2 - A Proper Lover(1)

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

It was Wednesday, exactly a week before Halloween, and a week and a day since their first ride, and the weather was good, crisp and clear. Martin had no homework and Henry lied and said he didn’t, either, and let Martin dress him for riding. Martin called ahead and the grooms, Jerry and Arthur, were standing ready with the horses when they arrived on foot.

“You needn’t walk over, Sir, if you don’t want,” Jerry said as he helped Henry to mount Marigold’s back. “If you’ll only have Martin call, Sir, we’ll send a carriage to the house for you.”

Henry frowned and scoffed at this. He wasn’t a spoiled baby. He wasn’t some maiden aunt. “It’s only a few blocks,” he pointed out. “Anyone can walk a few blocks.”

“Of course, Sir,” Jerry said, immediately deferential.

At Jerry’s back, Arthur boosted Martin into his saddle and they smiled at one another, exchanging remarks Henry couldn’t hear at this distance.

“Martin? Are you ready?”

Arthur slapped Partita on the withers, more than a hint of ownership in the gesture, and walked toward the stables. Martin turned to look at Henry, his expression open and warm, his smile genuine and happy.

“I’m ready, Sir,” he said. He patted Partita’s neck and she snorted and shook her head. “We’re both ready.”

As they rode to the park, Henry reveled in the day: it was beautiful weather and he had Martin all to himself.

Inside the park, the bridle path was strewn with fallen leaves that skittered under the horses’ hooves, driven along by a brisk breeze. The trees were half-bared, the naked branches letting through extravagant portions of light, and Henry let Martin ride a little ahead so he could admire how the sunlight brought out sparks of pink in the tawny tail that hung down the middle of his back.

Martin turned in the saddle. “Sir? Is everything all right?”

Henry felt his face grow hot. “I was just looking,” he explained. He gave Marigold a little squeeze with his knees and when they pulled abreast of Martin on Partita, he leaned in and said, “It’s just that your hair is very beautiful in the sun,” in a low, confessional tone.

Martin beamed at him. “Oh, Sir,” he said. “You’re so sweet!” He put a hand on his heart, touched.

Henry was gratified by Martin’s response. It was his plan that he should court Martin, in a way; that he should be, as Martin said, sweet. At the very beginning of this thing that was happening between them, Martin had called him a proper lover, and he wanted to act the part. Though Martin was appropriately grateful for everything he was given, he didn’t seem to want material things. What Martin seemed to value were actions and words, and it was going to be difficult to give Martin what he wanted when Henry was so bad with words, but he would try. For Martin, he thought he would try anything.

Just days ago, this past Sunday, impassioned and on the verge of argument, they had offered themselves up, claimed one another. Henry belonged to Martin, and Martin belonged to him—they’d said so. It was irrefutable. Still swooning at the memories, Henry fought the urge to constantly reassert this mutual ownership, afraid of being judged unattractively sentimental and possessive by his slave. Instead, he would try to adore Martin quietly, manfully. He would offer compliments and kindnesses, gentle gallantries.

They rode in a fulsome silence a few minutes, Martin giving off a sort of residual glow, a result of Henry’s sweetness. They rode close together, their knees nearly touching, but Partita protested, shaking her head, grumbling and sidestepping.

“She doesn’t like being so close, I don’t think, Sir,” Martin said regretfully. “Maybe if we get her used to it a little bit at a time?”

“If it bothers her, we shouldn’t do it,” Henry said, equally regretful. Partita probably had the right idea, though; they should not be riding close enough together to cause anyone to notice or remark anyway.

With the horses a comfortable distance apart, they moved along the bridle path at a brisk trot. Up ahead, two people on horseback were stopped on the trail. As they got closer, it became apparent that this was a young man roughly Henry’s age with his own slave. The slave had his head tilted back and was dabbing at his eye with a handkerchief and the boy was offering him advice.

“Maybe if you cry it will wash it out,” he said. “If you keep poking at it you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Yes, Sir,” the slave told him, though he continued to dab at his eye.

As Henry and Martin drew abreast of them, the strange boy said, “Hey, there. Excuse me. My slave here has got a bit of leaf or something in his eye. Do you know any good tricks to get rid of it? I think he just needs to cry it out. You know, let his eye water.”

Henry brought Marigold to a halt. He knew no good tricks, but he thought the boy was probably right. “I think you’re right,” he said. “What do you think, Martin?”

Martin looked a little flustered to be asked to advise a stranger. “I-I also think that’s the best idea, Sirs.” Addressing the stranger, he asked, “Would you like me to look at his eye for you, Sir? I could see if there’s anything obvious stuck in there, Sir, if that would help.”

The boy waved off Martin’s offer. “I looked. It’s nothing big enough to see.”

The slave still had his head tilted back, but now tears were rolling down from the corners of his eyes toward his ears. “I’m doing what you said, Sir.”

“Good boy, Nick.” He turned to Henry and smiled. “I’m Ronald Hastings, by the way, and this crybaby is Nick.”

“Henry Blackwell. This is Martin.”

“Oh, Blackwell! Are you that Blackwell?”

“Well, my father is.” Henry felt his cheeks grow hot. It had been awhile since Henry had met someone new, someone who would be impressed with his family connections.

“Blackwell. Wow. Someday we’ll all be working for you, then, eh?” Ronald winked at Henry and Henry smiled back weakly. The idea that he’d one day be in a position of responsibility, and that he’d exult in it, was so foreign to his actual experience that it was hard to be good-natured about such joking.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a bodyguard or something,” Ronald said, craning his neck to look behind Henry, as if a bodyguard might suddenly materialize.

Henry felt his cheeks grow hot. “No one knows who I am,” he insisted, “so it’s fine.”

“Doesn’t your dad worry about you getting kidnapped or something?”

Henry shrugged and looked away. “Like I said, no one knows who I am.”

Ronald looked doubtful. “You stand out, anyway, I think.”

Nick’s announcement put a halt to this unsettling line of conversation. “It’s out, Sir! I think it’s out.” Nick lifted his head and looked at his master with red-rimmed eyes, very blue. “At least, I can’t feel it anymore, Sir.”

“Good!” Ronald slapped his own thigh for emphasis. “Are you ready to go on, then?” He turned to Henry. “Want to ride with us?”

Henry didn’t want to, actually, but he couldn’t think of any good way to say no. “Okay. Sure.” All four set their horses walking along the path.

“My father’s in manufacturing,” Ronald offered after an awkward silence, and Henry realized he probably should have asked. “Much smaller scale than your dad, of course.” He laughed, expecting Henry to laugh with him, and looked confused when Henry just gave him a pained smile.

“I don’t pay much attention to my father’s businesses,” Henry admitted. “I know he has a lot of interests, but he doesn’t talk to me about them.” Henry knew there was a railroad, and there were mines and smelting, and possibly some sort of rolling mills, but he truly didn’t know anything about the running of these businesses.

“But isn’t he grooming you to take over one day?” Ronald seemed genuinely baffled. “You’re the only son, right? Who’s going to take over if not you?”

“I don’t know,” Henry said irritably. “Someone who knows what’s going on, I suppose.” He also had a fleeting thought of his father’s bastard, little Calvin Murdock, lying in wait to take Henry’s place.

“I’ll be taking over from my father one day,” Ronald said confidently. “It’ll be an even bigger company with me in charge, I’ll bet!”

Henry didn’t know anything about the Hastings business, of course, nor did he know anything of Ronald’s abilities. For all he knew, Ronald was a mastermind, a business genius. “Maybe so,” he offered without enthusiasm.

With Henry not forthcoming on the subject of business, Ronald turned his attention elsewhere. “What school do you go to?”

“Algonquin,” Henry told him. “Eleventh year.”

“So you just got him—” here he made a gesture toward Martin with a jerk of his chin “—this year?”

“Yes.” Henry dared to turn and smile at Martin, who beamed back at him.

“I go to Harper-Stotts,” Ronald told him, naming a much larger and more academically-rigorous uptown school. “I’m twelfth year, so Nick and I are old friends by now. I got him from Endymion. Where’s yours from?”

“Martin’s from Ganymede.”

“Everyone says Ganymede’s best,” Ronald mused, “though I’m very happy with Nicky anyway. My father always buys from Endymion, see?”

“Mine always buys from Ganymede. We didn’t even look anywhere else,” Henry admitted. Then he hurried to add, for Martin’s benefit, “Not that we needed to. I definitely got the best one.”

Ronald did not miss that Henry had been reassuring Martin and laughed. “That’s rare,” he noted, “for a master to actually prefer his own.” When Henry looked confused, he said, “Well, at least at my school it is.”

Henry realized that Ronald thought he was comparing Martin to other slaves that he had personal experience of, and that he still preferred Martin. Did he really want to explain to this talkative stranger that he didn’t share? He’d rather not get into it unless Ronald actually asked for a swap.

“No, it’s the same at my school, too,” Henry assured him, based on nothing at all. Henry’s best friend Louis pointedly never talked to him about swaps, so had never expressed a preference for any other slave above his own Peter. It had never occurred to Henry that that could really happen, masters preferring someone else’s slave, but this Ronald was telling him it was endemic to an entire school, maybe an entire system. “I’m just different, I guess.”

“You’re lucky,” Ronald said with a shrug. “That’s pretty hair he has,” he said, again with the jerk of his chin in Martin’s direction. “I can see why you’ve kept it long. Nick had pretty hair, too, but my father made me get it cut the first week I had him.”

“What do you think fathers have against nice hair?” Henry asked. “So many of my friends had to get their slaves’ hair cut because of their fathers.”

Ronald shrugged. “My father said it made him look too girly and that it would give me the wrong idea about sex.”

Henry considered this a moment. Was it because the long hair made the slaves look like…women? Except it didn’t, not really. Martin was a beauty, but Henry felt like he definitely looked like a man. According to Louis’ older brother James, anyway, men’s and women’s bodies felt very different to fuck, and even the most beautiful hair wasn’t likely to change that perception.

“That doesn’t really make sense to me,” Henry admitted.

“Me, either,” Ronald agreed. “I think it makes them look too attractive to the fathers, and they’re reminded of how things were with their own slaves when they were young, and then they get uncomfortable.”

This theory was startling but certainly plausible. “My father wants me to have his hair cut, I know,” Henry said. “But so far he’s leaving the decision up to me.”

“You’re lucky,” Ronald said again. “Say, Henry, your horse…what color do you call that?”

“Buckskin,”

“I like it. It’s sort of Western, I guess. She’s what I imagine a cowboy would ride.”

Henry blushed, thinking of Captain Theo Drake’s buckskin horse, Theo’s adventures.

“A rich cowboy,” Ronald added, laughing heartily. Ronald and Nick were both riding rather ordinary bay geldings. “You’ve got Martin on a fancy horse, too.”

Was it so wrong to want nice things, to want what you wanted? Henry frowned, irritated with Ronald’s little pokes and jabs, even though he believed they were meant to be friendly. “They’re good horses,” he said with a shrug.

“Oh, I wasn’t saying they aren’t!” Ronald assured him. “They’re just a little showy compared to most horses, don’t you think?”

Henry had seen dozens of bay horses on the bridle path today alone, but he had not seen another buckskin, nor a blue roan, and he did not expect that he would. However, in his opinion, Marigold and Partita were special horses, not showy horses.

Ronald seemed to want to get to the bottom of the matter. “What sorts of horses do your friends ride? Does everyone at Algonquin ride a fancy horse?”

It had been quite some time since Henry had ridden with any of his friends. Only Charles Ross was very enthusiastic about riding, and he really only liked to jump. And Charles’ jumper was a big bay gelding. Henry thought a moment longer. Victor Spence had a white horse, he recalled.

“Well,” Henry said slowly, “one of my friends rides a white horse.”

“That’s pretty ordinary, though,” Ronald said. “I mean, your slave’s horse…what color do you call that?”

“Blue roan,” Henry admitted, irritated and embarrassed. He hadn’t realized what show-offs they were until now, parading their fancy horses along the bridle path and rubbing it in everyone’s faces how rich and special they were.

Ronald laughed. “See what I mean? You’ve got a blue horse there, Henry!”

“Well, she isn’t really blue,” Henry pointed out. “It’s just what the color’s called.”

“She’s a beauty, that’s certain,” Ronald said, both appreciative and envious. “Nick’s horse doesn’t look like much, of course, but he’s fast.”

Henry turned to look at Nick on his unremarkable bay gelding. “Good conformation,” Henry noted, though he didn’t even know if this was actually true, because he didn’t know enough to know anything. The horse looked like a generic concept of a horse. Partita was leagues better, obviously, and all of them knew it.

“We could race them,” Ronald proposed. “We could bet on it, even.”

Henry did not like this idea at all. Henry was uninterested in competition generally. Why should he care whose horse was faster? But when he turned to look at Martin, competitive Martin was eager and enthusiastic at the prospect. Martin leaned forward to pat Partita’s neck and whisper to her, practically bouncing in the saddle in his excitement.

“All right,” Henry agreed reluctantly. “What sort of bet are you proposing?”

“A dollar?” Ronald suggested. “Does that sound all right?”

“Wait,” Henry said. “Let me check my pockets…” He searched and found two wrinkled dollars in his watch pocket. “All right. I’ve got a dollar.”

Ronald grinned at him. “This will be fun!”

Henry smiled weakly in return.

“You two stay here,” Ronald said. “We’ll go ahead and mark the finish line, and then I’ll whistle for you to start, all right?”

“Whistle for him now, Sir, so he knows what to listen for,” Nick suggested.

Ronald put his fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp, swooping whistle that curled Henry’s ears and would surely carry over a long distance. Partita danced sideways at the sound and Marigold backed away from Ronald on his gelding.

“Do you think you’ll hear that?” Ronald asked Martin.

Martin grinned at him, so excited. “I certainly do, Sir!”

“Tell you what…I’ll whistle twice: once to let you know we’re ready, and then again right afterward for the start. Got it?”

“Yes, Sir,” Nick and Martin said together.

Ronald wheeled around and set off up the path at a trot and Henry followed him, nudging Marigold to catch up. The path ahead was sparsely populated.

“We’ll go a half-mile or so, all right?” Ronald asked. “Not too far.”

Henry shrugged. “Sounds fine to me.”

“Be prepared to give up your dollar,” Ronald said, in cheerful high spirits. “Nicky almost always wins.”

Henry wanted Martin to win for Martin’s sake, since it seemed to matter to him, but Henry didn’t care one way or the other who came out ahead. He’d happily pay Ronald the dollar now just to skip the race entirely, but knew Martin would be disappointed if he did so.

They passed along a bend in the path and the slaves were out of sight. They rode in a silence that Henry, at least, found somewhat awkward.

Ronald cleared this throat. “So, do you have good parties at your school?”

Henry was taken aback. Did people really just talk about swapping like this? With strangers?

“Uh…well, I don’t really—”

Ronald didn’t wait to hear the rest of it. “Your school is pretty small, isn’t it? My school’s a lot bigger, which means there are a lot more slaves to choose from, so our parties are pretty amazing.”

“Oh, well, yeah, my class isn’t even twenty people—”

“Of course, yours is a really good-looking fellow,” Ronald mused, “so you must get invited to the absolute best shindigs.”

“I guess you really like parties,” Henry stated.

Ronald looked surprised. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Well, actually—” Henry began, but Ronald interrupted him by reining his horse to a halt.

“Right about here, you think? For the finish line?” They’d passed just one gentleman and his slave on horseback in the short distance, and Henry thought it would be no trouble for Nick and Martin to avoid this pair.

“Sure.”

They positioned their horses directly across from one another on either side of the bridle path and Ronald whistled once, piercing and so very loud, making Henry flinch—and then he did it again.

“Have your dollar ready!” Ronald told him happily.

They sat waiting a few long seconds. Henry realized he was holding his breath and made himself stop. He thought for a moment that he could hear the thunder of hooves, told himself he was imagining things, and then realized that he could, in fact, hear hoofbeats. The horses came tearing around the curve in the path, riders hunched low on their backs. Someone—Henry couldn’t be sure if it was Martin or Nick—whooped with exhilaration. It was hard to tell who was ahead until they were quite close and it was obviously Martin, Martin in the lead. Martin passed over the invisible line between Ronald and Henry a generous length ahead of Nick with a gloating, triumphant cry. Both riders needed a good distance to slow down and Henry wheeled Marigold around to go after them, to congratulate Martin and be assured that he and Partita were all right following their exertions.

Ronald frowned and looked down at the path, obviously disappointed.

When Henry got to Martin’s side, he realized he could offer him no better congratulations than a handshake and a slap on the back, and so he did, holding Martin’s hand just fractionally too long, clapping him on the back with a little caress thrown in for good measure. Nick rode over and shook Martin’s hand, seeming in reasonably good spirits.

“It was close,” Martin said to him. “You’ve got a fast horse.”

“Not as fast as yours,” Nick noted. “I don’t think you’re any better a rider than I am, but you’ve certainly got a better horse!”

Ronald joined them and offered Martin congratulations but no handshake, of course.

“Have you ever raced him?” he asked Henry.

Henry blinked. It had never occurred to him to do any such thing. “No…” Henry said slowly. “We’ve galloped them together, but we haven’t actually raced.” He just wanted to ride with Martin; he didn’t want to beat him.

“I’ll bet his is faster,” Ronald said. “If you want to test them—”

“I don’t,” Henry said firmly. He nodded at Partita. “She’s already run one race today.”

“Suit yourself,” Ronald said with a shrug. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a wadded dollar. “Here you go. You won it fair and square.”

“Give it to him,” Henry said, gesturing toward Martin. “He won it, not me.”

Martin turned and gave Henry a dazzling smile along with some very meaningful eye contact, and Henry felt quite sure that Martin would reward him for his largesse later.

They resumed their circuit of the reservoir, the slaves riding behind at a sedate pace. Henry had rather hoped that the race—and Ronald’s obvious disappointment in Nick’s loss—would mean the end of their time together, but Ronald seemed content to remain in Henry’s company.

“I can’t believe you never even raced him,” Ronald said, shaking his head. “That’s the first thing I did.”

“Whose is faster, then?” Henry asked.

Ronald colored a little. “His,” he admitted. “I thought about trading horses with him, but mine’s a better fit for me anyway.” Looking at Ronald, Henry realized he was a little bit short, shorter than his slave, to be sure.

“Earlier,” Ronald said, “when I was asking you about parties—”

“Er, yes,” Henry said nervously. “Parties.”

“Yes, well, I was curious because I met some boys from Powell Prep a few days ago and they claimed they played some really strange games at their parties, but after thinking on it a bit, I’m pretty sure they were just trying to put one over on me.”

“What sorts of games?”

Ronald leaned closer. “Rule-breaking games. All kinds of touching. And kissing.”

Henry drew back, titillated and shocked.

“Basically, it was a version of Truth or Dare, with all the Dares being forbidden things. But, really, who would want to play those games? Just by wanting to play, you’d be saying something pretty incriminating about yourself, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” Henry turned his face away to try to hide his blush. “Who’d want to play?”

“So no one does that at your school, either?”

“No,” Henry told him, quite confident that this was true. “I think you’re right; I think those guys were just messing with you.”

Ronald seemed satisfied with this, nodding his head. “Every guy I’ve ever met from Powell has been a real bastard.” After a brief pause, he said, “I haven’t met that many guys from Algonquin, I guess since it’s such a small school and there aren’t that many to meet in the first place.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Henry said, shrugging agreement. He could hear Martin chatting quietly with Nick at his back and wished he could take Nick’s place.

“What else do you like to do besides ride?” Ronald asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Henry said bashfully, hating to be put on the spot. “I read a lot.”

“Really?” Ronald seemed to doubt this, which Henry found slightly insulting. “I’m not much of a reader, not unless I have to for school. If you read all the time, you must get good grades.”

Henry blushed again. “Not really,” he admitted.

“You’re being modest,” Ronald said with unwarranted confidence. “Of course, Algonquin’s kind of an easy school, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Oh, I’m not trying to be insulting or anything. It’s just the reputation your school has, that’s all.”

Henry glowered and kept silent. You couldn’t go around telling people that their school was for dummies and then not expect them to feel insulted.

“Really, I’m sorry for how that came out,” Ronald said, sounding sincere. “I go to a pretty hard school, after all, so practically all the others seem easier than what I have to put up with.”

“Do you get good grades, then?”

“Oh, sure,” Ronald said cheerfully. “My father would kill me if I didn’t!”

Henry had so been looking forward to a ride with Martin, just Martin! He wanted to be rid of Ronald as soon as possible. “Let’s go faster,” he suggested. “My horse needs her exercise.”

They trotted around the reservoir. Ronald tried to draw Henry out on a number of topics—vaudeville shows he had seen, arcades he frequented, the Giants baseball team—but Henry kept his answers terse and was as unresponsive as he felt he could get away with without blatantly insulting his new acquaintance. As they made swift progress around the reservoir, Henry could hear Martin’s voice and occasional laughter behind him and felt bitterly jealous of Nick as the recipient of Martin’s attention.

As they moved south through the park, Ronald asked, “How often do you ride, anyway? I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen you around before, and I think I’d have remembered your horses.”

“This is only Martin’s second ride,” Henry admitted. “He’s only recently gotten the horse.”

“Well, is it like every other day? Or every Wednesday? What’s your schedule?”

Henry realized uncomfortably that Ronald was interested in riding with him again, even though he’d done his best to be boring and borderline rude. “Er, well, we really don’t have a schedule,” he said. “We just ride when we want to.”

“Well, if you want company, you can telephone me,” Ronald suggested. “We’re in the book. My father’s Ronald Hastings also.”

“Okay, sure,” Henry said, just to say something. The bridle path curved around to the east, back toward the gate. Soon they would leave the park and then he’d be alone with Martin at last.

But this wasn’t the case. The Hastings horses were stabled a block from the Blackwell horses. Ronald chattered away quite amiably as they traveled the few blocks to the row of stable buildings. As Henry reined Marigold in in front of the Blackwell stable, Jerry came out to meet them with Arthur close behind. Henry got down from Marigold’s back in a hurry.

Sensing his agitation, Jerry became concerned. “Is everything all right, Sir?” he asked, “Is Marigold all right?”

“She’s fine, Jerry.” He raised his voice a little and added, “I just need to get home. I’ve got a lot of homework.” He darted a glance at Ronald as he said this, but Ronald did not seem to have heard.

Martin was talking to Arthur in a low voice, presumably about Partita’s race, his face alight.

Henry turned to Ronald and repeated his remark. “I have to get home. I’ve got a lot of homework.”

“Oh, all right then,” Ronald said agreeably. “Well, I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.”

Henry’s smile was probably unconvincing. “Oh, yeah. I’m sure.”

Ronald reeled around on his horse. “See you later, Henry! It was great meeting you!” He gave Henry a jaunty wave and took off at a trot, Nick close behind.

Arthur passed by, leading Partita into the stables. “Sir,” he said, bobbing his head.

Martin stood with the sun in his hair, his teeth gleaming in a broad smile. “Wasn’t that fun, Sir?”

“Fun?” Henry felt like he’d been doused with cold water. “You had fun?”

Martin looked puzzled. “Sir?”

“I wanted to go riding with you,” Henry said. “That guy was driving me crazy!”

“Let’s get away from here, Sir. Let’s go home.” Martin took Henry’s arm and led him away from the stables. As soon as he had gotten Henry out of earshot of the grooms, Martin leaned close and asked, “Are you angry at me, Sir?”

“Angry? What for?”

“Because I had fun, Sir.”

Henry thought about it a moment. “No, not really. I’m just surprised.”

“Well, Nick was very nice, Sir, and I thought he was a good sport, too.”

“Ronald wouldn’t shut up about swap parties and Algonquin being a dummy school.”

Martin dared to put a hand on Henry’s arm and gave him a look of such sincere sympathy that Henry immediately felt a little better. “I’m sorry you didn’t have a better time, Sir.”

“I’m glad you won your race,” Henry said a little grudgingly. “I guess you know I don’t care about stuff like that, but I know you like to compete.”

“I told Arthur all about it, Sir,” Martin said, his pleasure in the win still very apparent. “He’s very proud of Partita, of course.”

“You’re still happy you chose her?”

Martin laughed. “Oh, yes, Sir. She’s an amazing horse. You’ll have to ride her, and then you’ll see.”

“We’ll switch horses one of these times,” Henry said agreeably. “But what if I decide I like Partita better, then? What if I want to switch for good?”

The idea clearly made Martin unhappy. “Well, of course you can do whatever you like, Sir,” he said glumly.

“You know I wouldn’t do that to you,” Henry chided him gently. “I won’t take her away from you. Marigold is a good horse, and I’m very happy with her even if Partita is faster.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Martin said softly, gratitude in his eyes. “And thank you for letting me race. I used to love to race.”

“At Ganymede.”

“Yes, Sir. At Ganymede.”

“Did you win races there, too?”

“My horse—Bonnie—wasn’t the fastest, Sir, but she had a lot of heart and sometimes that would be enough for us to win.”

Henry nudged Martin with his shoulder as they turned onto 5th. “Sometimes I wish I’d grown up with you,” he admitted. “At Ganymede, I mean.”

“Really, Sir?”

“It seems like you had a really good time. I know you worked hard, of course, but you had fun, too. And you had all those other boys around for company. I was pretty lonely growing up, you know. I would have loved to have had brothers, not just Louis and James and my school friends.”

“Well, you have me now, Sir,” Martin said softly, his mouth close to Henry’s ear. “I’ll do whatever I can to make up for all those years without another boy in the house.”

Henry laughed. “You’re not making me think very brotherly thoughts right now,” he told him. “The things I want to do with you, I think they’re actually illegal to do with a brother.”

They picked up the pace and at the Blackwell house took the front steps two at a time. Paul let them in and they hurried past, straight up to Henry’s bedroom.

The door safely locked behind them, Henry took Martin into his arms and kissed him. Together they made it to the bed and fell onto it still embracing, their dirty boots hanging off the edge. Martin’s mouth was hot and sweet and he nipped at Henry’s lip and broke away, saying, “Do you want me to wash, Sir? I got quite sweaty!”

Henry blushed and hid his face against Martin’s neck. “No. I want you the way you are.”

“I’ll be salty,” Martin pointed out. “But if you don’ t mind, Sir…”

“I don’t mind,” Henry assured him. Quite the opposite. Martin kept very clean, but Henry loved the hints he got of what Martin might smell like in a more natural state. When he’d had occasion to experience it, Henry had loved the mineral flavor of Martin’s unwashed skin, the intensified scent of his balls, the sharp smell of his armpits. He had thought about asking Martin to wash less often to see what that would be like, but knew that Martin would be miserable, and if Martin were miserable, then Henry wouldn’t really be able to enjoy himself, either.

Martin got up on his knees at Henry’s side and shrugged off his jacket. He turned and dealt with his own boots, then pulled Henry’s off his feet, before unbuckling his own gaiters and then Henry’s. He then started on his waistcoat buttons, and Henry lay back and watched him do it.

“When we were talking earlier, Sir,” Martin said, “about Ganymede and about brothers, Sir…did you realize, Sir, that if we were brothers, I’d be the elder one?”

“Oh.” Henry was surprised he hadn’t thought of this himself. “I guess you would be. But only by four days.” He pushed himself up to a semi-seated position so he could wriggle out of his jacket.

“I’d be four days’ more grown-up, Sir. Four days’ more experienced.” Martin shrugged off his braces and tugged his shirt free of his trousers. “Of course, I’d want to teach my little brother everything, Sir.” He pulled his shirt and undershirt over his head and tossed them aside.

Henry sat all the way up and put his hands on Martin’s chest. “I’d be eager to learn,” he assured him. “Whatever you wanted to teach me.” He ran his hands up and down Martin’s torso and then set to work on the buttons of Martin’s breeches.

Martin lifted his arm, his hand drooping gracefully at the top of its curve, and bent his face to sniff at his armpit. He wrinkled his nose and said, “I do stink, Sir.”

“Not to me you don’t. And call me Henry, all right?”

“I’m sorry, Henry. My habits are very ingrained.”

“It’s okay,” Henry told him. He pulled Martin down to the coverlet and rolled him onto his back. “Just try to remember.”

“I’ll try, Henry.” Martin lifted his hips and let Henry strip off his riding breeches and drawers.

Henry bent and kissed the right side of Martin’s neck, kissed his way over Martin’s collarbone and across the slope of his chest toward his armpit. “Lift your arm.”

“Sir,” Martin said. “Henry. I really am very sweaty!”

Henry took hold of Martin by the elbow and tugged his arm up. “I don’t mind. I like it. Come on, Martin. Let me.”

Martin raised his arm and let it fall back bent against the pillow, exposing the tender pocket of his armpit with its curls of reddish hair. “Remember, I’m ticklish, Henry.”

“I’ll try not to tickle you,” Henry promised. “I just want to smell you.”

Martin laughed. “You’re a funny boy, Henry.”

Henry ignored him and bent his face to sniff Martin’s sweat. It was a complex odor. There was a saltiness and a warmth that were part of the smell somehow, and then the smell itself was sharp and still fresh, reminiscent of a green log burning in the hearth. The scent made Henry’s cock iron hard, made his hands tremble.

Henry licked him, trying not to tickle him too badly, though Martin snickered and quivered beneath his tongue. Martin’s skin was salty, musky, the taste full of subtle flavors Henry didn’t have the words to describe.

“Do you really like it so well, Sir? Henry?” Martin’s voice was very close to his ear.

Henry shifted up so that he could put Martin’s hand over his hard cock. “This is how much I like it.”

Martin laughed, delighted, and arched his back a little. “My prick got sweaty, also, you know, Sir. My balls, too.”

Henry kissed his way over Martin’s ribs, down the flat of his belly, and rubbed his cheek against the sharp promontory of Martin’s hipbone. He buried his nose in the reddish curls around Martin’s cock and tasted the tang of sweat on the wiry hair. Henry made Martin spread his legs so that he could nuzzle and lick his balls, trembling all the while.

Breathlessly, Martin asked, “Do I get to smell you, too, Sir?”

Henry lifted his head from between Martin’s legs. “Do you want to?”

Martin laughed again, more gently. “Of course I do, Henry. You know I love the way you smell.”

Henry remembered then the second time they’d fucked, Martin burying his face in Henry’s lap and reveling in the scent. Perhaps Henry wasn’t as much of a perverted freak as he feared, or maybe both of them were, in which case how lucky it was that they’d found one another.

Martin helped Henry off with the rest of his clothing and pushed him down on his back. “Can I do it to you now, Sir?”

“Turn around so we can both do it.”

They arranged themselves on their sides, sucking each other’s pricks. Martin’s cock was a little saltier than usual, more flavorful, and Henry felt like he couldn’t get it deep enough in his throat. He felt a little frantic, like somehow Martin might escape, and so he gripped his ass tightly, keeping him as close as he could. Henry’s own prick was so hard it hurt, and Martin’s mouth was hot as blood, slippery and wet. Martin made his marvelous greedy noises as he brought Henry closer and closer to completion. Henry could finish, he could finish in just a moment or two if he’d let himself do it, but what he really wanted was to fuck Martin and kiss his beautiful mouth while he came.

“Stop, stop now, okay?” Henry reached down and smoothed Martin’s hair, a calming gesture.

Martin let Henry’s prick slide out of his mouth and lifted his head. “Sir?”

“On your back, all right?”

Martin sat up and kissed Henry tenderly, his hand resting lightly on Henry’s cheek. “Anything you want, Henry.” He lay down, his head on the pillow, then took the pillow and tucked it under his ass.

Henry got the oil from the nightstand drawer and held the bottle up to the light. “We’re almost out of oil,” he said.

Martin gave a low chuckle. “That was fast, Sir. I’ll get more, don’t worry.”

Henry was almost over being embarrassed about the slaves knowing about the oil, knowing that Henry was fucking Martin. It was what he was supposed to do, after all, for health. It had occurred to him, albeit somewhat late, that the slaves would know anyway. Martin’s bed wasn’t being slept in, for one thing, and most days Henry didn’t bother to put on pajamas at all so they weren’t being sent down to be laundered. There were probably lots of other tells that Henry wasn’t even thinking of; slaves were observant in ways that masters were not.

Henry oiled Martin’s asshole and his own cock and pushed inside, Martin inhaling sharply as he did so.

“Too fast?” Henry could feel Martin’s body clenching, adjusting to his presence.

“No, it’s good, Henry. I like it.” Martin wiggled a little from side to side and hitched his knees higher. “I love the way you feel.”

Henry bent over him and kissed him and began to move his hips, thrilling at the pull and slide along the skin of his cock. Martin’s lips opened beneath his own and Martin touched his face, just his fingertips arrayed along Henry’s cheekbone, while they deepened their kiss.

Henry fucked him with hard, steady thrusts, Martin moaning each time Henry’s hips slammed against his ass, his legs wrapped tightly around Henry’s back. Henry bent his head to lick Martin’s salty neck and groaned. It wasn’t going to take any time at all for Henry to finish, but he wanted to hold off long enough to make Martin come first.

“Can I come?” Martin whispered, his arms around Henry’s neck. “I really want to come, Sir.”

“Yeah, do it.” Henry sat back on his heels to watch, his hands on the backs of Martin’s thighs spreading them apart and pushing them down toward the bed. He kept up his rhythm, feeling a delicious, clenching drag on his cock.

Martin made little escalating cries and worked the length of his cock with efficient jerks of his wrist. “Henry,” he whimpered. “Oh, Henry, harder, please!”

Henry did his best, their bodies meeting almost violently with loud, wet smacks.

Nearly breathless, Martin begged, “Please come in me, Henry. Please. I want to feel it.”

Henry moaned and shuddered and felt Martin still beneath him and cry out, and so let himself come, too.

He remembered belatedly that he’d wanted to be kissing Martin when he had his orgasm, so he leaned out over Martin’s body and said, “Kiss me.”

Martin pulled him down into a tight embrace and gave him a passionate, leisurely kiss, his tongue twining with Henry’s, sliding along his teeth. Martin’s cooling semen was smeared across Henry’s chest in the process and, as usual, Martin was more unsettled by this state of affairs than was Henry.

Henry tried to keep Martin on the bed, clutching at his waist. “It’s not going to hurt me any if it’s on my skin a minute or two longer, Martin.”

“I need to get up anyway, Henry. I have to go down for my dinner.”

Reluctantly, Henry let him get off the bed. He was halfway to the bathroom when there was a knock on the bedroom door.

Henry dove under the covers and Martin grabbed Henry’s dressing gown and fumbled to get his arms through the sleeves.

Barely decent, Martin opened the door a crack. “Oh, hello, Paul. What can I do for you?”

Henry heard Paul say, “Mr. Blackwell’s magazine came in the mail today. It was misplaced downstairs, so please accept my apologies for not getting it into his hands earlier.”

“Oh, thank you, Paul. He’ll be very happy to have it.”

In a lower voice, Paul said, “You’re missing dinner, you know, Martin.”

“I’ll be right down. Thank you, Paul.”

Paul chuckled. “He’s keeping you busy, then?” Surely Paul had not intended Henry to hear that!

Martin laughed. “Thank you, Paul,” he repeated. He shut the door and locked it and came back to the bed with Henry’s mail, Pals in its brown paper envelope. “I think you heard, Sir, that it was misplaced. I’m sorry, but we won’t have time to read it until bedtime.” He put the envelope down on the bed and shrugged off Henry’s dressing gown. “Let me just get something to wash you with, Sir…”

Henry let himself be cleaned and lounged on the bed while Martin quickly dressed in his own room.

“I’ll be back to dress you soon, Sir.” Martin bent and kissed him. “I’m excited to read to you later!”

Henry didn’t even want to open the envelope until they were ready to read; he wanted to wait for Martin. Now that Henry knew that Martin felt the same way about Theo and George as he did, it was that much more exciting to have a new installment. It was so much better with a partner, someone else who was reading the story and aware of possible hidden meanings. He flopped back against the pillows and slept fitfully until Martin’s return.

Martin woke Henry with a hand on his shoulder, a little shake. “Wake up, Sir. You need to dress.”

Henry pulled him down into an embrace and rolled on top of him. “Did you have a good dinner?” He bent and kissed Martin’s neck, which still tasted of salt.

“Yes, Sir. If you want to talk about it, let’s do it while I dress you.” Martin pushed Henry off of him and stood up, holding out his hand. “Come on, Sir. You can’t be late.”

Henry took Martin’s hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. “What did you eat?”

“Chicken and potatoes and beans, Sir. Let’s see…we also had applesauce and bread and then chocolate cake for dessert.”

Martin held Henry’s drawers ready for him to step into, and he did so with a hand on Martin’s shoulder for balance. Martin handed Henry his undershirt and watched as he pulled it on overhead.

Henry’s head emerged from the neck of the shirt, his hair mussed, and he asked, “Do you think I’m having cake, too?”

Martin thought a moment. “I doubt it, Sir. It wasn’t a very elaborate cake, though it was delicious.”

“I like the plainer desserts better,” Henry said with a sigh. “The things my parents want are unnecessarily fancy, I think.” He slipped his arms into the sleeves of his shirt and let Martin button it and put in the studs.

“I can ask Cook to make you a cake for your weekend lunch, Sir,” Martin suggested. “What kind would you like?”

“I always like lemon.” Henry held out his hands so that Martin could insert his cufflinks. “But, really, anything would be lovely. Cook makes the best cakes.”

“I’ll be sure to let her know you think so, Henry.” Martin leaned in and kissed Henry on the corner of his mouth, then knelt down to hold Henry’s trousers ready for him to step into.

Dinner was uneventful. Mother pushed food around her plate with the back of her fork but ate very little. Father and Timothy conferred in low voices and Timothy took dictation while Father cut up his food with very precise movements of his utensils. Watching his father efficiently dissect his lamb, Henry observed that Father was a man who got things done in every fiber of his being; Henry did not take after Father at all.

“Henry,” Father said, as the cake plates were brought in, “I’ll want to see you in my study after dinner. We’ll go directly down after dessert.”

Henry froze. What had he done? Had someone found out what he was doing with Martin? Was Martin about to be taken from him? His hands shook so that his knife and fork rattled on the dessert plate; he thought it better not to eat dessert at all rather than show his nerves. Father either did not notice Henry’s distress or did not find it concerning.

Henry wanted to take Martin by the hand and run from the room, to leave the house and go somewhere, anywhere, where they wouldn’t be found again, but instead he sat in his chair, obedient and full of dread. He wanted to turn around to look at Martin but dared not even flinch in his direction for fear it would somehow hasten their separation.

Father pushed back from the table, Timothy moving his chair out of the way, and there was nothing for Henry to do but follow suit. Pearl helped Mother up and they all left the dining room and headed for the front hall. Henry always felt dwarfed in his father’s looming presence, and tonight, feeling helpless, Henry felt especially small.

When he looked at Martin, Martin seemed more confused than upset. “Do you know,” he asked in a whisper, “what your father wants, Sir?”

“No,” Henry whispered back. “It can’t be good, though.”

“Say goodnight to your mother,” Father prompted, and Henry obediently kissed his mother’s cheek. She and Pearl began to climb the stairs as Father and Timothy turned down the south corridor heading for Father’s office. Father looked back over his shoulder. “Henry,” he said. “Stop dilly-dallying.”

Henry’s mouth was too dry to speak; he swallowed and rasped out, “Yes, sir.” He dared to reach for Martin’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

In the office, Henry sat in front of Father’ desk in what he thought of as the lecture chair—and here he was, about to get another lecture, at the very least. Martin stood behind him, his presence a little comforting.

Timothy moved about preparing Father a drink and went to stand behind Father’s chair, smiling at Henry quite fondly, so Henry began to wonder if his fears were perhaps exaggerated. Timothy would not be so cheerful about taking Martin away from him, after all.

“It’s a serious matter we need to discuss, son,” Father began. “Timothy brought it to my attention, and I thought it best to discuss it with you now, early on.”

Was it about the oil? About Henry waiting so long to fuck Martin? Was it about all of Henry’s inappropriate actions, his wanton lovemaking? Henry sat very still, his face very hot.

“I want to let you know what would happen to Martin if some sort of mishap were to befall you,” Father said. “You’re such a young man—a boy, really—that I’m sure it’s difficult for you to imagine that you might die, but young men do die from time to time, after all. Timothy here has first-hand knowledge of that, you see, and it’s necessary that we have a plan. Timothy’s original people didn’t have a plan and it caused him all sorts of problems.”

Henry relaxed fractionally, exhaling a held breath. “I’m not in trouble for anything, then.”

Father frowned at him. “No, son. Didn’t you hear a word I said?”

“Yes, sir. I-I guess I’m just surprised.”

“Well, I need you to think on this, Henry. Of course, Martin is technically my possession until you reach 18, but I think it important for you to be involved in any decisions regarding his welfare.”

“Wh-what do you want me to think about, exactly?” Henry felt the heat rising in his cheeks. He felt so stupid. “I guess I don’t understand what you’d like me to decide, sir.”

“If something were to happen to you, son, we’d have no use for Martin in our household. He’s a good slave, and a valuable one, and while he’s young we could get a good price for him.”

The idea of selling Martin, even if Henry were no longer around to appreciate him, was panic-inducing. Stricken, Henry whirled to look at Martin; Martin gave Henry the tiniest shake of the head, his lips pressed together, and Henry struggled to pull himself together. It was shocking to him that his Father felt no allegiance to Martin, that he wouldn’t cleave to him in the event of Henry’s demise, but then again, why would he? Martin was Henry’s slave and Father had little do with him.

“For instance,” Father continued, “when I die, Timothy will be emancipated and a sum will be settled on him so that he can live as he sees fit.” Timothy didn’t look impressed by this at all; Henry imagined that Timothy wouldn’t adjust to being emancipated terribly well.

“Can I do that with Martin, then? Emancipate him?” Actually, he doubted Martin would like being emancipated, either.

“I don’t know that he’s earned it as yet,” Father said, seeming amused by the idea. “The current plan is that, in the event of your death, Martin would be resold.” He looked at Henry as if expecting a response, but Henry felt numb with horror and could not have spoken even if he’d had something to say.

Father continued, his tone businesslike. “It’s quite usual, Henry. When you’re 18, he’ll become your property, of course, and we’ll have papers drawn up in your name. At that time, I’m going to recommend that he be sold before age 20, repurposed between 20 and 45, emancipated between 45 and 55, and retired into the family’s care or emancipated at any point thereafter .” Again, he paused for a response, but Henry did not have anything to say. “It’s absolutely standard practice, Henry. Nothing to get upset about.”

Henry opened his mouth but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I don’t ever want someone else to own him. I hate that idea.”

“You’re being sentimental,” Father said dismissively. “He’d be better off going to someone who could use him.”

“It’s true, Sir,” Timothy said. “I went two years between masters and it was a very unhappy time for me. A slave likes to be of use.”

It was apparent that Henry’s input was not actually wanted or required, that including Henry in any decision was mere lip service.

“This is the best way,” Father said confidently, drawing on his cigar. “But if you have a feasible counter-proposal, I’ll be glad to hear it.”

Henry did not have any counter-proposal. Clearly, Father would not allow him to emancipate Martin, nor would he agree to keep Martin on if Henry died young. Father didn’t need Henry’s permission to make decisions, of course, and he wasn’t really asking for it. He was merely trying to allow Henry to feel a little important. Henry didn’t feel important, though; he felt patronized and hurt.

“No,” Henry said in a grudging mumble, looking down at his boots. “I don’t have any other ideas.” He felt very upset and feared he would cry in front of his father, which right then seemed like the worst thing that could ever happen to him.

“This really is the best plan, Sir,” Timothy told him quite earnestly, his voice very kind. “Please take my word for it, it’s a bad situation for a slave if these matters haven’t been settled before a master dies.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence in the room. Henry’s pulse pounded in his ears.

“Well, then,” Father said. “You’re dismissed, Henry. Goodnight, son.”

“Goodnight, Father. Timothy.” Henry stood up on shaky legs and at last could look at Martin, who was pale and frightened, his eyes wide and wet, mouth downturned. They left Father’s office and hurried in silence down the hall and then up the stairs.

With the door locked behind them, Martin threw his arms around Henry and clung, his breath coming in little sobs.

Henry held just as tightly to Martin. “It’s okay,” he said, rubbing Martin’s back. “It’ll be okay, Martin.”

“Don’t die, Sir. Please don’t die. I won’t be able to bear it if you die.” Martin’s teeth were chattering, his hands cold and shaking.

“I won’t die,” Henry said. “I don’t do dangerous things, Martin, and I’m not sickly. I’m not going to die anytime soon.”

“I want to be with you always, Henry,” Martin insisted, his tone pleading.

Henry smoothed Martin’s hair back from his forehead, soothing gestures. “You’re so scared, Martin. Why are you so scared?”

“It might be bad luck to say, Sir…” Martin clearly did want to say something, though.

“Just say it, Martin. Please.”

“Can we sit down, Sir?”

“Of course.” They crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, Henry holding Martin’s cold hands.

Martin swallowed hard. “Do you remember, when you were sick, Sir? I was so afraid you might die! I was convinced you’d die if I wasn’t watching over you, which is why I insisted on sleeping in your bed. I thought I could keep you safe.”

Henry was touched by this anew. “But why did you think I’d die?”

“People die of fevers all the time, Sir. People I’ve known have died. People I cared about.”

“Really? At Ganymede?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“A friend?”

“Yes, Sir. The best friend I had.”

Henry couldn’t help but be a little jealous of this dead boy who still had a claim on some portion of Martin’s affections. “Tell me about him,” he said.

Martin seemed hesitant to talk, as if he was unsure of the wisdom of sharing these memories. “All right, Sir.” He took a deep breath, then let it out with a shudder. “His name was Richard. He was three months older, and he was a musician, too, a cellist. He was very talented, very intelligent. I looked up to him, I really did, and then we became good friends after we were both selected to become companions. He was so special to me, Sir.”

Martin was quiet a few moments, pensive, and then began again. “When we were 14, Richard got sick, and the House takes illness very seriously, of course, Sir. There are quarantines, very strict, because it would be so easy for a sickness to take out entire portions of the stock, and that can’t be allowed to happen.”

Martin was quiet briefly again, looking at his hands in his lap. “Richard got sick, as I said, Sir, and he went to the infirmary, and of course I wasn’t allowed to see him there, but then he got pneumonia and died just a few days later, and he was cremated, so I never saw him again at all.” Tears slipped from beneath Martin’s glasses and dripped down from the point of his chin to make dark splotches on his fawn trousers. “So maybe you can understand, Sir, why it would frighten me for you to be sick, and for us to be apart.”

Henry put his arm around Martin and drew him close, wanting more than anything to give him comfort. “I’m really sorry about your friend, Martin. I’m so sorry you didn’t get to see him again.”

Martin leaned on Henry and sniffed wetly. “I was allowed to scatter his ashes at least, Sir, so there was that, but I so wish I’d been able to talk to him one last time. I wish I’d been able to say a proper goodbye.”

Henry kissed the side of Martin’s face, tasting his tears. “Do you remember what you did say to him, the last thing?”

Martin smiled sadly. “I told him he’d feel better soon, Sir, and I kissed his forehead and went to my fencing lesson, and when I came back he’d been taken to the infirmary.”

“At least you didn’t have a fight,” Henry said, hoping this would seem comforting. “You were kind and concerned. I’m sure he knew how much you cared about him.”

“I loved him very much, Sir,” Martin admitted. “I thought I’d never have such a good friend again, but then I hadn’t met you.” He turned to smile tremulously and put his arms around Henry’s neck.

“Do you really feel that way?” Henry asked, wanting so very much for it to be the case. “You don’t need to pretend to like me more than you do, you know. I don’t want that.”

“Promise me you won’t die, Sir. Promise me you won’t die and leave me all alone.” He pulled Henry closer and gave a shaky sigh, clinging tightly.

“I promise.” Henry rubbed Martin’s back soothingly and said, “I promise I won’t die,” and wanted it to be a promise he could make.

As Martin calmed, his tremors easing and his sobs reduced to hitching breaths, Henry wondered at his distress. Was he really so genuinely happy with Henry, or was it just fear of change that had him upset at the prospect of Henry’s death?

“If I did die,” he suggested slowly, “you’d find a good master, though, wouldn’t you?”

“Sir?”

“You’d find a new master right away,” Henry said with confidence. “You’re handsome and talented and you’re a really good slave. You have so many skills. Lots of masters would want you.”

Martin lifted his head from Henry’s shoulder and looked at him through narrowed eyes, lips pressed thin. “But I don’t want another master, Sir. I would be devastated if I lost you.”

But why? Henry wondered. He didn’t understand Martin’s devotion. Henry had a handsome face, true, and he did everything he could to make sex especially good for Martin, but there were probably loads of other masters who’d do the same if given the chance.

Martin was obviously annoyed. “If I died, Henry, would you just replace me with another companion and go on about your business?”

What a horrible thought! Aghast, Henry reared back from Martin’s embrace. “What? No, of course not!” He would be laid low. He would be destroyed.

“If you died, Sir, I’d scarcely have time to grieve before I’d go to another boy, and I’d have to show him a smile every day, but all the while I’d be missing you. I’d be comparing him to you and missing you so much.”

Henry loved that Martin had such strong feelings. He gathered him close again and kissed the side of his face.

“If you died,” Henry said slowly, thinking it through, “maybe I wouldn’t get a new companion after all.”

“But you’d have to, Henry.”

“Billy could dress me again,” Henry decided. “Maybe I could wait until…” He had an idea, ill-formed. “Until Ganymede had a slave in a similar situation available, one whose master died. A slave like that would understand my feelings, wouldn’t he?” The idea appealed to Henry’s romantic nature. He pictured this sad, faceless slave petting his hair while he cried over dead Martin, the pair of them like tragic young widowers.

Martin tightened his arms around Henry’s back and sighed against his neck. “I don’t know that your father would allow you to wait, Sir. He’s a very practical man.”

Martin was right. “Well, let’s neither of us die, then,” Henry said. “I said I won’t. You promise, too.”

“I promise, Sir. I like my life. I want to live it.”

Henry recognized that he, too, liked his life. Before Martin, he had simply lived it without considering whether or not he was enjoying it, but now, with Martin, he was happier than he’d ever dared hope.

“Me, too,” he said. “I want to live it.”

Henry woke Thursday with the newest Pals still in its mailing envelope unread. Last evening, following their discussion of mortality, Martin had been very desirous of physical intimacy, eager and loving, and Henry hadn’t wanted to discourage that by insisting upon a reading. They’d had sex again and made further foolhardy, ardent promises never to die, and afterward Martin fell asleep quickly but was clingy and restless even as he slept.

As Martin dressed him for school, Henry asked, “Do you know much about Timothy’s first master?”

“No, Sir. I know a little more about how he came to be with your father.” Martin stepped behind Henry to button his braces at the small of his back.

“So tell me, then.”

“They were both in their twenties, Sir, I know that much. Mr. Tim had been waiting a long time to find a new master and was quite despairing. It’s not fair, Sir, but when a slave returns to his House for any reason, he’s viewed as a failure by those who are still waiting to be sold. It’s hard for me to imagine anyone thinking of Mr. Tim as a failure, though!”

“I’d like to know more,” Henry admitted. “Maybe it’s none of my business, but I’d like to know.”

Martin flicked a glance up from Henry’s necktie and smiled. “If you’d like, Sir, I’ll ask Mr. Tim if he’ll talk to you about it sometime soon. I’m sure he’d be glad to tell you whatever you want to know.”

The school day passed uneventfully, and gradually Henry’s curious thoughts about Timothy’s first master were overtaken by thoughts of the new Drake’s Progress waiting for them at home. Henry turned down an invitation to join his friends at a downtown arcade, claiming homework, not quite willing for his friends to know how eager he was for his story.

At home, Henry shrugged off his jacket and let Martin remove his boots before he flopped down on the bed. Martin insisted on picking up Henry’s jacket and putting it away, as well as dealing with his own school jacket, before he would sit down and pick up Pals. Housekeeping out of the way, he climbed up on the bed and sat cross-legged and upright, magazine in hand, prepared to read aloud.

Last month, the adventurers had conquered a kraken and sailed the Dauntless into an unnamed port with a few new crew members on board, including a young seaman called Dooley. There had been an ominous development, as well: the appearance of a black ship on the horizon.

“I’m telling you, it’s going to be Dr. DeSade.” Henry felt a deep satisfaction at the prospect.

“I believe you, Sir.”

The Dauntless had been at sea so long that Henry had forgotten where in the world they were supposed to be, and the description of the port town was of little help, the place seeming quite European, yet with coconut palms and parrots. George took young Dooley and made his way along the docks hearing the gossip. Theo, meanwhile, was purchasing supplies, including great stores of gunpowder and ammunition, though it was nearly a given that these would not come into play in the inevitable fight with DeSade. Somehow, neither Dr. DeSade nor Captain Theo ever fired a shot in the other’s direction. There were no gunfights between them, no bullet wounds. Their battles were all up close and personal. Henry interrupted the reading to relate this to Martin, who took in the information with interest.

Back on the Dauntless, George looked through his telescope at the black ship, which had drawn closer to the mouth of the harbor, and confirmed that the ship was DeSade’s Ruthless, flying a flag with a single bloody-red eye. Henry wasn’t sure whether this eye was meant to represent the one he had lost or the one that remained, with which he relentlessly searched for Theo.

There was a long section told from Dooley’s point of view where both Theo and George were described in admiring detail. Shirtless George’s many scars were described anew, along with his hard muscles and his long blond tail of hair. Theo’s dashing air, his commanding presence, and his fortitude were duly noted. His evident strength and grace were remarked upon, as well as his manly beauty. Dooley seemed quite in awe of them and was especially impressed by their mutual high regard, their clear loyalty to one another.

Martin seemed amused. “Dooley is quite a fan, don’t you think, Sir?”

The Ruthless sailed closer and closer but heaved to outside the harbor. Captain Theo was prepared to fire upon the Ruthless should it threaten either the Dauntless or the town itself, but there were no signs of aggression from DeSade. Theo set men to watch the Ruthless and turned in for the night.

“Do you think he sleeps with George, Sir? Aren’t beds on ship very narrow? It might not be practical.”

“He’s the captain,” Henry reminded him. “He has the best cabin, I imagine. I think he can have a big bed if he wants.” He thought about it a moment more. “I like to think they’re in the same bed, but I don’t really know. It’s never made clear.”

It was no clearer when, a few paragraphs later, George shook Theo awake and they went out on deck to watch hooded figures leaving the Ruthless in a dinghy and rowing into port under cover of darkness. Dooley was there, too, alert and watchful and interested.

“Is he going to be in every scene from now on?” Henry asked petulantly. “Theo already has a companion—he doesn’t need another one.”

Martin was in agreement. “I’m sure there’s a point to him, though, Sir. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

The point of Dooley was, apparently, to be the damsel in distress. Tagging along on a reconnaissance mission in a shadowy dockside warehouse with Theo and George, Dooley managed to get himself captured by DeSade’s henchmen, and immediately gave up the information that he was associated with Captain Drake and the Dauntless. He was smart enough, at least, not to volunteer that Theo and George were also in the warehouse at that very moment, allowing them to steal back to the Dauntless to enlist reinforcements.

“They should just let him stay caught,” Henry said, disgusted. “Why should they care what happens to him, anyway? He’s practically a stranger. It wasn’t so long ago he was their enemy.”

“But from what you’ve told me, Sir, they always help the underdog,” Martin pointed out. “It won’t matter that they don’t know him well.”

“He’s too stupid to live,” Henry insisted. Dooley felt like a diversion when all he wanted was Theo and George saving each other’s lives and making speeches.

The crew of the Dauntless, as it turned out, felt much like Henry, wondering why they should risk their own lives to save some grubby pirate boy, and Captain Theo gave them a good speech about helping the weak and downtrodden. He reminded them that he’d saved many of their lives in just such situations and they’d repaid him with strength and courage and loyalty, and surely Dooley would do the same. After that, the crew agreed that Dooley was worth saving.

“Well, all right then, I suppose,” Henry said grumpily. “I guess that’s how he got George, for that matter.”

“To be continued,” Martin concluded with a sigh. “That’s it for another month, then, Sir.” He checked his watch. “I might as well go down for my dinner. I’ll talk to Mr. Tim for you, too, Sir.”

After Martin had gone, Henry rolled around on the bed, restive and feeling disgruntled. It just didn’t feel like Dooley had earned his place of prominence in the story, and Henry worried that he would somehow come to supplant George in Theo’s affections if the current trend continued. Sighing, he knew he should try to take it less seriously. But even the tiniest threat to the Theo-George relationship seemed terribly personal.

Henry fretted about Theo and George all through his own meal and the family hour following. Martin did not seem nearly so bothered by the turns the story was taking, and Henry found that he wanted him to be, that he was a little annoyed that he was not.

In bed, in Martin’s arms, Henry found it difficult to curb his obsessive thoughts and was tense and restless.

Martin inclined his head, his mouth close to Henry’s ear. “Don’t worry about Dooley, Henry. Theo won’t turn from George so easily.”

It helped to hear it from Martin. It was Martin’s reassurance that allowed him to relax enough to fall asleep at last.

The Briggses were having their annual Halloween party and of course Henry was invited, as he had been every year that he’d known Louis. All of the Briggses of every age invited all of their friends and, like every Briggs party, the Halloween festivities usually got out of hand. James would be at home this year, being in some sort of trouble at his college yet again, so the house would be full of his hard-drinking friends for the second time in a month. The actual holiday fell on a weekday, so the party was being held the Saturday before, which would give the guests more license to become exceedingly drunk. Louis' older sister Susannah was inviting her school friends, and Louis and Henry's classmates were excited for the opportunity to socialize with girls near their age. Now that Louis and Henry had slaves, they were to be included in the adult party for the first time; all of the younger Briggs children and their guests would be relegated to the nursery upstairs.

During their nursery years, Henry and Louis had been happy to wear costumes—often stitched up by the costume departments of the theaters where their fathers were generous benefactors—but they felt too adult for such frivolity now. Still, Henry felt the urge to dress up a little. On Friday after school, picking through the old costumes stored in the trunk room, Henry came across a harlequin costume he’d worn at age 11.

“I rather liked this one,” he said, holding it up for Martin to see. “Very colorful, but not too fussy. It was easy to play in.”

Martin sat on a trunk, elbows on knees, leaning forward to see what Henry was doing. “It’s lovely, Sir. Did you wear a mask?”

“A half-mask,” Henry told him, holding up a little black velvet mask with ribbon ties.

“It would be fun to have masks, wouldn’t it, Sir? Not a full costume, of course, but just a mask.”

“We could do that, maybe,” Henry said slowly. It seemed possible that some of his friends might wear masks even if they weren’t wearing costumes. He wanted to make Martin happy, but he didn’t want the two of them to look stupid or childish.

He pushed aside a miniature pirate captain’s braid-trimmed jacket and found what he was looking for. “Take a look at this, Martin.” He held up his favorite childhood costume, the plumage of a red bird, worn at age 7. “You can look down into the side yard from the nursery, and I used to watch this cardinal come to eat the crumbs that Cook scattered for him. I thought that little red bird was the most beautiful creature imaginable.”

Martin looked as though he thought Henry was the most beautiful creature imaginable for saying such a thing. “Oh, Sir, that’s so sweet, the idea of little you watching a little bird.”

Henry blushed, but did not otherwise respond to what Martin had said. “Father had the opera’s costume department make it up for me,” Henry continued. “See, my arms stuck out under the wings, so I could make them flap, but I could still play games. And here’s the hat.” The hat had a cardinal’s crest, eyes of jet, and a red-orange beak that stuck out like a banker’s visor. The costume was still very charming, though it was shedding feathers and clearly a little the worse for wear after years in a trunk.

“Did your parents have your picture made in your costumes, Sir? I’d love to see those if they did.”

“No, they didn’t do anything like that. I used to get my picture taken every year around my birthday, though.”

“You used to, Sir? Not any more?”

Henry wrinkled up his nose. “I didn’t like doing it,” he explained. “I don’t like posing. My mother wanted me to do it, but my father said I didn’t have to, so I stopped when I was 14.”

“Some masters get portraits done with their slaves, Sir, did you know?”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to do that?”

Martin looked embarrassed. “It’s just an idea, Sir.”

Henry bent over the trunk again. “Hmm…I’m not finding what I’m looking for…”

“Can I help you look, Sir?”

“I’m looking for the most recent costumes,” he said. “They have half-masks, too. We could wear those.”

“Let me help, Sir.” Martin got up off of his trunk. He stood looking around the narrow little room. “If it had been me putting them away, I’d have put them…here!” He swooped down on the trunk in question and opened the lid. It was empty, and Henry had to bite back a laugh at Martin’s disappointed frown.

They went through the room opening everything, and Henry eventually found the most recent costumes in the trunk that had been Martin’s seat. At 14, he’d dressed as Buffalo Bill, with cowboy hat and fringed jacket and, of course, a half-mask. At 15, he’d been a pirate again (he’d been a pirate at 6 and at 12, as well), with a bicorne hat, a papier-mâché parrot on his shoulder and another half-mask.

The pirate costume had been made by the opera’s costume department—his best costumes had been made by the opera, he thought—and the man who’d fit him had been a very handsome fairy with the sort of coloring Henry liked who’d said, “Well, aren’t you a big boy?” and had taken every opportunity to put his hands on Henry’s body. Henry realized now that the man had been flirting with him. He understood now that he could have asked the costumer to suck his cock and the man would have complied readily, but he’d known nothing a year ago, and it would never have occurred to him. Instead, Henry had blushed and gotten angry, aroused and confused, not understanding that the man’s intentions were quite in line with his own desires.

The black velvet masks were nearly identical. “Here,” Henry said, handing Martin one of them. “Try this.”

They went to stand before the wardrobe mirror, shoulders and elbows bumping as they held the masks up to their faces.

Henry turned his head from side to side. “I look a bit foreign like this, don’t you think? Mysterious. Spanish or Italian or something like that. Tie this on me, will you?”

Martin tucked his own mask under his arm and stood behind Henry to tie a bow in the mask’s ribbons. He looked at Henry in the mirror. “You look very handsome, Henry. A little menacing, too.”

“You like that?”

Martin laughed, self-conscious. “I do, Sir. I think it’s a little exciting to be scared.”

“Let me tie yours on.” Martin took off his glasses and stood obediently still while Henry did so. “Is that tight enough?”

“I think so. It feels good, Sir.” Martin peered at the mirror. “Does it look all right? Everything looks a little blurry to me, you see.”

“Oh, I didn’t think about that,” Henry admitted. “That you’d need your glasses to see. Can you wear it, do you think? Can you see well enough without your glasses?”

“Well enough, I think, Sir,” Martin said, squinting a little through the eye holes of the mask. “Everything's a bit blurry, as I said, but I can see things up close.”

“Well, you look wonderful,” Henry said. “You look…magical.” He didn’t have the words to express how alluring Martin seemed, how otherworldly. He also looked sly and dangerous and Henry was surprised how well he liked this impression.

“Magical, Sir?” Martin laughed, pleased. “Maybe I’ll grant you a wish.”

Henry had no doubt that he would. “Then I wish you’d take off everything but the mask and get down on your knees.”

Martin began undressing immediately, and Henry watched him do it, alternating between just looking at him as he did it and watching him do it in the mirror, a different angle. As he watched Martin reveal more and more of his pale skin, he also saw his own cock thickening, revealing itself through the fabric of his trousers. Martin had shed his trousers and drawers but still wore his shirt when Henry pulled him close for an urgent kiss, needing to feel the press of Martin’s body against his own.

Henry’s mask shifted as they kissed, obscuring his vision, and he adjusted it as Martin rubbed him through his trousers. His breath was hot in Henry’s ear as he asked, “Do you want me to suck you while I’m down on my knees, Sir?”

“Yes,” Henry said firmly. “I definitely want that.”

Martin stripped off his shirt and undershirt, and straightened his mask and stood naked looking at himself in the mirror, his cock coming fully erect.

“Do you arouse even yourself?” Henry asked, reaching out to burnish Martin’s flushed cheek with his thumb. “Seeing how beautiful you are?”

Martin laughed and shook his head. “No, Henry. I’m thinking ahead. I’m thinking of your cock and how you’ll be fucking my mouth any minute now.”

Not for the first time, Henry wished there were two of him, one to fuck Martin’s mouth and the other to fuck his ass. And maybe a third self to suck Martin’s cock, for that matter.

Martin knelt and unbuttoned Henry’s trousers and drawers, and they both looked in the mirror at Henry’s cock jutting out of his clothes. Martin put out his tongue and licked the head of Henry’s prick, still looking at himself in the mirror.

“I look menacing, too, Sir, don’t you think? Like I might just eat your cock.” He bared his teeth in an exaggerated snarl and laughed.

“Go ahead,” Henry urged. “If you’re hungry, you should eat.”

Martin laughed again. He held Henry’s cock steady with his hand and licked all the glossy secretions from the head while Henry swayed unsteadily on his feet and gave soft little groans. When Martin took Henry into his mouth, he did so with a wanton moan. He sucked Henry’s prick with enthusiastic, emphatic grunts, with a sense of urgency that Henry found almost unbearably arousing. He looked at Martin in the mirror, his face half-obscured, his lips shiny-wet, his mouth moving to hide and then reveal the shaft of Henry’s cock, slick with saliva. Martin’s own cock was very hard, standing stiff before his belly, and he toyed with it with his left hand while he sucked.

Watching was too exciting; Henry wanted to last at least a few minutes more. He closed his eyes and had a mental picture of Martin, naked in a half-mask, stealing into his bedroom with malevolent erotic intent. There was a creature that Henry had heard of but couldn’t remember the name for, a thing that stole into sleeper’s beds and fucked them and they liked it, and that’s what Martin in the mask was like.

Henry opened his eyes and looked down at Martin, at his moving head. He put his hands on the back of Martin’s head and guided him gently. Martin tilted his head back and looked up at Henry through the eye holes of the black velvet mask; it made his eyes look sharper and greener than usual, and it showed up the milk-paleness of his skin. He was so beautiful and his dirty mouth was a treasure. In the grip of an involuntary urge, a primal urge, Henry took hold of Martin’s head and hauled him in close, burying his cock down Martin’s throat again and again, and Martin gagged, fear in his eyes, and wrested his head away.

“Sorry!” Henry’s hands fluttered uselessly around Martin’s head and shoulders. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, Sir,” Martin insisted, wiping spit from his chin with the back of his hand. “I didn’t mean to pull away, really! I was just startled, is all. I’m more than happy to play that game if you want, Henry, believe me.”

It hadn’t been a game; it had been an accident of a sort, a brutish impulse to just take exactly what he wanted from Martin without considering his feelings, and Henry was a ashamed of himself for losing control. Martin might have been badly frightened or even hurt by Henry’s selfish behavior.

“Just keep doing like you were doing,” Henry said. “It felt so good, Martin. I just got carried away.”

“It’s all right to get carried away with me, Sir,” Martin said. He took hold of Henry’s cock, which had softened a little in Henry’s panic, and licked it hard again. When he took Henry’s prick into his mouth, he took it just as deep as Henry had shoved it, and he choked on it, too, but it was all his doing, not Henry’s. Martin moaned and Henry felt the vibrations in his cock, felt every fluctuation of the muscles of Martin’s throat and tongue, and let himself carefully, carefully pet Martin’s head without grabbing.

Henry whimpered, feeling very close to finishing. Martin made an enthusiastic sound around Henry’s cock and sucked harder, unrelenting. Henry could see in the mirror that Martin’s hand was moving faster over his cock now, and with more purpose and then, as he watched, Martin hunched over a little, making strangled, helpless cries around the flesh in his mouth, then stilled and came on the carpet next to Henry’s boot. Henry found this vulnerable picture so erotic that he lasted only a few seconds longer, Martin gasping around his prick and swallowing greedily as Henry spilled.

When Martin let Henry’s prick slide out of his mouth, his mask had been dislodged and sat twisted over his forehead and just one eye. He sat back on his heels and straightened it, and grinned up at Henry, his eyes flashing through the mask. Henry crouched down and kissed him.

“Don’t step in my mess, Sir,” Martin warned. “I’ll clean that up right away.”

Henry tucked his cock back into his trousers and sat on the edge of the bed, out of the way, while Martin mopped at the carpet with a damp cloth. “I’m really sorry,” he tried again. “I didn’t mean to—”

Martin shook his head. “Henry. Sir, please. I liked it. I like dirty games like that.”

“You do?”

“I like the idea of you making me do things, Sir. I’m your slave, after all.”

Henry knew that some of his friends seemed to enjoy wielding power over their slaves a little bit more than seemed gentlemanly, but it had never occurred to him that a slave might actually enjoy his subjugation, that it would seem arousing, when, in fact, a slave had no choice but to put up with it. But then he thought about how Martin had looked, just minutes ago, coming with such an air of abandoned helplessness as he choked on Henry’s cock. Martin said often that he was a dirty boy, and Henry had no reason to disbelieve him.

Martin sat back on his heels and beamed at Henry. “I think we should wear the masks to the party, don’t you, Sir?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “And I’ll remember how you looked on your knees.”

Martin smiled and got up and took his cloth into the bathroom, and Henry lay back on the bed, his legs dangling.

“Hey, Martin,” he called. “What’s the word for that creature that sneaks into people’s bedrooms and has sex with them?”

“Sir?” Martin came to stand in the doorway to the little hall, his head cocked.

“Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Martin thought a moment. “Do you mean an incubus, Sir?”

“Yes.” Henry recognized immediately that this was the word he’d meant. “That’s what you look like,” he said. “You in the mask. An enchanter, a seducer. A little bit evil.” Saying this aloud, he began to question the wisdom of taking Martin to a party looking so blatantly sexual, so erotically expert.

Martin seemed to like the idea. “I’ve read that you reveal your true self when you put on a mask, Sir. Do you think that maybe I am a little bit evil?” He came to stand naked between Henry’s feet, grinning, and reached for Henry’s hands.

Henry did not think this at all, but he did not want to disappoint Martin. “You’re diabolical,” he asserted, pulling Martin down to roll on the bed with him a few sweet minutes before Martin had to dress for his dinner. Henry would humor Martin, tell him he was a demon if that was what he wanted to hear, but in fact Henry knew him to be an angel, the most tender and precious being Henry had ever encountered. He wasn’t entirely sure, as it had never happened to him before, but he thought he might be falling in love. The idea was exciting and frightening in equal measure and Henry shivered pleasurably at the thought; he would, however, keep it to himself for the time being.

They had a ride Saturday morning, had sex and napped after lunch, and went over to the Briggs house early, ahead of the other guests, with their masks folded in their pockets. As they walked up the steps, Henry noted that the loggia rail was lined with jack-o-lanterns all waiting to be lit. Patrick let them in with a distracted air. The main floor of the house was full of people, mostly strangers, who bustled about with crepe paper streamers and papier-mâché skulls. Louis came down to meet them, Peter close behind.

“Good, you're here,” Louis said. “Everyone is being so annoying today!” Louis was frequently frustrated with his large assortment of relatives, so Henry was not particularly surprised by this remark.

“Even James?”

“Especially James.”

“What did he do?” Usually, Louis was forgiving of all his older brother’s transgressions and thought he could do no wrong.

“He used Peter without asking,” Louis said, seething. “He's never let me use Joseph and he still won't, which is completely unfair.” He looked from Henry to Martin and back again. “Don't let him get Martin alone, or he'll probably use him, too.”

Henry bristled. “Did he say that? That he wanted Martin?”

“He already said so back in September, at his party,” Louis said, and Henry wondered why the hell Louis hadn't said anything before now, but Louis continued, unconcerned: “A lot of people were interested, I guess, but then you got sick and left.”

“He knows I don't share him, right? You told him that?” Agitated, Henry fought the urge to take Martin and go home.

“I told him,” Louis said, “but you know how James is. He does whatever he wants to do.” A woman in kitchen worker's garb carried a tray of cupcakes past and Louis turned on his heel to follow her. “Let's check out the spread, shall we?”

Louis led the way. Henry hung back to walk with Martin, whose brow was furrowed.

“What is it, Martin?” Henry asked, his voice low.

“I-I don’t want Mr. Briggs—James—to use me, Sir,” Martin admitted, but grudgingly, as if it pained him to assert a preference.

With a furtive glance around, Henry dared to squeeze his hand. “He won’t,” he promised. “I won’t let him.”

The reception room was set up with tables laden with food, all of it heartier and simpler than the sort of food served at more formal balls. There was an alcoholic punch as well as a great bowl of spiced apple cider, urns of coffee, trays of cupcakes and doughnuts, and tiered plates of sandwiches. Bowls of candy were scattered about the room, as were harvest-themed floral arrangements and an assortment of the plaster skulls and devils they'd seen people carrying in the front hall. They took what they wanted, much to the dismay of all those charged with arranging things nicely, and went upstairs to Louis' room, Louis telling Patrick to send all his friends up as they arrived.

Henry lounged on Louis' bed eating his cupcake, preoccupied with the idea that James had designs on Martin. He remembered what James had said back in September about Martin's “good mouth” and felt he was going to have to be very vigilant to keep James away from him. He leaned close to Martin and said, “You stick by me all night, understand? No matter what James or anyone else says.”

“Yes, Sir. Of course.” Martin seemed pleased that Henry was prepared to look out for him.

Louis and Peter had skull masks that were very dramatic and lurid, but hard to breathe in, and impossible to eat in, so they were probably not going to wear them, or not going to wear them for very long. Louis thought the half-masks were both boring and sophisticated, and allowed that it was all right for Henry and Martin to wear them.

Albert DeWitt and Stuart arrived. Louis had invited Albert’s twin, Abigail, but she had her own friends and her own parties to attend and sent her regrets. Albert was excited that James was home, since he felt he had really missed out by not attending the party where Henry had become ill—Louis had told such tales that the party had become legendary. Despite having been at least nominally in attendance, Henry remained mostly in the dark as to what had gone on, as Louis knew he didn't like to hear about the cavalier treatment of slaves. Louis told Albert about James' transgression with Peter and Albert was sympathetic, but not overly so.

“If he'd asked, what would you have said?”

“I'd probably have said yes,” Louis said. “But he didn't ask!”

Albert shrugged. “But if you would have let him anyway, what's the harm?”

Louis made a frustrated growl. “Ugh. You don't get it, Albert.”

Victor Spence showed up with Will, then Charles Ross and Robert Townsend with Simon and Dick.

“Your parents' friends are starting to show up,” Robert remarked. “I'll bet the orchestra will get going soon. Are your sister's friends here yet?”

“Don't get your hopes up about them,” Louis warned. “They're practically all engaged now.”

“We can still dance with them, though, right?”

“You can ask. They're all so stuck up, though, and none of them pretty enough to act that way, in my opinion.”

“What do you know, though?” said Charles. “You don't think your sister's a beauty, and she definitely is.”

“She's not,” Louis said firmly. “Not if you really get to know her.”

“My sister's the same, Louis,” Albert said. “You're not missing anything by not knowing her better.”

Freddie Caldwell and Wendell Franklin came in together with Tom and Ralph, and Tom immediately came to greet Martin, who was happy to see him, as always. Henry wondered, not for the first time, exactly how Tom felt about Martin. Was he some variety of queer? Or were they really just friends, as Martin insisted? Henry's jealousies were countermanded to some extent, though, by a furtive desire to see the two slaves together just for the look of it: their beautiful faces in proximity, Tom's fine black hair spread across Martin's pink-and-white skin. Henry blushed at the thought and tried to banish it from his mind.

Philip van Houten showed up with Davey, who Henry knew Martin didn't like, though he greeted Davey with seeming enthusiasm. Henry felt similarly about Philip, yet likewise behaved as though he were glad to see him. David Maxwell came with Alex, and Gordon Lovejoy with Julian. Only Joshua Brand and his Miles were missing, and they would not be coming after all. Gordon informed them that Joshua was in deep trouble, having been caught in bed with the Brands' pretty new chambermaid, and was forbidden from all forms of fun through the end of the year. The girl, of course, would be whipped.

Gordon smirked knowingly. “He says it was worth it, though.” There was general agreement that this was probably the actual truth—at least for Joshua.

Patrick knocked at Louis’ bedroom door. “Sir, you and your guests are welcome to come downstairs now. Everything is in readiness.”

The boys who had masks put them on. Downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Briggs were dressed as a devil and Lady Liberty and were greeting guests in the hall. James stood at the reception room door, punch cup in hand and a pair of goatish horns on his head, surrounded by a group of his college friends. He looked up as the boys stepped off the staircase.

“Oh, good, Louis,” he said, beckoning. Louis went to him with a sullen expression and James put an arm around his shoulders. To his friends, he said, “My brother and his little friends with a fresh bunch of slaves,” and made an expansive gesture that took the lot of them in. The older boys smirked and leered.

Henry did not like this at all. Again, he whispered urgently in Martin's ear. “Stick by me tonight.”

“Henry!” James called. “You come here, too.”

Henry went reluctantly, gesturing at Martin to stay put. “Hello, James.”

“I think you've gotten even taller,” James remarked, clapping him on the back. “So, Henry, I want to talk to you about that slave of yours.”

“I'm not going to share him,” Henry blurted. “Don't ask me, because the answer is no.”

James’ friends all laughed.

James pulled a sad face. “Aw, Henry. Don't be stingy. I promise I'll treat him nicely.”

Henry shook his head. “No. Don't touch him, James.” Henry was surprised at himself for daring to talk back, but he absolutely did not want James molesting Martin. James wasn't going to take this seriously unless Henry was very adamant and made his point very clearly. “You can ask Louis. The last person who touched him got a broken nose for his trouble.”

“Oh ho!” James reared back. “Are you actually threatening me, Henry? My little Henry?”

“Yes,” Henry said simply. There had been a time when hearing James call him “my little Henry” would have thrilled him, but no more.

James peered at him quizzically, and whatever he saw in Henry's face seemed to convince him. “You're serious, aren't you? Fine. I hear you. Hands off.”

“Same goes for all your friends,” Henry said, looking around the circle. “He's off limits.” There were some snickers and sneers but no one challenged him. He decided he was done talking to James and went to collect Martin, who stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs, as all of the other boys and their slaves quickly dispersed into either the reception room or the ballroom where the orchestra was playing a waltz.

“Thank you for protecting me, Sir,” Martin said in a low voice. “Peter has told me all about how those college boys treat their slaves, Sir, and I really don't want to find out first-hand.”

“It's not only because I get jealous, you know. I just think it's awful, treating slaves the way they do. You're people, too.”

“I know, Sir. You're a good person, Sir, you really are.” He patted Henry's arm, then took a step back. “They're looking at us, Sir. We're being a little suspect, I think, talking like this.”

“Come on.” Henry headed for the punch bowl, Martin on his heels. They caught up with Louis, who was holding out a cup to be filled by the slave handling the ladle.

“I'm surprised, Henry. I never imagined you'd stand up to my brother like that.” Louis actually sounded impressed.

Henry shrugged, a little embarrassed now, and feeling unaccountably angry. “I'm serious. I think it's cruel and gross and I'm not sharing him.”

“I know, I know,” Louis said soothingly. “You've always been like this. You're nicer than the rest of us.” He held up his cup. “This punch is really strong. You should try it. I think James must have doctored it up.”

The punch was very strong. Henry choked on his first searing, oversized gulp and coughed so that Martin had to thump him on the back.

“Sir, maybe you’d like cider instead…?” Martin suggested, head tilted, looking concerned.

Henry did not want to seem like a baby who couldn’t handle liquor. “I’ll be fine,” he said with unwarranted confidence. “It just went down the wrong way.” He took a small, measured sip to prove he was up to the challenge. “See? You have some, too. It’s a party, after all.”

“Yes, Sir.” Martin obediently got a cup of punch and sipped it.

“There are games in some of the other rooms,” Louis remarked. “I should probably circulate, since I'm sort of the host.”

“We'll all go.”

The dining room was decorated with papier-mâché skeletons hanging from the chandelier and dozens of jack-o-lanterns glowing with candlelight. A group of college boys and a few of Henry's friends were gathered around as their slaves bobbed for apples in a tin tub. The oilcloth under their knees was slick with pooled water and their masters egged them on in loud, excited voices. Stuart stood next to Albert with dripping hair and the lapels of his jacket dark with water, but he looked proud, and Albert informed them that he'd won five dollars apiece from the college boys whose slaves Stuart had bested.

“Stuart's got a good mouth,” Charles said, sounding a little drunk already, and the others laughed.

“Do you want me to try, Sir?” Martin asked brightly, and even though he sounded as though he actually wished to do it, Henry did not want this at all. He didn't want to see Martin on his knees in front of these men for any reason.

“No, that's okay.” He pretended he did not see the look of disappointment that briefly shaped Martin's features. He turned to Louis. “Are the games just for the slaves? Aren't any of us playing?”

“You can if you want,” Louis said. “Go ahead, get all wet and clammy.” He sent Peter back to the reception room for more punch.

As they stood watching, Julian arced up out of the water with an apple in his jaws just a fraction of a second behind a brunet slave with a Ganymede tattoo belonging to one of the college boys. Seeing the tattoo, Henry elbowed Martin. “Hey. Do you know him?”

Martin squinted at the older boy. “Oh! Yes, Sir, I do! That's Michael! He was a Superior boy when I first started my training, Sir.”

“Do you want to say hello?”

“Yes, Sir, I’d love to!”

Henry handed Martin his empty punch cup. “Get me some punch first and then you can go talk to him.”

Martin hurried off and slowly Henry began to relax a little. He stood with his friends watching the slaves flounder after apples, sloshing water across the floor. All of Henry's friends were aware of his stance on sharing slaves, and in conversation most seemed to think he'd been admirably brave to stand up for what he believed in, even if they thought he was foolish not to indulge in swaps.

Martin returned with the punch and gave Henry a brilliant smile before crossing the room to approach Michael, removing his mask as he went. Henry watched as the slaves greeted one another. Michael embraced Martin briefly and kissed his cheek. They talked a few moments, their faces bright and animated, and then Martin was nodding in his direction and Michael was looking at him, and Henry turned away, feeling conspicuous.

Henry felt a niggling jealousy, and tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous. Martin would have been just a boy with a fresh tattoo when Michael was being groomed for sale—there could have been nothing between them. Michael was handsome of course, but perhaps he wasn't Martin's type. Henry was Martin's type, he reminded himself. He took a nervous sip of his punch.

One of the Briggs slaves was handing out towels to the wet slaves and Martin took one from the stack and offered it to Michael with especial grace, something in the movement of his wrists and his shy smile so very charming, and Henry wished he had not encouraged him to speak with Michael, who he might not even have recognized without his glasses had Henry not stupidly pointed him out.

Martin said something to Michael, then gave him a little wave goodbye and came back across the room toward Henry, smiling broadly.

“Sir? Is everything all right?”

Henry struggled to smooth out his scowl. “Yes, I'm fine. Just thinking. Was it good to talk with your friend?”

“Oh, we weren't friends, Sir. When I knew of him, he was a full-fledged companion and I was just a silly child. I idolized him a bit, I suppose.”

“Did he find a good situation, then? With…whichever one?” Henry waved a hand at the whole group of college men.

“Not as good as mine, Sir,” Martin said with conviction. “None other has it as good as I do.”

Henry loved hearing this, loved how convincing Martin was saying it. It was possible, he supposed, that everything Martin said was a lie, but if that were the case, he lied so well! If Martin was only pretending to enjoy their intimacy, he was a far better actor than Henry could have credited. Besides, his voracious appetite for Henry's body didn't seem like something anyone would bother to fake.

Louis appeared from out of the crowd and nudged Henry with his elbow. “Let's go see the fortune teller.”

Henry handed his empty cup to Martin. “More punch, please.”

“If you're sure, Sir,” Martin said, a hint of concern in his tone. No doubt he was worried Henry would get sick again, as he had at the last Briggs party, but Henry felt confident he could handle his liquor this time.

“I'm fine, Martin,” Henry assured him. “I'm barely feeling it.” He felt pleasantly abuzz, nowhere near the level of reeling sickness that had claimed him last time.

Martin seemed somewhat unbelieving, but he took the cup and headed toward the reception room, Peter close behind him with Louis' cup.

The fortune teller was set up in the Briggs library in an atmospheric tasseled tent lit by candles. She was an enigmatic creature dressed in colorful gypsy finery, a scarf on her head and hoops in her ears, sitting at a table laid out with tarot cards and a crystal ball. She was bent over the palm of some august lady in a silver gown and a half-mask decorated with ostrich plumes, speaking to her intently. There were a few other adults in line ahead of the boys, so they settled in to wait, slouched on the library sofa, slightly drunk.

The slaves returned with their drinks while they waited their turns. Henry sipped his punch and listened while Louis complained anew about James commandeering Peter. He felt very fortunate that he did not have an older brother forcing his way into every corner of his life and taking whatever he wanted. He’d always envied Louis his big family, but really it was better to do without brothers and have Martin safely to himself. He felt pleasantly muddled and the punch burned going down.

A tall, fat, sandy-haired man in a simple black half-mask and evening dress sat down in the fortune teller's chair and for a moment Henry thought it was his father. It was not, but Henry realized that it could have been, that surely Father would have been invited. Would he make an appearance? Would he have Mrs. Murdock with him? Henry did not know how he felt about that. On the one hand, he didn't imagine it was pleasant being married to Mother, and no doubt Phoebe Murdock was a great deal more fun. But on the other hand, he felt so rejected by his father. Father's dislike of Mother seemed to extend to Henry, as well. He was not the son Father wanted, clearly, and he worried that his father’s bastard, Calvin, would be more to his liking. He’d be better in school, perhaps. He likely wouldn’t be queer—did Father suspect? But surely Henry had some redeeming qualities? The part of him that cared for Martin, for instance—that seemed valuable and good. If only Father could see that part of him without condemnation!

Henry’s eyes teared up and he brushed at them hurriedly with the back of his hand. It wouldn't do to get maudlin here.

“Did you get something in your eye, Sir?” Martin was perched on the arm of the sofa beside him, peering down at his face with concern. He pulled out his handkerchief. “Here, Sir. See if you can get it out.”

Henry took off his mask and made a show of dabbing at his eyes with the handkerchief. “Yes, I think I got it,” he said, handing the handkerchief back to Martin, who tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. “Thank you.” He turned his back to Martin and let him tie his mask on again.

“Is that tight enough, Sir?” Martin's fingertips rested lightly on Henry's head, points of warmth.

Henry nodded. “It's fine. Thank you.” Martin was so sweet to him. Henry felt an overwhelming urge to touch him, and even lifted his hand to do so, before realizing what a bad idea it was. He couldn't be seen showing too much affection toward Martin, and because he had such a poor sense of where the line of tolerance was, he thought it best to show no affection at all.

Louis nudged him with an elbow. “Your turn.”

Henry stood, swaying a little, feeling the punch. He turned to Martin. “You, too. You go first.”

“Sir?”

“Get your fortune told,” Henry said, waving him into the tent and toward the chair.

“But my fortune is yours, Sir,” Martin insisted, though he did as Henry asked and went to sit in the chair opposite the gypsy. Henry leaned heavily on the back of the chair to observe the process. “I don't have a fortune separate from you, Sir,” Martin said, turning to look up at him very sincerely.

“Let her decide,” Henry suggested.

“Good evening, boys.” The gypsy shuffled her cards with practiced skill, red-tinted nails flashing in the candlelight. Up close, she was younger than Henry expected, perhaps of his mother's generation rather than an old crone. “I am Madame Ersebet, telling your fortunes in ze Hungarian tradition.” She had a very thick, exaggerated accent, which Henry supposed might be Hungarian, or might just as easily be entirely put on. “Vat is your name, child?”

“Martin, Ma'am.”

“Is zis your young master, Martin?” She nodded at Henry.

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“I tink you are right zat your fortunes are entwined,” she said, “but your actions have consequences of zeir own.” She put the cards face down on the table in a neat stack. “Let me see your hands, Martin.” Martin obediently put his hands on the tabletop. She picked up his left hand in both of her own, felt it with a thoughtful expression, and turned it over, palm up. “You are musician,” she pronounced.

Henry was amazed. “How did you know that?”

She laughed. “Is no magic. He has calluses on fingers.”

Henry blushed, embarrassed by his lack of insight.

“You are left-handed, Martin?”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“I guessed. Left-handed people are artists,” she claimed. “Are you good musician?”

“I-I…”

“He is,” Henry told her. “He's wonderful.”

She smiled at Henry. To Martin, she said, “You have good relationship viz your master, I tink.”

“Yes, Ma'am.” Martin turned his head to quickly meet Henry's eyes, his smile very fond.

Madame Ersebet traced a line on Martin's palm with a long, pointed red nail. “I vill read your palm now, okay? Zis is heart line. Tells me how many loves you vill have. See how it curves? Zat means you are very sensitive, emotional person, but also very physical—a passionate person.” She turned his hand toward the candlelight. “I see many romances, but you don't love so easily, do you?”

“No, Ma'am.”

She traced another line, swooping across Martin's palm. “Now, zis, zis is your head line. Tells me about your intellectual powers. Again, is curved line. Means you are creative and romantic, but also curious. I tink you are smart boy, Martin!

“Now, zis is interesting!” She drew her nail down Martin's palm once, then a second time. “Double lifeline! Means you have guardian angel, or maybe soul mate. Very lucky for you, I tink.”

She let go of Martin's hand and picked up her deck of cards. They were narrower than regular playing cards, with an ornately-patterned back. She gave them a shuffle and placed them on the table in front of Martin. “Cut ze deck!” Martin did as he'd been told. “Take top card now,” she said. “Represents you.”

Martin turned it over. “Knight of Cups, Ma'am. Is that good?”

“Is vat is. Again, passionate person, charming and beautiful, but can be extreme, yes?” She flicked her gaze up to Henry and asked him. “Yes?”

Henry blushed and nodded, cleared his throat and said, “Yes.”

“Intense person, eager and helpful. Good for slave, I tink.”

She began laying the cards out on the table, giving each a moment's careful thought before laying down the next. “Vell! Okay! Zis card—” she slid a card aside and put her pointed nail on the one she meant—“is reversed. Tells me you have troubles, zat all hope is lost, but I do not see zat now when I look at you. Maybe is in past?”

Martin said, “I was troubled until quite recently, Ma'am, but things have improved very much!”

“Zen zat is it,” she said decisively. “I vill tell you, Martin, reading cards for slave is difficult. Is too entwined with fate of master, decisions made by master zat slave vould not make on his own.” She glanced at Henry with a look of faint disdain, and Henry felt a little offended.

“Cards say you vill have many struggles, many contradictions, but zis card—” again, she pointed with a red nail—“tells me you vill do your best to make good choices. Cannot say same for zose around you.” Again, the baleful glance at Henry. “You vill feel despair, you vill be miserable, it vill be hard road, but take heart! Zis card—” she tapped it three times with her nail—“says it vill all turn out all right. Catastrophe avoided! New life and happiness!” She patted Martin's arm. “Is good slave fortune,” she tried to assure him. “Most slave fortunes very bad, no happy ending.”

“Th-thank you, Ma'am. It was very interesting.” He sounded upset, and Henry wanted to see his expression, wanted him to turn around. Martin pushed the chair back and stood, then faced Henry. He looked pinched and pale behind his mask.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, Sir. I-I'm just a little superstitious. I'm easily shaken by such things.”

Madame Ersebet looked up at them with a hint of friendly impatience in her expression. “Okay, young master! Your turn!”

“I don't have to do it,” Henry said to Martin. “If you'd rather just go.”

“No, Sir, I want to hear what she has to say about you.”

Henry sat.

“Vat is your name, young man?”

“Henry.”

“All right, Henry. Show me your hands.”

Henry put his hands on the table and Madame Ersebet looked at them critically a moment. “You're right-handed,” she decided.

“Yes,” he agreed. “But how did you know?”

“Most people are right-handed,” she said airily, seeming to imply that Henry was ordinary, whereas Martin was special. Even though Henry also thought this was the case, it seemed impertinent for some gypsy to suggest it.

She picked up Henry's right hand and felt the flesh and bones as she had done with Martin, then turned it over to look at the palm.

“Here is heart line. Is deep and straight—means you're jealous type, yes?”

Henry blushed at this and nodded.

“You vill have one great love,” she pronounced. “Is very clear. See here, zis line?” She pointed at a crease on the side of his hand. “Zat is your love!” She gave Henry's hand a squeeze. “Don't let jealousy spoil your love, Henry. Zat is my advice for you.”

She turned his palm toward the candlelight.

“Hmm. Head line not so strong in you. See how is wavy, not deep? Maybe you have trouble in school?” She cocked her head to the side, questioning, and seemed to expect a response.

Blushing again, Henry admitted, “I don't get the best grades.”

“Is because you can't concentrate. Not practical person. But is okay because you have Martin to help, yes?”

“Yes,” Henry said grudgingly. He had expected this to be a lot more lighthearted and fun.

“Finally, life line. Yours is interesting, also. Long and deep, vich is good, but here is break—” she poked it with her nail, which hurt—“vich means someting interesting vill happen. Maybe bad ting, but you vill be fine, live on.”

She shuffled the cards a few times and put the deck on the table. “Cut cards, please!” Henry did so. “Take top card. Represents you.”

Henry laid the card on the table. “Page of Cups. What does that mean?”

“Means you are lover. Playful and romantic and kind. Good type for master, I tink. Good for slave, anyway!” She laid out the rest of the cards as she had done for Martin. “You have better cards. Vatever is coming, you vill have easier time of it than slave. At heart, you have love zat sustains you.” She glanced up at Martin and Henry blushed at her assumptions. “Here,” she said, pointing, “is strife and sadness, but here—” pointing again—“is you making big decision. Is good for you to do it! You vill learn from experience!”

“So I make the right decision, then?”

“Cards say no,” she said cheerfully, “but it's good zat you decide, yes?”

Henry did not think this was good at all and merely blinked at her.

“Eventually, it vill vork out for you, Henry. Be happy! You learn from bad decision and gain understanding. Important lessons learned. So zere you go!” She gathered the cards back together and shuffled them.

Henry got up slowly. “Thank you.” He didn't feel terribly thankful, though.

Madame Ersebet reached out with her red nail and tapped a little brass pot sitting beside her crystal ball. “Is not just for decoration. Is for tips.”

“Oh. All right.” In a daze, Henry dug in his pockets for money, coming up with three pennies and a wrinkled dollar. He didn't know which to give her, so just put it all in the brass pot. “Thank you,” he said again, and walked out of the tent with Martin right behind him.

They walked right past Louis and Peter without even thinking to stop to discuss their experience. “It's fake anyway,” Henry said. “She's probably not even a real gypsy.”

“I'm sure you're right, Sir.” Martin did not sound sure; he sounded worried.

“I want more punch,” Henry announced, and Martin did not try to convince him he shouldn't have it.

They skulked in the reception room, furtively eating cupcakes and sandwiches and washing them down with punch. All the sugar made Henry feel a little better, less unsettled.

“Didn't you think that was going to be more fun?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir,” Martin agreed. “It was more of a scary Halloween thing, wasn't it?”

Henry peered into the ballroom. Over in the corner, his friends were all mixed in with James' friends and Henry didn't want to go anywhere near James if he could help it. He didn't trust James not to mess with Martin regardless of what he'd said earlier. He'd known James for twelve years, and James had always been profoundly self-interested and amoral, even as a little boy. That hadn't bothered Henry much before, had even seemed exciting, but now that he had something he cared deeply about, James seemed a threat.

He remembered something Martin had said in the gypsy's tent. “Martin, you told her that you'd been troubled. What were you so troubled about?”

“Oh, Sir.” Martin stepped in and put his lips close to Henry's ear. “I don't think we should discuss it here.”

“But you'll tell me?”

“Of course, Sir. When we're at home.”

Will, Tom and Stuart entered the reception room with punch cups in hand.

“Oh, hello, Sir. Hello, Martin.” Tom smiled and held his punch cups out to be filled, one for his master Freddie and one for himself. “Are you having a nice time, Sir?”

Henry shrugged. “The fortune teller wasn't what I expected.”

“Really, Sir?” Tom asked politely, though he didn't actually sound terribly interested in an answer.

“You should have Mr. Caldwell take you,” Martin urged. “I want to know what she tells other slaves.”

“You had your fortune told, too?” Tom looked surprised and darted a glance at Henry.

“Yes. Please do it, Tom, if Mr. Caldwell will let you.”

“I'll ask him.” He held up his filled punch cups. “I have to take this to Mr. Caldwell. I'll find you later, if I can.” He turned to Henry and said, “Goodbye, Sir.”

Henry gave him a tight nod and watched as he turned on his heel and hurried back into the ballroom. Stuart and Will also had their cups filled and spoke to Martin about his fortune-telling experience, Martin encouraging the others to ask their masters to let them have readings.

Full of food for the time being, and feeling a little pleasantly drunk, Henry decided to quit the reception room and venture out into the ballroom with Martin on his heels. He stood on the sidelines and watched, sipping his punch. It had been awhile since Henry had last danced; he had always enjoyed it and was good at it, but there were few opportunities for young people to practice the skills outside of lessons. One of Henry's most treasured childhood memories was of watching dancers in his family’s ballroom and he was reminded of that here, watching the costumed adults spin past.

“Have you ever been to a dance like this?” he asked Martin. “Men and women, I mean.”

“No, Sir. Only the boys’ dances at Ganymede.”

“I’ve only been to one, sort of,” Henry told him in a confiding tone, feeling quite loquacious. “There was a ball at our house when I was 7. As far as I know, that was the only party my parents ever had. I don’t remember what it was for, maybe just because my father likes parties. I didn’t even know what a ball was, of course, and Nurse tried to explain it to me, about the music and the dancing, and then took me downstairs to see my parents all dressed up.

“Mother was quite beautiful back then, and she wore this dark red dress cut really low across her shoulders. My father wasn’t as fat then as he is now, but he was still pretty big. Even so, he looked very distinguished in his tailcoat. All the slaves were dressed up, too, of course; the men in collared shirts and black ties and the women in black dresses.

“Uncle Reggie arrived while I was with my parents, and my mother was immediately in a better mood. I was thrilled to see him, too, of course, and he immediately apologized for not bringing me a present. He said he hadn’t expected to see me, and my father cut in and said that I wasn’t supposed to be downstairs and gave Nurse a look, so she hurried me back up to the nursery.

“I was so upset. I wanted to see the dancing, and I wanted to see Uncle Reggie, and I didn’t understand why I couldn’t. I cried and cried—like a baby, really—until I finally I cried myself to sleep.”

“Poor you, Sir,” Martin said, his voice intimate and soothing.

“Later, I was woken up by some noise in the nursery, and I was frightened, but it was just Reggie tripping over my rocking horse. He said, ‘It’s only me, little prince, come to take you to the ball.’ That’s what he always called me—little prince.” Henry colored a little admitting this.

“That’s sweet, Sir,” Martin said, smiling and touching his arm just briefly.

“He came over to my bed and got down so we were at eye level and he was so drunk, but somehow still so elegant, and I just worshipped him. I thought he was the absolute best. He asked me if I wanted to go downstairs to see the ball, and I did. Nurse tried to reason with him, but he pulled rank, and of course there was nothing she could do but let me go.

“We went downstairs and the music was getting louder and louder with each step. Downstairs, there were all these dressed-up people in the hall. I could tell that some of them thought it was cute that there was a little kid wandering around in his pajamas, but most people just ignored me.

“I’d never seen the ballroom before, because why would I have? Honestly, I think there are still rooms in our house that I’ve never been inside. It’s just way too big. Anyway, Reggie led me up to the doorway and stopped me right outside, and told me this was as far as I could go. I looked in, and it was like something out of a dream, with the crystal lights and glittering mirrors, all the colors of the women’s dresses swirling together, and the men so elegant in black and white. The music made me want to dance, but I did my best to keep still because I knew better than to draw attention to myself.

“Reggie was standing there with me, with his hand on my shoulder, and I could have happily stayed there for hours, watching this amazing party with my favorite person, but Timothy came over after just a few minutes and told Reggie that I had to go back upstairs, Father’s orders, and that Father had to talk to him right away. Reggie might have argued with Nurse, but he wasn’t about to argue with Timothy.”

“Of course not, Sir,” Martin agreed. “The only man I can imagine arguing with Mr. Tim is your father himself.”

“Well, then Timothy took me back upstairs, and I cried and sulked and was horrid to Nurse and Timothy both, but eventually I fell asleep.” Henry paused and sipped his punch. “So that was my first ball,” he said eventually. “And that was the last time I saw Reggie.” Henry tried to shake off the slight bitterness that accompanied his good memories of the Blackwell ball. The dancing taking place in front of him at this very moment was every bit as exciting, and now he was old enough to participate, if he could find a partner.

Martin leaned close. “When you’re an adult, Sir, you can have parties whenever you like.”

“We’ll have a ball every month,” Henry decided.

Louis was on the dance floor with one of his sister's friends in his arms. Louis seemed to be muscling his way through the dance, jaw clenched, hurling himself forward and dragging the girl in his wake. The girls must have felt obligated to dance with their hostess' brother because Louis had partner after partner despite his demonstrated lack of skill. Charles and Albert both took a few turns around the dance floor, as did some of the college boys, but most of the dancers were of the Briggs parents' generation.

“Did you want to dance, Sir?”

“What?”

“You're tapping your foot, Sir.” Martin pointed, smiling.

How wonderful it would be if he could dance with Martin! He'd get the opportunity in the spring, when they were rehearsing the quadrille for the Metropolitan Ball, but that would only be practice; the actual quadrille at the Ball would be danced with girls. He wished he could dance with Martin here and now, as real partners.

“You should dance, Sir,” Martin insisted. “Ask Miss Briggs, Sir; she's been catching her breath and I'm sure she's ready to go again.”

Louis’ older sister Susannah stood between two of her friends, their carefully coiffed heads inclining this way and that as they talked. Susannah was a beauty, despite what Louis thought. Like all of the Briggs children except for dark little Louis, she took after their mother, with honeyed hair and amber eyes, and she had a trim and graceful figure. Henry had danced with her when they were children, so the prospect wasn't too daunting.

He wasn't drunk, exactly, but the alcohol was making him confident. “All right. I will.” He took a step toward Susannah, then remembered. “Stay here, Martin, all right? Stay away from James.”

Martin grinned, happy that Henry was going to dance. “Yes, Sir. Have fun.”

Susannah didn't look unhappy to see him approach, which seemed a good sign. It had been awhile since they'd spoken, perhaps; Susannah had to tilt her head to look up at him. “Oh, hello, Henry. I didn't know you were here.”

“I'm here,” Henry affirmed. “Hello, Susannah. Would you like to dance?”

Susannah thought on it a moment. “Hmm. If recollection serves me well, you're a decent enough dancer.”

“I believe so. I may be a bit rusty.”

“All right, then, I'll do it. Don't make me sorry I said yes!” She took Henry's arm and let him lead her to the floor.

They danced a fast waltz. Susannah was a good partner, responsive and quick. After that dance she said, “Another, then?” and so they did.

“You are good at this,” she said happily. “Say, Henry, won't you dance with my friend? Miss Blankenship, with the dark curls and purple dress. She's the only one of my friends who isn't getting married and she's feeling sorry for herself. Dancing with a handsome young man will make her feel better, I'm sure.”

Henry blushed at being described as “handsome” by this sisterly figure, but he liked the compliment well enough. “It’d be my pleasure. Take me to her and I'll ask.”

Miss Blankenship was agreeable, and Miss Curtis after her, and Miss Farnsworth after that. Henry escorted Miss Farnsworth off the floor to stand with Susannah and the others and looked for Martin in the crowd.

“Sir.” A hand tapping his shoulder. “I brought this for you.”

Henry turned around and Martin was there with a cup of cider.

“I thought it would be more refreshing than punch, Sir, but I can go back if you'd prefer—”

“Thank you, Martin. This is perfect.” He drained the cup and Martin immediately went for another.

For these older girls, Henry seemed to represent something less than a man, though more than a boy. They were not looking upon him as a potential suitor, but something akin to an opposite-sex companion, perhaps, and he was more than happy with that. He didn't want them flirting with him, making him uncomfortable. He just wanted to enjoy the dance.

Victor and Wendell approached, eyeing the women. Victor gave Henry a pleading smile. “Henry! Care to introduce us to your friends?”

Henry did not particularly want to mess up his platonic pleasures by introducing his friends' baser urges into the equation, but could see no way around it. He introduced the boys to the Misses Blankenship, Curtis and Farnsworth, and Wendell was successful in getting Miss Blankenship to agree to a dance. Victor didn't dare ask, merely chatting with the ladies a few minutes before turning to Henry.

“Thanks a lot, by the way,” Victor said with a hint of a sneer.

“For what?”

“All of our slaves had to have their fortunes told, thanks to you.”

Henry looked around, noticing that neither Will nor Ralph was anywhere near their masters.

“What's wrong with that?”

“You know how superstitious slaves are, Henry. They're all having fits now, thinking they're going to end up punished or dead. That gypsy takes her work way too seriously! I don’t know what she told Will, but he’s despondent and wants to be reassured now that I like him a little. What does he think, anyway? I wouldn’t have bought him if I didn’t like him!”

“I did think it was a little forbidding,” Henry admitted, the specter of his bad decision-making looming before him. “But you don’t know what she said? You didn’t go in with him?”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to,” Victor said. “Now he won’t even tell me what question he asked. He’s practically too upset to talk. Really, Henry, if you’re going to do weird things with your slave, keep it between the two of you and try not to get the rest of our slaves interested.”

Freddie poked his head into the middle of their conversation. “Is this about the gypsy? Boy, Henry, I sure wish you hadn’t let Martin push Tom into getting his fortune told.”

Martin hadn’t pushed, Henry thought, but he let it pass. “Is Tom upset, too?”

“He’s shaking,” Freddie told him. “She told him that he’s going to be miserable, basically, and that he’s stuck in a terrible situation that he’ll never get out of…that’s me, isn’t it? And then she had the nerve to ask for a tip!” He shook his head, as if amazed at the gall of some people.

“Where are your slaves now?”

“They’re consoling each other in the game room,” Victor said. “Will was so nervous he was making me nervous. I’d rather be alone!”

Henry was tempted to send Martin to be with his friends and possibly help to calm them, but was afraid that James would find him wandering unprotected and take advantage. He turned and caught Martin’s eye; Martin gave him a weak smile, but was clearly affected by these stories of his friends’ distress.

Henry was opening his mouth to speak to Martin when Susannah approached with another of her friends in tow. “Henry, this is my friend Miss Hortensia Lee. Hortensia, this is Mr. Henry Blackwell, a friend of my family for many years now.”

Miss Lee was a black-haired girl with pretty blue eyes and a large mole by her nose, and of course Henry knew what Susannah wanted. “How nice to meet you, Miss Lee. Would you care to dance?”

“I'd be delighted, thank you, Mr. Blackwell.” She took his arm, and they were off.

Henry danced with every girl Susannah wanted him to dance with, and gradually more and more of his friends found their way to his side of the ballroom to talk to the young women, dance with them, or just be in their company. Although most of the boys remained annoyed with Henry over the gypsy situation, Henry was also inadvertently seen as suave by his classmates because of his ease with the ladies, which was certainly a nice side effect, though Henry was no more sophisticated than he'd ever been; he was simply not aroused to foolishness by the presence of women.

Henry sat out a dance so that he could catch his breath and found Martin waiting with a cup of cider and a cookie. While he ate and drank, Gordon caught sight of him and came hurrying over.

“Julian’s a mess, thanks to you,” Gordon told him irritably. “He’s all clumsy with nerves, and he spilled punch down the front of my jacket.” Gordon made an angry gesture towards the dark blotch along the front of his body. “He thinks he’s going to end up on the whipping post.”

“Well, tell him that’s not the case, then,” Henry said, also irritable. “It’s up to you to reassure him, isn’t it?”

Julian approached with a fresh cup of punch and a bereft expression and seemed very apologetic in offering the cup.

“Damn it, Julie, stop being scared of me,” Gordon snapped, frustrated.

“I’m sorry, Sir. Please, Sir—”

“Stop apologizing, Julie, please.” Gordon put his hand on Julian’s arm. “You’re not in trouble. I know it was an accident. Why would you have done it on purpose, anyway?”

“I wouldn’t have, Sir.” Julian shook his head adamantly.

“Here,” Gordon said, pushing the cup back into Julian’s hands. “You drink it. Maybe it’ll calm you down.”

“Yes, Sir.” Julian obediently sipped, keeping a wary eye on his master.

Through the crowd, Henry saw Charles with Simon, Charles’ arm around Simon’s shoulders, Charles whispering in Simon’s ear. Simon’s face was blotchy and red and it was clear he had been crying. Gordon went over and spoke with Charles and pointed at Henry, and Henry cringed.

“It isn’t fair you’re being blamed for what the gypsy told everyone, Sir,” Martin murmured. “If they didn’t want their slaves’ fortunes told, Sir, they shouldn’t have allowed it. I am worried about my friends, though. They’re all so unhappy!”

Charles came through the crush, towing Simon along by the wrist. “See here, Henry. See how upset he is?”

“Y-yes,” Henry admitted. “He looks very upset.” To Simon he said, “I’m sorry the fortune teller scared you. Was it really such bad news?”

Charles frowned and waved off Henry’s question. “He’s afraid of things changing,” Charles answered for him. “Your slave looks happy enough, though.”

Henry blushed, unsure of what he ought to say. He couldn’t help it that Martin wasn’t completely devastated by his fortune. Some of these other slaves were really being very silly. “She said that Martin’s fortune was good—for a slave fortune.”

Charles looked a little uncomfortable then. “Well, actually, she said the same thing about Simon, more or less.” He gave Simon a little nudge, “Buck up, will you, Si? See, Martin’s doing okay.”

Henry glanced at Martin, who clearly wanted to comfort his friend, and Henry gave him the nod to do so. Martin went to Simon’s side and began speaking to him in a low voice, an arm around his shoulders. Simon closed his eyes and listened, inclining his head in Martin’s direction.

“I forget how sensitive they can be to this kind of stuff,” Charles said. “I should have known better than to let him do it. It’s just that once they found out Martin had his fortune told, they all wanted to do it, too, and who wants to be the master who says no?”

“I really didn’t mean to cause so much trouble for everyone,” Henry said. “I just wanted to do something fun for Martin. I didn’t know it wouldn’t actually be fun!”

Albert approached, dragging Stuart behind him. “Tell him, Henry. Tell him the gypsy is a fake.”

“What?”

“It was your idea,” Albert pointed out. “It was your brilliant idea for slaves to have their fortunes told. He won’t listen to me, so tell him.”

Henry turned to Stuart. “I’m sorry that she scared you, Stuart. It’s just a game, you know; it’s not real. She can’t actually see your future.”

Stuart still did not look convinced, and it was possible that Henry was not being very convincing.

“You need to reassure him,” Henry insisted. “Why should Stuart trust me? You’re his master, after all.”

“Fine. I’m not going to have you whipped,” Albert said testily, giving Stuart’s shoulder a little shake. Stuart did not look convinced. “I like you, Stuart. You’re a good slave,” Albert tried, growing impatient.

“Are you promising me, Sir?” Stuart asked in a little voice. “Are you promising not to have me punished?”

“Well, don’t do anything I’d want to punish you for!” Albert said, reaching the end of his patience. “It’s as simple as that, Stuart. Just keep going as you’ve been going and we’ll be fine.”

Stuart’s eyes welled with tears and he made a high, mournful sound. Both Martin and Simon reached for him, pulling him into their huddle.

Albert shook his head at Henry, seriously annoyed. “Really, Henry, what were you thinking?”

“I guess I wasn’t,” Henry admitted. “I’m sorry, Albert. You’ve got to believe me that I’d never have done it if I’d known they’d all get so upset.”

“It really shows sometimes,” Albert said with a haughty sniff.

“What does?”

“That your family is new. Anyone else would have known better than to let slaves get their fortunes told.”

Henry bristled at this, but thought Albert was probably right.

Susannah brought another friend around for Henry to dance with, and he was grateful for the chance to get away from his blameful friends.

Henry danced enough to burn all the alcohol out of his system. Martin continued to supply him with cups of cider as he took breaks from the action. He leaned close as he handed Henry his cup and said, “You're a beautiful dancer, Sir,” and Henry flushed a deep crimson at the thought that Martin had admired something he'd done.

By midnight, Henry was pleasantly exhausted. Most of his friends were hopelessly inebriated or had slunk off with the college boys to swap slaves in the game room.

“Let's find Louis,” Henry said in Martin's ear. “I want to say goodbye.” He also wanted to press himself against Martin, full-length; to kiss his mouth and neck and fingertips. Something about all that dancing had made him feel so amorous, albeit without the least urge towards any of the women he had partnered.

“I just saw him, Sir. Down the hall.” Martin took Henry by the wrist and led him in the direction he'd last seen Louis, toward the back stairs.

“What would he be doing down here?” Henry asked.

“I wouldn't know, Sir. I just saw him headed this way.”

“Wait.” Henry planted his feet, bringing Martin to a halt also. He opened the nearest door, which was a utility closet with carpet sweepers and mops ranked along its walls. “In here.”

“Sir?”

“Come on.” He tugged Martin's hand. “Hurry before someone sees us.”

Martin followed Henry into the closet and was pulled into his arms in the pitch black. It felt so good to hold Martin, to touch him. Henry worked his hand in between Martin’s waistcoat and the waistband of his trousers and yanked his shirt and undershirt up until he bared skin. He put his hand flat against Martin’s hot, silky belly, and Martin moaned into his mouth.

“No, Sir,” he begged, breaking away. “We'll get caught, please!”

Henry didn’t want to be caught. He let Martin tuck his shirt back into his trousers, keeping his hand on Martin's neck. “We’ll look for Louis one last time,” he said, “and then we’ll go home. I really want to be alone with you”

“I want that, too, Sir.” A last quick kiss as consolation and they left the closet.

Louis was in the hallway outside. “What were you doing in there?”

“Wrong door,” Henry said. “I'm kind of drunk.”

“Dummy,” Louis said affectionately. “I came to tell you, you should probably go. James is feeling pretty surly right about now. He's mad about you telling him off in front of everybody, but I think it'll all blow over if you just go home.”

Even though Henry had every intention of leaving anyway, he had to ask. “What’s he going to do if I stay? Fight me?” He thought he had a good chance of being able to thrash James, actually.

“He'd have his friends hold you back and fuck Martin in front of you,” Louis said with a shrug. “That's what he said, anyway. I think it’s just talk. But you should go, Henry. He's really in a mood.”

Upon hearing this threat, Henry felt the blood drain from his face and his cold hands began to shake. He opened his mouth to speak, but at first nothing would come out. He wanted to grab hold of Martin and hold him tight, protect him, but of course he could do no such thing. “Thanks for the warning,” he managed. Henry was amazed he'd ever been so foolish as to think he was in love with James. “We'll go. It was a great party, Louis. I had a good time.”

“Thanks for coming, old chap!” Louis clapped Henry on the back. “Thanks for dancing with all my sister's ugly friends.”

“Oh, they weren't so bad!” Henry replied with affected cheer. He was still shocked by James’ threat. He headed for the front of the house with Martin close behind. They got their coats and hats and walked out into the crisp night air.

“I would never have let that happen,” Henry said after they'd walked halfway home. “If you were thinking about it and wondering. I would’ve killed him first.”

“He had a lot of friends there, Sir,” Martin said. “I know you would have tried, but you might have been outnumbered. I'm glad we left.” He bumped Henry with his shoulder. “It makes me happy that you care so much about what happens to me, Sir.”

Henry thought that he didn't actually care about much of anything else, but he didn't quite want to admit that to Martin. They reached the Blackwell house and Paul let them in.

Up in Henry's bedroom, Martin undressed him, then undressed himself and put on pajamas so that he could deliver their laundry to Mary. Henry lay down on the bed naked to wait for him, idly playing with his cock. He thought about the dancing, which had been invigorating in a general way, and had specifically made him hunger for Martin under his hands, against his skin. He thought about the things Madame Ersebet had said and wondered about the nature of the horrible decision he would make, wondered how badly it would mess Martin up. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt Martin, but it seemed almost inevitable that he would, out of stupidity if nothing else.

Martin returned and shed his pajamas as he crossed the floor. He got onto the bed and lay atop Henry, his prick hard and insistent.

“I should have known you would be, Sir, but you're such a good dancer,” Martin murmured in his ear. “All the girls were half in love with you, Sir, thinking you such a gentleman.”

“You know better, don't you?” Henry bit Martin's ear. “You know how dirty I am.”

“But you are a real gentleman, Henry. You’re kind. Most so-called gentlemen don't spare a thought for their slaves.”

This was probably true. As far as Henry could tell, none of his friends paid much mind to what their slaves wanted or thought—and that was a perfectly correct way to behave with slaves, he wasn't saying otherwise—but it certainly wasn't his way, at least not when it came to Martin.

Martin kissed his way down Henry's body and took Henry's cock into his mouth. Henry moaned and lifted his hips up off the bed. “Turn around,” he said, “so I can suck you, too.”

He nuzzled Martin’s balls and put a finger in his mouth, wetting it, and then rubbed the pad over Martin's asshole as he took Martin’s cock deep in his mouth.

Martin groaned as Henry pushed the finger inside and then pulled off of Henry's cock. “Please, can’t I do it to you, Sir?” Martin was sure Henry would like it; Henry was not convinced at all.

Henry shook his head, then let Martin's cock slide out of his mouth and said, “No.”

“If it's not dirty for you to do it to me, Henry, then it shouldn't be dirty for me to do it to you.”

“Don't argue with me, or I’ll stop doing it entirely.” Nothing about Martin's body seemed unclean to Henry, but his own was more suspect. He'd put his hands and mouth on every part of Martin's body but had disallowed Martin any contact with his asshole, or even the crack of his ass. As he'd anticipated, Martin didn't want him to stop what he was doing and so gave up his arguments without any more fuss.

Martin finished with Henry’s fingers deep in his hole, shuddering and shouting around Henry's cock. As soon as he'd come, he climbed on top of Henry and rode him until he came, too.

Afterward, Martin lay close at Henry's side and put his head on his chest. “Sir,” he said, “Henry. You’re so good to me. So much better than the masters of any of my friends. They have no idea how much you do for me.”

“Well, let's keep it that way.” Henry kissed Martin's forehead. “We can go on like this forever,” he said, “so long as no one knows. So long as we don't get caught.”

Martin turned to kiss his chest. “I'll just get us cleaned up, Sir.” He went to the bathroom and got a basin and cloth. While he sat on the edge of the bed washing Henry's prick, Henry brought up the topic introduced at Louis' house.

“So tell me, Martin, what was the nature of this trouble that you had, but don't have any more?”

“Oh, well, Sir…I feel foolish talking about it now.” He set his basin aside and shifted so that his legs stretched alongside Henry's.

“I want to hear it, Martin, I really do.”

“Well, I may have mentioned it in passing a time or two, Sir, but I was very worried that you didn't seem to want me. My whole life, I was told that the main thing my young master would be interested in was my body, fucking me, and you didn't want that—”

“I did!” Henry insisted.

“You didn't seem to want that, Henry, and I just kept wondering what I'd done wrong. I thought you had to have wanted me, or you wouldn't have bid so high, but once I was yours, you didn't use me, and you didn't let me touch you after that first night. I kept wondering what had happened between the bidding and the transfer of ownership, Sir; if you'd seen someone else, some other slave that appealed more, and you regretted taking me. I thought perhaps you were disgusted by the idea of relations with another boy.”

Henry hadn't realized how much his inner conflict had affected Martin. “That wasn't it at all. I wanted you too much, Martin. I was afraid of what would happen if I let myself have you.”

Martin seemed genuinely confused. “What did you think would happen, Sir?”

Henry snorted. “Exactly what has happened. That I'd do forbidden things and never want to stop doing them. That I'd be crazy about you. I'm a failure as a gentleman, and I'm a bad master, Martin.”

“That's not true at all, Sir,” Martin insisted. “You're a better master than I ever dared hope for. Whatever your struggles, I'm so glad you decided to make use of me. I never thought it would be as good as this. We were made to understand that our masters wouldn't be concerned with our pleasure. But you, Sir, you make me come so hard! I never felt the like!”

“Is that really true?”

“Yes, it's true! I'm the most fortunate of all the slaves, Sir, but they'll never know. I let my friends think I'm neglected. What would be the use of telling them, anyway? They'd only be jealous.”

“Do any of them like their masters? The way you like me, I mean.”

“I think we're special, Henry. Some of the others like their masters well enough, but most of the slaves would prefer a female partner, too, Sir—it's not only the masters. I'm lucky because I have no feelings for women, none at all. I believe I’m quite thoroughly homosexual. What I have with you, Henry, is exactly what suits me.”

Henry thought a moment, then dared to say the words aloud. “I'm the same as you,” he said. “Homosexual, then, I guess.” He’d not heard the term before, but imagined it must be something like queer. “I don't want a woman and never will.”

Martin frowned, then spoke carefully. “You’re a free man and a gentleman, though, Sir, and one day you’ll marry a girl from a good family.”

“I don't want to,” Henry said stubbornly. “I don't want anyone but you.”

“But you’ll need to marry, Sir,” Martin insisted. “You’ll marry, and you’ll put me aside. It’s how things are done.”

“What if I don’t? What if I don’t get married?”

Martin shook his head. “I don’t understand. Your father will insist, won’t he, Sir? He’ll want a grandson.”

Henry’s father would insist; he would. Henry scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t want to think about a wife and family.

“But whatever happens, Sir, I’ll still be with you always. I can picture it, Sir, you giving me your firstborn child to hold, and I’ll be just as proud as you.” Martin paused a moment, as if contemplating the scene. Then, seeing the look of dismay on Henry’s face, he hurried to add, “But that won’t be for years, Henry. I’ll have you to myself for awhile longer and I promise I’ll make good use of my time.” With that, he bent over Henry’s lap, plainly intending to suck his cock again.

“No, don’t. It’s okay.” Henry stayed him with a hand on his cheek. “Just lie down with me.” He coaxed Martin to stretch out on the bed at his side, then to put his head on Henry’s chest again. “One of my favorite things is to sleep with you, just sleep.”

“So, you like sharing a bed after all, then, Sir?” Henry felt Martin smile against his skin.

“As long as it’s with you.” Henry pressed a kiss to the top of Martin’s head. He thought of the unwanted wife in his future and did his best to block her out. “It’s always going to be you, you know. Whether I get married or not.”

“I should discourage you from saying such things, Sir, but I won’t. The idea makes me very happy.” Martin yawned and turned his face to kiss Henry’s chest.

“It’s not just an idea,” Henry insisted. “It’s the truth.” He was slightly annoyed by Martin’s refusal to take his feelings seriously.

Martin sounded already half-asleep. “All right, Sir. I believe you.”

Henry suspected that Martin was merely humoring him, but it did not seem the right time to argue the point. Martin was asleep within minutes and Henry stayed awake only a short time longer.

Henry woke with a slight headache and his eyes were especially sensitive to the autumnal sun coming in through the breakfast room windows. He had the fortune-teller’s predictions in the back of his mind as he ate his breakfast. He had taken some comfort in learning that the gypsy had given unsettling readings to everyone else, as well, all the boys and their slaves, but it occurred to him that this knowledge might have had the opposite effect on Martin. Martin had been told he would have a hard time of it, after all. Martin might well think that all of them were doomed. Everyone said slaves were prone to silliness and superstition, as had been amply demonstrated at the party, and there was no reason to think Martin was immune.

Up in his bedroom, Henry asked Martin, “Are you still thinking about your fortune today?” He sat down on the edge of his bed and watched as Martin knelt down and removed his boots.

“Oh, Sir…” Martin looked guilty. “I know it’s just foolishness, I really do.” He bit his lip and, sounding as if he wished to convince himself, said, “No one can know the future, Sir, isn’t that so?”

Henry actually wasn’t sure, though the prospect bothered him less than it did Martin. “All she told us, really, was that things will happen that we won’t like, but that’s what life is like anyway, isn’t it?” He swung his legs up onto the bed and leaned back against the headboard and watched as Martin removed his own boots.

“It did scare me, Sir,” Martin admitted. “Her telling me that I’d be miserable! I don’t want to be miserable!”

“Well, it sounded sort of like she thinks I’m going to make you miserable,” Henry pointed out. “How do you think that makes me feel?”

Martin got up on the bed and sat at Henry’s side. He put his head on Henry’s shoulder. “Not good, I imagine, Sir. But I’m sure she’s wrong. We’re so happy now, aren’t we, Sir? If you ever do anything to make me unhappy, I’m sure it will be because I deserve it. I’m sure it will be my fault.”

He said this with such conviction that Henry was taken aback. Henry wasn’t a malicious person, nor was he deliberately unkind, but he still managed to hurt people all the time. It seemed very likely that he could hurt Martin without Martin deserving it in the least. “That’s not true,” he insisted. “I don’t like to admit it, but it could happen that I might be unkind just out of thoughtlessness. That wouldn’t mean you deserved it.”

“But don’t slaves usually get what they deserve, Sir?”

“What?” Henry was flabbergasted. Even to Henry this seemed a simplistic view.

“If a slave gives good service, Sir, he’s rewarded with a satisfied master, and if he holds back, then everyone suffers.”

“I don’t know about that,” Henry said. “What about Joshua’s chambermaid? Did she give bad service? Is she getting what she deserves?”

Martin frowned and shook his head. “Maybe there was some way for her to get out of the situation, Sir, and she didn’t take it. If she wanted to have sex with Mr. Brand, well, she should have known better.”

“Do you really think that, Martin?” Henry was appalled. “I know how afraid you are of being whipped. Do you believe this girl deserves to be punished?”

Martin looked down at his hands in his lap, seeming to choose his words carefully. “That girl’s situation is very unfair, Sir. She’s being punished whether she was willing or not, and it makes me sick to think of it. It makes me feel better to think perhaps she was being stupid and willful; that this is a result of something she did, rather than something that was done to her.”

When Henry looked baffled, Martin continued, saying, “If she wanted to have sex with Mr. Brand, then she broke the rules and she deserves her punishment: it’s fair. If Mr. Brand ordered her to do it against her will she deserves pity and not a whipping, Sir, but a whipping is what she’ll get, and it will be so unfair! No matter what, she suffers, and it’s all because Mr. Brand wants what he wants. In her place, I’d much rather be punished for doing something, making a choice, than be punished for someone else’s decisions. I’d rather be punished fairly, Sir. I’d rather think that everyone actually deserves their punishments, or else I start to question everything.”

“Is that how other slaves feel, too?”

“I don’t really know, Sir. Some do. Some want to be angry with masters, but I don’t see the point of that. It doesn’t matter if a master is a bad one, after all, Sir; it’s still the slave’s job to make him happy.”

Had Joshua even considered the possible consequences to the chambermaid when he’d taken her to his bed? Henry thought that he hadn’t, because surely no one would want to put another human being at such risk for the sake of an orgasm—a goal easily achieved with the help of his companion, after all.

“Is Joshua a bad master, then?” Henry thought that maybe he was.

“Do you really want my opinion, Sir?” When Henry nodded, Martin continued. “He was careless and thoughtless, and cruel, too. But he is good to Miles, and Miles fiercely defends Mr. Brand to all of his friends and will not hear a bad word said about him.” Martin thought about it a moment and added, “I truly believe that Mr. Brand would never do anything to harm Miles, but this girl was different. I don’t think it occurred to him to take her situation into consideration, Sir, and now she’s going to pay for his selfishness.”

Henry was taken aback by this criticism, though he agreed with it; he was simply surprised that Martin would dare voice it.

Martin said his next words with great conviction. “If…if I’m ever punished, Sir…if I’m ever whipped, I want it to be because of something I’ve actually done. I want it to be fair. Will you promise me that, please?”

Henry shook his head, denying the possibility outright. “I won’t ever see you punished, Martin, even if you do do something wrong. I can’t bear the thought of anyone harming you.” He thought of the perfect stretch of Martin’s white back, and then thought of it marred and bloody and shuddered.

“Mr. Tim does tell me that no household slave has ever been punished, Sir.” Martin seemed to take comfort in this fact.

“Huh. I didn’t know,” Henry admitted, “but it doesn’t surprise me. I think my father is a pretty kind master, after all.”

“We all want to do a good job for him, Sir,” Martin agreed.

“I’ve seen slaves whipped, though,” Henry admitted. “A couple of years ago, right before James went to college, he took me and Louis downtown to see punishments carried out. He said we had to see it to understand.” Henry paused, not liking his memories. “It was the worst thing I’d ever seen, worse than I’d imagined. The most horrible part was the screaming. I didn’t want to look weak in front of James, and neither did Louis, so we stuck it out until James got bored and took us for sodas.” Henry looked at Martin, who was tense and pale listening to Henry’s recollections. “I understand why you’re afraid of punishment,” Henry told him. “It’s terrible.”

“I’ve never seen it, Sir,” Martin admitted. “They brought around a man with a horribly scarred back to scare us all, but we didn’t have to see a punishment carried out. But it’s one of my biggest fears. I’m afraid of the pain, of course, but I think the shame would be worse, the shame of having done wrong. I dream about it all the time—though less often since I’ve shared a bed with you, Sir, so thank you for that!” He smiled tentatively at Henry, dispelling a little of the dark mood.

“What else are you afraid of? Maybe I can help you with other things, too.”

Martin looked uneasy. “Well, Sir, it seems like pressing my luck to talk about such things.”

“I do know you’re afraid I could die,” Henry said.

Martin winced a little and said, “Yes, Sir, I’m very afraid of that.”

“You have to understand that I don’t want to die, either,” Henry said gently. “I’m not actively courting death, Martin. I want to be alive, with you. For you, even.”

Martin smiled tremulously. “That makes me very happy, Sir.”

“What else?” Henry asked, giving him a little nudge.

“Really, Sir, most of my fears are very foolish, I know this.”

“Just tell me, please, Martin. Stop stalling.”

Clearly uncomfortable, Martin sighed and said, “I’m a little afraid of being cursed, Sir.”

“Cursed? Who would curse you?” To Henry, this seemed like a fear out of a fairytale, not something for a twentieth-century city boy to dwell on.

“Another slave might, Sir.” Martin looked down at his hands in his lap, clearly embarrassed by this admission.

Was Martin joking? “Another boy can’t put a curse on you, Martin. You know this, don’t you?”

Humiliated, Martin said, “I told you my fears were foolish, Sir!”

“I don’t mean to belittle you, Martin, honestly, but I don’t understand where this is coming from.”

“Slaves believe things that masters don’t, Sir.” Martin shrugged, a bit defensive. “Another boy might not be able to curse you, but that doesn’t mean another slave can’t curse me. Our lives are different, after all. We’re raised believing different things.”

“Can’t I protect you from curses, then? Can’t I just…I don’t know, not allow curses to take effect?” Henry didn’t know quite how he might protect Martin from a supernatural attack, but judging from the expression on Martin’s face, this suggestion was not a good one.

“I’m glad that you’d be willing to try, Sir,” Martin said, diplomatic and dismissive, giving Henry’s hand a squeeze.

“Well, is there anyone who you actually think might curse you?”

Martin frowned. “Just Alex, Sir. He’s the only one I don’t get along with, really.”

“Has he threatened you? Threatened to curse you, or threatened you in other ways?”

“No, Sir,” Martin admitted.

“Would it help if I talked to David? Told him that Alex can’t take any action against you without there being trouble for him, too?”

“Oh, no, Sir! Please don’t do that! I would be so embarrassed, and Alex would be sure to do something then!” Martin dug his fingers into Henry’s arm, his eyes beseeching. “Please, Sir, forget I said anything.”

“Is there anything you can do to protect against curses, then? What’s to keep you all from cursing each other all the time, anyway?”

“I-I have good luck charms, Sir,” Martin admitted. “Talismans. Things my friends have given me. If you have enough luck, a curse will roll right off your back.”

“Good luck charms? Like what? Show me.”

Martin went into his room and Henry heard him opening a drawer. He came back with a few small objects in his cupped hand. “These are some of the best ones from my friends, Sir. This is from Peter.” He pointed at a flat, round rock that had a black-and-yellow-striped bee painted on its surface with just a few deft strokes.

“Why a bee?”

“Bees are important to slaves, Sir. They’re industrious and work together, just like slaves do. The colors have meaning, too. Yellow is the color of happiness, and black helps undo curses.”

“Did Peter paint this?” Henry touched it gingerly with a fingertip, unsure if he should be touching it at all. It seemed very nicely done, neat and attractive.

“I think several of the Briggs slaves sat down of an evening and painted them together, Sir, so Peter must have contributed, at the very least.”

“What else do you have?” Henry leaned closer, peering into Martin’s palm. “What’s this?” He pointed at an acorn painted in blue and white stripes.

“Acorns are for luck, Sir. Blue is for friendship and protection, and white is also for protection. This is from Tom.”

“Who made the little doll?” Henry poked at a tiny figure made of bundled and tied straw.

“That’s from Arthur, Sir. Stable slaves always have straw, of course. Straw is for prosperity and growth. If you look closely, Henry, you can see that there are cloves and a bay leaf tied into the body; those are protective, and the doll itself is a protector.”

The final talisman was a small hand-shaped lozenge of iron with an eye stamped in the center of the palm. “This is a hamsa, Sir. It’s protective, of course, and Simon bought it for me. It’s better if you can make things, but the Rosses don’t approve of their slaves’ so-called ‘heathen practices’ so Simon had to buy his tokens.”

“Do you make things for people, too?”

“Well, shortly after I came to live here, Sir, there was a week when we all painted protection stones after dinner. We’d hurry and eat and then paint for ten or fifteen minutes, and at the end of the week I had talismans to share with all my friends. All of the slaves here have been so kind to me, helping me out like that.”

“You never told me about this.”

“I-I didn’t think it was necessary, Sir. It was just a slave matter.”

“No, it’s fine,” Henry said. “I’m just surprised that all this was going on under my nose and I had no idea.”

“I really wasn’t trying to hide it from you, Sir. It’s just…masters don’t believe the things we believe. I didn’t want to bother you with slave nonsense.”

Henry examined the little doll. “This little straw man is the best one, I think. These are all so nicely made, aren’t they? Am I right in thinking you can’t just make them or buy them for yourself?”

“Yes, Sir, that’s right. They have to be given to you. Your protection comes from your community, of course, from your friends, and you have to have good relationships or no one will give you talismans. The power is in the relationship, you see, and the token is just a reminder of that friendship.”

“So all the slaves have these collections of talismans and tokens?”

“Oh, certainly, Sir. Not all of them are as fancy as these, of course.”

“All the slaves do this? Timothy and Pearl, too?”

Martin blinked, confused. “Well, certainly, Sir. Of course they do.”

Henry considered this a minute. Timothy and Pearl didn’t strike him as particularly silly or superstitious, but perhaps appearances were deceiving.

“Did you have them at Ganymede, too?”

“Yes, Sir, but we were required to leave them behind when we went to auction. Our old relationships were severed, you see, so we would have to start over with new friends and fresh luck.”

Henry thought back over their entire conversation. “So, this poor chambermaid,” he said. “What about her luck?”

“Maybe someone cursed her, Sir. Maybe she was an inconstant friend and her luck ebbed away. Maybe it’s all just silliness and superstition, and she never had any protection in the first place.” Martin shrugged sadly and poked at the talismans on his palm.

“I do I wish you didn’t feel the need for all of this,” Henry told him. “Please believe me: I’ll always protect you Martin. I’ll keep you safe no matter what.”

“I appreciate that so much, Sir, but please don’t be hurt if I want to keep my talismans anyway. They give me a great deal of comfort and they’re harmless, don’t you think?”

“I’m not going to take anything away from you,” Henry assured him. “But, over time, I hope you’ll come to rely on me and not a bunch of painted rocks, as pretty as they are.” He leaned over and kissed Martin tenderly, and after a moment’s hesitation, Martin responded in kind.

“Just let me put these away, Sir.” Martin got up and went into this own room with his trinkets.

Henry lay back on his bed and sighed. It was disturbing that all the slaves—not just Martin—felt so vulnerable all the time. It made a little more sense now, how all the slaves were so determined to get along with one another, since they apparently believed their mutual goodwill was all that was keeping them out of harm’s way.

Martin came back into the room looking quite sheepish. “You must think I’m very foolish, Sir.”

Really, though, Martin’s protection charms seemed no more or less foolish to Henry than church-going. “No,” he said. “It’s just difficult for me to understand because I don’t have that kind of faith in anything.”

Martin sat down again at Henry’s side and took hold of his hand. “Please be patient with me, Sir. I’m sure with time I’ll come to trust in you completely, but, really, we’re still getting to know one another.”

It had been only two months since Martin had come to live with him, and they had been lovers less than three weeks; it wasn’t unreasonable for Martin to need a little more time to believe in Henry wholeheartedly. Henry brought Martin’s hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it, then turned it over and kissed the inside of his wrist. He thought about what he’d just said to Martin, about not having faith in anything. Maybe that wasn’t true anymore, though. Maybe now he did feel a little of whatever it was that people meant when they talked about faith and belief; he believed Martin was the one for him, the one he was meant to be with, and the strength of this conviction made his hands tremble as he pulled the tie from Martin’s hair and drew him down to lie against his chest.

“You’re shaking Henry.” Martin’s voice was gentle, almost wondering.

“I just like you so much,” Henry admitted. “I just love being with you.”

“Me, too, Sir. I think we’re very lucky, don’t you?”

They were tender and solicitous with one another, kissing and petting with their clothes on, until Billy came to knock at the door to let Henry know Louis was on the telephone. Once Henry had composed himself, he took the call.

“What took you so long?” Louis asked. “Say, do you want to go cycling?”

As the four of them rode their bicycles around the reservoir, Henry took every opportunity to turn to look at Martin in his sober black tweed, so beautiful with his hair falling loose from his tail in the breeze. More often than not, Martin was looking back at him, and Henry didn’t even care that Louis or Peter might notice because what was happening between Martin and himself meant so much. He wasn’t willing to concede that tokens or talismans had anything to do with it, but they were lucky; they might well be the luckiest boys in the world.

Everyone was still mad at Henry on Monday. Some of the boys were mad at Louis, too, about the swapping that had taken place after Henry had left. Henry didn’t hear details—Henry didn’t want details—but apparently the swapping was in some way harrowing for the slaves, and that had just made the slaves even more convinced that the gypsy’s predictions were coming true.

Even though Tom had been frightened by the fortune teller, Freddie didn’t seem terribly upset with Henry, for which Henry was grateful. However, whatever had happened during the swapping seemed to have left Freddie feeling angry, frightened and embarrassed. “That James…” he said when Louis was out of earshot. “You know him pretty well, don’t you?”

“I thought I did,” Henry said. “He seems different these last couple of years, though.”

“You were right to tell him to keep his hands off Martin,” Freddie told him, shaking his head. “I’m never letting him near Tom again.”

Henry sensed that Freddie wanted to discuss whatever it was James had done, but Henry was not eager to hear it. He looked across the yard to where the slaves were congregated. They were all staying close today, arms around each other’s backs, their faces tense and drawn. Martin had his arm around Tom’s shoulders and they were speaking intently, their faces very close. Tom looked wan and moved a little gingerly. Henry didn’t want to imagine what might have been done to Tom. Henry guessed that Tom was a popular slave at swaps—he would certainly be Henry’s first pick other than Martin—and supposed that meant a lot more work and a lot harder use for the slave.

“Tom’s all right, though?”

“Oh, yeah, he’ll be fine,” Freddie said, waving off Henry’s concern, though his worried expression implied that he was not actually confident that this was the case.

Gordon had apparently not gotten his fill of haranguing Henry at the party. He had been huddled with Joshua but now came over spoiling for a fight. “I ought to bill you for a new jacket,” Gordon told him. “Our laundress doesn’t know if she can get the punch stain out of the one I was wearing, and it was my favorite.”

“I didn’t dump punch down your front,” Henry pointed out. “It was Julian, after all.”

“Who would never have done that if you hadn’t scared him.”

“That wasn’t me, either! You didn’t have to let him get his fortune told, Gordon. That was entirely your decision.”

Gordon shook his head. “You new people,” he said, sneering a little. “You think you can just buy your way in—”

“Hey, now.” Freddie hurried to interrupt. “Cut that out, will you, Gord? Henry’s right. None of us had to let our slaves do it, after all. Henry didn’t know any better, I guess, but we did, and we still let them get their palms read, so it’s all on us.”

Henry was hurt that he would still be considered a “new” person even after knowing these boys for a decade or more, but it was true that Father’s money was much newer than that of any of his classmates’ fathers. Father might be fantastically wealthy, but he had been rich for fewer than twenty-five years. The Briggses had been in manufacturing (of what, Henry wasn’t entirely sure) since Revolutionary times. The Caldwells had been in banking for well over a hundred years, as had the Rosses. The Lovejoys had been doing something with importing and exporting and shipping since before the city had even existed. Everyone Henry knew was from an old, established family, and they all knew how to be properly rich, from knowing which fork to use, down to owning and managing slaves.

Now that Henry knew something more about slaves’ beliefs, he agreed it had been a bad idea to make Martin get his fortune told, and certainly this was another thing that all of his friends had known from the cradle that his father hadn’t known to impart and that his mother had been too apathetic to pass along. Henry hoped that his children—the children he would reluctantly father—would have a better time of it, and would be confident, relaxed rich people whose social actions would never be faulted or questioned.

After school, heading for home, Louis had a beleaguered air and so Henry did him the favor of not asking any questions about the Halloween party swapping session, though Louis insisted on talking about it anyway.

“If they didn’t want to play rough, they shouldn’t have played at all,” Louis said somewhat defensively. “I warned them that James and his friends play by different rules but they didn’t listen to me.”

“Huh,” Henry said noncommittally, hoping that Louis would drop the subject.

“I kept Peter out of it, and I’m James’ brother,” Louis pointed out. “You’d think they’d have taken a hint from that.”

“You’d think,” Henry echoed. He was relieved to hear that Louis was protecting Peter, though.

They parted at the Blackwell gate and waved their goodbyes. Inside, Randolph took their coats and they went upstairs.

“I heard some things today, Sir…let’s just say, I’m glad we left Mr. Briggs’ party when we did,” Martin offered on the stairs, and Henry supposed Martin wanted to talk about what his friends had been put through, but Henry didn’t really want to know details. The other boys were his friends, and he wanted to think they would ultimately look out for their slaves, but he suspected this wasn’t really the case.

“I’m glad, too,” Henry said. “I’ve told you, Martin, I’ll always protect you. You still have your talismans and your luck—but you’ve got me, too.”

“I do appreciate that, Sir, you have no idea.”

They went into Henry’s room and locked the door and spoke no more of Louis’ party. Whatever might have befallen the other slaves, it hadn’t touched Martin; Henry hadn’t let it, and he wouldn’t let it. Compared to his friends, there were a lot of things he didn’t understand, and he thought there were always going to be things he got wrong, but at least he knew how to truly care for another person, and he didn’t think all of them could say the same.

The weekend after the Halloween party, Louis and several of their friends arranged to meet up at a dance hall with the working-class girls they’d met at Steeplechase Park two weeks prior. Henry was invited but did not want to go.

“Miss Flannery will be hurt,” Louis said the Thursday before, trying to coax him into going. “She’ll think you don’t like her.”

“I don’t like her,” Henry pointed out. “I already made up a story to spare her feelings, so she won’t even expect me.”

“What story?” Louis asked.

“I told her I was in love with someone else.”

“Who?”

“An imaginary person,” Henry snapped, annoyed. “I didn’t even tell her a name. I just said I had a forbidden love so she would leave me alone. She thought it was very romantic.”

Louis shook his head, both disappointed in Henry and baffled by his behavior. “I don’t get it, Henry. A pretty girl, a fast girl, likes you, and you won’t take advantage of the situation.”

“It’s not like I can’t get my needs met otherwise,” Henry pointed out, though he felt a little uneasy doing so. Making any reference to contact with Martin felt a little too close to an admission of his excesses and he felt the heat of a blush rise in his cheeks.

“But that’s just Martin,” Louis said. “It’s not a girl, Henry. Surely you can tell the difference!”

Henry could, and he was more than satisfied with Martin! But all he said was, “She’s just not the girl for me, all right? Gordon really liked her—make him go be her escort.”

“Gordon’s already got Miss Brody,” Louis said. “But Wendell wants to come and maybe she’ll like him all right.” He did not sound convinced that this would happen. “I guess there will be enough boys for her to choose from. Everyone is coming except for you and probably Joshua.”

“He’s grounded,” Henry remembered. “Because of the chambermaid.”

“She’s going to be whipped this weekend,” Louis remarked. “Joshua’s parents are making him go watch as part of his punishment.”

Henry shuddered and darted a glance at Martin, who had gone very pale. “That’s the least he can do for her,” Henry said stiffly.

“So, he might not go on Saturday because he’s worried that if he gets caught sneaking out with us, he’ll be grounded for the rest of the school year instead of just until January.”

Henry thought it would be in very bad taste for Joshua to go out trying to pick up girls on the same day that he’d seen a girl whipped for fucking him but wasn’t quite sure how to say this without sounding unduly prissy. Obviously, this wasn’t something that troubled Louis.

Louis proceeded to outline the plan. All of the boys would sneak out of their homes, leaving their slaves behind so as not to stand out, since it was almost guaranteed that no one in a downtown dance hall would have a slave of his own.

“Do you think maybe some slaves might go dancing on their own, though?” Henry asked, simply curious. He’d never asked any of his own household’s slaves what they did with their days and evenings off, but he supposed they might do more than just sit quietly in their rooms. Martin, of course, did not have days off because Henry had not given them to him. A few of his friends were allowing their slaves time off, but ownership still felt new and novel for the rest, Henry included, and for the time being they preferred to keep their slaves close.

“Maybe,” Louis said, frowning as he considered this. “I never thought about it before. I wonder if they go to the same places as free people? Maybe there are slave dance halls.” He turned to Peter. “Do you know? What does Patrick do with his time off?”

Peter cleared his throat. “Sir. I don’t know about Patrick, per se, but I believe there are dance halls that admit slaves, Sir.”

Martin also spoke up. “Sir, I’ve heard that also, that some entertainments admit unaccompanied slaves as well as free people.” He looked at Henry. “I understand that our Billy is quite fond of dancing.”

“Huh,” Louis said. “What do you know? Maybe we don’t have to leave the slaves behind after all.”

“Ask Miss O’Malley,” Henry urged. “Ask her if slaves go to her dance hall.” Henry wished he had not brought it up, wished that Louis would not consider it.

“Or we could just slap collars and ties on the short-haired ones and pretend they’re free,” Louis said, thinking aloud. “I think they’d all want to go, don’t you?”

Henry regretted the suggestion. To Henry, the idea of dropping a group of handsome, sleek, mannered slaves into the midst of a bunch of working-class ruffians sounded like a recipe for a fight. Henry’s friends with their fancy clothes and fat wallets would be bad enough on their own. Surely, the men who frequented the dance hall would resent a bunch of pretty boys showing up to monopolize their women, whether they be slaves with their marks showing or slaves in disguise. Henry didn’t doubt the slaves could hold their own in a fight; he just didn’t like the idea that they would have to do so.

“I think just masters should go,” Henry suggested. “At least the first time. Just to get the lay of the land. Stick with the original plan.”

Louis was clearly considering all the possibilities, though, and came to no definite conclusions while he was with Henry.

Later, after Louis and Peter had gone, Henry was at pains to disguise how he struggled with his Latin homework, hunched over a paper made grey and furry with frequent erasures.

“Are you making progress, Henry? Do you need any help?” Martin sat in the middle of the floor polishing Henry’s boots, having long since finished his own homework. He was humming to himself, something Henry thought he’d heard him play on the violin.

“No, no, I’m doing great,” Henry assured him. He shoved the abused sheet of paper under his books and determined to forget about it, just forget about it entirely. “I’m basically done, really.” He turned his chair around so he could look at Martin.

Martin smiled up at him, then returned his attention to the toe of Henry’s brown boot. “That’s wonderful, Sir. Is there anything I can do for you before it’s time for my dinner?”

“Well, you’re busy, right?” Henry gestured at the neat pairs of boots arrayed around Martin on the floor.

Martin shrugged, conceding the point. “But I could finish up for today if you need me now, Sir.”

Henry couldn’t tell from Martin’s tone whether he wanted to be interrupted or not. “I guess you should probably finish what you’re doing,” he said, watching Martin’s face for a reaction. “Get it out of the way, right?”

Martin seemed perfectly content with this plan. “That’s fine by me, Sir.”

“Can I talk to you while you’re working, though?” Henry asked hopefully.

Martin scoffed. “Of course, Sir! It doesn’t take any mental effort to do this, after all. I would welcome the conversation.” He dipped his rag in the open tin of dubbin and smeared it over the boot leather in circular motions.

“I was thinking about the dance hall.”

Martin cocked his head, interested. “Oh. Did you want to go after all, Sir?”

“No, no. I was thinking about the slaves going. You said Billy likes to dance.”

“Yes, that’s true. Billy’s a great one for dancing, Sir. So are some of the girls, the maids.”

“What else do the slaves do when they have a day off?”

“Well, Sir, they do all sorts of things. Slaves are people, after all. They do the same things that free people do.”

Henry leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees. “Like what?”

“Oh, well…shopping, for one, Sir, and seeing vaudeville shows for another. There are ever so many drinking establishments that cater to slaves, and plenty of slaves are fond of drink. I understand that there are even brothels that accept slaves as patrons. Whatever you can think of, Sir, I’m sure some slave has done or wants to do.”

“You’ve never been any of these places, though, have you? Like, before you came to me.”

“No, Sir. We were taught about a great number of things at Ganymede so that we would recognize them when we came upon them, but it wasn’t practical to give us an actual experience. The penny arcade, for instance, Sir. I knew such a place existed, and that it was meant to be fun, but I had never been to one. Ganymede couldn’t put us all on a train to spend hours traveling to the city just to give us a demonstration.”

“Was it like you expected, when you finally saw it?”

Martin smiled and shook his head. “No, Sir. It was better. No one told us about the peep shows. Those are my favorites, you know.”

“I know,” Henry told him. “Mine, too.” He got down off his chair and sat cross-legged on the floor near Martin, then picked up a polished boot and admired the shine. “I think you’re better at this than Timothy, even,” he remarked.

“Oh, surely not, Sir,” Martin said, shaking his head, but he looked pleased. He picked up what seemed to be the last boot and began to buff it.

Henry thought about the rest of the slaves having days off and wondered if he should offer time off to Martin, too. He didn’t want to, though; he wanted to keep Martin with him all the time. But maybe there was a compromise.

“If you ever need to do anything,” Henry began. “If you need to do any shopping for…whatever you might need, I suppose, you should just tell me, and we could do that one day instead of the things we might normally do.”

Martin looked at him, seriously considering the offer. “Thank you, Sir. I don’t really need to shop for anything, though. I get everything I need through Mr. Tim or directly from you.”

“Do you ever need money for anything? You know you can take money from the tin anytime you want, right?”

“Oh, thank you, Henry, but it’s entirely unnecessary. All of us receive an allowance each week, you know, and it’s more than I need. I usually share my pocket money with the younger boys here. Johnny is very fond of candy, Sir, and always appreciates a few extra pennies for the confectioner.”

“That’s generous of you.”

Martin shrugged. “He’s a good boy and I like to see him happy, Sir. It’s no hardship for me.”

“Well, you’re very kind.”

Martin smiled to himself. “I like that you think so, Sir.”

“Do you want to go to see a vaudeville show sometime?”

“With you, Sir? Or by myself?”

“With me,” Henry said firmly.

“Certainly, Henry. I would be happy to go.” Martin did seem pleased by the idea. Henry had to wonder if he’d be even more pleased to go alone or with a group of his slave friends—or just with Tom, maybe—but wasn’t going to suggest it.

“I’ll talk to Louis, then,” Henry told him. “I’ll see if he and some of the others want to go to a show, and then you can see your friends, too.” Really, this seemed a good compromise.

“That would be lovely, Sir.”

Henry opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, then reconsidered again. “Martin?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“A-are you happy? Here with me?”

Martin looked surprised, eyebrows raised. “Henry? Why would you even need to ask? Of course I’m happy.”

“Not all slaves are happy, though. I see abolitionists downtown handing out pamphlets—”

Martin wrinkled his nose. “That has nothing to do with the slaves here, Sir!” he said haughtily.

“What do you mean? Isn’t it to do with all slaves?”

“Not really, Sir. It’s to do with field and factory slaves. They’re the ones with grievances. Here in your father’s house, we are all quite content.” He sounded very confident of this, and Henry wanted to believe him.

“You wouldn’t rather be free?”

Martin snorted and shook his head. “I’ve said before, Sir, I’d have nothing if I weren’t a slave. Because I belong to you, I live in a lovely house, I have nice clothes to wear, and I have good food to eat. And best of all, I have you, Henry. There’s no guarantee I’d have anything at all if I were free.”

Henry supposed he had a point. “My father does have slaves working his mines, doesn’t he? What about them? Are they happy?”

“Well, I don’t really know, Henry, but I would guess they’re happier than most. Your father is very kind to slaves.” Martin seemed quite unconcerned about the well-being of these unknown laborers. “You know, the abolitionists don’t care about slaves, really, anyway, Sir. They’re agitating on behalf of poor people, free people, who want slaves’ jobs.”

Henry had not heard this before. “Is that so?”

Martin nodded emphatically. “Being an employee of a big house like yours would be a very good job for a free person, Sir.”

Henry thought about it a moment. “Well, I can see that a regular person could do a parlor maid’s job, but I couldn’t replace you with just any man.”

Martin smiled, quite smug. “No, you certainly couldn’t, Sir.” He set the last boot down next to its mate and gave a satisfied sigh. “There! I feel I’ve accomplished something!”

Henry reached out and touched Martin’s cheek, and Martin turned his face into the contact, nuzzling his palm. “You do such a good job for me, Martin. I don’t think I thank you enough.”

Martin colored a little, clearly pleased, and shook his head. “No, you’re very good to me, Henry. I feel very appreciated.”

“Do you have more chores?”

“I don’t think so, Sir. Do you want me to do anything for you?”

“I haven’t heard you play in awhile,” Henry pointed out. “If you wanted to practice, I’d like to hear it.”

Martin beamed at him, his smile so dazzling, and got lightly to his feet. “I’ll just go get my violin, Sir.”

It seemed odd to Henry that someone like Martin, so smart and talented and full of potential, was content to be another man’s property and do a master’s bidding, but Martin seemed very convinced of the rightness of his role, and it wasn’t really in Henry’s interest to argue otherwise. This peculiar complacency had to be a result of Martin’s training, whatever that may have entailed, though it couldn’t have been too arduous, as he seemed to view his years at Ganymede with fond nostalgia. Henry had a lot of questions, but he feared that in asking them he might cause Martin to examine his convictions, and the last thing Henry wanted was for Martin to decide he no longer wished to serve, and that he deserved better than the life he had with Henry.

Martin returned with his violin and stood at the bedside. “Are you ready, Sir?” At Henry’s nod, he began to play.

Henry lay on his bed with his eyes closed and listened to the partita unspooling, listened to the violin’s sobs, almost sexual in character, a rasp in the throat and a greedy cry. The music made the hairs stand up on Henry’s skin. It reminded Henry of Martin’s breath in his ear, Martin’s throaty cries, and his cock began to swell. It was surely perverse, becoming so aroused by music or, really, by the singular voice of an instrument, but Henry didn’t mind feeling that way when it was Martin playing.

Henry shifted on his back, trying to make more room for his cock in his trousers. He got harder and harder and wondered if Martin had noticed, and thought that he must not have done so or he would have stopped playing to help Henry out. He put his hand over his cock, a light touch through his trousers, and wondered if he dared to take it out and make himself come.

He opened one eye and saw Martin swaying and dipping, his own eyes closed. Henry could do whatever he wanted and Martin wouldn’t even notice.

He held his breath in a bid to avoid detection as he unbuttoned his trousers and then his drawers. His cock sprung forth into his hand. It had been a long time since he’d touched himself with purpose—really, since the advent of his intimacy with Martin. He darted a glance at Martin, who was still playing unawares, and wrapped his fingers around his prick.

The sounds that came from the violin were so affecting, so resonant and tender and even anguished. Human cries with the timbre of wood, strained and erotic. At such close range, Henry felt the notes vibrating in his chest and lighting up his nerves, sobbing tones that stiffened his prick and brought tears to his eyes. He held his cock upright with one hand spread at the base, and used the other to stroke it lightly, his fingers in a loose ring that barely skimmed over the skin. He broke rhythm to fish his handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and shook it out in readiness. It wouldn’t do to get spunk on his suit.

Martin began a series of fast, lilting notes, a virtuosic section, and Henry watched Martin’s left hand moving over the strings with certainty and precision, his right working the bow with grace and economy, and understood that it was the same kind of passionate expertise that Martin brought to fucking that made him such a sensitive performer.

He began to stroke his prick with more purpose, blushing at the wet, slippery sounds that his hand made as it moved over the head and tugged at his foreskin. He didn’t think Martin could hear these wet snicks and slips, not over the sound of the instrument tucked against his jaw, but he thought that maybe he wanted Martin to hear, to notice what he was doing. He bit his lip against a moan and shifted his hips, spreading his legs just a little wider within the confines of his trousers.

Something about the violin’s tone was so plaintive and needy, so full of longing for the drag of the bow, and Henry wanted to feel what the violin felt, wanted to feel that drag against his quivering prick. He arched his back a little and concentrated his touch on the wet head that felt so raw and skinless and made him shiver as his fingers slid over its curve.

He wondered if Martin could manage to play while they fucked, if he could ride Henry’s cock while producing coherent notes, and thought that this probably wasn’t the case, although the idea of their bodies joined in the music was terribly erotic.

He was close now, and part of him wanted Martin to catch him in the act, but it would only be good if Martin saw him on his own, not if Henry called out and drew his attention. His hand sped up over his prick and his breath caught in his throat. He alternated between wanting to be caught and wanting to get away with something and the pressure built up and up at the base of his cock. The head was exquisitely tender and wet under his fingertips. Any moment now, he’d come.

Martin hit a sour note and swore under his breath. “Shit.” Then, “Oh, Sir!”

Henry opened his eyes and blushed. His hand faltered.

“No, Henry, please,” Martin said, his voice pressured and excited. “Don’t stop. Show me.”

“Keep playing,” Henry managed, his voice strained. He made his hand keep moving despite his embarrassment, despite how exposed he felt.

Martin came to stand at the bedside, his legs pressed against the side of the mattress, and tucked the violin under his chin. He played one of the fast sections, one he was especially adept at, and Henry shuddered with the notes and arched his back and came with a stifled moan, catching most of his mess with the handkerchief.

Martin put the violin down. “Oh, my god, Sir! Henry!” He bent and kissed Henry hungrily. “What were you doing?”

His face shamefully hot, Henry said, “I-I really like the way you play, Martin,” and then flushed an even darker red.

Martin was so aroused he was shaking, and his hard cock was plain to see through his fawn trousers. “Oh, Sir,” he said, “I never imagined that you…that anyone…” He shook his head, disbelieving and delighted. “I had no idea you liked it so much, Henry. I’m so flattered!”

Henry put his hand on Martin’s cloth-covered cock and Martin leaned into the touch. “What about you, then?”

Martin put his hand over Henry’s and squeezed. “Take off your shirt, Sir.” He took a half-step back, out of Henry’s reach, and worked the buttons of his own trousers with trembling hands.

Henry reached for his waistcoat buttons, noting with dismay that he’d gotten a few drops of semen on the wool, and began to undo them. “Okay. What for?”

Martin bit his lip, spots of color high in his cheeks. In a husky voice, he said, “I want to come on your chest, Henry. On your skin. Can I do that?”

“Yes.” Henry hurried to unbutton his waistcoat and shrugged it off, let his braces fall around his hips, and tugged impatiently at his collar.

“Let me,” Martin said, stepping in to help. Together they unfastened Henry’s collar and cuffs. Henry pulled his shirt off overhead, and when his head emerged from the collar, Martin was there to kiss him hungrily while he shook his hands free of the sleeves.

Martin had come on his chest lots of times before, but always in the context of riding Henry’s cock. He’d never stood over him fully dressed and done it, and the idea made Henry feel a little ashamed, but it made his pulse pound nonetheless.

Martin held his cock in his left hand, and touched Henry’s chest with the right. “Come closer, Sir.”

Henry shifted himself over and lay on his side near the edge of the bed, propped up on his elbow, knee bent, presenting his chest hopefully, excited and a little anxious. His nipples were hard and tingling, sensitized. Martin lightly pinched first one and then the other, just the barest contact, sending jolts of sensation to Henry’s cock and making him jump.

Martin held his shirttail up out of the way with his right hand and the way he touched himself with the left reminded Henry of the way he handled the violin, with loving skill, sensual and confident. Henry moaned softly and blushed, and Martin smiled down at him.

“What is it you like about the way I play, Henry?” Martin asked, slightly breathless. “What’s so exciting?”

“I-it’s just wood and strings,” Henry explained shyly, “But you make these sounds come out of it, like it’s a living thing and you’re teasing it or, or coaxing it, like you’re making love to it and it’s crying out.” The words all came out in a rush and Henry looked up apprehensively, worried that Martin would laugh at him, but Martin seemed to like this answer.

“Really, Sir?” he murmured, his hand now eliciting wet, slippery sounds over the length of his cock. “It feels that way sometimes, but I never imagined anyone would ever hear it.” He sighed and let his head fall back. “I love that you showed me that, Henry. You touching your beautiful cock.” He shifted from one foot to the other and leaned forward a little, bringing his cock closer to Henry. In a wistful, needy voice, he asked, “Will you touch me, Sir? Just anywhere, please. I just want to feel your hand.”

Henry pushed out of his slouched position to hold himself upright with a straight arm, his chest that much closer to Martin’s cock. He reached for Martin’s hip, pulling trousers and drawers down so he might touch skin, and Martin leaned into the contact. Martin’s hand began to move faster over his cock and he brought a bent knee up onto the bed to take his weight as he leaned in closer. Martin’s eyes were nearly closed, his mouth slightly open, and a look of intense concentration furrowed his brow.

“I like it when you come on me,” Henry offered, hoping Martin would want to hear it.

“Why do you like it, Sir?” Martin looked down at him, lip held between his teeth and rubbed the head of his cock.

“It’s a shock,” Henry told him, caressing his hip, “it’s hot, like a sting.”

Martin inhaled sharply and shuddered. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, Henry, that’s good, it really is.” His hand moved apace and he let his shirttail drop so that he could touch Henry’s chest, teasing his hard little nipple. He pinched it hard enough to make Henry cry out and just as quickly let go. “Oh, Sir,” he said. “Oh, god, Henry.” He came in hot spurts against Henry’s chest, and it did startle Henry, as it always did. Some of the semen landed in his chest hair, but most landed on bare skin, and it ran slowly down his ribs as Martin pulled him in for a brief embrace through the last of his shudders, his hand in Henry’s hair and Henry’s face pressed against his belly.

“Lie back now, Henry.”

Henry did so, but asked, “What for?”

“I want to clean you up, Sir.” Martin got on the bed and bent over him and Henry was confused for a moment, expecting Martin to go for a cloth, but instead he lowered his head and began to lick Henry’s sticky skin clean.

Henry gasped and clutched at Martin’s head. His cock was instantly hard again and he felt each swipe of Martin’s tongue as if it were applied directly to his cock. Oh, how he loved Martin’s filthy mouth!

Once Martin was satisfied that Henry was clean, he kissed him lingeringly, and it was peculiar to taste semen on Martin’s tongue but have it not be his own.

Henry took Martin’s hand by the wrist and put it on his cock, but Martin withdrew it.

“It’s my dinnertime, Sir, and I’m already late.” He ran his hand over Henry’s body, from the base of his cock to his collarbones, and let it settle over his heart. “Do you want me to help you finish undressing before I go?”

Henry would take whatever he could get. He stood and was undressed, his hard prick making its insistent presence known. Martin took hold of it too briefly and kissed Henry goodbye. “After your dinner, Sir, we’ll do anything you want.”

Alone in his room, naked and aroused, Henry squirmed restlessly on the rumpled bed and felt such longing for Martin that it seemed intolerable to be without him for even half an hour. The raging nature of his desire made Henry feel helpless and childish; if he were a true man, he’d surely have some perspective. If he were mature, he’d spend this time alone productively, perhaps doing his abandoned homework, but instead he was lying on his belly rutting against the bedcover and imagining Martin’s asshole quivering beneath his tongue.

His thoughts flew at a fever pitch, and such was his state that Henry never would have believed he could fall asleep, but he did. Henry dreamed that Martin pulled incredibly delicate, heart-rending music from Henry’s vulnerable body with his talented hands. Henry had never heard anything so lovely, but couldn’t remember a note of it when Martin returned to dress him.

On Saturday when Martin woke him, he asked Henry, “Do you remember, Sir, that you wanted to talk to Mr. Tim about his first master?”

“Yes, of course. I’m very curious.” He stretched and slipped his arms into the dressing gown that Martin held ready.

“I spoke with him about it again today at my breakfast, and he’s quite willing to tell you whatever you want to know. Would you want to have lunch with him—well, us, really—Sir?”

“Eat lunch with the slaves?” Henry was very much in favor!

“Yes, Sir. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I’d love to,” Henry insisted. “I’ve wanted to eat with you ever since I brought you here.”

Martin seemed taken aback. “Really, Sir? Whatever for?”

Henry followed Martin into the bathroom and stood by while Martin turned on the water in the shower. “Because I want to know about your life, Martin. I want to know everything about you.”

“Oh, I think you know everything important, Sir,” Martin said dismissively, clearly not understanding that Henry really meant everything. He wanted to know which chair Martin sat in during his meals. He wanted to see what food Martin put on his plate and in what quantities, which things were his favorites. He wanted to see how Martin got along with the other Blackwell slaves, not just Timothy and the footmen. There was no detail too small, too insignificant, to arouse Henry’s interest.

Martin held out his hands expectantly and Henry turned so that Martin could relieve him of the dressing gown they’d just put on him moments before.

“I’d love to have lunch with you and Timothy,” Henry said again, stepping under the spray. “I’m looking forward to it.”

It was wet and dismal out, so Henry decided to forego a ride. After breakfast, he did all of his homework except the Latin while Martin played the partita. It seemed less arduous to do the schoolwork knowing that he was about to get such a special treat, this window into the lives of the household’s slaves, this chance to see Martin in a new context. After he was done (and after he had tucked away Dr. Foster’s translation mimeograph unread), he put his head down on his crossed forearms and listened to Martin play, very conscious of how he’d behaved the last time Martin had played and squirming a little in his chair.

Henry must have dozed a little; Martin stood behind him, his hands squeezing Henry’s shoulders.

“Sir? Do you want to go down to lunch?”

Henry stood and pulled Martin into an embrace. “Yes,” he said against Martin’s soft neck. He ran his hands all over Martin’s back, his ass, his upper arms, and kissed him hard. “Yes, that’s what I want to do.”

Henry had only ever been in the slaves’ mess when it was empty; it was a large room, but it seemed smaller now, full of people, all of whom stopped talking and stood up when Henry walked in behind Martin. Henry felt horribly self-conscious and felt his face grow hot, then hotter still.

Timothy sat at the head of the long table with a full plate in front of him. He stood as Henry approached. “Good afternoon, Sir,” he said. He nodded at the other people in the room. “You might put them at ease, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh,” Henry said. “Of course.” He turned to look at the silent, staring slaves. “Hello. Please, be about your business. Don’t let me keep you from your lunch.”

Henry’s remarks were met with a chorus of murmured Good afternoon, Sirs and Thank you Sirs and the slaves turned away from him one by one and resumed quiet conversations and ate their food.

Timothy gestured toward the chair at his right hand. “You might sit here, Sir, if it’s all right with you.”

“Yes, quite all right.”

Martin held out the chair and Henry sat.

“Let me prepare a plate for you, Sir,” Martin said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you,” Henry told him. He looked around the room and noted that the slaves were congregating at the far end, many standing with their plates rather than sit in the presence of the young master, and he began to feel guilty for coming.

Timothy seemed to know what he was thinking. “They’ve been told they can sit with you, Sir,” he told him. “They’re being quite foolish. Don’t let it concern you.” He patted Henry’s arm.

Henry tried to do as Timothy suggested. “Who usually sits here?” he asked.

“Actually, Sir, that’s Martin’s chair. When Pearl joins us, she sits to my left, but she usually takes her meals with your mother. The other chairs aren’t assigned. Companions have a particular status, you see, Sir.”

Henry was struck by a thought. “Does my father ever come down here?”

Timothy chuckled, amused by the idea. “No, Sir, not without good reason. If you’re wondering if he’s ever eaten lunch with his slaves, the answer is no.”

“But he takes meals with you all the time,” Henry said. “In restaurants, even.”

Timothy shrugged. “Companions have particular status, Sir,” he said again. “Your father isn’t going to be eating with his stable slaves or his scullery maids anytime soon.”

“I’ve been very curious about what goes on down here,” Henry admitted. “Especially since Martin.”

“Of course you are, Sir.” Timothy smiled fondly at him. “Oh, look, here comes Martin with your food.”

“Here you go!” Martin set a plate of sandwiches before him. “No tongue, Sir, I promise.”

“You’ve never have liked it, have you, Sir?” Timothy remarked.

Henry shuddered a little; he couldn’t help it. “No, I never have,” he agreed.

Martin set down a plate of sandwiches for himself. “Would you like some soup, Sir? It’s bean and ham.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Martin fetched soup, then glasses of water, and then inquired if Timothy needed anything, and at last sat down in Pearl’s chair.

“Well, Sir, Martin tells me you’re interested in knowing how I came to belong to your father. Is that so?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “I want to know about your first master, too.”

“Why don’t we all eat, Sir, and I’ll talk? I will have to get back to your father after lunch, you understand.”

“Of course.” Henry blushed again. He really was imposing on everyone, wasn’t he?

“All right, Sir. Well, I originally left Ganymede at age 16, just as Martin did. I was bought by a young man named Edgar Mathison. He went by Eddie with his friends, and that’s what I called him in private, though of course I called him Mr. Mathison in public.”

Henry leaned closer to Timothy and confessed, “I like Martin to call me by name, too—in private, anyway.” At this, Martin gave him a small, pleased smile.

Timothy smiled. “I rather imagined you did, Sir.” He ate a bite of an egg salad sandwich and continued. “Mr. Mathison was a lively young man, great fun and very kind. We shared many interests, and we quickly developed the typical closeness.” Timothy paused and ate a spoonful of his soup and Henry blushed at the implications of “typical closeness.”

Henry thought the food was very good, just as good as what he was served. He realized that for weekend lunches, when he ate without his parents, he was probably simply served the same meal as the slaves.

“Mr. Mathison was a well-liked boy with a lot of friends. He was fond of parties and carousing, Sir, and I did little to discourage him. He was rather too fond of drink, especially for one so young, but no one saw the danger of it at the time, and yet I often wonder if I ought to have anticipated trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“I’ll be getting to that, Sir. So, I was with Mr. Mathison through his college years, and then we spent a year traveling around Europe and northern Africa before returning home.” Timothy paused again to eat.

It had never occurred to Henry that Timothy would have ever been anywhere exotic, and he pondered this while he finished off a deviled ham sandwich.

“Mr. Mathison Senior—my Mr. Mathison’s father, Sir—wanted Mr. Mathison to become serious about his career. The Mathisons were involved in manufacture, mostly tools and medical instruments, and Mr. Mathison’s father wanted him to take over the business eventually. Well, Sir, Mr. Mathison was definitely not interested in manufacture, and he clashed often with his father. Mr. Mathison spent as much time as he could traveling and staying with friends, and when he was in the city he was always in search of distraction.” Again, Timothy paused to eat a few bites.

“When we were 23, Sir, we went to a party at Mr. Mathison’s best friend’s summer house. It was on a lake, and the young men liked to go swimming and boating, as you might imagine. All the young men had been drinking quite a lot, Mr. Mathison especially, and I had tried to get him to take a little respite, perhaps lie down and nap, but Mr. Mathison would have none of it. He sent me to get him a fresh drink, and of course I did as he asked.” Timothy stopped talking, but this time didn’t eat and only stared at his plate, and Henry realized that he was asking Timothy to dredge up bad memories and felt guilty anew.

“I didn’t see what happened, Sir, but I heard the shouting. At first, everyone was laughing because Mr. Mathison had fallen off the dock into the lake and was thrashing around, but he managed to hit his head on something—a pier, perhaps, Sir—and hurt himself quite seriously. He also inhaled a great deal of water, and one thing or the other killed him. I went in after him, of course, Sir, as did some of his friends, but it was too late, and his head was too badly hurt, and he died on the dock.” Timothy went quiet and closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, he said, “Naturally, I was devastated. Mr. Mathison was so dear to me, you see.” Timothy sighed and sipped his water.

“I’m so sorry,” Henry said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to talk about this Timothy. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s perfectly fine, Sir.” Timothy squeezed Henry’s arm. “I want you to understand how important it is to make provisions for Martin should some mishap befall you. Mr. Mathison made no provisions for me, you see.”

“What happened?”

“His parents blamed me for letting Mr. Mathison drink to excess, although of course there’s no stopping a willful master, as I’m sure you understand, Sir, and Mr. Mathison was a very willful young man. Mrs. Mathison was particularly bitter and wanted me out of her sight.”

“That’s horrible,” Henry said, offended on Timothy’s behalf. “What a nasty woman.”

Timothy shrugged. “She’d lost her son, Sir. It was understandable.”

“So you went back to Ganymede then…?”

“That’s right, Sir. At 23, I was quite old to be resold, you see. It’s standard practice to repurpose companions over 20 years of age, and if Mr. Mathison had drawn up a will, I’m sure that’s what would have happened. I would have stayed with the Mathisons, perhaps as a footman. It wouldn’t have been ideal, of course, Sir; I would not have been a particularly brilliant footman, but neither would I have let down my House in that role.

“Then there was the matter of my appearance, you see, Sir. I had been quite a beautiful boy, but my looks didn’t last. Mr. Mathison didn’t mind that I had become ordinary, of course, but a new master would expect his companion to be handsome. I was old and plain, and as such I had few prospects. I spent two years in custodial care at Ganymede, trying to help train new companions and getting in the way, and growing ever more disheartened.

“In any case, even if I’d kept my beauty, Sir, chances are I wouldn’t have been sold to a boy, but to an older man in need of a catamite, which wouldn’t have been at all to my liking.”

“A what?”

Timothy colored slightly. “A catamite, Sir. A boy kept solely for release.”

Henry blushed a sudden, vivid, horrified red and stared down at the tabletop. “Oh. I didn’t know that was something the Houses would…would accommodate.”

“It’s not the sort of thing that’s advertised, of course, Sir, but the Houses are in the business of selling slaves, after all. They will sell them for almost any use.”

Henry thought on that a moment, feeling guilty that he was so intrigued by the idea of a slave whose only job was sex. When he was finally an adult, might he have another slave? But instead of making the new boy a catamite, he could give the new one all the daily work and keep Martin just for pleasure. He dared a glance at Martin’s face, and Martin was looking back at him, his cheeks slightly pink.

Timothy continued. “Meeting your father, Sir, was well-nigh miraculous. He didn’t care about my looks, and he was a year older than me. He wanted someone who could be a valet and secretary and who could show him how a grand house ought to be outfitted and run. As I think you know, Sir, your father was a very rough young man, and not ashamed of it, though he did want to round off some of his sharper edges. He’s the most admirable man I’ve ever known, coming up from nothing as he’s done, and he understands the value of a slave’s hard work.

“The Mathisons were happy to have me finally sold at any price, Sir, and I know for a fact that your father got an excellent bargain.” Timothy chuckled at this.

Timothy was so respected and was a figure of such authority to all the members of the Blackwell household, both free and slave, that it was bizarre to imagine him unwanted and sold at a discount, but Henry couldn’t imagine any reason for Timothy to make up lies.

“Are you happy with Father, then?” Henry asked tentatively. “I mean, has it all worked out for you, do you think?”

“Oh, definitely, Sir. I can’t know for certain, of course, but I do think my life has turned out more to my liking in your father’s house than it would have done with Mr. Mathison, as much as I loved him.” Timothy wore a wistful smile as he said this. “I can’t know for certain, Sir,” he repeated, “but I do know that I’m very fulfilled here. Your father has given me great responsibilities, and equally great rewards. I am very devoted to Mr. Blackwell.”

“But…it was better, then, that Mr. Mathison didn’t indicate his wishes,” Henry pointed out. “If he’d done what you and Father want me to do for Martin, then you’d have ended up a footman in the Mathison house instead of ending up with Father.”

“Well, yes, Sir,” Timothy said slowly. “But your father finding me was a fluke. The best I should have expected was to end up a slave of the House, which is a great come-down from companion status, I must say.”

“It’s a huge difference, Sir,” Martin put in. “To end up there through no fault of one’s own would be so terribly unfair.”

Henry rather thought that Martin would have no worries either way. Someone would want him for some purpose—and, unlike Timothy, Henry suspected that Martin might not mind being a catamite if his master was kind and interested in his pleasure. But Martin seemed to want what Father and Timothy wanted, and Henry had already said he’d go along with it.

“I did agree to the plan,” he pointed out. “I don’t need you to convince me, Timothy. I just wanted to know what happened because I’ve known you all my life and it’s an important thing that happened to you.”

“I appreciate your interest, Sir. It’s very sweet of you.” Timothy looked at the crumbs on Henry’s plate and the empty soup bowl and turned to Martin. “Martin, does Young Sir need any more lunch?”

“Oh! Yes, Sir, do you want anything more to eat?” Martin was flustered and embarrassed to be caught out being inattentive to Henry’s needs.

Henry wouldn’t have minded another sandwich, but he didn’t want to make Martin look bad in front of Timothy. “No, thank you, Martin. I’m full.”

Timothy looked as though he very much doubted this, but Henry was determined to admit nothing.

“Do you have room for cake, Sir?” Martin asked. “It’s lemon.”

Lemon was Henry’s favorite. “Well, perhaps I have room for a little cake,” Henry allowed.

“And you, Mr. Tim? Might I bring you some cake?”

“None for me, Martin, thank you.”

Martin got up from the table and took Henry’s plate and headed back to the buffet table.

In a low voice, Timothy said, “Sir, I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

“Yes, Timothy?”

“Are you satisfied in your choice of slave?” Before Henry could answer, Timothy hurried to say, “You seem quite happy, Sir, but it’s important to your father that you be completely satisfied.”

Henry felt his cheeks burn. “I-I’m happy,” he admitted. “I can’t imagine any way I might improve upon my happiness, really, Timothy.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, Sir. We’re all very fond of Martin downstairs, but of course your opinion is the one that matters.”

Martin returned to the table with a large square of lemon cake for Henry and another for himself. The cake was perfectly tart and sweet at once, covered in a thick layer of icing that contained little flecks of zest. Henry wouldn’t have minded a second piece but couldn’t ask for one in front of Timothy since he’d already said he was full.

As Henry was picking up the last crumbs with his fork, Timothy pushed back from the table, and Martin hurried to help him with his chair. “Well, Sir, Martin, I must get back to work, boys. I’ve enjoyed taking this meal with you, Sir, and I hope you found our talk informative.”

Henry hurriedly stood and offered Timothy his hand. “Yes, thank you, Timothy.”

Timothy smiled and took Henry’s hand in both of his own. “You’re a sweet boy, Sir. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

After Timothy had left the mess, Martin turned and asked, “Sir? Did you want more cake?”

“Yes,” Henry said, and he blushed with pleasure.

Martin’s feet and ankles bumped Henry’s beneath the table as they ate their second pieces of cake and he grinned bashfully at Henry around his fork.

Billy came in late and brought his plate of sandwiches over to sit beside Martin. “Good afternoon, Sir. Martin.”

“Hello, Billy,” Martin said, and Henry echoed him with his own “Hello.”

“Does the food taste just as good in our dining room, Sir?” Billy asked playfully, taking a big bite of a ham-and-cheese sandwich.

Henry laughed. “Yes, of course it does. Be sure to have some cake, too.”

Billy looked at the remains of the yellow cake on Martin’s plate with a screwed-up face. “Is it lemon, Sir? Because I don’t like lemon.”

Henry was a little shocked. How could someone not like lemon?

“It is lemon,” Martin told him. “All the more for me, then.”

“Paul will eat my share,” Billy said with a shrug.

Arthur came to sit on Henry’s side of the table, an empty chair as buffer between them. “Sir,” he said. “Martin. Billy.”

“Hello, Arthur,” Martin said. “Oh, I forgot to mention before, Arthur, that I showed Mr. Blackwell the poppet you made. It was his favorite of the talismans I showed him.”

Arthur froze and stopped eating mid-chew for a long moment. He then hurriedly chewed and swallowed and said, “Oh. I-I’m glad you liked it, Sir.” He shot Martin a stern glare. “You showed him your talismans? Really, Martin?”

Billy also stared at Martin as if he’d grown a second head. “Really, Martin?” he echoed.

“I was interested,” Henry said in Martin’s defense. “I didn’t know anything about it before.”

“That’s because it’s just slave nonsense, Sir,” Billy said. “There’s no need to trouble masters with such things.”

Martin looked down at his empty cake plate and fidgeted with his fork. “You know I meant no harm. Mr. Blackwell won’t try to change the way we do things. He was just curious.”

“It’s true,” Henry insisted. “Please don’t be mad at Martin.”

“You should have more sense, Martin,” Billy said, as if Henry hadn’t spoken.

“I don’t keep secrets from Mr. Blackwell,” Martin said tensely, his mouth pressed in a tight line.

Henry turned to Arthur and appealed to him. “I thought it very artfully done,” he said. “Very skillfully made.”

A bit grudgingly, Arthur acknowledged the praise with a bow of his head. “I put care into it, Sir. I’m glad that it shows.”

“I think it’s nice what you slaves do for one another,” Henry said. “I only wish my friends and I did something as special.” Billy and Arthur and the other slaves who were listening in seemed a little mollified by Henry’s remarks.

Martin stood and collected their cake plates. “I’ll just get rid of these, Sir, and then we can go upstairs.” He looked upset, pale and tense.

“He was only answering my questions,” Henry said to the slaves in general. “If I ask, he has to answer.”

“Well, of course, Sir,” Billy said. “But certainly neither Mr. nor Mrs. Blackwell has ever asked such questions of their companions, Sir, so none of us were expecting it from you, either.” He paused a moment, then said, “It’s just a little embarrassing, Sir.”

“Why? It’s no stranger than anything else people believe.”

“Do you really think so, Sir?” Arthur asked. “Most masters think it primitive or childish.”

“Well, you know what my father thinks of religion,” Henry pointed out, “and I was raised to think the same. It’s not for me, but it plainly has value for other people. It makes more sense to me, honestly, to depend on your friendships than to depend on a god.”

The slaves seemed to appreciate this and relax a little, picking up their forks again and resuming their quiet conversations.

Martin came to stand behind Henry, his hands on the back of Henry’s chair, his knuckles brushing Henry’s shoulders. “Are you ready, Sir?” Strain was evident in his voice.

“I was just surprised, Martin,” Billy said. “I’m still your friend.”

“Me, too,” said Arthur, and a few other murmured voices joined the chorus.

“Yes, I’m ready.” Henry stood. “Thank you,” he said to the room at large. “Thank you for sharing your lunch with me.”

The slaves called out Goodbye, Sir and You’re welcome, Sir as he and Martin left the room.

Martin was quiet but clearly agitated as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

“Are you in trouble with the others?” Henry asked gently. “Do you think they’ll stay mad at you?”

Martin was clearly worried that they would, but only said, “I’m sure everything will be fine, Sir.”

In Henry’s room, Martin was restless, pacing the carpet. “Could we go somewhere, Sir? If you don’t mind, it would be nice to get out of the house.”

“Sure,” Henry told him. “Do you want to go to the arcade? There might be new peep show reels.”

“I’d like that very much, Sir,” Martin said, sounding very grateful indeed. “It would take my mind off of things, I think.”

Henry took a few dollars out of his tea tin and shoved them in his pocket and they went downstairs for their coats. Paul brought them out, black cashmere overcoats, nearly identical, and Martin helped Henry on with his, then Paul held Martin’s coat ready. Martin seemed shy with Paul, as if worried that Paul might have already heard of his transgression, but Paul was as friendly toward Martin as ever.

They left the house and crossed the street to the omnibus stop. The only other people waiting were a pair of female slaves who conversed in low tones, and Henry paid them no mind.

“I can tell you’re upset, Martin,” he began. “Please don’t pretend you’re not.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Martin said, eyes downcast and lips downturned. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

“It’s not trouble,” Henry insisted. “I’m concerned because I care about you, of course.”

“Sir…” Martin glanced toward the female slaves and gave a little shake of his head. “Discretion, Sir.”

With a little exasperated sigh, Henry stepped closer to Martin and spoke close to his ear. “I don’t like seeing you upset, Martin. I want to help.”

“There’s nothing to be done, Sir. I’m just embarrassed. They think I’m a silly child, and maybe they’re right.” He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I’m higher status than everyone but Mr. Tim and Miss Pearl, Sir, but I’m one of the babies, you see. Only Danny and Little Bob and Johnny are younger than me, and you don’t see them going around talking about our beliefs.”

The omnibus drew up to the stop and they boarded. There were enough passengers that Martin had to stand in the aisle, and by tacit agreement they did not continue their conversation during the ride downtown.

When they got off the omnibus and turned towards Union Square, Henry asked, “Are your beliefs supposed to be secret? It sounds like masters do know about them. I…I’m not the most observant fellow, so I guess I’m not surprised I never noticed anything, but my father knows, right?”

“They’re not secret, Sir,” Martin said, “but it’s not really done to volunteer information like I did with you. It’s just not smart, Sir. Simon tells me that Hetaeria is forbidden in the Ross household because Mrs. Ross thinks it un-Christian, but she only thinks that because some slave was stupid and told her more than she needed to know. I don’t want to be the stupid slave who gets Hetaeria banned from your house, Sir!”

“Hetter what?”

“Hetaeria. You know the word, Sir, just maybe not in this context.”

“It’s Latin?” Henry guessed.

“Yes, Sir.” Martin looked at Henry a moment, clearly expecting that Henry would recall what the term meant, but Henry did not have any idea and kept an embarrassed silence. Clearly surprised, Martin blinked, and then said, “Well, it means fellowship. It’s one of the names for what we do. It’s not un-Christian at all, Sir, at least I don’t think so. It doesn’t deny God or exalt devils or anything, Sir, really.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Henry reminded him. “I’m not interested in taking it away from you. I just wish you didn’t need it.”

“You asked if masters know and, yes, they do. Of course they do, Sir. Mr. Blackwell knows, undoubtedly. Your father is very shrewd and misses nothing.”

“Well, I’m surprised he hasn’t banned it already, then,” Henry said. “He doesn’t like religions much.”

“I don’t think it’s really a religion, as such, though, Sir. It’s not about gods at all. It’s about influence and energies. Plenty of slaves who practice Hetaeria consider themselves Christians. Most slaves are raised as Christians, after all. Your father isn’t as intolerant as all that, anyway, Sir. Mr. Blackwell might not like religions, but he allows his slaves to go to church on Sundays if they want.”

Henry had not known this. He had never thought to look to see who might be missing on a Sunday morning. “Are there a lot of churchgoers in our house?”

“No, Sir. Most in your house have adopted Mr. Blackwell’s attitude toward religion, though everyone practices Hetaeria, of course.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone in your house, and everyone in every house, Sir,” Martin affirmed. “I can’t imagine a slave not participating in it. It’d be like not participating in the world.”

“But there’s no scripture or anything? No preachers?”

“No, Sir. There are people who know more than others, of course; people who know about the meanings of things. Materials and colors and symbols, Sir; things like that. It changes all the time anyway; things are added, and there are different traditions from the different Houses. Actual religions and other practices have an impact, of course. For instance, astrology and fortune telling are all about influence, too, Sir, as are superstitions, so naturally we take meaning from those things, as well.”

They had reached the forecourt of the arcade building. Groups of boys stood around talking, most of them working-class boys, but there were a few boys who were, like Henry, accompanied by slaves. Henry was hesitant to enter the arcade with this conversation still unresolved. A group of boys nearby were passing around a cigarette and the smoke made Henry cough.

“Here,” Henry said, putting his hand on Martin’s elbow. “Let’s go stand over there by the wall, out of the smoke.”

“Don’t you want to go in, Sir?”

“Are we done talking about this? It’s very interesting, Martin. I want to know more about it.”

Martin began to look distressed again. “Everything I’m telling you, Sir, would just make everyone else more upset with me. I don’t know why I’m being so forthcoming, Sir, except I just…I just don’t want to have secrets from you.”

“If you need to keep some things to yourself to feel all right, Martin, then you should do that, okay? Even if I’m asking questions. You can just tell me it’s too much, all right?” Henry dared to put his hand on Martin’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

Although Martin looked relieved, he also looked as though he did not intend to do any such thing. “If you’re asking, though, Sir…” He sighed. “I don’t really think I could see my way clear to denying you answers.”

“Don’t worry so much, please, Martin. I won’t try to stop your Hetter…Hetter…”

“Hetaeria, Sir.”

“Yes. I won’t try to stop it, I promise. My father knows about it, you said it yourself, so there’s nothing to worry about.” Henry wished he could touch Martin tenderly, cup his cheek or stroke his hair, but he settled for touching his shoulder again. “Do you want to go in?” He turned towards the door.

Martin hesitated a moment, looking as if he had something more he might like to say.

“Martin?” Henry turned to see him standing where he’d left him. “Martin, is there something else?”

“N-no, Sir.” Martin shook his head but looked uneasy, and Henry was not entirely convinced.

“Well, then, come on!”

“Yes, Sir.”

Henry got change for a dollar and they headed for the Mutoscopes. They watched reels of dancers—a ballroom full of waltzing couples, a girl in a skimpy costume, and a horse that did dressage—and a boxing match with a knock-out punch, stampeding cattle, a man doing trick shots on a billiard table, and a strongman flexing.

After viewing the strongman, Henry made way for Martin to watch it and leaned close to murmur, “What do you think of his body?”

“He’s certainly fit, Sir,” Martin said. “But a little…bulgy for my taste.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” His lips just brushed Martin’s ear. “I much prefer your build.”

Martin gave a low chuckle but leaned away and then moved to the next machine. “Do you want to watch this one, Sir?”

“You go ahead. I’ll watch it after.”

Henry followed Martin down the row of machines, occasionally viewing a peep show, but mostly just watching Martin. He seemed a little calmer now, away from the house. Henry thought that surely the other slaves would not hold it against him that he’d spoken to his master about Het—about their beliefs.

“Fancy meeting you here, Henry.”

Henry looked up and saw Victor approaching with a wide grin, Will right behind him.

“Philip and David are here, too,” Victor said. “They’re getting change. What are you doing, anyway? You’re just lounging around staring into space. Why aren’t you playing something?”

Henry felt his face grow hot. Martin raised his head from the Mutoscope machine, standing up straight at Henry’s side. “I just got a little bored,” Henry said. “We’ve been here awhile.”

Victor took in the whole row of peep shows with a sweep of his hand. “Any good ones? Anything racy?”

“I didn’t see anything especially good,” Henry said, though he did think the strongman in his tiny trunks had been a little compelling. Victor, however, would not share this opinion, he was quite certain of this. “Martin watched more of them than I did. Did you see anything good, Martin?”

“Nothing racy, Sir,” Martin reported, then corrected himself: “Oh, wait—maybe that dancing girl, Sir. Her costume was very revealing!”

“Which one was that?” Victor asked. “Show me.”

Henry stepped out of the way and let Martin point out the correct machine to Victor, who dropped in a penny and began to turn the crank.

Philip and David approached with their slaves at their backs. Henry liked David just fine, but merely tolerated Philip, and he knew that Martin actively disliked David’s Alex and could do without Philip’s Davey. Both boys greeted Henry, and he greeted them in kind. Martin stood chatting at Will’s side, ignoring Alex, who was whispering in Davey’s ear and cutting his eyes at Martin.

Martin was already upset today and feeling delicate. Henry checked his watch and decided they would leave soon, to get away from people they disliked and in plenty of time for Martin to get his dinner.

“Do you have to be somewhere?” Philip asked, nodding at Henry’s watch in his hand.

“Just checking,” Henry said. “I want to make sure Martin gets home in time for his meal, and I have a couple of errands to do before then.”

“But we just got here!” Philip said, an accusatory whine. “You have to stick around for a little bit, Henry.”

“A little longer,” Henry agreed grudgingly. He looked over at Martin talking to Will, and Martin was smiling at his friend, so perhaps he wasn’t terribly bothered by Alex or Davey at the moment. Henry thought for a moment of asking his friends what they knew about slave beliefs but decided to wait and ask Louis what he knew. Louis wouldn’t laugh at him for not knowing things, but Philip might.

Henry went around the room with his friends putting pennies into the strength testers. Henry was strongest on four out of six, Victor strongest on the other two. Henry looked over and saw that Martin and the other slaves were sticking coins into the gambling games, a good tactic for getting rid of a heavy pocketful of pennies—until Alex won a double handful of coins.

“Sir,” Alex said, holding them out for David and the other boys to see, “what should I do with them? I can’t carry this many around.”

“There must be a dollar’s worth there,” David said. “See if you can trade them in for a dollar bill.”

“But I’ll have to count them, Sir,” Alex complained. “I don’t want to count them.”

David sighed. “Alex, just do it. That’s an order.”

“Sir—”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, Sir,” Alex said sullenly, slinking off with his pennies.

David shook his head, obviously embarrassed for his friends to have seen this exchange. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” he said in a low voice. “He can be such a brat!”

“Could your dad’s companion maybe talk some sense into him?” Victor asked. “When my older brother’s slave acted up, our dad’s slave put the fear of god into him. It only had to happen the once before he started behaving better.”

David considered this a moment. “Maybe I should do that,” he mused. “But I don’t want to turn this into a bigger deal than it has to be. I don’t want the other slaves in our house thinking that he’s a problem.”

“Why do you care about that?” Philip asked. “He’s the one who should be worried about his reputation, not you.”

David shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.” He turned to the nearest machine, a lung capacity tester, and put in a coin, ending the discussion of Alex’s behavior.

They all tested their lung capacity (Philip’s was highest) and then Henry made a show of checking his watch.

“Oh. Looks like it’s time for me to go. I have some errands to do before I go home.”

Victor looked surprised. “Oh. Well, all right, Henry. It was good to see you.”

“See you Monday,” said David.

“You’ve got better things to do, I guess,” Philip said snottily, turning his back on Henry, and Henry stood blinking at his back a moment, bemused, before calling to Martin.

Martin came to him at a trot. “Oh, how I hate Alex, Sir!” he said in a low voice. “He just pokes and pokes at me!”

“Forget about him. Let’s go get sundaes,” Henry suggested. “Will you like that?”

“Yes, Sir, that would be lovely,” Martin agreed as they left the arcade. “I overheard you tell your friends you have errands. What errands are those, Sir? I wasn’t aware we needed to do anything downtown.”

“Oh, I was lying,” Henry told him. “I just wanted to get out of there sooner rather than later.”

“Oh! Sir! I know you don’t like Mr. van Houten too well, Sir, but you’re friends with Mr. Spence and Mr. Maxwell, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but you don’t like Alex or Davey. We came downtown to have a nice time, and I don’t think making you spend time with Alex is anything close to nice.”

“Thank you for considering me, Sir,” Martin said, sounding very pleased. He nudged Henry with his shoulder, which was almost as good as an embrace under the circumstances.

Henry got a Neapolitan sundae and Martin got strawberry ice cream with caramel sauce and whipped cream and they ate at a little table, their legs tangling beneath the marble top. Henry finished his ice cream first and stole bites of Martin’s while Martin laughed and tried to protect the dish within the curve of his arm.

“You know, if you would just eat it faster, I wouldn’t be able to steal as much,” Henry told him.

Martin laughed and scraped the bottom of his bowl with his spoon. “If I eat as fast as you, Sir, I’ll get an ice cream headache.”

Henry felt good seeing Martin so cheered. Tasting the sweetness of the ice cream in his own mouth, he suddenly longed to taste it on Martin’s tongue; they could not get home fast enough.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked, standing up so quickly that his chair almost went over backwards and he had to lunge after it to keep it from hitting the floor. A group of girls at a nearby table giggled and shrieked at the spectacle and Henry felt a hot flush color his cheeks.

Martin stood, too, lips twitching as he tried not to laugh. “Absolutely, Sir.” With swift steps, he reached the shop door and held it open for Henry to pass.

As they waited for the omnibus, it began to rain, spitting drops. When the omnibus arrived, it was so crowded that they both had to stand, and Henry took the opportunity to lean a little on Martin, who said, “Sir!” in a cautioning tone but did not move away.

At their stop, Martin got down first, as usual, but then offered Henry his hand. Henry took it as he climbed down from the car and held it a moment longer as they stood on the sidewalk, in full view of dozens of people, none of whom noticed or thought anything of it. Henry wondered how much they might be able to get away with, hiding in plain sight.

Randolph let them in and took their coats. Martin shrank a little beneath Randolph’s gaze, though to Henry’s eye Randolph looked serene and unconcerned.

On the stairs, Henry asked, “Are you still worried the other slaves are going to be upset with you?”

“Yes, Sir,” Martin admitted. “I’m sure they all think I’m very foolish.”

“They might have forgotten all about it,” Henry pointed out. “They might have other things to think about, after all.”

Martin looked as if he wanted to say something contrary, but instead he bit his lip and kept silent.

Inside Henry’s bedroom, Henry reached for Martin’s hand and reeled him in close, kissing the last sugary traces of ice cream from his mouth. Martin was pliant in his arms, fitting his body so closely to Henry’s that it felt like they were almost one flesh. Henry felt desire for him like a wave, a wave that never stopped crashing over him, and he shuffled toward the bed with Martin in his arms.

“Wait, Sir! I need to tell you something.” Martin put his hands flat against Henry’s chest and pushed him a little distance away. “I-I’ve been feeling guilty about it all afternoon, and trying to figure out how to tell you. Please, Sir. Please listen.”

“What is it?”

Martin looked as if he might cry, eyes cast down and shoulders hunched. “I used it on you, Sir,” Martin blurted, his voice low and pressured. “Hetaeria. I’m so sorry, Sir. I shouldn’t have—”

“Wait, Martin. What?”

“I used it on you, Sir. I wanted you to want me, so I did a spell.” Martin would not meet Henry’s eyes as he said this.

This sounded ominous. “What exactly did you do?” Henry asked, full of trepidation.

“I-I took a penny from your tin, Sir—so I guess I stole from you, as well—and painted it red and put it under your mattress.”

Henry blinked. “Okay,” he said slowly. “What was that supposed to do?”

“Copper is for love and sex, Sir, and red is, too. Oh, and I tied a piece of my hair and a piece of your hair together and wound them around the penny, also, Sir, to represent us.” Now that he was confessing, Martin seemed a little relieved and the words came in a rush. “I put it in your bed so that you’d want me there with you.”

“When did you do all of this?”

“In September, before we got sick. I put it under the mattress the morning of Mr. Briggs’ party, Sir,” Martin said promptly. “I know it was wrong, but I ached for you!”

Henry didn’t know what to say. He did not think that a painted penny had made one whit of difference in his feelings for Martin. He had fallen for Martin the moment he’d seen him on the dais at Ganymede.

“I already wanted you so badly, Martin. You didn’t need a spell. But I wasn’t even being very nice to you then,” Henry pointed out. “Why did you want me so much?”

“You were perfectly nice, Sir,” Martin insisted. “I just…I just wanted you, Sir. I was so attracted to you that I was in pain being with you and not touching. You’re the master I wanted, Sir. You’re exactly my type, and you smell so perfect to me, and you’re kind and gentle. I knew all of those things about you right away, Sir. You’re fair and you care about people. You care about slaves. Even before we had sex, Sir, there were so many things I liked about you.”

“And after we had sex?” Henry said. “What then?”

“You know what then, Sir. You were so generous. You made me come and come. I’d never dared dream a master would fuck me like that, Sir. You treated me like a lover, like we were equals.”

“And you think I did this because of a spell?”

Martin looked sheepish. “I know it seems silly to you, Sir, but I feel so guilty. I shouldn’t have done it. It might be that you only like me because of the spell.”

“I promise you that’s not the case,” Henry told him with complete confidence. “How do we get rid of the spell, then? So I can prove it to you.”

“If I undo it, Sir. If I take out the penny.”

“All right,” Henry said. “Let’s do it.”

Martin knelt at the side of the bed and slid his hand in between the mattress and box spring and felt around, frowning. “Maybe it’s not here anymore, Sir…”

“Where would it be, then?” Henry asked. “Here, let me help you. I’ll lift up the mattress a little and—”

“I found it, Sir!” Martin looked greatly relieved as he pulled out his hand clenched in a fist.

Henry stepped closer. “Let me see it.”

Worried, Martin said, “I don’t think you should touch it, Sir, if that’s all right.”

“I won’t touch,” Henry agreed. “But I want to see it.”

It was a penny coated in flaking red paint, and there was a little snarl of dark-and-tawny hair matted around it. It was odd to look at. It was obviously a deliberately-made thing, but it looked purposeless and somehow sinister and was a little unnerving because of it.

Martin looked at Henry’s face and saw his unease. “See, Sir? It’s a thing with power.”

“Maybe so,” Henry said, “But it’s not why I like you. Maybe it just made me brave.”

Martin took it apart and burned the hair to nothing with a fireplace match. He scrubbed the penny clean in the bathroom sink and put it back in the tea tin.

Henry waited for him on the bed, fully dressed except for his jacket and boots. “Is it done?”

“It’s undone, Sir.” Martin looked relieved and embarrassed. “So whatever happens between us from now on is real.”

“It’s been real all along. Won’t you please call me by my name, Martin?”

“I’m sorry, Henry. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to remember to do it.”

“Take your clothes off,” Henry said. “I want to look at you.”

Martin folded his glasses and pulled the tie from his hair and put them both on the nightstand. He took off his waistcoat and slipped his braces from his shoulders. He dropped his trousers and drawers to the floor and stepped out of them, kicking them aside. His hard cock poked at his shirttail and his hands shook as he unbuttoned his cuffs. He had spots of color high in his cheeks and was shy of meeting Henry’s eyes. He pulled off his shirt and undershirt and tossed them on the floor. He shook all over, fine tremors that passed through his body in waves.

“Turn around for me,” Henry said softly. “I want to see all of you.”

Martin turned slowly, and with his back to Henry turned his head to look back over his shoulder, his expression hopeful.

“You’re so beautiful to me,” Henry assured him, answering his unasked question. “I love looking at you. You don’t need any spell to make me feel like this.” He stood and took the two steps to stand with his chest pressed against Martin’s back and wrapped his arms around Martin’s ribs. “Do you feel how hard I am?”

In a hoarse whisper, Martin said, “Yes, Henry.”

“You make me like this,” he said. “Your body, the smell of you, the taste of you. Just you. Not a spell.”

Martin gave a shaky sigh and tilted his head back, exposing his neck, and Henry put his open mouth over Martin’s pulse. Martin shuddered in Henry’s arms and reached back to hold onto Henry’s hip, keeping him close. Henry ran his hands over Martin’s torso, his hard nipples and the trail of hair leading from his navel to his cock, while he kissed his neck. When at last he touched Martin’s cock, Martin cried out and his knees buckled. Henry took his weight and Martin leaned heavily against him and trembled more violently still.

“I’ll show you,” Henry murmured. “I’ll show you that I’m your lover even without some talisman.” He let go of Martin and gave him a little push toward the wardrobe. “Lean back on the mirror..”

Martin surely knew what was coming. “Oh, Henry.” Martin turned and kissed Henry on the lips, fleeting but passionate.

“If you want it, you can have this every day of your life,” Henry told him. “I’ll never stop wanting to do this.” He pushed Martin’s chest with his fingertips, pushed him backwards into the mirror, and dropped to his knees. He let Martin’s hard cock slide along his cheek as he fought his way out of his waistcoat and shrugged off his braces. He unbuttoned his trousers with impatient jerks as he took Martin into his mouth and let him plunge deep. Henry gagged as Martin thrust into his mouth and let out a wavering, keening cry, his fingers twisted in Henry’s hair. Henry pulled back to suck hard on the flared head, to rub spirals on it with his tongue. He pulled out his own cock and held it tightly without stroking, just applying pressure.

Martin shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his skin squeaking against the mirror. His breathing came ragged and rough as Henry’s mouth moved over his cock. Henry’s mouth was so wet, salivating for the taste of Martin, and spit bubbled in the corners of his mouth and ran down his chin as he licked and sucked. Martin touched Henry’s head lightly, only lightly, and he shuddered as he met Henry’s eyes and saw the intensity there, the hunger that was only for him.

“Oh, god, Henry, your mouth!” Martin said breathlessly, combing his fingers through Henry’s hair and clutching at his ears. “Please, Henry…”

Henry took him in deep again and Martin made a helpless sound and thrust his hips at Henry’s mouth. Henry held even tighter to his own cock, which felt too big for its own skin, throbbing and almost painful, and sucked very deliberately, leaning back to pull almost all the way off and then diving back down until his nose was mashed against Martin’s belly. Martin was breathing in great, bellowing sobs, touching Henry’s mouth tenderly, almost reverently, as he sucked.

“Oh, god, Henry, Henry!” Martin stilled and Henry took him in as deep as he could, holding onto his ass with both hands. His cock jerked hard in Henry’s mouth and he cried out, wordless but urgent, as Henry choked on his spunk.

Henry kept Martin’s cock in his mouth until Martin took it away from him, and then sat back on his heels, his own prick jutting up stiff and insistent. Martin lolled against the mirror, his legs barely supporting him, and smiled blissfully down at Henry.

“Oh, Sir. It’s true, isn’t it? You’re really mine.” He reached down and tousled Henry’s hair.

“I told you so,” Henry reminded him. “I’ve been yours since the beginning.” He rubbed his hand up and down Martin’s flank. “Can you stand up?”

With a shy grin, Martin admitted that, “Yes, I can.” He gathered himself and stood up away from the mirror door. “What do you want me to do, Sir?”

“Turn around,” Henry told him.

“Are you going to fuck me from behind, Sir?” Martin sounded excited at the prospect. He turned and put his hands flat against the glass, then reconsidered and took a step in, leaning instead on his forearms and elbows.

“Probably,” Henry said, moving to kneel behind Martin. “But I’m going to lick you first.”

“Oh! Oh, Henry!” Martin shivered and the muscles of his ass clenched under Henry’s hands.

“You told me that only a lover would do this for you,” Henry reminded him. “I’ve done this for you all along, Martin. What does that make me?”

Martin moaned and spread his feet a little farther apart. “It makes you my lover, Sir.”

Henry took hold of Martin’s ass cheeks and squeezed, then dug his thumbs into the muscle and pulled them wide. Martin’s asshole twitched and Henry reached out to tease it with his tongue, just a whisper of contact, and Martin moaned again. Henry rubbed his cheeks against Martin’s buttocks, right then left, and pressed a dry kiss to his hole as Martin gave an impatient growl. Henry spit on him then, and Martin yelped and his asshole contracted as Henry’s saliva slid down the cleft toward his balls.

Henry licked between Martin’s cheeks, over and around the hole, while Martin whimpered and jerked, his asshole clenching around the tip of Henry’s tongue. He did it until Martin was moaning steadily, tilting his hips against Henry’s jaw. Henry sat back on his heels and ran his finger up and down the cleft of Martin’s ass, pushing into the hole and rubbing along the wall of the channel.

“Can you see my cock, Martin? See how hard it is?”

“Yes, Sir,” Martin panted.

“It’s not because of a spell. You know that, right?” He pushed a second finger into Martin’s body and Martin gasped and leaned into the pressure.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Call me by name,” Henry urged. “If you want me to keep going, you’ll call me by name.”

“Henry,” Martin said, his hands sliding on the mirror. “Please don’t stop, Henry!”

Henry pushed his fingers deep into Martin’s hole and licked all around the juncture of their skins as he thrust his fingers in and out. Martin cried out and began to shake. He slumped forward, the side of his face and shoulder pressed against the glass, and Henry stumbled forward on his knees to keep his mouth in contact with Martin’s flesh. Henry loved the textures of Martin’s body under his tongue, smooth and wrinkled, slick and furred.

His own cock was swollen and hot and he wanted badly to feel Martin around him, tight and plush. He didn’t dare touch himself for fear he’d come in an instant. He reached between Martin’s legs and hefted his balls, which were slick with saliva where it had run down the cleft of his ass. Martin moaned and spread his legs a little wider and Henry ran his hand up the underside of Martin’s cock, which was hard again and jerked in his fingers while Martin made little panicked sounds.

“I need to fuck you,” Henry said, urgency in his tone. He knelt up and pushed his trousers and drawers off his hips, then sat back so that he could kick them off.

“How do you want me, Henry?” Martin dropped to his knees and kissed Henry with a hand on either side of his face; sweeping, languorous kisses that Henry felt in his cock.

“On your hands and knees, in front of the mirror.”

“Let me get you wet, then, Henry.” Martin lowered his head over Henry’s lap and put his lips around the head of his cock. Henry took in a shaky breath and held it, willing himself not to come, as Martin sucked him in, taking him deep and leaving him dripping with spit, and then doing it again.

“Stop,” Henry said, right on the verge. “Enough.”

Martin turned and raised his ass in the air. “Spit on me again, Henry. I’ll be wet enough if you spit on me.”

Henry spread Martin’s cheeks and drooled onto Martin’s hole, spreading the saliva around with his fingers and pushing it inside. “Okay?”

Martin arched his back and shivered. “I think so, Sir.” He shifted his weight from one knee to the other, spreading his thighs, presenting himself to Henry, while Henry sat back on his heels and watched him, his cock straining upward.

Henry knelt up and held the head of his cock down with his thumb, rubbing it against Martin’s hole, and closed his eyes. The pressure against his cockhead as it pushed past the tight muscle was intense, his skin so raw and tender, and Martin was hot as coals, hot as lava, making such a sweet burn all down Henry’s length. Henry opened his eyes and looked into the mirror, watching Martin’s face, and saw how he winced as he was stretched by Henry’s cock.

“Do we need oil?” He rubbed Martin’s side, soothing strokes.

Martin turned at looked back at him over his shoulder, smiling, and shook his head. “No, Henry, it feels good this way.”

Henry’s hands ranged all over Martin’s back and ass; Martin turned awkwardly, kneeling up as he reached back for Henry, and whimpered as he sought Henry’s mouth with his own. They kissed greedily, desperately. Martin’s cock stood up straight, close to his belly, and he touched it with deft, graceful gestures that Henry found entrancing.

“Look,” Henry said, nodding toward the mirror, his voice low and rough. “Look at yourself. You didn’t need magic to make me feel anything.”

Martin blushed so prettily—nothing like Henry’s angry red flushes—as he looked at himself in the mirror. With a knowing smile, he said, “I like the way we look together, Henry.” He dropped back down to hands and knees and met Henry’s eyes in the mirror. “Are you going to fuck me?”

“I am.” Henry was ready to come, throbbed with the need to spill, but he wouldn’t do it, not without making Martin come again. He held Martin’s hips and thrust into him, pulled his cock out halfway, then shoved it back inside, and then he did it again and again. Without oil, Martin’s ass felt especially tight, his flesh pulling on the skin of Henry’s cock each time he withdrew. Martin grunted with Henry’s thrusts and tossed his hair back.

Martin kept his left hand on his cock, tugging on it in an irregular rhythm, eyes falling closed as he bit his lip. His right arm trembled beneath his weight as he arched his back

Henry pulled his cock all the way out and Martin made a loud cry of protest.

“You’re not wet enough,” Henry said. “Not for me to fuck you as hard as I want to.”

Martin moaned. “Oh, Sir! Yes, please, harder, Henry!” He arched his back further still and dropped to his elbows, trembling with anticipation.

Henry drooled liberally on Martin’s ass, put his lips against the open hole and spit inside, and pushed his cock back into the velvety slickness.

“Oh, god, Henry, you feel so good!” Martin pushed his hips back to meet Henry’s thrust, his left hand on his cock. “Go harder, Henry; go as hard as you want!”

They both looked in the mirror as Henry pounded into Martin’s ass, watching each other’s expressions. Henry’s brow was creased with the effort not to come; Martin’s face was slack with pleasure. Their bodies came together with heavy smacks, the flesh of Martin’s ass quivering with each impact. Martin let his head drop to rest on his forearm while his left hand began to move more purposefully over his cock.

Henry didn’t know how much longer he could go on. His entire body was somehow numb yet also tingling, his cock felt leaden and extra-sensitized, and he felt he was in danger of saying something stupid, something ardent and heartfelt, and bit his lip to hold it back. Martin made a shaky, broken sound and spread his legs a little farther apart and Henry had to clamp down on his raw nerves to keep himself from coming.