2 - A Proper Lover(2)

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

…

Martin’s hand made harsh, precise movements over his cock and he began to call out for Henry, and Henry could have cried with relief.

“Henry, Henry, oh, god, Henry!” Martin stilled and came, thick pulses spilling onto the carpet.

Henry let go at last, exultant and wild, holding tight to Martin’s hips and thrusting hard through the spasms. He looked down at Martin’s asshole stretched around his cock and saw how his semen had backed up onto his shaft and spattered around Martin’s hole; they didn’t usually fuck in this position, so he rarely got to see his spendings on Martin’s skin and he liked seeing them now. He pulled out and rubbed the head of his cock over the hole, smearing milky fluid everywhere, and then pushed back inside with his semen easing the way.

He stayed inside Martin as long as he could, but his cock eventually softened, and Martin was clearly worried about the carpet and proved decidedly unreceptive to Henry’s tender post-coital gestures. Sighing, he got up off the floor and went to lie on the bed to wait for Martin to come clean his cock.

Housekeeping over, Martin went into his room to dress to go down for his dinner and Henry followed him, lounging naked in the doorway.

“Do you feel a little better now?” Henry asked him. “Was I any help?”

Martin laughed and tucked in his shirt. “The sex was wonderful, Henry, but I must admit I’m still worried about what the others might say to me at our meal.”

“They’re not allowed to be unkind to you,” Henry decided. “I won’t let them be.”

“No need to make any dire pronouncements, Sir,” Martin said gently. “They’re my family, Henry, and family has a right to judge a little, don’t you think?”

Henry only knew that he was uninterested in being judged and he wasn’t willing to concede judging rights to anyone, family or not. “I’m your family, too,” he pointed out, “and my opinion counts more than theirs.”

Martin stepped in and kissed him quickly. “I appreciate that you’re willing to come to my defense, Sir.”

Martin went downstairs and Henry sprawled naked on the bed and thought about the way his spunk had looked all white and slick around Martin’s open hole. Seeing it had made him feel a particularly possessive satisfaction, had made him feel that Martin was his, in his heart, though of course Martin had washed it all away.

He dozed a little, dreaming of a bed lumpy with pennies where he covered Martin in semen, and woke to Martin’s hand gently shaking him awake.

Martin seemed cheerful and relieved. “I’ve got something for you, Sir.”

“For me?” Henry yawned and stretched. “How was it? Were they mad at you?”

“Not terribly, Sir. Everyone was very understanding.”

“Oh? That’s good.”

“Yes, Sir. Our relationship, Sir—yours and mine—is different than any of the other slaves have with a master. Everyone has a sense of that, Sir. Also, everyone liked what you said, about believing in friends before gods. I think it put them all at ease.”

Henry had said something like that, hadn’t he? It sounded rather smart. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet on the floor. “You said you have something for me?”

“Arthur made it for you this afternoon.” Martin pulled something out of his pocket. “He says if you don’t want it, Sir, you should burn it.”

It was a little straw doll, similar to the one Martin had and just as neatly made. This one was tied with purple thread where Martin’s had been tied with white.

“It’s got juniper and thyme inside, Sir,” Martin explained. “Juniper to attract positive energy and thyme to attract loyalty and affection. Which you already have from me, of course, Sir.”

“Does the purple thread mean something?”

“Purple draws magic, Sir. He used it because you showed an interest in our beliefs.”

“Het…Hetter…”

“Hetaeria, Henry,” Martin said slowly. “Het. Air. Ee. Ah.”

“Hetaeria,” Henry repeated.

“That’s right, Sir.” Martin leaned in and kissed him. “You need to dress now.”

Henry felt extremely flattered that Arthur would do such a thing for him but suspected that Arthur’s goodwill toward Henry was in fact an expression of his goodwill toward Martin, with whom he actually had a friendship. Still, it was a kindness, and it was thoughtfully done.

“Should I make something for him now?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary, Sir.” Martin crouched down with Henry’s drawers, holding them for him to step in. “You only need thank him, if you see fit.”

“Of course I’ll thank him.” Henry put the doll on his nightstand so he could finish dressing. He caught Martin looking over at it several times as he dressed, brow furrowed.

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“You shouldn’t leave it out, Sir. They’re meant to be kept out of sight.”

“Will something bad happen if I don’t put it away?”

“I-I don’t actually know, Sir, but it makes me very uneasy nonetheless. Will you put it in the drawer, please?”

“Sure.” Henry put the poppet in the nightstand drawer alongside the oil bottle. “Should I get a box to put it in, like you have?”

“It wouldn’t hurt, Sir. I’ll ask around downstairs to see if there’s something suitable.”

At dinner, Henry wished he could talk to his parents about the things that actually interested him, things like the secret lives of slaves. He wished he could talk to them about whether or not friendships were more valuable than gods, or the significance of different colors, or whether fortune telling should be taken seriously. Some of his friends, he knew, had lively discussions with their families. The Briggses all talked over one another and discussed every subject imaginable; whenever Henry chanced to eat at Louis’ house, he was invariably overwhelmed by the chaos. Henry wondered what would happen if he tried to bring up any of these topics, but he suspected such conversation would be met with annoyance from his father and apathy from his mother.

Family hour was spent with Pearl reading selections from various of the magazines that Mother took. Pearl seemed wary of choosing the wrong thing to read and had yet to commit to a book in the two weeks since being told to burn Cherie. They heard an essay about bird-watching, a poem about the glories of farm life, and a dialogue between husband and wife that was meant to be humorous but was instead a little embarrassing. Henry sighed and tried not to fidget, hoping each reading would be the last of the evening.

Finally given his leave, after a last article regarding the participation of women competitors in the recent summer Olympics, Henry kissed his mother’s cheek and hurried back to his room. Martin undressed him and took their laundry downstairs and returned with a small cigar box that he’d obtained from Dora. Henry put his poppet in the box and Martin seemed to finally be at ease about the disposition of the talisman.

“My ass is a little tender, Sir,” Martin said, “Is it all right if we don’t make love again tonight?”

Henry suspected Martin was actually more uncomfortable than merely tender; he rarely asked to be exempt from sex. “Of course it’s fine. I’m tired out anyway.” Henry drew him close and kissed the side of his head.

“I could suck your cock if you’d like, Sir.”

Henry shook his head and drew Martin closer. “I don’t need you to do that. But Martin—” he didn’t know how to put this exactly “—there’s something you can do for me.”

“Of course, Sir. What is it?”

“I don’t want you to call me sir anymore, at least not when we’re alone. I’ve asked you before, and I know you forget, but please try to remember. It’s important to me.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, Si—Henry. I will try harder, I promise.”

“I want you to talk to me like you’d talk to Billy or…or Tom, or Peter. You don’t even need to use my name. Just talk to me like one boy to another, please.”

“I’m sorry, Henry. My training—”

“I know it’s what you’re supposed to do, Martin, but, well…it hurts my feelings. I feel this closeness with you, but you’re so formal with me.”

This information seemed distressing to Martin. “I’m so sorry, Henry! It’s not like that at all! I also feel very close to you!” He looked up at Henry with an expression of earnest concern. “I-if you want me to speak to you without honorifics…I-I’ll try to remember. I’ll try very hard. I want to make you happy, Henry, more than anything!”

Henry kissed his forehead, pleased. “It’ll make me happy, I promise.”

“But outside of your bedroom…I should still call you Sir, don’t you think?”

Henry had to concede this was wisest. “Yes, I suppose that would be best. We’ll keep it just between us.”

“Henry? W-would you be a little patient with me? Until I get used to doing it your way?”

“Of course.” Henry kissed him again and was gratified when Martin nestled closer still. “Thank you. It means a lot to me.”

“I want to make you happy,” Martin repeated, the Sir almost audible but left unsaid, and Henry appreciated Martin’s effort.

He suddenly remembered something. “Hey. Louis and the rest of my friends are going to that dance hall tonight, and maybe some of your friends are going, too.”

“Did you change your mind, Si—?” Martin caught himself before sounding the ‘r.’ “Did you want to go after all?”

Henry laughed. “No. Not at all. I’ll just be interested to know how it went.”

Martin seemed as though he was about to speak and Henry waited expectantly, but then Martin said nothing.

“What were you going to say?”

“Oh…”

“Just tell me.”

“I was just thinking…Mr. Brand’s chambermaid was punished today. We were all talking about it in school yesterday.”

“Oh, that’s right. That’s really too bad.” Henry did not like to think about punishment. “Let’s think about something else,” He ran his hands over Martin’s smooth, unscarred back and fell asleep to jumbled thoughts of poppets and talismans and slick spendings glistening on Martin’s skin.

On Sunday, Martin woke Henry with a simple, “Good morning,” and Henry, delighted, pulled him into the bed and entreated him to speak extemporaneously, to say anything at all so long as he voiced no honorifics. Laughing, Martin speculated haltingly about their friends’ visit to the working-class dance hall the prior evening, with frequent glances at Henry’s face, as if to ascertain whether Henry was still enjoying the informal speech.

“Do you think,” he asked, eyeing Henry, “that Mr. Briggs would fare better if he didn’t dance? I couldn’t help noticing that Mr. Briggs is not a very graceful dancer.”

Henry recalled the grim spectacle of Louis hauling his sister’s friends around the Briggs ballroom.

“Not at all like you, Si—” Martin stopped himself. “Not like you. You’re very elegant.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Henry told him. He also liked that Martin would share this criticism of Louis. It bespoke trust.

Henry’s fingers went to the placket of Martin’s trousers.

“Your breakfast is waiting,” Martin said, though he didn’t attempt to stay Henry’s hands.

“It can wait a little longer.”

“You dislike cold eggs,” Martin reminded him, though he shifted to make it easier for Henry to take hold of his cock.

“I’ll bet you can come fast,” Henry suggested. “They won’t get too cold if you come fast.” He got up on his knees, got in position. “Keep talking, all right?” He bent over Martin’s cock, licked the head.

Martin did as Henry asked, though his conversation lacked coherence. He frequently lost the thread and was eventually reduced to saying nothing but Henry’s name over and over again. Henry was pleased because Martin had said all of it without voicing a single ‘sir.’

He went down to breakfast with the taste of Martin still in the back of his throat and ate his lukewarm eggs without complaint.

Louis invited Henry over after lunch and so he and Martin went, carrying umbrellas because it looked as though it might rain.

Louis was in a state of happy agitation. He and Miss O’Malley had had a wonderful time.

“I know she’s not pretty,” Louis said, “But I don’t mind at all. She likes me so much, Henry! Even surrounded by better-looking boys, she still only has eyes for me! She thinks I’m funny!” Louis was in raptures.

“I’m happy for you,” Henry said quite genuinely.

“We didn’t even dance,” Louis said happily. “We just stood in a corner and necked. She says that if I get a rubber, she’ll let me put it in.”

“Wow.” Henry was impressed. He had known Miss O’Malley was fast, but this was lightning speed! “Are you going to do it?”

“Of course!” Louis said, nearly shouting. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m going back next week. We all are, I think. Everyone had a good time, even the slaves.”

“Did everyone’s slaves go, too, then?”

“About half did. There were plenty of other slaves there for them to dance with. Next time, all the slaves will go, I think.”

“Was there any trouble?” Henry knew that his threshold for trouble was much lower than Louis’ and it would be easy for Louis to overlook or omit incidents that would seem significant to Henry. “Any fights?”

Louis rolled his eyes. “Oh, Ralph got into a punch-up with some other slave over a girl they both wanted to dance with, but otherwise everything went pretty smoothly. None of us had any trouble. By the way, your Miss Flannery didn’t miss you at all.”

“Oh?” Henry had forgotten all about Miss Flannery.

“She has some working-class beau who must be at least 20 years old and pretty handsome, too. She said to say hello to you, though.”

“That was nice of her,” Henry said. “If you see her again, give her my regards.”

“Sure,” Louis said, “If I remember. I might be busy with my Bridget and have my mind on other things.” He elbowed Henry and grinned. “By this time next week, I’ll have had sex, Henry! Can you believe it?”

“I guess so,” Henry said. “I mean, why not?” He really didn’t want to think too long on sex with a woman, but knew he should feign interest because a normal boy would do so. A normal boy would be jealous of Louis with his working-class tart. “Do you have a rubber already?”

“I can get one,” Louis said confidently. “There might even be one in James’ room if I just dig around a little.”

They discussed it further, whether Louis could just walk into a pharmacy and buy a rubber, or whether it might be better for Peter, who looked older, to do it for him. Louis suggested that Henry might do it, but Henry turned beet red and adamantly denied that such a thing would be possible. Louis conceded that Henry’s nervous blushing would negate any advantages conferred by his adult appearance.

They all four played poker for a couple of hours while Louis continued to dole out tidbits about the dance hall and the band that played there. Henry was tempted to ask Louis about slave beliefs, about Hetaeria and what he knew about it, but he didn’t want to ask in front of Peter and potentially have another slave upset with Martin. Eventually, it was time for Peter’s dinner and nearly time for Martin’s, so they took their leave.

“Congratulations,” Henry said to Louis, offering his hand while Patrick stood in readiness to open the door.

Louis took it with a broad grin. “Save it for next week.”

On Monday, Joshua was subdued and listless. He’d indeed been to see his chambermaid whipped on Saturday, and he seemed to have learned his lesson. He was tight-lipped before the first bell, but between Mr. Cobb’s and Mr. Granger’s classes, boys gathered around Joshua’s desk pressing for details.

Joshua looked around at the circle of his friends with tired, sad eyes and said, “What are you so excited about? It was horrible. It was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, and I wasn’t even the one being punished.” He then put his head down on his desk and ignored all further questions, and kept his head down even as Mr. Granger came in and began his lecture.

At the lunch break, the slaves huddled around Miles, who had also had to witness the girl’s punishment. Whatever Miles told them affected them greatly. The slaves were always very physical with one another, especially when they were emotional, and now they touched one another to offer comfort. Martin held tightly to Tom’s hand, his other arm around Simon’s shoulders, and their faces were drawn and pale. Miles, at the center of a circle of his friends, appeared to be in tears.

Joshua had just finished yelling at Philip to leave him alone, but Henry felt compelled to approach him anyway, even though they weren’t close friends. Joshua leaned against the brick wall, arms crossed over his chest, and glared at Henry as he came close.

“What do you want?”

Henry blushed and tentatively offered, “I-I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For you and Miles and the girl. I’m sorry it all turned out this way.”

Joshua’s jaw seemed to unclench a little. “Thank you,” he said.

“I’ve also seen slaves whipped,” Henry told him. “It was the worst thing that ever happened to me, too. It’s not just some wild story to tell your friends.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Louis knows, too,” Henry said. “It was his brother who made us watch.”

“Then the three of us must be the only ones who know how horrible it is,” Joshua said. “Well, and Miles, too.” He was quiet a moment. “It’s all my fault. She’s going to have terrible scars.”

Henry did not know what to say to this. He agreed, after all: it was Joshua’s fault. He said nothing but stood at Joshua’s side until the bell.

After school, heading for the omnibus stop, Henry turned and asked the slaves, “How’s Miles doing?”

“He’s very upset, Sir,” Peter told him.

“He and Simon are close, Sir,” Martin said, “and Simon is trying very hard to help.”

“Miles thinks it’s his fault, Sir,” Peter said. “He thinks that if he’d tried harder to dissuade Mr. Brand he might have been successful.”

“So he thought it was a bad idea?” asked Louis.

“Oh, yes, Sir, of course!” Martin said. “Any slave would think it was a bad idea.”

“Except for this one girl,” Peter pointed out, then added, “Sirs.”

“He also thinks it’s his fault because maybe he wasn’t giving Mr. Brand enough satisfaction, Sir,” Martin said. “That he could have shown more enthusiasm or used better technique and this all might have been avoided.”

“You’ve all told him that he’s crazy, right?” Henry asked, looking back and forth between their faces. “It’s all Joshua’s fault, obviously!”

Martin and Peter did not look as sure.

“But maybe, Sir…” Peter suggested. “Maybe he could have done more.”

“Maybe he could have tried harder to convince Mr. Brand not to have sex with her, Sir,” Martin said.

“But it was all still Joshua’s decision,” Henry insisted. “Miles isn’t in control of Joshua.”

“I-if it was you, Sir,” Martin said, “I would have to try everything in my power to convince you not to make a mistake. If you make a mistake, Sir, then so do I.”

“It’s Miles’ fault, too, Sir,” Peter said earnestly. “And he feels terrible for the girl.”

“Well, of course he would,” Henry assured him. Their willingness to accept responsibility for a master’s errors was baffling. “But it wasn’t his fault.”

“I don’t know, Henry,” Louis said. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s a little bit Miles’ fault.”

Henry shook his head, a little disgusted with all of them. “How do you figure?”

Louis shrugged. “Martin’s right. They’re supposed to stop us from making mistakes.”

“They can’t actually do that, though. Could Peter seriously stop you from doing something stupid if you really wanted to do it?”

Louis didn’t bother to answer. The omnibus pulled up and they boarded.

They didn’t talk anymore about the whipping on the crowded omnibus, and Louis seemed to have lost interest in the subject when they got off at the stop near Henry’s house.

“Think about the dance hall, Henry. I know you don’t like that Miss Flannery, but there are loads of other pretty girls there, and I’m sure you’d be able to get one just as wild as Bridget if you’d only show up.”

“I’ll think about it,” Henry said, though he wouldn’t. They parted at Henry’s gate and Louis gave Henry a jaunty wave as he walked off.

They went inside and gave their coats to Paul.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” Paul said to Henry. He turned to Martin and said, “Cook asked me to tell you that she’s made cookies.”

“What kind?” Henry asked eagerly.

“I believe they’re peanut, Sir,” Paul told him. “I haven’t had any myself as yet.”

“Shall I go get you some, Sir, and meet you upstairs?” Martin asked.

“Yes, that sounds perfect,” Henry said happily. “Thank you for telling us, Paul.”

“You’re quite welcome, Sir.”

Henry went upstairs and shed his school jacket onto an armchair, then sprawled out on the bed awaiting his cookies.

Martin knocked, a light tap, before opening the door and slipping inside with a stacked plate. He grinned at Henry. “They are peanut, Henry. I ate one down in the kitchen and they’re delicious.”

Henry sat up. “Bring them over here, then!” He held out his hands, making grasping motions, excited for the treat.

Martin laughed at him but came to join him on the bed, setting the plate down between them.

The cookie was everything Henry could have hoped for, sweet and salty, crisp on the edges and chewy in the middle, and crunchy with chopped nuts. Henry ate it with his eyes closed and Martin laughed. Henry opened his eyes, wondering what was so funny.

“I love how much you love food, Henry.”

Henry felt like a simpleton, so easily pleased, and his face grew hot.

“Oh, please don’t be ashamed!” Martin begged, clearly sorry to have laughed. “You give yourself over to your pleasures with such abandon. I do love to see it.” He seemed very sincere, and Henry was somewhat mollified.

Henry took another cookie and Martin took one, too.

“Can I ask you something, Martin?”

“Of course.”

“This girl getting whipped…does it make you more afraid you’ll end up punished somehow?”

Martin frowned down at his half-eaten cookie. “Well…yes, it does. I worry that we’ll be caught doing all the things we aren’t supposed to do, that someone will walk in and find us kissing or, even worse, see you with my cock in your mouth. If Mr. Brand and his chambermaid hadn’t been seen, she wouldn’t have been punished, after all.”

“We always lock the door.”

“We are careful, Henry, but there’s always a chance.”

“I don’t think you’d be punished for any of that, anyway, Martin. It’s all my fault, after all.”

“That’s not true, though, Henry. I want to do it. I encourage you. I’m definitely responsible.”

“Well, can you at least agree that we’re both responsible, then? None of this would have started if I didn’t want you, you know.”

Martin shrugged assent, his mouth full of cookie.

“And you know I’m not going to do anything stupid for you to get blamed for, right? I’m not going to fuck a chambermaid. For one thing, they’re a bunch of girls, and they’re also older than me. Katie’s the youngest and she must be 18 or 19, right?”

“She’s 18.”

“Well, whatever,” Henry said, with an impatient wave of his hand. “I don’t want to have inappropriate relations with any of the other slaves in our house or any other house. And we’ll always lock the door. Always. I want to keep you safe, Martin. I want you to feel safe.”

“I just worry what your father would think if he found out. I worry about how mad he’d be. You see, Miles is lucky he wasn’t also whipped. Miles told us that Mr. Brand Senior was considering punishing him, too, because he didn’t stop your Mr. Brand from ending up in bed with the girl.”

Henry thought this was a completely perverse idea and was glad that Joshua’s father had reconsidered. “My father wouldn’t even think of it,” he said with confidence, though in truth it was just a feeling he had.

“But I’m betraying his trust,” Martin fretted, “every time I kiss you.”

“The way you’re talking now, it sounds like maybe you want a way out of our…our involvement. Our affair. Whatever you want to call it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and slumped back against the headboard glowering. “If you don’t want me anymore, just say so, Martin.”

Martin hurried to lean close, to put his hand on Henry’s arm. “No, please, that’s not it. How could you think that, Henry? I’d rather be whipped than give up what we have!”

“Don’t even talk like that,” Henry told him. “You’re never going to be whipped. I’d take you and run away before I’d let that happen.”

“But you might not have a say,” Martin said gently. “We’re just boys, after all, and decisions are made for us.”

Henry was perhaps giving himself more credit than he deserved when he told Martin that, “I’d figure something out. I’d never let you be punished.”

Martin crawled across the bed to sit beside Henry and put his head on his shoulder, and Henry slipped an arm around his back. “Everything’s going to be all right,” Henry said, inclining his head to kiss Martin’s hair. “We’re not going to be found out. No one will be punished.”

“You’ll protect me, Henry? You’ll keep me safe, like you said?”

“I will. I’ll do my best,” Henry promised, almost sure that his best would be enough.

Henry couldn’t be certain, of course, but it seemed likely that all of his friends, with their well-established families, had grown up with some knowledge of the existence of Hetaeria, even if they didn’t know it by that name. He wanted to ask what the others knew, to add to his own body of knowledge, but he hesitated to ask the group at large at school. He worried that such questions might make some of the snootier boys look down on him for being an ignorant nouveau riche upstart whose family didn’t know how to manage slaves, and, in the wake of the fortune-telling debacle, he didn’t want to give those boys any more ammunition.

It seemed best to just ask Louis, but, again, Henry didn’t want to ask in front of the slaves for fear of causing strife between Martin and Peter. Henry would have to wait for a moment alone with Louis, though those had been few and far between in the months since they’d gotten their slaves.

Wednesday after school, Louis invited himself into Henry’s house, Henry having mentioned that Martin had brought him some of the slaves’ sugar cookies as an after-school treat the afternoon prior.

“Our cook never makes cookies,” Louis complained. “You’re lucky. Be a good friend and share.”

“I can’t guarantee there’ll be any left,” Henry cautioned him. “There are a lot of people eating them, after all.”

Louis shrugged, unconcerned. “She’ll have made something,” he pointed out. “Whatever it is, I’ll eat it.”

They all handed their coats over to Paul in the front hall and then Martin led Peter down to the kitchen in search of baked goods while Henry and Louis climbed the stairs to Henry’s room. Halfway up the staircase, Henry realized he had found his opportunity.

“So, Louis, I was wondering…” he began, his hand on the doorknob to his bedroom. “Do you know anything about the slaves’ beliefs? I guess it’s not exactly a religion, but—”

Louis rolled his eyes and interrupted him. “Oh, all those superstitions and the weird things they do,” he said, passing through the doorway. “Yeah, of course I know about it. Everyone knows about it.” He looked at Henry, remembering who he was talking to. “Oh, you’re just learning about it?”

“Yeah,” Henry admitted. “I found out because of Martin, of course. He showed me some of his talismans—”

“It’s harmless,” Louis said with a shrug of disinterest. “Just ignore it like everyone else does.”

“Well, see, I don’t want to ignore it,” Henry said insistently. “I think it’s interesting.”

Louis cast a doubtful eye on his friend. “It’s just nonsense, though, Henry. It’s okay if they want to believe crazy things so long as it doesn’t interfere with doing their work, or at least that’s what my dad says.”

Clearly, Louis was not of like mind with Henry on this topic, but Henry forged on regardless. “I think it’s nice how they look out for each other, and how their friendships are so important. Some of the talismans are really beautiful, too. Have you seen any of Peter’s?”

“I don’t talk to Peter about any of that,” Louis said firmly. “The talismans are kind of witchy. They give me the creeps.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Why are you interested, anyway?”

Henry heard footsteps in the hall and, rather disappointed in Louis’ response, decided to drop the subject. Martin and Peter entered, each with a tray, Martin carrying glasses of milk and Peter bearing generous squares of banana cake with vanilla icing. They all sat down on the floor before the fire and ate.

“This isn’t even your family’s dessert, is it?” Louis asked. “This is what your slaves get.”

“Well, the slaves and me,” Henry said, taking another bite of cake. “My parents want fancier cakes for our dessert.”

“You’re spoiled,” Louis said, a hint of envy in his tone. “Peter, do you even get desserts?”

“Not like this, Sir.” Peter smiled at Martin. “The slaves here are lucky.”

Henry ate his cake and wished he could talk to the slaves about Hetaeria alone, without Louis listening in and disapproving. He wondered if maybe he could go down to the slaves’ mess sometime—during their dinner, maybe—and ask them questions, but feared that his continued prying might get some of the others upset with Martin all over again. He was curious about so many things, though! He wondered about spells and curses, and whether slaves often tried spells on masters. He wondered if other masters were as interested as he was, or if they even participated. He thought of his poppet and wondered if slaves often made talismans for their masters.

Louis snapped his fingers under Henry’s nose. “Henry! Where are you, Henry?”

“What? Oh, sorry.” Henry felt heat rise from under his collar to wash over his face. “My mind was wandering, I guess.”

Martin looked at him quizzically, fork in his mouth, and made such an adorable picture that Henry felt bashful, his face growing even hotter.

Louis laughed at his blushing. “What were you thinking about? It must have been good!”

Henry waved him off, his skin tingling with embarrassment. “Nothing special,” he insisted. “Why? Did you ask me something?”

“I was telling you about Bridget,” he said, “and you were just staring into space. It was pretty rude.” He laughed, though, far more amused than upset.

“What about her?” Henry roused himself to a show of interest, though he did not find the topic of Miss O’Malley terribly compelling.

“She’s actually older than me,” Louis said. “Her birthday’s in March.”

“Really?” Henry said, to be polite. “She looks very young. I would have guessed she was only 14 or 15.”

“It’s because she’s so petite, I think,” Louis said, nodding agreement. He ate another small bite of his cake, eating in smaller and smaller increments to draw the experience out.

“You can have more cake if you want,” Henry pointed out. He turned to Martin. “There is more, isn’t there?”

“Yes, Sir,” Martin said, giving him a fond smile. “A whole big sheet cake.”

Louis drank three deep gulps of milk, thumped himself on the chest, and burped. “In that case, I think I want more cake.” He quickly ate the last two bites of his piece.

“Very good, Sir.” Martin got to his feet, Peter right behind him. Martin turned to Henry. “For you, as well, Sir?”

Henry actually felt full. “None for me, thank you. The rest of you do what you want.” He lay back on the floor and watched as Martin crouched down and gathered their dirty plates.

“She almost got married one time,” Louis continued, his eyes tracking the slaves as they left the room. “But the cad cheated on her and that was that.”

“She doesn’t think you’ll marry her, does she?” This was, obviously, quite impossible, no matter how much Louis liked her. Like Henry, he’d be marrying a girl from an important family. Louis perhaps had a little more leeway than Henry in choosing a wife, as his family was so well-established, but Miss O’Malley was truly from the dregs of society. Even the permissive Briggs parents wouldn’t let their son marry a person who was like something you’d scrape off your shoe.

“Well, we haven’t talked about it,” Louis said, “but of course I can’t. I mean, I won’t be getting married for years and years, anyway. But who knows? I could have her as a mistress, couldn’t I? That sort of thing is done.”

Henry blushed again. It certainly was done. His father had Mrs. Murdock, after all. “Sure, if you like her enough,” Henry agreed. “You’ve really only just met her, though. Get to know her a little before you start thinking about setting her up in her own apartment, all right?”

Louis laughed. “Yeah, I should find out if I like fucking her first, I guess.”

“Did you find a rubber in James’ room?”

“I found two!” Louis said. “I’m all set for Saturday! I’ve been wearing poor Peter out just thinking about it.”

Ugh, that was more than Henry wanted to know. He reached over and shoved Louis’ knee. “God, Louis, don’t tell me things like that!”

Louis cackled, always pleased to unnerve Henry. “It cracks me up what a prude you are, Henry.”

“I’m not a prude,” Henry insisted. “I just don’t need to know what anyone else is doing with his slave.”

“Well, we’re not doing anything weird,” Louis pointed out. “I don’t know why it upsets you so much to know your friends are staying healthy.”

It would never make any sense to Henry that masturbation was damaging but the same activity with another body involved was healthful. It was less selfish, maybe? Henry could almost see the sense in that argument.

“You might not say anything,” Louis remarked, “but everyone knows you’re doing the same things as the rest of us anyway.”

Henry blushed again to think of how much more he did than the others.

The slaves returned with more cake for Louis and Peter, and more milk for the four of them. Henry propped himself up on his elbows and reached for his glass. Louis and Peter had their heads bent over their plates and Henry was able to share a brief moment with Martin, their eyes meeting with quiet intensity, and their fingertips brushed with an electric frisson as Martin handed Henry his milk.

Louis held up a forkful of cake, acknowledging its deliciousness. “Henry, you are so lucky.”

Henry dared to catch Martin’s eye, just for a moment, and agreed. “I am, I know.”

Thursday after dinner, Cora was brought down for family hour and was doted on by the slaves and, to a lesser extent, Henry, though her parents were as stiff and inattentive with her as ever.

“I wish I saw you more,” Cora told Henry, leaning against the side of his chair and gazing at him with frank adoration, “but Nurse says you’re very busy.”

Henry blushed, embarrassed that Nurse was lying for him. “I can try to find some more time to spend with you,” he said, “if you’d really like that.”

“I’d love it so much!” she assured him. “You’ll bring Martin, too?” she asked hopefully.

“Martin goes wherever I go. I’ll definitely bring Martin.”

“You know, Henry, I think I have the handsomest brother of anyone in my class,” she told him, “and you’ve got the handsomest slave.”

“I’m sure you’re right about Martin,” Henry told her, “but some of those other girls must have handsome brothers, too.”

Cora laughed and shook her head as if Henry had said something exceptionally silly, and then turned and spoke to Martin. “You go to school with Henry, don’t you, Martin?”

“Yes, Miss, I do.”

“But you’re in a different room and have different teachers.”

“Yes, Miss, that’s correct.”

“When I’m old enough, I’m going to have a slave just like you.”

“Your slave will be a girl, of course, Miss.”

Cora turned and put her hand on Henry’s arm, brow furrowed. “Is that true, Henry? My slave has to be a girl?”

Henry laughed. “Oh, definitely. Girls have girl slaves. Boys have boy slaves.”

“But what if I’d rather have a boy, like Martin?”

“You wouldn’t be alone,” Henry remarked, “but it wouldn’t be allowed.”

“Maybe if I ask Father nicely—”

“Don’t.” Henry put a restraining hand on her little bird-boned shoulder. “Don’t bother Father. He’ll say no anyway. It’s not how things are done.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have a girl slave?”

Henry flushed a deep, hot red and instinctively reared back out of the lamplight to hide his embarrassment. “I-I’m content to do things properly,” he managed. “That means having a boy slave.”

“Someday you’ll get married to a girl, though, and Nurse says maybe I’ll get to be a bridesmaid and walk down the aisle behind your bride wearing a fancy dress and carrying a bouquet.”

“That will probably happen,” Henry agreed reluctantly. “But not for a long time. I’m far too young to get married yet.”

Martin came forward and leaned around the other side of Henry’s chair. “Sir,” he whispered. “Sir, might we take Cora riding in the park this weekend? I think she’d appreciate it.”

Why did Henry never think of such things himself? Martin was a better brother than he was, to be sure. “Cora,” he said, “Do you know what Nurse has planned for you this Saturday?”

“No, what? Tell me!” Cora was avid and interested. “Is it something fun?”

Henry snorted. “No, I’m asking.” He looked around the room, the dark perimeter. “Nurse?”

She stepped forward, smiling. “Sir?”

“Do you have plans for Cora’s Saturday? I’d like to take her riding in the park if you’re amenable.”

Cora squealed in delight. “Henry! Really?” She whirled to face Nurse. “Can I go, please, Nurse?”

“Oh, Sir, I don’t see why not,” Nurse said. “Unless Mr. or Mrs. Blackwell has any objection…”

Mrs. Blackwell was possibly asleep, her head on Pearl’s shoulder, and Mr. Blackwell was busy with paperwork, as usual.

“I don’t see a problem,” he said, proving he was actually listening, “though I’m suggesting you finalize your plans quickly.” He cleared his throat and gave Henry a gimlet-eyed stare that judged him and found him lacking. “There’s quite a lot of chatter in here tonight.”

“Yes, Sir,” Henry said, mortified. “We’ll come for her Saturday after lunch, then,” he said to Nurse.

“Very good, Sir. It’s so thoughtful of you to include your little sister.”

Martin, of course, was the thoughtful one, and Henry felt peculiar taking the praise for the invitation; however, he did say, “She’s my sister, after all. It will be fun.”

On Saturday after lunch, Henry and Martin went up to the nursery to fetch Cora, who was giddy with excitement. She was dressed in a sober black riding habit with a cherry-red fur-trimmed cape over the top.

“You look like a princess, Miss,” Martin told her.

“Thank you!” She twirled, making the cape spread out upon the air. “And you look like a prince!”

“You’ll watch out for her, Sir?” Nurse asked worriedly. “She doesn’t ride often, you know.”

“I’ll take care of her,” Henry promised. “We both will. She’ll be fine.”

They walked over to the stables, Cora in between and holding their hands. They played the lift-and-swing game and Henry felt quite sure that Cora had gotten a great deal heavier since last they’d played.

Jerry, Arthur and Little Bob were waiting at the stables with the saddled horses. Next to Marigold and Partita, who were very large, sleek horses, fat little Daisy looked quite ridiculous. However, he was a good pony, stolid and unexcitable, ideal for an flighty child who rarely rode. Henry helped her to mount, as he felt it was something a brother ought to do, then got on Marigold’s back without help. Martin let Arthur give him a boost.

“Are you ready?” Henry asked.

“I’m ready!” Cora said with force. “Let’s go, Henry! Let’s go!”

“Okay, we’re going, we’re going.” Henry laughed and started Marigold off at a leisurely walk. Martin hung back a little, letting Cora go ahead on Daisy.

Like all of the horses, Daisy was exercised regularly, but he needed to be coaxed repeatedly to trot, and he needed to trot frequently to keep up with the larger horses’ pace. It was chilly and spitting rain from time to time, but the air smelled pleasantly of loam and rotting leaves and Cora’s excitement was infectious and charming.

They ran into Ronald Hastings riding with his slave Nick, but Ronald and Nick were heading back to their stables and so Henry did not have to put up with Ronald’s company for long. However, they did talk long enough—mostly Ronald trying to convince Henry to race Martin—for Cora to become very impatient.

“Henry? Aren’t we going to ride, Henry?” she asked plaintively.

“Please be patient, Miss,” Martin said. “I’m sure your brother will only be a minute more.”

“She’s awfully cute,” said Ronald. “I’ve got two myself, and a little brother, as well.”

“So you know how it is,” Henry said. “I really should get going, I guess, I promised her a ride, after all.”

“Oh, sure,” said Ronald. “You should call me up next time you go out,” he suggested. “I had fun with you last time and Nick really liked your slave.”

“Um, okay,” Henry said, quite unwilling. “Sure, we could maybe…sometime…”

“Like I said before, we’re in the book.” He paused a moment, and when Henry said nothing, he said, “Well, goodbye, then, Henry. I look forward to seeing you again.”

“Goodbye, Ronald.” To be mannerly, he added, “It was nice running into you.”

It was all he could do not to kick Marigold into a gallop, but he couldn’t leave Cora behind. They moved on at a brisk walking pace, Henry frequently glancing back over his shoulder to make sure Ronald was really gone.

When Ronald Hastings was finally out of sight, Henry let Marigold slow her pace so that Daisy needn’t labor so hard to keep up and Martin pulled up alongside him on Partita. They let Cora ride a little ahead, the feather on her hat quivering with each step of Daisy’s stiff trot.

“Why does that guy want to be friends so badly?” Henry complained.

“I can think of lots of reasons, Sir.”

Henry snorted. “Like what?”

“You have so many good qualities, Sir, and I don’t want to discount those, but I do recall that Mr. Hastings was very impressed with your name. I imagine that a great many young men would welcome the opportunity to befriend Mr. Blackwell’s son.”

Henry grimaced, uncomfortable with this idea. At least his school friends were all well used to him and unimpressed with his father’s stature in the business community. He might be the richest boy in school, but his money was the newest, and the Blackwells didn’t always do things the way people expected them to be done. Henry’s friends did not hesitate to judge him when he did things differently, when he did things wrong.

“I don’t want to be friends with people like that,” Henry said. “I have plenty of friends as it is, and I have you—and you’re all I want anyway.”

“I appreciate that you like me so well, Sir, you know that,” Martin said in a low voice, “But you should try to be a little more eager to spend time with free boys.”

“Even bores?” Henry asked. “Even dullards who talk too much?” He coaxed Marigold into a bouncy trot and almost immediately came abreast of Cora on her pony.

“Maybe not those people, Sir,” Martin conceded, bringing Partita to a trot, as well. “But some boys. I hear things from the other slaves, Sir. There’s talk amongst your friends about how you keep to yourself. You don’t want to be thought stuck-up, and you don’t want anyone guessing how fond you are of me. You could go to the dance hall with your friends tonight, Sir, if you wanted.”

“I wasn’t invited,” Henry said, slowing Marigold back to a walk again. Riding with Cora required him to be so thoughtful!

Martin pressed his lips together and frowned as he reined Partita in. “Sir, really. You know you weren’t asked only because you already said you wouldn’t go. Mr. Briggs would be very happy to include you, Sir. You’re his best friend.”

Henry thought about it. He did like to dance, but he was a snob, and couldn’t help but imagine a working-class dance hall as being squalid and odorous, full of unwashed bodies wearing dirty clothes. He’d be required to make small talk with uneducated girls in whom he had no interest, and he’d have to avoid getting in fights with rough boys, and if he took Martin with him, he’d have to worry about Martin, too. It seemed so much simpler and better to stay home with Martin doing exactly what he preferred to do.

“Maybe another time,” he said with a shrug. “I’m staying in with you tonight.”

Cora turned around to look at them. “Why are you riding so slowly?” she complained. “Daisy can go much faster than this!”

Actually, Daisy could not, at least not for any sustained period of time. It became clear that they’d not be able to cover their usual route up to and around the reservoir, that it would be too much for the pony and would simply take too long. They brought the horses to a halt just south of the reservoir, preparing to turn around and head for home. Cora, however, had ambitious goals for poor Daisy.

“We can ride all day,” she suggested. “Daisy won’t get tired,” she promised confidently. “Daisy’s a good pony.”

Henry was about to get cross with his sister, to tell her that her pony was tired already, and to tell her to behave, when Martin spoke up, creating a solution.

“But Partita does get tired, Miss,” Martin offered. “I weigh a great deal more than you do, Miss, and it’s a lot of work for her to carry me all about. I don’t think she can go any farther than to the reservoir and back home again.”

Cora seemed a little suspicious, but Martin looked terribly sincere and regretful and so she said. “All right then, if Partita’s tired. Partita’s such a pretty horse, Martin. Did you pick her out yourself?”

“Your brother helped me, Miss. She is pretty, isn’t she?”

“What’s that color called?”

“Blue roan, Miss. It’s unique, isn’t it? You don’t see many horses this color, do you, Miss?”

“No,” Cora agreed. She thought a moment and then turned around on her saddle so she could see Martin’s face. “Do you like being Henry’s slave, Martin?”

Martin laughed and colored a little. “Yes, I do, Miss. I am very fond of your brother.”

“It’s too bad I’ve got to have a girl slave,” she mused. “I’d rather have one like you.”

“No, Miss,” Martin assured her. “You’ll like having a girl slave, I’m sure. You’ll choose a special girl and she’ll be your closest friend.”

Cora seemed doubtful. She turned to Henry. “Is Martin your closest friend, or is it Louis?”

Put on the spot like this, Henry was flustered and embarrassed. His cheeks grew hot and he fumbled with his reins.

“Henry?” she asked, waiting for her answer.

“It’s Martin,” Henry said, flush with relief at the admission. “Martin knows me better than anyone. But Louis is still my best friend besides Martin.”

“I like Louis,” Cora said cheerfully. “Sometimes I play with Alice, even though she’s older. She wants to marry you, Henry, did you know?”

“She doesn’t really,” Henry said, embarrassed anew. “She’s only little. She doesn’t know who she’ll want to marry when she’s actually old enough.”

“I want to marry Martin,” Cora offered in a confidential tone, though of course Martin was right there to hear her.

“You can’t,” Henry said bluntly. “He’s a slave and he’s mine anyway.” He cringed at how he’d put it, staking his claim so blatantly. Martin gave a muffled laugh and when Henry looked over at him, he was trying to arrange his face in a neutral expression.

Cora seemed hurt by this, eyes cast down and lower lip trembling.

“Your brother’s right, Miss. You can’t marry a slave. But when you’re old enough, you could marry a boy who has the same qualities you like in me, or in your brother.”

“I can’t have a boy slave,” Cora complained, “and I can’t marry Martin, I can’t have anything I want!”

Henry laughed. “You can have almost everything you want,” he told her. “You’re one of the luckiest people in the world, Cora. You’re rich and pretty and you have people who love you and look after you.” That the caring people were mostly slaves need not be mentioned. “It’s all right for you to like Martin, though, if you want, Cora. He’s a very special person to me, after all, so I understand why you’d like him.” He glanced over at Martin, who beamed at him and seemed extremely gratified by his little speech.

They made their way back to the stables at a slow pace, making concessions for the tired little pony. Cora chattered to them about her school friends, a girl called Celeste who sounded quite honestly like a little bitch, and Rose Franklin, Wendell’s little sister. Martin paid more attention to these stories than Henry did, Henry instead focusing on Martin, on how kind and solicitous he was, how patient and thoughtful.

At the stables, the grooms and Little Bob took charge of the horses. Cora liked to watch Daisy be groomed so they loitered by the pony’s stall and watched Little Bob work. Cora stood leaning against Martin’s side gazing up at him adoringly. Henry wondered if he looked as besotted when he looked at Martin; he thought he probably did. When Daisy was groomed, Cora wanted to give him and the rest of the horses carrots and she was indulged in this by Old Bob.

Walking home, Cora skipped between them holding their hands and chattered more about her little friends. Henry looked at Martin over the top of her head. Martin looked back at him and his smile was dazzling and tender and Henry felt so very, very lucky.

“Don’t you think so, Henry?”

“Hmm? What was that, Cora?”

“I think Celeste was mean to say that. Don’t you think so, too?”

Based on what Henry had heard of Celeste today, chances were good that whatever she’d said had been mean, so Henry made an educated guess. “I do,” he said. “I think you’re right.”

Up in the nursery, Nurse was eager to hear all Cora had to tell her about their ride.

“Daisy kept up with the big horses,” Cora told her. “You thought he wouldn’t be able to, but he did!”

“I’m glad I was wrong, Miss,” Nurse told her. “Daisy’s a very good pony, isn’t he?” She smiled at Henry, then Martin, amused, as she took Cora’s cape and hung it up.

“We rode all the way to the reservoir,” Cora continued, “but Partita got tired so we had to come back. Partita is Martin’s horse. She’s a special color, Nurse, did you know? What color is it again, Martin?”

“She’s a blue roan, Miss,” Martin reminded her. He was looking around the nursery with interest. There was all manner of doll furniture scattered about and a plethora of dolls, none of which had been in the nursery when Henry was small, of course. Martin crouched down and looked at a doll with a messy wig that had a crack running through her porcelain face and was missing part of her nose.

Cora saw him looking at the doll. “Oh. That’s Baby Ann. She’s my favorite. She’s had a terrible accident, you see, and now she’s an invalid and the other dolls have to take care of her.”

“Is that so, Miss? Why is she your favorite?”

“She’s a good listener,” Cora explained. “Do you want to meet my next favorite?”

Cora introduced Martin to what seemed like dozens of dolls and he asked her questions about all of them. At first, Henry thought that perhaps he should involve himself in the proceedings, but realized that today Cora didn’t really care about anyone but Martin anyway, and it was probably better to let her have Martin to herself for a few minutes.

“My, he’s so good with her, isn’t he, Sir?” Nurse said. “She’s been talking about nothing but the two of you since she saw you in the parlor Thursday, and I imagine she’ll have trouble getting to sleep tonight, she’s so excited.”

“He’s better with her than I am,” Henry admitted, and Nurse didn’t contradict him. “But then again, I didn’t grow up with dozens of little kids around me all the time.”

“No, Sir, you didn’t,” Nurse said a little wistfully, and Henry remembered that she would have been just as eager for more Blackwell babies as his parents.

“I was really happy up here with you, you know,” Henry said in a low voice, a little embarrassed to be saying this. “It was hard to go live downstairs.”

“It was hard to let you go, Sir,” Nurse said, squeezing his arm. She laughed and said, “If I’d had a choice in the matter, you’d still be up here with your sister and me. But I imagine you’re happier downstairs now, Sir, now that you have Martin to keep you company.”

Henry blushed. He’d wondered sometimes if Nurse had ever guessed about him, what he was really like. When he’d been little, he hadn’t known that he should be any different, of course, and hadn’t tried to hide anything.

Nurse looked at his reddening face with a tender expression. “You were always such a gentle child, Sir. I did worry sometimes that those wild Briggs boys would roughen you up, but you’re still a shy, sweet boy, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Henry said, his embarrassment excruciating.

Martin and Cora approached hand-in-hand. Martin’s expression was a little strained. “Sir,” he said, “Little Miss has invited us to a tea party.”

“When?” Henry asked.

“Now!” Cora bounced on her toes. “Come on, Henry! Come sit down!”

Henry did not want to do this; he wanted to take Martin to his room and lock the door. Martin would likely enjoy a tea party, but Henry suspected he would enjoy sex even more. Besides, being with Cora was exhausting, and Martin looked a little tired.

“I-I’m sorry, Cora,” Henry told her. “We can’t stay.”

“Please, Henry? Please?”

“Not today, Cora.”

“Oh, Henry, why not?” Cora stomped her foot, frustrated.

“Miss,” Nurse said firmly. “Mind your temper. Your brother has been very generous with his time today. Say thank you to the boys and let them get about their business.”

Cora gave Nurse a very defiant stare, her dark eyes narrowed, but Nurse held her ground and Cora relented, her little shoulders slumped.

“Thank you, Henry,” she muttered. “Thank you, Martin.”

“You’re quite welcome, Miss.”

“Yes,” Henry said, “You’re welcome.”

Cora hugged them both goodbye, throwing her arms around Henry’s waist and hanging off of him, then going to Martin, who got down on one knee and let her cling, her eyelids fluttering in raptures. Henry kissed Nurse’s cheek and then she invited Martin to do the same.

“I always wanted another boy,” she said, patting his shoulder.

On the way down to the second floor, Henry said, “Cora adores you. I might be a little jealous.”

Martin laughed. “It’s just that I’m still new and exciting to her, Sir.”

Henry stopped him mid-step with a hand on his arm. “You’re still new and exciting to me, too,” he whispered.

Martin laughed again and leaned closer still. “Let me surprise you, then, Henry.”

They hurried down the rest of the stairs and then along the hall to Henry’s room. Martin locked the door behind them and Henry took him by the shoulder, spun him around, and pushed him up against it. They shared a leisurely kiss, hands sliding over the planes of each other’s bodies, possessive and assured.

Henry leaned against Martin, pressed full-length, and nuzzled his neck. Martin smelled good, a hint of fresh sweat, and Henry tasted salt on the skin of his throat.

Martin undressed him and then undressed himself while Henry watched from the bed. He walked around the room with a hard cock, glistening wet at the head, while he put away their riding clothes. He bent over to put Henry’s boots in the bottom of the wardrobe with his other shoes, and in bending over showed Henry the view of his ass and balls that made Henry feel a little crazy.

“Finish doing that later,” Henry suggested.

Martin smiled. “I’m done.” He launched himself onto the bed and landed with a bounce and Henry gathered him close and felt the length of him, warm and supple. Martin rolled on top and kissed him, his tongue sliding alongside Henry's in a slow tangle. Henry grew impatient with the pace and flipped Martin onto his back and lay on top of him, kissing him hard and insistent.

Martin broke the kiss and said, “Will you play a game with me?”

Henry blinked. “What kind of game?”

“Hold my wrists,” Martin urged in a loud whisper. He arched beneath Henry, lifting his head to lick Henry's neck. “Hold me down so I can't get away.”

Henry took hold of his wrists and held them flat to the sheets near his shoulders. “Like this?” Martin grinned in answer and began to squirm and struggle in seeming earnest, his cock hard like an iron bar and his breath coming in excited pants. Henry almost lost his left wrist, held it with a lucky grab, and became more serious about his task: Martin wanted a fight. “You like this?” Henry asked, knowing that he did. “You like disobeying me? I'm trying to keep you still, and all you do is wiggle around.” He used his legs to pin Martin's to the bed.

“I'm not sorry,” Martin said, his voice full of breathless delight. With a defiant toss of his head, he tried again to pull his hands free, but Henry was just enough stronger and heavier than him and was putting his weight into it. Martin lifted his hips against Henry's and groaned at the pressure against his cock. “Oh!” he moaned. “Oh, Sir! Do you want me to suck your cock, Sir?”

Here the ‘Sirs’ seemed part of the game. “Yes!” Henry assured him; he always wanted that!

“Make me do it, Sir,” Martin urged. “Make me suck your cock.”

Henry rolled off of him then knelt up, slightly unsteady on the soft surface of the bed. Martin lay on his back, panting and eager, so aroused he was shaking. “Don't just lie there,” Henry said. “Suck my cock, Martin. Do it now.”

“Sir,” Martin said, his voice low and desperate, “Oh, Sir, make me do it!”

Henry wished Martin had explained this game to him a little before they’d begun to play. He didn't know what Martin wanted, but he had to try something. He reached down and grabbed a handful of Martin's hair and pulled up. Martin let loose a yelp of pain and Henry's first impulse was to stop what he was doing, but instead he hauled Martin scrambling up onto his knees, then pushed his head back down so he was confronted with Henry's hard prick. “Suck it,” he repeated.

Martin looked up at him, his excitement evident. He took Henry's cock into his mouth, tongue swirling around the head, and began to suck. Henry moaned, his fingers loosely knotted in Martin's hair, but when he let his grip relax, Martin pulled off of his cock and said, “Sir, make me do it,” in a pleading tone.

Henry buried both hands in Martin's hair and made fists, and Martin gasped around his cock. Sounding more sure of himself than he felt, Henry said, “Suck my cock, you stupid, lazy slave,” and Martin groaned. Henry sat back on his heels and pulled Martin’s head over his lap. Martin's position was awkward, doubled over in front of Henry, the angle surely uncomfortable, though he made no complaint. He was nothing but willing submission, and he made loud, sloppy noises as he sucked. Henry held onto the back of Martin's head and pumped his hips, forcing his cock down Martin's throat, and Martin made a high, frightened sound, but he licked and sucked with even more greedy hunger than before so Henry guessed that he liked it. He tried to forget that this was Martin, tried to think of him as just an outlet, a means to an orgasm, and increased his pace. Martin moaned loudly and made his greedy noises. Henry put a hand on Martin’s neck and felt him gag around his cock, muscles jerking in his throat.

Henry didn't want to come like this, selfish and cruel. He pushed Martin's shoulders back, pulling his prick out of his mouth. Martin’s eyes were watering and he was flushed, gasping for breath. “On your back,” he said. “Hands up.” Martin obeyed, holding the backs of his wrists flat against the sheet to either side of his head. Henry ran a finger up the underside of Martin’s cock and Martin whimpered at the contact. Henry leaned over him and once again held his wrists down on the bedding and Martin immediately began to writhe beneath him.

“Oh, Sir,” Martin gasped. “You're too strong, Sir.” Henry moved against him, gratified by his moans, and did not let up on his wrists. “Do you want me to come like this, Sir?” Martin asked, his breath hot in Henry's ear, “Or do you want to fuck me?”

“I'm going to fuck you,” Henry told him. “But I need the oil. You have to hold still while I get it.” He looked Martin in the eye. Martin was breathing hard, lips parted, his eyes glazed with lust. “I'm going to let go, but don't move your arms. Obey me, understand? If you don't, you'll be in so much trouble.”

“Yes, Sir.” Martin made his arms stay where Henry had left them. His chest was sheened with sweat and his belly was wet beneath the head of his cock.

Henry poured a little oil into the palm of his hand and reached down between Martin's thighs. Martin brought his knees up to give him better access. He made a satisfied hiss as Henry's fingers breached his asshole, and wriggled to get them deeper inside his body. “Oh, that feels so good, Sir! I'm ready for you now.”

“You're not,” Henry said, taking his fingers out of Martin's ass to put more oil on them. “You're not ready and I'll hurt you.”

“I don't mind, Sir,” Martin said. “I don't mind it if you hurt me a little, Sir.” He lifted his hips up to meet Henry's oiled fingers. In a husky voice, Martin added, “It feels good when you hurt me.”

That seemed so wrong, but it made Henry hard. He slicked his cock and pressed the head against Martin's asshole. Martin whimpered and gave a little cry, a fearful sound, as Henry pushed in. “Does it hurt?” Henry asked him in a low murmur, pushing his hips forward. “Just a little?”

Martin didn't answer the question, but arched his back and moaned as Henry worked his cock in all the way to his balls. “Sir,” he said, his breath coming in rapid pants, “Sir, did you see? I was obedient. See my hands?”

He had not moved his arms at all; they were still as they had been when Henry had released him. Henry leaned over him and grabbed his wrists, pressing them down into the bed with all his weight. “You’ll never get away from me,” he told him.

Martin strained against him and Henry only held him down with effort. Even though he fought, he gasped out, “I don't want to, Sir.” His asshole spasmed around Henry’s cock and he rocked his hips, greedy to have more of Henry inside him.

The things Martin said! Henry felt so much love for him; all he wanted to do with his life was make Martin happy, discover all the ways to make him come. He bent to kiss him and Martin met him halfway, lifting his head off the pillow and craning his neck. Henry fucked Martin a little harder than he was comfortable doing because he knew Martin would like it, and Martin let loose a string of insistent little cries that built up and up in intensity until at last he came with no hand on his cock, which left Henry feeling extremely pleased with himself.

“Did you like that?” Henry knew he had, but he wanted to hear it.

Martin laughed happily. “I did.”

“Did I hurt you?”

Martin laughed again. “Only as much as I wanted. But I won't be surprised if I have bruises.”

Henry looked at Martin's bony wrists. The skin looked pink and chafed.

“But those are easy enough to hide, and in any case I…I like the idea of you marking me.”

They showered and Martin went down to dinner with wet hair while Henry lounged on the bed thinking about the game they had just played. It had been exciting and dirty, and he felt a little guilty for having enjoyed it. He didn’t like the idea of hurting Martin, but if Martin liked it so well, then Henry could play along. He thought about doing it himself, kneeling down and letting Martin abuse his mouth, and supposed he could do that, too, if Martin really wanted. It had been clear from the beginning that Martin was ready and willing for rough treatment, and perhaps they would have to find a way to balance out the kind of play that Martin especially liked with Henry’s more tender impulses.

His mind drifted to the ride through the park, and how he wished they’d been able to gallop around the reservoir like they usually did, though he supposed it had been good for him to stay patiently with his sister. He would have to be kinder to her, pay more attention. Martin obviously enjoyed spending time with her; he probably missed all the little ones at Ganymede.

When Martin came upstairs to dress him, he was thinking about Cora, too. “Don’t you think she looks like you? A little Henry with ringlets?” He fastened Henry’s braces in the back while Henry buttoned them on in front.

Henry snorted at the idea of himself with long curls. “We both look like Mother and her people,” he said, “so I guess we look alike.”

“Same mouth. Same nose and eyes. Same coloring. You have a stronger jaw, and her ears stick out more, but I imagine I’m seeing what you looked like at age 7.” He held Henry’s waistcoat ready and Henry slipped his arms through.

“With ringlets.” Henry laughed.

Martin did, too. “Yes, with ringlets.”

When they went down to the dining room, Martin pulled out Henry’s chair for him to sit and his sleeves rode up above his wrist bones, showing pink, chafed skin beneath the crisp white cuffs, and Henry was suddenly reminded of how his wrists had gotten that way and could think of nothing else. Thus preoccupied, he did not realize when his father asked him a direct question, but instead stared into space with a dull-witted expression.

“I said,” Father repeated in a loud, irritated voice, “How are you progressing with Latin, Henry?”

“Oh, I’m doing fine,” Henry lied. “I understand it better now.” Diverting attention from his Latin performance, he added, “We just had an algebra test and I got another A.”

Father had always been happy with Henry’s mathematics grades. “Another A! Well, you may prove useful after all,” he said jovially, and at first Henry was pleased with what sounded like praise, but in thinking on it a moment more, he wasn’t sure Father had meant to flatter him after all.

After dinner, after family hour, as they climbed into Henry's bed, Henry said, “Let me see your arms.” Martin held them out and Henry took his hands. There were lavender bruises about the bone on both wrists and Henry kissed them all.

Louis called on Sunday after he got home from church and insisted that Henry come over immediately, unwilling to go into the particulars over the phone. Henry was curious about Louis’ dance hall experience, though not terribly eager for intimate details, but since Louis was his best friend he felt he was obligated to listen to whatever Louis wanted to tell him.

Inside Louis’ room, the door locked, Louis grabbed hold of Henry’s arm in his excitement and spoke in a loud, pressured whisper. “I did it, Henry! I had sex with a girl!”

Henry couldn’t help but be happy for his friend. “Congratulations! You did it!”

The Briggs laundress had brought a basket of clothing up for Peter to put away and he set to work on this, though it was clear from the way he kept an ear cocked that he would have preferred to be part of the dance hall conversation. Henry thought Martin would want to hear, as well, and kept him close by, sitting on the edge of the bed at Henry’s side.

The boys had gone to the dance hall at eleven o’clock, all with their slaves this time. Miss O’Malley’s friends and all the rest of the girls were eager to meet some uptown boys, and Louis said he wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that he wasn’t the only boy to get lucky. Miss O’Malley had been thrilled to see him and they had simply kissed for a good long while.

“She says I’m a good kisser,” Louis said. “It’s a relief to find that out, you know?”

Obviously, he had never kissed Peter, and Henry really hadn’t expected that he had.

“She had to have felt that way from the beginning,” Henry pointed out, “or you never would have gotten this far with her anyway.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Louis said agreeably. “She likes me, that’s clear!” He could not seem to stop grinning, and Henry liked seeing his friend so happy.

Miss O’Malley had taken him upstairs to the balcony where they joined other couples in furtive, dimly-lit grapplings. She had helped him to put the rubber on and straddled his lap.

“Actually,” Louis admitted, “the rubber made it so I could barely feel anything, but the idea of it made it good anyway, that and the kissing. But, really, using Peter feels better. If I could have convinced her to do it without the rubber, though…that would have been amazing!”

Henry glanced at Peter to see how he was reacting to this. Peter seemed not to mind that Louis preferred the girl to him despite the superior sensations he provided, and Henry supposed he had no reason to think Peter would be upset. For all Henry knew, Peter was relieved. For all he knew, Peter had a girl of his own.

“Are you going to keep seeing her?” Henry asked.

“I think so,” Louis told him. “So long as she doesn’t try to get serious, I’d like to keep having fun with her.”

“Do you think she’s going to get serious?”

“Well, eventually,” Louis said. “I mean, I’m rich, and I know that hasn’t escaped her notice. At some point, she’s going to want to take advantage, don’t you think?”

Henry rather thought that Louis was the one taking advantage, but did not say so.

Louis continued blithely. “Before James left for college, he always had a girl or two, and when they got clingy and demanding he’d just pay them off and move along. He always told me that the girls don’t like how taking the money makes them feel, but they take it all the same because they’re poor. After that, they feel dirty, since they just let you treat them like a whore, and so they keep their distance.”

“That’s so cold!” Henry said, taken aback. “Surely, there’s a nicer way to end things.”

“I’d think for a girl who’s poor the money would be better than just a fond goodbye,” Louis countered. “Anyway, I’m not going to worry about that now. I’ve promised to meet her again next week. Really, Henry, you should come next time. You don’t have to have sex with anyone, you know, but you’d have a good time, I’ll bet.”

“Maybe.” Henry shrugged. “I’ll see how I feel about it next week.” He knew full well he wouldn’t want to go, but there was no point in discussing it now. Louis would just want to argue and try to convince him.

While they were at Louis’ house, Freddie telephoned and so all of them went downtown to meet him and Wendell with their slaves at the arcade. The four boys with their slaves passed the afternoon most congenially, all the others full of admiration for Louis and his conquest.

“I don’t think any of the rest of us got so far with a girl,” Freddie told Henry, “but I’m pretty sure some of the slaves did. Those slave girls are wild! I found Tommy sitting between two girls, taking turns kissing one and then the other. He says that’s as far as it went, but I’m not sure I believe him.”

Henry glanced over to where Martin and Tom lingered over the Mutoscopes. Martin was bent over the machine, looking into the viewer, and Tom was leaning over, talking in his ear. Martin turned to look up at him and laughed, their faces very, very close. Henry felt a pang of jealousy, bitter and jagged.

“Wendell met a nice girl,” Freddie said. “Tell him, Wendell. Tell him about Betsy.”

Wendell did. Betsy, unlike Miss O’Malley, was a good girl and had not allowed Wendell any liberties, and Wendell seemed perfectly fine with that. She was pretty and seemed very clean, in Wendell’s estimation, and had left early so she could be well-rested for church. He planned to see her again and seemed to be looking forward to a rather sedate courtship, content to let things move at a slow pace.

“I’m not like Louis,” Wendell confided. “A girl like Miss O’Malley would scare me.”

“Me, too,” Henry admitted. “I’m perfectly willing to wait a few years before I start messing with women.” He would happily go the rest of his life without any involvement with girls, of course, though there was nothing to be gained by telling any of his friends that. Better to be thought a late bloomer than to hint at the truth. Perhaps he should try to meet some demure, church-going girl who wouldn’t allow him to kiss her and would be content to simply dance. However, he felt quite sure that Louis wouldn’t let him settle for a girl like that. Louis would want Henry to have some fast piece like Miss O’Malley, some girl who’d be bold and forward and eager for his cock.

Afterward, they all rode the omnibus home. Louis and Peter left them at the Blackwell gate and Henry congratulated Louis again.

“I’m happy for you,” Henry said, “and a little bit proud, too. Good for you!” He clapped Louis on the back and Louis beamed.

Martin also found laundry waiting for him upon their return, and Henry lazed on the bed—boots off—while Martin did his work.

“So, Martin, tell me what your friends had to say about the dance hall. Did they have a good time?”

“Tom certainly did!” Martin laughed. “The others as well, of course, but I think Tom most of all.”

“He was kissing two girls at once, Freddie said.” This did not sound good at all to Henry, but if he mentally replaced the girls with boys it had more appeal.

“Tom is so very good-looking,” Martin explained, in case Henry hadn’t noticed. “He had his pick of the ladies, and then he picked so many of them!”

“Does Freddie always let Tom do what he wants? Kissing girls and all that?”

“Tom has a great deal of leeway. He and Mr. Caldwell have a relationship that suits them very well. Very different than ours, but just as happy.”

But back to the dance and the dance hall. “So Ralph went, too, and obviously Peter did, as well. Did they dance, or did they just neck with girls?” And before Martin could answer he added, “And why are slave girls so wild?”

“Everyone danced. There was a good band, and they had a lovely time.” Martin seemed a little dreamy imagining this.

“Should I have taken you so you could dance?” Henry asked. “I know you love dancing, too.”

“I don’t want to dance with a girl, though.” Martin shook his head, ridding himself of the idea. “But as to the slave girls, I’m sure they’re so ‘wild’ because they can be. After all, none of them can become mothers, just as none of us boys will ever father children. The girls are all sterilized before they’re sold, same as us boys. Sex is so much fun, and I’ve been assured that girls do like it every bit as well as boys do. Of course I don’t know personally, but I imagine it’s very intoxicating to be in a place like a dance hall, everyone excited and full of life and interested in one another. Also, there’s drinking, and that makes people uninhibited.”

“Does it bother you that you can’t have children?”

Martin looked as though it did, but he said, “No. When you have children, those will be my children, too.”

“You like kids,” Henry said. “You’ll probably be a better father than me.”

Martin laughed. “I think you’ll be a good father when the time comes. That’s so many years from now. Of course, you’ll need a wife first!”

Henry didn’t like to think of his future wife, but it did remind him of Louis and his Miss O’Malley. “What do you think of Louis and this girl, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does it seem like a good idea for him to be involved with her? She might be trouble, after all.”

Martin looked uncomfortable. “Well, it’s not really my place—”

“I asked you,” Henry insisted. “Don’t act like a slave, Martin; act like a person.”

Martin glared at him, just for a moment, and then his expression returned to normal, attentive and interested. Henry did see this, and liked it, liked the glimpse of Martin’s real feelings, even if it did show that Martin perhaps found him a little irritating.

“I do think Mr. Briggs is taking advantage of this girl, if it’s all right to say so.”

“So do I, Martin!” Henry hurried to assure him. “He’s completely taking advantage of her! He’s never going to court her for real. He’s just using her for sex.”

“She must really like him. He seems very ungenerous toward her, but she’s still willing to have sex with him—and she’s a free girl! It’s very reckless of her, I must say!”

This made Henry think. “Do you think that free people and slaves…mingle at this dance hall? Free boys with slave girls, free girls with slave boys, that kind of thing?” It was taboo, of course, and punishable besides, but a very titillating idea.

Martin blushed, surprising Henry, and he leaned forward, eager for what Martin would say. “They do! Not openly, of course, but they do.” Even though it was just the two of them in Henry’s room, the door locked, Martin leaned in and in a hoarse whisper said, “Tom wasn’t just kissing slave girls!”

Henry was shocked and delighted. He reared back in surprise. “No!”

“Yes, I promise, that’s what he told me, and I don’t think he would tell me a lie.”

“I didn’t think he was lying,” Henry assured him. “I would think all sorts of people would line up to kiss Tom, actually.”

Martin laughed and gave Henry a sidelong look. “Would you, Henry? Would you get in line?”

Was he a little jealous? Henry would like it if he was. “What if I would?” he asked. “What would you do if I did?”

Martin put down Henry’s folded socks and crossed to the bed, pouncing on top of Henry and holding his wrists at his sides. “I wouldn’t let you get in line. I’d overpower you.” He kissed Henry and bit his lip. “I’d claim you and drag you off. I’d scare Tom away.” He let Henry’s wrists go and Henry embraced him. They rolled around on the bed and undressed in stages, playing that Martin was someone else’s slave that Henry met in a dance hall.

“Does that ever happen?” Henry asked, breathless and half-undressed. “Does a master ever fall for someone else’s slave?” He imagined what would have happened if Adam Pettibone had taken Martin at auction, how he’d have had to look at Martin in the yard at lunch knowing he’d never be able to touch him, and the notion was terribly romantic and sad, so sad.

Martin was also breathing hard, his lips slick with spit and his eyes glazed. He sat up and said, “I-I don’t know. I’m sure it does happen. Maybe a master meets a slave at a swap and there’s a spark…I don’t know. Do you really want to talk about it now?”

As he lay in bed with Martin that night, Henry lamented that he didn’t have some cousin or childhood friend he could claim as a sweetheart. He knew so few girls! His only female cousin was four years older, and Louis’ older sister Susannah was two years older and engaged to be married besides. In any case, claiming a romance with Susannah certainly wouldn’t fool Louis, and Louis was the main person Henry wanted to fool. He supposed he could make up a completely imaginary girl, but felt quite sure he wasn’t clever or quick enough to get away with such subterfuge. Martin would be, of course, but it would hardly be practical to have Martin answer all of his friends’ questions about his made-up sweetheart. No, it was better to stick to being a late bloomer, though at his age and with his increasingly adult appearance, that was becoming a little ridiculous, too.

Martin lifted his head groggily from Henry’s chest. “Henry,” he said. “Go to sleep.”

“Did I wake you?”

“You’re thinking too hard,” Martin complained. “It makes you tense up.” He gave Henry’s chest a little thump, as if to soften it.

Sighing, Henry made a concentrated effort to relax and pulled Martin close. He would figure something out. He thought that if he could hold out long enough, then maybe Louis would be willing to accept a girl like Wendell’s Betsy for Henry, a nice girl. Henry thought he was very capable of enjoying time with a girl if he could be confident that she didn’t want anything physical from him, no kissing or caressing. Maybe Martin would have a plan; he should ask for Martin’s help.

He rubbed his cheek on Martin’s hair and fell asleep and dreamed that he was standing in a long line, and when he finally got to the head of it, Tom was there kissing two girls. When Tom saw Henry, he waved one of the girls off and invited Henry to join in. Henry hesitated, but then the remaining girl shook her tawny hair back from her face, and it was Martin’s face, it was Martin smiling and beckoning, and he went willingly into their arms.

At mid-month, Henry and Martin took a Saturday morning ride in the park, as had become their habit. It was very cold, horses and riders both breathing out clouds of steam, and Martin’s cheeks were attractively pink. Henry thought him so very handsome, sitting up slim and straight on Partita’s back, that it made him shy to look at him. As they rode, Henry was on the lookout for someplace within the park where he might share some level of intimacy with Martin, a kiss at the very least. The bare winter trees offered little cover for illicit activities of any sort; he would have to wait until spring to see which likely places were most secluded.

Henry felt a little guilty for not including Cora this week, but he wanted the option to really ride, to gallop his fine horse, and he couldn’t do that if he was charged with the care of a child on a pokey pony. Martin, he thought, would have been willing to bring her anyway. Martin made a good brother, a better one than Henry. He imagined Martin had been beloved by all the little boys at Ganymede, and thought that there were probably boys who missed him still.

“Look, Sir, a cardinal!” Martin pointed with one slim black-gloved finger. “Do you see it, Sir? There in the bushes?”

Henry did see it, a flash of vivid color against a background of grey and brown, dried leaves and bare branches. “I see it.”

“It makes me think of your Halloween costume, Sir, from when you were small. I wish I could have seen you in it.” Martin sounded so wistful, so much like he really regretted never having had the opportunity to see Henry in his little red bird costume, and Henry was almost overwhelmed by the reciprocal affection he felt for him.

The bird flitted ahead, a bright little beacon.

Henry was besotted, infatuated, enthralled. He had never known anyone like Martin before, and he couldn’t imagine there was any other like him in all the world. He was a little nervous about the strength of his feelings, and his suspicion that he might be falling in love was seeming more and more like a conviction. He wished he could know if Martin felt anything remotely similar, but there was no way to ask him without giving his own feelings away. They belonged to one another, certainly, and Henry was glad of it, but that was sexual possessiveness and not necessarily love.

It could be love, though. It might mean that.

“Oh, there’s his mate, Sir, do you see?” Martin was pointing again.

“Where?” Henry craned his neck to look. The red bird jumped from one twig to another, seemingly alone. “I only see the one.”

“She’s not red, Sir. She’s brown on top and red beneath, like she’s wearing a fancy petticoat. You’ll see it when she flies, Sir.”

“A petticoat?” Henry laughed.

Martin laughed, too, and colored. “That’s how it was explained to me when I was a boy, Sir.”

The red bird darted ahead again, this time followed by a brown bird who showed flashes of red as she flew, revealing her secret beauty.

“Do you want to gallop, Sir? Partita wants to run.”

They galloped around the top of the reservoir and Henry purposely let Martin get a short distance ahead so he could admire him, his perfect ass in tight breeches and his tawny tail bouncing against his back.

Martin turned and grinned at him, calling out, “Catch me, Sir!” as he put on speed.

Henry put his heels to Marigold’s sides and made a valiant effort to catch him. When Marigold pulled even with a last burst of effort, Martin put out his hand and touched Henry’s arm and turned his beautiful laughing face toward Henry as they slowed the horses.

“Partita’s faster, isn’t she, Sir?”

“Lucky for you,” Henry said, “since you’re the one who likes races.”

“But you liked that, didn’t you, Sir?” Martin looked puzzled. “You liked racing just now.”

“I just like doing things with you,” Henry admitted, blushing.

Martin blushed, too, and leaned close. In a hushed tone, he said, “You’re so sweet, Sir. I don’t think I’ve ever known a sweeter boy.”

Henry liked this idea, that he represented the pinnacle of some admirable quality.

They made their way back to the stables and Martin was eager to inform Arthur that Partita was definitively faster than Marigold, news which Jerry was not pleased to hear.

“Is this true, Sir?” Jerry asked, sounding affronted.

“I’m sorry to say it,” Henry told him, “but it’s true. Partita’s faster. Not by much, but by enough.”

Jerry frowned, looking aggrieved. “But Marigold’s an excellent horse, Sir. Overall, she’s a better animal than Partita, I can promise you that, Sir. She has perfect conformation, and her gait—”

Henry realized that Jerry thought Henry cared about racing, that Henry would want to put Marigold aside in favor of some faster animal. “I’m not getting rid of her, Jerry. I don’t care about having a faster horse.”

“He doesn’t care,” Martin reiterated with an affectionate laugh. “Don’t worry, Jerry. You’ll keep your darling.”

Jerry blinked and reddened. He cleared his throat self-consciously. “My apologies for overreacting, Sir. I do believe she’s a wonderful horse, Sir.”

“I appreciate how much you care for her,” Henry told him.

They walked back home in the chill air, their shoulders rubbing, casting shy glances at one another. Henry knew they should be more careful; anyone who saw them might realize how fond they were of one another.

“Maybe next week we’ll take your sister, Sir?” Martin cocked his head, curious what Henry would think of this idea.

Henry was less enthusiastic, but said, “We might do that. Depends on the weather, I think. Nurse won’t want her out if it’s cold like this.”

At home, they ate lunch in their riding clothes, melted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup with marble cake for dessert. They went upstairs and took turns in the shower, Henry sitting on the edge of the tub in his damp towel while Martin stood under the water, the room full of steam. When Martin got out, Henry dried him off and got down on his knees and nuzzled his cock, embracing his hips and holding him close. They lay down before the fire in their dressing gowns and necked awhile, neither wanting to get up and leave the other in order to fetch the oil.

At last, Martin got to his feet and padded over to the nightstand, returning with the green glass bottle. “Get me ready.” He knelt astride Henry’s hips and put the bottle in his hand.

They shared a leisurely fuck, the sort of thing that Martin referred to as lovemaking, wherein Martin rode Henry’s cock as if he had all the time in the world to do it, the sweet friction making Henry feel exquisitely raw. Martin asked permission to come, and Henry gave it to him. Martin looked beautiful, high color in his cheeks, and he whimpered Henry’s name and came hard, his semen splashing hot against the underside of Henry’s jaw and dripping down his neck. Martin bent to lick him clean while Henry held his hips and fucked up into his ass. Henry came loudly, wanton groans, and wrapped his arms around Martin’s back and wouldn’t let him go, instead holding him close and rubbing his shoulders and neck and playing with his hair.

After Martin had washed Henry with soap and water, he let himself be drawn back down to lay on the carpet. Martin looked so beautiful in the firelight, a gilded faerie, and Henry wondered if the firelight made him magical, as well, but was too shy to ask.

Martin was the beautiful red bird, Henry thought, and he was the brown, the best of himself kept secret. He rubbed his face on Martin’s hair, breathing in vetiver and clean skin, and slept, dreaming that their bodies were covered in sleek feathers and they raced through the air from tree to tree, Martin always just a little faster, always urging him on.

Fearful of his father’s cold judgment, Henry panicked and made a last-ditch effort with his schoolwork as the term came to a close, sometimes even foregoing after-school sex until he’d completed his assignments. Martin seemed somewhat baffled by Henry’s frantic efforts, as Henry had successfully led him to believe that he did perfectly well in school on his own and required no help. Even now he refused Martin’s offers of assistance. It was inevitable, perhaps, that Martin would find out he was stupid, but Henry would put off the discovery as long as possible.

On Wednesday afternoon, with a week left in the term, Henry diligently plodded through a chapter in his history book as Martin sat sewing a button back onto Henry’s school jacket.

Martin cleared his throat. “Henry?”

“Yes?”

“Can we talk a moment? Only if I’m not interrupting.”

Henry was happy to be interrupted. “Of course. What is it?”

“It’s about my friend Sam.”

“Adam’s Sam.”

“Yes, Mr. Pettibone’s Sam. Henry, I’m so worried about him! Mr. Pettibone treats him so terribly. Someone needs to do something!”

“What’s Adam doing to him?”

“He’s hurting Sam badly—and I'm afraid he's going to hurt him even worse than he's already done.”

Sam did seem to be a truly miserable creature, growing gaunt and looking haunted, but Henry had done his best to ignore this. Sam was Adam's property and Adam could do what he wanted with him, just as Henry could do as he wished with Martin. “It's a sad thing, I agree, but he belongs to Adam,” Henry said. “I don't know what you think I can do.”

“He's going to kill him.”

“If he does, there'll be a fine and his father won't be happy to pay that. Adam won't kill Sam,” Henry said with confidence, “because then he'd have to answer for it to Mr. Pettibone, and Mr. Pettibone would thrash him. It’s a really big fine!”

“He'd deserve a thrashing,” Martin said, aggrieved. “Sam is weak, Henry, and he's not allowed to say no. You don't understand because you're kind you'd never treat me that way, but not all the masters are as kind as you.”

“I can't talk to Adam, Martin. You know that. Adam might hurt Sam just to spite me.”

“Maybe if you were to ask Mr. Briggs…he sometimes talks to Mr. Pettibone, doesn't he?”

Henry shook his head. “You know they're not friends. You should be talking to the slaves of Adam's friends. They might have some influence with their masters.”

“Their masters are all intimidated by Mr. Pettibone,” Martin said, sounding disgusted. “Mr. Pettibone does terrible things to Sam, Henry. Tortures him. He burns him where his clothes cover, and he…he puts things inside him. Oh, Henry, please…”

It hurt Henry's heart to deny him. “Martin, there's nothing I can do.”

“You understand that if Mr. Pettibone had taken me at auction, it would be me being tortured and burned right now. It would be me being mistreated.” Martin had tears in his eyes and his chin trembled.

“Please, Martin,” Henry begged. “It’s terrible, what you’re telling me, but it doesn’t change that it’s Adam’s right to do what he wants. The law—”

Martin shook his head vehemently, not caring about laws. “Could you ask your father? Could Mr. Blackwell do something?”

“I-I don’t see how,” Henry admitted reluctantly. “You know our fathers aren’t friendly at all, Martin. It’s the completely opposite situation.”

“But what you said about the fine… Maybe Mr. Pettibone’s father would appreciate knowing about the possibility of a big fine, even if the information came from a hostile quarter.”

“Maybe we can bring it up with Timothy,” Henry said slowly. “If he would talk to Father, maybe he’d listen, but you know Father won’t listen to me.”

“I don’t know that, Henry,” Martin said stubbornly. “You never talk to him, so of course there’s nothing for him to listen to.”

“I’ll ask Timothy, all right? Timothy will know better than me how to broach the subject with Father. I get too nervous when I try to ask him for things and he always says no—you recognize that, at least, don’t you?”

Martin nodded in reluctant acknowledgment. “I would appreciate it so much. Sam is my friend. If it was your friend, wouldn’t you do whatever you could to help him? What if it was Louis?”

Henry wasn’t worried about Louis; he was more disturbed by the idea that Adam might have taken Martin home instead of himself, and that Martin would now be subject to Adam’s sick impulses.

“Why does he do these things to Sam, anyway?” Henry asked, confused and repulsed. “Who’d want to hurt someone like that?”

“He’s a sadist,” Martin said grimly.

“A what?”

“Someone who’s excited by hurting people. He likes to make Sam cry and beg him to stop. Sam is just little and weak, and if he forgets his place and tries to fight back, Mr. Pettibone punishes him for it.”

This was all so distasteful. Henry felt vaguely sick. “Look, Martin, I’ll do what I can. I’ll ask Timothy after dinner, all right? But you understand I can’t force my father to act.”

“No, Henry, of course not. But anything you can do, I’ll appreciate it so much.” Martin’s eyes were very green and shiny with unshed tears. He looked a little relieved, though. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, then set his glasses back on his nose and returned his attentions to Henry’s button with a renewed sense of purpose.

After dinner, Henry announced that he had a question for Timothy if Father didn’t mind and Father agreed, making his way upstairs alone. Henry realized belatedly that Father probably assumed it was some very personal matter along the lines of obtaining oil for fucking and blushed in utter mortification. However, he had Timothy’s attention, and he’d promised Martin, so he asked his question.

“What is it you need, Sir?” Timothy asked. He was always so calm, so kind.

“I want you to ask Father something for me, if you will.”

“Surely you could ask him yourself, Sir? Your father is very receptive to your requests.”

Henry did not think this was the case, actually, but he did not want to argue the point with Timothy.

“I get very nervous talking to Father,” Henry pointed out. “He’s not very patient with me and it just makes things worse.”

“All right, then, Sir. What can I do for you? What is your question?”

“It’s about Mr. Pettibone’s son, Adam.”

Timothy frowned. “The boy who bit you, Sir. I remember him well.”

“Yes, him. He’s mistreating his slave, Timothy, doing terrible things to him. Martin told me about it.” Henry glanced back over his shoulder at Martin, who gave him an encouraging nod. “Martin’s afraid that Sam—that’s Adam’s slave—might be killed if Adam continues as he’s been going.”

Timothy frowned and looked very concerned. “How distressing, Sir,” he said. “But I do wonder what you think Mr. Blackwell can do about it? Masters have every right to mistreat their slaves with impunity. It’s a sad fact. That would never happen here, though, Sir. We’re very fortunate here, in your father’s house,”

“Maybe you remember,” Henry suggested, “that it was Mr. Pettibone who was bidding against us for Martin. If he’d won, it would be Martin that Adam was torturing now. The idea has me so upset, Timothy.”

“There was never any chance that would have happened, Sir,” Timothy said with confidence. “Your father would have paid any price to get Martin for you. But I do understand your feelings.”

“I know Father and Mr. Pettibone don’t like each other, but don’t you think Mr. Pettibone might like to know that things are serious? That Adam might be about to incur a huge fine for killing a slave? Surely, he’d want to know that, even if it was someone he didn’t like telling him.”

Timothy looked down at his hands, frowning and examining his very clean nails. “I will talk to Mr. Blackwell, Sir, but I’ll warn you that I don’t think he’ll want to get in the middle of another family’s business.”

“You should ask Martin about it,” Henry said. “Martin can tell you details and you’ll see that it’s very serious.”

“I believe you, Sir.” Timothy reached up and put a hand on Henry’s shoulder and gave him a little squeeze. “You’re a good boy and a good master.”

Henry was grateful for the praise.

“We’ll talk upstairs,” Timothy said to Martin. “I have some questions for you about this poor boy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tim. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

They followed Timothy up the stairs and Martin gave Henry’s hand a quick squeeze, gratitude in his touch.

Later, in bed, Martin was touchingly submissive, whispering, thank you, over and over as Henry fucked him.

“Not that I don’t love how sweet you’re being,” Henry told him as he lay in his arms, “but understand that my asking doesn’t mean my father will do anything.”

“Oh, I understand, Henry. But you’re trying to help me. It means so much to me that you’d try!”

Nothing was said all the next day, nor was there any word at Friday breakfast. Henry did not receive an answer until dinnertime, when Father’s voice stopped Henry’s hand midway to his mouth with a forkful of stuffed capon.

“Henry.”

“Yes, sir.” Henry put down the fork.

“Regarding the issue you brought up to Timothy the other day…”

Henry could sense Martin standing up straighter, leaning forward.

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s a terrible shame, son, that all that is required of a slave owner is money. A master needn’t be fair, or kind, or decent, you understand. A man need only have the coin to buy a slave and he holds a life in his hands.” Father paused and took a sip of his wine. “I’ve raised you to be a moral, decent master, I think, and I commend you, son, for your concern for this poor boy. But you have to understand, there’s nothing I can do. Adam’s father will not be receptive to any warning from me. We’ve recently had very adversarial dealings, and I can guarantee he will not countenance my interference in his boy’s life. You can see this, can’t you, Henry?”

Henry could. He looked down at his plate, at the capon he no longer wished to eat. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, son.”

In a small voice, Henry said, “I understand, sir.” He could feel how unhappy Martin was, despair rolling off him in waves.

Henry ate little else, dreading having to face Martin’s disappointment. After dinner, Henry paused at the bottom of the staircase and let his parents go ahead. He took Martin’s hand, which was very cold, and looked at his pale, drawn face, his downturned mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Henry began.

“Please, Sir, not now,” Martin told him, his voice tremulous. “I don’t want to cry in front of your family.” They trudged upstairs and took their places.

The family hour dragged on and on. Pearl’s reading seemed especially tedious, and Henry felt sure that the chapter would never end. At last, Pearl closed the book and Father dismissed Henry, who left the room with Martin close on his heels.

In their rooms, Martin was businesslike. “Let me just take care of the laundry, please, Henry,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Henry told him, reaching for him.

Martin gently shrugged him off. “Not yet. Let me do my job, please.”

Henry allowed himself to be undressed and then brushed his teeth while Martin undressed and gathered their laundry and left the room. He got into bed, worried that Martin was angry with him and at a loss as to what he might be able to do to address the problem.

Martin returned in short order, unsmiling, and disappeared into the bathroom where he ran the taps and spit. He emerged naked and came and climbed into bed with Henry.

“All right, Henry,” he said. “If you would hold me now, I’d be so grateful.”

Relieved, Henry pulled him into an embrace and Martin immediately started to cry very quietly, his shoulders shaking and his breath coming in shudders, his wet face pressed to Henry’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said, kissing his forehead. “I’m so sorry, Martin.”

“You tried. Thank you for that.” Martin sniffed wetly and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“My father—” Henry began.

“I understand,” Martin said. “He really can’t help.”

“Sam has other friends, doesn’t he? Aren’t any of the others trying to help him? Maybe some of the other fathers have some influence with Mr. Pettibone.”

Martin shook his head. “Some of the others have tried, too, but I don’t think anyone will help. It’s intolerable, knowing about his situation and not being able to do anything. All I can do is be kind to him, but he needs more than that.”

“You’re a good friend, Martin.”

Martin shrugged. “It’s not enough, though. Something terrible is going to happen, I know it.”

Henry hated to see him so worried and upset. “Can I do anything to help you feel better?”

Martin kissed him. “You always can,” he said. “You always know what to do.”

Henry knew. He put Martin on his elbows and knees and licked his ass while he shook and sobbed for breath, then put him on his back and fucked him, hard and deliberate, and after they’d both come, he thought that he might have made Martin feel a little better, even if only temporarily. He could do nothing for Sam, but he might make up for it by taking the best care possible of his own beautiful boy.

As he had discussed with Martin at the beginning of the month, Henry had brought up the idea of a group outing to a vaudeville show with Louis and the others, and most of the boys were amenable to the idea. Some boys were avid theater-goers and had already been with their slaves several times since the beginning of the school year, but there were still some other slaves who, like Martin, had never seen a vaudeville show.

Saturday was cold, and Henry shivered a little inside his coat as they waited for the omnibus. He dared a glance over his shoulder at Martin, who was talking quietly with Peter. He was already fretful, fully aware he wouldn’t be able to sit with Martin at the theater. Masters would sit with masters, slaves with slaves.

They had talked about what Martin could expect while Henry dressed.

“Eight or nine acts, I expect,” Henry had told him. “There’s usually a singer or two, dancers, a little play, maybe a trained dog act or some other animal.” Henry thought about it a moment, then added, “You can count on someone telling jokes, or maybe a group doing something funny. There’s always a funny bit. Oh, and sometimes there’s a moving picture. You’ll like that. It’s like a peep show, but big, and up on a screen in front of everyone.”

Martin had cocked his head, contemplating this. “That sounds interesting, Sir. I’m excited, Sir, I really am!” Martin had held the waistcoat to Henry’s grey suit for him to put on and had given him a dazzling smile in the mirror. Martin was indeed in high spirits, and Henry wished he’d thought to take Martin to see vaudeville sooner, the very first week he’d had him.

Later, after a lazy morning and a leisurely lunch, they stood waiting on the sidewalk across the street from Henry’s house. Louis shuffled his feet on the sidewalk and breathed out a cloud of steam. He elbowed Henry and said, “Philip went Monday, and he says the girl who sings is a real doll.”

“Is that so?” Henry tried to sound interested.

“All curves,” Louis informed him, “and blonde. You know how I feel about blondes.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Henry laughed.

When they got on the omnibus, their friends who lived farther north were already aboard and they made their way to the rear of the car to join them. Charles and Robert sat together, as did Albert and David. Henry and Louis took the seat directly in front of Wendell and Freddie and immediately turned around to talk to their friends while their slaves joined the others in the aisle. Henry noted that Martin and Tom were effusively happy to see one another, as always, and they held hands a moment, the sort of simple, friendly gesture slaves made all the time, but Henry was deeply envious that Tom could do this with Martin and he could not. Tom, a couple of inches shorter, leaned his head on Martin’s shoulder, dislodging his own hat, and laughed, and Henry made himself turn away.

Henry realized that if David was part of the group, then his Alex would be also. Henry looked beyond Martin and Tom and saw that Peter was engaged with Alex on the far side of a group composed of Dick, Simon, Ralph and Stuart. Maybe Martin would be smart and keep as many of the other slaves as possible in between Alex and himself to serve as a buffer.

“I thought Gordon was coming,” Louis said. “Did anyone hear from him?”

There were shrugs all around, but then David said, “Gordon telephoned me this morning. He’s sore with Julian about something and said he didn’t want to do anything nice for him after all.”

Louis frowned. “So he’s going to sit around being mad at Julian all by himself instead of coming with us? That seems like it’s at least as much a punishment for him as it is for Julian.”

“They sure fight a lot,” Wendell noted. “I don’t think I’ve fought with Ralph even one time.”

“I never fight with Simon, either,” Charles said. “He’s so obedient, I don’t know how we’d even end up in a fight.”

They’d had their jealous moments on both sides, but Henry couldn’t imagine that he’d really ever fight with Martin, either. In order for there to be a fight, Martin would have to do something wrong, which was unlikely, or he’d have to get angry at some stupidity of Henry’s, which seemed more likely, but still improbable. Martin seemed to have a vast tolerance for Henry’s stupidity.

The rest of the boys denied that they fought with their slaves, either—everyone except for David, who was conspicuously silent. Remembering Alex’s behavior at the arcade, Henry thought it likely that David and Alex fought about all kinds of things, but exercised some discretion and did not question his friend on the matter.

They all got off the omnibus at 17th Street and walked over to Union Square, where most of the boys bought peanuts from a street vendor to share with their slaves. Henry was happy for the opportunity to stand close to Martin, their fingers brushing as they reached into the paper cone of roasted nuts.

“Sit behind me if you can,” Henry told him in a low voice. “I want to know you’re close by.”

Martin smiled. “I’ll do my best, Sir.”

They paid their dimes and went into the theater and Louis led the way to rows near the front. The boys filed into one row, and their slaves into the row behind. As he sat down between Charles and Louis, Henry noted that Martin was sitting one seat to his left, right behind Charles, and Tom would be sitting directly behind him. He felt jealous of Tom, of course, but he was also pleased that now he might have a chance to hear what sorts of things Tom said to Martin.

David held Alex in the aisle and spoke to him in a low voice, and they let all the other masters and slaves sit before taking the seats at the ends of the rows. David seemed to want to keep a close eye on his temperamental slave.

The hall was noisy, full of the sounds of people walking up and down the aisles, settling into their seats and talking. The orchestra played something cheerful and bright, lifting spirits and expectations. This would be fun, Henry thought.

Even though every one of them had picked up a program on the way in, Louis insisted on reading the bill aloud. There would be a dog act, a pair of tap-dancing brothers, a comedic routine, a husband-and-wife dance routine, a chanteuse-aerialist who would perform on a swing, a 10-minute intermission, a one-act comedic play, and the headliner, a magician-mesmerist who would perform illusions and hypnotize someone from the audience. The last act on the bill wasn’t a performer, but a technology: a moving picture. Henry was pleased Martin would have the chance to see this.

Charles was talking to Robert on his left, and Louis was talking to Wendell on his right, so Henry was quiet and listened for Martin’s voice through the hum of the crowd.

“…like a peep show, then?” Martin was asking, keeping his voice down. “Mr. Blackwell says it’s similar.”

“The way it’s done is completely different, but the effect is much the same,” Tom told him. “Except it’s so much bigger, of course. You’ll like it.”

“Mr. Blackwell thinks so, too.” Martin said, and the way he said Henry’s name seemed so affectionate, his voice caressing the syllables.

Tom thought so, too. “‘Mr. Blackwell’ this, and ‘Mr. Blackwell’ that,” he teased. “You’re entirely too fond of him, you know.”

“Hush!” Martin said in a loud whisper. “He can hear you, I’m sure of it!”

“He should be happy that you like him so well,” Tom said blithely, but he changed the subject. “You’re doing well to stay clear of Alex, by the way. He had a lot to say about you before the omnibus got to your stop.”

Henry could picture the disgruntled look that Martin would have on his face. “He’s horrid. I don’t know why he hates me so much.”

“You don’t like him, either.”

“He started it,” Martin insisted. “The things he says about Mr. Blackwell—about all the Blackwells! I have to wonder what Mr. Maxwell’s family must say about them. Where else would Alex have heard all these rude things?”

Henry had to wonder this, too. He’d always wanted to be better friends with David, and David had always seemed to genuinely like him, but perhaps Mr. Maxwell Senior had some beef with Father.

Louis turned from Wendell and asked Henry, “Which are you looking forward to most? The trapeze girl is the one Philip talked about. He said her costume leaves nothing to the imagination.”

“Oh.” Henry thought quickly. “Her, of course, and the magician, too.”

“That reminds me…” Louis turned in his seat and sought out Peter. “Peter! You’re not allowed to go up if the magician asks for volunteers.”

“Yes, Sir,” Peter said from down the row.

Other boys heard Louis’ instruction and likewise turned to give the same order to their own slaves.

“Why not?” Henry asked.

Louis rolled his eyes. “It’ll be the fortune teller all over again. Tell Martin.” When Henry hesitated, Louis elbowed him somewhat forcefully. “Go on, Henry. You don’t want him going up there.”

Henry turned to his left and looked at Martin, who had plainly overheard everything that Louis had said.

“Stay in your seat, all right? Don’t go up on stage.” Henry didn’t particularly want Martin volunteering, but he didn’t like forbidding Martin to do anything, either. Martin had actually handled the fortune teller all right. There was no reason to think he wouldn’t be able to handle a magician.

Martin smiled reassuringly. “Of course not, Sir. I don’t want to be hypnotized.”

Henry froze. He had been discounting the mesmerism portion of the act, but of course that was what the magician would need volunteers for, and he realized with no small degree of horror that there was no telling what secrets a hypnotized Martin might spill.

“You can’t volunteer,” Henry insisted with some urgency.

“I won’t, Sir, I promise.”

“Good. Thank you.” Henry turned to face forward, blushing a deep crimson. Louis looked at his red face questioningly but Henry stared straight ahead, unwilling to address his own embarrassment.

Louis shrugged and fell back into his seat. He fidgeted and kicked at the seat in front of him until the boy sitting there turned around and asked him to stop.

“It’d better start soon,” Louis said, a warning in his tone. Henry wondered what Louis proposed to do if it did not.

Charles turned around, towards Henry, and spoke to Simon over his shoulder. “Si. Hey, Si. Do you have any peanuts left?”

Simon, who was sitting on Tom’s other side, said, “I do, Sir. Here, let me get them—” The springs of Simon’s seat creaked as he dug the peanuts out of his coat pocket. Charles waited, watching impassively.

“Here you go, Sir.” Simon handed the crumpled paper cone to Charles, who rewarded his slave with a genuine smile.

“Thanks, Si. Do you want some? I’m going to eat them all otherwise.”

“Just a few more, then, Sir.” Simon reached for the peanuts and dug around in the cone right at Henry’s shoulder, and the sound of his fingers scrabbling was loud in Henry’s ear. Henry flinched away, and only then did Charles realize that they were being annoying.

“Henry,” Charles said. “Sorry. Do you want some, too?”

“Sure.” Henry would not turn down food. He and Martin had finished their nuts out on the sidewalk in front of the theater. He dared a glance back at Martin, who was not looking in his direction, but was instead talking to Stuart, who sat to his left.

“Philip says this trapeze singer is something else,” Charles remarked, crunching nuts. “Pretty, nice voice, good legs…”

“And blonde,” Louis interjected, leaning across Henry’s lap to do so. “She’s blonde and gorgeous, that’s what he told me.”

Charles and Louis carried out an animated discussion of the advertised merits of this performer as if Henry was not, in fact, sitting between them. Henry leaned back a little into his seat to make room.

“Do you want peanuts?” Tom asked in a low voice.

“You have some?” Martin was surprised and eager.

“I have almost half left. Mr. Caldwell said I could have the rest. Do you want some?”

“Of course,” Martin said happily. “Thank you, Tom.”

“I’m happy to share whatever I have with you,” Tom said, his tone light, but Henry felt confident that what Tom said had greater import than was evident on the surface.

There was a boy with his long-haired slave sitting in front of Henry, the two of them side by side, and they shared a cone of nuts and whispered back and forth, and Henry wished he’d decided to do it that way instead, just Martin and himself alone. It hadn’t been a mistake, exactly, to come with a group, and to let Martin spend time with his friends, but perhaps Martin would have been just as happy for it to have been the two of them on their own.

The orchestra had been playing the same cheerful tune since they’d entered the building, but the music stopped and the lights dimmed, and the people who’d been dawdling in the aisles hurried to find seats.

Someone came out from the wings and put a title card on an easel at the left of the stage, announcing the dog act. The curtain went up and the orchestra began to play, and a half-dozen little dogs were put through their paces. The crowd wasn’t settled, people still milling in the aisles, but by the time the tap-dancing brothers came onstage, most of the audience was reasonably quiet and paying attention.

Martin whispered to Tom, “I’d like to know how to dance like that, wouldn’t you? It looks like fun.”

“I’m not the dancer you are,” Tom whispered back. Henry wondered if Tom had seen Martin dance, or even if they had danced together. It was possible they had, after all; they might have been messing around at school.

Two men in loud plaid suits came out on stage and told funny stories, interrupting each other and adding asides, and made fun of every conceivable variety of immigrant, and the immigrant-heavy crowd laughed and cheered their approval. They followed up the immigrant jokes with jokes about slaves that also found an enthusiastic reception. At Henry’s back, Martin and the others were clearly delighted. It seemed that everyone liked the recognition one way or the other. They finished up with some insults and some slightly ribald jokes, nothing too blue, and left the stage to wild applause.

A husband and wife team came out in evening dress and did some fancy waltzing, as well as some steps Henry didn’t know the names of, and it made him wish he’d continued his lessons despite the fact that neither Louis nor any of his friends had found it necessary to do so. He certainly hadn’t wanted to be the only one. He’d get another chance, though; they would all, of course, be back in dancing school in the spring in preparation for the Metropolitan Ball.

The dancers spun offstage and the boys became restive, eager for the blonde trapeze artist who had so impressed Philip. When the curtains opened on an empty stage, she was lowered down from behind the proscenium arch on her swing. She was indeed blonde, and she couldn’t have been much older than Henry and his friends. She had a heart-shaped face, shapely legs in mint green tights, and a large and elaborate hat that was very securely pinned to her hair, as it stayed in place while she swung and then hung from her knees. She sang some sprightly, innocuous songs in a frisky contralto as she pointed her toes and swung back and forth. Henry’s friends were enthusiastic to a degree that startled him; he recognized that this girl was sexually desirable, but he hadn’t expected everyone to just come right out and desire her with such brazen enthusiasm.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Louis said, elbowing him.

“Er, yes,” Henry said, wracking his brain for something to say. “She’s very…” He was at a loss as to what he might say. If he merely said she was pretty, Louis would scoff at him, and then later he’d berate him for not being sufficiently interested in the girl, and Henry did not want Louis to become suspicious of him.

“That costume leaves nothing to the imagination,” Louis said happily. “You can see most of her bosoms.”

“They’re…round,” Henry said. “Very round.”

“Imagine having those in your hands,” Louis said, making squeezing gestures and clearly relishing the idea.

It wasn’t that Henry couldn’t imagine it—he could. It just meant nothing to him. The prospect of touching a woman’s breast had all the eroticism of squeezing the flesh of an upper arm, maybe. Not Martin’s arm, though, which had a hard oval muscle flexing under its warm, downy skin and was certainly the most arousing arm Henry had ever encountered. In Henry’s opinion, this blonde girl’s bosoms had nothing on the hard planes of Martin’s smooth chest, his little pink nipples ringed in reddish hair. Really, Martin was in every way superior, at least for Henry’s purposes. Despite the fairly short duration of their acquaintance, Henry was quite confident that he’d never come across another person he wanted more than he wanted Martin.

He dared a glance over his shoulder, and Martin caught him looking and smiled. Henry blushed and turned to face the blonde on her swing.

At his back, Tom said, “You at least recognize she’s pretty, don’t you?” in a low voice.

“Of course she’s pretty,” Martin replied, “She’s just not what I prefer.”

“Are you really so happy with Mr. Blackwell, then?” Henry had to strain to hear Tom’s voice now.

“I really am,” Martin asserted. “I have a very good relationship with Mr. Blackwell. He’s a kind master and he’s very considerate.”

The girl finished her song and leaned back on her swing, pointing her toe and blowing kisses to the crowd as she was raised back up into the rafters. Henry could hear no more of what Martin and Tom said, as the entire hall was going crazy applauding her and whistling. People were calling for an encore, but the orchestra was playing its cheerful idling tune and the house lights came up and it became clear that they’d seen the last of the blonde on the swing.

“Rats,” Louis said sullenly. “I thought we could at least get another song, didn’t you?” He did not wait for Henry to answer, but said, “Do you think we could meet her? We could go around to the stage door, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Henry hedged. He didn’t want to do this, but suspected he would end up standing in the alley with his friends anyway, waiting for the blonde to leave the theater.

Henry didn’t want to think about the blonde anymore. He turned in his seat and looked up at Martin, who was standing next to Tom in the narrow space in front of their seats.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Henry asked.

Martin smiled, dazzling and fond. “Oh, yes, Sir! I like the variety. I’m especially looking forward to the magician, though.”

Henry got to his feet so he could look Martin in the eye and needn’t twist himself up. “Have you seen a magician before?”

“Just one time, Sir. We had one perform at my last Halloween party at Ganymede.”

“What sort of tricks did he do?”

“Mostly card tricks, Sir. I think this magician will do something more elaborate, though, don’t you?”

Henry nodded his agreement. “Oh, definitely.”

Freddie called, “Tom, come here a moment, will you?”

“Excuse me, Sir,” Tom said, giving Henry a little nod. He touched Martin’s elbow, an affectionate gesture, and made his way down the row toward his master.

All around them, their friends milled about, moving up and down the rows and horsing around in the aisle. Henry knew he and Martin would become conspicuous just standing gazing at one another, but he couldn’t resist doing it anyway, just for a moment. Could Martin see his longing; did he realize? He wished he could be more overt, wished he could touch Martin the way Tom had done.

There was some commotion at the end of the row; Henry’s friends and their slaves were cheering on Ralph, who was walking on his hands in the aisle, his jacket hanging around his head and shoulders like a curtain.

“Can we watch, Sir?” Martin cocked his head, hopeful, and Henry wouldn’t say no.

“Sure. Come on.”

A bunch of working-class kids stood watching also, boys and girls both, and Henry and his friends made a point of not noticing them. Ralph did a sort of pirouette, making rapid adjustments with his hands, and then bent at the hips and let his feet drop to the floor, righting himself gracefully and giving a little bow. Masters and slaves alike gave him a little applause, as did a few of the onlookers..

“What other tricks do any of you know?” Louis asked the slaves in general.

“It’s not as impressive, but I can stand on my head, Sir,” Simon offered.

“I can also, Sir,” Martin said.

“Me, too, Sir,” Alex said. “Longer than either of them can.” He seemed oblivious to the dirty looks the other two gave him.

“We’ll have a contest,” Louis decided.

Henry did not want this to happen. He didn’t want Martin’s beautiful hair touching the dirty theater floor. Blushing, he asserted himself.

“No, we won’t. Martin can’t do it.” He flushed a deep crimson, but was determined to hold his ground.

“Why not?” Louis asked.

“I don’t want him getting lice or something else gross from this carpet. Who knows how often it gets cleaned?”

By the expressions on their faces, neither Charles nor David were now eager for their slaves to participate, either. Wendell frowned and whispered to Ralph, who took out his handkerchief and wiped ineffectually at the palms of his hands. Louis looked annoyed to be thwarted in his quest for amusement, but he did not try to argue in favor of headstands.

Everyone began talking about the girl on the swing again. Louis put forth the proposition that she was every bit as pretty as Albert’s sister Abigail, an assertion that Albert seemed uncomfortable with.

“They have similar coloring, maybe,” Albert allowed. “They’re really unlike otherwise.”

Henry only vaguely recalled Abigail on her bicycle in the park. She’d been a pretty, blue-eyed blonde with a heart-shaped face—so, actually quite like the aerialist, in fact. He didn’t recall the state of Abigail’s bosoms well enough to make that particular comparison, but he was sure Louis would be able to tell him whose were bigger, if only he cared to ask.

Now Henry’s friends were trying to recall funny lines from the comedic act.

Freddie said, “It goes like this, guys: ‘You know what the difference is between you and a horse? A horse wears shoes.’”

Wendell jumped in. “And the other guy says, ‘But I wear shoes.’”

Freddie was already laughing when he finished the joke. “So then he says, ‘Then I guess there’s no difference!’”

Although Freddie and Wendell were dying laughing, none of their friends were impressed.

“You have to deliver a joke just right,” Louis said, shaking his head, clearly feeling that his friends did not have the knack.

Freddie was determined to prove he could deliver. “Wait, what about this one? Wendell, do you remember? ‘Did you get your hair cut?’”

Wendell snorted, already overcome. “Ha! ‘No, I had my ears lowered!’”

Charles frowned and shook his head. “You guys only remember the corny ones.”

“They’re funny!” Freddie insisted. “You were all laughing; I heard you!”

The lights dimmed and everyone hastened to return to their seats.

“This had better be good,” Louis said, using the same warning tone he had earlier. “It’s going to have to be amazing to make me forget about her.”

“She was really good,” Henry said, trying to get into the spirit of things.

He had not been convincing. Louis gave him a sidelong look, slightly disgusted. “She was incredible, Henry. We’ll all try to meet her, and then you’ll see.”

The new title card announced a one-act play, and the curtains opened on a scene of a young gentleman and young lady in evening dress in a fancy parlor, their respective slaves in attendance. The premise was that these amorous young people wanted nothing better than to sit on the sofa and neck, but for various reasons their slaves wanted to keep them apart. The scene was farcical, physical and frantic, and ended with the two slaves wedged between their sulking masters on the little sofa, locked in a fervent embrace and kissing passionately in proxy.

While it perhaps had not met the high standard set by the blonde on her swing, Louis still seemed to enjoy the performance, elbowing Henry and guffawing throughout.

At last, it was time for the magician. Henry turned to glance at Martin, who was clutching Tom’s arm and whispering into his ear in an animated fashion, and Henry rather wished he hadn’t seen it. He wanted to be the one who shared Martin’s excitement. He wanted Martin to cling to him in anticipation of enjoyment. There had to be someplace they could do that sort of thing, but he didn’t know where to begin to look.

The music reached a crescendo and the curtains opened on an empty stage. The magician emerged from a cloud of roiling smoke, an elegant fellow in a tailcoat and silk hat who struck a dramatic pose near the lip of the stage. When he swept the hat from his head, his brilliantined hair was as smooth as glass. He showed them the empty interior of the hat and then proceeded to pull a snowy white rabbit out of it. He held the little rabbit in one hand by the scruff of its neck and it kicked feebly at the air as it blinked its pink eyes. He held the rabbit with both hands and then, with a tearing gesture, suddenly had two rabbits, one in each hand.

All around, the audience was erupting into bursts of excited applause.

“How did he—?” Martin asked in a thrilled whisper.

“I don’t know!” Tom whispered back, equally thrilled.

The little rabbits were then somehow recombined into one big, fat rabbit and a pretty dark-haired girl in a skimpy sequined costume and pink tights came out to collect the animal, smiling as she carried it offstage, cradled against her breast. This comely assistant was greeted with near-universal approval by the mostly male audience, and it was likely no accident that she returned to the stage in short order, posing discreetly off to the side, but still very much visible, while the magician did some tricks with colorful silk squares.

Next the assistant wheeled out a large steamer trunk, red with black trim, and the magician climbed in and the lock was fastened. The assistant climbed on top of the trunk with the help of a step-stool and took a coquettish pose, knee bent and hip cocked, holding up a curtain which hid her from the audience. Everything was completely still, with only the barest shimmer of movement across the satin of the curtain, and then, with a dramatic musical flourish, the curtain was dropped, revealing the magician in her place. The magician helped his assistant out of the trunk while the audience applauded.

The magician asked for a volunteer and many hands went in the air, free and slave alike. He selected a young woman near the front who seemed particularly excited. As the assistant brought the girl up to the stage, the magician wheeled out a camelback sofa, grand and old-fashioned, and placed this at center stage.

The magician announced his intention to hypnotize the girl and free her from the bonds of gravity. She swayed on her feet as he told her she was light as a feather and free of the bonds of gravity. She was led to the sofa and lay down and was covered with a sheet. With a few eloquent words and a wave of his hand, her sheet-covered body rose in the air to hover above his head. While the crowd applauded this amazing sight, the assistant whisked the sofa offstage.

The magician walked around and beneath the girl’s floating form, then stood back as she made a slow descent. When she’d reached the level of his waist, and accompanied by a dramatic build in the music, he pulled the sheet from her body with a grand flourish, only to reveal that she had utterly vanished.

Martin made a little noise, shocked and awed, that made Henry keenly feel his delight. How he wanted to be in Tom’s place! The crowd drew a collective amazed breath and began to clap in astonished appreciation. The magician bowed deeply, to one side of the auditorium and then the other, but the show wasn’t over yet. As the music reached yet another dramatic crescendo, there was a bang and a billow of smoke and the hypnotized girl emerged from the cloud at the rear of the stage, rubbing at her eyes and blinking in confusion. The assistant hurried to her side and seemed to be comforting and reassuring her. The magician bent over her hand once again, and then together he and the assistant led the girl to the stairs at the side of the stage and bade her farewell.

In the midst of thunderous applause, the magician took a pack of cards from inside his tailcoat and began flicking them into the audience with sharp, precise movements of his wrist. He seemed quite able to put a card into the hands of anyone he deemed worthy anywhere in the hall. Henry waved his hands like everyone else, but he wasn’t chosen. Robert was, however, as were David and Tom, who promptly gave his card to Martin.

“Oh, no, Tom, you keep it.”

“I only wanted it so I could give it to you,” Tom confided. “Go on, take it. It’ll be wasted otherwise.”

Henry seethed, but resisted the urge to intervene. He wasn’t going to deny Martin the gift.

Martin leaned forward and put his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Look, Sir. See what Tom’s given me.” He passed the card to Henry. It was a color lithograph of the handsome magician and his lissome assistant, holding between them a silk hat with a white rabbit inside. It was signed in an extravagant, looped hand across their images. The reverse side had an advertisement for a stomach remedy.

“Do you see, Sir? It’s signed.” Martin squeezed Henry’s shoulder.

“It was very kind of you to give this to Martin, Tom,” Henry said stiffly.

Tom blushed under Henry’s scrutiny. “I could see Martin wanted it more than me, Sir,” he offered bashfully. “Martin is my good friend, after all.”

The magician and his assistant took a great many deep bows, playing to all corners of the auditorium, and left the stage with the crowd’s enthusiasm still high.

Henry turned and said, “Next is the motion picture,” although surely Martin knew this; Henry just wanted to have some further interaction with Martin, however insubstantial.

Martin leaned forward, close enough that his breath tickled Henry’s ear. “I’m excited to see it, Sir.”

All around them, people who were jaded about motion pictures were getting up and leaving. Half of Henry’s friends were on their feet and moving toward the aisle. Robert and Charles pushed past Henry’s knees.

The motion picture started with an image of a train roaring down a track.

“I can’t see, Sir,” Martin complained.

Henry got to his feet. “Stand up and watch,” he said. “If you block someone’s view, well, they can just stand up, too.”

Much as with the Mutoscopes, the theme of motion pictures was motion. Following the train, there was a scene of Niagara Falls thundering down from a great height, then horses galloping around a track, then dancers in a ballroom. Henry kept darting glances back at Martin to see how he enjoyed this, and he seemed quite rapt.

Louis elbowed Henry. “We’ll meet you in the lobby, all right?”

“We’ll just be a few minutes,” Henry told him. “I want Martin to see all of it.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “You spoil him,” he said, though his tone suggested there wasn’t really anything wrong with this.

At the end of the row, Freddie called to Tom. “Come on, Tom. We’re leaving.”

Tom frowned, creasing his smooth brow. “I’ll see you in a minute or two, then,” he said, touching Martin’s arm.

Martin kept his eyes on the screen. “All right, Tom. I’ll be out shortly.” He reached to put his hand on Henry’s arm. “It’s amazing, isn’t it, Sir? The things people think of!”

Martin, Henry thought, was the sort of person who would think up motion pictures if they didn’t already exist. Henry was the sort of person who’d live in a cave and spend his days breaking things up with rocks if someone else hadn’t invented civilization for his benefit.

When the motion picture was over, Henry made his way to the aisle slowly, dawdling to enjoy just a few more moments alone with Martin as they each made their way along their rows to the aisle. “Did you like it? Not just the motion picture, I mean, but all of it.”

“It was wonderful, Sir,” Martin said earnestly. “I can’t stop thinking about the rabbits, Sir. How do you suppose he did that?”

Henry was at a loss. “The only explanation I can come up with is that he’s able to do actual magic. You know, witches and warlocks stuff.”

Martin snorted at this idea. “It has to have been a trick, Sir,” he mused, “but I can’t begin to guess how it was done.”

Making their way up the aisle toward the lobby, their shoulders touching, Henry said, “Do you want ice cream? I’m sure everyone is planning to go.”

Martin laughed. “Of course I do, Sir. When have I ever not wanted ice cream?”

After ice cream, Albert went home, taking Stuart with him, but everyone else went to the arcade. Henry got change for a dollar and gave Martin most of the pennies and watched as he went to play with the lung strength tester with Tom and Simon. Reluctantly, Henry turned his back on his slave and made an effort to pay attention while his friends took turns testing the strength of their punches. Henry had his turn and put in a poor effort but still came in second to Wendell.

“You usually beat me,” Wendell noted. “Are you sick or something?”

Henry shrugged, embarrassed. “I’m just tired, I guess.”

They plugged pennies into all the strength testers and then the gambling machines. Henry had no better luck with gambling games than he did with poker and lost all thirty-two pennies he had in his pocket.

“Do you need to get more pennies?” Louis asked. “Or do you want to borrow some?”

“I’m fine,” Henry said, putting his hands in his coat pockets. “I’ll just watch for a bit.”

“That’s no fun,” Louis said. “I’ll give you pennies, all right?” A bell rang on Louis’ machine and it disgorged a handful of pennies. “Here, have these.”

“No, really, I’m fine.”

Louis shrugged. “Suit yourself, then.”

Henry looked around. It was only Louis, Charles and himself, everyone else having moved on to another set of machines. “Say, I wanted to ask you something…”

“Sure. What is it?” Louis put another penny into the machine he’d just received a payout from.

“You, too, Charles.”

Charles looked up from his game. “Me, too, what?”

“I just wondered if everyone knew about what was going on with Sam.”

“Sam?” Louis said. “Oh, wait—Sam! Adam’s pitiful little guy, right?”

“Martin’s been really worried about him. He’s afraid Adam’s going to kill him.”

“Adam won’t kill him,” Louis said confidently. “There’d be a huge fine.”

“That’s what I said,” Henry told him, “but Martin wasn’t convinced. He asked me to get my father to do something.”

Louis scoffed at this notion. “Like what? Besides, your dads hate each other. Why would Mr. Pettibone listen to your dad about anything?”

“I told him that, too,” Henry admitted. “But I asked Father anyway, and he can’t help. Not that I was surprised.”

“Simon told me about what’s going on just this past week,” Charles admitted. “There’s nothing I can do, either, and my father refused to even consider getting involved.”

“But do you think there maybe is something we could do?” Henry asked. “I mean, Adam won’t listen to any of us, but do you think maybe one of his friends…?”

“If Adam’s mistreating Sam,” Louis said, “then Adam’s friends must know about it. They’re all swapping with him, after all. They’d see bruises or whatever, right? So either there’s nothing to see, or none of them care, and so they won’t help Sam anyway.” He put another coin in the slot and pulled the handle. “Sam isn’t any of our business, anyway, guys—you know this. You wouldn’t want Adam to interfere with how you treat Martin or Simon, would you?”

“But I’m nice to Martin,” Henry pointed out. “I’m not torturing him. There’d be nothing to interfere with.”

“It’s too bad,” Louis said with seeming sincerity, “but it’s best to put it out of mind. You can’t do anything about it, and worrying isn’t going to do either you or Sam any good. Just be extra-nice to Martin, or something.” He paused and then gave a short laugh. “You do that anyway, though, don’t you?”

“What?” Flustered, Henry tried to hurriedly hide his red face from his friend.

“Be extra-nice. Both of you do it, actually. Peter’s always telling me how good Martin has it, and he says the same things about Simon.”

Charles reddened, too. “I’m not extra-nice. I do like him, though, after all.”

David appeared at Henry’s elbow. “Hey. What’re you talking about? Why the red faces?”

“I was just saying how much these two spoil their slaves,” Louis said, nodding at Henry and Charles.

“Simon is not spoiled,” Charles said, almost angrily. “He’s a good slave, and he’s rewarded accordingly.”

“Martin isn’t spoiled, either,” Henry asserted, though he was less certain that this was true, at least by the standards of his classmates. All the Blackwell slaves had it a little better than slaves in other houses, it seemed, but Henry was providing additional perquisites that not even any other Blackwell slave was getting—all the kissing and cocksucking and ass-licking that went on between Martin and himself.

While Louis continued to play the gambling games, Henry looked around the room to see where his friends were and, more importantly, where Martin might be. He spotted Martin with Tom, Dick and Peter bending over the Mutoscopes. Nearby, Alex yammered at Ralph and Simon, gesticulating at Martin’s group with a wild gleam in his eye. Simon was frowning, and Ralph seemed skeptical. Henry didn’t like the look of this.

“I’m going to go check on something,” Henry told his friends. “I’ll just be over there.”

“Fine by me,” Louis said, not looking up.

Henry rounded the end of the row of games and walked past Alex and the others, making a point of glaring at Alex as he passed. Alex glowered back at him, which Henry thought very impertinent.

“Martin.”

Martin’s head came up, immediately attentive. “Sir?”

“Will you be ready to go soon?”

“Oh!” Martin was surprised, but recovered quickly. “Of course, Sir. Whenever you are.”

“Say your goodbyes, then, all right?”

“Of course, Sir.” Martin turned and put his hand on Tom’s arm, and Tom seemed very disappointed that Martin was leaving.

Henry said his goodbyes, also, citing homework and the approach of Martin’s dinner hour, and his friends accepted these reasons well enough. He and Martin passed through the doors onto the sidewalk and headed for the omnibus stop.

“Sir? Is everything all right, Sir?”

“Oh, sorry. Yes, everything’s fine. I just saw that Alex was about to start trouble and I didn’t want to stick around for it. Besides, I want to be alone with you.”

Martin’s cheeks pinked at this statement. “Oh, and I with you, also, Sir!” He touched Henry’s arm, fleeting contact, and Henry wished that they could walk close together, arm-in-arm, like a young man might do with a young lady.

While they stood at the omnibus stop, shivering in the wind, Martin asked, “What was Alex doing, anyway, Sir?”

“Talking crazy and pointing at you,” Henry told him. “I overheard Tom telling you that Alex was disparaging you before we got on the omnibus today. I didn’t want to chance things turning ugly.”

Martin frowned. “I’m not afraid of him, Sir.”

“I didn’t say you were. I just don’t want him to even have the chance to say anything bad about you. Or me, either.”

“That’s kind, Sir, but you can’t always protect me, you know. After all, I’m supposed to protect you.”

Henry did not like the idea of anyone hurting Martin, either physically or through insults, and he definitely didn’t like the idea of Martin taking damage meant for Henry. “We can protect each other,” he decided.

Martin leaned close and said, “You’re very good to me, Sir,” and gave him a very meaningful look, full of seductive promise, which boded well for the rest of their afternoon.

They both stood in the aisle on the crowded omnibus, Henry surreptitiously smelling the vetiver emanating from Martin’s hair. At home, Paul let them in and took their coats, and they went upstairs and made each other feel as good as they knew how.

Martin got up from the bed, dressed, and went down for his dinner, and Henry slept while he was gone, dreaming that Martin volunteered to go up on stage, and he tore rabbits in two until their world was upholstered in a quivering blanket of white fur, and Henry floated up to join him, doing impossible things and getting away with it.

As November drew to a close, Henry overheard his friends talking about the Thanksgiving plans they had with their families and recognized that he had none, that his parents might well not be celebrating, or at least not celebrating together. Father would no doubt be going to a restaurant, as all fashionable people did. Mother would likely keep to herself, perhaps with an extra dose of laudanum to mark the holiday. Henry would not be invited to join in either case.

Anticipating this, as well, Martin suggested they confer with Timothy and that perhaps Henry could arrange to take a meal with Cora. Henry liked how Martin was always thinking of Cora, thinking of her in his stead. He felt like he couldn’t neglect her too long without Martin realizing it and taking pains to correct the situation.

“What did you do at Ganymede for Thanksgiving, anyway? Was there a big celebration?”

Martin was putting away Henry’s clean, starched collars and cuffs. “Did you know that Mr. Tim is suggesting we buy your new shirts with attached collar and cuffs?”

“No, I didn’t. Why?”

“Well, the detachable are really designed for people who can’t do laundry every day, and we certainly can.”

“Oh. Well, that’s all right with me, I suppose. But what about Thanksgiving?”

“I think it was just normal, really, Henry. We had a big dinner and we were told to think about things we were thankful for.”

“What did you have for dinner, then?”

“All manner of meats and vegetables. Cranberry relish. Pumpkin pie. We’d have a huge spread and we’d all eat until we felt sick.”

“What were you thankful for?”

Martin smiled to himself. “My training. I knew it would take me somewhere good.” He thought another moment and added, “My friends, as well, and the rest of the boys. We were each other’s family, you see.”

Henry understood it was sad that Martin was separated from his family forever more, but it was hard for him to feel too worked up about it, ambivalent as he was about his own family. “Is there anything special you want for Thanksgiving? Any particular food?”

“Well, pumpkin pie, I suppose. That would make me happiest of anything.”

“I’d like you to eat with me,” Henry told him, “if my parents aren’t going to be around, which I’m sure they aren’t.”

Martin looked pleasantly surprised. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

On Tuesday, Henry accosted Timothy in the hall outside Father’s office and asked him about Father’s holiday plans.

“Yes, Sir, it does happen that your father has an engagement elsewhere on Thanksgiving evening,” Timothy said, seeming slightly ashamed to tell him so. “There will be accommodations made for you here, of course.” Then Timothy added. “Did you have any requests, Sir? I’ll make sure they’re taken under consideration.”

“I want to eat with Cora,” Henry said decisively. “If Mother isn’t coming down, I want Martin to take his meal with us. And I’d like turkey and pumpkin pie.”

Timothy smiled. “That all sounds very possible, Sir. I’ll speak to your father.”

After talking to Timothy, they went upstairs and found a new Pals on Henry’s desk. They had been planning on a ride, but it was threatening rain, and Henry was eager to have the story read.

“You’re so excited,” Martin said, amused, untying Henry’s boots.

“I can’t help being excited,” Henry said. “I love how you do the voices. And I need to know what happens with that stupid Dooley!”

Martin climbed up on the bed and sat cross-legged facing Henry, magazine open in his lap. “Well, let’s get started then.”

Theo and George had returned to the Dauntless for reinforcements. They enlisted Boot, Leon and Elmer, all long-time members of Theo’s crew, all devoted to his cause, all sworn enemies of Dr. DeSade. Back on shore, they crept quietly onto the pier where DeSade’s men had tied their dinghy and capsized it to prevent their escape.

“Waste of a perfectly good boat,” Henry remarked.

Martin looked at him over the top of his glasses, an eyebrow cocked. “Hush, Henry, I’m reading.”

Dooley was being held in an open area at the center of a maze of crates and barrels. The rescuers crept through the narrow corridors following the sounds of Dooley’s captors’ voices. When at last they reached the center of the labyrinth, they crouched behind some gunpowder kegs and listened. Dooley was bound and gagged, tied to a chair. He could be seen quite plainly, as there was a lamp hanging high above, illuminating a world map marked liberally with red ink that was spread on a table before the five captors in their dark, hooded robes.

They were members, it seemed, of something called the Order of the Red Eye. In case readers had any doubts, George turned to Theo and whispered, “It’s DeSade, Sir!”

The Order seemed to be an international ring of rogues and fiends headed by DeSade and dedicated to spreading a cloak of infamy and terror over the entire world. This gathering was a meeting between the local members and two henchmen from DeSade’s ship. They planned to row Dooley out to the Ruthless to present him to DeSade as a special treat, knowing how pleased DeSade would be to have a member of Captain Drake’s crew to torture and, having discussed their plan, they began to implement it. Dooley, gag still in place and arms bound behind his back, was untied from the chair and jerked to his feet. Dooley struggled with his captors and was cuffed for his trouble before being dragged out of the circle of lamplight.

“Now!” Martin said in his Theo voice, raising his fist in the air and rising up a little off of the bed.

The rescuers took the Order men by surprise, coming at them with fists and knives and axes.

“See?” Henry said. “No guns. They don’t even have their cutlasses.”

“It is a little convenient, isn’t it?”

Dooley hid behind some powder kegs. The others fought manfully, knocking into crates and each other, kicking and punching and jabbing. George took a deep wound to his left upper arm and Theo came to defend him with a bellow of rage. The knife-wielding fiend made a jab at Theo, who stabbed him in the throat, and the villain died in a bubbling gout of blood.

“Are you all right?” Theo demanded. “The rest of you, go after them!” He tore his shirt into strips and wrapped George’s arm tightly as the other three ran out of the warehouse after the surviving villains.

George winced and cradled his left arm with the right. George said, “I’ve been better, Sir.” He promptly bled through his bandage and went limp.

There was a sound, a loud bang, as if someone had shot off a gun outside. Elmer came running back into the circle of lamplight. “They’ve shot off a flare and warned DeSade, Captain!”

Boot came in behind him. “They’ve escaped, Captain!”

“George is dying!” Theo said urgently. “We have to find a doctor!”

Theo picked up George’s limp body and carried him close to his chest back through the maze of crates, Elmer and the untied Dooley moving ahead of him and Boot and Leon behind, prepared to meet any foe with aggression.

The local constabulary was waiting for them on the pier in front of the warehouse, drawn to the scene by the signal flare. “What’s going on here, then?”

“This man is dying,” Theo informed them. “A handsome reward for the man who takes us to a doctor. I’ll answer any questions you have once he is seen to.”

Although George was bleeding dramatically and profusely, blood coursing down his arm and dripping steadily from his fingertips, he was saved from bleeding to death by the quick and calm attentions of the local physician. Shirtless Theo hovered nearby while the doctor was putting in stitches, his bare torso covered in brown smears of dried blood. George remained unconscious, breathing shallowly, under Theo’s watchful eye.

The doctor had good news. He told them that George wouldn’t be able to use his arm for some time, but he’d heal up fine with rest.

“Thank you, sir,” Theo said with great sincerity. “You have done me a great service.” Now he turned to the constables. “I believe you have some questions for me.”

The constables demanded an explanation for the body of the dead Order member. Theo told them that he had killed the man in self-defense and his crew corroborated his story. The constables seemed willing to accept this information at face value.

Henry was doubtful. “I think they’d have more questions. I mean, he just killed a man.”

Martin frowned. “Well, Captain Theo is very impressive…” It was clear, though, that he agreed the situation lacked verisimilitude.

The constables asked about the meeting Theo and crew had interrupted, and Theo related what little they knew about the Order of the Red Eye. “The ringleader is in the boat just outside the harbor,” Theo said. “If we hurry, there might still be time—”

“That boat set sail,” Theo was informed. “Not minutes after the signal.”

Theo and his crew left George resting in the doctor’s surgery and returned to the warehouse to examine the scene. The world map was liberally marked with red-ink eyes, presumably noting the locations of Order strongholds. The knife that had been used to cut George lay near the dead man’s hand, a fancy dagger with an ornate handle set with a red stone shaped like an eye. The constables didn’t recognize the dead man, which led all to believe that he had come from the Ruthless. Theo was allowed to take the map and dagger, and Elmer and Leon stripped the robe from the corpse and took that, as well.

They returned to the surgery to find George awake and cheerful, drinking soup brought for him by the doctor’s wife.

“You’ll have another scar,” Theo said fondly.

“Another reminder of an adventure we’ve shared, Sir,” said George.

“Really,” Martin said, “they should just kiss already, don’t you think?”

By the time they made it back to the Dauntless, it was well past dawn, and the Ruthless was nowhere in sight. Spreading the purloined map on the table in Theo’s quarters, they ascertained that the nearest Order location was four days’ sail away. Theo commanded his crew to set a course for the port and put himself to bed.

“Oh, Henry!” Martin said. “Listen to this! ‘Captain Drake lay down for a well-deserved rest, being careful not to jostle George, who slept peacefully beside him.’ So they do share a bed!”

“I knew it,” Henry said happily. “And I’ll bet he doesn’t just lay there next to him like a corpse. I’ll bet he curls up around him, all protective.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Is that all, then, for this month?”

“To be continued…” Martin read. “So, yes, that’s it.”

“Come here,” Henry said, beckoning. “Put down the magazine and come here.”

Martin folded his glasses and placed them on the nightstand before coming into Henry’s arms. He nuzzled Henry’s neck and said, “We have time before my dinner…”

They undressed quickly, and Henry imagined Theo undressing and getting into bed with George, spooning him and kissing the back of his neck. If George was anything like Martin (and Henry liked to think he was), he would want sex in spite of his injury, and it would be up to Theo to show restraint, to be mindful of George’s wound. Accordingly, Henry was careful with Martin, gentle, furtively accommodating an imaginary injury to his left arm and deeply relieved when Martin didn’t seem to realize what he was doing.

The day before Thanksgiving, which was also the last day of the term, all of the upper school boys and their slaves were to be taken uptown to the museum for cultural edification and enrichment. It was quite a production, with rented omnibuses to transport them and the upper school teachers serving as chaperones. Museum Day was a highly-anticipated event. The boys would be in high spirits, and their attention to the art would be erratic, at best.

Henry’s arts education had been quite limited. He’d enjoyed making a mess with paints when he was little, but that had ended once he’d left the nursery. The school had a drawing and painting teacher, Mr. Fletcher, but in order to take his class boys had to submit a portfolio and, besides that, the class was held after regular school hours, so Henry had never been interested. When Henry was little, Nurse had enjoyed taking him to the museum, but Henry had never gotten much out of it. He quickly grew bored looking at paintings, all the scenes blurring together in his mind.

Martin was excited, not just for the novelty of Museum Day, but for the art, as well. As he dressed Henry in his school uniform, Martin said, “I understand there are all manner of artifacts besides the paintings; all sorts of ancient things. It’s very interesting, I think.”

Henry thought that Martin would be one of the few attending who cared about the art and objects but did not say so. Instead, he determined to be more attentive to the exhibits, to display maturity, to impress Martin with his perceptiveness.

It made no sense that they had to go all the way downtown to school only to ride back uptown with the whole class in the rented omnibuses, but it was what they did all the same. There was a lot of standing around waiting for the adults to sort things out before they could board the omnibuses, and pretty soon everyone was pushing and shoving in good-natured fashion, restless to get underway. When at last they were allowed to board, the slaves went in one omnibus, Henry and his classmates in another, along with the stuck-up twelfth-year boys, which disappointed Henry a little, as of course he’d wanted to ride with Martin. As luck would have it, Dr. Foster was one of the chaperones in Henry’s omnibus and he was seeming especially strict this morning, his ill-temper truly unnerving, and the boys were accordingly subdued.

Louis and Henry sat together and Louis related his most recent encounter with Miss O’Malley in a hushed tone, but not so quietly that Freddie and Wendell, sitting in the seat in front of them, didn’t hear. Freddie turned around and blatantly listened in.

“I asked her if she’d suck me,” Louis said in his hoarse whisper, “but she said she’d only do it to me if I’d do it to her.”

“Really?” asked Freddie, intrigued. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not even talking to you,” Louis pointed out.

“But what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Louis admitted. “It seems fair. What do you think, Henry?”

“It seems fair,” Henry parroted. The idea was repulsive to him, though he was at pains not to show it. By now, he’d seen enough pictures to have a good idea of what a woman looked like down there, and it seemed fussy and complicated, with too many layers. He’d much rather be faced with a straightforward cock; he was good with a cock.

“I already know what she tastes like,” Louis admitted, and now Wendell turned around to blatantly listen, as well. “I licked my fingers,” he explained, “because I was curious, you know? I guess I liked it, actually.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem, right?” Wendell asked. “You want to do it to each other, after all.”

Louis screwed up his face. “Well…I just don’t know if it’s something I should do, in general. James won’t do it. He says he’s not in the business of catering to women and I wonder if he’s right.”

Despite not wanting to put his face anywhere near a wet cunt, Henry did believe that nothing but good could come of mutuality and sexual generosity whether with a man or a woman, and he opened his mouth to say this, but then worried whether it might make his friends wonder where he got such egalitarian ideas and how they played out in his own life, and shut his mouth again.

“What are you guys talking about?” Gordon leaned forward from the seat behind and stuck his head between Henry’s and Louis’. “Is this about that homely girl of yours, Louis?”

“At least I have a girl,” Louis pointed out. “A girl I have sex with.”

“I have a girl, too,” Gordon insisted. “A pretty one. And Anna jerked me off last time I saw her.”

“That was two weekends ago,” Louis said. “She was with a new fellow this past Saturday. Of course, I don’t know if she jerked him off or not…”

Gordon frowned, pressing his lips together until they were bloodless. He clearly had not realized Miss Brody might have other suitors. “Well, hell,” he said, sitting back hard in his seat.

Louis turned to face Henry and put a hand on his arm. “So you think I should do it, Henry? That it would be fair?”

“If you like her,” Henry told him, “why not be nice to her? That’s what I think.”

Louis thought on this a moment, biting his lip. “Maybe I should talk to James first.”

All of this talk about oral sex made Henry wish he had Martin’s cock in his mouth. He could practically feel the weight of it on his tongue, sliding between his lips, and these imaginings made his own cock start to stiffen. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and pulled his coat tighter around his body. He made himself imagine that he was required to lick a cunt and these thoughts went a good way toward deflating his erection.

“Why are you making that face?” Louis asked.

Henry’s cheeks grew hot and his ears burned as Louis laughed and gave him a good-natured punch in the shoulder.

They pulled up in view of the muddy construction site for the new wing of the museum that would create a grand Beaux Arts entrance on 5th, and the boys were overwhelmingly more interested in the building site than the prospect of viewing fine art. The omnibuses came to a halt before the museum and the boys spilled out onto the drive and were soon joined by their slaves.

“I’m a bit excited, Sir,” Martin murmured. “I’ve always wanted to come.”

“You should have said something,” Henry told him. “I would have brought you before.”

Louis appeared at Henry’s side, tugging on his sleeve. “Come on, you two. Dr. Foster’s doing a head count.”

The boys and their slaves filed into the museum building and the slaves all checked their masters’ hats and coats along with their own in the cloakroom. Upon his return with the claim tickets, Martin asked, “May I, Sir?” and quickly put Henry’s hair in order with a few deft touches. Henry was grateful for this little intimacy and, in looking around, saw several of his friends also being groomed by their slaves; it was a normal thing to do, after all.

Dr. Foster and one of the slaves’ teachers, Mr. Pitkin, were in charge of their group. Their group would see the picture galleries first, then eat a box lunch, then visit the sculpture galleries and view some antiquities. Over the course of the prior week, Dr. Foster had made it clear that he felt the boys were undeserving of the privilege of Museum Day, but his strong feelings did not exempt him from serving as a chaperone.

Mr. Fletcher, the art teacher, came around to their group and gave them a speech about art and its appreciation. He was a nervous young man with flighty hands and a poorly-modulated voice, his tone veering between inaudible and stentorian, and so the specifics of his instruction to them were mostly lost. However, he seemed to want them to view the artworks with aesthetics and history in mind.

Mr. Fletcher had prepared several mimeographs for the teachers to read aloud to the boys as they viewed some specific pieces of art and he left these in Dr. Foster’s reluctant hands. Henry thought the odds were good that Dr. Foster would not read these at all, and did not think he would give them to Mr. Pitkin to read, either. Young Mr. Pitkin seemed nearly as wary of Dr. Foster as were the boys.

Dr. Foster began telling them how he expected them to behave in the galleries and everyone tried to at least give the impression of listening.

“What does Pitkin teach you?” Henry murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

“Practicals, Sir. Stain removal and table settings. Things like that.”

“Do you like him?”

Martin shrugged. “He knows a lot, Sir.”

“Do you like any of your teachers?” How had he not asked Martin this before now? Henry cringed a little realizing how thoughtless and self-centered he was.

Martin gave a little smile. “I like Mr. Vance, Sir.”

“Which one is he?”

“Over there, Sir,” Martin gestured with his chin. “The tall fellow with dark hair.”

Mr. Vance was young, tall, dark and quite handsome, with an impressive mustache. Henry frowned.

“He teaches English, Sir,” Martin continued. “He’s very smart and tells good stories.”

“What kind of stories?” Henry asked suspiciously, not liking this idea at all.

Dr. Foster said, “Mr. Blackwell. Do you have something to share with the group?”

Henry froze. “N-no, sir.” An embarrassed heat swept over him as all eyes turned toward him and Martin.

Dr. Foster kept his steely gaze on Henry a few long moments more before rejecting him completely. It wasn’t until Dr. Foster had turned his attentions elsewhere that Henry could breathe again.

“All right then,” Dr. Foster said, sounding resigned. “We may as well go upstairs and begin.”

The paintings were hung in long galleries with skylights and were stacked three and four high in some places, every inch of wall space being used. Henry was quickly overwhelmed. There were so many paintings, and they competed for attention, and in looking at one the eye was invariably caught by another to one side or the other. They were all competently done, at the very least, and some of them were spectacular indeed, but they all jumbled together in Henry’s head to make one vast and terrifying painting that was entirely beyond comprehension. There was such a tumult in his mind, and all he wanted to do was get away, but he didn’t want to look weak or foolish in front of his friends, and he didn’t want Martin to realize how unsophisticated and unappreciative he was.

“Look at this one, Sir,” Martin said as he pointed to a little pastoral painting. “Such a beautiful sky. You can almost smell the grass, can’t you?”

“Uh, sure,” Henry said uncertainly, barely seeing the painting. He had been aware for a few minutes now that all of the other masters had separated from their slaves, the slaves congregating in one part of the gallery and the masters in another, though still close enough to call to the slaves if they were needed. He was being conspicuous standing here at Martin’s side.

Tom appeared at Martin’s other elbow. “Hello, Martin. Sir.” He bobbed a bow at Henry as he squeezed Martin’s arm. “What are you looking at?”

“This one reminds me of Ganymede,” Martin said to his friend. “There’s a field that’s just like this, only it’s full of cows.”

Louis was suddenly at Henry’s side, nudging him impatiently. “What are you doing? Are you actually looking at the art?” Louis scoffed at this idea. “C’mon. There’re some naked paintings on the other side.”

Martin turned to smile at Henry. “I’ll see you at lunch, then, Sir?”

“Yes, of course.” Henry let himself be led away, turning back to note how Tom eagerly took his place at Martin’s side.

The naked paintings were of mostly of nymphs and Henry was uninterested in unclothed nymphs, but he made the appropriate noises along with the other boys. Although it would have been better to have Martin with him, as well, Henry was relieved to have his friends’ clowning and chatter to distract him from the cacophony of art, all the competing priorities. As the familiar chaos calmed him, he began to notice things about the paintings, things he liked. A lot of these nymphs had Martin’s coloring, very pale with red-tinged hair, and Henry imagined what Martin would look like as rendered by various of these artists, long and sleek and hard where the nymphs were rounded and soft. None of the naked people in the paintings had pubic hair, and instead of cocks there were artful folds of drapery or leafy branches; Henry imagined Martin without pubic hair, imagined his robustly pink cock rendered ideally with invisible brush strokes, so perfect he could almost taste it.

Louis nudged him hard. “What are you thinking about?”

“Huh?” Henry quickly arranged his face in a neutral expression, though that didn’t stop him from blushing.

“You had this weird look on your face,” Louis said. “Something’s up with you today.”

“I-I’m just…” Henry was at a loss. “There are a lot of naked people in these pictures, is all.”

Louis laughed and gave him a friendly shove, and then Freddie and Wendell and Albert came to see what he was laughing about, and Dr. Foster shushed them all.

Henry stayed with his friends, paying attention to their remarks and jokes, but maintained a certain awareness of Martin, of where he was in the gallery space and who he was with. Tom was never far from Martin’s side, of course. Martin stayed close to Simon and also Sam, who was looking very much the worse for wear, with grey skin and sunken eyes, seeming easily startled and frightened of everything. Henry felt guilty looking at him, knowing that he’d failed Sam and Martin both.

Adam Pettibone, looking hale and hearty, as always, stood with his little group near a painting of a dark-haired Ariadne nude on her side on the ground, her torso twisted so that her breasts were aimed skyward, and nothing but a tiny bit of gauzy drapery covered her crotch. Her pose was sensual and inviting enough that even Henry recognized that this was an arousing image. As Henry watched, Adam got into a shoving match with Joshua and Philip over who should have the prime viewing spot in front of the painting. Dr. Foster shouted at all of them and stood with his arms crossed and his back to the painting, blocking the view for all.

At noon they were herded down to the basement and given sandwiches in one of the art school classrooms. Boys lounged in their chairs, and slaves leaned on the chair backs or perched on the edges of the tables. There was a party atmosphere, everyone talking with their mouths full and laughing uproariously. Mr. Pitkin tried in vain to quiet the room and Dr. Foster gave his fellow teacher such a withering look that Henry felt sorry for the man.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Henry asked Martin in a low voice. “Do you like the art?”

Martin crouched down beside Henry’s chair and looked up at him. “Oh, yes, Sir, I do.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in paintings.” Henry stuffed the last corner of his sandwich into his mouth and chewed, letting Martin take the paper sandwich wrapper and soiled napkin from his hand.

“It’s never come up before, Sir,” Martin pointed out. “You know, I’ve wondered, Sir…”

“Wondered what?”

“I’ve wondered why your father doesn’t collect art, Sir. Most gentlemen of your class do collect some sort of art, after all.”

“I don’t think he knows anything about it,” Henry said. “Maybe he doesn’t know what to choose.”

Martin seemed to consider this. “When you have your own household, Sir, might you give some serious attention to paintings?”

“Is that what you want? For me to collect art?”

Martin ducked his head to hide his face, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have asked, Sir. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry!” Henry raised his hand to touch Martin’s cheek but remembered where he was and who he was with and settled for giving him a stiff pat on the shoulder. Leaning close, he said, “If you want paintings, we’ll have paintings, of course. You’ll have to help pick them.”

“You’d let me, Sir?” Martin was clearly made very happy by this idea.

“I definitely would,” Henry affirmed. “Whatever you want, Martin.” Martin met his eyes and they looked at one another a long, thrilling moment, and Henry thought again of Martin inserted into a painting, colored like a nymph, no artful drapery to hide his cock.

Tom came and cast a shadow over them. “Excuse me, Sir,” he said. “But Mr. Pitkin wants us to clean up now, if that’s all right.” He offered Martin his hand and Martin took it, smiling ruefully at Henry as he was pulled to his feet.

Dr. Foster herded the young masters out of the way while the slaves picked up sandwich wrappers and put dishes and napkins back into the school’s hampers. Ralph, Will, Stuart and Alex were sent out to the omnibus with the hampers, supervised by one of the slaves’ teachers. The rest of the boys were led upstairs to the sculpture galleries.

“No touching!” Dr. Foster admonished them. “No touching and no roughhousing.”

There were breasts everywhere, marble and bronze, rounded and conical, and every size from doll-like to larger-than-life. Besides Dr. Foster and Mr. Pitkin, there were museum guards in the galleries, but they couldn’t be looking everywhere at once, and boys made each other laugh by tweaking these stone and metal nipples at every opportunity.

The few male statues were notable for their surprisingly small genitalia.

“Do you think men in olden times had smaller cocks?” Louis asked, looking doubtfully at a baby-sized penis on a full-grown figure.

“This isn’t even an old statue,” Henry pointed out. “It’s not even fifty years old. Cocks haven’t changed that much in fifty years, I don’t think.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw David dreamily caress a life-sized marble breast and almost immediately heard Dr. Foster say, “Mr. Maxwell,” descending upon David in the company of an irate museum guard.

From the opposite direction, their attention was drawn by gleeful snickering. They turned to see Charles and Gordon directing Tom and Martin into the pose of a nearby statue with Tom curled on the floor on his side and Martin poised over him, crouching a little, both looking quite nervous.

“Like this, Sir?” Martin asked, lifting his foot and putting it gingerly on Tom’s arm.

“Reach down toward his head a little more,” Charles said. “And you, Tom, wrap your leg around the back of his calf, there, see?”

“Martin, you need to hunch over more,” Gordon said. “You’re standing up too straight.”

Freddie watched the others boss Tom around unbothered, but Henry didn’t appreciate that Martin had been roped into this game at all.

Henry strode forward, frowning and prepared to be quite angry. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Everyone wants to see them together, you know,” Gordon said, and there were more snickers and affirmative nods all around. “With you being so stingy, I’m guessing this is as close as we’re going to get!” All the boys laughed.

“Ha, ha,” Henry said, unamused. “Martin, come here.”

“Yes, Sir.” Martin took his foot off Tom’s shoulder and stepped free of Tom’s bent leg.

“What’s going on here? Why is your slave on the floor, Mr. Caldwell?” Dr. Foster sounded quite fed-up.

“He slipped, sir,” Freddie explained. “Martin was just helping him up.”

Martin quickly offered Tom his hand and pulled him to his feet, then hurried to Henry’s side .

Dr. Foster pressed his lips tightly together, obviously irritated and disbelieving the slip-and-fall scenario. “If you can’t manage to act like adults, you can sit in the omnibus until it’s time to leave,” he warned. “Mr. Maxwell has already been sent down. Which is Mr. Maxwell’s slave? You’ll need to go down, as well.” Alex stepped forward, looking embarrassed for David, and Mr. Pitkin came to escort him out of the gallery.

The boys were somewhat subdued for the rest of their time in the sculpture galleries. Henry remained annoyed at the others for involving Martin in their nonsense, and he resented that they thought him stingy for not sharing his slave. He kept Martin with him, not caring what the others were doing, not caring if his behavior seemed odd.

“You don’t have to do what they say, you know,” Henry murmured. “I’ve told you before, Martin.”

“I’m sorry, Sir. I thought it was harmless.”

Henry didn’t like to admit it, but this was true. After all, no one had shoved a cock in Martin’s mouth. It had just been some innocuous tableau. “Well, you still didn’t have to do it,” he said again. “Any time one of the others is telling you to do things, come to me, all right?”

So everyone wanted to see Martin and Tom together? Henry blushed to think of it; if he was honest, he wanted to see it, too, but he didn’t want anyone else to see it, and it seemed that he’d have to let at least Freddie in on it, and the idea was absolutely unacceptable.

Dr. Foster and Mr. Pitkin gathered them together and led them into the antiquities galleries. Henry was tired and bored, but he tried to seem interested for Martin’s benefit; he did not want Martin to realize what a dullard he was, how unmoved by art and the pageant of human history. Martin seemed quite interested in every descriptive placard, every potsherd and fragment.

All of the boys were tired, masters and slaves alike. Philip, Joshua and Gordon were all banished to the omnibus for horsing around and jostling a vitrine. Louis was scolded for sitting on the floor to rest. Eventually, all the boys gave up any pretense of looking at art and simply stood slumped in straggling groups waiting for the clock to run out on their Museum Day.

“Very well,” Dr. Foster said, looking at their exhausted faces with twenty minutes remaining. “Let’s get your coats and go back to the omnibuses, shall we?”

Martin brought Henry his coat and helped him put it on, settling it over his shoulders with little pats. “I’ll see you back at school, then, Sir.” He went to the slaves’ omnibus and Henry boarded with his friends.

“You know, we didn’t mean anything by it,” Gordon said, leaning forward to speak into Henry’s ear. “Making Martin pose. It was all in fun.”

“It’s fine,” Henry told him, although of course it was not, but he wouldn’t profit by throwing a tantrum.

It felt good to sit, and Henry closed his eyes and half-dozed for the length of the ride downtown to school. They arrived after their slaves, who were waiting in the cloakroom with their book bags.

They were all quiet on their walk to the omnibus stop. Louis kept yawning, his jaw popping so loudly that everyone could hear it.

As they stood waiting, Henry made an effort, turning to ask Martin and Peter, “Did you two enjoy the museum?”

“I did at first, Sir,” Peter said, “but I was a little bored by the end. All those little pottery fragments!”

Martin had showed no signs of being bored while at the museum, but indicated otherwise now. “I was tired, too, Sir. I was ready to go home at least an hour before we left.”

“Why can’t we have a Menagerie Day?” Louis said in a complaining tone. “Everyone likes the menagerie all right.”

“Animals are educational,” Henry said by way of agreement.

Freddie, Wendell, Albert and Philip arrived at the omnibus stop a minute later with their slaves trailing behind, but for once all the slaves remained with their masters, too exhausted to chatter with one another. The omnibus pulled up at last and they all crowded to get aboard, eager to secure seats. Henry and Louis slumped together in their seat, Martin and Peter in the aisle. Freddie and Wendell sat behind them and now Tom took the opportunity to lean close and whisper to Martin but Henry was too tired to feel the least pang of jealousy.

At their stop, the boys staggered from the omnibus, waving vague goodbyes to their friends. “Say, Henry, I hope you have a good Thanksgiving,” Louis said at the Blackwell gate. “Is your family eating together?”

Henry shrugged. “My father has plans elsewhere. I don’t know about my mother. I’ll find out tomorrow, I guess.”

“I’ve got my whole family for dinner plus Susannah’s stupid fiancé,” Louis said. “He’s such a bore, Henry! Even his slave is boring! Not that I even like Susannah, but she still deserves someone more interesting than this fellow!”

“Maybe he has qualities that you just don’t appreciate,” Henry suggested.

“What?” Louis asked. “Like a big cock? Ha! Susannah would have no way of knowing anyway.” He turned and began to walk away. “See you later, Henry. Maybe we’ll do something this weekend?”

“See you,” Henry echoed. “Call me up, all right?”

As Peter and Martin called out their goodbyes, Louis waved without turning around, and Henry and Martin went in the gate.

Upstairs, they stripped down to their underwear and curled up together on Henry’s bed to nap until it was time for Martin’s dinner. While Martin was gone, Henry slept again and dreamed that his cock had shrunk to statuary dimensions and he was terrified for Martin to see it in its diminished state.

When Martin came to dress him, Henry asked, “How would you have felt about it if I’d had a small cock?”

“Henry?” Martin smoothed his shirt front and began buttoning in the studs.

“I know it’s not small—”

Martin snorted. “Not at all.”

“But if it was, would you have been disappointed?”

Martin thought on this a moment. “Well, I suppose it would matter how much smaller it was. What you have feels so perfect to me, Henry. It’s very…satisfying. I’m glad it’s the size that it is.”

“How does it compare, then?”

“Oh, please—”

“Compared to Charlie, say? Or Stuart?”

Martin sighed. “Well, Stuart was bigger than Charlie, and you’re bigger than Stuart.”

Henry was happy to hear this. He lifted his chin so that Martin could button on his collar.

“Do I not appreciate your cock enough?” Martin asked, half-joking. “I do really love it, you know.”

Henry kissed him quickly, his heart full of affection. “Maybe we can show some mutual appreciation later,” he suggested. “We haven’t done that in awhile.” He loved having Martin’s prick in his mouth while his own was being sucked.

Martin smiled, clearly amenable, as he tied Henry’s tie. “I’ll be thinking about it all during your meal, then. You be thinking about it, too.”

After dinner, after family hour, lying naked together on the bedcover, Henry encouraged Martin to come down his throat and then held Martin’s softening cock in his mouth as he came, too.

Martin turned around and put his head next to Henry’s on the pillows. He touched Henry’s face, rubbed his thumb across Henry’s lower lip. “I don’t know which I love more, Henry, your cock or your mouth.”

“You don’t have to choose,” Henry said bashfully, very pleased. “You can have both.”

Martin kissed him and turned in his arms, pressing his spine back against Henry’s chest. “Spoon me.” He pulled Henry’s arm tight around his torso and wriggled closer still.

Henry freed his arm so that he could lift Martin’s hair up from the nape of his neck and kiss him there. Nothing could be better than Martin’s satisfaction, than feeling like he was truly giving Martin everything he wanted. He fell asleep thankful for his cock, that it was exactly to Martin’s liking, and wishing fervently that he would always be what Martin wanted.

For Thanksgiving, Henry got everything he’d asked for. Mother had said she would be at the table but changed her mind at the last minute, which meant that Martin sat down dressed in his everyday uniform rather than his evening suit. Henry would have liked to see him in formal clothes, but he was just grateful that he got to have Martin at his side for the meal.

Because it was just the three of them, Henry sat in his father’s place at the head of the table, Cora at his left and Martin to his right. Cora was excited to be with them, having never taken a meal in the dining room before. Nurse stood behind her chair and helped her cut her food. Cora sat up self-consciously straight in a black velvet dress with a broad white collar, her hair arranged in bouncing ringlets, and was obviously at pains to seem grown-up and deserving of this privilege.

“Henry, does Martin eat with you every day?”

“No. Only on days when neither Mother nor Father are sitting down. If Mother had come down today, Martin wouldn’t have been able to sit at the table with us.”

“I’m glad she didn’t come,” Cora said simply.

Henry certainly agreed with her, but all he said was, “She has a headache. It’s too bad.”

“Nurse eats with me every day,” Cora remarked. “I like eating with my slave.”

Henry gave Martin a quick smile. “I do, too.”

By Father’s decree, the boys were allowed a generous glass of champagne apiece and Henry convinced Randolph to allow Cora a thimbleful in a cordial glass. They all three raised their glasses to toast. There was only so much Henry could say in front of the other slaves, Nurse and the footmen and Randolph all listening.

“I just want to say how grateful I am for everything I’ve been given,” Henry said, hoping Martin would realize this meant him. He sipped from his glass.

Martin smiled at him and drank, then lifted his glass again. “I’d like to make a toast as well, Sir. I’d like to say how very thankful I am that you brought me here, Sir. I live in gratitude.” He gave Henry such a fevered look, his eyes so full of promise, that Henry gulped his champagne hurriedly in an effort to mask his body’s response, the heat rising in his cheeks. He hoped the other slaves had not seen Martin’s expression, as he did not think it could have been mistaken for anything other than one of erotic passion.

Cora had been quietly sipping along and now rendered her verdict on champagne. “It tickles my nose,” she said, screwing her face up. “I don’t know if I like it or not.”

They had a filling and delicious meal, the menu catering more to the palates of young people than it would have if Father had been home. Tomato soup with toasted cheese points, roasted turkey with bread stuffing and cranberry relish, macaroni and cheese, chicken croquettes, mashed potatoes with gravy, green peas, and sweet potatoes, along with bowls of olives and salted almonds. For dessert, they had pumpkin and mince pies, as well as a charlotte russe, as this was a favorite of Cora’s.

During the meal, Martin asked Cora questions about doings in the nursery, about Baby Ann and her convalescence, and he seemed genuinely interested in the answers. Henry tried to chime in from time to time, but he didn’t know the names of any of Cora’s dolls, nor did he understand their complex relationships, and Martin seemed to have memorized it all at their last visit upstairs.

After dinner, they went to the upstairs parlor and Martin played his violin. He didn’t play the partita, but instead played a ball’s worth of dance music. Henry and Cora attempted to waltz together, but the discrepancy in their sizes made it difficult, as she only came up to his lower ribs and her legs were so much shorter. At Martin’s suggestion, Henry bade her to stand on his feet and he danced her around the room that way, laughing gleefully with her head thrown back.

Nurse and the footmen watched with happy expressions. Henry realized that the slaves must never have heard Martin play before, though surely they all knew that he could. He should let Martin have an evening to give them a party; Martin would like that, he knew. Randolph came up to the parlor to listen, and sent Billy down to man the door in his place.

It was Nurse who at last called a reluctant end to the proceedings.

“Little Miss needs her rest, Sir,” Nurse said firmly, her hand resting on Cora’s shoulder. “It’s been such an exciting evening.”

“Thank you so much, Henry!” Cora said happily. She flung herself at him, wrapping her arms about his midsection, taking him by surprise.

Because he was trying to be a good brother, and it was what he imagined a good brother would do, Henry bent and embraced her and lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist, which was not in the least ladylike or proper, but Nurse said nothing and Henry certainly wasn’t going to admonish her. “I’m glad you came down,” Henry said in her ear. “I’m glad you had dinner with us.” He kissed the side of her face and put her back on the floor.

She launched herself at Martin, who knelt down to meet her. She hugged him fiercely and then let go, pulling back to look seriously at his face. “You have such pretty hair, Martin.”

Martin laughed. “So do you, Miss.” He kissed her forehead.

Nurse smiled at Henry so warmly, with such affection. “Thank you, Sir, for inviting Little Miss to your party. She does so love her big brother.”

All the thanks ought to go to Martin, Henry thought, but he didn’t want to say so in front of Cora. It was better for her to think that her big brother kept her in mind than to know the truth about their whole terrible family. The truth was, the only thoughtful, loving, unselfish people in the house were slaves.

Henry’s grades for fall term were about as he’d expected. He got an A in math from Mr. McLachlan and Cs from the rest, except for Dr. Foster, who gave him a boldly-inked F. Henry had expected no better, and certainly had deserved no better.

He sat through the same lecture he sat through every term, parked in an uncomfortable chair in front of Father’s desk, with both Father and Timothy frowning at him and Father exhorting him to apply himself. He had applied himself, and this was the result. Henry thought it very unfair that Father was so adamant he do well in Latin when Father himself had no languages at all and hadn’t even finished school. In any case, it shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone that Henry would fail Latin—the prior two years’ worth of Latin grades showed a very clear pattern.

“Aim for a C, son,” Father said wearily. “I’ll be content with a C.”

Martin had also received a report card, which he initially did not want to show to Henry. “My grades don’t really matter, do they, Sir? Besides, our classes are easier.”

“No, they aren’t. They’re just as hard or harder.”

Martin had received all As, though he pointed out that he’d received an A-minus in math, a lesser grade than Henry’s.

Henry’s thoughts were elsewhere while Father lectured him about all of his opportunities, opportunities that Father had not had, opportunities that Father wanted him to take advantage of. Father was very pleased with Martin’s academic performance and pronounced him a good investment, if only Henry would utilize his skills, especially in Latin. Father pointed out that one of Martin’s functions was to help with schoolwork and insisted that Henry enlist his aid. Henry was reluctant to do this because he didn’t want Martin thinking he was an idiot, and surely that would be Martin’s opinion once he understood how Henry’s mind worked. He lied, however, and told his father he would rely more on Martin during winter term.

Unfortunately, Father called Martin into his study and told Martin what was expected of him, that Henry was to rely on him for help with homework, and Martin was eager to do as Father asked.

Henry sat at his desk staring uncomprehending at his open Latin text. He’d actually managed to forget about Latin for a moment, and was instead imagining a Theo-and-George scenario which gradually transformed into a fantasy about Martin and himself as pirates. Pirate Martin wore breeches that laced up the front and Pirate Henry undid those laces with his teeth.

“Do you need any help, Henry?”

Henry jerked alert, startled out of his shipboard reverie. “What?”

Martin leaned on the edge of the desk at Henry’s elbow. “If you’d like, I could try to help you understand the Latin a little better.”

“I doubt that,” Henry said. “This is the third year I’ve been taking it, and I haven’t improved any since the first day.” This was only a slight exaggeration.

“Surely that’s not true,” Martin said gently.

“I failed, remember,” Henry pointed out. “I fail every term, Martin.” Henry could tell by the look on Martin’s face that he hadn’t known this, that he’d thought this was a one-time occurrence. “I didn’t fail just because I’m lazy—though I am lazy—but because I really don’t understand how Latin works.”

“Well that’s all right,” Martin said. “I’ll do it for you, then, and you can learn from my answers.”

“That won’t work,” Henry said firmly. “Sure, I’ll get good grades on my homework, but then I’ll fail the tests like always. I don’t understand Latin and I never will, so why pretend?”

“Delegating tasks is a skill, too,” Martin insisted. “If you have an employee who’s better at something than you are, do you assign them the work, or do you insist on doing it yourself?”

“You’re not an employee,” Henry pointed out.

“You’re right. I’m not an independent person in that way; I’m practically a part of you. I’m meant to do work on your behalf, Henry. You understand that most of your classmates don’t do any schoolwork on their own. Mr. Lovejoy doesn’t do any work himself, and he’s top of your class.”

“Gordon is actually smart, though,” Henry pointed out. “Gordon understands Latin. He just doesn’t want to do it. You know that’s not my situation.”

Martin tried another tack: guilt. “Your father wants you to get a C in Latin, Henry. It could be a C-minus, even. If I help you with homework, it won’t matter so much if you flunk the tests, and I’m sure you’ll be able to achieve a C. Your father has tasked me with helping you improve your grades, but if your grades don’t improve, he’ll blame me, don’t you think?”

Henry did not want Martin to be blamed for Henry’s stupidity. “But it just seems like cheating,” Henry insisted. “If I knew how to do it myself and was just being lazy, it would be different; it wouldn’t seem like cheating to me then.”

Martin frowned and shook his head. “You’re splitting hairs, and making no sense, Henry. You’re saying that it’s only okay to get help if you don’t need it?”

“I’m saying it’s embarrassing to hand in a paper to Dr. Foster when he knows and I know that I didn’t do the work, but I’m going to take credit for it anyway.”

“Please, Henry, let me help you. It’s the way things are properly done. It’s only what all your friends are doing, and what your teachers expect. I’ll write down the answers and then you’ll just copy them in your own handwriting.”

Ultimately, Henry didn’t want Martin to get in trouble, and that was the only reason he agreed to accept Martin’s help. Feeling quite humiliated, he allowed Martin to give him the answers for his Latin homework and copied them out in his own hand. While doing so, he did attempt to learn from Martin’s work, though he did not expect much from himself in this regard. At least this way both he and Martin were being obedient, and hopefully that obedience would be a mitigating factor when Henry disappointed his father yet again in the next round of grading.

Once again, Martin had had the idea to spend time with Cora. She’d been brought to the family hour Friday night and while she was chatting at Father, trying to interest him in her paper dolls, Martin bent over and suggested, “Sir, why don’t we take her to the park tomorrow? Don’t you think it would be fun?” and Henry had supposed it might be. Nurse had had reservations, citing the cold, but agreed she might make her final decision in the morning.

Now, following a breakfast of coddled eggs, bacon, sausage patties, fried potatoes, oatmeal with raisins, a blueberry muffin and a cheese scone, along with his usual milky coffee, Henry got up from the table feeling somewhat heavy, and, with a very quiet burp, turned to Martin and asked, “Elevator or stairs?”

Martin smiled. “I don’t think we’ve ever been in the elevator together, have we, Sir?”

Henry thought on this a moment. “No, I don’t think we have.”

“Then the elevator, Sir. Just for the novelty.”

They had to wait for the car to come down from the third floor. It was an ornate brass cage with a sliding grille and it was someone’s job to keep it polished and free of fingerprints. Henry slid the door open and ushered Martin inside. As soon as the cage had lifted off the ground, Henry reached for Martin and pulled him close, kissing him as they passed by the innards of their cavernous house.

They got out on the third floor, breathless and a little aroused

“We shouldn’t have risked it, Sir,” Martin said in a low voice. “Someone might have seen.”

“No one did, though,” Henry pointed out. “Admit it, it was a little exciting.”

“It was fun, Sir.” Martin nudged Henry with his shoulder and smiled. “Much more fun than the stairs.”

Nurse opened the door to Martin’s knock, and Cora could be heard shouting, “They’re here! They’re here!” in giddy delight.

“Good morning, Sir. Good morning, Martin.” Nurse smiled at them both and welcomed them inside.

The big room was cluttered with toys. Nurse’s and Cora’s neatly-made beds were along the left wall, and Henry’s old bed was on the right-hand side by the fireplace. It was still made up with sheets and blankets as if Henry might climb in, but it was heaped with so many dolls and stuffed animals that it was utterly inaccessible. Besides the beds, the room was furnished with a white-painted wardrobe and matching dresser left over from Henry’s childhood, as well as a low table with child-sized chairs where Henry had taken his meals as a small boy. The walls were lined with deep shelves holding books and toys and neatly-folded clothes. All of the other furniture in the room was small, made for dolls. There was a rather grand cabinet house sitting in the good light from the large windows overlooking the side yard. A group of dolls were arranged in a dramatic, nativity-like tableau with the slatternly Baby Ann as centerpiece in the floor space beside the cabinet house.

Cora gave a shriek of joy and launched herself across the floor at Martin, hitting him with the full force of her affection, throwing her arms around his thighs. “Martin!”

“Little Miss.” Martin took hold of her wrists and gently prised her hands off his legs before crouching down to her level. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Cora seemed content to hold Martin’s hands and gaze into his eyes without need for other entertainment, but Henry could take only so much of her mooning and, besides, she needed to give him his due as her big brother.

“Do I get a hello, Cora?”

“Oh! Hello, Henry!” With a regretful glance backward, she left Martin and came to give Henry a hug that was extremely fond but nowhere near as impassioned as the one she’d given Martin. Although this was a little disappointing, he could certainly understand his sister’s preference. However, he’d never anticipated that there’d ever be a challenger for the role of favorite brother, and he was ill-prepared to compete for the title.

“We opened a window to check, Sir,” Nurse said, “and I think it’s not too cold. Are we taking Little Miss to the park?”

“I think it’d be fun,” Henry said, as if it had been his own idea. “We can go to the menagerie, and if we’re up to it, we can walk a little afterward.”

“Little Miss is ready to go when you are, Sir,” Nurse told him. “It’ll just take a minute to get her bundled up in her coat.”

While Nurse girded Cora for the outdoors, she chattered to Martin about her dolls. “Do you remember Baby Ann, Martin?”

“Of course I do, Miss.”

“Well, she has taken a turn for the worse!” Cora said, sounding ghoulishly excited about this. “She lost a piece of her nose right off her face!” She held onto the cuffs of her dress sleeves and jammed her arms backward into the coat that Nurse held ready for her.

“Oh, well, that’s certainly bad luck, isn’t it, Miss? It’s good she has you and all her friends to bolster her spirits.”

Nurse wound a scarf around Cora’s neck. It rose up and covered her chin and lower lip and she pushed it down impatiently, tossing her hair with a jerk of her chin. “It is good,” Cora agreed. “My bad doll—do you remember her, too, Martin? Her name’s Minnow—tried to tell the others that Baby Ann got what was coming to her because she was bad, but everyone loves Baby Ann and didn’t believe her.”

“Baby Ann must be a very good friend, Miss, for everyone to stick up for her like that.”

“See where Minnow is?” Cora flung out her arm and pointed at a doll with brown curls, a blue dress and one shoe that sat in the far corner facing the wall. “She has to stay there until she apologizes for being a liar.”

“That seems fair enough, Miss,” Martin told her.

“She’s lucky she’s not being punished,” Cora said in a loud whisper, and Henry wondered what Cora knew about punishment, and hoped it wasn’t much. If the slaves were uncomfortable with Cora throwing around this threat so casually, they didn’t show it. Nurse tugged a tam o’shanter down over Cora’s curls and laid her hand alongside Cora’s cheek for just a moment, smiling.

With Cora sufficiently insulated, the four of them made their way downstairs. Randolph got their coats and scarves and Martin helped Henry get ready, wrapping and tying his scarf in a manner that Henry thought seemed very stylish. While Henry pulled on his gloves, Martin quickly put on his own outerwear and Randolph opened the door to let them out.

Cora wanted to walk between Henry and Martin, and she wanted to play the lift-and-swing game. After a few lifts and swings, it was like hefting a wiggling, shrieking ball of lead, and Henry had had enough of it. He definitely wasn’t going to win the award for best big brother, but he called an end to the hijinks.

“I can’t do it anymore, Cora. I’m too tired.”

“But Martin isn’t tired!”

Henry glanced at Martin and thought that Martin was tired; the difference was that Martin didn’t mind being tired, and Henry did. “Well, I am.”

“Listen to your brother, Miss,” Nurse said in a cautioning tone. “You know you don’t like being made to do things when you’re tired.”

“We’ll be at the menagerie soon anyway,” Henry said. “You’ll want to pay attention to the animals, won’t you? You aren’t going to want to play games anyway.”

Cora did not look convinced, but she made no further arguments. She did, however, let go of Henry’s hand so she could use both of her hands to cling to Martin’s, and Henry tried not to be hurt by this.

The winter park was all browns and greys, tree limbs black and stark against a pale blue sky. It was sunnier than Henry had anticipated, and he was actually a little over-warm with the scarf close around his neck. He could hear Cora chattering at his back with the occasional few words out of Martin, and was glad that Martin seemed to have the patience for Cora today that Henry decidedly lacked.

“Have you had a good year at school, Sir?”

“What? Oh, school. Same as always, I suppose. I still can’t do Latin, of course.”

“But Martin can help with that, can’t he, Sir? I imagine he’s a very good student.”

Henry blushed. “Well, yes. Father says I have to let him help me, and I’m afraid he’ll be in trouble if I don’t.”

“Why don’t you want his help, Sir? I’m sure he could make a world of difference for you.”

“If he helps, he’ll know how dumb I am,” Henry admitted, his face growing even hotter. “He didn’t realize until I got my grades for last term, but now he’s got an idea.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Nurse. “I don’t want him to look down on me.”

Nurse gave him a pitying look and put her hand on his arm. “Oh, Sir, he would never do that. I don’t know him as well as some of the others do, but I can see that Martin has too much affection for you to ever feel that way. I can’t imagine he’d be anything but compassionate in the face of your shortcomings, Sir.”

Nurse could get away with saying Henry had any shortcomings at all because she’d raised him and that sort of gave her the right. Henry did like the idea that Martin was so fond of him that it would be apparent to anyone.

“You’re probably right,” Henry conceded. “I’m just embarrassed.”

“You needn’t be embarrassed with a slave, Sir,” Nurse said gently. “He’s your companion, after all. He’s meant to know the best and worst of you.”

Henry’s worst seemed so shameful, though. He was lazy, impatient, selfish, stupid and undisciplined. He wasn’t sure that his good qualities were enough to cancel out the bad. ‘Good at sex’ was of limited value in the wider world, though of course it was quite important to Martin. Being sort of accidentally athletic was good, he supposed, and he was nicer to slaves than his friends were, but he felt like he should be more impressive somehow. Martin was impressive, and Henry only wanted to feel that he was good enough for Martin. He opened his mouth to say something of the kind to Nurse, but remembered himself and kept quiet, his cheeks growing hot.

“Excuse me, Sir,” Martin called, a few yards behind with Cora. “Sir? Little Miss says she has a question.”

Henry stopped on the path and turned to look at them. “What is it, Cora?”

“Henry?” Cora hurried up to meet him, quite breathless with excitement.

“Yes?”

“I want to ask you something. It’s important.”

“Yes, of course. Ask.”

“No, I need to ask you in private…” Cora beckoned him to crouch down and cupped her hands around his ear, knocking his hat sideways in the process. She put her mouth against her hands and in a very loud whisper asked, “Henry, do you love Martin?”

Henry drew back from her, startled and embarrassed, and he saw that both Nurse and Martin looked horrified, as well.

“That’s a very personal question, Cora,” Henry said slowly. “I’m very fond of Martin.” He didn’t feel either yes or no was the right answer. He couldn’t live without Martin, he knew that much. If it turned out he did love Martin, he’d say so when he felt the time was right, and he’d say it directly to Martin and not because he was answering someone else’s impertinent questions.

Nurse intervened. “That’s not the sort of question a polite girl asks, Miss,” she said in a scolding tone.

“But why?” Cora looked back and forth between their faces, genuinely puzzled.

Nurse reached for Cora’s hand. “Come along, Miss. We’re almost to the menagerie.”

“I want to walk with Martin, though.”

“Let Martin walk a minute with your brother, Miss.”

Nurse set off toward the menagerie, Cora in tow, and Henry followed her somewhat haltingly.

Martin fell in beside him. “I’m sorry, Sir. I swear, I didn’t know what she was going to ask. She was talking to me about animals in the menagerie, so I thought she would ask you which animal is your favorite.”

“It’s not your fault,” Henry told him. “I was just embarrassed to be put on the spot like that.”

“Thank you for what you said, Sir.”

“What?”

“That you’re ‘very fond’ of me, Sir.” He ducked close and murmured, “I am also very fond of you.”

The way Martin was looking at him made Henry flush with heated longing. It didn’t seem right to be in the grip of such an intense desire while he was taking his little sister to see the bears, and the terrible inappropriateness of the situation just made his blush deepen.

“Your face is so red, Sir,” Martin said, his tone hushed and amused. “Is everything all right?”

It was Henry’s turn to lean in. “When you look at me like that, I just want to turn around and take you back home,” he admitted. “I want to take you by the hand and run.”

Martin laughed and bumped him with his shoulder. “When we go home afterward, Sir, we’ll show each other how fond we really are.” He continued to look at Henry with frank desire, lips parted and eyes dark, and Henry thought that Nurse would know everything if she saw their faces in this moment, that anyone would know.

Inside the menagerie, Henry’s mind was not on the animals, nor did he pay much attention to the things Cora wanted to tell him. He was preoccupied with thoughts of Martin, the private Martin only he knew, and he met Nurse’s attempts at conversation with tepid replies, his mind entirely elsewhere, imagining Martin moving beneath his fingertips and against his mouth.

For his part, Martin seemed perfectly content to visit each and every one of the animals with Cora. He listened attentively to everything she said, seeming so interested, and Cora was delighted by his generosity. He was unquestionably more admirable than Henry, a much better brother; Henry was just counting the minutes until he could take Martin home.

At last Cora tired of the menagerie. She chattered happily to Martin during the walk home, holding tight to his hand. Randolph opened the door for them, and Paul was there to help them off with their coats. Billy trotted ahead to push the elevator call button for Cora and Nurse.

“Henry, please come upstairs with me,” Cora begged. “Come play with me, please, Henry.”

Absolutely not. All Henry wanted to do was be alone with Martin, doing the things he’d been thinking of all morning, and he did not want to set aside any of those plans in order to play dolls.

“Not today, Cora. Martin and I have things to do.”

“What things?” Cora asked, grasping at straws. “Maybe I can do them, too.”

Henry shook his head adamantly. “No, you definitely can’t.” He stepped forward and kissed Nurse on the cheek, then bent to kiss Cora. “Here, give me your face.”

Cora obediently turned her cheek up for Henry to kiss. “Martin, you kiss me, too.”

Martin bent to kiss Cora and she threw her arms around his neck and hung off of him. Nurse intervened, untangling Cora’s fingers from Martin’s hair, and leading her toward the elevator as she protested the unfairness of her banishment.

Henry turned for the stairs feeling only a little guilty. He’d been a good enough brother for today. “Come with me.” They mounted the stair side by side. “We have a little time before lunch, don’t we?”

“A little, Sir,” Martin agreed. He leaned close and in a loud whisper asked, “What do you want to do with the time?”

Katie was in the second-floor hall, coming out of the family parlor, and she smiled and bobbed a curtsey at Henry as they passed by. “I want to make you come,” Henry whispered back. “I want you to come in my mouth.”

Martin gave a little moan and swayed on his feet, catching at Henry’s arm for balance. Henry darted a glance back over his shoulder to see where Katie might be; she wasn’t in the hall and they weren’t observed.

“Come on.” Henry tugged at Martin’s arm. “Hurry.”

The door to Henry’s room was open, light spilling through into the hall, and Delia was inside, crouching before the hearth lighting a fire with hands that started shaking as soon as she saw Henry.

“My apologies, Sir. We didn’t anticipate you coming home so soon, Sir, or we would have had the fire laid before.” She was red-faced, a flush worthy of Henry himself, and unwilling to meet Henry’s eyes.

Henry was equally embarrassed, trying to stand in a natural-seeming way that would hide his half-hard cock—which was, thankfully, deflating somewhat since being confronted with the nervous maid. He jammed his hands in his pockets to make room.

“It’s fine, Delia,” he told her. “Just finish up, please.”

Martin went to her side. “Here,” he said, taking the matches from her hand. “I know how to light a fire, after all. Let me do it. You go on.”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind…”

“Not at all.” Martin got down on one knee and lit a match. “Go on. You have other work, don’t you? Let me do this for Mr. Blackwell.”

“All right. Thank you, Martin.” She dared a glance at Henry’s face. “Is there anything else, Sir?”

“No, thank you. Martin can take it from here.”

“Good day, then, Sir.” She gave a little curtsey, almost a nervous spasm, and darted from the room, closing the door soundlessly behind her.

Henry went immediately to lock the door, then turned to look at Martin kneeling at the hearth.

Martin glanced up at him and smiled. “Let me just get this lit…”

“Leave it,” Henry suggested, shrugging out of his jacket.

Martin shook his head. “We’ll be cold soon enough without it, Henry.” There was a promising pop and crackle from the fireplace and Martin smiled. “I think that will take hold. We’ll have a fire in no time.”

Henry knelt down beside him and took hold of his chin, just light pressure from his fingers turning Martin’s head, and kissed him searchingly, languorously, and shivered as Martin moaned into his mouth. Martin’s tongue was slick and pliant, the taste of his mouth salty and vaguely sweet and so human. They kissed for what seemed a long time, with only their mouths touching and Henry’s fingertips resting along Martin’s jaw. Henry was trembling with the force of his arousal but it felt good to want Martin; it was a good ache.

Martin pulled back, just a fraction of an inch, and in the space between their lips said, “Tell me again, Henry, how are you going to make me come?”

Henry leaned in and licked his lip. “With my mouth.”

Martin gave a little growl and licked him in return. His kisses were just a little more urgent, the pressure of his lips a little more insistent, and Henry let Martin set the pace, everything intensifying until they were leaning into one another, chests and bellies and thighs pressed together, Martin’s hands just resting on Henry’s shoulders and Henry’s hand still guiding Martin’s jaw.

“I’ve wanted you all morning,” Henry whispered.

“When you said you were ‘very fond’ of me, Henry…I wanted you so badly then.”

“That couldn’t have surprised you, though. You knew that about me.” Henry raised his hand to push stray strands of hair back from Martin’s forehead.

“I-I might have guessed, but you said it in front of other people! That meant so much to me!”

“Even if it was only my baby sister and my nurse?”

Martin laughed and kissed him. “Well, who else could you say it in front of, after all? They might be the only two in the world.”

Henry actually didn’t like being reminded of this, that he had no friend he might share his story with, but tried to put it out of mind. He distracted himself by putting his hands on Martin’s waist, sliding them around to his back and drawing him closer still. Martin put his arms around Henry’s neck and kissed him with a wet, open mouth, his hips nudging against Henry’s.

“Can you stand?” Henry asked. “I want you to stand up and take off your clothes.”

“I can do that.” Martin grinned and got lightly to his feet.

Henry sat back on his heels and watched Martin undress. As he took his clothes off, he put them neatly over the nearest of the armchairs before the fire. He also took off his glasses and pulled the tie from his hair and set them on the table between the chairs.

“Here I am, Henry.” Martin had spots of color high in his cheeks and a shy smile. Martin’s cock stood nearly vertical before his belly, rosy and throbbing, and a drop of clear fluid made a trail down the underside of its length from the slit to his balls. Henry knelt up, took hold of Martin’s hips, and licked this fluid away, then licked away the fresh surge that was pushed forth in response to the movements of his lips and tongue. Martin gave a broken cry and ran his fingers through Henry’s hair, not quite pulling.

“It won’t take me long, Henry,” Martin said in a breathy voice. “I hope that’s okay.”

“I want to make you come,” Henry reminded him, giving his cock another lick. He let go of Martin’s hips and went to work on his own trouser buttons.

Seeing what he was doing, Martin asked, “Do you want my help?”

“No, I want you to stand there, just like that.” He shed his waistcoat and shrugged off his braces. He got his trousers unbuttoned, then his drawers, wrestling his cock out into the open air. His cock was dark and fever-hot and throbbed with a desperate ache that was actually not at all unpleasant.

Martin shivered and said, “Oh! Are you hard like that because of me?

“Who else could it be?” Henry asked with a low chuckle. “I’m not sure I would even get hard for anyone else.”

He knelt up again and used his right hand to angle Martin’s prick into his mouth, wrapping the fingers of his left around his own prick and squeezing. He took the head into his mouth, ran his tongue along the ridge and through the slit, and began to suck, taking it in deep and pulling off in a steady, unhurried rhythm while Martin moaned and frantically rearranged Henry’s hair. He thought to suggest that Martin make him suck his cock, but decided not to because he was, frankly, a little scared to be on the other side of that game.

Martin’s cock felt good in his mouth, stretching his jaws open and giving his tongue something to curl against. Henry loved the flavor of Martin, the smell of him, and now he was moaning, too, so aroused by all the information flooding in from his senses. Each time he let Martin’s cock slide out of his mouth, his busy tongue painted intricate patterns along its length and around the head, and he could tell Martin loved it by the way he trembled and begged, saying Please, Henry, please over and over.

Henry knew Martin was close. He looked up, into Martin’s beautiful, desperate face, and loved the helpless desire he saw there. Martin whimpered as their eyes met, and then Henry heard the hard slap of Martin’s hand connecting with the mantelpiece, a panicked grab to keep himself on his feet through his orgasm.

“Oh, god, Henry, Henry, I’m—” Martin shuddered and stilled and came, his knees buckling as he spilled into Henry’s mouth. Henry held tight to his hips to help keep him upright, but then Martin put his hands on Henry’s shoulders and knelt down in front of him. He put his hands to either side of Henry’s face and kissed him thoroughly, making his greedy noises as he tasted himself in Henry’s mouth.

“What shall I do for you, now?”

“You suck me, too, all right?”

Martin smiled at him, more than willing. “I’d love to do it, however you’d like.”

Henry felt he was far too lazy to stand unsupported in front of the fireplace as Martin had done. As he unbuttoned and shed his waistcoat, he said, “I’ll sit in the chair.” He stood and shrugged off his braces as he shuffled the few feet to the armchair.

Martin followed him on hands and knees and knelt up before him to help him pull his trousers and drawers from his hips to crumple around his shins. “If you could sit near the edge…”

Henry sat down on the prickly mohair upholstery and frowned a little at the sensation. Maybe he should have picked the bed. He let his knees fall apart and Martin leaned in to kiss him.

Martin took gentle hold of Henry’s prick and squeezed. “You won’t last long, either, will you Henry?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but bent over Henry’s prick and licked the wet, swollen head.

Martin’s mouth felt molten and syrupy, his tongue everywhere at once. Henry groaned and resisted the urge to put his hands on the back of Martin’s head and force him down, but Martin must have sensed what he wanted and lowered his head over Henry’s lap, taking him in to the hilt. With his throat tight around Henry’s prick, he gagged and shuddered. Henry moaned and petted Martin’s head, deliciously ashamed of how much he liked Martin choking on his cock.

He couldn’t last; the contact was too sweet. Martin looked up at him and smiled around his cock and it was too much. He came hard, shouting, a flash of white behind closed lids. The orgasm seemed like it wouldn’t end, his cock jerking with wrenching contractions and filling Martin’s mouth with spunk. Martin swallowed gamely but some of Henry’s mess leaked out of his mouth and ran down his chin, and the sight of the milky fluid glossing Martin’s lip did something to Henry, filling him with intense pride and a feeling of ownership that went beyond the fact that he was Martin’s master.

Martin knelt with Henry’s cock softening in his mouth, and Henry stroked his hair and bent forward to whisper, “Thank you,” in his ear, as his cock slipped from between Martin’s lips.

“You’re very welcome, Henry.” Martin turned his face up to be kissed, and Henry licked the semen from his chin before kissing his mouth.

They kissed a few minutes before Martin broke away and got to his feet, crossing to the other armchair where he’d placed his clothing. He fished in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his watch. His cock was hard again but he seemed to be paying it no mind.

“It’s near lunchtime. Shall we dress to go down?” Martin cocked his head, expectant. Standing there naked, his tawny hair loose around his shoulders, he reminded Henry once again of the nymphs in the paintings at the museum, and he wished that he had some artistic talent so that he might immortalize Martin’s beauty for some future audience to marvel at.

Henry shook off the reverie. “Of course,” he said, pushing himself up out of the chair and pulling up his drawers. “We should get dressed.”

As he rearranged his clothes, he thought on his sister’s question, and he still didn’t know the answer, if only because he wasn’t sure what romantic love would feel like. He loved Nurse and he loved Timothy and he loved Louis, but he didn’t love anyone else, really—maybe Cora—and of course none of those were romantic loves. He believed he would know, that when the time came it would be obvious to him that what he was feeling was the real thing. He did know that Martin was precious and he’d do anything to keep him safe and close at hand. He did know that the idea of being without him was intolerable.

He watched Martin quickly dress himself, and when Martin recognized that he was being observed, he smiled at Henry with such open fondness that Henry was moved to take him in his arms. He probably didn’t deserve Martin’s affection, but it was his all the same.

Louis had been meeting Miss O’Malley regularly through November and early December, but now, midway through the month, he was souring on the relationship. She insisted on the use of prophylactics, and while Louis could see the sense in this, they interfered so much with his pleasure that he resented her insistence. He also noted that she was depending upon him to provide the little extras for her at the dance hall, food and drink, and felt that she was taking advantage.

What Henry thought was that it was no hardship for Louis to pay for the girl’s drinks, that it was money she likely could not spare, and that it was the least Louis could do out of gratitude for the sex they were having, but he did not say any of this. He couldn’t help but feel that his opinions about male-female relations were uninformed secondary to his own lack of interest in women and imagined that there were facets of Louis’ relationship that were necessarily opaque to him because of his queerness.

“I’m going to cut her loose,” Louis decided. “I’ll find a prettier one, I’ll bet.”

Henry thought that this was too bad and a wrong decision, that Miss O’Malley had been notably enthusiastic about Louis from the beginning despite his plain features, and that a prettier girl was definitely going to expect Louis to pay for all her extras at the dance hall, but again he did not say anything. After all, what did he know? Maybe he was wrong about girls?

Later, alone with Martin, playing poker on the floor before the fire, he broached the subject of girls with Martin.

“What do you know about girls, anyway? Women?”

“Girls?” Martin lay down two pair and Henry had nothing to show.

“I know there weren’t women around when you were growing up, but were you taught anything about them? Like, on my behalf? For your master?”

“Well, there actually were some women at Ganymede, though I didn’t have much to do with them.” He shuffled the cards and began to deal them out. “They were House staff, doing cooking and cleaning and the like, and we weren’t supposed to bother them while they were working.” He picked up his cards and looked happy about them. “And there were the breeders, of course, but we were told to stay clear of them.”

“Breeders?”

“Yes. The mothers of all the babies, the new slaves. Ganymede had arrangements with several women’s Houses. Exchanges, you see?”

With his familial history of failed pregnancies and maternal sadness, it was amazing to Henry that women might be so successful at having children that they did it as their work and he had, of course, never considered this before.

“Do you know who your mother was, then? Or your father?”

Martin smiled and shook his head. “No, I never knew. The female House staff were all retired breeders and we would try to guess which ones might be our mothers, but of course we were never sure.” He cocked his head and looked at Henry expectantly. “Are you going to bet, Henry?”

Henry hurriedly tossed his penny onto the carpet between them. “So about girls,” he began again. “What did they teach you about them?”

“General things, really. General ideas of what girls like. I was a gentle boy and liked what were considered girlish things anyway.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, flowers, little animals, being clean. Things like that. We were taught to be composed around girls, and discouraged from…well, from showing off, the way boys will do.”

“Like my friends.”

“Well, yes. It’s not a slave’s place to impress women. For me, it’s easy to follow that precept; I don’t care about impressing girls. But for other slaves, it’s difficult not to assert themselves and bask in the attention. It’s a mating dance, and it’s natural to want to participate, but slaves have to overcome that urge.” Martin raised Henry’s bet.

“Companions are all so good-looking,” Henry noted. “You all have a better chance of attracting girls, I think, even with the slave marks.”

“Girls do take note of handsome slaves, of course, though they’re not meant to do so. I hear things from my friends, things about girls they’ve met with their masters. Julian is always upsetting Mr. Lovejoy by flirting with girls, and he really should know better.”

“Well, I’m asking these questions, see, because I don’t feel qualified to give Louis any advice about Miss O’Malley. I feel like he’s handling this wrong, but I haven’t said anything because…because I just don’t know anything about girls! My sister is only 7, after all.” Henry met Martin’s bet despite having nothing in his hand at all.

Martin showed his cards: a straight. He collected his pennies and pushed the deck of cards to Henry.

“If it’s okay for me to say so, Henry, I think you’re right. I think Mr. Briggs is handling this all wrong.”

Henry felt relieved that Martin agreed with him. “She’s only asking for a little consideration, is what I think, and Louis can certainly afford to treat her. It’s just kindness. It’s not like she’s asking him to get her an account at a dressmaker or pay for her to have a carriage.” Henry had overheard furtive gossip to the effect that these were things his father did for Mrs. Murdock. Henry shuffled the cards and dealt them out.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Briggs gives too much weight to what his older brother does and says. The older Mr. Briggs—James, I mean—is a bit cold-hearted, I think.”

“I agree.” Henry had two pair, which was an exciting hand for him, and he struggled not to grin at the cards. He had been working at developing a poker face, but had not made much progress.

“I think you should share your feelings with Mr. Briggs, Henry. You’re his best friend and surely he’ll value your opinion.” Martin threw in his penny.

Henry wasn’t as sure. He thought that Louis would in fact discount his opinions because of his inexperience and demonstrated lack of interest in girls, and his efforts would be wasted. In any case, by this time Louis would have solidified his plans for the weekend with the rest of their friends, and probably would have even rehearsed what he would say to Miss O’Malley. Ugh, Henry hated imagining that conversation! But, honestly, Miss O’Malley would probably be better off without Louis and his arrogant suspicions, though with as happy as Louis had been lately, Henry wasn’t sure that the opposite was true. He matched Martin’s bet.

“Do you want to call Mr. Briggs?” Martin didn’t discard any cards and threw two pennies onto the carpet between them.

Henry checked his pocket watch. “They’ll be having dinner,” Henry said, which was true. “You know they eat early. Maybe I’ll telephone later.” He matched Martin’s bet, still happy about his two pair.

“Very well.” Martin laid his cards on the carpet. He had a full house.

“You win. Again.”

“If you’re tired of losing, we can play another game,” Martin suggested, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“So you don’t think I’ll ever win at poker, do you?”

“Based on the evidence, Henry…no, it doesn’t seem likely!” Martin laughed. “We could learn some other games, if you like.” He shuffled the cards a few times. “Should I deal?”

“Sure. Do you know any other games?”

“Just baby games. Old Maid, things like that. I could ask the others if there are any other good ones we could play. Everyone is so very fond of poker, though.” Martin dealt their cards quickly and picked his own hand up.

“I don’t mind always losing,” Henry admitted. “I just like playing with you.” He had a pair of threes.

Martin smiled at him so fondly, touched. “Did you ever imagine that you’d like your companion so well? I wouldn’t have believed it if someone had told me how much I’d care for you.”

“Why do you like me, anyway?” Henry had been sitting up, legs crossed, but now he shifted to sit on one hip, his legs stretched out to the side, like a mermaid on a rock. “Is it just your training making you want to do a good job, or do you have some deeper feeling for me?”

Martin frowned, pressing his lips tightly together and giving Henry a sharp look. “It isn’t just my training.” He seemed slightly disgusted with Henry for suggesting it and shook his head. “You know that full well. You know I was attracted to you right away.”

“Tell me about the auction again. When you first saw me,” Henry had heard this before, but he wanted to hear it again. He leaned back on his elbows and settled in to be flattered, having lost interest in his cards.

“I saw you across the room, Henry, and I knew, even without my glasses. I thought you were so very handsome, and you just got more and more attractive the closer you came and the better I could see you. I had a fantasy that you’d come looking just for me. You looked a little sad and I wondered if I could make you happy.”

“Did you really?” Henry laughed. He had heard this before, too.

“I did, and I thought I could, too! I thought I could make it my whole life, making you happy.”

“You do make me so happy,” Henry assured him. “More than anything or anyone else.”

Martin beamed at him fondly. “I’m so pleased to hear it.” After a little pause, he continued. “On auction day you were dressed so beautifully, and I wondered what it would be like to take care of those clothes. I could tell you were rich, of course—Mr. Paulsen wouldn't have brought anyone to see me who couldn't afford me—but I had no idea…” Martin's voice trailed off as he contemplated the Blackwell riches. “And of course you’re just my type, so dark and handsome. You have the face of a hero.” He smiled at Henry and asked, “What did you think when you saw me?”

“You drew my eye immediately. You were the best-looking boy I'd ever seen. You were the only one for me; I knew it at once. I didn’t even want to look at anybody else.” Martin had had a luminescence that made him shine like a beacon in that morass of oiled flesh. Henry recalled Martin standing on the dais before him, the other four boys in his group mere blurs. He knew that Martin's Charlie had been one of them, but he could not recall Charlie's face, only that he had dark hair and olive skin. He had an uncomfortable thought: “Martin, does Charlie look like me?”

Martin looked up from his cards, startled. “What?”

“It's all right if he does,” Henry reassured him, though it wasn't, really. “I just wondered.”

“No, of course not. Only superficially.”

“What do you mean? You’ve said he's dark and handsome…isn't that me, as well?”

Martin frowned in annoyance. “But you're handsome in different ways. Really, Henry, so many people are dark—even Mr. Briggs, and I certainly don't fancy Mr. Briggs.” It was a good point. He continued, saying, “Charlie was my childhood friend, and I will always have fond memories of him, but that's in my past. I belong to you. I will belong to you forever.”

“So you're not thinking of Charlie when we—”

Now Martin looked angry. “No. Henry, please. Don't you know how much I want you?”

Henry had not intended to make Martin mad. And while it continued to plague him that Martin had had sex with Charlie and Stuart and possibly others at Ganymede, there was no denying that Martin gave every sign of desiring him and enjoying their intimacy. “I'm sorry,” Henry said, genuinely contrite. “I didn't mean to accuse you.”

“You needn't apologize to me, Sir,” Martin reminded him, which he knew Henry didn't like, so perhaps they were even, then.

They woke up to rain Saturday, so Henry was disinclined to leave the house. He showered, shaved, dressed and went down to breakfast by himself, neither of his parents deigning to make an appearance in the breakfast room. Martin sat down with him and drank a cup of coffee and ate a currant scone while Henry put away scrambled eggs, rashers of bacon, sausage, potato hash, and pancakes with both apple compote and maple syrup. Additionally, he took a scone for himself as they left the breakfast room and went back upstairs.

“What would you like to do today, Henry?”

Henry ate his scone and thought. He’d had all kinds of vague ideas during the week. He’d thought maybe they might take in a vaudeville show with friends if he could muster up a group on short notice. They always enjoyed the arcade, and there’d likely be new peep show reels since they’d last been in. He’d considered that he could ask Martin if there were things he wanted to do, like maybe look at sheet music or go to a bookstore. But all these plans required leaving the house, and it was cold and wet and miserable outside, and it was so warm and toasty here by the fire, sprawled in his armchair.

As for things he could do right here, without leaving this room, he didn’t want to play cards, and he didn’t want to read or be read to, and he really wasn’t even in the mood for the violin. What he wanted to do was to take off his clothes and climb back into bed and spend the day having sex.

Martin leaned against the mantelpiece examining his fingernails and waiting for Henry’s reply.

“What would you say to spending the whole day in bed with me?”

Martin looked at him, a questioning eyebrow cocked.

“We could just have sex all day long. Take meal breaks and bathroom breaks but do nothing else. Stay warm and dry and just…enjoy ourselves.”

Martin smiled at him, delighted. “I’d like that very much. We could make it a contest.”

“A contest?”

“With ourselves. We could see how many times we could come in a day.”

Henry liked this idea. “Come here,” he said, holding out his hands. “Come sit with me and make plans.”

Martin sat on Henry’s lap, his legs over the arm of the chair and leaned against Henry’s chest, his arm slung around Henry’s neck. They were really too long and lanky to both fit in the chair comfortably, but it seemed worth trying.

“I want to make a rule, Henry, if that’s all right. I think it will make it more fun.”

“What’s the rule?”

“We can’t do it the same way twice in a row.”

“What do you mean?”

“If we suck each other, then the next time we have to use our hands, or you could fuck my ass. But afterward we could suck each other again, just so long as we did it a different way in between.”

“That seems like a good rule,” Henry agreed. He shifted under Martin’s weight. “Let’s get on the bed. We don’t really fit in this chair.”

They undressed quickly, Martin setting their clothes aside in neat heaps in anticipation of dressing again for lunch. Henry got onto the bed and welcomed Martin with open arms.

“We won’t do anything fancy this first time,” Henry decided. “Just regular sex.”

“Even our regular sex is special,” Martin said, sounding a little prideful, and Henry loved that he felt this way.

They kissed and rolled around for a bit, then Henry got the oil and prepared them both. They began with Martin on his back, knees drawn up, and Henry moving atop him, just as they most often did it. Looking down into Martin’s face, so vulnerable and handsome, Henry was nearly overcome with a tender bashfulness, a desire to make Martin feel especially good. He angled his thrusts to rub against the sensitive place inside Martin’s body and was rewarded with a plaintive keening, Martin begging his name as he came. Henry joined him, pushed past his limit by the sight of Martin arching beneath him.

Henry lowered himself to lie at Martin’s side, within the curve of his arm, and touched his face with reverence. How beautiful Martin was, inside and out. Martin stroked his hair and kissed him, his tongue supple and slick, and Henry pulled him close with a happy groan. He felt the wetness of Martin’s spendings pressed between their ribs, and realized regretfully that Martin wouldn’t tolerate this situation.

Martin made space between their bodies, a hand on Henry’s chest. “I’ll just clean us up now.” He slid out from beneath Henry’s arm.

Henry grabbed after him, but Martin easily evaded his grasp. “Are you really going to go for your basin every time?”

Martin cocked an eyebrow and gave Henry a sardonic look. “I can’t imagine why not.”

Henry gave an exaggerated sigh and flopped onto his back, wishing Martin would not always be so fastidious. However, he lay still for Martin to do his work; he found the washing excessive at times, but he did always enjoy the contact.

Clean-up complete, Martin put the basin on the nightstand and lay down next to him, smiling and eager. “What next?”

Henry had not thought ahead. “Um…we could suck each other, maybe?”

Martin nestled close. “Mm…I’d like that.” He bent his head and licked Henry’s nipple.

Henry arched his back, pushing his chest insistently against Martin’s mouth, and Martin accommodated him, licking and sucking and then nipping, sending hot darts of pleasure to his cock. The pleasure built and built, but more than an orgasm for himself, he wanted Martin in his mouth, Martin calling his name.

“Lie back,” he said, pushing on Martin’s shoulder. “Spread your legs.” He knelt between Martin’s shins and bent to lick and bite his thighs, then pushed his legs up toward his chest, folding him in half. He licked Martin’s hole while he gasped and begged Henry, Henry, then pushed two fingers into his body and sucked his cock. Martin moaned and ran his fingers through Henry’s hair, his heels drumming against Henry’s back, urging him on. He came making little broken cries and pulled Henry up to kiss him, seeking traces of himself in Henry’s mouth.

“Can I do the same to you?” Martin kissed the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose. “I know you’d like it if you’d only let me.”

Henry shook his head, deeply uncomfortable with the idea of Martin licking or fingering his asshole. He was convinced he wasn’t clean enough, could never be clean enough, and he was afraid of penetration. He was afraid it would hurt, despite the obvious pleasure Martin took in it, and he was afraid of what it would mean. Fairies were penetrated, and he felt he might somehow elude that designation so long as he behaved like a gentleman in this very specific way.

“Martin, no…” His tone was pleading, a little ashamed. He hated to say no, but he couldn’t possibly say yes.

Martin was clearly disappointed, but he shook it off. “If you ever change your mind, Henry…”

“I’ll let you know.” He kissed Martin and took hold of his hand by the wrist, pressing it against his hard cock. “You can still use your mouth, though.”

Martin kissed his way down Henry’s body and took him into his mouth and it felt amazing, as it always did. Henry kept thinking he would eventually become accustomed to their sex and would become jaded, but so far that hadn’t happened. He ran his fingers through Martin’s hair and Martin lifted his head from Henry’s lap and licked his wet lips and said Make me do it, and Henry did, pushing Martin’s head down and holding it in place while Martin struggled for breath. When he let Martin go, he reared up, red-faced and gasping, and grinned at Henry, his eyes streaming. Not for the first time, Henry wondered what it was Martin liked about this game; certainly it felt good to Henry, but he couldn’t imagine what benefit Martin received.

Martin sucked Henry to completion without further dramatics, his hair pooled on Henry’s belly and Henry’s hands guiding his head ever-so-gently. Henry came in blissful pulses, his fingers curled around Martin’s ears, and drew him up for a kiss. They found places for all their limbs and held each other tightly. Henry petted and stroked Martin all over, revisiting the tiny mole on his shoulder blade, the scar on his elbow, the long curl at the nape of his neck—all the little secrets of his body, the things only Henry was privy to. They kissed lazily, in a daze, and Henry thought he might have fallen asleep for a minute or two.

“Henry?”

“Hmm?” Henry pulled Martin closer and rubbed his nose against the hair at his temple.

“What should we do for the third round?”

Henry laughed. “You want to go again already?” This was, he thought, a good example of Martin’s competitive spirit in action.

“Yes, please. Will you fuck me again?”

“If you want. How do you want me to do it?”

Martin considered this a moment. “Hard from behind?”

“I can do that,” Henry agreed. He could also lick him again, and he knew Martin would like it.

Martin kissed him and took hold of his cock, pulling it straight and hard. Henry marveled at his own body’s responses. Part of it was youth, certainly, but he couldn’t imagine he’d be like this with anyone else. Just the knowledge that Martin wanted him made him eager to do whatever Martin wanted done. He wondered if it would always be like this and hoped it would be; how terrible if they ever became indifferent to one another. How terrible if the day ever came when Martin would touch him and his prick wouldn’t spring instantly to life.

But that day wasn’t today. He buried his hands in Martin’s hair, tilted his hips into Martin’s grip, and kissed him until they were both gasping. He wanted to ask Martin what it meant, the way they wanted each other; he thought Martin would know, but was unwilling to admit he didn’t. He pushed Martin over onto his belly and lay on top of him, cock slotted between his buttocks, and Martin moaned and twisted his hips against Henry’s weight. Henry pushed himself up with a hand between Martin’s shoulder blades and leaned on him.

“Too much?”

Martin shook his head, his face obscured by the fan of his hair. “No, it’s good, Henry. Hold me down.”

Despite what Martin had said, Henry didn’t put his full weight on him. One hand on the bed, the other on Martin’s back; his hard cock leaking and making Martin’s crack slippery as he made gentle, sliding thrusts.

“Harder.” Martin squirmed and spread his legs. “You can go harder, Henry.”

Harder would come later. For now, Henry would do what he liked.

“Up on your knees,” Henry told him, sitting back on his heels. “Show me your ass.”

Martin hurried to do as Henry asked, on elbows and knees with his ass offered up to Henry. He reached back with his left hand to pull his cheek wide, looking back over his shoulder with his hair spilling over his face. So beautiful, and so eager. Henry gave a little moan and his cock jerked as he lowered his face until his mouth touched skin.

He licked and nipped and let Martin beg and demand and plead for a good long time before he finally fucked him, oiling him in a rush and pushing inside the slick, plush grip of his body. Martin gasped Henry’s name and pushed himself up off the bed to hands and knees only to collapse back down to his elbows, moaning aloud and squirming as he leaned back into Henry’s thrusts. Henry fucked him hard, as he’d been asked, and gave him permission to touch his cock. Martin came shouting into the rumpled bedding, and it took only a few more hard, pounding thrusts before Henry came, too, and collapsed on Martin’s back.

Henry caught his breath and rolled to lie at Martin’s side. “That’s three,” he said, stroking Martin’s sweaty ribs. “I think we can do a lot more, don’t you?”

Martin turned over onto his back. “What was our record before? Do you know?”

“Three or four, I guess.” Henry shrugged. “I never thought to keep track. I know we’ve done three lots of times, but most days it’s twice.”

Although Henry attempted to detain him, petting and stroking and wheedling for him to stay just a minute longer, Martin rolled off the bed and took his basin to the bathroom to fill it with clean water. Henry could hear him splashing as he washed himself, then he returned to attend to Henry.

“Now will you lie down with me?”

Martin smiled and set his basin down on the nightstand. “Of course, Henry. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Let’s have a short nap,” Henry suggested, opening his arms for Martin to lie close. “Just a few minutes, and we’ll be ready again when we wake up.”

Martin frowned, though he came willingly into Henry’s embrace. “We can’t sleep away the whole day, Henry, or we’ll never set a record.”

“Just a few minutes.” Henry kissed Martin’s forehead and gathered his hair to lift it off his neck. He pressed kisses to the arc of Martin’s throat. “We have lots of time.” Martin relaxed a little against him, acquiescent.

Martin fell asleep first, his breath soft and regular against Henry’s throat. Henry stroked Martin’s hair back from his forehead, ran his thumb over Martin’s eyebrow, kissed the places he’d touched. Martin made a kittenish sound in his sleep and nestled closer. Henry resisted the urge to crush him to his chest; he didn’t want to wake him, only claim and keep him.

He wondered if Martin did this, too; watched him sleep. He was up before Henry every day, and might have the time, might make the time. Henry suspected that he looked stupid asleep, slack-mouthed and drooling, though admittedly when he saw Martin in such a state he found the sight endearing and intimate.

He liked everything about Martin. He’d really never understood how much there was to be liked about a person. Flavors and textures, scents and sounds, personality and charm, intellect and essential character. He’d fallen for Martin at first sight, a direct response to his beauty, but what he felt now went so much deeper. Martin had changed his life, had changed him, and all for the better.

He thought about his sister’s question of the prior Saturday. Did he love Martin? He thought he might, but he just didn’t know, and obviously it was the sort of question he had to answer for himself and couldn’t ask anyone’s opinion about. He’d never felt this way about anyone else and couldn’t imagine feeling this way about any other man, not even one of Martin’s handsome friends. Not even Tom.

He slept and dreamed of their continuing efforts, now a competition with other vague bodies writhing to either side of their bed, but they were judged the best and looked handsome in their victors’ crowns.

He woke to Martin stroking his hair.

“Hey.” Henry smiled and stretched.

“Hey yourself.”

“Have you been awake long?”

Martin shook his head. “Not long. We slept almost an hour, though.” He frowned and his brow furrowed.

Henry laughed and reached for him. “You’re worried we won’t set an impressive record in the time we have left.”

“We need to use our time wisely,” Martin insisted. “Have you thought about what we should do next?”

Henry bent and kissed the bright blue of his tattoo. “Hmm, no, what do you think?”

“Well…” Martin thought a moment, lip caught between his teeth. “We could suck each other again, but we could do it together this time.”

“I like that idea.” Despite his agreement, Henry suspected that he did a better job of sucking when he wasn’t distracted by Martin’s mouth on his own cock. However, Martin had never had any complaints.

They kissed, urgent and devouring, and rolled around, limbs entwined, until they were both hard. Martin pushed Henry onto his back and sat astride his hips, leaning forward to brace his hands on Henry’s shoulders, and rubbed his ass along the length of Henry’s cock. He looked down at Henry, seductive and knowing, and sat up and tossed his hair back, still rocking back and forth.

Henry was breathing hard when he asked, “Do you want me to fuck you again?”

Martin smiled and shook his head. “We have a rule, remember?”

Henry took hold of Martin’s hips and ground his cock up against Martin’s ass. “Stop teasing, then. Get in position.”