stiffening cock.

Henry could see nothing wrong with this plan. He fondled Martin’s cock, letting it grow hard and straight in his hand. Martin leaned in and kissed him, just the barest brush of his lips and a flick of his tongue. Martin lingered a long moment with their eyelashes tangling and then kissed him again, harder, with an emphatic little grunt as Henry opened his mouth to him.

As they kissed, Martin pushed Henry down on his back and lay down on top of him, everything lining up as if they’d been made as a set, a matched pair. Martin moaned in rhythm with the movements of his hips, his cock sliding alongside Henry’s between their flat bellies. He held Henry’s head where he wanted it and ravished his mouth, his tongue finding all the sensitive places and drawing urgent whimpers from Henry’s throat.

The closeness that Henry felt, it wasn’t just their bodies. Here, with Martin so ardent and intent, what they were doing felt momentous, vital. He wasn’t like his friends with their slaves, all casual rutting and careless treatment. What he did with Martin had an effect on him, shaped him. It wasn’t just that it felt good. It meant something.

Henry trembled, a seismic shudder, and clutched Martin closer. He broke off kissing and buried his face in Martin’s soft neck.

“Henry?”

“You’ll be with me forever,” Henry blurted, a plea and a demand, his voice muffled against Martin’s skin.

“Henry?” Martin tried to push himself up, but Henry wouldn’t let him go.

“You’re mine.”

“Hey…” Martin petted Henry’s hair and bent to kiss his head. “Of course I am. And you belong to me.”

“I do,” Henry insisted. This mutual belonging meant so much to him, and he wanted it to mean more than sex to Martin, too.

“You’re my own,” Martin said softly. “My own dear Henry.”

Just yesterday, Martin had said he hadn’t expected to feel so much for a master, and Henry believed him, believed Martin cared for him, but Henry wanted to put a word to their mutual regard, to label it and give it validity. He wanted to be like other people, normal people; he wanted to be able to own up to love, if that was what this was.

Nearly everything he shared with Martin was forbidden, but he hadn’t yet done every forbidden thing. He did his best to appear a passable gentleman, but he knew his compliance with a few specific proscriptions would not temper his friends’ scorn if they discovered his secrets. His restraint wouldn’t convince his father, either. But so long as he didn’t allow Martin to touch his asshole, he would tell himself he wasn’t a fairy, despite everything.

But it was worse, he knew, to allow Martin to touch his heart. A gentleman would never fall in love with a slave. A gentleman would never fall in love with another man. Combining two forbidden loves in one treasured person was somehow worse than the sum of its parts. If Henry told Martin he loved him, it might well crack the thin veneer of social acceptability he wore so uneasily. He had to keep silent. It was safer for both of them if he said nothing.

He thought that Martin had some inkling, however. Looking up into Martin’s face, he saw a reflection of his own fragile emotions, his own desire for intimacy. Their physical attraction was a huge thing, overwhelming, but it wasn’t everything between them. There was more. He met Martin’s eyes and held his gaze, trembling all the harder. More than anything, he wanted the closeness, but it terrified him.

Martin kissed him, soft and lingering, his hair falling to either side of Henry’s face like a curtain, making a private world. He broke the kiss but stayed still a moment, resting his forehead against Henry’s. He let out a soft sigh.

“Martin?”

“Let’s…make love this time. Be sweet to each other.”

Henry agreed readily. “Yes. I want that.”

Martin pushed himself up and reached for the oil. He shifted to straddle Henry’s hips, A fine string of fluid connected the tip of his pretty cock to Henry’s belly. He wet his fingers with oil and reached back between his cheeks to prepare himself, wincing a little at first. His expression was serious, almost solemn, though he had bright spots of color high on his cheekbones and his breath came through parted lips.

Martin put more oil on his hand, a more generous amount this time, and reached back to slick Henry’s cock. Martin’s slippery hand felt like silk sliding over his skin and Henry’s cock jerked in his grip.

Softly, Martin asked, “Are you ready?” He didn’t wait for an answer but knelt up, held Henry’s cock in position, and eased back onto it, once again wincing as his hole was breached. He gave a shaky sigh and let his head fall forward, his hair falling in a sheet, obscuring his face. “You feel so good inside me.”

Henry held his breath as Martin took him in. The slick pressure around the head of his cock felt so good, felt new every time. He pressed his hand flat against Martin’s belly, feeling the muscles work as Martin tilted his hips, arched his back. Martin lifted himself up until just the head of Henry’s cock remained inside his body and paused a moment there before sinking back down, a delicious molten slide that made all the hairs stand up on Henry’s fevered skin.

Martin moved like this a little while, languid but thorough, making use of Henry’s length, muscles in his thighs flexing beneath Henry’s palms. Despite his obvious pleasure, his expression remained serious, thoughtful. Whenever Henry looked at his face, he was looking back, meeting Henry’s eyes, and it was almost more than Henry could bear. Under Martin’s intensely calm gaze, Henry felt laid open. No one knew him like Martin did, and no one else ever would.

Henry took hold of Martin’s cock in a loose fist, just touching it while Martin moved, letting him push through the circle of his fingers. Martin let out a shaky moan and Henry gave his cock a gentle squeeze, ran his thumb through the slickness at the slit.

Henry felt impetuous words welling up, thick in his throat. He wanted to tell Martin of his outsized feelings, his burgeoning love, but instead he bit his lip and tried to express himself through his actions, his hand on Martin’s pretty cock.

Martin sighed and ground himself down on Henry’s lap. “Henry,” he said. “Oh, god, Henry.” He was wild-eyed, hair falling across his face. He leaned forward to brace his hands on Henry’s chest and began to move more forcefully, little grunts as his ass smacked against Henry’s thighs. Henry reached back with both hands and grabbed Martin’s cheeks, pulled them wide, and lifted his hips to meet Martin’s buttocks. As Henry thrust up into him, Martin let out a quavering moan and folded over onto Henry’s chest, his face pressed against Henry’s neck. Henry slowed his movements but kept fucking him, sliding steadily in and out, while Martin made little cat cries and clung to his shoulders.

Sounding almost bereft, Martin said, “It feels too good, Henry. Too good.” He shivered and kissed Henry’s mouth, messy and whimpering with need. He pressed his knees tightly against Henry’s sides and moved against his thrusts, his timing erratic, making greedy little grunts each time Henry plunged deep. Martin’s helpless desperation made Henry want to protect and ravish him both. He dug his fingers into Martin’s buttocks and fucked him in short, hard thrusts while they kissed, Martin moaning into his mouth.

“Henry,” Martin gasped. “Oh, god, Henry, please.”

“What is it?” Henry asked. “What do you want?”

“Can I come, Henry? Please?” As Henry thrust into him, he cried out and begged, “Please,” again.

“Do it,” Henry urged. “On me, like you said.”

Martin pushed himself up off Henry’s chest and tossed his hair back. He was breathing hard, shaking, with that same look of saintly suffering that had shaped his face while he played the violin, but then he smiled at Henry, bright as the light of a star. Looking at him, seeing how emotional he was, made Henry emotional, too: so happy, unbearably happy.

Martin lifted up off of Henry’s lap and took hold of his cock with his left hand and began to work it with efficient little flicks of his wrist. Henry grasped Martin’s hips, planted his feet firmly on the bed, and pounded up into Martin’s quivering ass while Martin made little injured-sounding cries, like a broken bird.

“Oh, Henry! Oh, please, Henry!” Martin shuddered and stilled, his cock jerking in his hand, and his hot spunk hitting Henry’s skin with force. “Oh! Oh, god!” The muscles in his belly contracted in rhythm with his flexing cock as he eased himself down Henry’s length. “You now,” Martin said breathlessly. “Please. Don’t wait. Come in me while I’m still shaking.”

Henry did as he was told, once again thrusting up into Martin’s plush, tight, perfect ass while Martin whimpered and gasped, hanging over Henry with his hands braced on the bed. Henry looked up and met Martin’s eyes, and for a moment he was absolutely certain that Martin loved him, too, and then he came in a cascade of dazzling white sparks, giving a shaky groan as he gathered Martin close and wrapped his arms around his back.

They stayed locked together until their hearts slowed, until it began to matter that it was hard to breathe holding each other so tight. With a sigh, Martin climbed off Henry’s cock, which was still hard. A white pearl of semen slid down the shaft and disappeared in coarse curls. Martin stretched out at Henry’s side and put his head on his chest, avoiding the skin that was slick with spunk.

“That was the best we’ve done today,” Martin said softly. “Don’t you think?”

It was by miles. “Definitely the best.” Henry kissed the top of Martin’s head.

They lay in contemplative silence a few minutes, a bubble of intimacy, Henry stroking Martin’s hair with shaking hands, full of feeling. Henry’s love felt too big for his body. It made him feel nobler than he possibly was. It might be the best thing about him.

“What are you thinking about, Henry?”

He answered readily. “How much I like you. How glad I am I found you.”

“I feel that too. We’re lucky, aren’t we?”

Henry felt quite confident that none of his friends shared this kind of precious closeness with his slave. He felt he truly was a proper lover to Martin, just as he wanted to be, and that it meant more than mere sex.

“No one matters more to me than you,” he said, giving it the force of a vow.

“I feel the same,” Martin said. “Not because you’re my master—not because it’s my work—but because I care for you, too.” He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Henry’s chest and then rubbed his cheek on the spot where he’d pressed his lips. “It hurt a little when I came,” he admitted, seeming more amused than upset.

Henry laughed. “I’m a little sore, too. How’s your ass?”

“It feels fine. It feels good.”

“Promise to say something if it’s too much.”

“It’s been only three times with my ass,” Martin pointed out. “We’ve done that lots of times before.”

“Promise.”

Martin’s sigh implied Henry was being ridiculous. “I promise.”

They stayed close and warm, Martin seeming content to stay put instead of bustling around with his basin, and Henry appreciated this. He must have dozed a little, because he was jolted alert by Martin asking a question.

“Henry, do you want to try one more time before I go down, or should we wait until after dinner?”

Henry felt heavy and slow, not at all up to the task. “What? Oh, let’s wait.”

Martin sat up and climbed over Henry and down off the bed, reaching for his basin on the nightstand. Henry was just grateful Martin had been willing to hold off as long as he had.

After Martin’s ablutions were complete, he stretched out on top of Henry, his hair spread across Henry’s face, and Henry reveled in the weight of him, the solidity. He was lean, but he was substantial and real. Henry wasn’t imagining him, even if he was something out of a dream.

“Are you thinking about what you want to do next?” Martin asked.

Henry laughed. Martin was so driven! “No, I haven’t thought about it at all.”

“You want to keep going, don’t you?” Martin seemed worried that this would not be the case.

Henry would keep going because that’s what Martin obviously wanted to do. He would endeavor to keep going until Martin was satisfied; he was already quite content.

“Of course we’ll keep going,” Henry told him. “I’ll think about what we should do while you’re at dinner.”

“I should get ready,” Martin said, rolling off of Henry and getting down from the bed. He moved about the room picking up the clothes they’d tossed on the floor. He hung Henry’s suit in the wardrobe, carried their soiled linens into his own room, and emerged fully dressed a short time later looking very proper, his hair pulled back neatly.

“Do you need anything before I go, Henry?”

“Just a kiss.”

Martin smiled and bent over him to give him a kiss, soft and sweet, before leaving.

Alone, Henry, did consider what they might do next. They had tried sex in all sorts of contorted positions in the past, but neither had ever wanted to revisit those poses. Some of the things Henry thought of seemed unduly taxing of one or the other of the parties involved; maybe it was enough to simply alternate general methods and follow Martin’s rule.

Henry slept again, this time without memorable dreams, and woke when Martin returned to dress him for his dinner. Martin admitted with some amused embarrassment that he must have been emitting some sort of inner red light, an erotic aura that hinted at how he’d spent his day, as Billy and Jerry had spent the dinner hour teasing him mercilessly about the more intimate aspects of his job.

“They wouldn’t let up, not until Mr. Tim told them to leave me alone.”

Henry didn’t like the sound of this. “Are you sure you’re okay with them treating you that way? I can say something about it.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine, Henry. It was embarrassing, but I’m a little proud, too. I don’t mind everyone knowing that I do a good job for you, and that I enjoy it. I would be a terrible companion otherwise, don’t you think?” He helped Henry on with his jacket and looked over his shoulder, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

“It makes it so much better that you enjoy it,” Henry assured him. “If I felt you were just putting up with it, I wouldn’t want to do it nearly so often. Probably not at all.”

“I love having sex with you,” Martin said simply and solemnly. He came around and ran his hands over the lapels of Henry’s jacket. “There, you’re ready.”

Henry ate his dinner without tasting it and was restless in the parlor while Pearl read, impatient to return to his marathon.

“You have the attention span of a gnat,” Father remarked about his fidgeting, and Henry blushed at his disapproval.

Released to return to his bedroom, Henry was undressed, and then Martin dealt with their laundry while Henry brushed his teeth. Henry was tired, maybe even a little tired of sex, but he determined he would soldier valiantly on so long as Martin needed him to do so. Upon Martin’s return, they made a seventh attempt, ultimately coming to a satisfactory conclusion as they sucked one another’s cocks. Before their eighth effort, both admitted to a little soreness and fatigue, but Martin adamantly wanted to continue, so Henry spooned and fucked him while they kissed.

The eighth orgasm was pleasurable and painful in equal measure. Henry was ready to be done, thinking eight times was quite enough, but Martin pressed for one more go.

“I’m sure we could have done it once more before dinner,” Martin said. “We should do it once more now to make up for not doing it then.”

“Do you think you can even come again?” Henry asked, feeling dubious about the prospect for himself.

“Yes,” Martin said firmly. “It might take a bit more work, but I’m sure I can.”

“All right,” Henry said. “Once more. Whatever it takes to get the job done, even if we have to break the rule.”

They tried a lot of different things, variations on themes. Henry came the ninth time with surprising ease with a combination of Martin’s mouth and hands. Martin took longer, straddling Henry’s waist and tugging on his own cock with Henry’s fingers hooked deep in his ass.

“Come on,” Henry urged. “Come for me, you dirty boy.”

“Oh, god, Henry!” Martin’s hand sped up.

“Come on me, Martin. Do it.”

Martin moaned and threw his head back. “Henry!”

“That’s right,” Henry said encouragingly. “Do it for me, Martin. Come for me.”

Martin hunched over, his hand moving erratically, and then stilled, the muscles in his stomach jumping as his cock jerked out a few paltry drops of jism onto Henry’s belly. “Oh,” he said, “Oh, god, Henry. That hurts!” He laughed and folded forward into Henry’s arms. “That really hurts!”

They rolled back and forth on the sheets, giggling. Henry teased, whispering, “One more time? Just once more?” and Martin laughed and shoved him away.

When at last Martin got up to fill his basin again (which Henry thought entirely unnecessary considering his meager final output), he moved a little gingerly.

“Are you in pain?”

Martin smiled at him. “I’m tender. It’s fine, though. I knew I would be but I wanted to do it anyway.” He wiped Henry’s chest clean with a dreamy smile. “We had a wonderful day, didn’t we?”

“It was amazing,” Henry agreed.

“I was right. We could have done it once more before dinner.”

“We did nine, though, Martin. Nine’s a lot.”

“It is a lot,” Martin conceded. “But ten would’ve been even better. Double digits!”

Martin returned his basin to the bathroom and then got into bed with Henry, curling up against his chest. Henry felt raw and tender, emotionally and physically, and he felt slightly in awe of Martin, whose endurance seemed almost heroic.

As he was falling asleep, sifting through the last traces of the glittering, epic affection that had fueled his day, Henry felt so very lucky, so blessed. His heart throbbed slow and heavy in his chest, aching with inchoate feelings.

In the aftermath of all their sex, Henry had a satisfying awareness of his physical self, a sense that he was a particularly sleek, robust animal, and he reveled in this confidence. He was not invincible, however, and he couldn’t help wondering what would happen if—when—his love for Martin continued to grow. He already felt quite at capacity, skin tight, bursting at the seams, with scarcely room enough to draw breath. If his affection increased, it seemed certain to blow him apart, and the idea was exhilarating and terrifying both. When Henry had dreamed of some intimacy with a boy, when it had all just been imaginings, he’d never suspected it could be so tender. Even the dirty moments, the rough moments, were sweet as nectar.

He was gripped by a strong desire to be vulnerable with Martin, to be utterly open to him, and he might have dared to say some extravagant, passionate words if Martin had been receptive, but Martin was already asleep, his breath warm against Henry’s throat. Henry smoothed his hair back from his forehead and kissed his fluttering eyelids. His affection for Martin was a pressure in his chest, in his throat, bringing tears to his eyes. He drew Martin closer still and fell asleep quickly, soothed by Martin’s steady breaths and the measured beats of his heart.

Sunday morning, Henry awoke with the muscles of his hips and ass pleasantly sore from his day of vigorous sex. Martin was only just up and out of bed, stretching with arms overhead and back arched, still naked. He had a handspan bruise on his hip and Henry felt a peculiar satisfaction knowing he’d put it there.

“Oh, you’re up early,” Martin noted with a smile, seeing that Henry was awake. “You don’t need to get up yet. You can sleep awhile longer if you’d like.”

“You should come back to bed,” Henry suggested, lifting the sheet in invitation. “It’s nice and warm.”

Martin smiled again, but shook his head. “I have to go down for my breakfast, Henry.”

“Eat with me instead. My parents are never there.”

“But they could be,” Martin pointed out. “Any day they might decide to eat with you, and I don’t want to go hungry.”

“I wouldn’t let you go hungry,” Henry promised. He patted the bed. “Just lie down with me a minute.”

Martin laughed and shook his head again. “I have to go downstairs. But if we’re lucky, I’ll be able to sit down with you while you eat, too.” He went into the bathroom and began running the taps for the shower.

Henry sighed and flopped back against his pillow. He shifted, noting the satisfying ache in his hips. He thought Martin would surely be sore, too, but suspected he would not mind the discomfort either. Thinking over their marathon day, Henry’s cock stiffened and he petted it idly, a soothing gesture, while he remembered particularly tender moments, specific angles, the roughness of Martin’s cries and the softness of his mouth.

After an efficient few minutes, the shower was shut off, and moments later a steamy mist emanated from the hallway. Henry could hear Martin opening and closing drawers in his own room.

“Martin?” he called.

Martin appeared in the doorway dressed in fawn trousers and unbuttoned shirt. His hands went to the placket of the shirt as he said, “Yes, Henry?”

“How are you feeling this morning? Are you sore?”

Martin grinned, his cheeks pinking. He shook his head. “I feel good.”

Martin went downstairs, and Henry intended to go back to sleep, but his eyes didn’t want to stay closed. He rolled around restlessly, making a messy nest of the bed, and buried his face in Martin’s pillow, smelling his scent on the case.

While he was dreamily breathing in vetiver, he remembered that Louis had broken things off with Miss O’Malley last night while he’d been enjoying himself with Martin—while they’d been enjoying each other. Even if the break-up had gone relatively well for Louis, without tears or accusations, Henry imagined it couldn’t have been a particularly happy scene; after all, no matter how well Miss O’Malley took the news, Louis was still going to end up without a girl.

Henry couldn’t help comparing his own ideal situation to that of his friend and thinking how much better off Louis would be if only he felt for Peter what he’d claimed to feel for his Bridget.

Near lunchtime, and when he was sure the Briggs family would have returned from church, Henry called Louis to inquire about his evening.

“Come over,” Louis suggested. “I don’t want to talk about it over the telephone.” He didn’t sound happy, Henry noted.

After lunch, he and Martin walked up to the Briggs house, Martin wincing a little from time to time.

“You are sore,” Henry said, concern and a faint accusation in his tone. “Tell the truth, Martin. Did I hurt you?”

Martin smiled and shook his head. “I am a little sore today, Sir, but I’m fine. I promise you, I don’t mind it at all. We had such a good day, don’t you think?”

It had been an amazing day, a momentous day. “Yes,” Henry said. His whole body was flooded with heat at the memories of everything they’d done, everything they’d shared, and the way it had made him feel, not just in his body but in his heart. “It was the best day.”

“What about you, Sir? Are you sore?”

“It stings when I pee,” Henry admitted in a low voice. “But I don’t care because it just reminds me of everything we did.”

Martin laughed. “Well, that’s how I feel about my ass, Sir.”

They were at the Briggses’ front door. Patrick let them in and took their coats.

“Mr. Briggs is expecting you,” Patrick informed them. “You’re welcome to go upstairs.”

Louis was sitting on the floor of his bedroom, a surly expression on his face, slumped back against the footboard of his bed, arranging a handful of toy soldiers with the air of a cat toying with a mouse.

“They’re Teddy’s,” he explained. “I took them away from him.”

“Why?” Henry asked, baffled.

Louis shrugged. “I felt like it.” He flicked at a soldier with his fingernail and the whole lot of them fell like dominos, scattered on the floor. He looked up at Henry and his eyes were full of anguish.

Henry sat on the floor beside Louis; Martin went to sit with Peter a few feet distant.

Henry didn’t have to ask Louis any questions; he began speaking without preamble. “It was pretty awful, Henry. She cried a lot,” Louis said, sounding remorseful. “She wouldn’t take the money, so I gave it to her friend to give to her later.” He hesitated and sighed. “I don’t know, Henry. Maybe I made a mistake.”

Henry felt almost positive that he had, but again did not say so. “Well, you know you weren’t ever going to be able to marry her,” he pointed out, hoping to make Louis feel better. “I know you had fun with her, but it’s probably better that you got out before things got too serious.”

“That’s the sort of girl I ought to be with though,” Louis said. “Someone who likes me, someone who likes sex, someone who’s not always looking over my shoulder to find a more handsome guy.”

“There’ll be girls like that,” Henry promised. “When we’re of an age to think about marriage, there’ll be a girl, I know it.”

“She really liked me,” Louis said, almost in wonderment. “She thought I was funny.” His voice heavy with regret, he said, “And in the end, I treated her like a whore.”

“You know,” Henry suggested hesitantly, scooping up one of the soldiers to fidget with, “I’ve been thinking…doing things James’ way might not be the best for you, actually. You and James are pretty different, after all.”

Louis was quiet a long minute. “You could’ve said something before.” Louis sounded more than a little accusatory. “If I thought you were going to do something stupid, I’d say something.”

“I didn’t say stupid!” Henry insisted. “Just…maybe you didn’t need to treat her that way. Maybe you could’ve just said goodbye nicely, if you had to say goodbye at all.”

“You don’t even think I should have broken it off with her, do you?” Now Louis sounded blatantly hostile.

Henry was beginning to wish he hadn’t come over. “I-I didn’t say that, either. If it was time to end it, you’d know better than I would. You don’t need to take your mood out on me.”

Louis seemed to recognize the truth in what Henry said. “Sorry. I just feel like I made a bunch of mistakes, one after another, and now I feel bad about hurting her feelings.”

“Could you make it up to her?” Henry stood the soldiers up in a row.

“I doubt it,” Louis told him. “She made it pretty clear she doesn’t want to speak to me ever again.”

“Well…” Henry didn’t know what to tell him. “You won’t make this mistake next time, I guess.”

“If there’s a next time,” Louis said darkly. “I should’ve just stuck with Peter. That’s what he’s for, after all, and I don’t have to have a bunch of feelings about it, either.”

Henry darted a glance at Peter, who seemed unaffected by this statement. This was, of course, certainly not Henry’s experience at all, but he supposed it was possible that Louis felt no emotional connection to Peter, at least no connection related to sex. “Sure,” he agreed. “That’s what slaves are for.”

They all four played poker for a short while, but Louis was restless and distracted.

“It’s your turn, Sir,” Peter said gently. “Are you going to bet, Sir?”

Louis laid down his cards. “I don’t want to play any more, I don’t think. I’m sorry, Henry. I’m just feeling so down.” He sat slumped so low he was practically lying on his back.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No, stay. Talk to me. Do you know any gossip?”

Henry did not. Louis was the one who heard gossip. Henry was silent, racking his brain for any tidbits of interest.

“I-I know some gossip, Sir,” Martin suggested in a nervous voice. “It’s only slave gossip, of course, Sir, but maybe you’ll find it amusing.”

“Oh?” Louis lifted his head and looked a little interested. “About which slave?”

“Alex, Sir. Mr. Maxwell’s slave.”

“You don’t like Alex, do you?” Louis recalled.

“N-no, Sir,” Martin admitted. “We don’t get along.”

“Do you know what gossip he’s talking about?” Louis asked Peter.

“I think so, Sir, but I’ll let him tell it.”

“Well, Sir,” Martin said, sitting up straighter, “as you may already know, Alex asked Mr. Maxwell for permission to court a girl who belongs to another house and Mr. Maxwell said no, which of course is his right. Alex wasn’t at all happy about this—”

“He wasn’t, Sir,” Peter put in. “He said some very disrespectful things where everyone could hear.”

“Like what?” Louis asked, definitely interested.

Peter’s face reddened. “It was extremely inappropriate, Sir.”

“Just say it, Peter. Tell me what he said.”

Peter looked very much as if he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “He said things about Mr. Maxwell’s performance in bed, Sir. Of course, it’s not Mr. Maxwell’s job to please Alex, Sir, but Alex said that he didn’t.”

“Really?” Louis seemed intrigued and quite frankly delighted by this bit of information.

“So Alex wasn’t happy at all, Sir,” Martin continued. “He became very resentful of Mr. Maxwell and began doing little things, little acts of defiance, to see if Mr. Maxwell would notice and reprimand him. Things like mismatching shirt studs and cuff links, or deliberately giving him wrong answers for homework.”

“So did David notice?”

“Mr. Maxwell thought they were honest mistakes, Sir, but in the meantime Alex was telling everyone at school exactly what he’d done, trying to get back at Mr. Maxwell for denying him the privilege of courting this girl.”

“Do all of you talk so freely about your masters?” Louis asked. “I’ve got to say, I don’t like that idea at all.”

“We all share things with our particular friends, Sir,” Peter admitted. “But most of us are careful what we share even then. We don’t want our masters gossiped about. Alex practically invited gossip, Sir, going on like he did.”

“Mr. Maxwell was very tolerant of Alex’s ‘mistakes,’ Sir, and so Alex had to try harder to get his attention,” Martin continued. “It was very childish and immature of him, I must say. He waited until Mr. Maxwell was asleep and left his room to go spend the night with one of the Maxwell chambermaids, and they both got thoroughly drunk on liquor they’d stolen, and when Mr. Maxwell woke up, Alex wasn’t there.”

Henry imagined waking up and finding Martin gone; he would be frantic. Perhaps David wasn’t as attached to Alex as Henry was to Martin, but it must have been disconcerting at the very least.

“What do you think he was trying to accomplish?” Louis asked. “Did he want a whipping?”

“He doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, Sir,” Martin said. “I don’t know if he even considered what might happen. As you know, I don’t get along with him, and his incomprehensible behavior is one reason.” He considered the situation a moment, then added, “I think he just wanted to hurt Mr. Maxwell. It’s quite a betrayal just for him to have told the rest of us slaves about the sex they have, and then trying to make Mr. Maxwell look like a chump by deceiving him and talking about it…it would never be my way, Sir, nor Peter’s.”

“No, of course not, you’re good slaves,” Louis agreed. “So did David have to hunt him down? How did this all play out?”

“They searched all over the house for him, Sir, Mr. Maxwell along with some of the other Maxwell slaves, and they found him still drunk and naked with this girl. Mr. Maxwell was furious, of course, and dragged Alex out of the girl’s bed.”

“What day was this?” Louis asked. “Remember, Henry, there was that day when David missed English and showed up for Mr. Granger’s class in a foul mood? That must have been it.”

Henry did remember. “He wouldn’t tell anyone why he was late. He’s got more sense than his slave, then, I guess.” Henry turned to address Martin and Peter. “Because Alex had to have told you all of this himself, right?”

“Yes, he did, Sir. He was bragging about it,” Martin said. “Mr. Maxwell Senior decided that it wasn’t worth punishing Alex over, so he felt like he’d gotten away with something.”

“It sounds like he’s crazy,” Louis noted. “Actually not right in the head. I feel bad for David having a slave who’s nuts.”

“I’ve never liked Alex, Sir,” Martin reminded them, his tone a little snooty.

“What house is he from, again?” Louis asked. “I’m trying to picture his mark…”

“Nereus, Sir,” said Peter.

“Nereus is a newer house, of course, Sir,” Martin said in the same judgmental tone. “But I know they go through the same sort of psychological testing that Ganymede slaves do, so he must have been very crafty to pass.”

“We had to pass tests, too, Sir,” Peter added. “Everyone does. No one is supposed to act like Alex is acting, no matter which House he’s from.”

Louis seemed quite cheered. “This is very interesting information,” he told the slaves. “Why didn’t either of you tell us before?”

Martin looked abashed. “We really shouldn’t have told you at all, Sir. It’s not done to spread gossip about masters—”

“Even when the slave is asking for it, like Alex is doing, Sir,” Peter interjected.

“It’s not done, Sir,” Martin continued, “because we don’t want our own masters talked about.”

“Martin’s very careful anyway, Sir,” Peter noted. “He never talks about Mr. Blackwell at all.” Peter darted a glance at Henry and gave him a quick smile. “And I never have anything to talk about with you, Sir, since you just tell all of your friends everything anyway.” He laughed and Louis joined him. “But some of the others are not so discreet.”

“Like who?” Louis asked. “Tell me more!” Obviously, this gossip was cheering Louis up a great deal.

Henry also wanted to know more but felt shy about saying so. It was a relief to think that Martin really didn’t talk about him with the other slaves, but it also reminded him that Martin could, and if Martin were indiscreet, Henry’s life would be ruined.

“M-maybe I could tell you some things without using names, Sir? Would that be all right? I would feel better about betraying confidences if I could do it that way.” Martin was understandably hesitant; he was, after all, betraying his friends for the sake of entertaining Louis.

Louis thought on it a moment. “Well, it’s not as fun that way, but I guess it would be all right,” he allowed.

Martin also took a moment to gather his thoughts. “There’s one of your friends, Sirs, who makes his slave compliment him on his cock, making him say, ‘Oh, Sir, your cock is so big,’ and ‘Oh, Sir, your cock is so beautiful,’ and makes him pretend to choke on it, but of course his cock isn’t big in the least. Quite to the contrary, Sir, and he doesn’t come anywhere near close to satisfying his slave.” After a brief pause, Martin added, “Of course, it’s not a master’s job to satisfy the slave, Sir, but most do at least try.”

Louis snorted in amusement.

“Lots of the masters want to be reassured their cocks are impressive, Sir,” Peter pointed out.

“I’m not worried on that account,” Louis said, laughing and clearly bragging. Henry laughed with him but of course gave no indications as to the nature of his own cock, satisfactory or otherwise, and Martin maintained a polite, bland expression while the others chuckled.

“Another of your friends is worried that having sex with his companion will turn him into an invert, Sir,” Martin said. “He’s very concerned that he’ll get too accustomed to seeing a boy’s body during sex and won’t be attracted to a woman when he finally has one in front of him. So he bought his slave a gown, Sir, and makes him dress up and paint his face before they have sex—”

“He makes him simper and act coy, Sir, like how he imagines women act,” Peter added. “He even calls him by a girl’s name sometimes, can you imagine?”

Louis looked at Peter. “Petra,” he said. He turned to look at Martin. “Martina.” Then he began to laugh again, deep belly laughs, and clutched his sides. Louis was still rolling on the floor when Peter began to speak again.

“Did you know, Sirs, that there’s at least one master who kisses his slave?” Peter said. He caught Martin’s eye and said, “You know who I’m thinking of,” and Martin nodded reluctantly, seeming a little uncomfortable with the tack the conversation was taking.

“Really?” Louis was riveted, definitely interested. “And the slave told you?”

“He only told because he wanted advice, Sir,” Peter explained. “He doesn’t like it at all, but he doesn’t want to get his master in trouble with his family, and if he told the master’s father or the father’s companion, then his master would definitely be in hot water. He just wanted advice on how to get his master to stop.”

Henry felt sorry for this master who surely intended his kisses to be pleasant for his slave, and he also felt badly for the slave who had to put up with unwanted attentions. Henry thought it deplorable that slaves had to put up with malicious acts by their masters, but it must be nearly as terrible to endure affectionate acts that were unwelcome. Yet, for a good slave, were any acts actually unwelcome? Wasn’t it part of the companion’s job to be receptive?

“What did you all tell him, then?” Louis asked. “How to get the master to stop?”

“No one had good advice, Sir,” Martin admitted. “Most just suggested eating lots of onions or being deliberately bad at kissing. Things like that. If a master is determined to kiss a slave, Sir, there’s really nothing the slave can do about it without souring the relationship entirely.”

“Yeah, I can see how going to the master’s dad or the dad’s companion isn’t really a good option either,” Louis mused. “The dad would get angry at the master for acting like a fairy, at the very least, and it would be embarrassing all around.” He thought another moment, then added, “I’ll bet a lot of the masters have been inappropriate with their slaves, though, right?” He looked between Peter and Martin, both of whom wore studiously blank expressions and averted their eyes. “Fine, don’t say, but I know I’m right. Some of the guys have confessed things to me—”

“To you?” Henry said, surprised. Louis was not known for keeping secrets, though he supposed Louis might be considered a sympathetic ear.

“I can keep a secret if I have to,” Louis said, defensive and a little proud. “And I’m not going to name names, but some of our friends have gone a little further than they’re supposed to, let’s just say.”

Henry desperately wanted to know which of their friends Louis was talking about, but didn’t think he could press him for names. Maybe Martin would tell him later, because surely Martin would know.

“We’re young,” Henry said with a shrug. “People make mistakes when they’re young, right?” Considering his own behavior, he was more than willing to be a little generous with their friends who might have strayed from the righteous path.

Louis shook his head. “I worry about some of these guys, Henry. Touching slaves, after all…it’s a slippery slope, and there’s a big pile-up at the bottom.” He laughed, though. “Of course, all of our friends are rich, and almost anything can be smoothed over with money. Maybe they don’t have anything to worry about, after all.”

Henry laughed, the sound of it very false to his ears, but seemingly believable to the others. “Yeah, probably not. Money solves most problems.”

It was time for Peter’s dinner, then, so they took their leave. Louis was in much better spirits as he told them goodbye, and Henry was grateful to Martin for cheering him up.

“I could tell it made you uncomfortable to share that gossip with him,” Henry said, jumping a puddle as they crossed the street. “I really appreciate that you did it, though. You helped my friend, Martin. Thank you for that.”

Martin looked very pleased at the praise. “You’re welcome, Sir. I don’t like seeing Mr. Briggs so unhappy, either.”

“It was a mistake for him to break up with Miss O’Malley, though.”

“Oh, definitely, Sir.”

“You told me to telephone him and I didn’t do it,” Henry noted. “I should’ve listened to your advice.”

“Oh, well, Sir, what’s done is done,” Martin said, clearly uncomfortable with this line of conversation.

They got home and went upstairs before Martin would have to go down again for his own dinner. Henry hurried to his room, tugging Martin along by the wrist. Inside, he held Martin close and felt such gratitude for what they had together. He would never have Louis’ problems. He would never have to mess around with dance hall girls, would never have to worry about whether he was only liked for his money. Thinking of the other young masters, he couldn’t imagine a scenario in which Martin would betray or defy him, and he felt quite sure that Martin wasn’t lying about enjoying sex with him. Their relationship was perfect. He would never have to worry about Martin leaving him. He would have Martin for the rest of his life, and having Martin made that life worth living.

Cora’s birthday was on Wednesday, which Henry would not have remembered, but Martin had learned this from Nurse and on Tuesday morning reminded Henry as he dressed him for school.

“So what should we do?” Henry asked. Unless things had changed a great deal since his own childhood, there wouldn’t be a party, as such. He lifted his chin so that Martin could tie his necktie.

“Well, Nurse says there’ll be cake upstairs in the afternoon and that we’d be welcome to join them when we get home from school. Little Miss would be so happy, don’t you think? She’d love to see you.”

Henry snorted. “I think it’s you she wants to see.”

Martin smiled at him in the mirror. “She’ll be happier if we’re both there, then.”

After school, they walked to the toy store in search of a suitable present, again at Martin’s suggestion. Henry was at a loss as to what Cora might appreciate. She had plenty of dolls. There were board games, but if Henry got her one, he’d then have to play it with her. Maybe it would have to be a doll after all; he would have to ask Martin’s opinion as to which one might be best, since Martin knew more about Cora’s existing assortment than he did.

Henry put down the game he’d been looking at. “Martin?”

There was no reply, and Henry looked around and saw no sign of Martin up or down the aisle. Henry frowned, displeased that Martin had just wandered off without saying a word. He went looking for him, and found him two aisles over examining the contents of a large pasteboard box.

“Martin.” Henry was prepared to be annoyed with him.

“Oh, there you are, Sir. Look what I’ve found. I think Little Miss would love this, don’t you?”

“You just wandered off,” Henry said in an accusatory tone, but he looked at the box Martin showed him and lost all interest in being blameful. “Oh! That’s really good. Good job, Martin.”

The box held a brightly-colored toy circus, very detailed, with jointed wooden animals, clowns, a ringmaster, and a cloth tent to house them all.

“Look, Sir, there’s even a dancing bear,” Martin said, giving it a little poke with his fingertip. “Do you think she’d like it, Sir?”

“She’ll love it. It’s perfect.” He put his arm around Martin’s back and gave him a squeeze before he realized what he was doing. Flushing a furious crimson, he pulled his hand back and looked around; no one had seen him embracing his slave. “I’m glad you found it.”

Henry paid for the circus—which was quite expensive—and the big box was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a narrow red ribbon. Martin carried it to the omnibus stop, but once they were on the omnibus, Henry held the bulky package in his lap while Martin stood in the aisle.

Henry was tempted to take it directly to Cora, so confident was he that she would love it, and so eager was he for her thanks, but Martin convinced him to wait until the morrow.

“She’ll like it even better if she gets it with her cake, Sir,” Martin told him. “She’ll like it better on her actual birthday.”

Martin was right, of course. Henry then had to resist the urge to unwrap the box himself. It was a charming toy; he could certainly see his way clear to playing with it, should Cora want his company.

Henry woke on Wednesday still full of enthusiasm about the toy circus and thought about it from time to time throughout the day. He would have liked such a toy himself when he was small. He couldn’t remember many of his childhood toys—he hadn’t been attached to many of them, not like Cora was with her dolls. He’d had a stuffed mouse named Pinky that he slept with until he’d been brought down out of the nursery, but he didn’t remember what had happened to him. Nurse would know.

After classes were over for the day, Henry was impatient to return home but was unwilling to admit to his friends that he was in a hurry to attend his little sister’s birthday party, so lingered with them on the forecourt of the school discussing their holiday plans. Several of Henry’s friends were going with their families to visit relatives out of town for Christmas, but most boys would be staying in the city over the holidays.

While they loitered in the chill air, Henry and his classmates made plans to get together over the upcoming break. Henry was happy to receive the invitation to Charles Ross' New Year's Eve party. It was his first invitation of the year; he’d missed out on all the previous parties because of his feelings about swapping, and it felt good to be included. He felt confident, then, that this would be a regular party; Charles would know better than to invite him to a swap party.

The adult Rosses were having a fancy dress party of their own, and Charles and his friends were to have their “children's” party in a separate wing of the house.

“There'll be so much liquor around,” Charles promised. “Last year, even the chambermaids got drunk. All the slaves, really. It was a madhouse. Believe me, we'll be able to get our hands on whatever we want.”

This sounded very promising! Most of their class was invited, excepting Adam Pettibone and his few cronies, for which Henry was grateful. He had done his best to avoid Adam since their fight in October, and for once Adam seemed content to stay clear of him, as well.

To Louis’ dismay his grandmother was coming to visit from the Midwest and he would be expected to spend more time with her than he thought she actually warranted.

“At least you have a grandmother,” Henry said, unsympathetic to Louis’ complaints. Henry had no grandparents and rather envied the Briggs children their bossy, loving Grandma Ida. Henry’s Grandfather Wilton had died long before he was born. Grandmother Wilton had held on until he was 10, but he remembered her only as a querulous and addled old woman with wispy hair and clothes that smelled of mothballs.

Henry would be spending Christmas as he always did, with his mother’s people, the Wiltons. To the best of his knowledge, there were no Blackwell people to spend holidays with at all. Henry liked the Wiltons but rarely saw his mother’s relatives outside of their holiday party. They’d seen the Wiltons more often when Henry was younger—Mother had insisted on it then; she no longer fought Father on the matter now, though Henry wasn’t sure whether she’d lost the will to do so or merely the interest.

There were quite a lot of Wiltons, actually. Henry’s grandparents had only three surviving children, Mother and her brothers, but Grandfather’s two brothers had had larger families, one with five children and the other with seven, and many of these cousins of Mother’s had large families of their own. They were Wiltons and Carmichaels and Bensons and Hatches. Besides Henry’s cousins, Bette and Jesse, there were also innumerable second cousins of all ages, many of whom would make an appearance at the Christmas party.

Henry always felt like an outsider at these Wilton parties, and certainly he was one. He had not grown up within this big, friendly family, but on the periphery of it, and felt it keenly. However, he did enjoy the little time he got to spend with the Wiltons, and wished he could have more, though he had never asked. Father didn’t like the Wiltons and Henry did not wish to cross Father.

Henry was cold and his nose was running. Louis seemed like he could talk for hours more and Henry didn’t want to wait. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he said to the group as a whole with a wave of his hand. “Come on, Martin.”

Martin broke away from Tom and the rest of his friends and hurried to Henry’s side, smiling broadly. “Are you eager to see your sister, Sir? I can’t wait to see what she thinks of her present!”

Henry grinned, a little embarrassed to be so excited about a toy. “Me, neither. Plus, there’ll be cake.”

They hurried to the omnibus stop. The car was crowded enough when they got on that both had to stand, and Henry feigned an unsteadiness he didn’t really feel so that he could sway and lean against Martin, who admonished him in a low voice but snickered as he did so, clearly amused.

At home, they hurriedly changed their clothes, Henry wearing his bottle-green suit and the green-striped waistcoat.

“I do so like you in this,” Martin said, and Henry wondered if he remembered that it was what Henry had been wearing when they’d met. He had often wondered what had happened to Martin’s tight Ganymede breeches; he had not seen them again since that first afternoon.

Henry kissed him, fond and lingering, and it was tempting to put off going upstairs, but then Martin was giving him little placating pats on the arm and pulling away.

“Let’s go upstairs, Henry. I’m sure Little Miss is waiting very impatiently.”

They went up to the third floor, Martin carrying their gift—Henry thought of it as theirs rather than his, since Martin had chosen it—and Henry knocked at the nursery door.

“They’re here! Nurse, they’re here!” Cora called from within.

Nurse opened the door, smiling, and ushered them inside. “Hello, Sir. Hello, Martin. Little Miss is very excited you’re here with her today.”

Cora was picking her way across the nursery floor, trying to avoid stepping on the toys that were scattered everywhere. “Henry! You brought me a present!”

“Martin helped me pick it out,” he told her. “It’s from both of us.” Nurse, he thought, would not look askance at this assertion.

“Can I open it?” She held her hands out for the package, fingers wiggling in anticipation.

Henry looked at Nurse, who frowned and shook her head.

“Let’s wait until we’ve had cake, Miss. You’ve so been looking forward to your cake.”

“When are we having cake, then?” Cora asked. “Can we have it now, Nurse?”

“How do we ask for things, Miss?”

A flicker of annoyance passed over Cora’s face, balking at rules. “We say please. Please can we have cake now?”

Nurse smiled and stroked her hair. “I’ll call downstairs, Miss, and have them bring it up for you.”

While Nurse went to use the house phone, Cora took Henry by the hand and pulled him deeper into the room and Martin followed, pausing en route to put the birthday present down on the nursery table.

There were dolls everywhere, and doll furniture, and plush toys. It appeared as though everything that had been heaped on Henry’s old bed on their last visit had been spread across the floor. Cora led them to the spot near the cabinet house where it seemed she did most of her playing. Baby Ann lay naked in the middle of a circle of dolls, also naked, that leaned into one another and sat with splayed legs on the linoleum.

“All those others are some toys I wasn’t playing with any more,” Cora explained. “Nurse said I should give them to charity, but I had to play with them all again just to be sure I’m really done with them.”

“What did you decide, Miss?” Martin asked, lowering himself to sit cross-legged on the floor beside Baby Ann and the rest of the naked dolls. “Are you finished with those old toys now?”

“It would be very nice of me to give them to charity, wouldn’t it, Martin?” Cora plopped down beside Martin and looked up earnestly into his face.

Martin laughed, but not unkindly. “It would indeed, Miss. There are lots of little girls who’d be happy to love your old toys.”

Henry wasn’t so sure. Cora was very hard on her dolls, in his opinion, and even those she favored looked somewhat grotesque and witchy, with snarled hair, torn dresses, and grubby fingerprints marking their bisque faces. They looked better suited to the refuse heap than some less-fortunate girl’s arms, in Henry’s estimation. However, he did not think this opinion would be well-received and so kept it to himself. He pushed a stuffed lion with dusty fur aside with the toe of his boot and sat on the floor in the space he’d made.

“Why are all your dolls naked?” Henry asked, gesturing toward Baby Ann and her audience.

Cora frowned. “You shouldn’t be looking, Henry!” She leaned sideways and snagged a ratty blanket with her fingertips and threw it over the grouping of dolls. With deep disapproval in her tone, she said, “You’re supposed to be a gentleman, Henry. You shouldn’t have noticed.”

Martin tried not to laugh and Henry shot him a sidelong glare. “It was hard not to notice, Cora. They’re sitting right out in the open.”

“Martin didn’t look,” she pointed out.

Technically, it was only that Martin hadn’t said anything, not that he hadn’t looked, but Henry would not argue the point with Cora. “Well, Martin’s a better gentleman than me,” Henry told her. “But, anyway, why are all your dolls lying around naked?”

“They all got lice,” Cora explained, “and their laundress is boiling the clothes.” She pointed to a tableau in the corner, a floppy cloth clown slumped next to an enameled basin full of doll dresses.

“Oh. Well.” Henry didn’t know how to respond to this. How did Cora even know about lice?

“That’s very unfortunate, isn’t it, Miss? Has Baby Ann been itching terribly much?” Martin managed to seem so interested, so unruffled by what Henry found to be very unnerving play on Cora’s part. Henry didn’t recall that he’d ever played at diseases, at infestations.

Cora’s face lit up at Martin’s mention of Baby Ann, clearly delighted that he remembered her dolls. “She has. She’s been so itchy, Martin! She scratched until she bled.” Cora seemed delighted to relate this.

“Miss, really,” Nurse said with a sigh and a shake of her head. “Paul’s coming up directly with your cake, Miss. Shall we clear a path for the cart?”

With a put-upon sigh, Cora got to her feet and began to move dolls and toys aside, pushing things out of the way with her boots and moving a few armloads of detritus to Henry’s old bed. Nurse did most of the work, of course, and cleared off the top of the table to make room for the cake, moving Cora’s present to her bed.

Henry leaned closer to Martin and out of the side of his mouth asked, “Isn’t that a little weird? That she’s playing all the dolls have lice?”

Martin grinned. “It’s funny, isn’t it, Sir? She’s very imaginative.” He seemed very unbothered, so Henry resolved to let it bother him less, then, if he could manage it.

They all heard the rattle of the elevator grille opening at the end of the hall and Nurse went to open the door. Martin got to his feet and held his hand out to help Henry up.

Paul wheeled in a pink-frosted cake with eight candles ready to be lit. Cora could not be still, twirling and clapping her hands and throwing herself first against Martin, then Henry, in her excitement, leaning against their legs and tugging at their hands. Paul withdrew with a polite bow, and Nurse put the cake on the table and stood ready with a box of matches.

“Miss, if you want, we can light your candles now.”

“Yes, please!” Cora went to the table and leaned over the cake, ready to blow.

“You have to stand back a bit, Miss. I don’t want you to catch your hair on fire!” She turned to Henry. “Sir, could you…?”

Henry didn’t know what she wanted, but Martin did. He went to stand behind Cora, his hands on her shoulders as a friendly reminder that she shouldn’t lunge into the path of open flame. “Pink icing, Miss,” Martin said in an admiring tone. “That’s quite fancy, isn’t it?”

“Pink is my second-favorite color,” Cora informed him.

“What’s your first-favorite, Miss?”

“Green,” Cora said. “What’s yours?”

“I rather like purple, Miss.”

Henry had not known this, and wished he had ever thought to ask Martin the question.

All of the candles were lit, making a penumbra of warm, wavering light around the cake.

“All right, Miss,” Nurse said. “Everything is ready. You must hold your hair back, though, to keep it out of the flames.”

“Can I make a wish now, Nurse?” Cora asked eagerly.

“Of course. Happy Birthday, Miss. I love you very much.”

“I love you, too, Nurse.”

“Happy Birthday, Miss,” Martin said, and at the same time Henry said, “Happy Birthday, Cora.”

Cora gulped in a deep breath, closed her eyes, then let the air out with force, blowing out seven of eight candles. She took in another quick breath and blew out the last one and said, “I got them all! Did you see?” and they all pretended she had.

Nurse cut the cake, making especially generous slices for the boys and more modest ones for herself and Cora. Henry and Martin both took seats at the low table; the child-sized furniture was not a good fit for such lanky people, and Henry thought they must look quite ridiculous.

“It’s my birthday.” Cora frowned at her still-generous piece of cake. “Why does Henry get more cake on my birthday?”

“Your brother and Martin are much bigger than you, Miss, and they need more food. If you want more cake after dinner, you can have more then.”

“I will want more,” Cora said with confidence.

The cake was sweet chocolate with a rose-flavored icing, which Henry thought rather sophisticated for an 8-year-old’s palate, but Cora seemed to love it.

“Oh, yes, Sir, Little Miss eats a great many flower-flavored treats,” Nurse told him. “Cook very kindly indulges her tastes. She’s also fond of violet shortbread.”

“I want to try it,” Henry said, feeling left out and even a little hurt. “I didn’t even know anything like that was being made.”

“I’ll ask Cook to let me know next time, Sir,” Martin said soothingly, giving Henry’s forearm a little squeeze. “I’ll ask her to make enough for you to have some, too.”

“It’s very good, Henry,” Cora told him. “It really tastes like flowers.”

Henry and Cora both finished their cake; Nurse and Martin ate more slowly. Henry slid from his ill-fitting chair to sit on the floor and Cora came around the table to join him. He sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, leaning back on his hands, and Cora sat close at his side. They were both in good position to watch Martin eat. Martin glanced up and smiled at them, and Cora gave a happy little wriggle and beamed at him. It was embarrassing how much Henry related to Cora’s adulation.

“Martin? When is your birthday?”

“It’s in June, Miss.”

“Henry? Isn’t your birthday in June, too?”

“Yes, four days after Martin’s.”

“So Martin is older than you?” Cora seemed shocked.

“Well, yes—by four days, Cora. So not by much.”

“Companions can be older than masters?”

“Lots of them are,” Henry told her.

She seemed flabbergasted.

“I don’t see that it makes any difference,” Henry said. “Masters and companions are always close in age. It doesn’t matter who’s older.”

“When I get my own slave,” Cora said in a low tone, giving Nurse a sidelong glance as if she thought Nurse would scold her for having the preference, “I want her to be younger than me. Can I do that, Henry?”

“If it’s important to you, you can. But I don’t think it will matter very much to you when you’re 16. You’ll just want to have a slave you like, someone you’ll get along with, and it won’t matter when her birthday is.”

“Celeste is older than me,” Cora said. “My mean friend Celeste. She always gets her way because she’s older.”

“I think Celeste actually gets her way because she’s a bully, not because of her birthday,” Henry remarked.

Martin put down his fork, and Nurse set hers on her plate and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. Martin got down from his chair and sat cross-legged on the floor, his bent knee touching Henry’s ankle, but got up again right away when Nurse asked for his help in bringing the heavy present down from the bed. He set it on the floor before Cora with a soft thud.

“Happy Birthday, Miss,” Martin said, giving her the sort of smile that was usually reserved for Henry.

“May I please open it now, Nurse?” Cora asked hopefully.

“Yes, you may, Miss.” Nurse knelt down next to Cora, tucking her skirts around her knees.

Cora fell upon the package, her movements a little frantic. It was necessary for Nurse to get the sharp scissors from their special cupboard to cut the ribbon, but after that Cora made short work of the wrapping paper. The large color label on the lid of the box showed a circus scene with ringmaster, clown, elephant and tiger.

“Circus!” Cora flapped her hands, giddy and overjoyed. “I love circuses! But what is it?”

Henry laughed. “Open the box and see.”

She opened the lid and shrieked with delight when she saw the little wooden people in their colorful costumes, the brightly-painted animals, and all the accessories that made it much like a real circus—a circus ring, balls and barrels, pedestals for the elephants to stand on, a high wire for the acrobats, and a big top tent. It was every bit as charming as Henry remembered and, with a pang of regret, he realized that the little circus would be subject to Cora’s harsh treatment and would likely lose its luster in short order.

“Look, Miss,” Martin said, leaning over the box and pointing. “Did you see the dancing bear?”

Cora gave a shriek of glee and grabbed for the bear which, like all the other figures, was tied into the box. Nurse used her scissors again to cut the bear loose, and set to freeing all the members of the circus while Cora exclaimed over her bear.

“Do you like it?” Henry asked, knowing that she did.

Cora looked at him, eyes shining. “I love it! It’s the best present ever!”

They took the box over to where Baby Ann and the rest of the dolls lay under their modesty blanket. Cora shoved them carelessly aside, making room for her circus. Nurse and Henry set up the tent while Cora and Martin set out the rest of the contents of the box in neat rows. Henry and Martin both helped Cora set up a scene with a lady acrobat standing on the back of a horse, a gentleman acrobat walking on the high wire, the elephant on its hind legs on a red-and-gold pedestal, and the dancing bear front and center with the animal tamer and ringmaster both admiring its performance.

“What about clowns?” Henry asked, surveying the scene. “Shouldn’t there be clowns?”

Everything was rearranged to make room for a trio of cavorting clowns. It really was a wonderful toy. The only thing missing was an audience, and when Henry pointed this out, Cora quickly salvaged her bedraggled dolls from beneath the blanket and set them in two rows in front of the tableau. It did not seem to bother Cora that they were all three or four times the size of the circus performers, but Henry thought the size disparity a little unsettling, especially in tandem with their nudity and their general impression of having undergone something harrowing.

Having admired this arrangement for a few minutes, Cora needed to make adjustments, then substitutions, then took all of the figures out of the tent and began from scratch. She enlisted Martin’s help, but did not seem to need anything from either Henry or Nurse.

“It’s a lovely set, Sir,” Nurse murmured. “I fear she won’t be as careful as it deserves, though.”

“I thought of that, too,” Henry said. “I guess if I want to keep it nice, I’ll have to buy my own.”

Nurse chuckled. “You were always quite careful with your toys, Sir. Little boys are supposed to be rough, but you were always very gentle.”

Henry frowned. He’d always been unusual, unmanly.

“Most of your toys were given to charity to make way for Little Miss’ things, Sir, but I did save something of yours. Would you like to see it?”

“Certainly.” Henry watched as Martin helped Cora balance clowns on a seesaw until Nurse returned to his side.

“Do you remember Pinky, Sir?”

Henry had just been thinking about Pinky, of course, but he had never imagined Pinky would still be knocking around the nursery. “Yes, of course I do. I loved Pinky.” Henry held out his hands for the toy. Pinky was smaller than he remembered, perhaps seven or eight inches tall. He remembered Pinky with such affection, so it was somewhat surprising to see how shabby the little mouse was, how he had loved it nearly to pieces. Pinky had been given his name because of his pink felt nose and paws, but these were a wan grey now, faded and worn. His grey pelt was moth-eaten, and the pink silk lining of his ears was shattered. Without thinking what he was doing, Henry brought Pinky to his nose and breathed him in: stale, but smelling of sleep. He smiled to himself, pleased that Pinky still existed.

Martin got up and stretched. Cora was still engrossed in play.

“What do you have there, Sir?”

“Come see. It’s my old toy.” He held the mouse out for Martin to take.

Martin laughed. “Oh, my, Sir. You certainly loved this little fellow, didn’t you?” Martin touched Pinky’s glass eyes and dirty felt nose. “What’s his name?”

“Pinky. He used to have pink on him.”

To Henry’s surprise, Martin brought the toy near his face and inhaled. When he saw Henry’s incredulous expression, he explained, “I wanted to see if he smells like you, Sir.”

“Well, does he?”

Martin smiled. “Yes, Sir. Like you, but dusty.” It was a little embarrassing that Martin had said this in front of Nurse, that Nurse would know how well Martin knew Henry’s scent, but it didn’t necessarily mean anything untoward. Any companion would know the smell of his master’s skin, wouldn’t he?

“He’s been on a high shelf for six years, Sir,” Nurse explained. “Perhaps I should have put him in a box to keep the dust off.”

Henry waved off her concern. “I’m just glad you kept him for me.” And he felt surprisingly grateful that he’d had the opportunity to show the little mouse to Martin. “You’ll continue to keep him safe, won’t you?”

“Well, of course, Sir. I certainly wouldn’t get rid of him for anything!”

The three of them stood watching Cora play, Martin idly stroking the mouse’s mangy fur until he realized what he was doing and gave Pinky back to Henry. Henry clutched the toy to his chest, full up with sentimentality and feeling soft-hearted, before handing it back to Nurse.

“Thank you for showing him to me,” Henry told her. He bent and kissed her cheek.

“You know, I missed you so much when you moved downstairs, Sir. More than any other toy, Pinky reminded me of you.” Nurse appeared quite choked-up, and this made tears well in Henry’s eyes, and he was about to be terribly embarrassed in front of Martin, but then a knock came at the nursery door.

“Come in, please,” Nurse called.

Paul entered and made a little bow. “Hello, Sir. Hello, Miss. Martin, Esther. I’ve just come for the cart.”

“Leave the cake,” Nurse said. “Here, I’ll help you.” She went to assist Paul, taking Pinky with her, and left Henry standing next to Martin.

“It must be close to my dinnertime, Sir,” Martin murmured. He took his watch out of his pocket and consulted it. “Do you think we might go downstairs soon?”

“We’ll go now,” Henry told him. “We’ll just say our goodbyes.”

Cora was so involved with her circus that she made no fuss about them leaving. She gave them perfunctory hugs and kisses and returned to her circus, humming busily and tunelessly.

“You’re such a good brother, Sir,” Nurse told him. “She really loves it.”

“Really, Martin picked it,” Henry told her. “I was just going to get her another doll.”

Nurse turned to Martin, smiling, and put a hand on his arm. “You’re a good boy, Martin. You’re so kind to Little Miss.”

“Of course I am,” Martin said. “She’s my master’s beloved little sister.”

“We’re all glad you’ve come to live here, you know,” Nurse told him. “You’ve been so wonderful for both Young Sir and Little Miss.”

Henry was deeply embarrassed by this assertion, though he certainly had no grounds to question its veracity.

“We should go,” he blurted, giving Martin’s arm a tug.

“Oh, of course, Sir,” Martin said agreeably.

Nurse saw them to the door and kissed them each on the cheek.

They made their way downstairs in a friendly silence. Henry took Martin’s hand for a moment, just a brief interlacing of their fingers, and Martin pulled away immediately, as expected, but with an amused chuckle.

Inside Henry’s room, Henry flopped on the bed, leaving his boots hanging over the side so that Martin could remove them for him. “Well, I think that present counts as a success,” he said, feeling enormously pleased.

Martin quickly untied Henry’s boots and pulled them from his feet, and Henry swung his legs up onto the bed.

“I’d have to agree with you, Henry. She seems quite delighted.”

“She’s so much happier than she would have been with another doll. You always know what she’ll like—better than I do, and certainly better than either of my parents.”

“Maybe it’s just because I was around so many children before I came here. I don’t think I have any special talent with your sister.” He took off his own boots and got up on the bed beside Henry. “I liked seeing your mouse, Henry. Your Pinky.”

Henry flushed, bashful but pleased. “I’m glad Nurse saved him. When I was brought downstairs, my father wanted me to leave all my toys up in the nursery. I got different toys once I was down here, of course, but nothing soft. Manly toys. Nothing to keep me company while I was falling asleep. I guess my father thought things like that were for babies.”

“Oh, Henry.” Martin put his hand on Henry’s cheek. “Poor little Henry. Is it better now? Now that you have me to keep you company?”

Henry laughed and put his arm around Martin, drawing him close. “You’re certainly an improvement on Pinky.” He kissed Martin’s cheek, just in front of his ear. “What sorts of toys did you have at Ganymede when you were little?”

“Oh, well, we didn’t have toys of our own, or we weren’t supposed to, though we were all prone to making pets out of rocks, and the cleverer boys would make poppets out of grasses and straw. We had toys that we played with, but of course we had to share everything. Board games were always a disaster because we wouldn’t have one more than a day or two before pieces were lost and it would become unplayable. Chess and checkers were likewise disasters. Actually, playing games at Ganymede was a good exercise in coping with frustration and disappointment.”

“I know you had baseball, and bicycles, too. Were those any better?”

“Again, we had to share, of course. When I started riding a bicycle, I was quite short, but by the time I left I was one of the taller boys of any age. I rode a lot of different bicycles over the years, some in better repair than others.”

“What about baseball? Did you have to share gloves?” This seemed less than ideal to Henry. A glove formed itself to the wearer’s hand, after all.

Martin grinned. “Not really. There weren’t that many other left-handed boys, so I usually got to use the glove that I liked best. Everyone else, though—they were fighting over gloves every time we played.”

“Did you have any kind of plush toys?”

Martin thought about it a moment. “Hmm. Not really. There was an oilcloth clown that some of the others liked to play with when we were very small, but not me. It was rather grubby, you see.”

“So you didn’t have any toys you could curl up with under the blankets? Nothing like Pinky?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. But we did have each other. We all shared beds our whole lives, of course, and the boys you shared with were your comfort.”

“Who did you share with, then?”

“Oh, different boys at different times,” Martin said dismissively. “A lot of different boys over the years. I’m very used to sharing a bed, and I prefer it to sleeping alone. I’ve been so happy since you’ve let me share your bed, Henry. I love being close to you.” He leaned on Henry and pushed his face into Henry’s neck. “I love the smell of you. I’m sorry I embarrassed you smelling your Pinky.”

“It’s all right,” Henry assured him, though he blushed all over again thinking about it. “Nurse would expect that you’d know what I smell like anyway.”

“Don’t you think that’s why she’s saved Pinky? Because he smells like you? She didn’t want you to leave, after all. You’re precious to her.”

Henry had not thought of it in just this way, and was both touched and embarrassed by the notion. He had cried himself to sleep many nights after his tenth birthday, alone in his big bedroom and missing Nurse and Pinky both. The idea that Nurse might have been just as bereft without him and clinging to the toy for comfort was strangely satisfying.

Martin pulled his watch out of his pocket and sat up, out of the curve of Henry’s arm. “I should go down, Henry.”

“Kiss me before you go,” Henry said, clutching at Martin’s sleeve.

Martin did so, the touch of his lips very soft. Henry wanted more; he always wanted more.

“I’ll see you soon.” Martin got down from the bed and went to the door, turning to give Henry a little wave as he left.

Henry groaned and flopped back on the pillows. He was aroused from the kiss but uninterested in doing anything about it on his own. He contemplated going back upstairs to play with the toy circus with Cora, but decided he should leave her be. What he really wanted to do was make her play nicely with the toy, but based on the state of all her other playthings, that would be a losing proposition. He would just have to reconcile himself to her destroying it. He wondered if having Martin talk to her about it would make her treat it more gently, and made a mental note to ask him to do so.

Henry made himself do some of his homework, sprawled on the floor before the fire. He got most of it out of the way in short order, but then was left with only Latin, and it was a daunting prospect.

Henry tried his hardest. He worked laboriously over some translations about wicked farmers and good sailors who were apparently engaged in some sort of warfare. Henry found the characterization of farmers as wicked a little baffling, having quite idealized views of those engaged in agricultural pursuits, and also questioned why the farmers and sailors would bother with one another at all. Maybe if the Latin phrases made more sense, he’d understand the language better.

He painstakingly translated Malī agricolae cum bonīs nautīs pugnant as Wicked farmers fight with good sailors and felt reasonably confident he was right, or close enough. He was willing to settle for close enough.

While he felt a sense of accomplishment at completing the work, it had taken him nearly twenty minutes to translate just one sentence—and he wasn’t even sure it was correct—and there were nine more to go. He was still uncomfortable with the idea of having Martin do his work, but since the last round of grading it seemed much smarter (and certainly easier) than struggling through it on his own. It was what Father wanted—what Father had demanded. And if all of his friends were doing it, why shouldn’t he?

When Martin returned, Henry had set the Latin aside and was simply basking before the fire in his shirtsleeves.

“Oh, you’re doing your homework. Do you need any help?”

Henry swallowed and blushed, but he told Martin the truth. “Yes. I need help.”

Martin sat down cross-legged on the carpet. “With what? I’m happy to help you with anything at all.”

Henry pushed himself up to lean back on his elbows. “I can do everything but the Latin. That’s all I need help with.”

“Let me see it.”

Henry found Dr. Foster’s mimeograph. “Here. It’s all these sentences about wicked farmers. Since when are farmers known for their wickedness?”

Martin snorted. “I don’t know. I think it’s just to teach you vocabulary. They could just as easily be miserly farmers or frivolous farmers.”

“If it made more sense, I’m sure I’d understand it better.”

Martin picked up a pencil and began translating. “I’m sure you’re right, Henry.”

It took Martin no time at all to translate everything. He didn’t even have to look at the book for help. Henry watched, slightly awed and definitely envious.

“Here you are. You just need to copy these in your own handwriting and you’ll be set.”

Henry did as Martin suggested. It still seemed like cheating, but it was the same cheating everyone else did, and Martin obviously didn’t mind Henry claiming the work as his own. When he finished copying the translations, Martin dressed him with brisk efficiency and then followed him downstairs to the dining room.

After dinner, Cora was brought down to the parlor to receive birthday greetings from her parents. She was full of talk of the circus, and of her brother and Martin, and Father frowned and blinked at her excited chatter.

“…and there’s a dancing bear, Father, which is my very favorite, and a gentleman acrobat and a lady acrobat, too. How do you think a lady gets to be an acrobat, Father? Is there a school? Could I go to acrobat school and dancing school?”

“Certainly not,” Father said. “Henry, are you putting ideas in your sister’s head about joining the circus?”

“No, sir. I gave her a toy circus for her birthday, though, and she seems to like it quite well.”

Eagerly, Cora said, “Father? Did you know? Martin picked it out for me—Henry said so.”

Father raised an eyebrow and Henry shrugged. “He did, sir. He’s good with her.”

There was a package for Cora, her present from Mother and Father. Pearl roused Mother so that she could watch Cora open the gift, an astrakhan muff and matching hat. Cora seemed to like this gift perfectly well, and thanked her parents with minimal prompting from Nurse, but it was clear to Henry that she felt much more grateful for the circus, and he couldn’t help feeling pleased. Thoughtfulness made for good gifts—Martin’s thoughtfulness. Next time he might have occasion to give a gift, he would do well to follow Martin’s example and consider the recipient.

On Friday, everyone at school was in high spirits, talkative and boisterous. They were scolded for their immaturity and restiveness by each teacher in turn, but the chastisement had little impact on their collective mood. They would not be back in their seats until January 2nd, a break of eleven whole days, and all were anticipating ease and pleasure, presents and good food.

They rode home on the omnibus as part of a large, convivial group, and when Henry and Louis got off with their slaves, the other boys opened the windows and shouted Merry Christmas at them, which embarrassed Henry but gladdened his heart. They walked the short distance home and Henry and Martin said goodbye to Louis and Peter at the front gate.

“By the way, James will be home tonight,” Louis said. “He’s coming in on a late train. Why don’t you come over tomorrow afternoon to say hello to him and Grandma Ida?”

Henry was a little apprehensive about seeing James again after their last encounter. But all he said was, “I’ll be glad to see them both.”

There was a new Pals waiting for them inside, and seeing it lying there on the console in the hall made Henry’s heart beat a little faster. Martin, equally excited, went down to the kitchen for some of the gingerbread he knew Cook had baked and brought it upstairs to share.

“Are you ready?” Martin lounged across the end of the bed, magazine in hand.

“Yes, yes, hurry up and read it!” Henry licked crumbs off his fingers and settled back against the pillows.

They’d left the story last month with the Dauntless four days’ sail from the nearest port marked on the map by the Order of the Red Eye. Hoping to catch up to Dr. DeSade, Theo had made an educated guess that this is where the Ruthless would have headed, but it was only that—a guess.

George stayed abed healing, with Theo in attendance as much as possible, leaving the running of his ship to other crew members. Dooley stayed nearby, as well, much to Henry’s chagrin.

“Doesn’t he know where he’s not wanted?”

Martin snickered. “Hush!”

Dooley had lots of questions, the answers to which would likely be useful to a new reader. He asked about Theo and George’s history together, learning of George’s dramatic rescue at Theo’s hands when both were young men of 22.

“Huh,” Henry said. “I don’t think they’ve ever said before how old they were. That sounds about right.”

George described being carried across Theo’s shoulders, barely conscious, blood dripping from his ruined back, and feeling the safest he’d ever felt.

“He saved my life, Sir,” George said to Dooley. “And having saved it, Sir, I felt confident he’d keep it safe. And see, he’s saved it again.” George pointed to his bandage and Dooley was suitably impressed.

“I thought he was quite the finest man I’d ever met,” Theo told Dooley. “It didn’t matter that he was a slave; what mattered was the quality of his character.”

“I’ll bet George has a really nice ass,” Henry remarked. “I’ll bet that had something to do with it, too.”

Martin snickered at this. “Henry, really!”

Theo redressed George’s wound, and Dooley stuck around for that, too, commenting on George’s many scars in an admiring fashion.

“You should see the Captain’s scars, Sir,” George told Dooley. “He was shot clean through the shoulder, and with only me to stitch him up, it wasn’t a pretty result, Sir.”

So then Theo took off his shirt to show Dooley the bullet wound and puckered scar resulting.

“He’d better not touch him,” Henry said. “He’d better not even try.”

Dooley kept his hands to himself, only admiring the scar and complimenting George on doing an admirable job of piecing the flesh back together. He was also shown the scar on Theo’s side where he’d been stabbed the first time they met Dr. Nero DeSade and Turk, and a short history of that encounter was given, reestablishing that DeSade was a dastardly, murderous fiend with no respect for human life, free or slave.

At last, long after Henry had tired of Dooley, Theo tired of him, as well, telling him to, “Make yourself useful up on deck,” and shutting the door in his face.

“What do you think Theo did after he kicked Dooley out?” Martin asked playfully.

“George was tired,” Henry pointed out. “But I’m sure he could tolerate having his cock sucked.”

When they finally sailed into port four days after they’d started, George was feeling much stronger and Theo was on deck commanding his men, cutlass hanging at his hip.

“They’re not going to find DeSade,” Henry said confidently. “Not if Theo’s carrying a real weapon.”

The men of the Dauntless disembarked quietly and with as much circumspection as possible. Once again, to Henry’s chagrin, Dooley tagged along with Theo and George. George wore a jacket around his shoulders to make the sling supporting his injured left arm less noticeable. Theo had wanted to leave him behind to rest, but George had argued convincingly that he was often more successful than Theo in ferreting out information.

Three hours later in a dockside tavern, Theo’s pockets lighter by a few pieces of silver, they had made a host of new friends and learned a little more about the Order of the Red Eye. The Ruthless had indeed been in port overnight, leaving just hours before the Dauntless made landfall. Cloaked men from the Ruthless had been seen stealing up from the waterfront and climbing the hill to a forbidding mansion where mysterious lights flickered in the dead of night and hooded figures could be seen furtively scuttling in and out at the gate. A local boy, a lad called Sneed, offered to show them the way to the mansion, should they want to see it for themselves.

Surmising that this ominous edifice was the Order’s lair, Theo put on the dead henchman’s robe, picked up the ceremonial dagger and prepared to make the journey. George wanted to go with him, of course, but Theo ordered him—he actually ordered him—to stay behind, while Dooley went in his place.

“I can’t believe this!” Henry felt furious on George’s behalf. “Dooley is no replacement for George!”

“But George is injured, Henry. He can’t fight.”

Henry heard the sense of this but didn’t care. He didn’t like Dooley, and he didn’t like Dooley supplanting George in the least. He suspected the author was enamored of the Dooley character for some unknowable reason, and had written the injury for George specifically to let Dooley get closer to Theo. He suggested this to Martin, who had no convincing counter-argument.

“Let’s just wait and see. Don’t you want to know what happens next anyway?”

With Theo disguised as an Order member and Dooley as his captive, they approached the mansion under cover of darkness. Leon and Boot remained with Sneed in the shadowy lane outside the mansion’s high wall while Theo and Dooley approached the imposing front door. If they’d had any doubts they were in the right place, those were put to rest by a stained glass transom displaying a bloody-red eye.

“You know your part?” Theo asked. “You’re prepared to do what needs doing?”

“I know it, sir.” Martin didn’t have a Dooley voice but just used his own with a particularly uninspired inflection to show his disdain for the character, which Henry suspected he might be doing for Henry’s benefit. “I’m brave, sir, don’t doubt it.”

Theo knocked and the door was opened by a cadaverous butler whose throat was disfigured by the scarring of an excised mark and a newer tattoo, a red eye. The combination of Theo’s robe and the ceremonial dagger was enough to gain them entry.

“This one escaped DeSade just four days ago,” Theo explained, jerking Dooley forward by his elbow, and Dooley looked appropriately surly. “I hoped I would catch up to him here and could deliver the prisoner in person.”

“The Doctor has headed for the Refuge, Sir,” Martin explained in the butler’s raspy, cobwebbed voice. “We are in a state of emergency, Sir.”

“I’ve been a-sea,” Theo explained. “What is the emergency?”

“We’ve been exposed, Sir. Everything is chaos.” Martin coughed and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. This voice is difficult.”

“You don’t have to do it,” Henry told him, but he couldn’t mask his disappointment.

“No, Henry, I’ll do it. Just let me get some water.” He went to the bathroom and came back with a glass of water and drank. “All right, I’m ready.”

Theo demanded to be taken to whoever was in charge, and the butler led them deep into the house, through innumerable parlors and suites and down flights of stairs until reaching a sub-basement secured behind three locks. Beyond this sturdy door they found a laboratory, thoroughly modern and state-of-the-art, and a surgical theater showing bloody signs of recent use.

“The Doctor did some work while he was here, Sir,” the butler explained hoarsely. “We’ve still to do the cleaning up.”

Beyond the medical rooms, there was a dungeon-like area with a cell housing perhaps a dozen miserable wretches, all slaves. Like the gruesome butler, all of these slaves showed evidence of tampering with their marks, healing patchwork scars or fresh red-eye tattoos. These captives looked upon Theo and Dooley with expressions of true and unrelieved misery, as if without the least hope of salvation. Theo resolved upon seeing them that he would see each one released from captivity or die trying.

“Captain Theo really is a wonderful person, isn’t he?” Martin asked, though Henry did not think he expected an answer. “He reminds me of you, you know.”

“Me?” Henry was surprised.

“You care about slaves,” Martin explained. “In Captain Theo’s place, you’d rescue them if you could, wouldn’t you?”

Henry thought that he’d certainly have the impulse to help, but seriously doubted his ability to carry off a successful escape. Nevertheless, he liked having Martin’s good opinion. “I’d try,” he agreed. “Because what if some of them were like us? The master would be out in the world somewhere missing his slave so much.”

“The slave would be missing his master, as well,” Martin pointed out.

They were both quiet a minute, contemplating the romance and drama of a forced separation. Henry liked the idea that he’d go to the ends of the earth to search for Martin if Martin was stolen away, but he suspected he might become entrenched in the inertia of despair instead.

“If it was me,” Martin began slowly, thinking out loud, “I’d do my best to send you a message of some kind, or leave a clue that would lead you straight to me. But if I couldn’t do that, I’d just do my best to stay alive until you came for me. Because you would come, wouldn’t you, Henry?”

“Of course I would,” Henry assured him. Of course he would. There was very little he wouldn’t do for Martin. Really only the one thing.

“Shall I keep reading?” Martin cocked his head, looking to Henry for an answer.

“Please.”

Theo and Dooley were led into the inner sanctum, a dimly-lit room redolent of incense, quite in contrast with the medical area. They were surprised to see a young woman in a kimono lying limp across a divan, her long, dark hair cascading to the floor. She did not stir when they entered.

The man in charge was suitably gruesome, with a grey complexion and the pale eyes of a wolf. He wore a white doctor’s coat and had a stethoscope looped around his neck.

“Dr. von Belcher, this Esteemed Initiate has captured Dr. DeSade’s escaped prisoner.” Martin said in the butler’s craggy voice, then took a sip of water.

“Vonderful,” said von Belcher in a voice that Martin might have intended to be Germanic. “Let us put him in viz ze ozzers, yes?” He walked past Theo, taking Dooley by the arm as he did so and jerking him along with brisk yanks.

The Doctor fumbled with a heavy ring of keys and slid an oversized iron key into the lock of the cell door. As the aperture swung wide, the inhabitants of the cell backed away, huddling together in the rear, clearly terrified of the Doctor. At this moment, Theo cried out, “Now, Dooley!” Dooley shook the loosely-knotted rope from his wrists and pulled a knife from beneath his shirt. He lunged after the foul butler and slit his throat, giving him only time enough to loose a single hoarse, corvine cry. He clutched at Dooley as he went down, bathing him in blood.

Theo cornered von Belcher and threatened him with the dagger. “Tell me,” Theo demanded, “where has DeSade gone?”

Von Belcher gave an evil cackle. “I’ll tell you nozzing!” Theo gave him a little jab with the dagger, but he only laughed again. He took a pill from his pocket and rapidly put it between his lips. “I die for ze cause!” Still laughing, he began to foam at the mouth and convulse and fell to the floor dead.

Theo and Dooley then turned their attention to the captives, who were frightened and bewildered, and Theo feared they would be of no help in effecting their own escape. They had passed few people on their way into the house, but they could not count on such good fortune on their way out, especially with a dozen weakened and debilitated captives to protect. Theo searched the drawers of von Belcher’s desk and found a loaded revolver. He armed the strongest-seeming man amongst the captives with a letter opener.

“You have to want to live,” Theo said to the captives. “I will do my best to remove the obstacles in your path, but it is you who must walk the path. Do you understand?” The captives all understood. The light of passion was rekindled in their dull eyes.

The girl was alive but insensible. Dooley lifted her to her feet but she would not stand on her own. She wore nothing but the lurid kimono and a flimsy chemise. Dooley judged her quite beautiful.

“Oh, who cares about the girl?” Henry said petulantly. “The girls never stick around. No one will even remember her next month, so I don’t understand why they bother including her at all.”

“There must be some boys who like the idea of a romance,” Martin offered gently. “It is a more traditional outlook, after all.”

“Hmph.” Henry sulked and ate another piece of gingerbread.

Passing through the gruesome surgery, the captives armed themselves with any sharp instruments they could find. They met resistance at the top of the staircase and from there fought their way out of the house in heroic style. Of their large party, only Theo really knew anything about fighting and, while Dooley was proving valuable, he was still mostly untested, and hampered in his movements by the need to support the beautiful girl, who was growing more sensible by the minute but remained a liability.

“They should leave her,” Henry suggested. “For all they know, she’s another mad doctor.”

“An interesting possibility,” Martin said. “You have such a clever way of thinking, Henry. You should write a story.”

Henry loved that Martin thought him clever. “I could write one where the heroes actually do kiss.”

Martin laughed, pleased by the idea.

Fighting on the main floor of the house, they were outnumbered, meeting wave after wave of Order lackeys, and there was some suspense resulting from the situation, though Henry was confident Theo would prevail, as always, despite the odds. After a particularly close call, Theo fired his gun at the ceiling to alert the men waiting in the lane outside, and as they moved through the endless parlors and suites of the cavernous mansions, they heard the sound of wood splintering ahead of them, Theo’s men breaking down the front door.

The Dauntless men fought their way into the house to meet up with Theo and the captives and then they all fought their way back out again. In the confusion, Theo took a knife wound to the chest, a slice across his left pectoral that sent blood sheeting down his shirtfront but did not prevent him from killing the lackey who’d cut him.

Escaping from the mansion, they led the captives downhill to the relative safety of the dockside tavern. Every one of the captive slaves had been kidnapped elsewhere and brought to this place for nefarious purposes. Theo, who knew so well how close the bond between master and slave could be, determined to give help to all who wished to return to their rightful homes. They would not have the luxury of time to deliver the captives to their masters themselves, however; they needed to find Dr. DeSade’s Refuge and end him once and for all. Theo gave ample funds for sea passage to all he had freed and wished them the best.

The girl, however, was coming with them.

“Why?” Henry demanded. “What the hell for?”

“Dooley likes her. Maybe she’s for Dooley, not Theo?”

She had amnesia and didn’t know where she belonged, and none of the people in the tavern recognized her as coming from the town. She clearly had some special importance to DeSade’s organization, and Theo believed it possible she might have important information about the Order should her memory return.

The tavern-keeper’s wife gave her a dress to wear and a pair of shoes, and in exchange the girl gave the woman her floral kimono.

They boarded the Dauntless with the girl and sailed out of the harbor as dawn broke, with one of the nearest Order locations as destination. George got out of bed—

“The bed they share,” Henry reminded Martin.

“Oh, I remember!”

—and cleaned Theo’s wound, insisting that he sit still and let George take care of him. Satisfied that the wound would heal properly, he then helped Theo pore over the Order’s map, looking for any sign of this Refuge of DeSade’s. Finally, with Theo nearly asleep on his feet, George convinced him to lie down.

“Just for a moment, Sir,” George said very tenderly. “Just to rest your eyes.” Theo let himself be led to the bed and George tucked him in.

“That’s it for this month,” Martin said with a sigh. “To be continued. Oh, it’s really getting good, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Henry said, feeling deeply satisfied by the direction things were going at the end. Theo and George taking care of each other, the girl maybe meant for Dooley, DeSade’s nefarious plans taking on more dimension…it was all great.

Martin shoved a piece of gingerbread in his mouth and laughed when it came apart in his hand. Henry felt such affection for him that he could hardly contain himself. He tackled Martin, pushing him down on the bed, getting crumbs everywhere.

“Henry…” Martin tried to sit up and Henry pushed him down again.

“Lie back,” Henry said. “Lie back and have your cock sucked.” He began to work at the placket of Martin’s trousers, feeling Martin’s cock grow hard beneath his fingers. For so long, fictional George had been his ideal of a companion slave, but his own Martin was a thousand times better.

“Lick my fingers.” Martin held out his hand, crumbs and frosting on his fingertips. “Lick them clean and then you can lick my cock.”

Henry wasn’t sure if that had been a suggestion or an order, but he did it regardless, and gladly.

On Saturday afternoon, Henry and Martin walked up to the Briggs house. Henry understood that James should have been home by now, but there was none of James’ sort of havoc in evidence when Patrick opened the front door. The smaller Briggses made up for it, however: Robbie and Teddy shouting at one another and little Edward wailing as if someone had just told him there was no Santa Claus, which was in fact what had happened.

Alice was with Grandma Ida and Mrs. Briggs in the front parlor, next to the Christmas tree, but upon sighting Henry she went pale with mortification and ducked behind her grandmother’s chair. Henry pretended he had not seen her—it seemed the best choice for both of them—and paid his respects to Louis’ grandmother, whom he had always liked quite well. Likewise, Grandma Ida had always been fond of Henry, thinking him a civilized young man and comparing him favorably to her ruffian grandsons.

After Grandma Ida had exclaimed over Henry’s growth since she’d last seen him and complimented him on his choice of slave, Louis impatiently tugged on his arm.

“Let’s go to my room,” Louis said, heading for the stairway.

Henry stood prepared to head down the hall to the game room. “I thought we were going to play billiards?”

“James is in there. We don’t want to bother him.”

“Why not? Is he still mad at me about Halloween? That’s crazy! I’m the one who should be—”

“No, it’s not that. Come on. I’ll tell you upstairs.”

Once Louis’ bedroom door was closed behind them, Louis turned to Henry with his lips in a grim line and said, “All right. You have to promise not to tell anyone at school what I’m going to tell you.”

“I promise. What is it?”

“James is in trouble.”

This did not surprise Henry. “James is always in trouble,” he scoffed.

“Not like this.” Louis lowered his voice. “He’s been expelled from college for conduct. And he might have to get married to some barmaid.”

“No!” Henry was properly horrified.

“Yes. I don’t even know what he did, exactly. Something to do with property damage and the things the slaves were being made to do at one of the parties he organized. One of them was hurt pretty badly, I guess, and the owner is threatening to sue both James and the school. Of course the thing with the barmaid didn’t help any. She missed her monthlies and might have a baby, and he’ll have to marry her if she does. Her family is making a big stink about it.”

“That’s horrible.” It wasn’t just horrible for James, though. Poor slaves. Poor barmaid. Henry darted a glance at Martin, who was bloodlessly pale and seemed transfixed by what he’d heard.

“He’s been holed up in the game room drinking and sulking since he got home last night with all of his trunks, everything he had at college. He’s only letting Joseph go in and out to bring him food. He hasn’t talked to any of his friends, but they’ve been calling for him and no one knows what to say. We’ve just been lying and saying he’s not home yet.”

“What’s your father going to do?”

“Dad’s furious at James for embarrassing him like this. If James ends up married to this girl and has a baby, we’ll be tied forever to some tavern-keeper, and how will that look for Dad?”

Henry didn’t really see why it should matter, but understood that it did. “Not good,” he said.

“He’s ruining Christmas,” Louis complained. “He takes things too far, every time.”

This was entirely true, Henry thought.

Louis turned then to Martin. “You’d better not say anything, not to Tom or anyone, or you’ll be sorry.”

“Yes, Sir, of course,” Martin said, lowering his gaze and looking properly chastised.

Annoyed, Henry said, “Don’t threaten him, Louis. He wouldn’t tell anyway.”

“Maybe not.” Louis shrugged and chewed his lip, preoccupied with his brother’s situation. “But I already know he’s a gossip.”

That hardly seemed fair; Martin had only gossiped to cheer Louis up. “Look, maybe we should just leave,” Henry said, fed-up. “Are you sure you even want company right now?”

“Let’s play cards,” Louis said, as if he hadn’t heard. “It’s more fun with four people.”

Peter got the cards and a tray of poker chips down from the shelf and they passed a few hours in this way. Midway through the afternoon, Louis sent Peter and Martin down for some snacks and they came back with slices of yellow cake that Henry did not think were as good as what his own cook made, but he ate his piece all the same. Even with Martin surreptitiously slipping him chips, Henry eventually lost all his markers. Peter was out next. Henry willed Martin to lose to Louis, to give his friend just a little lift.

Peter checked his pocket watch. “Sir? Might I go down for my dinner?”

Louis waved him off, not looking up from his cards. “Go. Eat.”

Henry checked his own watch. It would soon be time for Martin’s dinner, as well. “Martin needs to eat, too.”

“We’re playing, though,” Louis said.

“Who’s winning?” Henry demanded.

Louis did not answer.

“Mr. Briggs is, Sir,” Martin said. “I’ve lost the last five hands.”

Louis frowned at his pile of markers, then Martin’s. “We’d have to count our chips to know for sure.”

“So Louis wins,” Henry said, pretending he hadn’t heard Louis. He stood and said, “Come on, Martin. Let’s get you home.”

Louis seemed vaguely disgruntled at the way Henry hustled Martin out the door, but he did not protest their departure.

On the way home, Martin said, “Thank you, Sir. I’m sure I would have been playing for hours if you hadn’t intervened.”

“I feel bad for Louis,” Henry said, “but that’s no reason for you to go hungry.” He paused and then said, “I noticed you were upset when Louis was telling us about James’ trouble.”

“Yes, Sir. I feel badly for the slaves that he hurt, and for this barmaid, as well. I don’t believe they’d have a happy marriage, Sir, do you?”

“Not at all. I can’t imagine James married, period. I want to talk more about this whole James situation,” Henry said as they walked through the Blackwell gate. “but I guess it will have to wait until after our dinners.”

“Certainly, Sir.” Martin hurried up the front steps and rang the bell and Paul let them inside.

“Hurry or you’ll miss dinner,” Paul said to Martin. To Henry, he said, “Good evening, Sir.”

Martin said, “I’ll see you soon, Sir.” He shed his coat into Paul’s hands and headed for the rear of the house at a near-run.

They had little time to talk when Martin joined Henry upstairs to help him dress, as they were running late—still—and Martin had special news that he wished to impart.

“I’ve arranged a treat for you, Henry,” Martin said, smiling, as he tied Henry’s tie.

“Is it food?” Henry asked hopefully. “Is it—?”

Martin’s grin widened. “Yes. It’s macaroni and cheese. I ate so much at my dinner! I feel quite overstuffed.”

“You’re so fat now,” Henry told him, pulling him in for a tight embrace. “I can barely get my arms around you.” Martin laughed and squirmed in his arms.

“Let me finish dressing you, or you’ll be late.”

At the table, Henry barely tasted anything offered to him, his taste buds thoroughly primed for his macaroni and cheese. When he got his macaroni at last, following a fillet de boeuf a la Rossine, the pleasure he took in eating it was almost sexual, so closely tied was it to Martin and Martin’s desire to please him. He embarrassed himself with an inadvertent growl that expressed his immense satisfaction, and as the sound escaped his throat, both his parents looked at him with eyebrows raised.

As usual, Pearl read after dinner. They were nearing the end of Best Intentions, a rather tedious moralizing tale about a well-off do-gooder and his little working-class helpmate, who was clearly in love with him. The story had featured no heaving bosoms, no rakish sons, and no shocking content whatsoever, for which Henry was grateful, but neither had it been interesting, unfortunately.

Henry used the family hour to consider what he should do to Martin as soon as he was given his freedom. The pleasure of having eaten something that he so enjoyed had him wanting to keep putting things in his mouth.

Pearl closed the book and smiled at Henry. “Tomorrow I’ll read the last chapter, Ma’am, Sirs.”

Mother was possibly asleep, and Father was busy, as always.

“Thank you, Pearl,” Henry said. “You have such a nice reading voice.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Pearl colored a little at the praise.

“Father? May I be excused?”

“What? Oh, certainly. Go. Goodnight.” Father waved him off, and Henry left the room at a fast walk, Martin right behind him.

“Sir?”

“Come on.” Henry reached back for Martin, grabbed his wrist and pulled him forward. He leaned close and said, “More than anything, tonight I want to suck your cock.”

Martin gave a throaty laugh and picked up his pace. “I certainly won’t deny you the pleasure, Sir.”

They kissed behind the locked door, tugging at each other’s clothes and unbuttoning whatever they could reach. Their jackets fell to the floor, followed by their waistcoats. Henry pulled the tie out of Martin’s hair and let it fall loose around his shoulders, held it in handfuls and lifted it off his neck. Martin tilted his head to the side, arching his neck, offering it for Henry’s mouth. Henry kissed Martin’s throat and fumbled with the buttons of Martin’s braces, then the buttons of his drawers, and then pushed everything down off of his hips, trousers crumpling around his ankles. Henry lifted Martin’s shirttails and Martin’s cock stood stiff and exposed, slick at the head.

“Let me,” Martin murmured, and he stripped off his shirt and undershirt while Henry impatiently waited. Martin took Henry’s hands by the wrists and pressed them against his bare skin while they kissed.

Henry dropped to his knees, eyes level with Martin’s cock. He held onto Martin’s hips and pushed him back against the door then nuzzled the wiry hair at the base of his cock and pressed kisses along its length. He inhaled, breathing in Martin’s smell, and wondered if other men could possibly smell so good, if the scent of any other man’s cock and balls would get him so hard or make him so excited.

Henry looked up past Martin’s hard cock to his beautiful face and the expression of dreamy satisfaction he wore. “I’m so looking forward to this,” he said, caressing Henry’s cheek and smoothing his hair back from his forehead, then added, “I think you were made to suck my cock,” in a rough voice.

Henry loved the idea that he had been destined for this, and that Martin would claim him for the job. At this assertion, a volley of painless explosions went off behind Henry’s eyes, his vision going briefly white. He gave a shaky moan and took Martin’s cock into his mouth, eyes closed, the bitter-salty flavor so familiar and all the more arousing because of it.

“Oh, Henry,” Martin said in a hushed, reverent tone, petting Henry’s head and tucking his hair behind his ears. “How I love your mouth!”

The flared head of Martin’s cock slid over his tongue and pushed into his throat, and Henry made the effort to suppress his gag reflex because he loved the way it felt to be so full of Martin, so full up he couldn’t breathe. Martin held his head lightly, ever-so-lightly, guiding his movements with such deft touches, encouraging Henry to take his cock deeper into his throat. Henry knelt up with his nose pressed flat against Martin’s belly, his throat spasming around Martin’s cock, his fingers digging into Martin’s ass, and Martin shuddered, crooning at him, his fingers tangled in Henry’s hair.

“Make me come,” Martin said in that same hushed tone. “Make me come in your mouth.”

Henry worked the length of Martin’s cock with his lips and tongue and throat, sucking it in deep and letting it slide almost all the way out again at a leisurely pace while Martin groaned and squirmed and pawed at his head. Henry was so blissfully aware of everything, the flex of Martin’s thighs, the texture of his cockhead, and the little gasps he made as Henry’s busy tongue molded itself to the shape of his cock. Henry opened his eyes and Martin was looking down at him, lips parted and eyes hazy, and his cock flexed in Henry’s mouth.

“I’m close, Henry, I’m so close,” Martin breathed, frantically combing through Henry’s hair with clawed fingers. “Please, Henry. Make me come.”

Henry redoubled his efforts, intensely sensitive to Martin’s reactions, every whimper and twitch. He knew Martin was almost finished when he began calling Henry’s name with a familiar rhythm and urgency, Henry, Henry, oh, Henry, and shuddered to a sudden stillness, just the faintest tremor in his long thighs and his fingers knotted tight in Henry’s hair. Again, Henry took him in all the way, nose to belly, and swallowed as he came. His own cock throbbed, pulsing just short of orgasm, and he thought it would take almost nothing to make him come, too. He held Martin’s cock in his mouth for as long as Martin would let him do it but, as always, he was too sensitive to tolerate it for long.

“That’s enough.” Martin stroked Henry’s hair, patted his head. “Oh, Henry, that was so good.” He crouched down in front of Henry on shaky legs and kissed him, tasting himself in every corner of Henry’s mouth, his arms looped around Henry’s neck. He broke the kiss and asked, “What about you? You must want to come, too.”

Henry did want to come. “Let me fuck you.”

“Anything you want.” Martin stood up, then bent over and removed his boots and kicked off his hobbling trousers and drawers. “What about your clothes?” He offered Henry a hand and helped him stand, then felt his cock through fabric and squeezed. “I’ll just help you with your boots.” He knelt at Henry’s feet and began loosening his laces.

Henry unbuttoned his braces. He yanked at the front placket of his dinner shirt, forcing the studs out of the stiffly-starched bib. He stripped off his undershirt while Martin reached up and unbuttoned his trousers and then his drawers.

Martin knelt up and kissed his cock. “Do you want me here or on the bed?”

“Let’s get on the bed.” Now it was his turn to help Martin get to his feet.

Martin crossed to the bed and lay down with his knees drawn up, his expression expectant and eager. “Do you want me to get myself ready for you?”

Henry smiled and shook his head as he came to join him. “I’ll do it.” He liked to feel the clutch of Martin’s asshole around his oiled fingers, liked to see the look on Martin’s face as he slid his fingers inside. He got the bottle of oil out of the nightstand drawer and sat back on his heels between Martin’s feet.

“Have you been hard for me all this time?” Martin propped himself up on his elbow and reached for Henry’s cock with his other hand, petting the slick head so fondly.

“Yes,” Henry admitted, face flushing with the admission. “I love sucking your cock.”

“Kiss me, Henry,” Martin urged, reaching for him. “I have to kiss you for saying a thing like that.”

Henry bent over him and they kissed, Martin’s mouth hungry and urgent, his hands ranging over Henry’s back.

“Let me get you ready,” Henry said, breaking the kiss. He wanted to come; he wanted to feel Martin gripping him tight, hot and slick. He was a little careless in preparing Martin, pushing two oiled fingers into his body and then almost immediately adding a third. Martin licked his lip and spread his legs farther apart and made a little sound, not so much pained as intrigued, and tilted his hips to meet the pressure of Henry’s hand.

“You don’t need to wait,” Martin assured him. “It’ll feel so good if you fuck me now.”

Henry chose to believe him, though he suspected it might hurt him a little, too. He oiled his cock and lined himself up and drove inside, and Martin let out a long hissing breath and reached for Henry, wrapping his legs around his back.

“Oh, god, Henry,” Martin sighed. “You belong inside me.” He lifted his head to kiss Henry’s neck.

“I’m not going to last,” Henry warned him. “You feel so good to me.” He bent and nuzzled Martin’s neck and held him close, trembling and ready to come.

“Don’t hold back. Come when you’re ready. Let me help you.” He held Henry’s face between his hands and kissed his forehead. “What are you waiting for?” He pressed kisses all over Henry’s face, a tender lick to the corner of his mouth.

Henry didn’t know what he was waiting for. He didn’t know the words for what he was feeling. He began to move and felt his orgasm rushing toward him, almost ominous, as unstoppable as the shadow of a cloud passing overhead. His actions slipped his control and he was overcome by a dizzying combination of pleasure and panic and cried out, embarrassing himself, but Martin met his cries with tender encouragement, loving whispers. Henry came, the inside of his skull going white again, and his hips stuttering to a standstill. He looked down at Martin, feeling so delicate and raw, and Martin looked back at him with his beautiful clear eyes, and Henry thought that it might just be possible that Martin cared for Henry every bit as much as Henry cared for him. If love was something more than this, Henry didn’t think he could bear it.

They lay wrapped around each other a few minutes, but eventually Martin nudged Henry aside and went for his basin.

Clean, curled together and headed for sleep, Henry thought back on James’ predicament and Louis’ dismay, and of how his opinion of James had altered over the course of just a few months. “There’s something I don’t think I ever told you about James.”

“What’s that, Henry?”

“It’s a little embarrassing. Before I met you, I thought I was in love with him.”

“No! Henry, not really!” Martin was aghast.

Henry laughed. “Well, he’s handsome, and I thought he was exciting! He’s so utterly without care. I wanted to be like that, too.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re not,” Martin said firmly. “You’re nothing like him. I know I shouldn’t say so, but I think he’s terrible! He does horrible things to slaves.”

“What has he done, then? I know the others must tell you about what happens at these parties they’re going to.”

Martin wrinkled his nose. “Awful stuff. At the Halloween party, he singled out Tom and made him do things that I don’t even know the names for. Mr. Briggs made him take two boys in his ass at the same time! Tom was terrified he was going to be seriously hurt.”

“How did that even work?” Henry tried to picture it, where all the limbs would go.

“I don’t know.” He hugged Henry tighter and gave a shudder of distaste. “I’m glad you didn’t share me with him.”

Henry had not forgotten James threatening to fuck Martin at Halloween, and even if it had been just an idle threat, as Louis claimed, it had still been exceedingly ungentlemanly to make it. “I’ll never let James or anyone else hurt you,” he promised. “I’ll protect you always.”

“I know you will, Henry.”

Henry thought a moment about the scenario Martin had described, poor Tom stuffed full of cocks. “So what he did to Tom, that’s definitely not usual, is it?”

“Oh, no! I understand that the parties your friends normally have are much less extreme. It’s only Mr. Briggs who goes out of his way to hurt slaves.”

“What other sorts of things happen at James’ parties?”

“Nasty things. Slaves are fucked in the mouth until they throw up. Slaves are made to drink until they pass out and then they’re fucked by whoever wants a go. Mr. Briggs goads masters to be cruel and dares them to do things that they might not otherwise do. Terrible things like that.”

Henry grimaced, finding this quite disturbing. “Why would a person even want to do any of that?”

“Mr. Briggs is just horrible,” Martin said with conviction. “Peter tells me that Mr. Briggs finds it all very funny.”

“Peter doesn’t like him?”

“I don’t think any slave likes him.”

“What about his own? What about Joseph?”

“Well, Joseph is stuck with him, isn’t he? But Joseph is tired of Mr. Briggs hurting him, so he helps him find new victims instead. Peter doesn’t much like Joseph, either. He thinks Joseph’s a bit of a bully, too.”

“What about Freddie?” It had just occurred to Henry that Tom’s master would have been there to witness Tom’s harsh treatment. “Why didn’t he stop James from hurting Tom?”

“You know how Mr. Briggs is, Henry. He’s older and harder, and he has all those mean-spirited drunkard friends to back him up. The young masters want to seem worldly and tough to the college boys and end up being intimidated into letting terrible things happen to their slaves.” He shook his head, frowning. “Mr. Caldwell didn’t stand up for Tom.”

A madman could get away with doing all sorts of awful things to a slave in private, of course, but Henry didn’t understand how James was able to get away with tormenting slaves in front of whole crowds without anyone attempting to stop him. He did it in front of the slaves’ masters, even!

“Aren’t you glad I don’t swap you?” Henry pulled Martin closer and kissed the side of his head.

“I’m glad you’re so concerned about how I’m treated.”

It was amazing to Henry how his opinion of James had changed in such a short period of time, and it had all been through the filter of Martin, of caring what happened to Martin. It was as if his affection for Martin had made him more aware of the people around him, let him see more clearly facets of their personalities that might have seemed inconsequential before. James had always seemed wild and exciting, but now that vicious, charismatic energy seemed dangerous, unstable and unkind. Henry’s regard for Martin had made him more concerned about everyone’s behavior and character, more interested in determining who was a force for good, and who for ill.

With James at home for the foreseeable future, Henry would have to be more cautious in accepting invitations to the Briggs house. He didn’t trust James to leave Martin alone, and, although he thought he could win, he didn’t want to have to fight him. It was better to arrange things so the situation would never arise.

At Sunday dinner, Mother seemed more alert than usual, and Henry caught a glimpse of what she’d been like on her good days when he was little, what she might have been like when Father first laid eyes on her. She smiled at Henry across the table.

“Darling Henry.” Mother's voice came out rough, as if she hadn't used it in awhile. She cleared her throat and said, “Oh, darling, you’re getting so tall. I think you’ll be taller than your father before you’re done growing.”

“I might be, Mother,” Henry said to be agreeable. He had no real opinion on the matter. He would or wouldn’t be.

“You don’t take after my people in that regard,” she continued, “but you seem a Wilton in all other respects.”

Father looked up from his plate and fixed her with a steady stare, waiting to see where she was going with this line of talk.

“Wilton men are always so handsome, so graceful, and such good dancers, too. You remind me so much of Reggie, darling,” she said. “Do you remember your Uncle Reggie?”

Henry did indeed. In Reggie’s presence, Mother had been another person entirely, a vivacious creature with flashing eyes and a sense of humor. The siblings had been close all their lives, and only Reggie had ever seemed able to lift her melancholy, but Reggie left abruptly when Henry was just 7, plunging Mother back into a black depression from which she had never really emerged again. Henry understood that Reggie had been living outside the United States all this time—France, perhaps, or Greece? It had always been hurtful that Reggie had simply left without saying goodbye, and that he had never written to Henry, not even so much as a postcard.

“Of course I do,” Henry assured her. “I loved Uncle Reggie.” He darted a quick glance at Father to see how he would react to this; Father’s gaze did not waver from Mother’s face, so Henry felt emboldened to add, “I’ve missed him. Do you ever hear from him at all?”

Mother gave him a grateful and loving smile; it transformed her into a marvelous stranger. “I do, darling. I’ve just had word, in fact. He’ll be with us at Christmas!”

Father coughed and seemed to be choking; Timothy stepped forward and bent to confer with him, but bowed away gracefully as Father got his breathing under control.

“What’s he doing back in the country, Louisa?” Father’s voice was sharp, suspicious. “Why is he here?”

“Well, you know his friend died, that Mr. Ellsworth, and now there’s nothing keeping him in Italy. He thought he’d come home at long last.”

“He has everything he needs in Italy,” Father said. “He’s provided for handsomely. What will he do for money here, do you think?”

“Oh, Hiram, can’t we discuss this later? Surely something can be worked out! I’ve missed him so, and I know he’s missed me. He was gone for all of Henry’s growing up, and he loved Henry so dearly! He’s never even met Cora!”

This was the most Henry had heard out of his mother in ages. Just the fact of her speaking at length like this was remarkable, but the actual news she had to impart was exciting, too. Uncle Reggie!

Father frowned at his plate. “You know I don’t care for Reggie. I don’t want my children influenced by his example.”

“Reggie isn't harming anyone, Hiram. He's only trying to be happy.” She put down her fork and let her hand fall heavily to her lap. “Besides, Henry is nearly grown, Hiram, and entirely under your influence. If he’s not turning out as you’d like, you’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

Henry froze, horrified by her words. He knew he wasn’t turning out as Father wanted. He looked down at his napkin in his lap and felt his face grow hot with crimson shame.

“You’re making the boy uncomfortable with this talk,” Father said gruffly. “He’s turning out fine.”

Fine. That wasn’t a positive assessment, per se, but it wasn’t overtly negative, at least.

“Say you’ll talk to Reggie,” Mother urged. “Hear him out. He just wants to come home, Hiram.”

Father made a noncommittal grunt.

The family hour was tense, all members of the group sullen and feeling wronged by the others. Mother sighed and fretted with the edges of her shawl, her dramatic exhalations interrupting Pearl’s reading. Best Intentions ended with a wedding, of course, and Henry was not at all surprised. He’d guessed there’d be a wedding from the first page.

Paying only the barest mind to the story, Henry considered the return of his Uncle Reggie. It was exciting news, to be sure, but upsetting, as well. Nine years without a word! Would he even remember Henry? Would he even care how much Henry had missed him?

In the bedroom, conflicted and emotional, he grabbed Martin and pushed him down on the bed, half-undressed. He fucked him from behind, pounding hard, almost frenzied, and then put him on his back and fucked him face-to-face, now more slowly and looking into his beautiful, calm eyes. He felt like he might cry, and Martin was ever-so-tender with him, kissing him and stroking his hair as they moved together. Afterward, he lay with his head on Martin’s chest while Martin petted his hair.

“Henry, you’ve only ever told me a little about your Uncle Reggie. Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking now?”

“I don’t really know what to say. I loved him a lot. I know my father never liked him. Reggie was always different than other people, and I loved that about him. Now that I’m older, I’m quite positive he’s some sort of fairy and obviously Father disapproved of him on that account. But Father didn’t have to put up with him for very long. I’ve told you he left when I was just little. He never even said goodbye.”

“Why do you think he’s a fairy?”

“Oh, all sorts of reasons. Like, certain mannerisms he had…he didn’t behave like a woman, by any means, but he didn’t act like other men, either. He was very charming, of course, and he’s a Wilton, so he was very handsome, and he wore the most beautiful clothes. You also have to consider the kinds of things he was interested in, and the kinds of things he wasn’t interested in. He was so kind and loving and unashamed of it. He loved wine and hated cigars. He loved art and music and dancing. He always brought beautiful flowers when he visited. He loved women, but not romantically. He loved their clothes, and their hair, and their manners, but he never had a sweetheart, and apparently girls were crazy about him. He doted on his slave. He had a lot of gentlemen friends who were ‘sensitive’ types. I didn’t see all this myself, of course; I was only a child. Some of this I picked up from hearing Pearl and my mother talking.”

“He sounds lovely.”

“He was,” Henry agreed.

“You missed him a lot, didn’t you?” Martin kissed the top of his head.

“He paid more attention to me than any of the other adults, so I definitely noticed when he stopped coming. Mother seemed to just give up entirely after he was gone. They were always very close, you see.”

“Your poor mother.” Martin had a great deal more empathy for Mother than Henry did. “Poor you, Henry. Poor little boy.” He smoothed Henry’s hair back from his forehead. “It’s good then, isn’t it, that you’ll have a chance to talk with him again at Christmas?”

“I’m feeling a bit angry with him, actually,” Henry admitted. “Not a single letter in nine years.”

“I’m sure he had his reasons, Henry. Try not to judge him too harshly before you’ve had a chance to talk with him.”

When Henry was very young, the entire house had been decorated for Christmas, but since there would be no guests to see the festive display, only the family rooms were decorated nowadays. There was a Christmas tree set up in the upstairs parlor festooned with garlands of glass baubles. Father had got an electrician in to put electric bulbs on it, and they reflected off of the tinsel to spangle the room with lozenges of light.

When the family gathered after dinner on Christmas Eve, Cora was brought down from the nursery to open her presents. She brought the bedraggled and cracked Baby Ann with her so that the doll might renew her acquaintance with Martin and, to a lesser extent, Henry. Father and Mother seemed slightly unbelieving that this broken and grubby baby was Cora’s very favorite, exhibiting a sort of baffled cordiality as Cora made the introductions. Cora’s presents were the same every year, it seemed: she would get a new doll, a new tea set, and a new dress she’d be expected to wear to the Christmas gathering on the morrow. She did not seem to mind the invariability of her gifts, and sat on the floor at Henry’s feet and played happily with the new doll, making it drink pretend tea and pay tribute to Baby Ann.

“Henry, you be this new girl,” Cora said, shoving the new doll at him.

Henry took the doll gingerly. She had black ringlets, huge blue eyes, a fussy pink silk dress. “What’s her name?”

Cora thought a moment. “Brindle.”

“Really?” Henry wasn’t sure, but he thought that was an animal color.

“Yes, Brindle,” Cora said firmly. She arranged Baby Ann on her back on the floor and, in a high-pitched, slightly spooky voice, said, “Brindle, I need your help.”

Henry had never tried to imitate a female voice in all his life thus far, and he was not any good at it now, this first time. “What is it, Ann?”

“Baby Ann,” Cora insisted.

Henry cleared his throat and tried again. “What is it, Baby Ann? How can I help you?”

“Bring me some tea, Brindle.”

Henry had to get down on the carpet to make Brindle carry a teacup to Baby Ann’s imaginary sickbed. Baby Ann then required Brindle to hold the cup while she drank.

“Is Brindle Baby Ann’s slave? I thought Baby Ann already had a slave,” Henry said.

“Baby Ann’s a princess,” Cora explained. “She has lots of slaves.”

“Oh, she’s a princess? What country is she from?”

“America,” Cora said, rolling her eyes as if Henry was being especially slow-witted. And then, in Baby Ann’s sinister, petulant timbre, she said, “Brindle, tell me a story.”

Henry only knew adventure stories. In his terrible Brindle voice, he asked, “Would you like to hear a pirate story?”

Cora wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you.” She looked up, past Henry. “Martin, do you know any stories?”

“Miss?”

“Will you play with me, Martin? Henry isn’t doing it right.”

Henry was somewhat offended that his efforts were being discounted so decisively and casually, but he didn’t want to play dolls anymore, either.

Nurse stepped in. “Miss,” she said, “won’t you show your brother and Martin how well you can entertain yourself?”

“But they’re right here!” Cora protested. “I shouldn’t have to play by myself.”

“Leave the boys alone,” Father said, and that was that.

Henry didn’t receive any presents but he was not upset by this; he had not received presents in several years, though Father often suggested options when the family came together. Henry was perfectly happy with this state of affairs; all of his needs were met quite extravagantly, and he desired for nothing.

“Take yourself to Hamilton’s if you like,” Father suggested. “Put some things on account. Let Timothy know so he can tell them to expect you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Henry liked the idea of a new suit and perhaps some patterned waistcoats, which made him wonder if he might be able to convince Martin to wear a waistcoat a little fancier than the plain black he wore every day. Probably not. Outside of the bedroom, Martin was a stickler for protocol and rules.

Cora kissed everyone goodnight and the party dispersed. Henry and Martin went back to Henry’s rooms and had sleepy sex, and Henry thought that Martin was the best present he’d ever had.

On Christmas morning, Henry woke to Martin’s hand on his shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Henry.”

“Merry Christmas.” He pulled Martin down into the bed and kissed him. “How much time do we have?”

“Not much,” Martin admitted. “I let you sleep longer than usual. We’ll be wanted downstairs directly for your breakfast.”

Henry nuzzled his neck and squeezed his ass with both hands. “I’ll give you a present later, then,” he promised.

Martin laughed. “I’m counting on it.”

Henry showered and was shaved and dressed in his bottle-green suit with a red paisley tie.

Martin smoothed the shoulders of Henry’s jacket, straightened his lapels, and said, “You look very festive.”

Down in the breakfast room, Father was in a foul mood, finding fault with everything. Father disliked visiting the Wiltons and had discouraged Henry from becoming any closer to his Wilton cousins, but Christmas was the one day a year Father could not avoid interacting with his wife’s family.

“Merry Christmas, Father,” Henry said hopefully. “Merry Christmas, Mother.” He sat in the chair Martin held out for him.

“Henry.” Father said in reply. He looked Henry up and down and frowned at the green suit.

“Henry, darling.” Mother seemed almost happy; surely it was the prospect of seeing Reggie again. “You look very handsome.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

They had baked eggs with cheese and herbs, ham, sausage, pancakes with apple-cinnamon compote, raisin toast with butter and jam, and spice cake. Henry had two cups of milky coffee. Mother sipped her tea and ate nothing. Father, complaining of the substandard fare that would be offered in Gilbert Wilton’s house, ate large portions of everything.

The Wiltons sent their Clarence around—as well they ought, Father pointed out, since he’d purchased it for them—as the entire Blackwell entourage numbered eight people and each carriage could only comfortably seat four. Henry and Cora rode together in the Wilton carriage, with its unfamiliar green leather upholstery and fringed curtains, along with Martin and Nurse. At Cora’s request, Henry allowed her to sit beside Martin while he sat with Nurse.

Cora chattered to Martin, adoring and shyly flirtatious, and Henry watched, amused. Cora could certainly do worse in terms of a first love. Martin would be careful with her heart. Then, with a pang of guilt, Henry thought of Alice Briggs. He should be nicer to her. She was just a little girl, after all.

“That was so kind of you to play with Little Miss last night, Sir,” Nurse said in a low voice, patting Henry’s arm. “Baby Ann can be quite the tyrant.”

“Why that doll?” Henry asked. “She has so many that are prettier, including the new one.”

“I don’t know, Sir. Even before her accident, Baby Ann wasn’t Little Miss’ prettiest doll. I don’t think pretty has anything to do with it.”

They sat in silence a moment listening to Martin and Cora chat, then Nurse said, “I’ve meant to say, Sir, that your Martin seems very happy in your service.”

Henry flushed, pleased, and said, “I’m glad to hear you think so. I think we’re both happy.”

“I think now you have a friend who understands you, Sir,” Nurse said blandly, as if she didn’t notice how her words intensified Henry’s blush. She gave Henry’s arm a little squeeze and shake. “It’s the friendship I’ve always dreamed of for you, Sir, even if it is with a slave.”

Henry swallowed hard, so embarrassed he could scarcely speak, but he had to respond. “Well, the slaves have always cared for me the most anyway,” he said with a shrug, forced casualness. “It’s possible it’ll always be that way, don’t you think?”

“Someday you’ll have a wife who’ll love you, Sir,” Nurse said, but she did not sound particularly convinced that this was the sort of love Henry would find fulfilling.

The Wilton house was twenty blocks south of the Blackwells’ more fashionable neighborhood, in what had been very fashionable territory a century past. There were a few old families living here still, but it was now a thoroughly bourgeois district. The Wiltons were a bit snobbish about their long-standing residency, though to Henry their outdated address just seemed to show how far they’d come down in the world.

Henry liked his Wilton cousins quite well. Bette and Jesse both had the Wilton dark good looks and were lively young people with wide-ranging interests—really, they were exactly the types that Father claimed he wanted Henry to know but, because they were Wiltons, Father had instead told Henry to keep his distance.

Over the years, Father had made sure Henry knew that everything he saw in the Wilton house had been paid for with Blackwell money. Father had been bailing Uncle Gilbert out for over twenty years now, ever since marrying Mother, and seemed to expect to continue to do so far into the future. Uncle Gilbert had, of course, destroyed the Wilton family business, and he had done no better with any of the ventures he’d embarked upon after his spectacular failure with the mercantile empire. Eventually, Father had given him a well-paid job at Blackwell Industries where he had no real power and could do no serious harm.

Despite his professional failures, Uncle Gilbert seemed a happy man. He and Aunt Virginia got along very well and they were loving with and supportive of their children to a degree that made Henry quite envious. Not only were the four of them a cozy unit, but they regularly met and socialized with numerous additional Wilton relatives, the children and grandchildren of Grandfather Wilton’s brothers, many of whom would make an appearance at the Christmas gathering. Henry certainly would have liked to have been closer to the Wilton side of the family. It would have been nice, also, to have at least a few Blackwell cousins, but if any such people existed, Father had long since cut ties with them.

At the Wilton house, there was a wreath on the door with a big red bow, and the front hall was garlanded with evergreen boughs. The house smelled of pine and spices and roasting meats. Aunt Virginia came to greet them and accepted a kiss on the cheek from Henry before spiriting Mother away to a place of honor in the formal parlor where she might “rest” and wait for Reggie to return from his morning calls.

Uncle Gilbert shook Henry’s hand and suggested he might join Bette and Jesse upstairs. “They’re in the music room,” he told him. “Do you remember where that is?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Henry headed for the stairs with Martin at his back. Over his shoulder, he said to Martin, “Jesse’s a year older, and goes to school uptown. He wants to be a writer or an artist of some kind. Bette must be 20 now. She’s not getting married just yet; she goes to college at Bryn Mawr.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Someone was playing the piano. The door to the music room stood open. Henry gave it a little rap with his knuckles and pushed it wide.

Bette sat on the piano bench, picking out a song, her slave Vera at her side. Jesse sat sideways in an armchair, his long legs draped over the arm. His slave Russ sat on the floor before the chair, eyes closed, his head tilted back and resting on Jesse’s hip. Jesse’s hand lay across the front of Russ’ throat, casually possessive. Henry was startled and somewhat titillated by this display of intimacy. Neither he nor any of his friends would dare be so openly affectionate with a slave. Jesse had only had Russ a few months at last Christmas, and they had not seemed nearly so at ease with one another at that time.

All four looked up at Henry and Martin.

“Oh, hello, Henry,” Bette said, smiling. “It’s so nice to see you.”

“It’s nice to see you, too.” Henry went to her and kissed her cheek.

“I forgot you’d have a slave of your own this year,” Jesse said, swinging his legs around to put his feet on the floor. Although Jesse was older than Henry, he looked younger, slim and boyish, with glossy black hair falling in his eyes and a quick smile. He was handsome, to be sure, and, with a little frisson of jealousy, Henry wondered if Martin would think so, too. Jesse nodded at Martin. “Very nice. Ganymede, of course?” When Father had purchased companions for the cousins, he’d insisted that they come from the Houses he favored.

“Yes, he’s Ganymede,” Henry agreed. “This is Martin.”

“At your service, Sir. Miss.” Martin gave each of the cousins a little bow.

Jesse stood up and stretched, and he gave Russ a hand up, as well. “I’ve found that the Ganymede boys really are better trained than the others. Don’t you think so, too?”

Henry had not paid enough attention to have an informed opinion, but there was no need to let Jesse know that. “Much better,” he agreed.

Jesse came forward to have a look at Martin. “Say, you’re only a year apart, aren’t you?” Jesse asked Russ. “Do you know one another, then?”

“Yes, Sir,” said Russ, smiling at Martin. “Martin was one of the top boys in his year.”

“Top boy, eh?” Jesse grinned at Martin, sensing his embarrassment. “Russ was a middle boy, maybe, weren’t you, sport?” Russ laughed and didn’t deny it. “I’m lucky to have him, though. Your father did me a good turn.” Jesse gave Henry’s arm an affectionate squeeze, as if Henry had had some hand in the matter. Henry was always a bit disconcerted by the amount of touching the Wiltons engaged in—he didn’t dislike it, but he didn’t know how to respond to it, either.

“Why don’t we clear out and let the girls play in peace?” Jesse suggested. “We’ll go to my room.”

Henry followed Jesse down the hall, the slaves already talking in low voices at his back. Slaves always seemed able to establish camaraderie with one another on a moment’s acquaintance, and Henry wished that the knack of it was taught to free boys, as well.

“We can play poker,” Jesse suggested. “You know how to play, right?”

They played for matchsticks. Jesse wasn’t much better than Henry, but he was better. Henry quickly lost all his matches, Martin and Russ building up larger and larger piles of sticks.

“Say, Martin,” Jesse said. “Do you like your long hair?”

“Sir?”

“Do you like it? Russ got sick of his, so I let him cut it, but now I wish I hadn’t.” Henry recalled that last Christmas Russ had had chestnut waves to the middle of his back, but now his hair was quite conventionally short.

“It got in my food, Sir,” Russ protested. “It’s much better now that it’s like this, really.”

“I-I do like it, Sir,” Martin said hesitantly. “I’m a bit vain, to tell the truth.”

Jesse laughed. “Imagine that, looking like you do.”

Henry bristled a little. Was Jesse flirting with Martin?

“How well did you two know one another at Ganymede?” Jesse asked.

“We were friendly, Sir,” Russ said. “We were different years, though, so we didn’t spend a lot of time together.”

“So you didn’t train together, then?” Jesse asked. “You don’t know each other that well.”

“No, Sir,” Martin said. “We were just friendly.”

“Maybe we can change that,” Jesse said blithely. “After dinner.”

Henry froze, horrified. He’d not anticipated this sort of interest from his cousin, and he was loath to spoil the good time they were having, but he wasn’t going to be willing to share Martin with either Jesse or Russ.

Jesse seemed quite unaware of Henry’s dismay. He began to tell Henry about his pen pal, a second cousin on his mother’s side, a girl called Elizabeth with whom he felt he was very much in love. He put down his cards so that he could show Henry a cabinet card of an elfin blonde holding a black kitten, and Henry agreed that she was very pretty.

“We’ll have obstacles to overcome, to be sure,” Jesse admitted. “I’m only two years older than her, and no one will think I’m mature enough to marry when she’s eligible.” He threw two matchsticks into the pot; Henry could plainly see that he had nothing in his hand, not even a pair.

“You’re so sure you’ll want to marry her?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Jesse assured him. He discarded three cards and drew new ones that were no better. “And I’ll be even more sure in three years when she turns 18.” He bet again, cleaning himself out. “Oh, look, I’m out of matches now.”

They sat side-by-side with their backs against the footboard of Jesse’s bed and watched their slaves continue to play.

“So, Uncle Reggie’s back, you know. He got here Sunday late.” Jesse bumped Henry with his shoulder. “He’s the same old Reggie. Still wears crazy clothes. Still the most loving guy you could ever want to know.”

Henry often forgot that Reggie had belonged to other people, too, not just Mother and himself. “I’m a little nervous to see him,” he admitted. “I don’t know what to say to him, you know? I adored him, but then he just disappeared and I never heard from him again.”

Jesse snorted. “Well, he couldn’t exactly write to you, could he?”

“Why not?” Henry was genuinely baffled.

“Well, it was one of the conditions,” Jesse said, as if this were obvious. When he saw Henry’s confused face, his expression softened. “Oh. Oh dear. You didn’t know, then?” Jesse put his hand on Henry’s arm again and gave him a squeeze meant to be comforting. “I’m sorry, Henry, I thought you knew what happened.”

“Well, tell me. Please.”

“Oh, gee.” Jesse looked very much as if he wanted to be elsewhere. “Well, Reggie owed your father a lot of money, you see, and he had done some things that your father didn’t approve of, and so he panicked and ran off to Europe with Mr. Ellsworth. Once he was overseas, well…your father paid him to stay there.”

“Why would he do that?”

Jesse gave him such a tender, pitying look. “To keep him away from you, of course,” he said gently.

“Away from me?” Henry felt a terrible sinking in his gut. If this was true, then it was because of him that Uncle Reggie had disappeared. It was because of him, then, that Mother had been so miserable for the last nine years.

“It’s not your fault, Henry,” Jesse insisted, his hand still on Henry’s arm. “It was all your father’s doing. Your father isn’t a bad man, Henry, but he doesn’t trust people, and he went overboard. Anyone else would have seen that Reggie’s harmless.”

Henry was devastated. He felt so ashamed! It had all been to keep him from turning out like Reggie, he realized, and he’d gone and done so anyway. Everyone had been made unhappy for no reason.

“Sir?” Martin had laid down his cards and was looking at Henry with a worried frown. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Henry was shaking, but at pains to hide it.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Jesse said, sounding genuinely sorry. “Really, I just assumed you knew, Henry.”

Henry hated his father! Loathed him! All these years, he’d thought that Uncle Reggie had just grown tired of him, that the kindest adult in his life (barring Nurse) had lost interest in him, but in actuality Reggie had been exiled.

Jesse put his arm around Henry’s shoulders and gave him a hug that was surely meant to be comforting, though in truth the contact made Henry a bit jumpy.

There was a knock on the door and Henry pulled away from Jesse, flustered.

“Jesse? Can I come in?” It was Darwin Hatch, a towheaded 14-year-old, second cousin to both Jesse and Henry, who was voluble about baseball and what kind of slave he wanted when he turned 16 in two years. Henry was grateful to have someone there to pick up the conversational slack. Darwin’s chatter was a sort of buzzing hum underlying Henry’s racing thoughts: was it all his fault? Would Reggie hate him? Did his mother hate him? Did his father hate them all?

“Sir?” Martin’s voice, low and close.

“Hmm?” Henry turned to face Martin, right at his side, looking worried. “What about your game?”

“I don’t care about poker, Sir. I heard what your cousin said. Please don’t blame yourself, Sir, for a decision your father made.” He put his hand on Henry’s shoulder and Henry leaned into the pressure. How he wanted to pull Martin to him, to lavish him in kisses and forget everything he’d heard.

Another second cousin arrived, Lyle Benson, age 15, with dark Wilton coloring and looking like a miniature of Jesse. Last year, he’d seemed a child, but this year he was a young man. Lyle wanted to meet Martin, so Henry got to his feet and made the introduction. Lyle circled Martin slowly, eyeing him up and down as if he were a true connoisseur of human flesh, and approvingly pronounced him, “Really excellent, Henry.”

Henry nodded in acknowledgement. He didn’t know how to respond to Lyle’s compliment. Martin was a person, after all; he wasn’t some accomplishment of Henry’s.

A slave came upstairs with a tray of drinks, eggnog in silver cups. All the boys and their slaves took cups and drank. As Henry watched, laughing Jesse reached out and wiped eggnog off of Russ’ lip and let him lick it off his thumb. Henry flushed a startled, aroused red; he darted a glance at Martin and saw he was similarly transfixed. He’d never known anyone to be so physically suggestive with a slave before. For his part, Jesse seemed quite unconcerned and at ease. Henry wondered if Jesse’s friends were like him, or if Jesse was considered extreme; their cousins, who saw Jesse often, did not seem to register anything untoward about Jesse’s treatment of Russ. Was it possible that at a different school, with a different social circle, Henry’s own behavior would fall within acceptable range?

The last addition to their party was yet another second cousin, Eli Carmichael, a handsome boy with gingery hair a few months older than Jesse, who arrived with his slave Owen. Owen looked rather like a Wilton, actually, with long, glossy dark hair, the air of a dissipated poet, and the red-and-black mark of House Apollo on his chest. Eli looked Martin over and smiled. “You have good taste, Henry.” Again, Henry did not know how to respond and became bashful.

“Oh, say,” Eli remarked. “I almost forgot. Jesse, Henry: your Uncle Reggie is here now. He’s with Cousin Louisa in the parlor and they’re having a big reunion scene. Everyone’s in tears!”

Henry’s heart lurched in his chest. Uncle Reggie! Here! Would Reggie be happy to see him? Or would he blame Henry for his banishment?

Jesse took hold of Henry’s elbow. “Should we go down? You do want to see him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “Yes, but—”

Jesse waited for him to finish his sentence, but Henry did not actually know what his objection was. He was just frightened.

“Come on, Henry. Let’s go down.” Jesse’s hand on his elbow gently guided him toward the door. Henry turned to look over his shoulder and Martin was close behind, smiling at him encouragingly.

They went downstairs, pushing through a throng of Wiltons and Carmichaels, Bensons and Hatches. Jesse was still steering Henry by the elbow, guiding him through the crowd. “Don’t know if you remember, but the formal parlor is up here on the left,” Jesse was saying. “My mother wanted them to have their reunion in the nicest room.”

“That was thoughtful of her,” Henry said, his voice barely audible. There were familiar faces all around, people he was related to, people he only saw once a year. Faces passing in a blur. Cousin Sophie. Cousin Edward. Another of his second cousins, a girl he thought was called Adelaide. A house full of people, hectic and laughing and happy, and just twenty blocks from his home, but Father didn’t want him to have this. Father didn’t want him to have this family.

The parlor door was closed. Henry hesitated to knock, but Jesse reached past him and did it, and a man’s muffled voice called out, “Come in.”

Jesse and Henry went in with their slaves. Mother was crying on the settee, but joyously, her eyes full of love and her smile brilliant. Henry had never seen her like this, so purely happy. The man who sat beside her holding her hand was smaller than Henry remembered, slight and dapper and very handsome in the Wilton mold, with wavy hair and a neat mustache. He appeared to have been crying, as well. Reggie’s red-haired slave Benjamin stood off to the side with Pearl, who dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Oh! Reggie, look! It’s my Henry!” Henry was taken aback by his mother’s extravagant enthusiasm. “See how beautiful he is?”

“Henry!” Reggie stood up and took a step towards him, arms open. “Oh, you lovely boy! How good it is to see you!”

Reggie didn’t hate him. Mother didn’t hate him. Choking back a sob, Henry stepped forward and let himself be embraced. Reggie was small and light, like a bird, and he smelled of heady flowers and amber. He held Henry tightly and rubbed his back. Henry found that he was crying and couldn’t stop.

“I’ll just leave you, then,” Jesse said softly at his back, and Henry was dimly aware of the door closing.

Henry breathed in shudders, clutching handfuls of Reggie’s velvet jacket. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Whatever for?” Reggie pulled away from him so that they might look one another in the eye. “You’ve done nothing to be sorry for, Henry.”

“But I know,” Henry said. “Now I know why you left.”

Reggie smiled and touched his cheek. “That’s all in the past, Henry. We’re starting over again today.”

“I missed you so much. I thought…I thought you got tired of me.” Henry started to cry again.

“Oh, no, darling, no! You mustn’t tell the others, but you were always my favorite,” Reggie told him. “My little prince. I could never tire of you, Henry. You were such a delightful child. And look at you now! You’re almost a grown man!”

Henry fished in his waistcoat pocket for his handkerchief. He glanced over Reggie’s shoulder and saw that Martin had gone to stand with Pearl and Benjamin. Martin offered Henry an encouraging smile.

“I have my slave now,” he said. “He’s…he’s amazing.” It was a silly thing to say, and he blushed.

“You’re still bashful,” Reggie said fondly. He turned to look at the slaves. “Come here and meet me, young man.”

Martin stepped forward and bowed. “I’m Martin. At your service, Sir.”

“So nice to meet you, Martin. I trust you’re taking good care of my nephew.”

“I do my best, Sir.”

“He’s a sweet boy,” Reggie said, patting Henry’s arm. “He deserves a lot of love.”

How he’d missed Reggie! No one else talked about him like this; no one else thought he was sweet or deserving. He felt his throat grow tight and feared he would cry all over again.

There was a knock, the door opened a few inches, and Jesse stuck his head through the gap. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” he said, “but Mother says dinner will be served in five minutes.”

“Thank you, Jesse.” Reggie said. “We’ll be out directly.”

“Oh dear,” Mother said. “I’ve been crying so much! I must look a sight! Reggie, couldn’t we stay here? Maybe Virginia would send us in a tray?”

Reggie went to her and took her hand. “Nonsense, Louisa. Everyone wants to see you. They want to see you happy. No one will mind the tears.”

Mother and Henry both got themselves under better control and Mother went out to the dining room on Reggie’s arm just as the clock struck two. Just as Reggie had said, all the family members were happy and excited for the reunited siblings. Mother’s cousins gathered around her offering congratulations and affection, little touches and pats.

Father stood by himself at the far end of the long table. Henry was surprised to see that he didn’t seem angry, as he had earlier, but instead looked sad, even sheepish, as he watched his wife’s effusive relatives comfort and encourage her. He saw Henry and gave him a solemn nod, and Henry realized that his father would be able to see that he’d been crying and felt guilty. It felt disloyal to Father to be so happy to see Reggie, but he couldn’t help it. He’d loved Reggie better than either of his parents.

Henry watched Reggie lead his mother to a chair and hold it for her, both Pearl and Benjamin looking on, letting him do it. Jesse took his elbow again and gave it a little tug.

“We’re still in the family parlor this year,” he said, “with all the little ones. There’re too many adults for there to be room for us at the big table.”

There were tables set up for the young people in the parlor adjoining the dining room and the smaller children were running between them laughing and shouting, their nurses trying in vain to corral them. Cora was already seated, Nurse standing behind her, but when she saw Henry and Martin, she got up from her chair and darted over to greet them. She hugged Henry and leaned against Martin’s legs, seeming supremely contented.

“Hello, Jesse. Hello, Jesse’s slave.” She smiled up at Russ. “I remember your face, but I don’t remember your name.”

“I’m Russell, Miss. I remember you, too.”

“Look, Henry,” Cora said, reaching into the pocket of her pinafore. “I brought Honey.”

“Honey?”

“The dancing bear,” Cora explained, showing him the little bear from her circus set. “Martin, do you see? I brought Honey to Christmas. I’ve been telling our cousins all about my circus.” To Jesse she said, “Did you know, Jesse? Henry and Martin gave me the best present for my birthday.”

“Really? What was that?” Jesse asked politely, and Cora proceeded to tell him about the circus with great enthusiasm and in exhaustive detail.

“Miss?” Nurse came and put her hands on Cora’s shoulders. “Miss, come sit. Leave the boys be.”

The rest of the children and young people began filing into the room. Bette had graduated to the adult table this year, as had another of the older girls, but otherwise the faces around the tables were all familiar. The little ones were attended by their respective families’ nurses, but only Henry, Jesse and Eli were attended by slaves of their own; none of the remaining girls was old enough for a companion. Adelaide and Caroline and Theresa all made a point of telling Henry how handsome they thought Martin was which made Henry blush. Once again, he accepted compliments rather gracelessly.

Everyone found places and sat. Jesse was at the head of the boys’ table, Henry and Eli to his right and left, respectively, and the rest of the table filled out with the younger boys, some on their own and others with nurses. Darwin sat at Henry’s right elbow, whispering questions about Martin.

“How did you choose him, anyway? How many did you look at before you picked him?”

As far as Henry was concerned, the choice had been made for him by fate; he had seen Martin and responded viscerally to his beauty, and that had been all he had needed to know to make a decision. He certainly wasn’t going to tell Darwin this, however, as it was far too romantic and foolish to share. “Oh, I looked at a few,” Henry said blandly. “He was the best one. He’s smart, and we like to do a lot of the same things.”

“I like his hair,” Darwin said confidentially. “Jesse should have kept Russ’ hair long.”

The adults went suddenly quiet, so the young people quieted, too. On the other side of the wall, Uncle Gilbert cleared his throat and began a prayer in a loud voice so that all could hear. Henry bowed his head along with all of his cousins. He wondered what Father was doing, if he was bowing his head or if he sat upright, scowling at all the superstitious Wiltons with their pointless prayers. When Uncle Gilbert said, “Amen,” Henry joined everyone else in saying it, too.

As champagne was being poured at the main table, a footman brought flutes for the three eldest boys, who were all grateful and pleased.

Darwin elbowed, Henry. “Can I have a sip?”

Amused, Henry let Darwin gulp down half his glass.

Now there was a toast. Uncle Gilbert said how glad he was to have Reggie back, his voice nearly cracking with emotion, and there was a murmuring throughout the gathering, a gentle but emphatic agreement.

“To Reggie,” Uncle Gilbert said. “To family. A joyous Christmas to us all.”

“Here, here!” The adults Henry could see from his seat raised their glasses, so the boys did, too, clinking them together.

“I’m especially glad you’re here, Henry,” Jesse said. “I wish we saw you more often. Maybe, if Reggie stays…”

“Maybe,” Henry agreed, although he didn’t see how Reggie’s presence altered anything. Father would still be prejudiced against Wiltons. “Thank you. I’m happy to be here.”

The Wilton slaves, their numbers padded with the addition of slaves from other family households, brought around the dishes for service a la russe. Despite the good service from the slaves, the meal felt casual—the early hour, the everyday dress, the laughter and cross-talk.

Lyle, it turned out, was a fan of Drake’s Progress. Mouth full of quenelles, he was happy to share with Henry his ideas about how Captain Theo might beat Dr. DeSade for good and for all.

“I don’t understand why he doesn’t just shoot him,” Lyle was saying. “And why doesn’t he ever seem to have a gun at hand when he’s fighting DeSade? Or his cutlass, for that matter? Why’s it always hand-to-hand fighting?”

Henry finished chewing his quenelles before replying. “But DeSade is a really good villain, don’t you think? If Theo just kills him, what’ll they do for a villain then? I don’t think they’ll come up with a better one. Besides, it’s not just hand-to-hand. Sometimes they have knives.”

Lyle seemed to consider this. “I suppose you’re right about DeSade, but it just seems ridiculous that Captain Drake can’t beat him. He beats everyone else!”

Jesse got the footman to pour more champagne in their flutes and then turned to offer his glass to Russ, who sipped and gave it back with a murmured thanks, and Henry was surprised again. He’d never before seen anyone treat a slave so indulgently for all to see, with such fond generosity, with such a lack of boundaries. He found it shockingly erotic and he blushed once again. He found that he desperately wanted to question Jesse about his relationship with Russ; it seemed impossible that they weren’t actually lovers in a real sense.

Eli raised an eyebrow. “If you’re sharing, I suppose we all need to share,” he said, handing his champagne up to Owen, who drank giving the impression that this sort of thing was nothing new to him, either.

Henry hesitated a moment, then passed his flute up to Martin, who smiled at him and mouthed, “Thank you, Sir.” Martin drank and Henry took the glass by the stem and brought it to his own lips. He imagined his lips were touching where Martin’s had been, and it seemed almost as exciting and apocalyptic as if they’d kissed in front of everyone. He turned his attention to his plate, hoping to hide the reddening of his cheeks by lowering his face over his turkey and cranberry relish.

“What’s in this stuffing?” Darwin asked, apparently noticing nothing odd about the older boys’ behavior.

“Oysters,” Jesse told him, passing his glass up to Russ again. “Don’t eat it if you don’t like it.”

Peering across the table and over Eli’s shoulder at the adult side of the party, Henry tried to see how the adult Wiltons treated their slaves. Were they sharing glasses with them? He wasn’t seeing the entire room, of course, but it seemed unlikely.

The turkey was followed by ham, sweet potato croquettes, broiled chicken, the pleasant surprise of macaroni and cheese, French peas, and a lettuce salad which did not interest any of the boys very much, though Henry took some to be polite. Slaves came to sweep the crumbs from the table and then brought out cheeses and fruit, mince and pumpkin pies, and fruitcake. All the adults had coffee and the older boys were allowed cups as well, including Lyle but not Darwin, whose parents had forbidden it.

“I’m not a baby,” Darwin complained. “I don’t know why they treat me like one.”

While the masters and their children took their dessert and coffee, the slaves went into the bowels of the house for their dinner, which would necessarily be a hurried affair. Henry watched Martin walk away, half a head taller than either Russ or Owen, bending to speak first to one, then the other. After the slaves had gone, the boys lolled in their chairs, feeling stuffed and leaden. Jesse told them about some French poet he liked, Arthur somebody and Henry was only half-listening, wondering what Martin was eating, whether he was getting along with the Wilton slaves.

After the slaves came back to clear away the last of the dishes and the companions rejoined their masters, the adult women went to the front parlor, accompanied by some of the older girls. The men disappeared into the library to smoke cigars. Jesse pushed his chair back and stood.

“Eli, Henry and Lyle come with me. The rest of you go to the nursery.”

Henry remembered what Jesse had implied about after dinner and felt increasingly apprehensive.

“Even me?” Darwin protested. “I’m not a baby, Jesse. Lyle’s not that much older; why does he get to go with you?”

“Lyle’s 16 next month,” Jesse offered as explanation. “Next year you can come.”

Jesse whispered something to Russ, who headed for the back of the house. The rest of them left Darwin with the younger boys, the next-oldest of whom was a very immature 11, and headed up the staircase. Darwin wore such a devastated expression that Henry almost felt sorry for him, except that he would have been relieved to also be excluded from whatever Jesse had planned.

Once they were inside his room, Jesse locked the door, lit some heavily-perfumed incense and threw a tattered red scarf over his bedside lamp, bathing them all in pink light. Henry felt increasingly ill-at-ease. He was going to have to excuse himself and take Martin with him, but he hesitated, unsure when he might be able to do this without looking hopelessly weak.

Jesse said, “Come look at what I’ve been drawing, Henry,” so Henry went to see, looking over Jesse’s shoulder. It was a pencil sketch of a woman, nude to the waist, lounging on a chaise with her arms stretched overhead. She had the face of the girl from the cabinet card, Elizabeth. It showed a great deal of skill; Henry could see why Jesse was proud of it.

“She didn’t pose for this, did she?” Henry asked.

“Oh, no, of course not,” Jesse assured him. “But I’ve told her I’m doing it, and she’s very encouraging. She encourages me in everything I do, you see.” He smiled fondly at the drawing, as if it were the girl herself. “I’ve been writing her the most pornographic letters—you can’t even imagine!” He thought about it a moment, and added, “Well, maybe you can!” He laughed and nudged Henry with his shoulder. “She just keeps asking me for more, asking for the dirtiest details. I’ve told her she has to burn them after she reads them. If anyone else finds them, I’ll be in the worst trouble.”

There was a light knock at the door and Jesse went to let Russ in, bearing a nearly-full bottle of champagne. “Will this do, Sir?”

“Good boy,” Jesse told him, ruffling his hair. He took the bottle from Russ’ hand and took a swig, then passed it to Lyle. All the masters drank, then the slaves.

Jesse smiled at Lyle. “Are you ready, then? Ready to be initiated?”

Lyle flushed bright red. “Heck, yes!”

Jesse waved Lyle off toward Russ’ attached room. “Slaves, go with him. You know what to do.”

Martin looked to Henry, who shook his head.

Henry cleared his throat. “Martin stays with me,” he said. “I don’t share him.”

“Really?” Jesse looked surprised. “All right, then. Russ and Owen, you go.” He passed the champagne to Henry and sat down on the floor, crossing his legs.

Henry sat, too, and drank deeply, offering the bottle to Eli.

“No more for me,” Eli said. He stretched out on the floor, knees bent, hands behind his head. “I just want to digest for a bit.”

Henry gave the bottle to Martin, who took a sip.

“Do you never share him at all?” Jesse asked, nodding at Martin, who leaned forward to hand him the bottle.

“No, never. I try to stay away from all that.”

“Even with your best friends?”

“Really, I don’t share him. Honestly, Jesse, if I was going to swap him with anyone, I’d do it with you, but I just don’t. At all.”

In the silence following Henry’s words, they heard a fluttery moan emanating from Russ’ room. Jesse and Eli laughed; Henry blushed.

“Fair enough, Henry. I won’t try to convince you otherwise.” He gave Martin a long look, smiling. “I’m sure you get lots of requests, though.”

“Most people know better than to ask,” Henry said, tired of the subject. He found Martin indescribably desirable, of course, but he sometimes thought he would have liked it better if Martin’s appeal were less universal.

After a few more minutes, a rumpled Lyle emerged from Russ’ room with Russ and Owen, both nude. Lyle was wearing a huge, irrepressible grin. Rather than join the older boys on the floor, he flopped face-down on Jesse’s bed. Owen went to lounge beside his master, bending to murmur in his ear. Owen had more chest hair than Henry would have imagined, and his slim body was surprisingly muscular. Russ also looked different naked than Henry would have guessed, his limbs seeming especially well-formed and shapely. Russ stood in the middle of the room and drank from the champagne bottle, tilting it back, his half-hard cock commanding Henry’s attention. His immediate thought was that he’d like to suck it, to know what a different cock would feel like in his mouth, and he felt a flushing heat permeate his skin once again.

“Come here,” Jesse said, reaching for Russ. Russ went to sit by his side, within the curve of his arm. Jesse kissed the side of his head. “Thanks for doing that for me,” he said.

“Anything you want, Sir, you know that.” He smiled at Henry and then Martin in turn. “Is Martin really not going to play with us, Sir?”

“Shh. Henry doesn’t share.”

“It’s a shame, don’t you think, Sir?”

“Don’t make Henry any more uncomfortable than he already is,” Jesse warned him. “The subject is closed.”

“Very well, Sir. Do you want me to suck you, or would you rather have Owen?”

Jesse turned and asked, “Owen, are you busy?”

“No, Sir.” Owen was already getting to his feet. Eli lay motionless on his back with his forearm across his eyes.

“Come here, then. Come help Russ. Show me what you did to Lyle.” He began to unbutton his trousers.

“I should go.” Henry got hurriedly to his feet, Martin scrambling up behind him.

“You don’t have to.” Jesse let the slaves finish undoing his trousers and ran his fingers through Owen’s hair, looking up at Henry wide-eyed and guileless. “You can stay and watch if you want.”

Henry was shocked and aroused in equal amounts. “No, I’d better go.” If he didn’t go, he’d do something he’d regret. “I’ll come and say goodbye before we leave, all right?” He went to the door and fumbled with the lock. Martin reached around and turned it for him and they escaped into the hall. They heard Jesse ask Russ to lock the door behind them and listened as the bolt slid into place.

“Let’s go to the music room,” Henry suggested. It seemed like neutral territory, safe. Thankfully, there was no one else there. Henry sat in the armchair and Martin went to sit on the piano bench, where he picked out a tune.

“I didn’t know you played piano, too.”

“Just a bit, Sir.” He then belied that assessment of his skill by playing something beautiful and lingering with a pellucid calm that soothed Henry’s jangled nerves.

Henry slumped in the armchair with his eyes closed, dazed, unaware that Martin had stopped playing until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Sir? Are you feeling all right?”

Henry put his hand over Martin’s fingers so that he couldn’t pull them away. “Say my name, Martin.”

Martin bent over him, his mouth close to Henry’s ear. “Henry,” he said in a low voice. “My Henry.”

Henry opened his eyes and looked up at him. “I want to fuck you so badly right now.”

Martin liked the idea, it was clear. “Maybe, Sir, if we could find a private place…”

Henry shook his head. “I’m too scared of being caught.” Even if they did only what was allowed, it would still reflect very poorly on his entire family if he were found fucking his slave while a guest in someone else’s home. Such bad manners! It would have been different, however, if he’d stayed in Jesse’s room with the other boys, if he’d stayed to fuck Martin while they watched. He shuddered at the thought and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “My cock won’t stop being hard,” he complained.

Martin laughed and perched on the arm of the chair at Henry’s side.

“So, I like my cousin a lot,” Henry began, “but I don’t quite understand what’s going on with him. Do you think he and Russ…do you think they’re like us? He seems very fond of this Elizabeth, too.”

“I couldn’t say, Sir. He’s a bit of a bohemian, is what I think.”

“A bohemian?” Henry had heard the word, but didn’t know how it might apply.

“It means an unconventional person, Sir. A person with an artistic temperament. There’s perhaps a hint of…of sexual freedom associated with the term, if it’s all right to say that about your cousin.” Martin grinned, seeming to like the idea of sexual freedom, and Henry wondered with a jealous pang if Martin had wished to stay in Jesse’s room.

“Do you think he’s handsome?”

“All of the Wiltons are very attractive, Sir,” Martin told him. “So, yes, your cousin is quite handsome, but not so much as you. At least not to me, Sir.”

“Do you wish I would act more like Jesse?”

“Sir?” Martin cocked his head, his expression the very definition of quizzical. He was doing that thing he did, stalling while he scrambled for an answer, and Henry felt a little annoyed. He liked to think he could handle the unfiltered truth.

“Do you wish I was a bohemian?” Henry tried again.

“If that meant you wouldn’t be so jealous, Sir, then maybe I would wish that,” Martin offered gently. “I don’t like it when you’re suspicious of me. I am very devoted to you.” They both thought on this a few moments, then Martin said, “I don’t need you to draw nude pictures of me, if that’s what you mean, Sir.”

Henry snorted. “I certainly don’t have that talent,” he remarked. “I’m very boring compared to Jesse, aren’t I?”

“You’re not boring at all, Sir,” Martin reassured him. “You’re not as…dramatic as Mr. Wilton, but dramatic people can be very tiring.”

Henry leaned over and laid his head on Martin’s thigh and Martin petted his hair.

After a few quiet minutes, Martin said, “Your uncle is just as you described him, Sir. I can see why you’ve always loved him so.”

“I was afraid he would hate me,” Henry admitted. “After what Jesse said.”

“There may be more to the story, Sir. I don’t think you should take all the blame without first talking to your uncle, or even your father.”

“I can’t talk to my father about anything,” Henry scoffed. “He’s the one who sent Reggie away.” He didn’t want to argue with Martin about his father. “I’m glad you like Reggie.”

“Benjamin is lovely, as well, Sir.”

“You noticed he’s from Ganymede, I assume.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“It surprised me to see Benjamin in regular clothes,” Henry told him. “I think I’ve mentioned before that Uncle Reggie used to dress him up like a prince in a fairytale, and kept his hair in these long ringlets…he really stood out. They both did.”

“Well, why not, Sir? Your uncle is the kind of man who can’t disguise what he is, anyway, I think. With me, it’s not quite so obvious. Of course, there’s no real stigma for a slave, Sir.”

“What about me?”

“No one would guess, Sir. They would have to see how you are with me in private to have the least inkling.”

“What about Jesse?” Then, before Martin could answer, Henry said, “No, wait. I think ‘bohemian’ covers it.” He laughed and lifted his head off of Martin’s leg. “I feel calmed down now.” He dared to take Martin’s hand and gave his fingers a brief squeeze. “I should try to talk to Uncle Reggie again, I think.” Henry got up out of the chair. “Let’s go down and find him.”

Reggie wasn’t in the parlor with the ladies, nor was he in the library with the men. Father wasn’t there, either. Henry spotted Uncle Gilbert in the crowd and made his way over to him.

“Hello, Uncle Gilbert. Merry Christmas, sir.”

“Henry! Why aren’t you upstairs with the others? Everyone’s getting along, I hope?”

“Everything’s fine, Uncle. I’m looking for Uncle Reggie. I wanted to talk with him some more, if he has time.”

“Reggie’s in conference with your father,” Uncle Gilbert said. “They’re using my office. I don’t think you should interrupt, though.”

Henry didn’t think he should, either. “All right then. I’ll wait. Thank you, Uncle.”

“It’s good to see you, Henry. You’re so grown up now. A real young gentleman.” Uncle Gilbert clapped him on the back and gave him a sort of one-armed hug. “Oh, there’s Malcolm. I need to speak with him, Henry, if you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine, Uncle. I’ll find you later to say goodbye, at least.”

“That’d be lovely, Henry,” Uncle Gilbert said. Then, calling over Henry’s shoulder, he said, “Malcolm!”

Henry made his way out of the smoky library into the hall. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing that Father and Reggie were talking or not. Was Father going to send Reggie back to Italy? What would Mother do if he did? She seemed so happy in Reggie’s presence. And what about Henry himself? Not only had Henry missed Reggie’s kindness and the color he had brought into his world, but if Reggie was a fairy, as Henry was quite certain he was, then he might be the one person Henry could talk to about his own situation.

They wandered idly about the house. The slaves were busy in the dining room, removing all the leaves from the long dining table and setting up card tables so that the family might play euchre. Henry watched them work, loitering at the sideboard and picking all of the chocolates out of a dish of candy.

“Can I get you anything, Sir?” Martin asked. “Something to drink, perhaps?”

Henry shook his head. “I’m all right. Thanks, Martin.” He handed Martin a chocolate drop that was only a little melted from the heat of his hand and Martin ate it readily, which Henry found peculiarly erotic. He loved that all he need do was offer something, anything, and Martin would take it willingly into his body, whether it be food, drink, or some part of Henry himself.

It was amazing to him that he’d only known Martin these past four months and yet felt about him the way he did. It truly felt as if Martin were essential to Henry’s very existence. He thought of his mother, bereft after the loss of her brother. How would he feel if Martin was taken away? Oh, it was too horrible to think about! He just needed to continue to exercise caution, keep all signs of his outsized attachment hidden.

The ladies began to drift out of the parlor and towards the card tables. Mother was talking animatedly to Aunt Virginia and, though she leaned on Pearl’s arm, she seemed less of a dragging burden than usual.

“Henry, darling!” she called out. “Have you seen your Uncle Reggie?”

“Hello, Mother.” Henry stepped away from the sideboard and greeted her with a little bow. “I believe he’s with Father,” he told her. “That’s what Uncle Gilbert said.”

“Oh.” Mother stopped short, blinking. “Oh. I hope that’s good news.” Her mouth trembled and she forced a smile.

Aunt Virginia patted her arm. “I’m sure it will all be fine,” she said soothingly. “Try not to worry, Louisa, dear.”

Mother looked as though she might cry. “Pearl,” she said. “Do you have my medicine?”

“Right here, Ma’am,” Pearl said, reaching into her dress pocket. She turned to Aunt Virginia and asked, “Might we have some tea for Mrs. Blackwell, please, Ma’am?”

Mother was led to the settee that had been pushed into the corner to make way for the card tables and a slave was sent for tea. Mother’s lady relatives gathered protectively around her and there was no need for Henry to be there, none at all. “Come on,” he said, with a jerk of his chin, and Martin followed him from the room.

In the library, the men were leaving their cigars to smolder in the ashtrays and swallowing the last of their drinks, readying themselves to join the ladies at cards. Father stood champing on a cigar and talking to Uncle Gilbert and a few of Mother’s cousins, all of whom seemed interested in and attentive to whatever he had to say. Father might not be the most well-liked person, but Henry knew that he was invariably right about business matters. That didn’t mean, however, that he was necessarily right about other things.

Father saw Henry through the crowd and waved him over. The adults parted to let Henry join their circle. “Has this been a merry Christmas for you, son?”

It was, for so many reasons, none of which would likely meet with Father’s approval. Henry decided to admit it anyway. “Yes, sir. Very happy.” He wanted to ask where Uncle Reggie had gone, but hadn’t the nerve. He did look about furtively but did not see Reggie anywhere, though Reggie was short enough that he might easily be lost in a crowd.

Father had known at once what he was doing. “If you’re looking for Reggie, he’s gone to find your mother.”

Henry wanted to immediately go after him, but feared making Father angry. He stood looking guilty and discomfited until Father laughed at him somewhat ruefully and waved him off. “Go on,” he said. “Go find him. I don’t think Reggie can do you any harm at this point.”

“Very good, sir.” Henry turned and rushed from the library, Martin on his heels.

Once again, Reggie sat beside Mother on a settee, holding her hand while she cried. When Reggie looked up and saw Henry, he brightened and smiled. “Henry! Darling boy! Come here and sit with us.”

Henry wended his way between the card tables. “My father,” Henry began, slightly out of breath. “What did he say to you?”

Reggie reached up and patted his arm. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

“But are you going to stay?” Henry desperately needed to know, for his own sake and for Mother’s sake.

“I have some last bits of business to attend to in Italy,” Reggie told him, “but I can come home for good after that.”

“Really?”

“Really and truly,” Reggie affirmed. “Now, sit. Sit and let me get to know you again.”

Henry pulled up a chair from the nearest card table and sat with his knees bumping against his uncle’s. With a glance over his shoulder, he saw that Martin was right there behind his chair, his hand resting on the back.

“What do you want to know, Uncle?”

“Oh, everything, darling!” Reggie leaned forward and patted Henry’s wrist. “Do you have a lot of friends? You were so friendly with that rough little boy down the street when you were young? Do you still know him?”

“That’s Louis Briggs. He’s still my best friend.”

“He was certainly a noisy child, so boisterous and rowdy, like a little terrier! He had a great number of siblings, as I recall.”

“There are seven Briggs kids now.”

“Oh, my! I know your father wanted a big family, but seven children just seems so unnecessary to me, darling.” Reggie shook his head, seeming dismayed by the prospect. “Do you have a lot of other friends?”

“Well, there are eighteen boys in my class, including me, and I’m friends with eleven of them.”

“Those others are completely beneath notice, I’m sure!” Reggie patted his arm again. “And of course you’re all new slave owners this year. That’s been exciting!”

Henry blushed to think how exciting it had been. “I’m very happy with my choice,” he said. “Martin is a really good slave.”

“Was he a Superior boy? My Benjy was Superior, too. Ganymede boys truly are the best, don’t you think?” Reggie smiled at Henry, then directed a smile at Martin. Turning to Henry again, he said, “Tell me, darling boy, what do you do for fun?”

“Er…” Obviously, Henry wasn’t going to mention sex, though this was certainly what came immediately to mind. “Well, I like to read—”

“You always did,” Reggie affirmed, giving him another pat. “You could get lost in a book.”

“There’s a serial I’ve been following for years and years, and now Martin reads it to me and does voices for all the characters.”

“Oh, my. Is he an actor, then?” Reggie looked up at Martin again. “Are you a thespian, young man?”

Martin sounded flustered, perhaps surprised to be addressed. “Oh, no, Sir. I only like to read aloud.”

“What else do you enjoy, darling? Are you artistic like your cousin?”

Henry shook his head. “I don’t have talents like Jesse.”

“You have talents of your own,” Reggie said with confidence, though Henry wasn’t sure he was right. “You were always such a graceful child, so well-coordinated. Watching you play was like watching a ballet.”

Henry thought this was surely an exaggeration. “Well, I’m still good at…physical stuff, I guess. Sports and dancing.”

“Wilton men are all good dancers.” Reggie offered this up as if it were an indisputable fact.

“We like to go riding,” Henry noted. “None of my friends much care for it, and Louis is afraid of horses, but Martin loves to ride.”

Reggie offered Martin another smile. “You chose well, then, darling.”

“We play poker all the time, too. I’m pretty terrible at it, actually. Martin almost always wins, but it’s just fun to play anyway.”

“As I recall, you were never terribly interested in winning,” Reggie said. “You were a generous, fair-minded little boy, and I think you must be a sweet, giving young man.”

Henry blushed. “Oh, I don’t know.”

Reggie turned to his sister. “Louisa, what do you think?”

“Oh!” Henry’s mother had not expected to be put on the spot and seemed slightly panicked. “Oh, well, I’m sure you’re right, Reggie.” Truthfully, Henry didn’t think she knew the first thing about him, and he felt embarrassed for both of them; he didn’t want Reggie to know how terrible they’d become without him around.

Reggie gave Mother a stern look but said nothing; still, it seemed he had some inkling that things were not exactly right between Henry and Mother.

The Wilton slaves came around offering coffee and tea, and Henry took coffee with cream, which Martin prepared for him. Reggie and Mother both took tea, and Henry accepted a plate of ginger cookies.

Reggie sipped his tea fastidiously, pinky extended. “What about school? Do you get good grades?”

“I get As in math,” Henry told him. “I’m average in other subjects, I guess.” He decided to omit any mention of Latin.

“Oh, that’s good, darling. I haven’t a head for numbers at all. That’s why I could never make a go of any business.” He sighed and let Mother take his hand in sympathy for his failures. “What about a sweetheart?”

Henry shook his head adamantly. “I’m not interested in girls,” he said firmly, wanting this to seem significant to Reggie, but his uncle heard the information impassively and did not question him further in this regard.

“You seem very fond of each other,” Reggie remarked, giving Martin a nod. “There’s an ease between you. Are you benefitting from ownership, do you think, darling? I mean, are you learning the lessons you’re meant to learn? It’s such a tumultuous time in a boy’s life.”

“Uh…” Henry scrambled for something to say. He’d learned everything, but nothing he could talk about. “Well, having Martin around has made me a better person, I think. I’m definitely a better brother than I was before.”

Reggie’s brow wrinkled, quizzical. “How is that, darling?”

“Martin is good with children, and Cora adores him, so I’ve been paying more attention to her than I did before.”

“How fortunate for Cora. She seems a delightful child. Very outgoing. She was telling me all about some circus you gave her?”

“Martin picked it out,” Henry confessed. It was important to him that Reggie understand how special Martin was, how vital to Henry’s happiness, but he couldn’t just come out and say that.

But Reggie must have had a sense. He smiled up at Martin and said, “The right slave makes such a difference, darling. I think you’re very lucky.”

While they talked, the men had come into the room and people were sitting down at the tables. A chair was brought in from another room to replace the one Henry had taken. Father stood in the wide doorway to the dining room talking to Uncle Gilbert. He sent Timothy over to inform them that they’d be taking their leave imminently and an additional slave was dispatched to fetch Cora and Nurse from the nursery.

“I need to say goodbye to Jesse,” Henry said, standing reluctantly.

“It’s good you boys like each other so well.” Reggie smiled up at him. “I’d always hoped you would.”

Henry knocked on Jesse’s door and a few moments later Russ opened it. “Come in, Sir.”

Both Jesse and Eli lounged on the floor looking rumpled and indolent, but they were clothed, and the slaves were at least half-clothed. Lyle lolled on the bed, seemingly asleep.

“Are you leaving, then?” Jesse stood and stretched. “Let’s try to see one another again before next Christmas, all right?” He stepped forward and hugged Henry and said, “I’d like to know you better, Henry. We’re almost grown. Surely we won’t have to do what your father wants forever?”

Henry wasn’t as sure, but he didn’t say so. “I always like seeing you, Jesse.”

He shook Eli’s hand, and Lyle was roused so that he might also shake Henry’s hand. Martin said his goodbyes to the slaves.

Downstairs, while slaves hurried to bring out their coats, Mother’s male cousins shook Father’s hand and thanked him for the advice he had given. Reggie hugged Cora, Henry and Mother, and then shook Father’s hand very solemnly, and it was like watching a wary housecat touch paws with a bear.

In the Wiltons’ carriage returning home, Henry toyed with the fringe of the curtain and thought about what it might be like to have Uncle Reggie around again, now that he was nearly an adult. He might be able to see Uncle Reggie independent of either of his parents. He might convince Uncle Reggie to show him the secrets of the city and the places where he might be at ease around other people like himself, because surely they existed, both the places and the people.

At home, Mother needed a lie-down after the excitement of the day, and Henry boldly followed Father to his dressing room, hoping that Father might confirm for him what was going to happen in regard to Uncle Reggie, but Father didn’t have time for that, as he was running late for a dinner engagement and needed to change.

Timothy began to strip Father efficiently. Father glowered at Henry. “Don’t bother me, Henry. Don’t worry, you’ll have your uncle.”

“He gets to stay, right, sir? You’re not making him leave again?”

Lips pressed into an exasperated line, Father gave Henry a sidelong look and said, “I’ve already told you so, Henry. I made a mistake, son. I’ll do my best to rectify it. There’s no need to talk it to death.” He looked down and stepped into his dress trousers, balancing with a hand on Timothy’s shoulder. “Now, let me dress in peace.”

Martin, who had known better than to follow Henry inside, stood in the hall waiting for him. They made their way quickly to Henry’s room, where Henry took Martin’s face between his hands and kissed him hungrily as Martin struggled to engage the door’s lock. “For hours,” he gasped between kisses. “For hours I’ve wanted to do this.”

Martin broke away and began stripping off his clothes. He smiled at Henry, wicked, showing teeth. “You were watching your cousin, weren’t you, Henry? Watching the way he treats Russ, like a favorite pet.”

“It was making me crazy,” Henry agreed. “He doesn’t even try to hide what he’s doing, but no one seems to notice!” He tossed his tie on the floor and went to work on his collar.

“But you noticed.” Fully naked, Martin came to stand in front of Henry and slipped his braces from his shoulders. “I saw you watching Russ lick your cousin’s fingers and it made you hard, didn’t it?” He pressed the palm of his hand against the front of Henry’s trousers over his stiffening prick.

“Yes,” Henry admitted, his voice roughened by arousal.

“You’d like to be like that with me, wouldn’t you, Henry?” Martin knelt to deal with Henry’s boots. “You’d love to show everyone how nicely I lick you, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Henry said again, petting Martin’s hair with both hands.

“Or would you rather have Russ lick you? You could have that instead, if you wanted.” Martin reached for Henry’s trouser buttons.

Henry’s cock jerked at the thought. “No,” he said, not sounding entirely certain. “I just want you.”

“You wanted to stay and watch, though, didn’t you? I could tell you didn’t really want to leave.” He nuzzled Henry’s cock through his drawers, then unbuttoned them and slid them off his hips.

“I didn’t want to be tempted,” Henry explained. “I was afraid I’d—” He stopped speaking, unwilling to examine exactly what he’d feared he might do.

Martin licked Henry’s cock and Henry swayed on his feet, a hand on top of Martin’s head to steady himself. Martin took Henry all the way into his mouth and pulled back with heavy suction, took him deep and sucked again. Henry closed his eyes and held more tightly to Martin’s head, very aware of the shape of his skull, the muscles of his jaw tensing under his fingertips. Martin pulled off his cock and Henry opened his eyes.

“All this licking, Henry, and talk about licking…would you do something for me? You might consider it a present.”

Henry smoothed Martin’s hair back from his face. “What is it?”

Martin gave him a smile that was somehow devilish and pure all at once. “Lick my ass.”

Henry smiled back at him. “Yes, of course. Get on the bed.”

Martin got on the bed and Henry knelt behind him, putting a hand between his shoulder blades and pushing him down to all fours. “All the way down,” Henry told him. “Ass up.” Martin dropped down to rest on his elbows, his back arched. Henry put a hand on each of his ass cheeks, and pulled them apart, exposing his hole. He leaned over him and let a pendant of saliva fall from his mouth to land on the dusky skin just above the pucker and mentally congratulated himself on his aim. Martin whimpered and flinched, and Henry spit again and watched the viscous fluid run down over Martin’s twitching hole.

“Henry, please,” Martin murmured, low and urgent.

“Please what?”

“I want your mouth.”

“Be patient,” Henry told him. He slapped Martin’s ass hard enough to sting, then smoothed away the hurt with a caress, and Martin gasped and shuddered.

He spread Martin’s cheeks again and rubbed his finger over the tight opening, pushing just the tip inside, and was gratified to hear a little growl from Martin. He bent and bit Martin’s left cheek hard enough to make him yelp and then began to lick him.

Long strokes of his tongue back and forth over the hole then circling it with his tongue, pushing at the muscle, plunging inside. Martin moaned and shook; he was so sensitive here, so responsive to everything Henry did. The skin felt so smooth and thin beneath his tongue, delicate but elastic and hot. Martin was even hotter inside and quivered, breath hitching, as Henry tried to push his tongue in deeper, then deeper still.

Henry could feel in the way Martin’s body shuddered that he was touching himself, his hand moving over his cock. Henry lifted his face from Martin’s ass. “Stop it,” he said. “You can’t touch yourself.”

“Please!” Martin begged. “Please, Henry!”

“Not yet,” Henry insisted. “Not unless you want me to stop.”

“No, Henry, please don’t stop!”

He bent back to his task, licking and nipping at the tender skin. Martin began to breathe in sobs, began to beg, please, Henry, over and over again. It was only when Martin was hiccupping and frantic that Henry decided he’d withstood enough and oiled his cock and fucked him.

“Touch yourself,” he said, pushing the head of his cock into Martin’s spasming hole. “Now you can touch yourself.”

It didn’t take Martin long to finish, wracked with tremors and calling Henry’s name. Henry came then, too, pulled Martin close, and curled around him.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice muffled by Martin’s hair.

Martin chuckled and reached back to keep him close. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Henry.”

“I’ve been spoiled, you know,” Henry told him. “There’s never going to be a better present than you.”

“I could say the same.” He turned in Henry’s arms and kissed him.

“Did you have Christmas at Ganymede? With a tree and presents?”

“We had a big tree and a nice dinner, and we all got a tangerine and a piece of candy, but no, we didn’t have Christmas like people out in the world. There were too many of us to have presents.”

Henry hesitated a moment, considering whether he would say anything after all, but then offered, “I…I have something for you, actually.”

“For me?” Martin was plainly delighted. “You’re giving me…a present?”

“It’s nothing, really.” Henry was already regretting committing himself to sharing the gift. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t do it right.”

“A present…” Martin repeated, his tone wondering.

“Don’t get too excited,” Henry warned him. “Let me just get it.”

The present was in his desk drawer, small enough to hide in his hand. He’d made it just over a week ago, hunched over his desk pretending to be diligently doing homework while Martin played the violin at his back.

Martin sat cross-legged near their pillows, beaming with anticipation and Henry cringed a little, quite sure that Martin would be underwhelmed by his offering, possibly even offended. He might have committed some terrible faux pas—he didn’t know the rules, after all.

He sat on the bed facing Martin, their knees touching. “Hold out your hand.”

“Should I close my eyes?”

“If you want.”

Martin closed his eyes, grinning, and gave a happy shudder. Henry took and held a deep breath and put the talisman in Martin’s hand. He held it there with his own hand, pressed between their palms.

“What is it, Henry? Can I look?”

“You can look,” Henry agreed, letting go of his hand.

He’d gotten the idea when he saw the rock in the schoolyard, a pale, flattish disk that he’d thought would make a perfect Hetaeria protection stone. His first thought had been to give it to Martin to use for that purpose; his second thought was to make it into such a talisman for Martin himself. Martin had talismans from all his other friends, but surely Henry was his most important relationship, and surely no other friend was as concerned with his well-being.

Martin opened his eyes and looked at the decorated stone. “Henry?” He looked a little tentative, a little confused.

“If I did it wrong,” Henry hurried to say, “tell me, and I’ll undo it, or fix it, or whatever needs to be done.”

Martin’s hand curled around the stone, just slightly, and he touched it gently with a fingertip. His tone was awed, a little unbelieving, when he said, “You made this for me?”

“I don’t know the right symbols or anything,” Henry admitted in a rush. “And I didn’t have any paint, so it’s not pretty, but I just…” He sighed. “I want you to have my protection, too, my friendship. You told me the talismans represent relationships, so…so this is me caring about you.” He swallowed nervously and clasped his hands tightly to keep them from shaking.

Martin didn’t say anything, but traced the heavily-inked H on the stone’s face with his index finger. Henry had done his best job with the lettering and it had turned out rather elegant. He’d also drawn some spiral curlicues around the edge of the disk and these were perhaps less artistically successful.

“If I did it wrong…” Henry said again.

“No.” Martin shook his head adamantly, and looked at Henry with wet, shining eyes. “No, Henry, you did it perfectly.” His smile was tremulous, joyous, and he got to his knees and leaned in to loop his arms around Henry’s neck. “It’s so thoughtful of you, Henry! So considerate. It’s a perfect present. You really do care for me, don’t you?”

Henry snorted. “More than anything.” He returned the embrace, full of happy relief that he hadn’t done anything inadvertently stupid.

Martin was an awkward fit on Henry’s lap, clinging fierce and insistent, all elbows and knees. His cheek was wet against Henry’s neck.

“Martin? Are you crying?”

“Don’t make fun,” Martin said. “I’m happy. I’m so happy you would do this for me, Henry.”

Henry lay back on the bed and pulled Martin down with him. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it. I never thought I’d have a master like you, Henry. A friend like you.” He kissed Henry’s cheek, the corner of his mouth. “You’re so good to me, Henry. I feel so lucky.”

“Me, too,” Henry told him. He tasted the tears on Martin’s wet cheek, then kissed his mouth. They necked for a bit, Martin squirming and making little insistent grunts as they did so, but Henry was content to do nothing more than kiss and Martin didn’t press for more.

Martin smoothed Henry’s hair back from his forehead and smiled down at him. Bashfully, Martin said, “I’m sorry I don’t have a present for you.”

“You can make a talisman for me sometime,” Henry suggested. “Only if you want to, of course.”

“I will,” Martin decided. “I’ll make you something really special.”

They lay in each other’s arms a few contented minutes and then Henry’s stomach rumbled.

“Are you hungry yet?” Henry asked. “Did you get enough to eat at the Wiltons’? I want some of that cake we had at breakfast.”

“I want cake, too.” Martin hesitated, then asked, “Henry? Is it all right if I put your talisman away?”

“You have to, don’t you? You’re not supposed to leave them out, right?”

Martin smiled. “No, they shouldn’t be left out. Let me just put yours with my others.”

Henry liked that Martin was treating his offering just as he’d treat any legitimate Hetaeria talisman made by a slave who knew what he was doing. Henry felt his was a gift where it was definitely the thought that counted, and Martin seemed to be taking the thought to heart.

Martin went into his room with talisman in hand and returned in his pajamas and dressing gown. He helped Henry to dress and then they went down the back stairs to the kitchen. Many of the rest of the household’s slaves were in the slaves’ mess room just off of the kitchen celebrating their own Christmas, and when Cook heard them shuffling around, she came out to see what they wanted.

“Mr. Blackwell was hoping for some more of your spice cake, Bertie,” Martin said. “Is there any left from this morning?”

“I’ll just get that for you directly, Sir,” she said. “And for you also, Martin?”

“Yes, please.”

She cut them large squares of cake and found them forks and napkins. “I’ll get you a tray, and I’ll send Billy up for it later.”

“Thank you, Bertie. Could we also trouble you for some milk?”

Martin carried the tray up to their rooms. Henry was struck anew by how competent and imperturbable he was, what impeccable service he provided. He was so very happy that Martin was his own, that he’d have Martin as long as they both lived. They sat on the floor of his bedroom in front of the dying fire and ate their cake.

“Today was wonderful,” Henry said. “Everyone made me so happy. My uncle, my cousin, even my mother, and you most of all.”

“What about your father, Henry? He’s letting your uncle stay, after all. You must feel a little pleased with his decision.”

“I’m more than a little intimidated by my father,” Henry admitted. “Knowing what I know now, I’m afraid of what would happen if he found out what I’m really like. Do you think he’d want to be rid of me? Would I be exiled, too?”

“You’re important to your father,” Martin insisted. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“He might. He might replace me with little Calvin Murdock.”

“He wouldn’t.” Martin was adamant about this. “You are his legitimate son, Henry; you’re his heir. He does have great expectations of you, but I don’t believe he would ever throw you over.”

Henry felt like he knew his father better than Martin did, having sixteen years experience of the man versus Martin’s few months. Then again, Martin was a keen observer, and thus far Martin had proven right about so many things.

“Your father gave all the slaves a present, did you know, Henry? Mr. Tim handed out the envelopes at breakfast.”

“What did he give you?”

“A hundred dollars!” Martin exclaimed. “What am I going to do with a hundred dollars?” He laughed, amused at the thought.

“You’ll think of something you want,” Henry told him, although he wasn’t sure this was true. Martin seemed content with what he had, what was given to him.

Martin put the tray outside the door and they undressed and brushed their teeth. They got into bed and curled up together, Martin making himself small and tucking his head under Henry’s chin; Henry found it unbearably sweet how Martin found ways to insinuate himself, to fit closer and closer, so that even though he was nearly as tall and broad-shouldered as Henry, he still managed to seem vulnerable, in need of protection. Henry kissed the top of Martin’s head and drew him close. He loved Martin so much, he was sure of it, but was afraid to say it because it would kill him if Martin didn’t feel the same.

“Goodnight, Henry. My sweet Henry. Thank you so much for the present.” Martin pressed a kiss to his collarbone.

I love you. It was right there on his tongue, but Henry swallowed it. “Goodnight, Martin.” He rubbed his cheek against Martin’s hair and closed his eyes.

On New Year's Eve, Cook served a light buffet. Mother went to bed early and Father went to some fancy-dress ball, no doubt meeting up with Mrs. Murdock, taking Timothy with him. At Martin's suggestion, they went up to the nursery and wished Cora a Happy New Year and Henry gave Nurse a kiss. At ten o'clock, he and Martin walked to the Briggs house and met up with Louis and Peter. The four of them walked a few blocks further to the Ross house. There were adults in evening dress alighting from carriages in front of the house, and the boys slipped inside between arrivals. Henry had only ever been to the Rosses’ house for Charles’ birthdays and was surprised that the Rosses' footman seemed to know Louis' by sight.

“Good evening, Mr. Briggs.”

They surrendered their coats in the tinsel-bedecked hall. As they were climbing the stairs to the second floor at the footman's back, Henry questioned Louis. “Why does he know you?”

Louis shrugged and blushed. “I’ve been over a few times.”

Henry raised an eyebrow, hoping Louis would elaborate, but for once Louis was close-mouthed.

They were delivered to a parlor full of boys and their slaves who were in the middle of a game of Twenty Questions, where the answer was plainly “cock,” though everyone was having such fun howling at the questions that it was obviously better to prolong the game than to win.

“Can I put it in a slave's mouth?”

“Can I put it in your mouth?”

Charles came to greet them, his cheeks very pink. He offered them a flask and they took surreptitious sips. “Once the party gets underway downstairs, we won't have to be cautious with the liquor, but until then we should be discreet.” There were perhaps ten boys in and out of the room and the room adjacent, all with their slaves, and there were several flasks in circulation.

Someone said, “Are we getting the slaves drunk, too, then?” with laughter as the response. Someone shoved a flask into Martin's hand and he took a sip and passed it to Peter.

Charles’ best friend Robert sidled up to Henry, offered him a nearly-empty flask, and said, “Isn't this the first one of Charles' parties you've been to?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “Does he have lots of parties? I didn't know.”

Robert blushed, realizing his faux pas. “Oh, well. I think he must have thought you wouldn't come before.”

Henry thought of the Rosses' footman familiarly welcoming 'Mr. Briggs,’ and realized that Charles must host swap parties, was maybe even the main host of swaps in their class, and that Louis had been coming to Charles’ parties without telling Henry or seeing to it that he was invited, and this stung a little. More than a little.

The game of Twenty Questions came to an end in a crescendo of hilarity that made everyone in the room fall about laughing, though perhaps only five or six of them had actually heard the joke. Henry certainly hadn't heard it, but the mood was infectious and he laughed anyway. Some of the boys found paper and pencils and started a game of Dictionary. It promised to be crude and filthy. Henry moved closer to the players so he could hear the definitions. He dared to touch Martin's hand in passing and felt Martin's eyes follow him as he made his way across the room.

The adult party downstairs was noisier now, the orchestra having started playing. Charles recruited Robert and two others to go downstairs with him to steal some bottles. Henry stood a little apart, watching his classmates laughing together. He felt some distance from them; perhaps the alcohol would help with that. What he really wanted to do was talk with Martin, but he knew how odd it would look if he chose to be with his slave over his friends. For his part, Martin looked very happy and at ease with his fellow slaves; Henry wondered, not for the first time, if Martin ever ached for him the way he did for Martin.

Louis was writing up his definitions for Dictionary when Charles and the rest returned with bottles of gin and whiskey. The game was abandoned for the moment as Robert handed around glasses. Charles brought round the whiskey and poured.

“Cheers,” he said.

“Cheers.” Henry raised his glass. “What about them?” he asked, with a nod of his head toward the slaves. “Are they drinking?”

“They have a bottle to pass around,” Charles said. “We don’t want them too drunk, though.” As Charles spoke, his Simon tilted back a bottle of gin and then passed it to Martin.

Louis came to stand by Henry. “Who do you think will be first to get sick?” he asked. “I know it won't be me.” Louis had a cast-iron stomach, hardened by years of attending James' parties and taking his dares.

“Me neither,” Henry said, though he had far less authority to make such a claim. “Maybe one of the slaves?”

“Nah,” Louis said, shaking his head. “They never get that drunk at these things unless someone insists. They're always on duty, after all.”

“You've been to a lot of Charles’ parties, I guess.” There was more acid in Henry's tone than he'd intended, and he was a little embarrassed at how jealous he sounded.

Louis colored. “They haven’t been the sort of parties you’d like Henry.”

“How do you know what I'd like?” Henry asked, surly, tossing back his whiskey.

Louis scoffed at this. “How would I know? Right, Henry.”

“I might have changed my mind,” Henry said, just to be contrary. He had not changed his mind. “Is this a swap party, then?”

Louis shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t know what Charles has planned. Do you want more whiskey, then? Or would you rather have gin?”

Henry made a conscious effort to shake off his jagged jealousy, to be in a more lighthearted mood. He let Louis pour him more whiskey and tried to drink it judiciously, not wanting to be the fellow vomiting in the toilet while the rest were having fun.

Everyone was feeling the alcohol, that was plain. Charles and Robert tried to act out for the group a recently-viewed peep show of men leap-frogging, which resulted in Charles falling on Robert's head, laughing helplessly.

“It's not supposed to go like that,” Robert said, wincing and rubbing his scalp.

“Make the slaves do it,” someone suggested.

Charles shook his head. “No. Don't want to tire them out now, do we?”

Henry took a seat on the sofa. He felt a little out of place, embarrassed by the understanding that all of these boys had been getting together without him. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, of course, but he’d tried not to think about it. He didn’t want to swap Martin, but he wanted to be included anyway, somehow, and it hurt that he hadn’t been. He knew he was different than the rest, but he didn’t want to be an outcast.

He didn't have much to contribute to the conversation, but as the boys around him chattered, he laughed at their jokes and encouraged them to tell their stories. He drank still more whiskey, dimly thinking that it might not be his best idea to get drunk. Louis caught his eye now and then and smiled. He could hear Martin's voice at his back, Martin's laughter, and resisted the urge to turn around to look at him.

The whiskey bottle was passed around and around, Henry topping off his drink each time it came his way. The door to the other room was closed now and Henry realized he’d never seen what was on the other side. Gradually, Henry blearily noticed that the crowd was thinning out. Had Charles made another liquor run and taken the group with him? Louis sat across from him on a spindly chair, Albert sat cross-legged on the floor, Wendell and Freddie stood in the corner mixing gin and whiskey in their glasses and making faces as they drank the results. Where had the others gone?

Albert stood up and called to his slave. “Stuart!” To the rest, he said, “I'm going in, then, I guess. See you in a bit?”

“Maybe later,” Louis said. He flushed and looked down at his drink.

Albert opened the door leading into the next room and ushered Stuart inside, then followed him in and closed the door behind them.

Wendell and Freddie looked at each other and shrugged, then beckoned to Ralph and Tom. They also disappeared behind the connecting door, leaving just Louis and Henry and Peter and Martin in the room.

There were thuds and laughter from behind the door. Henry felt a distinct unease. “Louis, what's going on?” He knew, though.

Louis winced. “Aw, you can guess, can’t you, Henry?”

Henry could. “But there’s a whole ball going on downstairs!” he said in protest, thinking how improper it seemed to be having a sex party over the heads of the oblivious adults. But just the other day, his own cousins had been swapping with a very merry Christmas party happening below. Boys could swap in any circumstances, it seemed, their determination and lust unaffected by unfavorable or precarious conditions.

“We do this all the time, Henry. The adults don’t interfere—they know exactly what’s going on. The rest of us have been getting together to play with them since we first got them. You had to know this, Henry.”

Of course Henry had known, but he hadn’t wanted it to be true. “Why haven’t I been invited, then?” he demanded.

“You’ve never liked the idea of swapping, Henry, and I’ve always known this. I told people not to invite you, because I didn’t want you to be put on the spot. Besides, when you fought with Adam about the…cocksucking incident, you made it clear to everyone that you didn't want to share, so why would they invite you to parties where sharing is the point?”

“Why was I invited to this party, then?”

Louis shrugged, looking irritated. “I don't know, Henry. Ask Charles. But I'd guess it's because you're a good guy and he likes you all right, and maybe he thought you'd have changed your mind about swapping by now. If he'd have asked me, I'd have told him not to invite you. No one needs you being all judgmental, Henry. We’re not doing anything wrong.”

Angrily, Henry drained his glass. “I’m not being judgmental,” Henry insisted. “Just because I don't want to share Martin doesn't mean I care what the rest of you do with your slaves,” he said, though this was actually untrue. He did care about how the other slaves were treated.

However, despite his sincere concern for their well-being, Henry was absolutely not opposed to the slaves being made to have sex at a master’s whim. The idea was extremely titillating. In truth, Henry would very much like to observe a swap party, if not actually participate in it. He imagined being with Martin, hidden behind some filigreed screen or velvet curtain, watching and listening and pleasuring one another as inspiration hit. He didn’t really want to see his friends’ cocks, but he liked the idea of seeing the beautiful slaves naked and aroused. He liked the idea of seeing two boys kiss. He liked a lot of things about the idea of swaps, but he didn’t want to share. He wouldn’t. Martin was his own.

The door opened and Albert leaned into the room. “Are you two coming?” There were shouts and laughter behind him.

Louis turned around in his chair to answer. “Just a few more minutes, I think.”

“What about you, Henry?” Albert tilted his head, cocked an eyebrow. “Don't you want to come in?”

“He doesn't share,” Louis said hurriedly. “You remember that, right?”

Albert waved this off as if it were of no consequence. “Come in and see,” he encouraged. “Just bring your slave and get in here.”

Henry was torn. He did want to see. He was curious. He thought of Jesse inviting him to stay and watch; this might be like that. He wouldn’t have to share Martin. He could just look. He stood up, swaying a little on unsteady legs. He was drunker than he’d realized.

Louis stood, too, and put a hand on his arm. “Henry. Maybe you should just go home.”

Henry shook off Louis' hand. “No, I want to see. Martin, come here,” he called. “You, too, Peter.”

Albert pushed the door open and ushered them inside with a sweep of his arm. It was some sort of library or game room with a table in the center, bookshelves all around, a settee to the left. The masters were arrayed around the perimeter of the room, lounging against the bookshelves or sitting slumped on straight chairs. Their faces were sly, indolent, and they sipped their drinks with their eyes firmly fixed on the flesh of the slaves. The slaves were all naked, their strong young bodies every form of perfect, their discarded clothes piled in the corner. The scent of male arousal was heavy in the air. Freddie's pretty Tom was on his back on the gaming table and Robert’s Dick stood between his thighs fucking him. Tom made little hitching sounds with each slam of Dick’s hips against his ass. As Henry watched, Charles' Simon went to stand by Tom's head and Tom fellated him awkwardly, craning his neck. At the directive of one of the masters, David's Alex reached for Tom's cock with one hand while stroking his own with the other. Slaves not directly engaged in this tangle were kissing one another and playing with one another's pricks. Without being told to do so, Peter began to strip off his clothes. Martin moved to join him, but Henry caught his wrist and held him in place.

Charles sat on the settee with his cock out, stuffed into the mouth of Albert's Stuart, who knelt naked on the carpet. He looked up when Henry and Louis entered with their slaves. “Ah-ha!” he cried. “Finally, Henry! I thought we'd never see you and your fancy slave at one of these things!” He kept his hand on the back of Stuart's head as he spoke.

Henry panicked a little. “I'm not—” he said. “I mean, Albert said that I didn't need to, or, rather, I don't share.” He felt relieved to say it. “I’m not going to share Martin.” Making himself clear.

Charles looked baffled. “But why not?” he asked. “You'll never know if any of them are better than yours unless you try.” He looked down at his lap. “Stuart here has the best mouth, in my opinion, but Robert swears by my Simon.”

“No one's favorite is their own, it turns out,” Albert said, close at Henry's elbow. “It's fun as hell to try them all, Henry.”

“But you have to share,” Charles said. “Or it isn't fair.”

Across the room, Freddie unbuttoned his trousers and called to Peter, who went without even looking at Louis, as if while he was in this room he belonged equally to any of the masters.

Henry shook his head. “No. Sorry. I won't share.” He wouldn’t put Martin in the position of having to answer to any master who called his name. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.

Charles frowned. “Well, you can't just stand around and watch, Blackwell. It's not fair to the rest of us. Play along or leave.” He petted Stuart's head then pushed it down into his lap. “Acting like some stuck-up, selfish prude,” he muttered, but meaning for Henry to hear. “Completely unreasonable.”

Fuming, Henry turned on his heel, elbowed Albert aside and opened the door.

“If you go, Blackwell,” Charles called, “I won't let you change your mind. I won't invite you to another one of these.”

Henry did not turn around. “Thanks for your hospitality,” he snarled. He stormed out of the room, Martin close behind him. They exited the party room into the hallway and Henry made a wrong turn somehow, taking the service stairs and ending up in the kitchen, and one of the scullery maids had to find them a footman to get their hats and coats and see them out the door.

It was bitterly cold. His nose began to run almost immediately. He wanted to crush Martin to him, to protect him and hold him close, but they were on a public thoroughfare and so he could do nothing of the kind. He walked faster. The thought that anyone else might touch Martin, and that they might do so callously, was completely unacceptable. Louis had been right: these were not his kind of parties.

“Sir? Sir?”

“What is it?”

“I—I wouldn't mind, Sir. If you want.”

“What?”

“If you wanted to go back, Sir, I…would understand. This sort of thing…I knew it could happen. It's well-known that gentlemen have these sorts of parties after all, Sir.”

Incredulous, Henry came to a dead stop under a streetlight. “What? You wouldn't mind?” Martin was just as bad as the rest of them! “I mind, Martin! You…you matter to me.” He took hold of Martin's shoulders and gave him a good shake.

Martin pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sir, I only meant—”

“It's bad enough there were men before me, Martin. There aren't going to be any others after me.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Henry strode off, and Martin hurried to catch up. “And why the hell would I want to go back?” he demanded. “What possible reason would I have?”

Martin appeared to be choosing his words carefully. “It's just that the boys you know now will be your business associates in the future, Sir, and these sorts of activities bond boys together. It may be advantageous in the future, Sir, is what I'm saying.”

Henry understood what he was talking about, but he didn't care. The idea that he might someday lose out on a business deal because he hadn't let a friend fuck Martin's mouth when they were 16 seemed of no importance at all. “It doesn't matter to me, Martin. They're all careless and selfish, even Louis. I would never let them use you.”

“Just so long as you know, Sir. I wasn't sure you understood the implications, seeing as how Mr. Blackwell is such an iconoclast—”

“A what?”

“A unique individual, Sir. A self-made man. Mr. Blackwell wasn't brought up understanding how things are done in high society, if you don't mind me saying so.”

It was true that Father hadn't had the experiences with Timothy that Henry was having with Martin. Father had no idea how to grow up rich—at Henry's age, Father had been out west, sleeping in the rough and riding the rails, just like someone in a story. Father had known how to take care of himself—he'd had to, of course; he hadn't had a slave then.

“Thank you for considering my welfare, Sir,” Martin said softly. “I appreciate how much you care for me.”

Henry bumped him with his shoulder in place of the embrace he wanted to give him. They walked the rest of the way home in companionable quiet. At the house, Paul let them in, glassy-eyed and smelling of alcohol.

Henry shrugged off his coat into Paul's hands and turned to Martin. “Is he drunk? Are the slaves having a party? Did you know?”

“Keep it down, Sir,” Martin said, laughing. “Don't wake the house!”

“Can I go? To the slaves' party?”

Martin steered him toward the staircase. “Why don't you let everyone have their little drinking party, Sir, and then we'll come down at midnight to set off the fireworks?” Paul was not looking, so Martin leaned in and licked the curve of Henry's ear. “I'll keep you busy until then, Sir, I promise I will.”

Martin was especially playful and coquettish, licking Henry everywhere and paying extra attention to his nipples, which Henry appreciated very much. Martin straddled his hips and rode him, digging his knees into Henry's sides. Henry came, and then Martin knelt over Henry's face and fucked his mouth while Henry fingered his sticky hole.

They knew it was midnight when they heard the shouts and explosions from all over the city. They quickly redressed and went downstairs for their coats, and then to the service yard, where the household's slaves had gathered with champagne and fireworks and were just finishing singing Auld Lang Syne.

Caught mid-revelry, the slaves all looked at Henry with carefully blank faces.

“Does it ruin it if I'm here?” Henry asked. “Tell the truth.”

“Of course not, Sir,” said Paul.

“It's just a surprise, Sir,” said Katie.

Randolph held out a match-safe. “Do us the honor of lighting the first fireworks, Sir.”

Henry did, a whole string of firecrackers that went off rapid-fire. He threw them to the middle of the yard, wary of getting his fingers blown off and laughing. Martin dared to squeeze his hand, just for a moment, and if any slave saw, they gave no sign. The slaves drank champagne from the Blackwell crystal and Henry wondered about this but said nothing; they would have gotten permission from Timothy, and if Timothy thought it was all right, then he supposed that it was. He drank a glass of champagne, too.

It came out that Timothy had spent ten dollars on the fireworks, a huge sum just to burn to ash, and all were most appreciative of the luxury.

“Your house is so generous, Sir,” said Ruby, an overly-talkative girl Henry thought he remembered was a scullery maid. “Every day I'm grateful I belong to Mr. Blackwell and not one of these other high-and-mighty so-and-sos.”

Henry liked knowing this, that his family were good slave owners, the sort that slaves preferred.

Slaves from other houses came by to wish their compatriots a happy new year, to see the fireworks, to gossip. Most didn't notice Henry was there and their behavior was free and natural. It turned out that Billy had a girl, a maid called Jane who belonged to the Slatterys next door, and he waltzed her around the yard while the others sang a dance tune that Henry did not know.

There was quite a crowd in the yard, twenty people or more at any given time. Henry recognized most of the faces of his own family's slaves but was, as always, a bit iffy on putting names to the maids. The slaves visiting from other houses seemed somewhat deferential to the Blackwell slaves, lending credence to what Ruby had said about the Blackwells being good owners.

There was an elaborate firework, tiers and pinwheels and a tail of braided fuses, that was carried into the middle of the yard by Billy and Paul and lit by little Johnny. The pinwheels spun, shooting white and green sparks, while a fountain went off at the center of the structure and spewed forth red stars. The maids and Johnny waved lit sparklers.

Henry yawned. It was very cold and he wanted to curl up with Martin and sleep. He nudged Martin and turned for the door, and they went inside and up the stairs. Martin undressed him and he climbed into bed naked. Martin undressed himself, put on his pajamas, and took their laundry downstairs. When he returned, he stripped off the pajamas and got under the covers.

“Do you have any New Year's resolutions, Henry?” Martin whispered, stroking Henry's hair.

Henry turned to rub his cold nose against Martin's chest and nestled closer. “Hmm. To have more sex,” he suggested. Martin snickered. “To be braver, maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not to worry so much about what everyone thinks. Not to worry so much about whether everyone will figure out that I'm some sort of queer.”

“I'm sure it doesn’t matter,” Martin said. “You're going to be a very important man one day.”

“I don’t care about being important,” Henry insisted. “I don’t care about business or society. None of that matters. You matter, us together. That’s all I care about.” He lifted his head off of Martin's chest so he might look him in the eye, defiant.

Martin chuckled and eased his head back down with soothing strokes. “All right, Henry. I believe you.”

“What about you? What are your resolutions?”

“Might I also resolve to have more sex?” They both laughed. “But, really, all I want to do is to make you glad you chose me for your own. I never want you to regret that, Henry.”

Henry could not imagine any circumstance that would make him seriously unhappy with Martin. “I won't,” Henry promised him. “I could never regret it.”

Henry made a further resolution, though he didn’t share it with Martin: he resolved to find a way to tell Martin how he felt in the new year. Sometimes he imagined that it was obvious, that Martin already knew. After all, he’d given Martin his heart the moment he’d laid eyes on him. It had been foolish and reckless, but he’d had no choice, and he didn’t regret it, couldn’t possibly. He hesitated to lay himself bare, however, without feeling more certain Martin would reciprocate. How horrible it would be to risk declaring his feelings only to have Martin hesitate, look embarrassed for him, and say, You’re such a kind master, Sir. I’m very lucky, his pity devastating.

But even if Martin were to say the words back to him, risks of a different sort would entail. If his love was returned, he was sure the joy of it would spill out of him. If he was showing love with every glance, every utterance, exposure and humiliation seemed inevitable. More than anything, he wanted to be stalwart and brave and face his fears of ridicule because Martin deserved a man who was bold and unafraid, but they had to be safe, too, and Henry didn’t trust his own discretion.

His gut and heart argued for a dramatic, romantic declaration, and the sooner the better, but he knew it would be risky, at best. Martin, who was very strict about proper behavior outside of the bedroom, might not appreciate any such ardent proclamation anyway. The person who would best be able to tell him whether or not it was a good idea to say the words was Martin himself, but obviously there was no way for Henry to ask his advice on this matter.

Besides, he needed to start making decisions for himself.

He would think about it, seriously think, and he’d figure something out. In the meantime, he would be loving and kind and generous and above all deserving, and would hope Martin could read between the lines and discern his intent. For now, he could demonstrate the depth of his feeling without saying the words. He felt confident the new year would present opportunities to say I love you if he would only look for them.

Settled on this course of action, Henry smiled against Martin’s skin and let Martin draw him closer still. He petted Martin's chest, possessive and fond, and fell asleep to the steady slow beats of his heart.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Ganymede Quartet Book 3 coming in March 2015

Blackwell Family

Henry Blackwell & Martin

Hiram Blackwell & Timothy

Louisa Wilton Blackwell & Pearl

Cora Blackwell

Wilton Family

Gilbert Wilton & Harold

Virginia Wilton & Dolly

Bette Wilton & Vera

Jesse Wilton & Russ

Reggie Wilton & Benjamin

Eli Carmichael & Owen

Lyle Benson

Darwin Hatch

Blackwell Slaves

Nurse: Esther

Butler: Randolph

Footmen: Paul, Billy

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: Old Bob, Jack

Grooms: Jerry, Arthur

Stable boys: Little Bob, Danny

Errand Boy: Johnny

Algonquin School

Walter Addison & Harvey

Jeremy Blankenship & Ray

Joshua Brand & Miles*

Louis Briggs & Peter*

Freddie Caldwell & Tom*

Albert DeWitt & Stuart*

Randall Fox & Howard

Wendell Franklin & Ralph*

Maurice Gaines & Ollie

Daniel Hollingsworth & Allen

Gordon Lovejoy & Julian*

David Maxwell & Alex*

Adam Pettibone & Sam

Charles Ross & Simon*

Victor Spence & Will*

Robert Townsend & Dick*

Philip van Houten & Davey*

*Henry’s friends

Thanks to Leta Blake, Ajax Bell and Anne-Marie for reading, critiquing and making good suggestions. Thanks to Pun for encouragement. Thanks to Nozman Glass for patiently listening to me talk about Henry and Martin for these many months.

Thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed and responded to the Ganymede Quartet books so far. I wasn’t sure anyone beyond my close friends would want to read this story, and I am so pleased and honored by the response Henry and Martin have received.

Darrah Glass is a writer and generally inquisitive person who likes her fantasies to be as historically accurate as possible. She loves research, sex scenes, and researching sex scenes. She’s married and happily childless, does yoga, never cleans her house, likes shoes and toenail polish, and is vain about her hair. As far as her priorities are concerned, she’d rather write than do just about anything else, and she drives a 15-year-old car but carries really nice purses.

Darrah previously published fanfiction under the name velvetglove. The books and side stories of the Ganymede Quartet are her first published original works.

GANYMEDE QUARTET SERIES

A Superior Slave (Ganymede Quartet Book 0.5)

A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1)

A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2)

A Master’s Fidelity (Ganymede Quartet Book 2.5)