Ganymede Quartet 3 - A Willful Romantic(1)

Henry Blackwell & Martin

Hiram Blackwell & Timothy

Louisa Wilton Blackwell & Pearl

Cora Blackwell

Henry’s classmates at the 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

Blackwell Family Slaves:

Nurse: Esther

Butler: Randolph

Footmen: Billy, Paul

Housekeeper: Dora

Cook: Bertie

Scullery Maids: Vida, Ruby

Chambermaids: Peggy, Delia, Katie

Parlor Maids: Lucy, Ruth, Ellen

Laundress: Mary

Laundry Maid: Sally

Gardener: Pat

Coachmen: Jack, Old Bob

Grooms: Jerry, Arthur

Stable Boys: Little Bob, Danny

Errand Boy: Johnny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A surprise? What is it?”

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

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

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

“Oh, Henry! It’s so good to see you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elizabeth?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps,” Reggie said noncommittally.

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

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

“Yes, Uncle.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mother…?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Your uncle is an interesting person, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“After class,” Albert mouthed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you even listening?” Louis demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, of course. What am I thinking?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, of course.”

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

“What does that mean?”

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

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

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

“Please, tell me more.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you do?”

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

“That was clever,” Henry noted.

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

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

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

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

“Martin?”

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

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

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

Henry did not know what to say to this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me oil your cock.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come for me. Come on, do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I tell you something, Henry?”

“You can tell me anything, I hope.”

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

Henry didn’t know what to say to that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I promise,” Martin said sheepishly.

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

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

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

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

“You absolutely promise?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir?”

“Tom. You really like him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martin went very pale and said nothing.

“You did do it.”

“Sir, I—”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Sir, I did not.”

“Not even Charlie?”

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

“He did fuck you, though, didn’t he?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me what you did with him.”

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

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

“Sir—”

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

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

“How many times?”

“Sir?”

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

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

“It’s so many you can’t count?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Henry—”

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

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

“You really believe that?”

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

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

“Then believe me, Henry. It’s true.”

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

“I’m sorry, Martin, I really am.”

“I know you are.”

“I’ll do better, I promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Sir. I had so much fun.”

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

“I’d like that, Sir, I really would.”

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

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

Louis was right about that. Martin would be fine.

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

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

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

“Martin!”

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

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

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

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

“Are you too cold, do you think?”

“I’m sure I’m fine, Sir.”

“I don’t want you getting too tired.”

“I’m not tired, Sir. I’m having fun.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me, miss?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you all right?”

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

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

“He kicked you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where do you want me to sit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, just like their masters.”

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

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

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

“Are any of your other friends like Julian?”

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

“Who? Tom, I’ll bet.”

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

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

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

“Well, who else, then?”

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

They were quiet a moment, thinking of Sam.

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

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

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

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

“Does he suck his cock?”

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

“Why’s that?”

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

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

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

“So it doesn’t matter what I want?”

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

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

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

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

“Then let’s neither of us ever die.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can.”

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

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

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

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

“Patrick?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, that’s exactly right.”

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

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

“No, of course I don’t mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it already your dinnertime?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martin blinked. “What do you mean?”

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

“Oh, well, it’s only my opinions—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better than even the best Orpheus slaves?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think he’s fortunate?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir. What can I do for you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, thank you,” Henry told him.

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

“I just needed to ask Timothy something.”

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

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

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

“Oh! What are you shopping for, Sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope you’re well now,” Henry said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martin said nothing more, but looked aggrieved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it too much, then?”

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

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

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

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

“May we come in, Mr. Blackwell?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want more coffee, Sir?”

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

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

“Are you having fun, Martin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For you, Mr. Blackwell, two weeks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You hate blocking the aisle,” Henry noted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re all very colorful.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which of your friends does?”

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

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

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

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

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

Martin smiled and did not deny it.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Sir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

“What about him?”

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

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

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

“Do you need him every night?”

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

“You could do that,” Henry agreed.

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

“That also seems like a good plan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me, Sir.”

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s very dramatic, Sir,” Tom offered hesitantly.

Henry liked the sound of this, liked that it could perhaps be considered a bohemian sort of garment. “Thank you, Tom.” He turned to Martin and asked, “What was that word you used to describe my taste earlier? It started with a B.”

Martin’s cheeks grew pink. “Baroque, Sir.”

Henry still did not know what this meant, exactly, of course, but he liked the sound of it. It was clear that none of his friends knew what it meant, either, though Ralph apparently did.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s a good word for it, Sir.”

A pretzel vendor came through the Terrace and they all bought pretzels for themselves and their slaves. Wendell and Louis sat on the edge of the fountain and Louis bade Peter sit at his side and leaned to whisper in his ear. Whatever he told him seemed to make Peter very happy, and Henry surmised Louis was giving him permission to see his girl.

Louis, Freddie and Wendell were talking about various of their classmates and Henry pretended to be listening, but he was actually eavesdropping on Martin’s conversation with Tom. They stood perhaps three feet behind Henry’s right shoulder, and Henry’s ear was attuned to Martin’s voice, Tom’s responses.

“So you’re not going to see either one of them again?” Martin asked in a low voice.

“It was a terrible idea,” Tom told him. “I shouldn’t have tried. Two girls in the same house was far more trouble than it was worth. I couldn’t visit one without the other being jealous, and they wouldn’t agree to having me together.”

“At the same time, you mean?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Well, what’s in it for the girls, really, though? What can you do with two cunts at once, anyway?” Martin asked. “I’ve never understood what boys want with two girls. At least with cocks you can stick them places. With two girls, don’t they just have to wait their turns? How unsatisfying!”

“Well, you can get them to do things to each other and watch. It’s exciting! You can have one girl lick the other and fuck the one who’s doing the licking. There’s lots you can do. You use your imagination, Martin. You just don’t want to think about cunts, period.” Tom laughed and Martin snickered, not disagreeing.

“I saved the best for last. You will be interested to know that I did finally visit your stables last night,” Tom said.

“Oh! Tell me! Was it just Jerry, or was it both of them?” Martin sounded delighted and giddy.

Henry was surprised. Jerry? His Jerry? Devoted-to-Marigold Jerry?

“At first, Arthur wouldn’t deign to let me suck his cock,” Tom said. “And I think he was mad at Jerry for bringing me in, but he eventually came around. He was very enthusiastic in the end, very appreciative.”

Jerry and Arthur were…a couple, maybe? Henry was surprised to hear this. It had never occurred to him that either groom might have any love other than horses. He supposed they were both handsome young men, wiry and strong, and if they both had the inclination then it would be very natural for them to come together.

“All in all, we had a lovely time,” Tom continued. “Jerry especially has a very nice cock, not that you’ll ever have a chance to see it.”

“I don’t mind,” Martin said, and he sounded cheerful and sincere. “I’m content not seeing other cocks. But I do love hearing your stories, Casanova.”

Ralph’s voice broke in. “Tom, are you bragging about your conquests?”

“It’s just more of the same,” Tom told him. “Tell us about this girl of yours.”

Henry turned his attention to his friends, who were now discussing spoiled Charles Ross, whose parents had bought him his own red-painted spider phaeton and a pair of coal-black carriage horses.

“Robert’s his best friend, but he went out with him just the one time and now he’s scared to ride with him again. He says Charles is a terrible driver,” Freddie told them.

“I want a phaeton of my own,” Louis asserted. “I’d be an excellent driver.”

Henry laughed; he couldn’t help it. “You’d drive too fast and scare everyone else off the road,” he predicted.

Louis scowled, deciding whether or not to have hurt feelings.

Henry had not intended to insult Louis, who had perhaps been rubbed a little raw by James’ protracted presence in the Briggs home. “Me, I’d be scared of turning a phaeton over,” Henry said with a shrug. “If I never drive myself in my whole life, that would be fine by me. I’m not bold like you, Louis.”

Louis decided not to be hurt after all, though he did make a dig at Henry. “That waistcoat tells a different story,” he said, and everyone laughed, master and slave alike.

They all made their way south again, towards home, Freddie and Wendell and their slaves breaking off and exiting the park a few blocks before Henry and Louis did so.

At the Briggs gate, Louis paused and said, “Thanks for stopping by, Henry. I know you don’t really want to come over with James at home—no one does—so I appreciate you inviting me out.”

Henry blushed, unwilling to admit that Louis was right about his reluctance to visit, but unable to deny it, either. “I’m glad you were home,” he said. “What are you doing tomorrow? Besides church, of course.”

“My mother has plans for all of us, I think, but if I can get away, I’ll telephone.”

They waved goodbye to Louis and Peter and walked the two blocks to the Blackwell house.

“It was nice to see our friends, wasn’t it, Sir?” Martin helped Henry off with his coat and handed it to Paul to be hung up.

“It was,” Henry agreed. “I have some questions for you, though.”

“About what, Sir?”

Henry cut his eyes at Paul, who was coming to take Martin’s coat. “Upstairs,” he said.

Henry locked the door behind them and crossed to the bed. “I heard you talking to Tom,” he began. “I-I was eavesdropping.”

“What did you hear?” Martin asked warily, looking uneasy. “It’s harmless, really, just me listening to Tom’s stories.”

“No, no. I’m not mad or anything. I’m just curious,” Henry tried to assure him. “Come sit.” He patted the bed at his hip. “So, Tom was talking about having sex with my Jerry and Arthur…are Jerry and Arthur a couple?”

Martin rolled his eyes and came to sit. “A couple of idiots,” he said. “You heard all of that?”

“Yes. How do they even know Tom?”

“Well, they have time off, and so does Tom, and there are places slaves congregate. Tom took a liking to Jerry awhile back, and obviously it was mutual.”

“Do all the slaves know about Jerry and Arthur?”

“I imagine so.” Martin seemed surprised Henry would ask. “They certainly don’t keep it a secret. There’s no need among slaves, you understand.”

“You’re saying it doesn’t matter if it’s two men?”

“No, not at all.”

“So if I were a slave, we could be together and no one would blink an eye?”

Martin burst out laughing. “I can’t imagine you as a slave, Henry! But, yes, if we were both slaves, it would be just as normal as a man and a woman. I think maybe it’s different because we slaves can’t have children; we’re only having sex because it’s fun, without any pretense that it’s for some higher purpose.”

“Are there other couples amongst my family’s slaves?”

“Oh, yes,” Martin said readily. “Mr. Tim and Dora are as close to married as any slaves can be.”

“Timothy? And the housekeeper?”

Martin gave Henry a stern look. “What’s so strange about that?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

Truthfully, Henry had never had much to do with Dora. She was just a middle-aged woman with a grey dress and a bun. “It’s just that I know Timothy so well and don’t know Dora at all,” he explained sheepishly.

“You don’t know Mr. Tim that well,” Martin pointed out, his tone a bit sharp, “since you didn’t even know he’s married!”

Henry winced; that hurt a little. “Fair enough,” he said. “Are there others?”

“Well, Jack and Vida have a somewhat tempestuous relationship.”

Henry thought hard: who was Vida?

“She’s a scullery maid,” Martin reminded him.

Henry blushed. “Yes, of course.”

“The maids Katie and Ruth are very close, as well, but they both have gentlemen in other houses in addition to one another. They keep busy.” Martin thought on it a minute and then summed it up: “Really, most slaves have a great deal of sex.”

“So companions aren’t even having the most sex, necessarily.” Henry was quite surprised to learn this.

“Oh, no. You and I do have a lot of sex by anyone’s standards, I think, but most of my friends see far less use, and don’t necessarily have permission to follow their hearts otherwise. It’s the rank-and-file slaves who typically have the most sex. No one cares what a parlor maid does on her day off as long as she does her work.”

“Are you unhappy that I don’t give you…days off?” Henry wasn’t quite prepared to ask about denying Martin lovers.

“I like being with you, Henry.” Martin smiled at him so very warmly. “But if you need time alone, you should send me away. You needn’t worry about what I want.”

“No, no,” Henry rushed to assure him. “I want you with me.” He supposed there might come a day when he wanted time away from Martin, but that day hadn’t come yet. “But if you ever want a day off for some reason, we can discuss it. I want you to be happy, you know that.”

“I do, Henry. I know it very well.” Martin looked Henry in the eye and smiled. “I’m so glad you’re my master.” He hesitated, then added, “If you have any more questions about slaves, I’d be happy to answer them. Slaves’ lives aren’t secret, after all.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Henry said. “Do you want to play cards until your dinnertime?”

Martin got up from the bed, grinning. “Just let me get the pennies.”

Clouds started rolling in Saturday night, and they woke up to snow on Sunday. The snow was picturesque, turning the dormant garden into a glittering fairyland in the pale winter sun, but it was already beginning to melt, sliding in slushy slabs from the eaves and dripping where it was precariously heaped along bare branches.

As Henry ate his breakfast with Martin at his side, Martin slid his foot across the carpet to nudge Henry’s boot.

“Sir? Would you want to try to enjoy the snow while it’s still pretty? Before it’s all grey and melted?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“We haven’t had the horses out in awhile, Sir. We could ride.”

Henry certainly had no better idea, was quite willing to do whatever Martin might want, and bade Martin call the stables so the grooms might ready the horses.

They quickly changed into their riding clothes—with the addition of winter underwear, sweaters and scarves—and made their way over to the stables. There wasn’t terribly much snow, actually, just two or three inches, already mostly cleared or melted from the roads and sidewalks. The cold brought out spots of pink on Martin’s cheeks and his eyes looked green as grass. His hair seemed particularly coppery in the watery light, a beautiful color. Even in bulky layers, Martin was slim and graceful, and Henry ached with fondness for him. He wished he could kiss him, or even just offer him his arm while they walked.

Martin had been saying something about the violin, talking about some technique—vibrato? portato? or maybe it was spiccato versus staccato—but Henry hadn’t been paying attention to the words, and he was afraid Martin would be able to tell.

Martin stopped speaking abruptly, suddenly bashful. “Really, Sir,” he said. “You mustn’t let me ramble on about my music like that. It must be very boring.”

It wasn’t boring, but it was largely incomprehensible. “I wish you had someone knowledgeable you could talk with,” Henry told him. “Maybe I should ask my father again about lessons. A good teacher—”

Martin flushed and shook his head. “Please don’t trouble your father, Sir. As he’s already pointed out, further instruction is unnecessary. It’s not as though I’m going to be joining an orchestra.”

Henry didn’t agree lessons were unnecessary, of course, and he was going to say so, but then they were at the stables and Jerry and Arthur were bringing the horses out to them. Henry felt a little self-conscious, knowing what he did about the grooms’ sex life. He studied them a little as Jerry helped him to mount, trying to discern if there were any subtle signs that they were lovers, but they seemed much as they always had, businesslike and deferential, and there was no indication they were anything more than colleagues. It was reassuring and made him feel more confident that he and Martin appeared unremarkable, too.

They rode to the park, Henry letting Martin get a little distance ahead, as he always did, so he could surreptitiously admire his ass. The cold and the clear, wan sun seemed to invigorate Martin, and he was chatty and full of cheerful warmth as he turned in the saddle to speak to Henry of doings below stairs, his breath visible in puffs of glittering mist. Henry made appropriate sounds as Martin talked, and touched Marigold with his heels to bring her alongside Partita. Partita snorted and shook her head, never liking to be crowded, and Henry maneuvered to leave more room between the horses’ flanks.

At this hour, many people were still in church and there were few other riders on the bridle path. The snow hadn’t melted here as it had on the paved roads, so everything was covered in a patchy blanket of white. The snow made soft, powdery crunches beneath the horses’ hooves. Partita continued to snort and blow and Martin leaned forward to pat her neck.

“She wants to run, I think, Sir. She’s tired of being cooped up.”

“We’ll run them around the reservoir,” Henry decided. “Tell her to be patient.”

Martin laughed. “You heard him,” he told the horse. “You’ll have your chance.”

Despite Partita’s impatience, they continued at a leisurely pace, enjoying the brisk air and the crystalline sparkle of the snowy park. Martin seemed supremely content, a pleased smile on his handsome face, and Henry was glad to be doing something that made him happy.

Looking around the stark wintertime park, Henry indulged in a fantasy he had entertained in the past, that perhaps in the spring, with the trees in full leaf, they could find some spot in the park private enough Martin might be willing to allow him a kiss, some tiny intimacy. It needn’t be in public for all to see, but he badly wanted some tender contact between them outside the confines of his bedroom.

His affection for Martin was neither willful nor volitional, and it did not seem fair that he was penalized for something so natural and necessary. All he asked was for the same consideration as any other young man; all he wanted was the freedom to follow the dictates of his heart wherever they might lead. He imagined walking arm-in-arm with Martin along a busy sidewalk, tipping their hats to ladies and nodding to gentlemen, and no one looking askance at their partnership. Wasn’t it possible they might simply be viewed as eccentric young bachelors?

Well, it might be possible if they were both free men. Things were complicated by Martin’s slave status. Would it be easier if Henry was a slave, too? He would be a terrible slave, true, but if he were also a slave, he and Martin could be together. Martin had said unequivocally that slaves did not condemn romances between men, that such distinctions didn’t matter. He imagined getting a chest tattoo marking him as the product of one of the lesser Houses (he would not presume to be Ganymede quality) so that he might stand at Martin’s side as a lover, both of them in collarless shirts, their marks exposed. However, after a moment’s thought, he recognized he’d never actually seen two male slaves treating each other with any particular intimacy in public. Slaves might be more demonstrative with one another than free people, but it wasn’t romantic; slaves were just as discreet as free people, after all, perhaps even more so, and they followed the conventions of free society in their public displays. Besides, it seemed unlikely that Martin would cooperate and keep his opinions to himself while Henry subjected himself to such a tattoo; it was a far-fetched and impractical plan.

He considered what of himself he might be ready to share with his uncle. If he told Reggie his secrets, then surely Reggie would help him. Reggie would know things Henry needed to know, such as the places where men who shared his inclination might congregate. Henry knew Martin would be wary of visiting any such place, but he decided he’d overcome that hurdle when they came to it. First he had to know where they should go. He felt confident there had to be places where he might behave as he liked with Martin, if only because he wanted so badly for such places to exist.

“What are you thinking about, Sir?”

Henry turned to look at Martin, who offered a dazzling smile that Henry couldn’t help but shyly return.

“Just thinking about the spring,” Henry told him. “I’m looking forward to riding more often when it’s not so cold.”

“Oh! Are you too cold now, Sir? We should go back if you’re cold.”

Henry shook his head. “No, I’m not too cold. Besides, we’re almost to the reservoir anyway. Don’t you want to run?”

Martin beamed at him, teeth gleaming and his hair full of ruby sparks. “You know I do, Sir!”

They galloped around the top of the reservoir, as they usually did, Partita just a little faster than Marigold, her hooves kicking up crescent sprays of snow. Laughing, Martin turned to look back at Henry, his pleasure in the informal race apparent. Henry was glad Partita was the faster horse, glad that Martin could so easily be made happy.

At home, they stripped before the fire, and Martin was sweaty under his winter layers, slick and salty, and Henry licked him from nape to tailbone and bent him over the armchair. He imagined bending Martin over like this in the park, pressing him up against the bark of a tree or rolling him over in the grass. The idea of semi-public sex was wildly exciting, and it seemed a real possibility, and he was nearly breathless with arousal as he slid his cock into Martin’s clenching hole, wet with nothing but his spit.

Later, following long, hot showers, they ate their soup and sandwiches, and Henry formulated plans for their future, both grandiose and vague. He’d find out where they might go, what they might get away with, and somehow he’d get Martin to go along with his decisions, and they would be happy together, unimaginably happy, accepted and admired.

Thursday, mid-month, late in the afternoon, they were surprised by a knock on Henry’s door. Martin pulled on Henry’s dressing gown and Henry burrowed beneath the blankets. Martin went to the door and then stepped out into the hall. Henry waited for him to return with increasing impatience.

Martin came back inside and closed the door softly. “Henry? Miss Pearl wants me to let you know that your uncle has asked you to lunch on Saturday. What shall I tell her?”

“Yes!” Henry was emphatic. He had so much to say to Reggie, so much to ask. “Where and when?”

Martin went into the hall again with a pencil and a notebook and again stayed there what seemed an inordinate amount of time. He returned with the details written down. Henry had never heard of the restaurant, someplace called the Third Eye Café, but he had rather expected Reggie to invite him somewhere unusual.

The next day after school, Henry took Martin with him to Hamilton & Sons for his suit fitting. While Henry stood before the mirror in the basted garments, Prescott and his staff brought him ties and waistcoats that might go with the new suit.

“Come here and look,” Henry said, beckoning to Martin, who stood out of the way at the wall, watching. “Come help me choose.”

A shop assistant stood before them with several ties draped over his arm. Martin gave the choices serious consideration. “I like this one, Sir,” he said, pointing to a foulard necktie in blue, green and gold. “It brings in that ochre you liked, Sir, but in a smaller dose.”

“You’re right. What do you think of the stripe?” It was blue, green and grey and Henry feared it was a little staid.

“I’d prefer something with blue, green, and another color, Sir. Something brighter. You do so love color.”

Henry turned to Prescott. “Yes, I agree. Do you have anything like that?”

“We’ll get right on it, Mr. Blackwell.” Prescott bent and spoke urgently into the ear of an idle assistant who left the fitting room at a trot.

“What about the waistcoats? Do you like any of those?” They hung on a rack against the left hand wall, and Martin went obediently to look at them.

“This is lovely, Sir,” Martin said, holding up a blue paisley. “I think it has the same green in it, and is this a gold or a brown? In any case, Sir, it’s very nice.”

“Bring it here. Let’s see it next to the plaid.”

Martin brought it over and Henry held it up against his chest, comparing the colors of his new trousers to the colors in the paisley.

“May I, Sir?” Martin asked the shop assistant, reaching for the foulard tie. The man nodded his acquiescence and Martin took the tie and draped it over Henry’s shoulder.

The colors matched well. The patterns were similar in scale and looked less busy together than Henry had feared. Dressed in these clothes, he would look exceedingly stylish.

“I’ll take these, as well,” he told Prescott.

“If you’ll just try on the waistcoat, Mr. Blackwell,” Prescott said. “In case any alterations are needed.”

Some more striped neckties were brought in while Henry was trying on the waistcoat, but neither Henry nor Martin liked any of them very much. As for the waistcoat, no alterations would be required. Martin helped Henry to dress while Henry’s new purchases were wrapped for him up front.

“Do you want to try anything while we’re here?” Henry asked him. “Another waistcoat, maybe?”

Martin seemed startled by this idea. “Oh, no, Sir. I don’t need anything more.”

“Clothes look so good on you,” Henry told him, his voice low. “I’d love to see you in different things, Martin.”

“But, Sir—” Martin grimaced, clearly distressed by this line of talk.

“Just think about it, will you, please?” Henry leaned close and spoke in Martin’s ear, although they were alone in the fitting room. “Maybe something you’d wear just for me, at home, where no one would see.”

“I-I’ll think about it, Sir,” Martin agreed reluctantly.

Riding home on the omnibus, there were no other passengers sitting near, and Henry coaxed Martin to sit. “You know, you’d look so handsome in a green suit like mine,” Henry suggested in a low voice. “With your hair and your eyes.”

“Really, Sir,” Martin said, frowning in disapproval. “Where would I wear a suit like that? Slaves don’t wear fancy clothes, Sir, you know this.”

Henry had vague notions of Martin and himself sitting in bohemian cafés sipping wine or maybe demitasse cups of strong coffee, with Martin dressed as a free man in a collar and tie, though in these imaginings Martin’s beautiful hair was still worn long like a slave’s.

“Dressing me like a free boy is a very romantic idea, Sir,” Martin continued, his tone making it clear he didn’t have a high opinion of such romance. “I’m quite sure your father wouldn’t approve!”

Henry bit his tongue and refrained from pointing out there were plenty of things Martin did do very enthusiastically that Father wouldn’t approve of, either. If Father were picking and choosing between wrong things, Henry suspected he’d rather see Martin in a green suit than see Henry suck Martin’s cock.

“You’re so willful on this point, Sir, but you’re not thinking of the problems it would cause for me with the rest of the household. Mr. Tim would be very cross about it. He’d chastise me for not talking you out of it, you know.”

“But it wouldn’t be your fault,” Henry said. “Not if it was something I told you to do.”

Martin shook his head. “I should be able to dissuade you from making bad decisions, Sir.”

Henry rather thought the wearing of a beautiful suit was a harmless indulgence of a master’s whim, not a catastrophic bad decision, but decided to drop the issue. For now. “Willful and romantic,” he said, keeping his voice light. “I’m terrible, aren’t I?”

Martin snorted and gave him a crooked smile. “You’re the worst, Sir.” And when Henry reached for his hand, Martin squeezed his fingers ever-so-briefly before withdrawing so that Henry felt he’d gotten a little of what he wanted after all.

On Saturday, anticipating that Uncle Reggie would be wearing something wonderful, Henry chose his most glamorous garments. He wore his favorite suit, the black-and-grey check, a black floral brocade waistcoat, and an aubergine necktie about which his father had wondered if it was in fact a man’s tie and not some womanly accessory. If anyone was going to appreciate Henry’s taste, it would be Reggie.

“You look so handsome, Henry.” Martin straightened the shoulders of Henry’s jacket and smoothed his lapels with proprietary pats. Martin looked wonderful as he was, but again Henry wished he could dress him in regular clothes, something showier than his usual black jacket and fawn trousers.

They were to meet Reggie at one o’clock. Although they might have taken the brougham, Henry was afraid word would get back to Father that he’d taken the carriage out, leading to a discussion of where he’d taken it and whom he’d met. He didn’t want to get either himself or Reggie in trouble, so decided instead to take a cab, pulling a wad of bills from the tea tin to pay their fare.

Martin hailed a cab, handed Henry inside, then climbed in after him. He allowed Henry to hold his hand briefly, but pulled away when he became too concerned that someone might see. Henry settled for sitting in close proximity, their shoulders and knees touching as they bounced over the cobbles.

The Third Eye Café was located downtown in the Village, a part of the city Henry wasn’t terribly familiar with except by reputation. “Artists live here,” he told Martin. “Artists and foreigners.”

The Third Eye Café was possibly associated with both. The sign featured a large blue eye, curly gilded script, and some vaguely Egyptian iconography. They could see Reggie from the sidewalk, sitting at a table in the window with Benjamin standing at his back. He was talking to a waiter, waving his hands in dramatic arcs. Reggie had always been so theatrical; that was part of what Henry had loved about him as a child.

The interior of the restaurant was a bit cramped, but it appealed to the eye with voluminous draperies and rich colors. Images of eyes were everywhere, which did give Henry the slightly unsettling feeling of being closely observed. As they entered the restaurant, Reggie caught sight of them and waved them over. He stood and hugged Henry, kissing him on one cheek and then the other. “Darling Henry! Thank you for coming!” He wore a green velvet jacket with an enormous, peppery-scented carnation pinned to the lapel and, as before, he smelled voluptuously of flowers and amber.

“All you have to do is ask and I’ll come, Uncle,” Henry assured him, sitting down in the chair Martin held out for him. “I was happy to receive the invitation.”

“I really invited you and your mother both, but of course she wouldn’t come. What shall we do about her?”

Henry had no idea, but didn’t think Reggie actually expected him to have any answers.

“That’s a lovely tie, by the way,” Reggie said. “Such an unusual color. It looks so nice on you, darling.”

Reggie was already drinking tea, but ordered coffee for Henry while Henry looked over the menu. “This restaurant belongs to an old friend,” Reggie told him. “An actor who came into a little money and invested it here. It’s not as fashionable as it once was, of course, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“It’s an interesting place,” Henry assured him. “Jesse would like it, I think.”

“Your cousin has such an artistic sensibility,” Reggie said in agreement. “He’s a wonderful young man.”

“Father never wanted me to be close to Bette or Jesse before, but somehow now, after Christmas, I feel like he might let me see them more often.” Henry was hopeful about this.

“They’re delightful people, darling. You’re going to enjoy each other so much. It’s too bad you missed out on growing up together, but perhaps you and Jesse can help each other become better men.” Reggie reached across the table and put his hand on Henry’s wrist, gave it a pat and a squeeze. “That’s partly why I invited you, darling; to talk to you about your father and his decisions. I don’t want you to have the wrong idea about what happened.”

At that moment, the waiter arrived to take their order. Henry ordered roast chicken which came with a side of something called couscous that Reggie assured him he would like.

“So,” Reggie began. “So, darling, I know you’re upset with your father for sending me away. Knowing your father as I do, I expect he hasn’t told you anything about the situation one way or the other.” He paused and cocked his head, waiting for a response.

Henry cleared his throat. “That’s correct.” The idea that Reggie actually “knew” his father was a surprising one, though plausible. Reggie had been 16 when Father married Mother, 27 when he fled to Italy; those eleven years were surely time enough to gain some insights into Father’s inner workings.

“I understand that Jesse gave you a somewhat simplistic explanation,” Reggie continued. “I don’t want you to feel guilty, darling. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want you to turn out a fairy like me—”

Here, Henry blushed furiously and stared at the tablecloth.

“—but he was tired of all the nonsense I put him through. He was supporting our entire family, darling, all the useless Wiltons, but I was terribly ungrateful. I borrowed money to start businesses that I didn’t have the sense to run and never even tried to pay him back. I was friends with some terribly silly people and made a spectacle of myself all over town, embarrassing him immensely. It wasn’t specifically because of my particular nature that he was angry, Henry. I’m sure he would have been just as upset with me if I’d been some young rake chasing after women.” Here, Reggie stopped and turned to Benjamin. “Benjy, darling, some more tea, please?”

Benjamin poured the tea from the pot on the table and Reggie smiled up at him and said, “Thank you, Benjy,” in a low, intimate tone, then turned his attention back to Henry.

“Hiram and I also disagreed about how we ought to proceed in regard to your mother’s delicate health, and we fought. I thought he was too cold toward her, and I still believe that, but I didn’t broach the subject with him in a thoughtful way. Your father is right about so much, so often, that it’s difficult for him to see when he’s actually wrong.” Reggie sipped his tea and smiled at Henry. “You’re very quiet, darling. Am I telling you things you don’t want to hear? I thought you’d want to know, but if I’m wrong, I’m very happy to talk about anything else.”

Henry shook his head and blushed again. “No, I want to know.”

“Well, all right, then. So, I wanted him to try different therapies for your mother, different cures, and he wanted her to snap out of it, just like he would have done in her position. But, of course, your mother isn’t like him at all.”

“No,” Henry agreed. “I honestly don’t understand why they even married in the first place. Did they ever get along?”

“I think you understand, darling, that they were never in love, but the marriage was advantageous all around. However, they were certainly happy when they were first married and the house was being built. They seemed very content while Louisa was pregnant with Hiram Junior. But when the baby died, your mother needed comforting and your father couldn’t help her. He was too sad, and it came out as fury. I don’t think they ever understood one another after that.”

“But they kept trying to have children…” Henry thought of how dismal it would be, to engage in mechanical sex with someone you didn’t much like, only to have it all end in failed pregnancy after failed pregnancy.

“And they did have you, darling, and you were perfect.” Reggie patted his arm again. “And your baby sister seems to be such a lively, charming child. I’m looking forward to knowing her better when my business overseas is concluded at last.”

“What is it you have to do, anyway?”

“Frederick—Mr. Ellsworth—left me a house and some land and I’ll need to sell it. I thought about trying to rent it out, but I think it will be better to just let it go. He also left an antiquarian book business that I need to find a buyer for. I’m going to be particular about who I let the business go to; Frederick had an excellent reputation in those circles and I don’t want someone slippery besmirching his good name.”

Their food arrived and Henry immediately tried the couscous and found it quite delicious, with hints of saffron and spices. He wanted to let Martin taste it, as he was quite confident Jesse would have done with Russ, and tentatively suggested to Reggie that he might do it.

“Darling, please, do as you like. I love to share new things with Benjy.” He raised his hand to summon the waiter. “Might we trouble you for a fork?”

With this fork in hand, Martin stood at Henry’s left and bent over his plate, his tail of hair hanging over his shoulder. “May I, Sir?”

“Please,” Henry said. “Go ahead.”

Martin forked up a mouthful of the fluffy, fragrant grains. As Martin ate, Henry’s gaze alternated between Martin’s face and the room around them, apprehensive that someone might take offense at Henry feeding a slave from his own plate. No one seemed to notice, and Henry was oddly disappointed; he wanted to be admired for his daring.

“Do you like it?”

Martin swallowed and beamed at him. “It’s delicious, Sir. Thank you for sharing.” He set his fork down on Henry’s bread plate and stepped back.

“It’s easy to see how fond you two are of one another,” Reggie said.

Henry felt his cheeks go hot. “I made a good choice,” he managed.

“So, back to your father, darling. Hiram was paying all my bills, all my family’s bills, and he expected us to behave ourselves. He expected us to show some gratitude. That doesn’t sound unreasonable, does it? I was 27, and I’d fallen into an association with a profligate young man who was simply a terrible influence. I thought I was in love, but of course it was only a chemical attraction. We would go out drinking every night, taking cocaine and dancing, and it was a gay old time. Your father had to bail us out of jail more than once.” Reggie actually looked a little happy at those memories. “Of course, nowadays my partner in crime is a very upstanding gentleman with three children and a baby on the way.” He rolled his eyes and gave Henry a wry smile. “Am I being too frank, darling?”

“No,” Henry said, shaking his head. “I want to hear this.”

“Well, your father has made enemies in business, I think you know this, and those people delighted in my exploits and spread stories, insinuating that if your father couldn’t even control one little fairy brother-in-law, what else might be beyond his control? Your father lost out on some big deals because of my behavior. And then, on the home front, I think he was a little jealous of my influence over Louisa and you. You were always so excited to see me, darling! It made me so terribly happy!”

“Of course I was excited! You were the only person besides Nurse who seemed to actually care about me.”

“Your father cares, Henry. I’m sure he doesn’t show it, because that’s just how Hiram is, but he does care very much.”

Henry shrugged, not believing this.

“Maybe you can’t see it, Henry, but he wants you to be happy above all. He’s letting me come home because you want it, you understand. Not Louisa, but you. He doesn’t trust me, and he’ll be keeping an eye on me, but he’s going to let you have me and the rest of the Wiltons because he can see how much you want that. He told me this at Christmas, darling. He’s seeing it late, and he’s handling it all wrong, but he’s doing it for you, darling.” Reggie moved his filet around with his fork, but didn’t actually bring any food to his mouth. “Benjy, more tea, please.”

“So, what actually happened? Why did you leave?”

“It was a minor thing, really. If it hadn’t been for all the other far worse things that I’d done, it would’ve been nothing. I defied his authority. He wanted you to do one thing, and I wanted you to do another. I wanted you to see the dancers at a ball, and he wanted you to stay in bed. I brought you downstairs—”

“I remember,” Henry said. “It was wonderful.”

“I knew you’d like it,” Reggie said with some satisfaction. “Well, I brought you down, and that was the last straw for Hiram. He dragged me into that cigar-reeking study of his and put the fear of god into me. He threatened me with everything, simply everything: withholding money from my family, keeping me away from you and Louisa, demanding payback for all those loans. My young man had kept our affair secret from his family and Hiram even threatened to expose him. He was just venting, I think, and would have done none of it, but I was scared and foolish, and I ran to my friend, Mr. Ellsworth, who was leaving for Italy, and he agreed to take me with him. He’d been making overtures toward me for some time, but I’d been too absorbed in my ridiculous love affair to pay him any mind.”

Henry had finished his chicken and was still hungry, so when the waiter came around again, they ordered dessert.

“I exiled myself, you see. I wanted to leave all my troubles and shame behind. Once we were in Italy, Frederick could only afford to support us both for a short period of time. I needed money, and your father agreed to give it to me if I would stay away from you in return. It wasn’t just because I’m queer, Henry, though that was certainly a concern. He wanted me to stay away from you because I was careless and selfish. He didn’t want me to hurt you, Henry. You’re precious to him, even if you can’t see it.”

Henry looked at Reggie’s kind, handsome face. He seemed to believe what he was saying, though Henry had his doubts.

“Of course, if I had been able to make my own money, I wouldn’t have had to follow his rules. Don’t let yourself grow up to be a useless person, Henry!” Reggie smiled ruefully as the waiter set a piece of cake in front of him. “Oh, this looks nice, doesn’t it?”

Henry ate his chocolate torte, shyly offering Martin a bite with the extra fork that the observant waiter had provided. “What’s Italy like?”

“Our part of it is beautiful. Idyllic, really. Our house is out in the country, by a lake, and there’s a little vineyard. It’s not too far from the city, so friends would come out for the weekend and we’d have wonderful parties. We’d have all sorts of people, artists and writers and actors and bons vivants of all stripes. And even though it started out as a sort of marriage of convenience, I grew to really love Frederick while we lived there.” Reggie reached again for Henry’s wrist. “Does it seem strange to you that I talk about loving another man the way most men would speak of a woman, a wife? I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, darling.”

Henry shook his head. “I like hearing about it. You make it sound normal.” He came to a sudden decision, decided he would take a risk. He would trust that Reggie was someone he could talk to.

Reggie blinked, seeming somewhat nonplussed by this statement.

“It makes me feel better about what my life might turn out like,” Henry continued, a quaver in his voice and heat rising in his cheeks. “It didn’t matter, you see, him keeping you away from me. I’ve managed to turn out queer anyway.” Henry heard Martin gasp at his back.

Reggie reared back from the table, aghast. “Darling, you’re joking!”

“No,” Henry said firmly. “I’m so serious, Uncle.”

“How can you be sure, darling? You’re so young—”

“How old were you when you knew?” Henry countered.

Reggie did not answer right away. Looking contrite, he said, “I’m sorry to belittle you, darling. Of course you know.”

“I’ve known for years. I tried not to be, I really did, but…this is who I am, I guess.” He was trembling and half-regretted having said anything at all, but at the same time it felt so good to have told someone!

Reggie glanced up above Henry’s head at Martin. “I knew undeniably when I brought Benjy home,” Reggie said quietly. “I’m guessing it was the same for you.”

Henry blushed again to think of all he’d come to know since bringing Martin home.

“You have to be careful, darling. I couldn’t tell you what your father might do if he found out. You’re his heir, after all.”

“I’ll be careful,” Henry said with perhaps undue confidence. “But I need you to help me, Uncle. There’s so much I don’t know!”

“What do you mean, darling?” Reggie looked slightly apprehensive. “Really, Henry, I can’t see my way toward instruct—”

Henry flushed with mortification. “No! Oh, no, Uncle Reggie, I don’t want you to tell me how to…no, I don’t need that!” He took a deep breath. “I only want to know where to go, where people like me gather. You can tell me that, can’t you?”

Reggie frowned, shaking his head. “Oh, Henry, no. You’re too young to be running around the streets by yourself, much less in those kinds of neighborhoods. Besides, I don’t really know where the exciting places are anymore, darling. I have been out of the country for nearly a decade.”

“You could introduce me to your friends,” Henry suggested eagerly. “I won’t embarrass you, I promise.”

“Darling, I’m not worried about that. You are aware my friends are all old like me, aren’t you?”

“You’re not so old,” Henry told him. “I’m only looking for people to talk to, after all. I’m not looking for a lover.”

“But you’re just the age everyone wants, darling. They would all look upon you as fresh meat,” Reggie said wryly. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“So you won’t help me at all?” Henry found this most frustrating. “I confess my deepest secret to you, and you’re the only one who could possibly help me, but you won’t do it.” He sat back heavily in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

Reggie looked slightly chastened. “Let me think on it. I can ask some people where they think a nice boy should go—but no guarantees, Henry. There might be no good place.”

“Thank you for asking,” Henry said, smiling broadly, relieved. “Really, thank you!”

“It might have to wait until I return from Italy,” Reggie warned him. “Promise you won’t go off on your own until I have a chance to investigate for you, all right, darling?”

“I promise.”

Reggie paid and they left the restaurant. Reggie insisted that they take the first cab, that he and Benjy would get the next. Reggie took Henry’s hand in both of his own and said, “I love you, Henry. I’m so glad to be back in your life.”

“I love you, too, Uncle.” Henry felt his eyes well with tears and, embarrassed, hurried into the cab.

Martin climbed in after him and sat at his side. Henry took Martin’s hand in his and Martin let him do it. They were silent until the cab started rolling, and then Henry asked, “Were you surprised I told him?”

Martin cleared his throat. “A little, Sir. But I think you were right to tell him. He can help you, Sir. He wants to help you.”

They sat a minute in silence as the cab bumped along. “So, that was quite a story Reggie told,” Henry said. “About why he left, I mean. I guess it wasn’t just my father being horrible.”

“No, Sir,” Martin agreed. “It sounds like your uncle was maybe a little horrible, too.” He squeezed Henry’s hand. “And it wasn’t your fault, either, Sir, you see?”

“Not entirely, anyway,” Henry agreed. He leaned his head on Martin’s shoulder, knocking his hat askew.

“Sir, please, sit up. Someone could see…”

Henry sighed and sat upright. “I just want to be close to you…” he said, wheedling.

“We can be close at home, Sir,” Martin said firmly. “We’re holding hands; that should be quite enough.”

“If Reggie can help me,” Henry said, “If he can tell me where to go, maybe there’ll be a place where you can hold my hand and not be worried about who sees us.”

Martin did not look like he believed there was any possibility of there being such a place. Uncharacteristically stiff and prim, he said, “With all the dirty, loving things we can do in private, Sir, I don’t see the need to flaunt our affection in public.”

Henry needed to be acknowledged and respected and envied all at once, but he did not have the wherewithal to articulate this to Martin. Instead, he squeezed Martin’s hand and held onto it a few seconds longer when Martin tried to pull away.

At home in his bedroom, Henry said, “Remember what you said? About all the dirty, loving things we can do in private? Why don’t we do some of those?”

Martin smiled and reached for Henry’s collar. “What are you thinking of?”

Henry had been enjoying how excited Martin got when he licked his asshole, how he’d reach between Martin’s legs and grab hold of his hard cock and it would jerk in his hand, a rabbit kick, as Henry thrust his tongue inside. “I’m going to lick your ass until you’re desperate for my cock,” Henry told him, excited by his own bold words, cheeks flushed. “Until you’re begging to come.”

“Will you let me touch myself?” Martin quickly helped Henry off with his shirt.

“You know I won’t,” Henry told him, grinning.

Martin dropped to his knees and got to work on Henry’s boots. “Should I suck your cock a little? I’d like to do it, I really would.” Boots out of the way, he reached for the placket of Henry’s trousers.

“I could make you do it,” Henry offered, petting his hair.

Martin gave him a particularly wicked smile. “I like it when we play that game, Sir.”

“What else could we play?” Henry asked. “What else would you like?” He suspected Martin must have played all sorts of elaborate games with his Ganymede friends, and he disliked that those boys had anything over him. He felt he would do whatever Martin wanted, or nearly so.

Martin beamed up at him. “Oh, Sir, you should definitely scold me when I displease you. I’ll be especially good if you do.” He skinned Henry’s trousers and drawers down his legs and helped him kick free of their constraints.

“Especially good?” Henry couldn’t imagine how Martin might be any better than he was already.

“Yes, Sir. But you should discipline me severely if I don’t make you happy.” When he saw Henry’s dubious expression, Martin asserted, “You should, Sir! I know I’d appreciate your guidance.”

Suddenly, this game seemed daunting, and Henry faltered in his resolve. “Martin, I…I don’t know—”

Martin caressed Henry’s hip, his touch reassuring. “It’s just for fun, Henry, but if you don’t want to…”

But Henry could see that Martin was disappointed. He didn’t want to discipline Martin, but neither did he want to disappoint him. It was embarrassing to say it, but he gathered his courage and asked, “How will I know if I’m doing it right?”

Martin’s brilliant smile returned. “Oh, that’s easy, Sir. If I don’t like it, or it’s too much, I’ll just say…omnibus!”

“Omnibus?”

“Or a different word, if you prefer, Sir.” He knelt up and nuzzled Henry’s cock, which had shrunk half-limp during their conversation.

Martin’s smooth cheek and hot breath felt very nice. “Just so I understand…” Henry said. “You want to play a game where I’m unhappy with your service.” The idea was so unlikely as to be laughable, but Henry didn’t laugh.

“Yes!” Martin turned to kiss the shaft of Henry’s cock. “Yes, Sir. That’s what I want. You’re my…my whimsical master and I disappoint you.”

If Martin wanted to play at having a cruel master, Henry decided he should go along with it. It was just a game, albeit one he didn’t really understand. But knowing Martin must have played a version of this with his friends at Ganymede, Henry wasn’t about to do any less than they had. He could do this; he would do his best.

Despite his misgivings, Henry’s prick had stiffened again under Martin’s ministrations. “All right…slave,” Henry said, with just a moment’s hesitation. “You’ll say ‘omnibus’ if you want me to stop.”

“I will, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” He gave Henry his beautiful smile once again before sucking his cock in to the root.

Henry let Martin suck him a few exquisite minutes before taking his hair in handfuls and using it to maneuver his head and eager mouth, shoving his cock down Martin’s hot, slippery throat. Martin gagged and moaned and worked frantically to undo his own buttons. Henry remained somewhat ambivalent about this forced cocksucking for himself, but he did like how much Martin seemed to enjoy it, and it felt amazing. With some reluctance, he pulled his cock out of Martin’s mouth and said, “Get undressed, slave.”

Martin stripped quickly and dropped back to his knees before Henry. “What do you want me to do, Sir?”

“Keep sucking me, you lazy slave, and you’d better do a good job or…or you’ll be punished.” It had been a sudden inspiration, and Henry bit his lip, worried to see how Martin would react.

Martin inhaled a sharp, shocked breath and his eyes went wide. He was, Henry was relieved to see, excited and not frightened, or not too frightened. “Oh, god, Sir! I—”

“Do it,” Henry insisted roughly, reaching out and grabbing a handful of Martin’s hair. “Put it in your mouth. Now. Or, or it’s the whipping post for you.”

With a tremulous moan, Martin took Henry’s cock deep into his mouth, into his throat. With his hands wrapped in Martin’s hair, Henry manhandled his head in an erratic rhythm, making Martin choke and gasp as he made thorough use of his wet mouth. When he’d had his fill of this, he let Martin set his own pace, let him suck until he felt close, his excitement ratcheting higher, and he reached the point where he either needed to let himself come or slow things down. He put his hand on the back of Martin’s head and pulled him in close, pulled him until his nose was pressed against his belly, and Martin made a muffled sound that was half-protest, half-exultation around Henry’s cock. Henry could feel Martin’s throat muscles spasm, could feel him struggle for breath as he made excited little moans.

“Get up, slave.” He released Martin’s head.

Martin sat back on his heels, letting Henry’s cock slide out from between his lips. His face was red, his eyes watering. He wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand and grinned happily at Henry. His cock stood up straight from his lap, hard and slick.

Henry held out his hand and said it again, “Come on, get up, slave.” Martin took his hand and got to his feet.

Henry took hold of Martin by the shoulders and positioned him facing the bed. He slapped Martin’s ass hard enough to make his hand sting, hard enough to make Martin cry out in shock. He was gratified to see that Martin looked delighted with this course of events. “Bend over, slave. Lean on the bed.” He gave Martin a little shove between his shoulder blades and Martin bent over, bracing his hands on the bed and arching his back a little, presenting his ass to Henry somewhat hopefully. Henry stood behind Martin, letting his own hard, spit-slick cock slot in between Martin’s buttocks, and ran his hand up and down Martin’s back.

“If you don’t do as I say, I will punish you,” Henry told him. He drew slashing crosshatch marks on the skin of Martin’s back with his fingertips, his nails leaving faint pink stripes, and slapped Martin’s ass again. “But if you do as you’re told, you’ll get what you deserve…”

“Oh, Sir,” Martin said, his voice unsteady and pressured. “Oh, god, Sir. Please don’t punish me, Sir! I try so hard to be good, I really do!”

Henry bent and kissed the top of the cleft of Martin’s ass, gave him a slow lick just shy of his asshole, and Martin whimpered and shifted his weight from one foot to the other in nervous anticipation.

“Keep still, slave,” Henry said, getting down on his knees. He parted Martin’s ass cheeks and admired his asshole, leaned forward and blew on it, and licked it, painting the sparse hairs flat to his skin. Martin cried out, Henry blew again across the skin slick with his spit, and Martin trembled.

“Do you like this, slave? Do you like my mouth on you?”

Martin groaned. “Sir, I love it! I love your mouth.”

Henry gave him a thoughtful lick, considering what might constitute punishment, what Martin might consider discipline. “What if I stop doing it?”

“Oh, Sir, please don’t stop!”

Henry sat back on his heels and ran his finger up and down the cleft, pushing the tip in Martin’s hole. “Is it your place to tell me what to do, slave?”

“N-no, Sir.” Martin trembled, legs shaking. “Please, Sir—”

“I could punish you for being insubordinate,” Henry told him. He gave Martin’s buttock a hard pinch and Martin started at the pain and yelped.

“You could, Sir,” Martin agreed breathily. “If you thought I deserved it.”

“Oh, I’ll definitely punish you, slave,” Henry assured him. He would absolutely not hit Martin, or play at whipping him, however, even if that was what Martin wanted. He thought a moment, coming up with the worst punishment he could imagine carrying out. “You can’t come.”

Martin whimpered. “Sir?”

Not allowing Martin to come at all was at least as much punishment for Henry as it was for Martin, but perhaps Martin didn’t realize this.

“You can’t come until I say you can. If you come before then, you’ll be punished.” He had no idea what this punishment might be, so he just hoped Martin wouldn’t come before Henry gave permission.

“Please, Sir—”

“Keep your hands on the bed, slave. Don’t you dare touch your cock.”

Henry knelt up again and put his face between Martin’s cheeks. Martin’s asshole clenched tight beneath Henry’s tongue, relaxed and clenched again as Henry licked up and down the cleft, probing the hole. Martin shivered and cried out as Henry spread his buttocks wide and thrust his tongue deep inside, then deeper still.

Martin whimpered and pushed back against Henry’s mouth. In a hoarse whisper he said, “It’s cruel, Sir, not letting me come.”

Amused, Henry ignored him and kept fucking him with his tongue, kept licking and teasing and nipping. He pulled back to look at Martin’s ass and balls, everything wet with his spit and pink from friction, and Martin moaned in protest, twisting his hips against nothing, wanting pressure on his hard cock, hanging heavy and engorged between his thighs.

“Please, Sir, you’ve always been a fair master—”

Henry shook his head. His role was not that of fair master. “No. You’re not allowed to come yet. Maybe never. Do you want to be punished?” Henry looked at Martin’s hole, his beloved hole, and thought he should offer a chastisement, a small thing. He flicked sharply at Martin’s wet hole with his fingernail and Martin flinched at the sting, making a surprised cry.

In the same hoarse whisper, Martin confessed, “N-no, Sir. But I want to come, Sir. I want you to make me come.”

“Insubordinate,” Henry whispered back. “Disobedient.” He gave Martin’s buttock a deliberate bite, teeth leaving marks, then bent to lick his balls and suck them into his mouth, one and then the other, and while Martin liked this, Henry could tell that he wanted Henry to go back to licking his sensitive asshole. Henry rubbed his cheek, slightly rough, against all of Martin’s tender skin, and then returned his attention to Martin’s hole.

Henry closed his eyes, circling the puckered muscle with his tongue and then spiking into it, over and over again, really feeling what he was doing and intensely aroused. The faint muskiness, the textures of Martin’s flesh, and the feeling of muscles flexing against his lips and tongue were a powerful tonic to his lust. The idea of doing something this intimate to anyone else was repellent, absurd, but to know Martin in this way was absolutely necessary. Martin’s loud moans were almost unbearably exciting and Henry’s cock got harder and harder listening to him. Henry touched himself just lightly, welcome pressure; he had placed no restrictions on himself, after all.

“Sir,” Martin whispered urgently. “Sir, will you let me come now?. I’ve been so good.”

Henry smiled against Martin’s skin but said, “No. Absolutely not.” He leaned back and slapped Martin’s ass hard, leaving a red handprint, and said, “Ask again and I’ll whip you raw.”

Martin groaned and shuddered and arched his back, pushing his ass in Henry’s face, and Henry took the hint, spreading Martin’s cheeks with his hands, blowing over his wet skin, and teasing his sensitive, twitching hole with the tip of his tongue.

Martin kept up his nonspecific begging—please, Sir, please—and his legs were shaking erratically, near to collapse, such that Henry thought maybe Martin had had enough. He reached between Martin’s legs, cupping his balls for just a moment, and Martin growled, needy and at the same time certain of having that need fulfilled. Henry drilled his tongue into Martin’s hole as he wrapped his fingers around Martin’s cock and cupped the wet head in his palm, and Martin’s cock jerked hard as he shouted Henry! His elbows buckled and he slumped onto the bed, away from Henry’s mouth and hand.

“I’ll come, Sir,” Martin explained sheepishly, pushing himself back up. “If you touch me, I’ll come, but you said I couldn’t come, Sir.”

“Do you want to come, slave?”

“I want to be a good slave, Sir, please.”

Martin was the best slave, that was obvious to Henry. “On the bed,” he said. “On your back, right here on the edge.” He got to his feet and reached for the nightstand drawer while keeping his eyes fixed on Martin’s genitals and ass. Martin drew his knees up and let them fall wide and Henry went to stand at the side of the bed between his raised feet with the bottle of oil.

“Let me oil your cock, Sir.” Martin propped himself up on his elbow and held out his hand. Henry poured a few drops of oil into Martin’s palm and stood close so that Martin could work the length of his cock. He put his own slick fingers into Martin’s ass, giving him the sort of perfunctory preparation that he seemed to find sufficient.

Henry wished more than anything that he could fuck Martin and suck him at the same time, have the feeling of a cock in his mouth while experiencing the squeeze of a body around his own. He supposed that’s what two boys at once were for, but he really just wanted it to be Martin.

He pushed his cock inside Martin’s body and Martin groaned and shifted beneath him, spreading his legs wider still, opening further, and Henry was pulled in deeper. Henry bent over him and held his face and kissed him.

“You taste of me, Sir,” Martin whispered with a shiver, kissing Henry again.

‘Do you like it?” Henry knew he did.

“It excites me, Sir,” Martin admitted happily. “It’s such a dirty thing you do for me.”

“It doesn’t feel dirty,” Henry told him, tilting his hips, pulling out and pushing in again. Everything about Martin seemed pure, practically holy.

“It does feel dirty, Sir,” Martin insisted. “The best kind of dirty.”

Henry looked down at Martin, who was flushed and panting, his cock hard and dark. He began to fuck him in leisurely rhythm. He tried to consider what else a capricious master might demand of a hapless slave, wanting to come up with a punishment Martin would enjoy.

“Touch your nipples, slave.”

“Sir?” Martin did not enjoy having his nipples played with as much as Henry did; they were perhaps overly sensitive.

“You heard me. If you don’t want to do it, you know what to say.” It was only now occurring to Henry that not saying the word would be a point of pride for Martin, that he wanted Henry to push this boundary.

Martin shook his head firmly to the negative, and touched his chest with shaking hands, his deft violinist’s fingers teasing his hard nipples and his cock jerking with each pinch. “No, Sir...please, Sir!”

“Please what? What are you begging for, slave?”

“I’ve been good, Sir, I really have!”

“Not good enough,” Henry told him. “I might have to punish you anyway.”

Martin moaned, almost a sob, and his cock flexed. His hands stilled over his chest.

“Keep doing it,” Henry insisted. “Keep doing it or say the word.” He flicked the head of Martin’s prick with a fingernail. Martin cried out and jerked beneath him and resumed twisting and teasing his nipples with renewed vigor.

Henry fucked him slowly for a few minutes, reveling in the drag of skin against skin. Martin looked as though he was suffering a little, but Henry thought this was rather what Martin wanted.

“You can’t come,” Henry reminded him, and ran a fingertip up the underside of his cock.

Martin did sob this time and his balls drew up tight.

Henry stilled with his cock in Martin’s ass. He squeezed Martin’s prick, slow and deliberate, and gave it a couple of strokes while Martin writhed and whimpered beneath him.

“You can’t come until I let you. Until I say so.” He ran his fingertips through the slick on Martin’s belly and brought them to his lips, letting the bitter-salty flavor of Martin spread through his mouth. He took hold of Martin’s cock again and stroked it with a loose fist, thumb sliding over the head, and it jerked in his hand while Martin took in frantic, hiccupping breaths, his hands still busy. Muscles jumped low in his belly. If Henry touched him with just a little more purpose, he’d come apart.

“Please, Sir, I can’t!”

“You can’t what?”

“If you keep touching me...I can’t take it, Sir!” Martin sounded so anguished, his eyes full of desperation.

“If it’s too much, you know you can make me stop. But I think you can take it.” However, Henry let go of his cock. He began to fuck him again, harder now, hands pushing down on the backs of his thighs, hips slamming against his ass, and Martin groaned and pressed his hands flat against his nipples, a protective gesture, but then bit his lip and began to obediently pinch them again before Henry could tell him to do so, his suffering very apparent. In his place, Henry felt that he would have been shouting omnibus, but Martin clearly relished having his mettle tested.

Had he done it right? Had it been a good enough game? Martin seemed to be enjoying himself, and it had been more fun than Henry had anticipated, but he didn’t know how to judge such play. He didn’t think he’d actually hurt Martin or made him truly unhappy, but he didn’t exactly understand what Martin wanted out of this game. Regardless, it was amazing that Martin offered him such trust, and he would reward him for it.

“That’s enough,” he said. “You can stop.”

Martin whimpered with relief. “Oh, thank you, Sir!” He pressed his hands over his tender nipples and let his eyes flutter closed. His pretty cock was slapping wetly against his belly with each of Henry’s thrusts and his breath came in ragged hitches.

Henry loved him more than life.

He bent over him and angled his head for a kiss. Martin reached for him and met him with an eager mouth. His arms went around Henry’s back, legs about his waist, his embrace making it difficult for Henry to move. He whimpered into Henry’s mouth, fingers digging into Henry’s shoulders. Then Martin broke off kissing and clung, breathing hard, his face buried in Henry’s neck. He seemed overwhelmed with emotion, so heartbreakingly vulnerable.

“You’re a good slave,” Henry told him, stroking his hair. “I won’t punish you.” He hoped it was the right thing to say.

Martin gave a shaky sigh and again sought Henry’s mouth with his own.

As they kissed, Henry pumped into him, steady thrusts. Martin licked into his mouth, sucked his tongue, bit his lip. Henry’s body coursed with energy, blood pumping, skin tingling. He was sweating, working, feeling the pull on his cock in exquisite detail, the grain of Martin’s flesh tight along his shaft. He raised himself out of Martin’s embrace so he could look upon his beautiful face; Martin’s eyes were closed, but then he opened them and gave Henry the dazzling smile he loved. Henry blushed and returned the smile; a foolish, ardent grin.

Henry was ready to come—to let Martin come—and be through with their game.

“Touch yourself when you’re ready,” Henry told him, then added, “Slave,” in case they were still playing.

With a moan signifying his relief, Martin reached for his cock and rubbed the skin of the shaft up and down with graceful little movements of his wrist. There were spots of bright pink in each of his cheeks and when he opened his eyes, his gaze conveyed excitement and trust.

“Don’t hold back. I’ll come when you do,” Henry said with confidence. He was ready; he wanted this incredible feeling to go somewhere, to culminate, and he wanted to see Martin experiencing the same thing, their bodies in perfect synchrony. He began to move more deliberately, angling his thrusts just so, to make Martin want to come, too. “You can come. You have permission,” he reminded him.

Martin sucked in a hissing breath. “Oh, I’m a good slave, aren’t I, Sir?” He began to work the full length of his cock, his graceful, bony hand making such deft movements, and it was so pretty, the way Martin did it; Henry did not think his own hands and cock could possibly make such an appealing display. Martin had his eyes closed, his lip caught between his teeth, and Henry watched him intently, looking back and forth between his debauched-angel face and his busy hand, and felt the change when Martin stilled and began to come. He let himself come, too, glorious and triumphant, watching Martin’s semen spurt from his cock, hearing Martin call his name, and taking so much pleasure in knowing he’d made it good for Martin again.

Martin wasn’t in a hurry to get up and get his basin, which Henry appreciated. He lay down next to Martin, his legs hanging over the side of the bed, and Martin rolled against him, fitting himself under Henry’s arm.

Martin kissed Henry’s chest and then rubbed his cheek against the place he’d kissed. He squeezed Henry tighter and said, “I was surprised when you said…when you first said that bit about punishing me.”

“Was that okay? I worried maybe that was going too far.”

“It shocked me,” Martin admitted, “but it was exciting. It was just playing, after all.”

“Okay,” Henry said, “So long as I didn’t really scare you.”

“No,” Martin assured him. “You just made me so hard. You made me want to be so good for you.”

“You are so good,” Henry said, kissing his forehead. “You do know that, right? You’re the best.”

“You’re a very easygoing person, Henry. It’s no trouble to be good for you.”

“I—” Henry began, then wasn’t sure how to proceed. “I never imagined any slave would want to play at having a cruel master.”

Martin laughed softly. “It’s a little perverse, isn’t it? It’s only fun because you’re not really like that at all.”

“Did you ever play like this before…?”

“Well, they tried to be positive at Ganymede, telling us our masters would be good to us if we were obedient, but there were hints that this wasn’t always the case, and of course all of us worried about being sold to someone unkind. We played masters and slaves when we were little, quite innocently, of course, just bossing each other around, but it turned…darker when we were older.”

In that moment, Henry felt his inexperience very acutely.

“It was more fun to play this way, though,” Martin said. “With you, my real master.”

“I hope I did it the way you wanted.”

“You did. It was very exciting! I like that cruelty doesn’t come naturally to you, Henry, but you made good choices all the same.”

Henry felt relieved. He remembered Martin wincing as he played with his nipples and asked, “Are you sore?”

Martin laughed. “Which part of me?”

“Well, any part, I guess, but I was thinking about your nipples. That wasn’t too mean, was it?”

Martin considered this a moment. “No, it was good. Really good. I...liked it. I liked it when you let me stop!” He laughed and gave Henry’s nipple a light pinch. “You like it, though, don’t you?”

“More than you do,” Henry agreed, relieved that Martin wasn’t upset about any aspect of their game.

They cuddled hanging half off the bed, feeling slightly precarious but not wanting to move away from one another, but at last Martin went for his basin and cloth and came to sit on the edge of the bed at Henry’s hip and wiped him clean.

Henry thought back on the lunch conversation again. “I’m thinking about Reggie and Benjamin…” Henry began. “When he said he ‘knew undeniably’ that he was queer when he brought Benjamin home, do you think it meant that they’re like us? Doing forbidden things?”

“I do think that.” Martin put his basin on the nightstand and lay down at Henry’s side again. “They’re so fond of each other.”

“But I think maybe they’re different in terms of, er, how they do things,” Henry continued. “I suspect Reggie is…more like you.” Henry blushed, not entirely comfortable picturing any adult having sex, much less his own uncle.

Martin laughed. “Are you imagining that your uncle is the receptive partner? Is that what you mean? I must say, I agree with you! What a surprise that must have been for Benjamin! I hope it was a nice surprise!”

“Did they train you for that at Ganymede? Did they tell you that your master might want to be fucked instead?”

“It doesn’t happen often, I guess. They never really went into it in any depth. Even though you prefer a male partner, you still want to be on top. Of course, we all learned how to do it incidentally in the process of making certain we were all trained for the receptive role. Everyone being required to have sex with everyone else, if you’ll recall.”

Henry did recall, and determined not to be upset by the recollection. “Were you any good at it, do you think?”

Martin looked bashful but also a little proud. “I think so. I made an effort, at least. But I think I’m better at being fucked, and that’s what I like best.”

If there was anyone in the world better at being fucked than Martin, Henry simply couldn’t believe it. It would have to be proven to him, but he wasn’t willing to fuck anyone else to find out.

Henry wondered if he would ever get up the nerve to ask Martin to fuck him. He thought he should do it, at least try, but he was really quite afraid to do so, despite how much pleasure it obviously gave Martin.

But back to Reggie. “I’ll admit I am curious about his relationship with Benjamin,” Henry said, “but somehow I don’t think I’ll ever be asking Uncle Reggie for details of his sex life.”

“He’d probably tell you whatever you wanted to know, though,” Martin said, laughing again. “The Wiltons are so interesting, don’t you think? Your uncle and your cousin both.”

“For all I know, Uncle Gilbert’s the same, too. What’s his slave’s name again? Howard?”

“No, it’s Harold. He’s a very nice man.”

Henry tried to picture Harold. Brown hair, blue eyes, tall.

“Your uncle is very devoted to his wife, though. He may have been closer to Harold when they were young, of course, and perhaps that makes him more indulgent of your cousin’s behavior with Russ.”

“Have I asked you before? Do you like Jesse and Russ?”

“I do. I like that you have such a lively cousin. He’s entertaining, don’t you think? And Russ was very nice to me, very welcoming.”

Russ had wanted Martin to play with him, Henry remembered that. But all he said was, “I hope we get to see them more often from now on.”

They lay on the bed, curled on their sides, facing one another, and Henry had to keep reaching out to touch Martin, to play with his hair or trace the bones of his face, until Martin got restless and sat up.

“Do you want me to play for you? I could use the practice, I really could.”

Henry pictured it: Martin naked and with his hair loose, violin tucked under his chin. “Yes,” he said, “I do want that.” Martin hopped up and trotted off to his room to fetch his instrument and Henry arranged the bed pillows so that he might be both comfortable and attentive.

They spent the rest of the afternoon naked, Martin playing the violin and Henry listening and admiring, until it was time for Martin to go down for his dinner. Martin dressed and left Henry naked on the bed, flush with feeling, thinking that his was the most fortunate life that anyone could hope to live, with the most wonderful companion. He felt closer to Martin than ever after playing his bossy game, special and trusted. As so often happened between Martin’s dinner and his own, he worked himself into a state such that when Martin returned to dress him, he nearly overwhelmed him with affection, embraces and kisses and tender caresses, and Martin was receptive but businesslike.

“You must get dressed now, Henry.” Martin smoothed Henry’s hair, patted him. “You can’t be late for dinner.”

Martin would be blamed if Henry was late, and Henry would not see Martin blamed. He allowed himself to be dressed and Martin told him about the questions Pearl had had for him at the slaves’ dinner, all of them regarding the lunch with Reggie.

“Perhaps you can speak with your mother,” Martin suggested. “I’m sure she would love to hear about it directly from you.”

Henry lifted his chin to let Martin tie his tie. “I suppose I could do that,” he allowed, though he was not in a hurry to spend time with Mother. Still, they shared a fondness for Reggie, and it might be fun to talk about him with someone other than Martin.

Martin put his hands on Henry’s shoulders. “You’re ready.”

They shared a brief kiss and went downstairs, Henry squeezing Martin’s hand just outside the dining room door, a last loving impulse before putting on his false front. He could do as Reggie asked; he would wait for Reggie’s help, all the while hiding in plain sight. When he sat down at his father’s right hand it was as a good son, a boy who used his slave properly, someone who would eventually get a passing grade in Latin, and he was convincing in the role.

Thursday they came home through a chilling rain to a new Pals. Martin was fretful about the possibility of Henry taking ill from the wet and cold and let him go ahead upstairs while he went to the kitchen for soup and melted cheese sandwiches that he brought up on a tray. They ate sitting cross-legged on the floor before the fire in Henry’s room.

“Are you finished eating yet?” Henry put down his napkin, looking at Martin expectantly.

Martin chewed and swallowed. “Almost.” He ate the last bite of his sandwich. “Please don’t rush me, Henry.”

“I need to know what happens.” Henry was nearly vibrating with urgency. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Of course I do. Just let me get a drink of water…” He went to the bathroom and returned with a glass while Henry waited impatiently.

They’d left the Dauntless with Theo exhausted, George injured, and the rest of the crew engaged in getting the ship to the next port marked on the map taken from the Order of the Red Eye. They’d taken on a passenger, a mysterious young woman without any memory, who might be either a victim of DeSade or one of his accomplices. The only clue they had as to where DeSade might be headed was a dead man’s mention of “the Refuge.”

Rested and refreshed, Theo arose and sent George to fetch their mysterious passenger. She’d been given a tiny aft cabin for her own and George found Dooley asleep outside her door, wanting to be available to her should she awaken frightened and confused.

“See, Henry,” Martin said. “I told you she might be meant for Dooley.”

“You might be right,” Henry conceded, “but just because Dooley likes her doesn’t mean she can’t set her sights on Theo anyway.”

George knocked on the girl’s door and bade her join the Captain for breakfast. To Henry’s dismay, this same invitation was issued to Dooley, as well.

“Do you think that George sits down with Theo when it’s just them?” Henry asked.

“No one’s family does that but yours,” Martin pointed out. “I certainly appreciate that you do it, but it’s considered very different, you know this.”

“But Theo’s like my father,” Henry insisted. “He came from nothing and made his own way. I think he would appreciate the work his slave does in a way no born gentleman ever would, and he would reward it.”

Regardless, George stood behind Theo’s chair while he ate breakfast with Dooley and the mysterious girl. She ate as though starving, darting frequent glances at Theo as if she were expecting an outburst or a blow.

There was a description of the girl—her glossy dark hair, her ice-blue eyes, her lissome form—that was of no interest whatsoever to Henry. Martin did not seem interested, either, and read through it in a monotone rush.

Following the meal, the dishes cleared away, the girl spoke at last. “I must tell you, Captain, I have remembered something of myself.” The voice that Martin used for her was higher than his own and feminine, but flinty and practical rather than soft and simpering. “I like to think I am an honest woman, Captain, but I can’t help feeling I’ve deceived you, though I was unaware I’d done so last night.”

“What is it you’ve remembered, miss?” Theo asked. “Don’t be shy. Anything you tell us may be of use.”

“I have remembered my name and my origins.” Martin made a dramatic pause here, then continued. “My name is Jeanette. Jeannette DeSade.”

Henry had been half-expecting this, some connection to the fiend, but he was impressed by Martin’s reading nonetheless.

Jeanette told a sorry tale. She was the child of DeSade and a dipsomaniacal mother with whom DeSade had had some sort of transitory, sordid union. DeSade had not abandoned mother and child, but had provided for them monetarily, though without offering any of the guidance of a true father. Her mother was abusive and volatile, a most un-nurturing creature, and young Jeanette often had to fend for herself.

DeSade had approached her a year ago, just before her fifteenth birthday, and suggested that she might come to live with him. She had been grateful, believing her situation would improve under her father’s care. However, soon after she came to live with him, she began to fear for her health and sanity. DeSade did not view her as a daughter, but as a combined experimental subject and plaything. She was frequently drugged, pinched and prodded, taunted and threatened. She was often left in the suspect care of unscrupulous people like the late Dr. von Belcher, and it was only through her own wit and pluck that she had survived with her virtue intact

Martin stopped reading and frowned.

Henry thought he knew why Martin hesitated. “It seems unlikely, doesn’t it?”

“So many things about this story are unbelievable, but for some reason this seems particularly so.”

Jeanette broke down in tears, confessing that she hated her father and feared her blood was tainted. Lovelorn Dooley rushed to tell her that she was a good and lovely person, and Theo reassured her that he would not blame the daughter for the sins of the father. He and George encouraged her to try to remember anything else, anything DeSade or von Belcher might have said, that would lead them to this Refuge that the butler had spoken of.

“I will try, Captain,” Jeanette promised. “I want you to catch him and end him, and I will do everything I can to help.”

The plan was to locate, infiltrate and attack the Order lair in the next port. They had Order robes enough for ten men and readied Boot, Leon, Elmer and six more crew members with fighting experience, with Theo and Dooley (who would be a false prisoner, as before) making up the remainder of the force. George was once again excluded, to Henry’s dismay.

“Dooley is no replacement for George,” Henry interjected, disgruntled.

“I feel the same, Henry, but I don’t think that’s what’s happening.”

“Well, then what is happening?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s not anything so dire as George being replaced.”

“I don’t like it,” Henry said. “I want to hear about Theo and George.”

Martin pressed his lips together, seeming exasperated. “Do you want me to read the story or not, Henry?”

“Well, of course I want you to read it!”

“All right then. Listen.” Martin gave Henry a hard look; Henry felt chastised and determined to keep his complaints to a minimum. He rather liked this stern, bossy Martin!

The men of the Dauntless did not expect to find DeSade, of course, but hoped to disrupt his enterprise and perhaps garner further clues as to the location of the fiend’s Refuge.

Theo dismissed Dooley and Jeanette and shut the door behind them. Alone with George, he insisted firmly that he be allowed to examine George’s wound. He removed the bandage, noting signs of healing and touching the stitches and newly-forming scar with a gentle finger.

“I thought I’d lost you, George,” Theo said in a hushed, reverent tone. “I thought I’d been given the best reason yet to hate DeSade. If you’d been taken from me…” And here Theo broke down a little, Martin adding a couple of sobbing breaths that Henry thought very fitting to show Theo’s desperation.

“You won’t be rid of me so easily as that, Sir,” George said fondly. “Now let me see your wound, Sir. I don’t want it to fester.”

The image of Theo and George shirtless together perhaps seemed tame now, now that he had all the richness of his experiences with Martin to compare, but Henry still found it very compelling. George touching Theo’s chest, Theo touching George’s arm, the two of them close enough that their breaths would mingle. It made his cock stiffen, and there must have been some indication of this on his face because Martin laughed at him fondly.

They were at sea five days, during which time Jeanette tried to make herself useful, helping out in the galley and offering her assistance to George in laundering Theo’s linen, but George politely turned her away, and Henry found this refusal quite satisfying. Every day, she was remembering more and more of her past, but nothing that was useful to the men of the Dauntless.

Dooley was falling deeper and deeper in love with her. They were of an age, and she was probably the first girl he’d spent much time with, having lived most of his days at sea. Jeanette was receptive of his attentions, and there were several paragraphs detailing their very proper and shy courtship.

“She seems all right,” Henry allowed, feeling charitable now that she seemed destined for Dooley. “Considering who her father is, I mean.”

Dooley approached the Captain and asked for a word. Martin’s Dooley voice remained lackadaisical. “It’s about Jeanette, Captain. I want to marry her, sir. If she says yes, would you do the honors?”

“Well, that seems a bit sudden,” Henry remarked.

“I don’t know,” Martin said. “She’s the only woman on a ship carrying a hundred men. If he wants her, it seems prudent to stake his claim.”

Martin cleared his throat, then in Theo’s voice said, “Be quite certain, Dooley. I won’t be a party to it if you’re entering into marriage rashly.”

Dooley reassured Theo that he was most serious, but agreed he would put it off until they’d completed their mission in port. They made landfall that evening, and a boisterous group set out to visit the dockside taverns, hoping to find information on the Order of the Red Eye or Dr. DeSade. George was still wearing the sling on his arm. He stuck close by Theo’s side, asking questions of all they met, spending Theo’s coin freely on drink to loosen local tongues.

Just as in the last port city, the Ruthless was mere hours ahead of them. And as in the last city, the visits of the Ruthless had been associated with suspicious activity at a local mansion where mysterious lights were seen in the windows and strange sounds emanated from behind high walls. A local boy called Rogan offered to show them the way to this forbidding house.

Theo and George returned to the Dauntless along with the men chosen for the night’s mission. All except Dooley put on the Order robes that had been taken from the corpses at the last fight.

Rogan, excited by the turn his evening had taken, cheerfully escorted them through the town, full of questions about their mission.

Half the men remained behind in the lane with Rogan to await Theo’s signal (a gunshot) before joining the fight. Once again, they used the dagger as a calling card and were let in by a slave butler bearing a red-eye tattoo over a mesh of scars. They presented Dooley as a captive valuable to Dr. DeSade and demanded to see whoever was in charge.

As they were led through the cavernous mansion, it seemed ominously quiet and still. At the last port, Order minions had been at tasks throughout the entire building, but here there was only the scarred butler, and all they heard were the sounds of their own footsteps echoing in the halls. They were led down into the bowels of the house and past a surgical theater, brilliantly lit as if in preparation for some sinister procedure. The next room contained cells like those that had held the maimed slaves at the last Order house, but these were empty, their doors standing open.

As their group approached a heavy wooden door with an iron knob, the door opened revealing a man with a supercilious air who wore a dark moustache waxed into points, a military-style uniform, and shiny high boots.

“You’re too late,” this commandant said in a haughty tone. “He’s been and gone and left me with the dregs.”

“Who has?” Theo asked.

“The good Doctor, of course,” said the commandant. “He took all my staff and all my patients, and without a word of thanks.” He seemed to notice Dooley then. “Who’s this?”

“A prisoner. He escaped from DeSade and I intend to return him.”

“Oh, don’t bother,” said the commandant. “DeSade’s got other concerns now.” He pulled a knife from a sheath at his hip. “We can just finish this boy now. It’ll save you the trouble of transporting him.”

Theo was not going to stand by and let Dooley be stabbed! “Now, men!” At Theo’s command, the Dauntless men threw back their robes and drew their weapons.

The scarred butler, little more than an automaton doing DeSade’s bidding, lunged at Boot and was stabbed fatally for his trouble, dying with a gurgle, his eyes empty.

The vain commandant was not about to kill himself as von Belcher had. He put his hands in the air, surrendering immediately. “Who are you people? What do you want?”

“I’m Captain Theodore Drake, and we want answers. Who are you? Where did DeSade go? Where is the Refuge?”

“I’m Colonel Langtree,” Martin said in the haughty voice. “I told you already, DeSade has been and gone. As for the Refuge, I’m not privy to that sort of information. I only know that it exists.”

“Who does know, then?”

“People who outrank me,” said Langtree with a sniff. “And you’ll find none of them here in this backwater. I’ve done such good work for the organization but without a word of thanks from the higher-ups, and now, of course, there’s no hope of promotion.”

While two men held Langtree’s arms and a third held a cutlass to his throat, Theo and Dooley searched the office. There were letters and memos directing Langtree to carry out the mutilation and red-eye tattooing of kidnapped slaves, but it was nothing more than the mundane paperwork of a grisly and cruel business. There was no mention of a Refuge, nor was there any discussion of DeSade’s ultimate plan.

They hadn’t found the clues they’d hoped for, but there was no point to prolonging their search or their time in the Order house.

“Captain,” Martin said in Boot’s growl. “What should we do with this one?” Langtree was given a rough tap.

“He’s evil, to be sure,” Martin-as-Theo mused, “yet he’s such a fool. I find I don’t have the heart to kill him. Gag him, tie him, and lock him in the cell.”

“No, no!” Martin added a touch of desperation to Langtree’s snootiness. “I’ll be quiet! I’ll be good! Don’t gag me; I won’t abide it!” As the sailors prepared to do Theo’s bidding, Langtree shouted out, “Wait! I know something!”

“What is it, then?” Theo demanded.

“Don’t gag me and I’ll tell you.”

“Very well. If it’s useful, I won’t gag you.”

“It’s the girl, the daughter. She knows the way to the Refuge. I don’t know anything more than that! Find the girl, she’ll know!”

This was good news! They had the girl! Theo felt compelled to be fair to Langtree and honor his promise.

The sailors tied Langtree’s arms behind his back and tied his ankles together and threw him into the cell. They could hear him shouting for help as they retraced their steps back through the mansion. They ran into a small group of Order minions coming to Langtree’s aid and dispatched these sad creatures in a brief, dramatic fight that resulted in the serious wounding of one of their number, a sailor called Kittrick.

With Kittrick’s condition in mind, Theo decided they would not search the house, but immediately enlist Rogan’s assistance with finding a physician to see to the wounded man. Outside in the lane, the waiting men of the Dauntless were sorry to have missed the fight, but concerned about Kittrick. With an admirable sense of urgency, Rogan led them to the physician’s house and Kittrick, bleeding heavily, was sewn and bandaged. The doctor felt that Kittrick should remain with him overnight for observation and told Theo he could return for his crewman in the morning.

Back at the ship, all who had been left behind had been worried that, with the long delay, things had gone badly for the party. George was waiting on deck alongside Jeanette, who ran to Dooley and held his hand.

“George ought to be able to hold Theo’s hand,” Henry said sulkily. “It’s hardly fair that he can’t.”

“Well, it’s like life, then, isn’t it, Henry? You can’t hold my hand in front of all the world, after all.”

“There are places where I could, though, I’m sure of it. I just need to figure out where they are.” It bothered Henry that Martin didn’t particularly mind how their displays of affection were restricted, perfectly content with the status quo; whereas Henry wanted the freedom to show everyone how undeniably they belonged together with explicit clarity.

Bringing George with him, Theo crossed the deck to relate what Langtree had said to him in the Order house to Jeanette. “Have you remembered anything else, miss?”

Martin made Jeanette’s voice tremulous. “I’m sorry, Captain, but I haven’t remembered anything of use. I don’t know what this man Langtree is talking about!” She cried hot tears of frustration and Dooley comforted her with an arm about her shoulders.

“You’ll remember,” he told her. “You’re still tired and frightened, but I’ll protect you, and then you’ll rest and remember.”

“Dooley has a lot of confidence in himself,” Henry noted doubtfully.

Jeanette turned her wet face against Dooley’s shirtfront and let him stroke her hair. There was an interlude of the two of them sharing coy and loving words which Henry found annoying since he knew he’d be getting no such conversation between Theo and George.

“There’s something I want to ask you,” Martin said in a hushed Dooley voice. “Something important. I know we’ve known each other only a short time, but you’ve become so special to me...Jeanette, would you…?”

“Yes? Yes?” Martin made her sound so eager.

“Would you marry me, dear girl? Would you please?”

“Yes! Oh, yes!” She threw her arms around his neck and brazenly kissed him—their first kiss, of course—and even though Henry remained somewhat hostile toward Dooley, he couldn’t help remembering the first time he’d kissed Martin and feeling a little thrill on Dooley’s behalf.

It was settled that they would marry the next day once Kittrick had been retrieved and the Dauntless was under sail. Everyone had kind wishes for the young couple. Theo shook Dooley’s hand and congratulated him on taking on a man’s responsibilities.

George said, “Sir, you need rest. Shall we go below decks? The men will take care of the ship, Sir.”

“Very well,” said Theo. “We have an eventful day before us on the morrow. A wedding, George! Imagine that! And the girl might yet remember something we can use.”

There was a moment’s pause before Martin spoke again, this time in his own voice. “Oh, George just wants Theo to fuck him! Don’t you think he’s practically begging for it after all the excitement? Being so worried that Theo might get hurt, and then so happy he’s made it back safely; I’ll bet riding Theo’s cock is all he can think about.”

Henry laughed. “Is that how you’d be, then? If I went off to fight and you had to wait and wonder?”

“That’s how I’d be,” Martin confirmed. “When you got home, I’d greet you on my knees with my ass oiled and ready.”

“You’d do that anyway,” Henry pointed out, amused. “I don’t have to get in any fights.”

Martin grinned and held Henry’s eyes with his own, kneeling up and beginning to very deliberately strip off his clothes.

Henry reached for his own tie. “Is the chapter finished, then?”

Martin looked down at the page. “Theo agrees to go down and that’s it. To be continued.”

Henry pulled off his shirt. “So is that what you want, Martin? For me to fuck you like I’ve just fought my way past an army of minions to get to you?” Henry loved the idea, loved the dirty desperation of it.

Martin got to his feet and kicked off his trousers and drawers. “I want that,” he agreed. “Fuck me like it’s making you live.”

Martin was quickly naked, and he closed the space between them and helped Henry yank off his clothes. “You’ve been through hell,” Martin whispered, hot breath and then hot tongue in Henry’s ear. “You’re fresh from battle, streaked in blood and grime, and stinking of cordite.” He pulled Henry’s shirt up and over his head, and Henry fought to loose his hands from the sleeves.

“Cordite?”

“Gunpowder,” Martin told him. He leaned in and bit Henry’s neck, teeth closing on the tendon. “I’m waiting for you. I’ve been waiting, and waiting, and thinking only of you.”

“I’m so dirty,” Henry said, eager to play along, “but you’re clean, and you’re ready.” He sat back to struggle out of his trousers and drawers. “Or maybe,” he said, “Maybe it’s not me you’re waiting for.”

“Not you?” Martin was puzzled.

“He’s not coming,” Henry said. “I defeated him. You’re mine now.” With this improvisation, Henry sought to banish the specter of past suitors once and for all. Without further word, he attacked Martin and brought him down to the carpet, a conqueror vanquishing a worthy foe. Martin flung himself into Henry’s arms, met his kiss with a snarl and the sharpness of his teeth. When Henry broke off kissing him and rose to his knees, Martin stayed him with a hand tight on his wrist.

“Don’t go! We don’t need the oil,” he insisted. “Use spit, just spit.”

They screwed furiously before the fire, Martin’s moans telling of both his pleasure and his discomfort. Henry fucked him as hard as he dared, reveling in Martin’s broken cries as his hips slammed against his ass. Martin came without touching his cock, wincing even as he arched his back and shot a ribbon of semen across his chest.

Henry’s movements slowed; Martin was hurting. But, “Come in me, Henry,” Martin begged in a low, urgent voice. “Fuck me until you come.”

A terrifying wave of affection overcame Henry, a fondness so overwhelming that it dwarfed any other emotion he’d ever felt. Martin met his eyes, encouraging and urging him on. There was no question, he would do whatever Martin asked of him. A minute later, he came with a wrenching spasm, his cock jerking hard inside Martin’s body. He let himself be drawn down to lie atop Martin, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

“That was just what I wanted,” Martin whispered. “To be fucked by a hero.” He kissed Henry’s ear and smiled. “George should be so lucky.”

Henry had hoped to see Reggie again on Saturday, but at breakfast Pearl informed him that the Wiltons had all come down with head colds. Henry was prepared to go anyway, but everyone except him was in agreement that he should not visit the family until they were well. A farewell dinner for Uncle Reggie had been scheduled for the next Friday, when they would all surely be on the mend, the night before Reggie’s boat was scheduled to leave.

Father was not in the breakfast room and it seemed unlikely that he would turn up. Henry ate scrambled eggs, several rashers of bacon, sausage, fried potatoes, and raisin toast. He’d sent Martin back to fill his plate a second time when it occurred to him he might have a conversation with his mother.

“Mother,” he began. “You know, I did have lunch with Uncle Reggie last week, if you’re interested…”

At the mention of her brother’s name, Mother’s eyes opened wide and her back straightened. “Of course, darling, I’d love to hear about it.” She dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “I’ve spoken to him on the telephone, but all he told me was that you’d had a lovely time.”

“We did,” Henry confirmed. “He told me why he left. Jesse said some things to me on Christmas that made me think it might have been my fault, but Uncle Reggie doesn’t blame me.”

Mother frowned. “Of course he doesn’t, darling. It was all your father’s doing.”

Henry did rather want to blame his father, but Reggie had convinced him he was in large part responsible for his own exile. “Uncle Reggie thinks he brought it on himself,” Henry suggested tentatively.

Mother made a disgusted sound and put down her fork. “Reggie is too generous,” she said. “Too willing to take the blame.”

“He was pretty convincing, Mother,” Henry told her. “He wasn’t blameless, I don’t think. But he’s going to be home for good soon! Isn’t that what matters?”

“I hate that he’s leaving again,” Mother said fretfully, as if Henry had said nothing at all. “And he’s been so busy this month with all those old friends of his, darling, that I’ve scarcely seen him at all.”

“You could go see him, you know,” Henry said gently, wary of angering her. “You could see Uncle Gilbert and Aunt Virginia, too.”

“Well, they’re all sick now, darling, and I’ll be seeing them Friday anyway,” she said firmly. “I think it would be too much for me to try to see them earlier.”

Henry darted a glance at Pearl, whose expression was carefully blank, wondering about his Mother’s fitness to go visiting. Henry had never been sure how much of his mother’s disability was physical and how much was willful. Surely, no one could take as much laudanum as Mother did and remain fit even if nothing was physically wrong, but perhaps she had some real physical debility, maybe something related to all the lost babies. Henry did not wish to think too long on his mother’s innards and shook off the mental pictures with a shudder.

“Well, I’m just happy that he gets to come home,” Henry told her. “I’m looking forward to spending more time with him.”

Mother sighed. “If only he hadn’t gone, darling…our lives would surely have been very different.”

Henry also felt this was true, but didn’t see the point on dwelling on the nine years that were past. “Yes,” he said, “but he’s coming home now, Mother. We can start over, if we want.”

“Do you really think so, darling?” Mother cocked her head and looked at him quizzically. “I can’t help wanting to change the past, and that makes it so difficult to think about the future.” She sipped her tea and made a face. “Ugh, it’s cold.” Pearl and Billy went into action behind her chair, preparing her a fresh cup.

“I do think so, Mother,” Henry said emphatically. He ate a last few bites of fried potatoes and a corner of raisin toast while his Mother sipped her fresh, hot tea.

“You have a good attitude, darling,” she remarked. “I think you must get that from your father.” When Henry raised his eyebrows, surprised, she added, “Your father is the most optimistic person I’ve ever met. Nothing fazes him, and he never met a problem he couldn’t solve—by blunt force, if necessary.” She managed to sound both disdainful and admiring.

This was possibly the longest conversation Henry had ever had with his mother and he was reluctant to end it while they still could find things to say to one another. He held up his coffee cup and Martin went to the sideboard to prepare him a fresh cup.

“I’ve always wondered, Mother…” Henry began, “why did you marry Father?”

Mother gave him a sharp look, and for a moment Henry thought she’d call him impertinent and refuse to answer, but her gaze softened and she said nothing for a few long seconds.

“My father died suddenly when I was 16,” she began, “right after my debut. I’m not sure if you knew that, darling.” She looked at Henry, expecting an answer.

“Sort of,” Henry said. He’d known she was 16, at any rate.

“I was a popular girl,” Mother continued. “Popular with other girls, and popular with bachelors. I had a great many prospects, but because I was in mourning for my father, and because I wished to complete my schooling, it was agreed that I needn’t choose a husband until I was 18.”

She sipped her tea and seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “I love my brother Gilbert, but he had no business taking over the stores. They should have gone to one of our uncles. Gilbert was naïve and gullible and trusting, darling, and those are not good qualities in a businessman. The stores quickly began foundering under his management, and then the accounts man embezzled a huge sum of money and we Wiltons were finished.”

 “I guess I’d heard some of this,” Henry said. “Not about the embezzling, though.”