Ganymede Quartet 3 - A Willful Romantic(2)

 

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

 “We were used to a certain standard of living, you understand. We needed money to maintain something like the life we were accustomed to. It was clear to me that I should marry the richest man I could find. Wiltons are society people from way back. Our name was still worth something. Your father had so much money, darling, but he was common as mud. He didn’t understand how anything was done, you see. He negotiated for me as if Gilbert were my pimp, offering to buy me outright.”

Standing behind Mother’s chair, Pearl made a tiny, startled, “Oh!”

Henry was taken aback, shocked that his mother would even know what a pimp was.

Mother turned to Pearl. “Oh, hush, Pearl. I’m quite sure Henry’s heard the word before.”

“My apologies, Ma’am.” Pearl met Henry’s eyes and gave him a little nod, and it was clear she felt she should apologize for Mother’s crude statement since Mother would not.

“I insisted on negotiating with him myself,” Mother continued. “I wanted my brothers taken care of. Reggie has never been good at any sort of work, and Gilbert is little better. Really, if anyone was suited to work, it was me. I think that charmed your father a little, me negotiating terms. He was quite taken with me in those early days.”

She paused again and sipped. “I don’t think Reggie knows this, and you mustn’t tell him, but Benjamin was purchased for him as part of the price of my marrying your father. We Wiltons had absolutely no money left for a companion, but it wouldn’t have done for him to go without, or to have gone with some slave of lesser quality.”

“Is that why Benjamin’s from Ganymede? Because that’s the house Father likes?”

“Well, Ganymede is the best, darling,” Mother said, as if this should be obvious. “Your father has made quite a study of the finer things, and he wants to be sure to have the best of everything. I don’t know that he truly appreciates such things, though. I’m not sure he understands why Ganymede is best.” She gazed pensively into the distance, then shook off the reverie. “I want you to be a real gentleman, darling. I want you to properly appreciate things. I’ve let your education fall by the wayside, but Reggie will help with that when he comes home. He’ll be delighted to have you as a project, you know. He always loved you so!”

Henry didn’t like the implication that he was an incomplete or unfinished or otherwise faulty gentleman, but grudgingly accepted that this might be an accurate assessment.

“Since you won’t be seeing Reggie after all, what are you doing with your day, darling?” Mother asked. She set her cup down in its saucer and pushed it a little distance away from her.

“I’ve got a new suit to pick up from Hamilton’s today.”

“I’ll be interested to see it.” She turned and looked over her shoulder. “Pearl? I’m afraid I’m quite tired out.” Pearl came forward to help Mother out of her chair. “I’ve very much enjoyed talking with you, Henry.”

“Me, too,” Henry assured her. He’d never imagined he might have such a conversation—frank, interesting, confessional—with either of his parents. Might his mother actually be a person worth knowing? She was a lousy mother, to be sure, but she might have other merits after all.

He said nothing to Martin until they were outside, headed for the omnibus stop.

“Did you expect to ever hear anything like that from my mother?” he asked.

Martin laughed, a short bark. “Goodness no, Sir. I think she said more this morning than she’s said the entire time I’ve lived with you.”

“It wasn’t entirely new information,” Henry said, “but it filled in the details a bit.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Sir, I don’t think she likes your father particularly well, but she does seem to respect him.”

“I don’t think anyone can help but respect him,” Henry said. “Everything he’s done, everything he’s accomplished…” Henry knew that he’d never match his father’s achievements. He couldn’t even feel bad about it; no one could match his father’s accomplishments. “But he’s not really a gentleman, I guess. He’s only disguised as a gentleman.”

Martin laughed, liking this idea. “Your father really is like someone from a story, isn’t he, Sir? He’s a self-made success like Captain Drake.”

Father was like Theo in that way, Henry supposed. However, he did not quite wish to equate his intimidating father with the main actor from his erotic fantasies. But all he said was, “He’s had adventures, I guess.”

The omnibus pulled up and they boarded. Philip van Houten was already aboard, with Davey standing in the aisle at his side. Even though Philip was not Henry’s favorite person, and he knew Martin felt likewise about Davey, he smiled nonetheless and went to sit beside Philip and chatted until they reached their stop; Philip was continuing downtown to go to the arcade. They disembarked in front of Hamilton’s and waved at Philip and Davey as the omnibus pulled away.

“Our least-favorites,” Henry remarked.

“Not quite, Sir,” Martin corrected. “I’d rather be stuck with Davey than Alex.”

“What is it with you and him, anyway?”

Martin grimaced. “He’s horrid, Sir, that’s what. His personality, his ideas, the way he talks…it all just rubs me the wrong way. There’s something off about him.”

“And he thinks you’re stuck-up.” Henry stopped in front of Hamilton & Sons’ door and Martin hurried to open it for him.

“I think I’m better than him, Sir,” Martin admitted. “If that means I’m stuck-up, then I’m stuck-up.”

Prescott came to greet them. “Mr. Blackwell, Martin. Good morning. Would you care for some coffee, Mr. Blackwell?”

“Yes, please, for both of us.”

Prescott gave a nod to someone behind Henry’s back and gestured for them to follow him. “We’ve got your fitting room prepared, if you’ll just come this way, Mr. Blackwell.”

The new suit was hanging on a valet stand and the tailor stood ready with chalk and pins, though this was really just for show. Nothing Henry had ever had made at Hamilton’s had needed alteration after the first fitting.

Martin hung their coats while Prescott showed Henry shirting samples, stripes that might go well with the plaid.

“I understand that Timothy wants me to order any new shirts with attached cuffs and collar,” Henry told him.

“I hadn’t yet heard that from Timothy, Mr. Blackwell, but it seems a fine option for you. Laundry is done so frequently in a house like yours that there’s no need to change out cuffs and collar. You could have a shirt made with the usual white cuffs and collar, of course, or you could have them made from the same fabric as the body of the shirt.”

Henry blinked. What an interesting idea! Had he ever seen that done? It seemed extremely modern.

A shop assistant knocked and came inside with a coffee cart and Martin prepared Henry’s coffee. Henry had a couple of quick gulps and then Martin took the coffee away again so he could be undressed. He was quickly stripped of his jacket, waistcoat and trousers and stood in his drawers and shirt sipping coffee and eating a spice cookie while he flipped through the shirting sample book that yet another shop assistant held open before him.

“Shall we try the trousers, Sir?” Martin asked, a hint of scolding in his tone. Clearly, he thought Henry was squandering time.

Henry shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth and put down his coffee cup. He stepped into the trousers that the tailor held ready, tucked in his shirttails, and buttoned the fly. They fit beautifully. He turned and looked over his shoulder at his ass in the mirror; his ass wasn’t as perfect as Martin’s, perhaps, but it was still a pretty nice ass.

“They hang beautifully, don’t you think, Mr. Blackwell?” Prescott asked.

“Very nice,” Henry agreed. “What do you think, Martin?”

Martin looked as if he didn’t like being put on the spot, but he said, “An excellent fit, Sir.”

The waistcoat was likewise a perfect fit. The tailor held up the jacket and Henry slipped his arms inside. Martin settled the jacket over his shoulders and smoothed the lapels over his chest. Their faces were very close and Henry grinned at Martin, who rewarded him with a small, enigmatic smile.

Henry looked in the mirror again. He looked very stylish, deceptively mature. As long as he stayed perfectly still and said nothing, he could pull off the illusion of being an adult man.

As for shirts, Henry wanted to order a muted blue stripe to go with the new suit and he was tempted to get it with cuffs and collar of the same stripe.

“What do you think, Martin?”

Martin looked as if he smelled something unpleasant. “I’m more of a traditionalist, Sir, you know this.”

Henry laughed at him, but said, “Very well, then. White collar and cuffs, please, Prescott.”

“Of course, Mr. Blackwell. Is there anything else we can help you with today?”

Henry had an idea. “Martin, what would you think of that ochre plaid as a waistcoat?”

“To go with this suit, Sir?”

“Yes, why not? Everything’s the same except the background color.”

Martin thought on this. “Perhaps if I could see the sample again, Mr. Prescott…?”

The shop assistant put down the shirting samples and went to get the suiting samples.

“You have such modern ideas, Mr. Blackwell,” Prescott said, and Henry thought he approved.

Martin stretched, leaning back and side-to-side, his hands on the small of his back, and the way the light struck the front of his waistcoat let Henry see that it was the fancy one, the chrysanthemum-and-stripe brocade, and he was hit with a wave of such affection for him. He imagined asking Prescott and the tailor and the shop assistant to leave the fitting room so he could suck Martin’s cock; he imagined Martin trying to keep quiet, Martin pulling at his hair. He came out of this momentary reverie with a hot face and hurriedly concentrated on the idea of the elderly tailor stabbing his prick with a straight pin to keep from getting hard.

The ochre suiting sample was held up against Henry’s torso beneath the suit jacket and Martin agreed that it might look very nice and wouldn’t make him look too sallow. He then suggested that Henry ought to choose a tie, as well. It was another hour before they could leave the store, with an ochre plaid waistcoat on order, as well as the striped shirt with attached cuffs and collar. They took away with them the new suit and two new neckties, one which was meant to go with the ochre waistcoat and one that Henry just liked the look of, a red foulard.

Henry had Martin hail them a cab so that he wouldn’t have to stand on the omnibus holding the suit. They sat together facing forward, the suit in its dust sheet laid across the rear-facing seat. Henry took Martin’s hand and Martin let him hold it a few minutes, though it clearly made him nervous.

“I can wear the new suit to Reggie’s party,” he remarked. He thought it rather too splendid to waste on Louis.

“It looks so nice on you, Sir,” Martin said. “I-I was a little shy to say how handsome I found you in front of those gentlemen. I was afraid I’d give something away, that it would be there in my tone or expression.”

“You were fine, I’m sure,” Henry said reassuringly. He squeezed Martin’s hand, which was Martin’s cue to gently but firmly withdraw it from Henry’s grip.

Henry sighed. He wished Martin would be a little more romantic, a little less worried about being observed. He let Martin have his hand back, but leaned against him for a moment in substitute for an embrace.

At home, Henry tried on the new suit with the previously-purchased paisley waistcoat and foulard tie and they were in agreement that he looked both stylish and mature. While Henry stood before the mirror, Martin went down to his knees and unbuttoned the new trousers. He grinned up at Henry as Henry’s stiffening prick slid along his cheek.

“Go on, Sir,” he said. “Make me do it.”

On the night of the Wiltons’ farewell party for Reggie, Father claimed he’d had some sort of important business come up and was not going to be able to attend. Henry did not believe this for an instant, but was glad his father was absenting himself; the gathering should be only people who loved Reggie.

Some of Mother’s jewelry was brought out from the vault for the occasion. She hadn’t been dress shopping in years, but she did have a severe black velvet that didn’t look too unfashionable and made an elegant backdrop for her ruby-and-diamond parure. She was alternately excited for the party and tearful for its cause, and Pearl made her lie down on the chaise in the blue parlor to rest while they waited for Old Bob to bring the carriage around.

Henry wore his new suit, the paisley waistcoat, and the coordinating foulard tie. Martin straightened and patted and picked invisible threads off his lapels. “You’re so handsome in this outfit, Sir.”

Riding downtown, Mother said, “You can’t know how much it means to me that you’re close with Reggie, darling. I love both my brothers, but Reggie has always been special to me.”

“He’s always been special to me, too,” Henry assured her. “I’m glad he gets to come home after his business is completed.”

“He’ll be home this summer,” Mother said determinedly. “He’s promised me as much. And then maybe…maybe we’ll open the summer house. It’s been years since we’ve been, hasn’t it, darling?”

“I don’t know that I’ve been at all, actually.” Henry knew they had a house at the shore, just as he knew they had a country house and a rustic mountain “camp,” but he didn’t have clear memories of visiting any of them. Father would rather work than have any vacation, and Mother hadn’t wanted to leave her room in town for almost a decade.

“You were so little when we last went, I suppose…I’ve been too ill to go anywhere, you know.” She frowned, but then drew herself upright. “But! Everything will be different, darling, once Reggie’s home for good. He won’t let me indulge myself as I’ve been doing all these years. Reggie will get me back to my real self.” She smiled to herself and then at Henry. “I’ve been a terrible mother to you and your sister, I know, darling.”

“No…” Henry said, though without conviction. She had been a terrible mother. Luckily, most of the mothers he knew of were pretty terrible, so he didn’t feel that he’d missed too much. Everyone he knew had actually been raised by a nurse in any case.

In a low, soothing tone, Pearl said, “Ma’am, please don’t be hard on yourself,” and Mother patted Pearl’s arm in response.

They arrived at the Wilton house and the family came out to greet them, Reggie taking Mother’s arm and Jesse eager to welcome Henry. “I’ve got so much to tell you,” he said. “And I’ve finished my drawing. I’m really quite proud of it.”

“I want to hear it all,” Henry assured him. “I want to see it.”

“That’s some outfit you’ve got on,” Jesse remarked. “First the green suit at Christmas, and now this. You’re quite a clothes-horse, aren’t you?”

“I like clothes,” Henry admitted.

“You’re like Reggie in that way,” Jesse said. “I’ve never developed the interest.”

They went into the front parlor, where the adults drank aperitifs and Reggie made a fuss over how handsome Jesse and Henry were, slouched together on the sofa. “I’m going to miss you boys,” Reggie told them. “You’ll write me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Jesse said.

“Of course,” Henry echoed, already worrying about the quality of his letters. Jesse was a prolific correspondent, he knew, at least with his Elizabeth, and Henry loathed the idea of Jesse supplanting him in Reggie’s affections just because he was a better letter-writer. He could, he thought, get Martin to help him; he suspected Martin could write a beautiful missive.

They were called into dinner where Henry was seated next to Jesse, across from Mother and Reggie. They were served an endless array of courses, just as they would have been at the Blackwell table, but the Wiltons served simpler food that, quite frankly, was far more agreeable to Henry’s palate. Mother, he noted, actually ate some of her dinner, and at no point did she ask Pearl for her medicine. He and Jesse were permitted wine, as it was a special occasion, and Jesse repeatedly handed his glass up to Russ without comment from any of the adults, so Henry did the same with Martin, also without remark.

For dessert, they had lemon tarts, as these were Reggie’s favorites, and a glass of sweet wine as a digestif. While they ate their tarts, the slaves had their meal. Henry sipped his digestif with numbed lips. He felt slightly tipsy, having already been served not-insignificant amounts of five different wines during dinner. When the companions returned to their masters’ sides, he drained his glass and let Jesse lead him out of the dining room and up the stairs.

“Reggie wants to spend some time alone with Aunt Louisa,” Jesse explained. “And then a bunch of the other relatives are coming around for drinks and I’d just as soon stay out of the way for awhile, if that’s all right with you.”

“Certainly,” Henry said woozily. He could taste the wine lingering in his mouth, and wondered if it also lingered for Martin, if he’d taste it there if he kissed him. He turned to look at Martin on the stair and he was radiantly handsome, smiling up at Henry.

He put his hand on Henry’s elbow. “Are you all right, Sir?”

Henry blushed. “I’m lovely,” he assured him.

Jesse locked his bedroom door behind them. “I want to show you my drawing. I think it’s done now. I’m quite pleased with it, as I said.”

The half-naked woman, formerly a skillful sketch, was now rounded, burnished, dimensional. She had a look in her eyes that Henry had seen in Martin’s, hungry and promising, and it made him blush.

“It’s beautiful,” Henry said, truly impressed.

“Thank you. I think it’s a good likeness, as well, don’t you?”

“I only know her from the one photo,” Henry reminded him, “but I think it very like.”

Jesse put the drawing down. “I’d like to do a painting,” he said, “but I’m simply not a good enough painter to do the subject justice.”

“You’ll only get better by trying, though, won’t you?” said Henry, whose only experience of artistic improvement was indirect, observing Martin with his violin.

“Of course you’re right,” Jesse agreed. “I should just resign myself to making a very ugly painting and learning from it.” He opened his desk drawer and dug around inside, coming up with some of the same incense he’d lit at Christmas.

“Doesn’t the smell of this make you feel like you’re in a tent in the desert, surrounded by sloe-eyed beauties all eager to do your bidding?” Jesse didn’t want for him to answer, but immediately asked, “Do you want a cigarette? I’ve got a whole pack.”

Henry had not had good luck with cigarettes in the past, but he didn’t want to say no. “Maybe we could share one,” he suggested. “I don’t think I can smoke a whole cigarette on my own.”

“Good idea.” Jesse went to the bookshelf and pulled out a fat dictionary, reaching behind to retrieve a cigarette packet and a demitasse cup with a broken handle that they could use as an ashtray. He cracked open the window by the shelf and lit a cigarette, inhaled, and walked over to Henry with smoke streaming from his nostrils. Handing the cigarette to Henry, he sat down on the floor, leaning back against the foot of his bed. “Make yourself comfortable, Henry.”

Henry sat down facing him and made a tentative inhale, feeling the smoke swirl into his lungs. He was not normally aware of his lungs in this way and it was peculiar, verging on actively unpleasant. He was immediately lightheaded, though, which felt sort of wonderful. He coughed, but not hard, the smoke coming out in puffs.

“Don’t inhale too much,” Jesse advised. “Go easy on yourself.” He reached over and plucked the cigarette from Henry’s hand. “I’m trying to learn how to blow smoke rings.” He drew on the cigarette and made guppyish motions with his mouth, the shape of his lips reminiscent of a mouth wrapped around a cock, and Henry drew in a sharp breath, a wash of heat burning through his skin.

Jesse beckoned Russ to sit beside him. “Here. You, too.” He handed Russ the cigarette and he obediently inhaled. He clearly had smoked before, and was much more practiced than Henry. Jesse asked, “Do you want Martin to have some?”

“If he wants. Here, Martin, come sit.”

Martin sat beside him, leaning heavily on his right hand, his legs out to the side. He took the cigarette from Russ and said, “I can blow rings, Sir, if you want to see.”

“Really?” Jesse laughed. “Yes, show me!”

Henry was surprised. He didn’t know Martin had ever smoked, much less learned tricks!

Martin inhaled, formed an ‘O’ with his mouth, and pushed out a series of dense, opaque rings that wavered and grew wispy the farther they traveled from his lips. Jesse cackled with glee and all three members of the audience clapped.

“Do it again,” Jesse urged. “I want to see how you do it.” He walked on his knees over to where Martin lounged and stared intently at his mouth. Martin began explaining the salient points of blowing rings, Jesse listening avidly.

Russ smiled at Henry. “You didn’t know he could do that, did you, Sir?”

“No,” Henry admitted. “I didn’t know he’d ever even smoked. Were there cigarettes around at Ganymede?”

“The adults had them, Sir, and sometimes they’d share.”

“So everyone smoked from time to time, then?”

“No, Sir, just the favorites. Martin was very well-liked by everyone.”

Now Jesse was touching Martin’s neck and jaw as he blew rings. Henry bristled a little at this—Jesse had not asked his permission, after all—but told himself it was innocent enough, and even if it wasn’t, he needn’t let it go any further.

The first cigarette was entirely smoked, so Jesse lit a second to make another attempt at blowing rings. He was more successful this time, creating amorphous doughnuts of wispy smoke that seemed to give him great satisfaction, and the other three exclaimed over his achievement. They passed the cigarette around the circle and when it came back to Jesse, he tried again, his results at least matching his previous effort if not really improving upon it.

When the second cigarette burned down, they all agreed a third wasn’t necessary. “I’ll get sick,” Jesse said simply. He put the cigarette packet and the makeshift ashtray behind the dictionary and came back to sit down close by Henry’s side. He nudged Henry with his shoulder and said, “I remember what you said at Christmas, that you don’t share Martin, and I won’t ask you to do that, but there’s another thing I thought you might be willing to do with me?”

Wary, Henry leaned fractionally away from him, and said, “What?”

Jesse leaned after him, his lips brushing Henry’s ear, though he didn’t whisper. “I like to watch,” he said, “and be watched.” Startled, Henry turned to look at him. Jesse smiled, sly and seductive. “No touching,” he said, “unless, of course, you change your mind.”

“I don’t understand—”

Jesse’s lips at his ear again. “I want to watch Martin suck your cock,” he said, his hot breath sending shivers down Henry’s spine. “And I want you to watch Russ suck mine.”

Henry froze, horrified and powerfully aroused. His cock was hard, straining at his buttons. He turned to look at Martin, and Martin was looking back with excitement in his eyes; he would, Henry realized, gladly do it. Henry didn’t know how to feel about that.

“Eli and I do it all the time,” Jesse blithely assured him. “You haven’t done it before, so I’ll go first.” Without waiting for Henry to respond, Jesse beckoned to Russ, who came and knelt between Jesse’s spread legs. “It’s really so much more exciting with someone watching, or at least I think so.” Jesse ran his hand through Russ’ hair and Russ grinned up at Jesse and rubbed his cock through his trousers.

Henry wasn’t sure he wanted to watch, but that’s what he was doing. He didn’t tell Jesse to stop, nor did he get up to leave, though he did hurriedly scoot away, putting a little distance between Jesse and himself. As he watched, Russ unbuttoned Jesse’s trousers and bent over his lap. Henry wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but then suddenly Russ reared up and there was Jesse’s cock standing up stiff out of the vee of his open drawers, and Henry hadn’t seen enough hard cocks to become jaded and so stared at this one with a sharp intake of breath, the heat of a flush spreading beneath his skin. Not as big as his own, and not as pretty as Martin’s, perhaps, but very nice all the same.

Jesse leaned back onto both hands and let his head fall back with a sigh, the line of his throat in profile very graceful. Russ bent over his cock again and licked it, and Henry could see how it jerked against Russ’ tongue. Henry’s face grew hotter and hotter, and he was dimly aware of Martin sitting at his other side, shifting closer. Henry reached for him without looking back, and Martin squeezed his hand. He could tell how badly Martin wanted to do it, too, to put on a show, and he didn’t want to disappoint him, but he just didn’t know if he could let something like this happen.

As Henry continued to watch, transfixed, Russ moved with purpose, his head bobbing up and down. He would let Jesse’s cock slide out of his mouth every now and then, giving Henry a good look at it, dark with blood and gleaming with spit. Russ’ breathing seemed very loud and he made little groans, soft but urgent, as he sucked. Jesse gave hitching gasps, incremental, pressure building up. He put his hand on the back of Russ’ head and huffed out raspy breaths. “Oh, baby,” he said, “Just like that, just keep doing that.” He turned then to look at Henry, his gaze intense—too intense for Henry, frankly. “I’m gonna come, Henry.”

Henry could say nothing in return, but sucked in a mortified breath, his face on fire. Martin pressed close behind him, his hand snaking around Henry’s waist to rub his cock through his trousers.

Jesse did come then, head thrown back, a pained expression on his handsome face, his rough cries abrading Henry’s nerves. Jesse reached out blindly, clutching at Henry’s knee, and Henry started violently at the contact.

Jesse caught his breath as Russ sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Russ,” Jesse said, petting Russ’ hair. “That was so good, baby, thank you.” He drew Russ up so that they were face-to-face and then kissed his forehead. He whispered in Russ’ ear, but loud enough for Henry to hear, “I’ll take care of you later.”

Martin’s hand petted and squeezed, making Henry’s cock harder and straighter, and he wanted to be okay with taking it further, but he hesitated. He didn’t want to share Martin at all, was what it came down to, and even letting Jesse watch Martin seemed wrong. As much as it pained him to do it, he gently took Martin’s hand by the wrist, moved it off his crotch, and gave it a pat.

“Sir?” Martin’s voice, low and concerned in his ear.

Henry turned and whispered to him. “I’m sorry, Martin. I just really don’t want to share you, not even a little bit.”

“Is everything okay, Henry?” Jesse touched his hand, and when Henry turned around to look at him, he seemed concerned. “Did I upset you? I’m sorry if that was too strange.”

“No,” Henry said bashfully, though it had been plenty strange. “It’s not that, really. I just…I don’t think I can return the favor, Jesse. Not today, anyway.”

Jesse looked disappointed, but seemed to take it in stride. “All right, then. Say, you don’t mind if I write Elizabeth about this, do you? I’ve told her about you and I know she’d be interested.”

Henry blushed anew. What could Jesse possibly have written about him, anyway? “I-I guess it’s all right.” Someday he wanted to meet this Elizabeth!

Jesse buttoned his trousers and pulled Russ close to sprawl over his lap. “I can see you want to keep everything all prim and proper in front of other people,” he said to Henry, “but I have the feeling you must be very affectionate with him in private.”

Henry felt his cheeks burn hotter. “I really care about Martin,” he said stiffly, not exactly an answer.

“Of course you do,” Jesse said kindly. “Anyone can see he’s special.”

There were footsteps in the hall and a knock at the door. Russ got up and went to answer it. After a brief conference with whoever was in the hall, Russ shut the door and announced, “You’re wanted downstairs, Sirs.”

There were lots of people in the parlors: Wiltons, Carmichaels, Bensons and Hatches. Lyle was there, and Darwin. Eli was there with Owen, and Henry blushed remembering how casually Jesse had shared that Eli participated in these voyeuristic sessions with him.

The three older boys were offered champagne and shared it with their slaves. Jesse and Eli had a murmured conversation that Henry only heard part of—Jesse saying “No, he watched me,” in a furtive whisper. Russ and Owen stood apart, having a whispered conversation of their own, but Martin stuck close by Henry’s side.

“The Wiltons are an interesting family, Sir,” Martin murmured, and Henry snorted, amused.

Uncle Reggie sought him out. He was a little drunk, which made him even more effusive than usual, more prone to expansive gestures. “Darling!” he cried. “Little prince! I think I might just miss you most of all!” He held a glass of champagne in one hand and hugged Henry with the other. Leaning in, speaking confidentially, he said, “I haven’t forgotten what we’ve talked about, darling, but I simply haven’t got any good information for you yet. But when I’m back in the city, I’ll find out absolutely everything there is to know, all right?”

“Thank you, Uncle.” Henry returned Reggie’s one-armed hug. “It means a lot to me.”

Reggie turned to Martin. “And you, you exquisite thing, you must promise to take the best care of my darling boy!”

Martin gave Reggie a dazzling smile. “I promise, Sir.”

Reggie reached up and laid his hand against Martin’s cheek. “Really, you beautiful boys need to have a portrait done. I’ll look into that when I return, as well.”

“That’d be great, Uncle.”

“Remember, Henry, darling, you’re not to do anything until I return, all right? No going off on your own!”

“Going off where?” Jesse was suddenly there, popping up from behind Reggie with a full champagne flute. “Can I come?”

“Henry’s letting me redecorate his room,” Reggie lied smoothly. “I don’t want him going shopping without me.”

“Oh,” Jesse said, quite uninterested. “Say, Henry, I forgot to tell you, Elizabeth wrote me a poem. I’ve committed it to memory, and I think you should hear it.” He pulled Henry over to huddle with Eli and Lyle and recited the entire thing, giving a very dramatic reading. It was full of references to nudity both innocent and carnal, vaguely dirty talk about “love’s nectar,” and a flower bursting into bloom that seemed to represent the loss of virginity. Elizabeth was, it seemed, a good match for Jesse.

By midnight, Mother was clearly exhausted, haggard and drawn, but she seemed loath to say goodbye to Reggie. Pearl whispered in her ear and she nodded her head reluctantly in response. Martin went across the room and conferred with Pearl, then returned to Henry’s side.

“We’re leaving, Sir. You should say your goodbyes.”

Jesse, who had been drinking champagne like it was water, put his arms around Henry and hung off him bonelessly. “We’re going to be great friends, aren’t we, Henry?”

Henry attempted to set Jesse back on his feet. “I thought we already were.”

Jesse gazed at him, unfocused and fond. “Aw, Henry!” He patted Henry’s cheek.

Eli came up behind Jesse and put an arm around his shoulders.

“He gets like this,” Eli said apologetically, pulling Jesse away. “I’ll hold him off while you make your getaway.”

Henry said a final farewell to a tearful Reggie, who insisted on walking them out to their carriage, kissing Mother on both cheeks over and over again and whispering in her ear. As they pulled away, Old Bob turning the carriage in a tight circle and heading back uptown, Mother began to cry.

“I know he’s coming back,” she said, voice quavering. “I just wish he didn’t have to go.”

Henry leaned forward and reached out and to pat Mother’s hand in her lap. “Maybe we can see Uncle Gilbert and Aunt Virginia while he’s away, Mother. I always like to see Jesse.”

“You’re right, darling,” she said with a sigh. “I should see them, I should, and I’ll let Virginia take me shopping. I need new dresses and new hats. Everything I own is so terribly out-of-date.”

“That’s a good idea, Mother. You should do that. Let Pearl arrange it for you, will you?”

“All right, darling. Pearl, will you do it, please?”

Pearl looked thrilled at the idea of Mother leaving the house to do some ordinary thing. “Of course, Ma’am. I’ll call Mrs. Wilton’s Dolly first thing tomorrow.”

“It needn’t be done in a hurry,” Mother said, but Pearl caught Henry’s eye and they were in silent agreement: the sooner the better, to take advantage of this momentum.

At home, Martin sucked Henry like he’d obviously wanted to do in Jesse’s room, making a spectacular job of it, and Henry felt bad all over again for not letting him have an audience.

Martin was clearly in the mood to be watched. He lifted his head from Henry’s lap and sat back on his heels, cock jutting up. “Would you like to see how I touch myself, Henry? Let me show you, please.”

Martin showed him, brazen and needy and so exactly what Henry loved, what he treasured. Henry didn’t like the idea that he was closing off doors Martin would rather have open, but the thought that someone else would see Martin like this was almost intolerable. He hadn’t necessarily wanted to see Russ with Jesse, but now that he had, he believed watching was a lot more involved than it seemed on the surface, a lot more intimate. He liked Jesse so much, and he believed that Jesse would obey any rules he set forth, any conditions, but even so, afterward Jesse would have a degree of intimacy with Martin that Henry wasn’t at all comfortable with. It almost seemed like it would be easier to do with a stranger, someone they’d never see again, the intimacy being somehow transient. He wanted to be someone who would give Martin anything, but he wasn’t sure he could give him this.

After Reggie left, Henry began thinking about Valentine’s Day. Was it too sappy to tell Martin he loved him on Valentine’s Day? He suspected that it was, but then when? He wanted to be part of it with Martin, the whole silly holiday, the hearts and flowers. He wanted to be like any other boy in love.

He thought up a plan, possibly a first for him, as before he had always left planning to Louis or one of the others. On Monday afternoon, when Louis conveniently happened to be getting a parentally-mandated haircut and couldn’t go with them, Henry suggested to Martin that they go to the arcade downtown and of course Martin was amenable. While Martin was happily watching peep shows—new reels in every machine since last they’d been—Henry told him he was just going to pop down to the newsstand to pick up the latest issue of American Adventure, claiming that Charles had recommended a story to him.

“Do you want me to come, too, Sir?”

“No, you keep looking at the reels. I’ll be back in a few minutes. If anyone bothers you, go to the manager.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

Henry hurried to the newsstand and bought American Adventure. Thinking that Martin might ask him which story Charles had recommended, he checked the table of contents as he walked. Village of the Betrayed or Wolf-Man? Either would do. He crossed the street and ducked into the five-and-dime, quickly making his way to the card racks.

It had to be a love card, not a friendship card, not ambiguous at all. There were dozens of choices, but many of them pictured women or girls and so were automatically out. Cupids were acceptable, but Henry didn’t really want pictures of male children, either, and there were no cards showing adult men at all for some reason. He had to decide quickly!

He settled on a brightly-colored card, not too fancy, with fat hearts, a profusion of violets, and a pair of cupids, with the simple statement, “To My Valentine.” It was pretty and, although Henry had rather hoped to find a card with some flowery language to make up for his own inarticulateness, it was fitting, coming from him. Also, one of the cupids had dark hair, the other tawny, which seemed meaningful. He stood impatiently in line, paid, and tucked the card inside his magazine. He hurried back across the street and into the arcade.

Martin seemed scarcely to have noticed he was gone. “Oh, hello,” he said, looking up from the Mutoscope machine. “You should watch this one, Sir, it’s really funny.”

On Tuesday, Louis made Henry go with him to the same five-and-dime so he could buy a card for their friend Albert’s comely blonde sister, Abigail DeWitt. Louis wanted to find the perfect paper sentiment, the card that would make her return his feelings. Henry doubted such a card existed. Peter and Martin idly browsed cards nearby and a group of working-class kids pointed at them, whispering behind their hands, which Henry thought ridiculous. Except for the Martin’s long hair and their tattoos, the slaves were perfectly normal boys.

“Don’t you need to get a card for anybody? Anyone at all?”

Henry’s mouth twisted wryly. “Don’t you think you’d know if I had somebody, Louis?”

“I don’t think you even want a sweetheart,” Louis said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re the latest late bloomer ever.”

Henry shrugged, perfectly willing for Louis to think of him as a late bloomer. It was far preferable to Louis knowing the truth. He wondered what Louis would think, though. Would he be more upset that Henry was in love with a boy, or that he was in love with a slave? The boy would be the larger problem, of course, but would it seem as bad if Henry had fallen in love with a free boy instead? Henry thought not: falling in love with a boy was breaking one big rule, falling in love with a slave was breaking another, and combining the two was to practically spit in the face of decent society, and Louis was, after all, actually pretty conventional.

Tuesday evening, upon returning from his dinner, Martin had a request.

“Do you remember, Henry, at Thanksgiving you had suggested that someday I might play at a party for the slaves?” He held Henry’s trousers ready for him to step in.

“Oh, yes, sure,” Henry said, putting a hand on Martin’s shoulder for balance. “Do you want to do that sometime soon?”

“Would it be possible for me to have the evening on Saturday?” Martin sounded a little anxious. “I know it’s short notice, but the other slaves don’t always know their schedules far in advance.”

“I don’t see a problem,” Henry told him. “Is it just a regular party for fun, or is it some special occasion?”

“It’s special,” Martin said, smiling. “Billy and Jane are getting married!”

Henry’s jaw dropped. “My Billy?”

“Yes, and Jane from the Slatterys.”

“But how...?” Henry didn’t quite understand. “They live in different houses.”

“It’s not ideal,” Martin admitted. “But even though they won’t live in the same house, they’ll be accommodated a little by the others. Given days off together whenever possible, and things like that.”

“Can I come to the wedding?” Henry shrugged into his dinner shirt and did the buttons at the bottom while Martin put the studs into the bib. “After all, Billy is a little bit mine; Billy took care of me for years before you came.”

“The party will be held here, and it’s your house; you can do whatever you like.”

“You know what I mean, Martin. Will I spoil the party if I’m there?”

“I don’t think so, Henry. Billy is very fond of you. And I would like you there to see me play for an audience.”

“I didn’t realize slaves had actual weddings,” Henry admitted, buttoning his waistcoat. “Is it a ceremony like free people have?” He thought a second, then asked, “Or is it a Hetaeria thing?” hoping that this would be the case.

“It’s called a handfasting,” Martin said. “It used to be a free people’s wedding ceremony a long time ago, but only slaves use it now.” He held Henry’s jacket up and Henry slipped his arms into the sleeves.

“I’m excited!” Henry bounced a little on the balls of his feet. “I’ve actually never been to a wedding before.”

“Me, neither. I’m so pleased for Billy and Jane.”

They headed down to the dining room, Henry still full of questions.

“Will there be lots of guests?”

“Everyone from our house and the Slattery house who can come will be there, of course, Sir, as well as any friends of theirs from the neighborhood who can get the evening off. Both of them have a lot of friends, Sir; after all, Billy’s been in service seventeen years and Jane for fifteen. You meet a lot of people in seventeen years.”

“Wait—does my father know about this? Won’t he wonder about the huge crowds of slaves going in and out of his house?”

“It’s been cleared with both Mr. Blackwell and Mr. Slattery, Sir. Everything is being done very properly.”

“Billy’s been in service seventeen years? How old was he when he came here?”

“Billy and Paul were 17, so they’re 34 now, Sir.”

“They look younger,” Henry remarked, “though I guess they really couldn’t be. Say, aren’t most footmen older than that when they go to a master?”

“Everyone wants twins, Sir; it’s the most elegant arrangement. I imagine your father preferred to secure them when they were a little green rather than miss out on a matched pair.”

They reached the dining room doorway and Henry gave Martin’s hand a quick squeeze. “I’m really excited!” he said again in a loud whisper before going inside.

During dinner, Henry itched to bring up the slave wedding to his parents, but did not think this topic would be well-received. He also feared that he if he brought it up, he would be forbidden from attending and potentially scolded for his untoward interest in the doings of slaves. If he said nothing now, he would be able to do as he pleased on Saturday.

At bedtime, Henry fucked Martin with hard, steady strokes and Martin clung to him and gave broken moans with each thrust, his legs wrapped around Henry’s back. He pulled Henry down into a deep, wet kiss, his hands knotted in Henry’s hair, and whispered sweet things in Henry’s ear.

“I want to come in you like this,” Henry whispered back, “and then I’ll make you come with my mouth.”

“Do it, Henry. Whatever you want.”

As they kissed again, Henry gathered Martin close, no space between their skins, and groaned into his mouth as he came. Martin stroked Henry’s head and shoulders as Henry shuddered to a halt, and he tilted his hips against Martin’s ass, staying as deep as he could. With his skin still numb and tingling, his cock still throbbing, he slid down Martin’s body until his face was between Martin’s thighs.

Henry intended to suck Martin’s cock, to finger him while he sucked. “Hitch up your knees,” Henry told him. He pushed on the backs of Martin’s thighs with both hands, exposing his hole, stretched wide open by Henry’s cock, the skin glistening with traces of oil and Henry’s semen. Henry put his hands to either side of Martin’s hole and spread it wider still. Impulsively, Henry bent his head to lick, tasting himself on Martin’s skin and inside his open hole. He thrust his tongue deep into Martin’s freshly-fucked ass, deeper than he’d ever been able to do in the past, and wondered why he’d never thought to do this before.

Martin began babbling immediately. “Please, oh, god, please Henry let me touch my cock! Oh, that’s so dirty, Henry! Please, let me do it. Please, Henry, let me come!” His asshole clenched around Henry’s probing tongue and he was wracked with shivers as Henry licked him inside and out.

“Just this once,” Henry murmured. “You can touch yourself this time.”

“Oh! Henry!” Martin took hold of his cock and began to work it with fast, efficient tugs.

Henry nipped at Martin’s hole and spiked it with his tongue and licked it up and down until every trace of his own orgasm was gone while Martin gave broken, strangled cries and jerked under his hands. Henry thrust his tongue into Martin’s hole, licked him deep, and then Martin stilled and called out to him and came. Henry gave Martin’s hole a few more affectionate swipes with his tongue then shifted to lie at his side, their heads together on the pillow, and curled around him, feeling extremely close and contented.

“You surprise me with how dirty you are,” Martin murmured, nuzzling Henry for a kiss.

Henry smiled against the side of Martin’s neck. It had been dirty, and he’d loved doing it. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. I’m just as dirty as any slave,” Henry asserted, though he didn’t know if this was even possibly true. “I’m filthy. You bring it out in me, you know.”

Martin chuckled. “I’ve corrupted you.” They lay quiet a minute more, Martin stroking Henry’s arm, until Martin sighed and got up and went for his basin and cloth.

Martin sat on the side of the bed and reached to wash Henry’s cock. “Henry? I need to make something clear…”

“What is it?”

“For the party on Saturday I’ll need to practice with the other musicians. The practices will be at the Slatterys’. I’ll need to meet with the others after school and perhaps even after dinner all the rest of the week.”

“Oh.” Henry didn’t like this at all and he thought immediately that he could change his mind and disallow Martin’s participation. However, that idea made him seem so monstrously selfish that it was embarrassing he was even considering it. Besides, if he were to go back on his word, Martin’s opinion of his character would be damaged, perhaps beyond repair, and it would be extremely unlikely that Martin would be impressed by any declarations of love Henry might make in the near future.

“Oh,” Henry said again. “Well, I guess you have to practice if you’re going to perform.”

His sullen acceptance did not go unrewarded. “I’m so grateful to you for allowing it,” Martin said gently, pushing Henry’s hair back from his forehead. “It’s so nice what you’re doing for all of us slaves.”

“I’m doing it for you,” Henry said grumpily. “You’re the one I care about.”

“Regardless, everyone will enjoy it, so thank you.”

Martin put away his basin and climbed back into bed. Henry gathered him close and kissed his face.

“Could I come to the practices?” he asked, kissing Martin’s ear. “If I promise to stay out of the way?”

Martin hesitated a long time. “Well, Henry, you can do as you wish, of course—”

“But,” Henry said. “There’s a but, isn’t there?”

“No other masters will be there. None of the other musicians know you like I do, of course, and they would all be distracted by trying to please you and being deferential, and it simply wouldn’t be conducive to a good practice. I can’t stop you, of course, but I’m recommending that you let it happen without you.”

Henry sighed. Martin was not going to allow him to behave like a spoiled brat. Martin was not going to allow him to cling. Four days without a monopoly on Martin’s time—he didn’t know how he would survive it.

On Wednesday, after they came home from school, Martin dressed Henry in his regular clothes, did the same for himself, picked up his violin case, and kissed Henry goodbye.

“If there’s an emergency, I’m in the slaves’ mess at the Slattery house, and most everyone here knows the telephone number, or Billy could run and get me, but, really, you’ll be fine by yourself for a little bit. I’ll be back to dress you for dinner.” He patted Henry’s arm and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“What about your dinner?”

“I’m eating at the Slatterys’. It’ll be interesting to see how Cook’s food compares.”

Henry clutched after his sleeve, I’ll miss you on the tip of his tongue, but he just blushed and said, “Goodbye. Have fun.”

Alone, he did his homework, even a little of the Latin. He paced the room, then flopped on the bed, letting his feet hang off the side because he couldn’t be bothered to take off his boots, and opened a book of Greek myths, rereading the stories that had always spoken to him in the most ringing tones, those being the tales of Ganymede and Hyacinthus. Perhaps he should suggest that Pearl read myths after dinner instead of insipid novels; the myths had at least stood the test of time.

Used to having sex at some point between school and dinner, Henry put down his book and took out his cock and boldly masturbated out in the open, sprawled on his bed. He caught his mess in his handkerchief and went into Martin’s room to put it in the laundry basket. While there, he looked around at Martin’s things, not exactly snooping but noticing.

Martin’s school bag sat at the center of the desk. On the corner nearest the bed was a book from near the end of the adventure series Martin had been reading since coming to live with Henry, as well as a few back issues of Pals from the early days of Theo and George’s relationship. Henry knew that Martin’s box of talismans was in a desk drawer but hesitated to pry; certainly, it was his right, but he thought Martin would not appreciate his nosiness and so restrained himself.

He opened the wardrobe and stuck his head inside and smelled a particularly woolen version of Martin’s smell. He wished he could have the smell of Martin’s skin with him all the time, the smell of Martin’s cock, even his less erotic smells. He just liked Martin so much! Did other people have these sorts of feelings, these obsessive longings? Was he really the only one of his friends who was crazy about his slave?

Henry napped until Martin’s return and was ridiculously happy to see him, smothering him with kisses and making a fool of himself, knowing he was pathetic but unable to stop himself from expressing his great and desperate joy at Martin’s return.

“Henry, you need to dress for dinner.” Martin pushed him gently away. “Let me get your suit ready.”

“How was the food?” Henry asked, attempting to help out by crouching down to untie his own boots.

“Not as good as our Cook makes,” Martin told him. “But that’s not to say it wasn’t good at all.” He looked down at Henry. “Maybe I should do that.”

“I don’t know how this knot got here…” Henry threw up his hands helplessly. “Do you tie them some special way? Am I untying them wrong?”

“Let me help.”

Henry stood and Martin knelt, quickly untying and loosening Henry’s laces and helping him to step out of his boots.

“See how much I need you?” Henry asked. “You can’t leave me alone for too long, Martin.”

Martin laughed. “It’s just a few hours at a time, Henry. You’ll be fine.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “I think you’ll be relieved to know evening practice has been canceled. It’s far too complicated service-wise, you see.” While down on the floor, he unbuttoned Henry’s trousers.

Henry was pleased, but thought better of saying so. “Who are the other musicians?” Henry kicked off his trousers and reached down a hand to help pull Martin up to standing.

“Well, Homer—that’s the Slatterys’ coachman—plays accordion, and Mr. John—that’s Mr. Slattery’s companion—plays cello, and our Jerry plays piano. Some of the girls might sing, though they’re not rehearsing with us.” He unbuttoned Henry’s cuffs and the placket of his shirtfront. “Take it off, please.”

Henry pulled the shirt off over his head and balled it up into Martin’s hands. “Are you having fun?” Henry wanted the answer to be yes for Martin’s sake, but he wanted it to be more fun to spend time with him, though he could not think of an artful way to ask if this might be the case.

“It’s nice to play with other people,” Martin admitted. “I always played as part of a group before, you know.”

“At Ganymede,” Henry said. He held out his arms and let Martin help him on with his dinner shirt.

“Yes, Henry. At Ganymede.”

“Do you think I could visit Ganymede one day?”

Martin looked confused. “Henry, why would you want—?”

“Because that’s where you’re from. It’s where you grew up. It’s where you learned everything. It’s where your beliefs come from.”

Slightly flustered, Martin said, “Well, I-I’m sure they’d be happy to accommodate you if you were to visit. Your family are valued customers.”

“You seem surprised that I’m interested.” Henry stepped into his trousers, pulled them up, and tucked in his shirt with Martin’s help. “But why wouldn’t I be? You’re so special to me, Martin. You know that, right?”

Martin laid Henry’s braces over his shoulders and buttoned them on in back while Henry buttoned them in front. “I-I guess I do know that.” He came to stand in front of Henry again, tie in hand. “And you know that our relationship is not what my upbringing led me to expect.” He looped Henry’s tie around his neck and held his lip between his teeth as he tied the knot.

“Is that so bad?”

“No, not at all, Henry. Of course not. Don’t you know how I feel about you?” He smiled and tugged at Henry’s tie, making it more perfect. “I’m just surprised at the things that interest you.” He got Henry’s waistcoat out of the wardrobe and held it out for Henry to put his arms through.

Henry went down to dinner already impatient to be back in his room with the door locked. When, hours later, he was finally alone with Martin at last, he lavished him with sex, wanting to remind him that what he had with Henry was rewarding and was worth the time it took. He wanted Martin to feel like this music rehearsal was taking away from his time with Henry, and to wish that he was with Henry instead. Henry knew this desire was selfish and crazy, but it was what he wanted nonetheless. Martin came twice, once in Henry’s mouth and again with Henry’s cock in his ass, but if he felt that he’d be better off not going to rehearsal because of this, he didn’t share this with Henry.

Thursday and Friday went much the same. Henry read and jerked off into handkerchiefs and counted the minutes until Martin would return. Henry began to wonder if his intense concentration on giving Martin the best sex ever was having opposite of the desired effect, that Martin would now want to find reasons to spend time apart so as to get extra-passionate fucking when they were reunited.

Saturday morning, Henry went down to the breakfast room and found his mother there eating a scone and drinking tea like a normal person would. As Henry walked through the door, she was turned around talking over her shoulder to Pearl.

“Oh, darling,” she said. “Good morning. Pearl and I were just talking about Virginia and Dolly.”

“Aunt Virginia and who?”

“Dolly. Her slave, darling. You know Dolly, Henry. She’s a bit stout and has very elegant silver hair. Prematurely gray. I must say I think it looks terribly smart.”

Henry could vaguely recall Dolly’s face, her general presence. “What about Dolly?”

“Well, you know, darling, our Billy is getting married tonight, and his bride belongs to the Slatterys, so of course they’ll be living most of their lives apart. Virginia’s Dolly has been married for several years now to a gentleman who belongs to their neighbors and Pearl has been explaining to me how they manage.”

“Oh. So you know about the wedding.” He turned to Martin and said, “Coffee, please, Martin,” and Martin went to get it.

“Well, of course, Henry. Billy belongs to me, too. The slaves aren’t just your father’s business.” She took a little bite of scone and followed it with a sip of tea. “I understand your Martin will be playing his violin for the party.”

“Yes, ma’am.” It seemed that Pearl had told Mother a great many things.

“You’ll have to have him play for the family sometime, darling.”

“I’ll do that, Mother.”

Martin brought Henry his coffee and told him what was available on the buffet and Henry made his choices. Martin brought him back dishes with scrambled eggs with cheese and herbs, fried potatoes, bacon, sausage patties, oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins, and a scone packed with currants and lemon zest.

“You have such a healthy appetite, don’t you, darling?”

“I’m still growing, Mother,” Henry reminded her, somewhat defensively.

“A tall man can be quite elegant,” Mother remarked, “and tall men wear clothes so well, but do try not to become too broad or heavy, Henry, not like your father.”

“Mother!”

“You’re such a handsome young man, darling. Don’t let it go to ruin if you can help it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Henry said dryly. He made a point of having seconds of everything except the oatmeal.

After breakfast, they went upstairs. Martin asked permission to go to the Slatterys’ to practice again and Henry could not think of a defensible reason to say no.

Martin stood in the middle of the room with his violin case in his hand. “I’ll return for lunch in, say, three hours?” He cocked his head, looking at Henry expectantly.

“Whenever you return will be fine, I’m sure,” Henry said, though he did not feel this way at all. He was pretending to be a generous person, a good person, but he wasn’t; he was horrible. He wanted to have Martin all to himself, all the time, and if he could think of a way to make that seem reasonable to other people—chief among them Martin—then that’s exactly what he’d do.

“I don’t want to make you wait,” Martin told him. He kissed Henry very tenderly, and Henry’s body responded, half-melting and half-hard. “I’ll be back soon.” He turned and left Henry alone in his room.

Henry spent the hours in painful longing, in pathetic yearning. How could he feel this separation so intensely while Martin seemed unaffected? The obvious answer was that he cared for Martin more than Martin cared for him, and maybe this was the case. He couldn’t force Martin to love him, he supposed, but he couldn’t help wanting to have love returned. Maybe he should burn the valentine. Maybe it would be a mistake to say the words to Martin.

Martin returned in high spirits, and he seemed not to notice how overwrought Henry had become in his absence.

“I think the dance is going to be great fun! I’m excited for you to see us play. I think you’ll be proud of me.”

Henry got up off the bed and crossed to where Martin stood and embraced him tightly. “I’m excited, too,” Henry told him. He buried his face in Martin’s neck and pulled the tie from his hair, taking the strands in silky handfuls. “I know I’ll be proud of you.”

“Henry, we have to go downstairs,” Martin said, taking a step back. He took the tie from Henry’s hand and gathered his hair into a tail again. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Henry felt embarrassed and his cheeks grew hot. “Of course,” he said gruffly. “Let’s go down.”

They sat side-by-side at the breakfast room table and ate soup and sandwiches and large wedges of caramel cake, and Martin told Henry about the rehearsal.

“We’re so fortunate, Sir, that the Slatterys enjoy dance music and gave Homer an accordion. All the Houses allow boys to learn instruments, of course, but too often masters don’t provide the means for slaves to play after they’re sold.”

“I remember you telling me that they warned you at Ganymede that your master might not give you a violin.”

“Yes, Sir, and I was so grateful that you allowed me to keep playing, and on such a fine instrument! I think you know how much pleasure it gives me.”

Henry blushed to think of how much pleasure it gave him. “I want you to have the things that make you happy.”

Martin glanced toward the empty doorway before placing his hand on Henry’s thigh for a fraction of a second. “I know, Sir, and I appreciate it so much.”

They were almost done eating; Henry had had two pieces of cake already and could not face eating a third, but he didn’t want Martin to leave. “Do you have to go back to practice?”

“Just for a short time, Sir. I’ll be back home for dinner, and to dress you for your meal, and afterward we’ll go to the party.”

Henry could see the Slattery house from his southern-facing windows but he wasn’t able to see Martin again after he went through the Slatterys’ front gate and around the side of their house. He went down the back stairs, passing one of the maids (Peggy?) and acknowledging her with a nod. He went down to the basement, to the broad hall outside the kitchen, and looked into the slaves’ mess through the hall windows. The room had been cleared of tables and the piano had been moved out of its corner to a more central position. The walls were festooned with garlands of greenery and Johnny and Little Bob were occupied with ornamenting these swags with red and white roses.

Henry wished there were a way he could be of help; he hated waiting with nothing to do. He put his hand on the doorknob but hesitated. Johnny and Little Bob were always shy of him and would probably find his presence taxing, at best. The slaves expected to be of use to Henry, not the other way around, and would not welcome his intrusion.

“Mr. Blackwell? Is there something you need, Sir?”

Henry turned to find little Katie standing there with a whisk broom in hand, peering at him anxiously.

“Is there something amiss in your rooms, Sir? I can come up directly and see to it, if you’d like.”

“No, no. I was just…I’m curious about the wedding arrangements, is all.”

“Oh! Sir! Are…are you coming to the wedding?”

“Yes. Billy is very important to me.”

“That’ll be such an honor for Billy and Jane, Sir, it really will.”

“I just hope I don’t ruin everyone’s fun by being there.”

“I’m sure you won’t, Sir.” She paused and looked at him a moment. “Are you sure everything is to your liking up in your rooms?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll just be getting back up there,” Henry said, embarrassed, hurrying off toward the stairs.

As he reached the second floor landing, Henry was inspired to climb further up, all the way to the nursery.

“Sir!” Nurse cried, opening the nursery door. “What a nice surprise! Your sister will be thrilled!” She peered behind him. “Where’s Martin, Sir?”

“He’s next door at the Slatterys’ house rehearsing for the dance tonight.”

Nurse didn’t say anything, but Henry knew she was thinking what he was thinking: Cora would be disappointed to have Henry without Martin. Still, he was better than nothing, or at least he hoped he was.

As he entered, Henry noted that the miniature circus was set up in place of honor on the low table. Cora sat on the floor in front of the window near her cabinet house, a group of dolls arrayed around her on the linoleum, Baby Ann recognizable even at a distance thanks to her careworn appearance. Cora looked around as Henry walked in and lit up, bright as a candle. “Henry!” She got to her feet and ran to him, throwing her arms about his waist. After giving Henry a long and healthy squeeze, she let go and peered around his side. “Where’s Martin?”

“He’s busy getting ready for a slave party,” Henry told her. “Remember how he played for you at Thanksgiving? He’s going to do it for the slaves tonight and he has to rehearse.”

“That’s so nice of Martin, isn’t it?” Cora sighed dreamily. “Oh, Henry, don’t you just love Martin?”

Henry blushed and laughed, and saw Nurse trying not to laugh out of the corner of his eye. “Er, well…”

“Come play with me,” she urged, taking him by the hand and pulling him over to where Baby Ann awaited. She plopped down on the floor, her legs folded beneath her. “You can be Brindle again, all right?”

Henry got down on the floor, out of scale with his surroundings with his long legs and broad shoulders. Cora held Brindle out to him and he took the doll gingerly. After a month and a half in the nursery, Brindle looked a little haggard. Her black ringlets were tangled, her hat was missing, and her pink silk dress was wrinkled. However, she still looked better than Baby Ann, whose wig was actually partially detached from her skull now, revealing the cork pate beneath. Although there was a seemingly serviceable doll bed nearby, Baby Ann lay on the floor on a pallet of folded blankets, a miniature tea cup and saucer near at hand.

Using the same creepy little voice she had used for Baby Ann at Christmas, Cora said, “Brindle, fetch your violin. I want you to play for me!”

“Oh!” Henry was startled by this unexpected development. “Does she have a violin?” he asked. It seemed possible that there was a tiny violin somewhere in this cluttered room.

Cora looked at Henry as if he disappointed her—actually reminding him very much of their father—and said, “You have to pretend, Henry.”

“Okay. All right then.” Henry held Brindle upright at Baby Ann’s bedside and, in a high-pitched voice, asked, “What would you like me to play, Ma’am?”

Cora seemed to wince a little at his tone but said nothing discouraging. She said, “Play something beautiful, Brindle,” in Baby Ann’s creaky voice, and then, “Sing something Martin plays, Henry,” in her own.

Henry didn’t know if it was the sort of thing a little girl would like, but he began to half-hum, half-sing the partita, starting from the beginning of the first movement, the allemande. Baby Ann stayed flat on her back, but another doll, this one a bedraggled blonde in a red floral dress, was put on her feet and twirled around Baby Ann’s sickbed while Henry hummed. By the time he got to the end of the allemande, Henry was less sure of the accuracy of the notes he was sounding, but of course Cora didn’t know any better and seemed to find his performance delightful.

Cora clapped enthusiastically. “Oh, Henry, I didn’t know you could do that!” She switched back to Baby Ann’s sepulchral tone and said, “Brindle, you provide such good service.”

In his terrible falsetto, Henry said, “You’re welcome, Ma’am.” Even though he’d been observed only by Cora and Nurse, Henry had not enjoyed being the center of attention and was relieved to have completed his task.

“Do another one!” Cora begged, much to Henry’s chagrin.

“That’s the only one I know,” Henry told her, not exactly lying. “You’ll have to wait for Martin to hear more.”

“When will he be done?” Cora moaned dramatically. “When will I see him, Henry?” She flopped over sideways onto the floor, her dark ringlets spreading across the black-and-white linoleum.

“Miss, sit up,” Nurse called out. “Ladies don’t sprawl on the floor, Miss.”

Henry, who felt much the same as Cora did about Martin’s absence, found himself in the uncomfortable role of patient adult. “He’ll be back later this afternoon for his dinner. If he gets back early enough, maybe we can come upstairs to say hello.”

Cora sat up and flicked impatiently at her mussed hair. “He’ll get back early enough, I know he will!” Cora was very excited, possibly overly excited, and now Henry knew he’d have to make sure Martin came upstairs or both Cora and Nurse would be terribly disappointed in him.

“We’ll try,” Henry told her. “I’ll do my best.” There, he’d committed himself. He would be a good brother.

Nurse came to crouch down beside Cora and smoothed her hair, rearranging the curls. “Miss, why don’t you show your brother your dollhouse? I don’t think he’s seen it before.”

Henry much preferred this option to more hum-singing or pretending to be a girl doll. “Yes, show me, Cora. I’d like to see it.”

The house had ten rooms on three floors plus an attic. The tiny bisque inhabitants leaned stiffly against upholstered chairs in the family parlor, and Henry noted that the young daughter of the family was included in the gathering. The dollhouse family were superficially like the Blackwells, a father with sandy hair and a mother with black, the children resembling the mother, but the son and daughter appeared to be roughly the same age and there was a third child, an infant, that Cora dismissed as unimportant and kept permanently in the nursery. The dancing bear from the circus, Honey, was a hulking presence in the miniature kitchen.

In addition to the little bisque family, there were slave dolls dressed in plain black or grey. Henry found it unnerving that the slaves had smooth faces with rudimentary, unpainted features. “Why do they look like this?” Henry asked Nurse, holding up the dollhouse nurse, faceless in her dark-grey dress.

“Like what, Sir?”

“The blank faces. It’s creepy, don’t you think?”

“It’s how they’re sold, Sir,” Nurse said, unconcerned. “They’re meant to be slaves, after all.”

“I don’t think of you all as faceless!” Henry insisted. “I don’t think anyone does!”

“Well, Little Miss doesn’t like them, either,” Nurse said. “You’ll notice, Sir, that none of her big dolls are like that. All of Baby Ann’s slaves have faces, which you might consider a point in Baby Ann’s favor.”

Henry put an arm around his sister and gave her a squeeze, expressing a sort of loving solidarity, and she leaned against him happily while struggling to fit a miniature pillow into its pillowcase. It bothered Henry that children would be encouraged to think of slaves as interchangeable or unimportant, as having no individuality. Henry might not know much about all of the Blackwell slaves, but he did acknowledge they were people with hopes and desires, likes and dislikes. He had a terrible image of Martin’s beautiful face replaced with a blank oval, white and inscrutable.

“I love our slaves,” Cora said in a loud whisper. “Don’t you love our slaves, Henry?”

“I do,” he whispered back, though really he only loved some of them. He thought guiltily of the downstairs maids, whom he rarely saw, and whose names and faces he couldn’t keep straight—but he knew they had faces, at least; he didn’t think their faces were blank.

“My best friend Rose says her big brother is friends with you,” Cora said, giving Henry a friendly nudge with her shoulder. The tiny pillow had been successfully wedged into its case, albeit somewhat twisted from true. “Put this on the bed in the blue bedroom, please.”

Henry did his best to straighten the pillow in its case before putting it on the tiny bed. “Her brother is Wendell, right? Yes, we’re friends.”

“Does Wendell have a slave like Martin?”

Henry considered Ralph, who was a muscular brown-eyed blond, not really appealing to Henry but certainly an attractive enough boy. He was good at sports and seemed smart. “Wendell’s Ralph has some things in common with Martin,” Henry allowed, “but they’re not too much alike.”

“Rose thinks Ralph must be more handsome than Martin, but she’s never seen Martin, has she?”

“I can’t imagine how she would have,” Henry agreed. “But, listen, Cora, Rose might see Martin and still think Ralph is more attractive. Different people like different things.”

“But you think Martin is more handsome, don’t you?” It wasn’t really a question.

Henry felt his cheeks grow hot, but he told her, “Yes, I do. I thought Martin was the best one of all as soon as I saw him.” It was only Nurse and Cora hearing him say this, and neither one would use it against him.

Breathing heavily through parted lips, Cora spent several laborious minutes in setting miniature goblets at each place on the dining table, knocking over most of the chairs in the process. When at last she had the goblets in place, she turned to Henry and loudly released a held breath. “That was harder than I thought! Can you help me with the chairs, Henry?”

Henry’s hands were so much larger, but his fine motor control was better, and he set all the chairs to right.

Cora put her hand into the parlor and knocked over the father doll in her hurry to get to the black-haired boy. “This is you, Henry, even though he’s so short.” She held out the doll for Henry to look at more closely.

Henry examined the doll, whose resemblance to Henry went no further than black hair. The doll’s bisque skin was snow white and his painted eyes were blue.

“He doesn’t really look like you, I know,” Cora said, with the implication that she was doing the best she could with what she was given. “I want to get him a slave like Martin. One with a face. And glasses. And a violin.”

“If it doesn’t rain, we’ll go to the shop tomorrow,” Nurse said. “Remember what I said, though, Miss, that you might have to pretend some of the details.”

“I know,” Cora said, her tone verging on bratty. “The dolls in the shop might not be exactly what I’m picturing, you told me already.” She snorted and rolled her eyes.

“Don’t sass Nurse,” Henry said, lightly scolding. “She just doesn’t want you to be disappointed and upset if there isn’t a little doll looking exactly like Martin when you get to the shop.” Clearly, Cora was going to be more exacting about appearance when it came to Dollhouse Martin than she had been for Dollhouse Henry.

Cora sulked a moment while Henry examined the dollhouse bathroom fixtures, the tiny towels and the father doll’s minuscule razor and strop. It would never have been considered for a little boy, of course, but Henry thought he would have rather enjoyed a dollhouse when he was small. The delicacy and small size of everything were enchanting, of course, and then there was the benign feeling of perfect control one had while gently presiding over a little world.

As if it took great effort, Cora turned to Nurse and said, “I’m sorry I sassed you, Nurse.”

“You’re a good girl, Miss,” Nurse said. “It’ll be time for your dinner, soon. Is there anything else you want to show your brother before he has to go?”

Was Nurse kicking him out? Henry was about to feel hurt until he remembered that the nursery dinner hour was the same as that for the slaves, and Martin would be coming home imminently—Nurse was doing him a favor.

“We’re learning to do a schottische in dancing school,” Cora said. “Do you want to see me do it?” Before Henry could answer, she got to her feet and began to do the steps, singing an appropriate tune in a wavering voice.

She couldn’t sing, but she seemed to have good rhythm. “When you get a bit taller, we can dance together,” Henry told her. He got to his feet and dusted off the seat of his trousers.

“Does Martin like to dance?” she asked breathlessly, hopping and skipping through the steps.

“He says so,” Henry told her. “I’ve never had occasion to see him dance, though.”

“When I’m taller, I can dance with him, too, can’t I?”

Henry struggled with the desire to tell her adamantly that she could not. “Uh…”

“Now, Miss, you know you can’t dance with a boy slave,” Nurse said, her tone gentle, wheedling. “We’ve talked about this before, Miss.” Oh, of course; there were social restrictions on her doing it, not just Henry’s selfish, possessive ones.

“I don’t want to talk about it again, then!” Cora said, shooting Nurse a haughty glare.

“Be nicer to Nurse,” Henry said sternly. “Promise me you will, or I won’t bring Martin to visit.”

“I promise! I promise!” Cora became frantic in her efforts to seem sincere. “Nurse, I’m sorry! I’ll be nicer!” She threw herself at Nurse and clung, dramatic and near tears.

“Of course you will, Miss.” Nurse looked down into Cora’s pretty little face and smoothed her hair back from her forehead, just as she had done for Henry when he was young. “You try to be a good girl, don’t you?”

“I do try,” Cora asserted. “Please bring Martin to visit me, Henry.”

“It might be for just a minute,” Henry cautioned her. “He’s busy today. I don’t know if we’ll come up before or after your dinner, all right? Be good for Nurse and you’ll see him, though.”

Henry left the nursery after kissing them both and was back in his room with perhaps fifteen minutes to spare before the slaves’ dinner was served. He watched out the window to see if he could spot Martin coming home from the Slattery house, but he must have just missed seeing him leave, as he was startled a few minutes later by a knock on the door.

“Sir?” Martin opened the door a crack.

“Martin!” Henry strode to the door, pulled Martin inside, and hugged him tightly. He kissed his neck and said, “I promised my sister we’d come up to see her for a minute. Can we do it before you eat?”

Martin looked as though he might like to eat first, actually, but he said, “Of course, Henry. Whatever you want. Let’s go see Little Miss.”

They climbed the stairs side-by-side, Henry giving Martin’s hand a quick squeeze. “Did your practice go well?”

“It did, Sir. I think we’ll do a good job for Billy and Jane.”

As soon as Martin knocked on the door, they could hear Cora’s excited cries.

“Is it Martin, Nurse? Is it him?”

Nurse opened the door and ushered them inside, smiling. “She’s happy to see you,” she told Martin. To Henry, she said, “Welcome back, Sir.”

Henry had been gone just a few minutes, and he had obviously received all the attention he was going to get from Cora today anyway. Martin crouched down to greet Cora and she threw herself into his arms with abandon.

“Come see my dollhouse, Martin.” She pulled him over, her hand in his. “There’s a doll for Henry already, and tomorrow I’m getting one for you to be his slave, though Nurse says I might have to pretend that it looks like you.” She paused to take a breath. “My Henry doll doesn’t really look like Henry, either.”

“You have a very good imagination, though, don’t you, Miss? It doesn’t matter so much if the doll is exactly right if you have a good imagination.”

“I do have a very good imagination,” Cora agreed, pleased. She directed his attention back to the dollhouse. “Look, see, I put goblets at all the places at the table. That’s so the family can drink champagne, even the children. Remember, I had some at Thanksgiving?”

“I do remember, Miss. As I recall, you weren’t sure whether you liked it or not.”

“I’ve thought about it some more, and now I’m sure I liked it after all.”

“It’s nice for special occasions, isn’t it, Miss?”

While Cora chattered at Martin, Henry turned to Nurse. “I wasn’t anything like her when I was little, was I?”

“Oh, well, you were a much quieter child, Sir, and very shy. Little Miss certainly isn’t shy.” Nurse chuckled at the notion of a shy Cora. “Even with your uncle, who you loved so dearly, you were a little standoffish.”

“It’s good for her, I suppose, that she’s outgoing.” Henry was a little jealous of Cora and her boldness, her confidence. With a little of that for himself, he might have taken Martin to bed within minutes of bringing him home from auction. With a little of that, he might not be so worried about Valentine’s Day.

“Not all gentlemen appreciate a saucy girl, though, Sir,” Nurse pointed out. “It can be a struggle for Little Miss to remember to behave like a lady.”

“She needs to remember that ladies don’t court gentlemen, much less male slaves,” Henry said, an unbecoming acidity to his tone, and he blushed to hear himself sound so petty.

“Certainly, she’ll need to remember that, Sir,” Nurse said, patting his arm. “But she’s scarcely more than a baby, and he’s a lovely boy. Surely she’s doing no harm with her fancies.”

Henry was ashamed of himself. Cora was no threat to what he had with Martin—she was a child and a girl, neither of which were of any interest to Martin.

“I must say, Sir, when Little Miss is of age, I hope she finds a girl she likes as well as you like your Martin.”

Henry felt his face grow hot as a furnace at the idea of his little sister feeling for anyone—male or female—what he felt for Martin.

“Since he’s come, Sir, you do seem much happier, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“You can say so,” Henry said, his face so hot it tingled.

“It’s not talked about, of course, Sir, but there are plenty of gentlemen whose closest bond is with a companion and not a spouse.” Here she lowered her voice further. “Your own father, for one.”

“Well, Father has that other—” Here Henry stopped himself. Surely, Nurse knew about Mrs. Murdock and her son, but it wasn’t the sort of thing he should talk to her about. “Yes,” he said. “Father is very close to Timothy.”

“It’s important that you have someone to love, Sir,” Nurse said. “You have such a capacity for love.”

Henry found all of this very embarrassing, yet he liked feeling understood, known. He imagined that Nurse knew exactly how close he was to Martin and that she thought it was just fine.

“Did you ever wish you had someone to love besides me and Cora? A gentleman friend?”

“Who’s to say I don’t have one, Sir?” Nurse waggled an eyebrow at him, and he laughed. “But, no, I’ve never needed anyone else. Besides, someday you’ll have children and I’ll take care of them, too. There will always be someone for me, Sir.”

“Will you be coming to Billy’s wedding?”

“Oh, no, Sir. I can’t leave Little Miss alone.”

“Couldn’t someone else…?”

“Miss Pearl has to stay with your mother, Sir, and none of the other ladies know your sister well enough to sit up with her. In any case, I’ve given Billy and Jane my good wishes already.”

“Do you think I should take them a present? I’m not sure what I’d get for them, but I could take something, couldn’t I?”

“Slaves don’t need presents like free people, Sir. Billy and Jane won’t be setting up a household of their own, after all. People will bring them goodwill and liquor and they’ll consider themselves fortunate. Just go and have a good time.” Nurse reached for his hand and squeezed it.

There was a knock at the door and Nurse opened it to Paul with a cart with Cora’s dinner and her own. While Nurse set out the food on the little table, Henry went to stand behind Martin, looking at the dollhouse. Martin was helping Cora move furniture around in the rooms assigned to Dollhouse Henry and the future Dollhouse Martin.

“Is it more like your room now, Martin?” Cora asked.

As far as Henry could see, it was nothing like, but Martin said, “Oh, yes, Miss, it’s exactly how I have things.”

“Cora, Martin needs to go down for his dinner now,” Henry said in a low, firm voice, one which he intended to brook no dissent. “You’ll have to say goodbye for now.”

“Oh, Henry, no!” Cora begged, clutching at Martin’s sleeve.

“Do you want Martin to go hungry?” Henry asked. “I don’t, so it’s time for him to go.”

“Couldn’t he eat here with me?”

“There’s not enough food,” Henry pointed out. “There’s only food for you and Nurse.”

“Can we all eat together again someday? Like we did at Thanksgiving?”

“We can talk about it,” Henry said. “Say goodbye to Martin now, please.”

“Henry…”

“Miss,” Nurse said in her sternest voice, which had always frightened Henry into doing whatever he was told; Cora seemed more resistant, however. “Miss, the boys have been very generous with their time today. Be gracious.”

Scowling, Cora said, “Yes, Nurse.” She hugged Martin again and her hunger for him and his attention embarrassed Henry, as it seemed not so different from his own neediness. She allowed Henry to kiss her cheek, but clearly resented him for taking Martin away from her. Henry and Martin both kissed Nurse goodbye and went downstairs.

“You’re a good brother, Sir,” Martin told him at the top of the stair. At the second-floor landing, Martin said, “I’ll see you soon, Sir,” and darted a quick glance around the empty stair before squeezing Henry’s hand. He hurried down the stairs and Henry watched him go, then made his way down the hall to his own room.

Henry wanted to go to the wedding party, and he wanted to hear Martin play for an audience, but he didn’t want to forego his usual activities with Martin, all the sex and closeness, and he was realizing that he would likely have to do without much of what he wanted on this day when he felt he needed it so badly.

He opened the wardrobe and looked at his suits. He was wearing his least-favorite, the brown, and wanted to wear something different to the party, maybe the new blue plaid with the paisley waistcoat. The black-and-grey check was always good, too. He would ask Martin which would be most appropriate.

He had a new book he’d started two weeks ago, a story about an amateur detective—an exceptionally clever man—and his devoted companion who assisted him in solving mysteries. It had been recommended to him by Charles, who shared his fondness for reading. It seemed as good a time as any to pick it back up. He read perhaps twenty minutes, trying to concentrate on the book rather than listening for Martin’s step in the hall.

At last, he heard Martin hurrying down the corridor and only had time to put a bookmark between his pages before Martin was in the room, locking the door and leaping on top of him. Henry wrapped him up in his arms and rolled him over and over again. The solid weight of him filled Henry with joy. He wanted to drown in Martin’s warmth, Martin’s smell.

“Do we have time…?” he asked hopefully.

“Not to do it properly,” Martin said, shaking his head regretfully. “I don’t want to rush, and you’ll be expected downstairs soon.” He pushed Henry’s hair off his forehead and looked into his eyes. “Later, we’ll do whatever we want, all right?”

It wasn’t unreasonable; Henry tried not to pout.

Martin took off his glasses and stretched to place them on the nightstand. “We could neck a bit, though,” he offered. “As a stopgap measure.”

It wasn’t everything Henry wanted, but it was certainly a great deal better than nothing. He pulled the tie from Martin’s hair and took it in silky handfuls. It smelled deliciously of vetiver and Martin’s skin. He kissed Martin’s mouth and caught a hint of chocolate.

“You had cake?”

Martin laughed. “We did. You taste it?”

“Mm-hmm.” Henry kissed him again, reveling in the heat of his mouth, the slickness of his tongue. Martin made a little grunt and threw a leg over Henry’s. Henry took this as a cue and maneuvered himself beneath Martin’s body, matching at thighs and hips and chest. Henry ran his hands up and down Martin’s back and ass and rubbed his cheek against Martin’s hair as he arched beneath Martin’s weight, wanting intense, seamless contact.

Martin sighed into Henry’s mouth as they kissed, and Henry could feel that he was hard—they both were—but kissing wasn’t just about sex, didn’t inevitably lead there. It felt so good to be close to Martin, to have his touch accepted and welcomed. He craved closeness with Martin almost more than sex. Almost. He wrapped himself around Martin and held on tight. With Martin in his arms, everything was right in the world. Henry felt soothed and content, generous and expansive.

Martin’s skin was warm through the folds of his clothing. Henry stroked Martin’s back with one hand, the other deliberately tangled in his hair. He made a little contented growl and tilted his head to offer more of his neck for Martin’s mouth, a leisurely string of hot kisses from collar to ear.

“Martin,” Henry murmured. “Martin.”

“Hmm?” Martin lifted his head to look at Henry’s face.

Henry blushed. He hadn’t meant to speak aloud. “Nothing,” he said. “It feels good.”

Martin laughed, low and intimate. “You’re sweet, Henry.” But he began to disentangle himself. “We should get you dressed now.”

Henry was disappointed. “Is it time already?” He didn’t wait for Martin to answer but sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Martin stood at the bedside smoothing his hair back into a tail. He looked upon Henry with an expression that was indulgent and fond and even a little admiring. “I feel better now,” Martin said. “I’ve missed you these past few days.”

“You have?” Henry was surprised and delighted but at pains to hide his eager pleasure.

Martin scoffed at this. “Of course. How could I not?”

Henry suspected that Martin might easily tire of him, but he would not suggest it for fear of giving Martin cause to consider that possibility. He had no doubt it was obvious, but he said, “I’ve missed you, too.”

Martin smiled as he held out his hand and pulled Henry to his feet. “Let’s get you dressed now, Henry.”

During dinner, which was served by Paul and Randolph alone, it occurred to Henry that he hadn’t asked his parents for permission to go to the slave party, and he worried that it wouldn’t be granted if he did ask. He ate in dread of being asked about Martin’s participation, worried that one or the other of his parents would be astute enough to realize that he would definitely want to see Martin perform and would forbid it. To his relief, he got through the meal with there being no mention of the slave party or even the missing Billy.

After dinner, Henry was prepared to spend an antsy hour listening to Pearl read the final chapters of The Ghost of Hedgecombe Manor, but Father offered a surprising respite.

“Seeing as how Timothy and Martin have a party to get ready for, why don’t we skip the reading this evening, ladies?”

“Oh,” said Mother. “Well, I suppose that’s all right.” She turned to Henry. “Will you be able to entertain yourself this evening, Henry?”

Henry blushed and tried to hide it by dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “Er, yes, Mother, I think I’ll manage.”

“All right then, darling. Come kiss me goodnight.”

Henry got up and went around the table to kiss his mother’s cheek, then left the dining room with Martin following close behind.

“That was so kind of your father, don’t you think, Sir?” Martin said on the stairs.

“Do you think he suspects I’m going to the party?”

“Oh, I’m sure he knows, Sir,” Martin said, seeming surprised Henry would believe otherwise. “It’s a party in your very own home, after all; why wouldn’t you go?”

Henry felt vaguely annoyed that he wasn’t actually getting away with anything after all. Still, there was a party, and he was going, and it didn’t matter if his father knew so long as he wasn’t going to stop him.

Martin thought the black-and-grey check was a better choice than the blue plaid. “All the other men will be in plain clothes, remember, Henry, mostly black, and you will stand out enough as it is in your collar and tie. You’ll be more comfortable if you blend in a little, don’t you think?”

It was a convincing argument, and Henry allowed himself to be dressed accordingly. Martin recommended a red necktie, as red was the slave wedding color and any guests who had red garments would be wearing them.

“Slave weddings are about carnal love in tandem with fidelity, you see, and red is the color for sex, after all.” Martin tied the red foulard tie and fussed with the ends. “Which tie pin do you want?”

“Gold and onyx,” Henry decided.

When he was dressed, he followed Martin into his room and watched from the door as he changed his undergarments and shirt. When Martin bent to pull on his clean drawers, Henry leaned forward off the door jamb and put his hand on Martin’s back, the soft corrugation of his ribs, just needing to touch him. Martin turned his head to smile up at him, and Henry felt such tenderness for him that it hurt. The words he wanted to say were thick in his throat. He loved Martin so much, but it wasn’t the right time to tell him so; he could wait a few more days.

“It’s interesting,” Henry began, “that free people’s marriages are all about babies, having children, but children aren’t even a possibility for slaves, so slave marriages are just about love.”

“And sex,” Martin pointed out. “Sex and fidelity. There’s no reason to marry just to have sex, after all, but if you want to be exclusive partners, then you can commit to that in front of everyone.” He put his pants back on and tucked in his shirt.

Henry thought about this in terms of Timothy and Dora. “Do you know when Timothy and Dora got married? And did they do this same ceremony that Billy’s having?”

“I think Timothy was about 30 and Dora must have been 32 or 33.”

“She’s older?”

“Just a little.” He buttoned his waistcoat and smoothed it over his stomach. “And as far as I know, they would have used the same ceremony. It’s quite standard, I understand.”

Henry wondered if there was a slave ceremony that two men might do to proclaim their fidelity, and wondered if Martin would do it with him, but was afraid to ask for fear Martin would react unfavorably to the idea.

Martin slid his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. “Do I look nice enough, Henry? Neat and clean?”

“You’re very handsome,” Henry told him. He smoothed Martin’s lapels against his chest as Martin did so often for him.

“Well, I’m ready to go down, then. Shall we?”

On the stairs, Martin said, “I’ll be playing for most of the evening, Sir, so if you become bored, don’t feel you have to stay for my sake.”

“I’ll stay,” Henry assured him. “I’ll be there the whole time.”

Down in the basement, the hall was full of people—all slaves—he’d never seen before. A few of these strange slaves looked askance at his checked suit, his collar and tie, but of course no one challenged his right to be there.

There were tables of food set up in the hall, along with a giant bowl of punch that smelled like pure alcohol. Additionally, there were perhaps a dozen bottles of various liquors sitting open, all with red ribbons around their necks.

“Those will have been presents, you see,” Martin murmured. “Do you want something to eat, Sir, or a drink?”

“I’ll get whatever I need for myself later,” Henry told him. “You’re busy now.”

Two of the Blackwell maids—Henry thought they were Ruth and Lucy—stood by the door of the slaves’ mess handing out ribbons (Ruth) and pins (Lucy). The women were shy with Henry, but seemed happy enough to see him there. The ribbons were double bows, one ribbon red and the other white, and Henry stood still while Martin pinned one to his lapel. He made to do the same for Martin, but Martin stayed his hand and blushed a bright pink.

“Sir, you can’t,” Martin said in an urgent whisper. He pinned on his own ribbon and hurried into the hall.

The youngest boys had done a nice job decorating. Garlands of leaves and vines swooped in arcs over the walls, punctuated with heavy knots of red and white flowers. The room smelled of greenery and roses.

“Your father and Mr. Slattery gave them money for the flowers, Sir. Wasn’t that kind of them?”

“Sure,” said an unimpressed Henry, who imagined his father spent more on lunch every day than he’d spent on these flowers for his slave of seventeen years.

Jerry was already in place, sitting on the piano bench; he saw Martin first and smiled, but jumped to his feet with a look of alarm when he saw Henry.

“Sir! What a surprise to see you, Sir,” he said uneasily.

“Hello, Jerry. I’m eager to hear you play,” Henry offered. “And I’m excited to hear Martin play with other musicians.”

“I hope you like what you hear, Sir,” Jerry said, sounding worried. Here he had none of the confidence and authority that he demonstrated in the stables with the horses.

“I’m sure I will.” Henry tried to sound reassuring. He hoped that not all of the slaves would be made so uncomfortable by his presence.

“Where are Homer and Mr. John?” Martin asked. He put down his violin case on the piano bench and undid the latches.

“They’re around here somewhere. I think they might have gone out for a cigarette.”

“Where’s Arthur?” Martin tucked his violin under his chin and drew the bow across the strings. “Doesn’t he want to see you play?”

Jerry blushed. “He’s coming a little later with Tom.”

“Ah,” Martin said, chuckling.

“Tom?” Henry asked. “Your Tom?” He hadn’t known Tom was coming, and he wasn’t sure he liked the idea.

“Yes, Sir. He’s coming to see his friends play,” Martin said blandly.

Henry would have to be fine with this. Tom was indeed Martin’s friend, and he was apparently Jerry’s friend, too. He was probably fucking Arthur at this very moment. Or Arthur was fucking him. Henry had no real sense of which way it might go. All he could think of was Tom telling Martin that Jerry had a “very nice cock,” and then of Tom on his back on the Rosses’ gaming table.

Martin made some ugly noises come out of his violin as he tuned it, and then he turned to Henry and smiled and played the first few notes of the partita just for him, and that made up a little for the prospect of Tom.

There were chairs lining the walls of the hall and Henry sat down, out of the way, and listened to Martin and Jerry play little snatches of song. They were eventually joined by two older men about Timothy’s age. He thought he recognized Homer from the Labor Day picnic—he’d been the friend that Old Bob had sought in the twilight crowd. Mr. John was a very dignified fellow with old-fashioned sideburns. Both Homer and Mr. John would sit down to play their instruments, as would Jerry; only Martin would be standing up in front of everyone.

Timothy appeared, and at first he didn’t see Henry. It was interesting to see how the other slaves treated Timothy—deferentially, and with respect, even Mr. John from the Slattery household. Martin was always eager to be a good boy for Timothy; they’d never discussed it, but Henry suspected Martin was a bit of a teacher’s pet based on observing his interactions with Timothy. Martin said something to Timothy and nodded toward Henry, and Timothy turned around and saw him sitting and gave him a stern look. Blushing, Henry sat up straight as Timothy came over to speak with him.

“Sir,” Timothy said, “I’ll be blunt with you. I’m going to recommend that you not drink too terribly much tonight. Martin will be very busy and unable to look after you, should you need any caretaking.”

Henry was a little offended. “I have no intention of getting drunk,” he said haughtily. “I have no desire to cause a scene at Billy’s wedding.”

“Very well, Sir. So long as we’re in agreement,” Timothy said coolly, and Henry was hurt, but then Timothy patted his shoulder and added, “You’re a good boy, Sir. I just want all to go well for our Billy.”

“That’s what I want, too,” Henry assured him. “Where is Billy? I’d like to congratulate him.”

Timothy looked around the room, which was filling up with people. “I don’t see him, Sir. I’ll be sure to let him know you’re here when I see him, though.”

“Do you think it’ll be all right for me to sit here, Timothy? I don’t want to be too conspicuous.”

“Don’t worry about it, Sir. People will get used to you being here in short order.” He continued to look around the room as he spoke to Henry. “Sir, would you like something to drink? Martin can’t get it for you, of course, but I’d be happy to do so now, while I have an idle minute.”

“Yes, thank you,” Henry told him. Despite what he’d said to Martin earlier, the idea of wading through this sea of strange slaves to get his own punch and cookies was somewhat daunting.

Timothy disappeared into the crush. Henry looked around at the people in their sober dress, almost everything black, grey or white. Some of the women had red ribbons woven into their hair or wore red glass drops in their ears, and both men and women wore ribbon arm bands, everything from a simple ribbon tied in a bow to fancy flat braids with long, trailing ties. Everyone had at least the ribbon bows handed out by the maids for a bit of color. The black-and-grey check had been the right choice.

Some of these strange slaves seemed quite shocked to see Henry sitting by himself. Some even flinched when they realized they were looking upon a master. He heard young Mr. Blackwell, and Martin’s his boy, and he’s close to Billy come out of the crowd and felt self-conscious almost beyond bearing. He contemplated taking off his tie and collar just to blend in a little, but knew neither Timothy nor Martin would approve.

“Sir? I’ve brought someone to see you.”

Henry looked up and saw Timothy with Billy behind him. “Billy!” Henry stood and held out his hand. “Congratulations, Billy!”

Billy grinned and shook Henry’s hand. “Thank you, Sir. Thank you for coming.” He wore his usual uniform, all black and white, except for a brilliant scarlet waistcoat of plush velvet.

“That’s something,” Henry said nodding toward the waistcoat. “It’s beautiful fabric.”

“It’s good luck for the bride and groom to have something red to wear, Sir. Mr. Tim gave this to me.”

“It’s lovely, Timothy. That was very kind of you. You look quite dashing, Billy.”

“Will you stay for the party, Sir? I’d like to introduce you to my bride after the ceremony.”

“I intend to stay,” Henry told him. “I want to see the dance. I want to hear Martin play.”

“Thank you so much, Sir, for letting us have him,” Billy said earnestly. “It’s so generous of you.”

“It’s nothing,” Henry said, suddenly feeling that it was, in fact, nothing, not compared to the years of service Billy had given him. “I want you to have a real celebration.”

Timothy held out the glass of pale yellow punch he’d brought. “Keep in mind this is very strong. Now, if you’ll take this, Sir, Billy and I have things we need to do to prepare.” With the other hand, he held out a heart-shaped cookie covered in red icing.

Henry took both. “Thank you for taking care of me, Timothy.”

“I’ll do my best to see if you need anything later, Sir, but you will likely have to fend for yourself this evening.” Timothy looked as if he doubted Henry could do this.

“I’ll be fine,” Henry insisted. “Go do what needs to be done. I’ll just sit here and eat my cookie.”

The cookie was good, but it didn’t taste like Cook’s work somehow, and Henry supposed it had been brought over from the Slatterys’ kitchen.

The musicians had been milling about and talking to other slaves, but now got into their playing positions. Jerry was perched on the piano bench. Homer and Mr. John were both seated with their instruments ready. There was a chair for Martin, and he put his violin case underneath it, but he stayed standing and Henry suspected he would stand as long as he played; he couldn’t recall ever seeing Martin sit to play. As he watched Martin gather his energies, efficient yet relaxed, Henry felt so proud of him.

Henry finished his cookie in short order, but sipped his drink slowly, partly because he was reluctant to go back for a refill on his own, and partly because it was very strong, strong enough to strip paint, and he was afraid of what might happen if he drank it quickly. The room had filled enough that people had stopped really noticing Henry and making the effort to keep their distance from him, and now slaves stood close enough that their skirts rustled against his knees. Henry stood so that he could see the musicians over the heads of the crowd. Martin lifted his chin, tucked the violin underneath, and smiled at Henry across a sea of towheads and dark curls and every shade of brown.

Timothy came through the center of the crowd gently pushing people aside and clearing the way. “Make way for Billy and Jane!” he called out. “Make way for the wedding couple!” Timothy went to stand near Martin, at the culmination of the aisle he had just created.

Martin raised his bow, gave the count, and the musicians began to play the wedding march.

Paul led Billy in, a red kerchief tied over his eyes, and spun him nearly off his feet as he harried him along the aisle, laughing as he did so. Hands reached out of the crowd to yank at Billy’s clothes and to spin him one direction and then the other. Everyone was talking and laughing and shouting encouragement and Billy staggered off-balance into the crowd, laughing and holding onto his blindfold to keep it in place.

Henry had only seen Jane for a few minutes in the gloaming on New Year’s Eve, but he remembered her as a dark-haired woman with a heart-shaped face; he knew her now because she was wearing a red blindfold and being chased up the aisle by a cackling blonde who spun and bothered her as Paul had done for Billy. Jane had red ribbons woven into her hair and had a pair of red crystal drops hanging from her ears. Henry wasn’t sure with the blindfold in place, but he thought she might be pretty enough for his handsome Billy.

When Jane reached the top of the aisle her blonde minder pushed her forward, and Paul did the same with Billy, and they staggered toward each other dizzily, weaving like drunks and groping blindly through empty air.

Jane found Billy first, her hand brushing his sleeve, and she lunged after him and they clung to each other happily, giddily. They removed one another’s blindfolds, and when their eyes met, it was as if they were truly seeing one another for the first time, so full of tenderness that Henry was quite moved.

Paul and the blonde woman set wreaths upon their heads, ivy and roses, and they stood together before Timothy, holding hands and swaying a little on their feet. With a gesture from Timothy, the music came to a halt, and Martin stepped back and sat in his chair, making room for the wedding couple.

“Friends, family and honored guests,” Timothy said. “We are gathered here to celebrate the union of our beloved friends, Billy and Jane; to honor their commitment and their bond.” He turned and picked up a coil of red and white ribbons from the top of the piano. “In binding their hands, their lives are likewise bound.”

Timothy arranged the pair facing one another. “Now hold her left wrist—yes, like that. And you hold his. Not too tight!” Timothy patted Billy on the back and all three laughed. “Ready?”

“Yes, Mr. Tim,” Billy told him. “I’m so ready.”

Timothy cleared his throat and excited people in the audience murmured and shushed one another in anticipation.

“Billy and Jane, will you always seek what is good in the other and value it above any worldly treasure?”

“We will,” they said in chorus.

Timothy looped the ribbons around their joined left hands, making a figure-of-eight around their wrists. “And so you are bound.”

There was scattered applause throughout the rowdy crowd.

“Billy and Jane, will you share in one another’s laughter and all the pleasures of life?”

“We will.”

A second loop. Voices from the audience joining Timothy’s as he said, “And so you are bound.” There were a few excited whoops and shrieks around the room.

“Billy and Jane, will you share the burdens of your lives and support one another through times of trouble?”

“We will.”

A third loop. The whole crowd saying it together: “And so you are bound.”

“Billy and Jane, will you promise one another fidelity?”

“We will.” Henry saw Jane murmur I love you to Billy with tears in her eyes and felt that he might tear up himself.

A fourth loop. A roar of voices. “And so you are bound.

“Billy and Jane, will you respect one another’s commitment to masters and service?”

“We will.”

A fifth loop, this one apparently final, as the room erupted in cheering and applause.

Timothy raised his voice to be heard above the din. “Billy and Jane, as your hands are bound together, so your lives are joined. Be dedicated to one another as you are to your masters.”

This surprised Henry, the inclusion of masters in a ceremony meant for slaves, but perhaps there were masters who would be suspicious of a marriage that put slaves’ happiness before duty.

“With the blessings of your masters, your community recognizes your bond. You are now quite welcome to kiss!” Timothy began to clap, and now everyone did so, Henry included, while the bride and groom shared a very passionate kiss. The blonde stepped forward with champagne flutes for the married couple and they drank while their guests cheered.

Henry drank the last of his punch and looked around the room. People were pushing to get out of the room, heading toward the food, and people rushed forward, wanting to congratulate the newlyweds. The blonde helped Billy and Jane to extricate their hands from the looped ribbons, and then tied the entire thing together neatly so that the ribbon retained the looped shape. She put it on top of the piano and Martin got up from his chair and spoke a few words to her. She nodded and spoke to Billy and Jane and they inched out toward the middle of the room.

Martin lifted his violin to his shoulder and the band began to play a lively waltz, People hurried to clear the floor for Billy and Jane, who began to dance. It was obvious that they were both good dancers, and that they had danced together many times before. He recalled Billy whirling Jane around the side yard on New Year’s Eve and wondered how long they had known one another. Martin had said she’d been with the Slatterys for fifteen years, so she and Billy had likely known each other half their lives; they might have even been sweethearts all that time.

Other couples joined in the dance. Henry wished he could dance, too, but knew it would make the other guests uncomfortable, at the very least, and thought it better not to bother any of the female slaves with selfish requests they’d feel unable to refuse.

“Mr. Blackwell, Sir?” A familiar voice rose above the hubbub.

Henry turned and came face-to-face with Tom, Arthur right behind him. Was Henry imagining things, or did they smell faintly of sex?

“Hello, Tom, Arthur.” Henry nodded at each of them.

Arthur blushed when Henry looked at him. No, they definitely smelled of sex. Henry got a flash of what they might have looked like together, Arthur’s brown skin against Tom’s white, and he blushed, too.

“You’re out of punch, Sir. Would you like me to get you some?” Tom was so friendly, so solicitous.

Flustered, Henry said, “Oh, no, you needn’t wait on me, Tom.”

“I’m happy to do it, Sir. You should have someone taking care of you while Martin’s busy.” He reached and took the glass from Henry’s hand. “I’ll just be a moment, Sir.”

He left Henry standing with Arthur, both blushing furiously, neither knowing what to say. Henry reminded himself he had no obligation to speak to a slave under any circumstances, but it felt horribly rude to just ignore poor Arthur.

“How are the horses, then?” Henry asked, cringing a little. It would be better if he knew something more about Arthur, so he might ask about his life. Well, actually, he did know about Arthur’s relationship with Jerry and his dalliance with Tom, but he couldn’t exactly discuss those things with him, after all.

“Oh, they’re quite well, Sir,” Arthur assured him. “By this time next month, I imagine it will have warmed up enough you’ll be riding again on a regular basis, Sir.”

“I’m looking forward to warmer weather,” Henry said. He could just see Martin over the heads of the dancing crowd. Here, Martin played with his eyes open, watching the dancers, seeing how they reacted to the tune he played; they had finished the first waltz and were now playing a polka. Henry willed him to look up, to see Henry looking at him, but he kept his gaze focused on the whirling couples.

“Here you go, Sir.” Tom was at his elbow with a fresh glass of punch. He’d brought one for himself and one for Arthur, as well.

“Thank you, Tom. But, really, you don’t have to take care of me. You should enjoy the party.”

“Martin would want me to look out for you, Sir,” Tom insisted. “Mr. Caldwell would, too.”

Actually, since Henry didn’t share Martin, Freddie probably wouldn’t want Tom to help Henry out, but Henry did not wish to argue the point with Tom.

“Well, I won’t expect you to stick with me,” Henry told him. “I imagine you’re going to want to dance at some point.”

“Oh, certainly, Sir,” Tom said brightly, sipping his drink and looking around the room. He waved at someone across the room and said to Arthur, “Oh god, I hope she doesn’t come over here,” in a low voice.

The girl in question was a redhead, petite and pixieish, and she did indeed come over, skirts swaying.

“Well, hello, Tom. What trouble are you in tonight?”

“I’m looking after Mr. Blackwell for Martin,” Tom told her, gesturing toward Henry.

Henry blushed and gave her a short nod.

The girl dipped a little bow at Henry. “Good evening, Sir. Thank you for the party. So, Tom, you’ll dance with me later, I hope?”

“We’ll see,” Tom told her. “My duties take precedence.”

“Mr. Blackwell looks capable of taking care of himself for the length of a dance.”

“But Mr. Blackwell might become hungry at a moment’s notice,” Tom told her cheerfully. “His throat might become parched. I intend to be at the ready.”

The girl frowned, annoyed and perhaps a little disgusted. “I’m beginning to think I made a mistake in taking you seriously.”

“If you took me seriously,” Tom told her, “then I agree you made a mistake. I’m no better than a clown, not to be taken seriously at all.” He laughed and reached playfully for the girl’s hand, which she pulled back with a petulant sound.

Arthur laughed but clapped his hand over his mouth to shut himself up.

“I’ll dance with you later,” Tom decided, “if you still want to dance with me, that is, but that’s all we can do. I’ve got other plans for after the party.”

The girl cocked an eyebrow at Arthur, who blushed anew as Tom slipped an arm around his shoulders.

“You’re so presumptuous,” she said with a haughty sniff. “How do you know I don’t have plans of my own?”

“Am I to believe you came over here out of friendship alone?” Tom asked. “I think we know each other better than that!”

With a frustrated toss of her head, the girl said, “Find me later for a dance, you cad. If we don’t dance tonight, we’re through for good.” She stalked away, back stiff, while Tom laughed and squeezed Arthur’s shoulders.

Henry did his best to pretend he hadn’t heard a word of their conversation, but he did not think he was convincing.

“Mr. Blackwell, Sir, would you like more punch? Or perhaps something to eat?”

“Er, no, I’m fine, thank you, Tom.”

“Martin plays beautifully, doesn’t he, Sir? I expected he would, of course.”

“Yes, he does. Am I remembering correctly that you play piano?”

“Yes, Sir. How kind of you to remember.”

“Do you play for Freddie?”

“The Caldwells have a piano that I’m allowed to play, Sir, but I don’t think anyone particularly cares to listen.”

“That’s too bad,” Henry said. “I love to hear Martin play.”

“You and Martin are well-suited, Sir,” Tom said.

Henry felt his face grow hot and turned away to hide the color in his cheeks. He did not know what sort of response would be proper; agreement felt like it would be admitting too much.

There was a slightly longer break between tunes while Martin stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He was sweating a little, his face slightly pink, and as he looked out over the crowd he sought Henry out and gave him the dazzling smile that he so loved.

It was during the next waltz that Henry began to notice all the kissing and fondling that was taking place in the crowded room. Men kissed women, men kissed men, women kissed women. Tom was nuzzling Arthur’s neck. Billy and Jane stood near the musicians with their arms around each other’s necks and their flower crowns askew and kissed like they were in private. If Henry were also a slave, he could kiss Martin here, in this room with dozens of people looking on, and no one would think anything of it. Surely somewhere in this city there had to be a place where a free boy could kiss another boy without worries.

“I’m going for more punch, Sir. I’ll be happy to bring you something back,” Tom said.

“All right,” Henry agreed. “Is there any punch without alcohol in it?”

“I believe so, Sir.”

“Some of that, then, and maybe a little to eat after all.”

“Very well, Sir.” Tom turned to Arthur. “Come with me, Artie. I’ll need help carrying it back.”

Left alone, Henry watched Martin sway and dip and bounce on his toes, just as he would do in private. Even in these lively songs, Henry could still hear the plangent, erotic qualities of the violin’s voice as if it were speaking only to him. A cluster of young women stood near the musicians, gazing rapt at Martin as he played; was it only because he was a handsome young man, or did they hear what Henry heard?

Most of the dancing couples were made up of men and women, but Henry saw the occasional pair of men go whirling past, as well as a few female couples. Henry was surprised at first, but remembered that slaves would all have grown up taking turns leading and following, so it would be natural for them to dance however they might be inclined. He wished he might have such freedom to dance with Martin.

The waltz ended and a polka began. High-spirited people whooped and hopped around the floor. Tom and Arthur returned with full glasses and plates.

Tom said, “Make way for Mr. Blackwell to sit, please,” in an imperious tone and five girls stood up from their chairs and hurried away. “Oh, nice,” Tom said to Arthur. “We can all sit, then.”

Henry sat with his plate and glass of pink punch, and Tom sat beside him, but with an empty chair between as buffer.

“I got you a nice selection of food, Sir,” Tom said, “let me know if you’d like more of any particular thing.”

Henry ate a bite of sausage roll and followed it with a sip of his plain punch. “You’ve been very helpful, Tom. Thank you.”

“Martin is my dearest friend, Sir. I know he would do the same for my master.”

Martin would, Henry supposed, if Henry were to allow him to go gallivanting all over the neighborhood socializing on his own, which Henry did not think likely to ever happen.

“You’re a good friend to him,” Henry said a bit grudgingly. Henry felt sure he knew what Tom really wanted, but, so far as he knew, Tom was never inappropriate, never untoward, and so it wouldn’t be fair to fault him for a desire he never acted upon.

Tom colored a little, pleased at the faint praise. “Thank you, Sir.”

Henry ate a moist little cake that tasted of honey and some spice he wasn’t familiar with. “Tom, do you know what this is?”

“It’s marriage cake, Sir. It’s got cardamom and honey which are…love foods.”

“Oh,” Henry said, blushing. “Thank you.” Hetaeria food! He’d hoped there’d be some evidence of the slave beliefs at this party.

He thought a moment, then asked, “What about the flowers and greenery? Do they mean anything? I know red roses are for affection—”

“Well, no, Sir, they’re for love,” Tom pointed out.

Henry blinked at this. Affection and love—weren’t they the same thing?

Tom saw his confusion. “It’s a subtle difference, Sir, but it matters. No one offers red roses casually.”

“Oh.” Henry thought about Martin’s protection stone, the permanence of a painted rose, and felt a warm surge of hope in his breast.

Tom continued. “So, red roses are for love and sex, and red and white roses together are for joining, for unity. Ivy is for a happy marriage. The other greens all mean something, too, Sir, but I don’t remember what. Artie, do you remember what else the leaves mean?”

Arthur turned around in his chair to squint up at the swags hanging on the wall and then leaned to look around Tom at Henry. “Besides the ivy, I only recognize cedar and juniper, Sir. It’s said that cedar is protective, and juniper draws positive energy.”

“Martin has told me you’re interested in our beliefs, Sir,” Tom said. “You really don’t think they’re foolish?”

“I think they’re very interesting,” Henry said. “They make just as much sense to me as any church beliefs, or maybe a little more sense, actually. I like how everything is based in the world—real friendships, real materials—and isn’t just a lot of talk.”

“Oh!” Tom said, startled. “You surprise me, Sir!” He seemed as though he liked being surprised, however.

The waltz came to a close and the music stopped.

“Oh, they’re taking a break,” Tom said, setting his plate aside and getting to his feet. “Artie, get up and wave to Jerry.”

Henry stood, too, so Martin could see him. Martin smiled at him, chin lifted, peering over all the heads, and began to make his way through the crowd, being stopped frequently along the way to be praised and congratulated. Jerry came through the crowd from a different angle. A woman went to sit down at the piano in Jerry’s place, and a male slave with a battered-looking violin stood where Martin had been standing. These two began to play a slow waltz and a few couples took to the floor, circling at a languid pace.

“Sir!” Martin reached for Henry’s arm as he pushed through the crowd. “How did we do, Sir?”

Oh, how Henry wanted to kiss him! He settled for rubbing his hand up and down Martin’s upper arm, squeezing the muscle. “You’re wonderful, Martin. I’m so proud of you.”

Martin beamed at the praise and then glanced around. “Oh, Tom is here! Is he taking care of you, Sir?”

“He is,” Henry admitted. “He volunteered.” He looked over at Tom, who was all wrapped up in Jerry and Arthur, and blushed to see the evidence of their intimacy. He leaned close to Martin and whispered, “I wish I could be like that with you.”

Martin met his eyes with a gaze filled with erotic promise. “I would like nothing better, Sir.”

They stared into one another’s eyes, the air growing ever-more charged between them, until Tom interrupted.

“Martin, Mr. Blackwell, Sir, do you want something to drink? Some food?”

“Oh, thank you, Tom, but I can get my own food,” Martin said.

“No, you stay with Mr. Blackwell. Do you want liquor or plain punch?”

“Hmm, plain, I think. Thanks so much, Tom.”

Jerry, Arthur and Tom all went for refreshments, leaving Henry and Martin alone.

“I’m having so much fun, Sir. I really enjoy playing for a party,” Martin admitted. “There’s such good energy from a crowd like this.”

That made sense, Henry supposed: all these friendships feeding into one another, all the energies combining.

Martin leaned close, holding onto Henry’s arm. “I’m all keyed-up, Sir,” Martin said in a hoarse whisper. “All this attention is making me so amorous.”

Henry went immediately hot, imagining Martin playing for this crowd as he’d played for Henry in the past, naked and hard with his hair loose. His breath caught as he asked, “Will you want my help with that?”

“After the party, Sir, I’ll need you so much,” Martin promised him. He slipped his fingers inside Henry’s for just a second, a brief squeeze. “Here come Tom and the boys, Sir. Let’s behave ourselves for now.”

Tom brought Henry more pink punch, more sausage rolls, and more of the honey cakes, and he brought the same for Martin. Henry and Martin sat and ate with their plates on their laps; the other three stood and ate from a shared plate stacked high. Tom and Arthur were continuing to drink the yellow punch and they encouraged Jerry to drink and fed him bits of honey cake while petting and teasing him.

“You play magnificently,” Tom said to Martin, breaking away to let Arthur monopolize Jerry for a brief interlude. “I expected as much, as I told Mr. Blackwell, but it’s still a wonder to hear it.”

Martin laughed. “You’re exaggerating, Tom. I think you must be a little drunk.”

“Oh, that’s certainly true,” Tom agreed. “This punch is going to burn a hole right through me.”

“You don’t have to drink it, silly,” Martin pointed out. “This other—” he held aloft his glass of pink punch “—is very refreshing.”

“I don’t want to be refreshed,” Tom countered. “I want to be delirious! I want to be transported!” He flung his arms wide, smacking the back of his hand into the ribs of a little brunette, who squeaked her dismay and scuttled out of reach.

“You’re such a voluptuary,” Martin said affectionately. “You were born in the wrong era.”

“All the exact girls I didn’t want to see are here tonight,” Tom complained, peering around the room. “I’m sticking to Arthur like glue, but not all of them are taking the hint.”

“Dance with some of your lady-friends,” Martin suggested. “You’ll want to renew your acquaintance with most of them at some point, don’t you think? I think you’d better stay on good terms.” He nodded at Jerry and Arthur. “They’re not going to take some other boy home if you dance with a few girls.”

“Maybe not,” Tom said, though he didn’t seem convinced.

“I’m playing all this dance music,” Martin pointed out. “The least you can do as my dear friend is dance.”

“Well, if it’s what you want…”

“I do,” Martin told him. “I do want it. Be a good boy, Tommy, and do as I say.”

They both burst out laughing at this, and Henry supposed it was some private joke and resisted the urge to make them include him. He wondered if it was something Freddie had said, and wondered under what conditions Freddie might have said it.

“We might be boring Mr. Blackwell,” Martin suggested, though surely he knew Henry was not bored at all. “All this personal talk.”

“Oh, of course,” Tom said. “My apologies, Sir. Would you like something more to eat?”

“No, thank you,” Henry assured him. He turned to Martin. “How long is your break?”

“I have a bit longer, Sir.” He leaned against Henry, just a little, and their knees touched.

Henry looked up at Jerry kissing Tom and wished he had that same freedom.

“Sir? Do you have a moment, Sir?”

Henry looked up to see Billy standing before him holding hands with his bride, the lovely Jane, both of them in their flower crowns.

“Billy!” Henry handed his plate to Martin and stood. “This must be your Jane.”

She smiled and curtseyed. “At your service, Sir.”

“Welcome to our family,” Henry told her. “Billy is such a valued friend. He’s actually been here longer than I have, you know.”

Jane laughed and Billy looked pleased that Henry would say such a thing.

Martin stood and put the plates on the seat of his chair. “Congratulations, Billy. Congratulations, Jane.”

“Thank you, Martin,” Billy said. “Jane, this is Martin, Mr. Blackwell’s companion.”

“It’s so kind of you to play for our party,” Jane said, taking Martin’s hand. “I feel we ought to have met before now.”

“Duty takes precedence,” Martin said with a shrug. “As for your party, I’m more than happy to do it. Billy and the others here have been so welcoming to me. It’s the least I can do.”

“Billy!” Arthur came from behind Martin, hand extended. “Congratulations, Billy-boy!” Jerry was equally effusive, and they were both putting Tom forward to be introduced.

“It was lovely to meet you, Sir, Martin,” Jane said, dipping in a little bow. “Perhaps we’ll talk again later.” She straightened her crown and accepted congratulations, Billy at her side, as they moved deeper into the crowd.

“Do you want more punch, Sir?”

“I’ll come with you,” Henry decided. He didn’t want to waste any of Martin’s break time being apart.

They made their way through the crowd toward the hall and the food tables. As they neared the buffet, they saw Ruby, the talkative scullery maid, making her way through the crush from the opposite direction with a tray of steaming sausage rolls.

“Make way! Make way, please!” She saw Henry and stopped short. “Sir! Hello, Mr. Blackwell. Hello, Martin. Sausage roll for you? They’re very hot, Sir. See that you don’t burn your tongue!”

“Thank you, Ruby.” The sausage rolls were like coals in Henry’s hand; he would wait a minute before attempting to eat them. Martin got him a glass of punch and one for himself.

“Do you want to go out to the bonfire, Sir?”

“Bonfire?”

“There’s always a bonfire, Sir,” Martin assured him. “Let’s go outside.”

There was a neat ring of bricks set up in the center of the side yard, well away from the house, with a roaring fire enclosed within. Slaves stood close by, some shivering without their coats despite the fire. A group huddled in the corner, out of the wind, passing a cigarette around their circle. As Henry watched and munched his roll, a steady stream of people threw leaves and twigs and bits of paper on the fire, occasionally murmuring a few words as they did so.

“What are they doing?” Henry stuffed his second sausage roll into his mouth. He was cold in just his jacket, and Martin had only shirtsleeves.

“Wishes and releases, Sir. You write what you want on a leaf or scrap of paper, and you let it disperse into the universe in hopes it will be granted. Or you let go of things, Sir. Hard things, or bad things, or simply things that just need to be in the past.”

“Do you want to do it?” Henry wanted to do it.

“Right now, Sir, I’ve got everything I want. I don’t want to be greedy.” He paused a moment and then said, “Oh! Sir! Did you want to try?”

Bashfully, Henry said, “Yes. I’d like to, I think.”

“Let’s find you something to write with, then, Sir.” He turned to a nearby trio. “Excuse me, do you have a pencil for Mr. Blackwell?”

After asking a few more people, Martin came up with a pencil and a slip of paper and then bent over before Henry, making his back into a desk, their punch glasses at his feet.

Henry didn’t know exactly how to put it. He wrote I want a place where I can be free with Martin, and meant that to take into account his desire for their relationship to be considered acceptable as well as his longing to be with Martin free of his family’s expectations.

Martin must have felt that Henry had stopped writing. “Do you have it, Sir?”

“Yes, sorry.” He rubbed Martin’s back and gave him a pat. “So now I…just throw it in?”

“Concentrate on what you asked for, Sir, and then, yes, you just throw it in and hope it’s answered.” Martin was shivering and Henry wanted badly to put his arms around him. He would have to hurry so that Martin could get back inside.

He didn’t exactly pray, but he imagined that both Zeus with his Ganymede and Apollo with Hyacinthus might be sympathetic to his desire, so he thought of them, and of Reggie and the promise of his knowledge, and tossed the scrap of paper into the flames. It was eaten up immediately, floating ash whirling in the eddies of the air.

“Do you feel good about it, Sir?” Martin asked, and he was really shivering now.

“I do,” Henry said. “Let’s get you inside.”

Mr. John caught up with them near the kitchen door. “There you are, Martin. We wanted to get started again.” He saw Henry behind him and said, “Oh! Hello, Sir. John at your service.”

Henry gave him a nod. “Hello.”

Martin turned and said, “I have to go, Sir. Will you be all right on your own?”

“Of course. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll need you after, Sir, remember.”

Henry blushed, pleased and a little excited. “I remember.”

Martin smiled and gave him a little wave and disappeared into the throng.

Henry had carried his glass in from the yard and filled it now with the strong yellow punch. He made his way back into the crowded mess hall, where couples stood with their arms around one another, ready for the music to start. Martin stood, violin in position, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The light flashed off the lenses of his glasses; he was searching the crowd, and when he found Henry, he smiled. He counted off and the music began.

Arthur and Tom were both dancing, each with a pretty girl, and when the tune ended, each found a new partner for the next dance. Henry watched Martin play and drank his searingly alcoholic punch and tapped his toe. He would love to dance, he really would, but it wasn’t really done for a master to dance socially with a slave. A master could get away with more than a mistress, of course, but it wouldn’t look good, and he supposed it could have a negative impact on the slave’s reputation amongst her own, as well.

People were drunker, and it was later, and there were even more public displays of affection in this second half of the dance than there had been in the first. A man and woman next to Henry broke off kissing and headed for the hall holding hands, no doubt seeking a private corner. Their place was taken by a pair of young men who began to pet one another. One of the men, a delicate-looking boy with tawny hair and a smattering of freckles—Henry’s type—made insistent, hungry whimpers as he kissed his dark-haired partner, and Henry found it incredibly arousing. He watched them out of the corner of his eye, trying to be discreet, his cheeks hot and his breath coming short. He reminded himself that he would have Martin afterward, and he would do whatever Martin wanted to do.

Tom was dancing with the petite redhead who’d had misgivings about him, but now she looked quite wholeheartedly taken with him, laughing as they spun around the floor.

Henry tossed back the last of his punch and considered going for more, but he didn’t want to leave the kissing men, not while they were being so interesting. He alternated between watching Martin dip and sway and eyeing the kissing pair. The tawny-haired boy straddled the dark-haired man’s thigh and rubbed against him, moaning and clutching at his back.

“Let’s go find a place,” the dark-haired man said, keeping his voice low, but not so low Henry couldn’t hear. “Someplace where I can suck you.”

“You can fuck me,” the tawny boy said breathlessly. “You can do anything you want.”

They shared one last kiss, a string of spit between their lips as they drew apart, and then the dark-haired man took his friend’s hand and led him through the crowd towards the hall.

Henry watched them go and wanted to follow, wanted to see what they did together. He had the right to do that. He was permitted everything. These people were in his house and they were subject to his wishes. He hesitated a moment and then headed for the hall. He could get more punch, at the very least.

Henry thought he had lost the men in the crowd, but they had stopped to kiss again and instead he almost walked into them. He skirted them and made his way to the punch bowl, looking frequently back over his shoulder to see what they were doing. They began making their way through the crowd again, the tawny boy in the lead now.

Henry followed them, punch sloshing in his glass as he hurried to keep up.

“Let’s try down this way,” the tawny boy said, heading down the crowded east corridor. There were storage rooms here, Henry knew, and three slave bedrooms which were unused but not unfurnished.

The bedroom doors were standing open and people were moving freely in and out of the rooms, so Henry was taken aback when he peered in the first doorway and saw not just one but several couples fucking. There were a man and a woman crosswise on the bed, two men at the foot of the bed, a woman with two men tending to her needs on the rug, and three couples leaning up against the walls in various stages of undress. None of them took any notice of Henry, nor of any of the other people who wandered in and out again.

The second room was also full of fornicators, including a gasping girl who had another girl kneeling beneath her skirts, but not Henry’s couple. Henry moved on quickly to the third room, where his young men had found a place against the wall, next to a man who was fucking a woman from behind, her skirts thrown up above her waist and her arms braced against the wall.

The tawny boy was ready to come; Henry could see it in his face, in the way he trembled. His dark-haired friend was on his knees before him, holding his narrow hips. The relief on his face as his friend took him into his mouth was beautiful to behold. His eyelids fluttered and he groaned, pawing his friend’s head as he quickly came, his cries quite distinct to Henry’s ears out of all the carnal noise in the room. The boy opened his eyes quite suddenly and looked at Henry watching him and smiled. The dark-haired man turned to see who he smiled at and also looked at Henry, noting his collar and tie, and grinned.

Henry bolted, hurrying back to the mess hall and the dancers, back to Martin. His face was on fire, throbbing with embarrassment. What had he been thinking, following those boys? He’d let a bunch of strangers, a bunch of strange slaves, see him ogling a queer pair. Of course, he could claim he was looking at any of the men and women in the room and no one could prove otherwise. Still, his hands shook, and he tossed back the last of his punch quickly in hopes of quelling the tremors.

Martin looked out over the crowd, seeking him, and smiled when he found him, and Henry smiled back guiltily. He would have to let Martin know what he’d done. Would Martin be mad that Henry had wanted to watch these strangers fuck? He worried that it had been especially stupid for him to watch them here in his own home, at a party where he was the only free person in attendance, where surely everyone knew who he was. Would those boys be gossiping up and down 5th that Henry Blackwell was some sort of dirty queer who liked to watch?

Arthur had returned to his position on the sidelines and he watched as Tom danced past with the red-haired girl. He looked up and saw Henry and stood up a little straighter.

“Sir. Can I do anything for you, Sir?”

“No, just enjoy your party,” Henry told him.

After the tune, a waltz, came to an end, Henry got more punch—the pink this time—and returned to his spot. There was an empty chair so he sat, his back tender from standing so long, and he wondered how Martin fared, how tired he might be.

Tom appeared, sidling up to Arthur and whispering in his ear. Arthur laughed and put his arm around Tom’s neck. The red-haired girl approached and tugged on Tom’s sleeve. He seemed happy enough to see her and bent to kiss her quite passionately, but she went away again and Tom pressed himself against Arthur and held him tight, seeming exceedingly fond.

Henry stood up again, bending back a little bit to stretch, and Tom noticed him there.

“Mr. Blackwell,” he said. “Do you need anything, Sir? I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting my duties in regards to you.”

“No, you’re fine,” Henry insisted, blushing. “Enjoy the party. I can look after myself for a bit.”

“You’re very easygoing, Sir,” Tom noted. “No wonder Martin is so fond of you.”

Henry felt his face grow even hotter at this compliment, at the idea that Tom thought Martin especially attached to him.

Henry was wondering how much longer Martin would have to play when Martin made an announcement. A polka ended and Martin called out, “This next tune will be the last of the evening. Thank you for being such an appreciative audience.” There was scattered applause as the band began playing the final waltz.

Billy and Jane appeared, their crowns dropping petals with every step, and took a last turn around the floor. Arthur and Tom kissed and kissed. The tawny-haired boy and his dark-haired friend reappeared, both eyeing Henry curiously, and Henry pretended adamantly that he did not see them. Martin looked over at him, seeming happy but exhausted, and Henry was glad he was literally minutes away from being done with his work.

The music reached a crescendo, and Martin lifted his bow from the strings with a dramatic flourish, and he bowed as Billy and Jane clapped and then the rest of the audience joined in. Henry clapped as loudly as he could and joined in the calls of Bravo! Arthur and Tom pushed through the crowd, making a beeline for Jerry, and Henry realized he could do the same for Martin, although obviously he wouldn’t be able to kiss him in front of all these people.

When he reached the front of the room, Martin was flipping the latches on his violin case. His hair was coming loose from its tail and he looked overall disheveled and tired, but his smile when he saw Henry was dazzling.

He leaned close, his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Sir, I’m so ready to be alone with you.”

“We can go now,” Henry said. “Pack up your violin and let’s leave.”

“I have to chat a minute with the others, Sir,” Martin said regretfully. “I have to be polite.”

Jerry was sitting on the piano bench between Tom and Arthur, kissing one and then the other, his arms around both. Mr. John was receiving attentions from a much-younger man, and Homer was drinking a glass of punch brought by a lady-friend. It was unusual, obviously, that Martin’s chief admirer was his master.

Henry stood by while Martin chatted with Billy and Jane, then with the other musicians, then with Tom, who threw his arms around Martin and gave him a hug that was more than friendly while he whispered intently in his ear. Martin laughed at whatever he said and pushed him gently away.

“Oh, that’s not true,” he said, shaking his head.

Henry suspected that whatever Tom had said would infuriate him, and he didn’t want to be angry, so he didn’t ask.

As the crowd dispersed, people filing out the door, the tawny boy and his friend hung around watching Henry and whispering to one another.

“Who are those boys, Sir? They keep staring at you. Should I tell them to go?”

“Let’s just ignore them,” Henry said, reddening. “I’ll tell you later.”

Martin frowned, clearly bothered, but said nothing more. “Let’s go by the food on our way out, please, Sir. I want more cakes if there are any left.”

There were indeed cakes, and Martin took two, careful not to crumble them as they climbed the back stairs to the second floor. Inside Henry’s room, Martin immediately went to put his jacket and violin in his bedroom and then returned with the cakes.

“Eat some of this, Henry. Eat it from my hand.” He held out a piece of cake and Henry took it from his fingers with his lips.

“Now you do the same for me, Feed it to me.”

Henry did as Martin asked. “What are we doing?”

“It’s for lovers. You feed it to the one you want to stake a claim to.” He offered Henry a second morsel of cake, and Henry remembered seeing Tom and Arthur plying Jerry with cake and punch.

“So I’m the one you want, then?” He held a piece of cake for Martin to take and rubbed Martin’s lower lip with his thumb as he chewed and swallowed.

Martin snorted. “You know very well that I’m devoted to you. But you, Henry…you apparently met some boys at the party.”

“What boys?” Henry asked unconvincingly, turning a furious red.

“Those two pretty boys who were snickering and whispering and making eyes at you. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh. Them.” Henry didn’t know quite how to explain what had happened. “They were kissing next to me, and I couldn’t help but watch.”

“But with the sly way they were looking at you, that can’t be all, Henry,” Martin said. “What else happened?”

“I went to get punch,” Henry told him, “and I saw them go down the side corridor and…and I was curious, so I followed them.”

“Oh, Henry!” Martin looked terribly disappointed.

“I just looked, Martin. Nothing happened. There were people having sex in all the bedrooms down there in all sorts of combinations and…I looked. They just happened to look back.”

Martin’s lips pressed together in a tight line and his eyes narrowed. “Oh, Henry. You promise that nothing else happened? They didn’t touch you?”

“No! Of course not! I was just curious, Martin. I only wanted to see.” He tentatively offered Martin another piece of cake and Martin leaned forward to snatch it out of his hand angrily, his teeth grazing Henry’s fingertips. “Wh-why are you so upset?”

Martin chewed furiously and swallowed. “Because you did it without me, Henry! You can’t tell me that you wouldn’t be upset if I did the same.”

No, Henry could not. “It was just an impulsive thing,” Henry told him. “It was stupid, really.”

Martin seemed to be struggling with his emotions. “I know I have no right, but I feel very possessive of you. You want me to say that you’re mine, but if you were really mine, you wouldn’t have done that without me.”

“You can’t just decide that,” Henry insisted. “I am yours, Martin. I may have made a mistake, but I’m still yours.”

“The whole time I was playing, I was thinking of you, and how you’d be waiting for me, but really you were off watching some strange boys fuck and weren’t thinking of me at all.”

“That’s not true, Martin! And anyway, they didn’t fuck, at least not while I was watching. The dark-haired one just sucked the other boy’s cock.”

“Did he have a pretty cock, at least?” Martin crossed his arms over his chest, sulking and keeping his distance. “I hope for your sake that he had a pretty cock.”

“I didn’t even see it. The dark-haired fellow’s head was in the way.”

Martin looked somewhat mollified, but still unhappy.

“Didn’t you notice how they had our coloring, how they looked a little like us?” Henry asked. “That’s why I was interested. When I was standing next to them in the mess, the pale one, the one with the tawny hair, he was making these little noises while they kissed that reminded me of you, and they were doing all the things I wish I could do with you, but we can’t. When I was watching them in the back room, I had this fantasy that I could do the same with you, but that’s all it will ever be, isn’t it? A fantasy.”

Henry had had no conscious awareness of these things while he’d been watching, but now, defending himself to Martin, he knew them to be true.

“They saw me looking and I was so embarrassed,” Henry continued. “I was afraid they’d think I wanted something more from them, and I guess they did think that, but I just want you, Martin. I do belong to you.”

Martin gave a haughty sniff and considered what Henry said. After a stretch of hard thought, he said, “They might have had our coloring, Henry, but we’re much better-looking, don’t you think?”

“You are, certainly,” Henry agreed readily. He put his hands on Martin’s shoulders, which relaxed under his touch. “You’re still the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.” He leaned in and kissed Martin tentatively, tasting cardamom on his breath.

Martin kissed him back. “Tom’s much more handsome than me,” Martin whispered. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer Tom?” He looped his arms around Henry’s neck, rubbed his cheek against Henry’s.

Henry blushed at the idea of Tom, remembering Tom kissing Arthur and Jerry. Tom was very beautiful, but, “I’d much rather have you,” he said truthfully. “I just want to be yours.”

“I hate feeling jealous, Henry. I wasn’t raised to be jealous; it makes me feel like a failure.”

“A failure?” Henry kissed the skin in front of Martin’s ear. “How is that a failing?”

“It’s not for me to be possessive. It’s not my place to restrict your behaviors. If you want to see boys fuck, I should be finding boys for you to watch and making the arrangements.”

Henry couldn’t say he hated the idea of that, but he’d rather have Martin happy than watch strange boys have sex. If he really wanted to watch boys fuck, he could bite the bullet and go to swap parties, for that matter, though perhaps they were both too possessive for that to be a reasonable option.

“I love that you’re possessive,” Henry admitted. “I don’t even hate that you’re jealous.” He kissed Martin’s parted lips and pulled the tie from his hair. “I never expected anyone would want me all to himself the way you seem to.”

Martin kissed him again and loosened the knot of his necktie. “That’s what I want, Henry. You all to myself.” Another lingering kiss while his fingers worked the buttons of Henry’s shirt. “But if you want to watch other boys have sex, please say you’ll do it with me, that we’ll watch them together.”

“I promise.”

Martin pushed Henry’s jacket off his shoulders and Henry let it slide to the floor. “The whole time I was playing, I wanted to bring you upstairs and ravish you. Didn’t you think of me even a little?”

“Of course I did.” Henry unbuttoned his waistcoat and shrugged it off as Martin knelt and untied his boots. “I was watching you and thinking about how you look when you play in the nude, how your cock gets hard just because you know I’m watching.”

“Did you really think of that?” Martin knelt up and unbuttoned Henry’s trousers and drawers and stripped them off his hips. “Did you really think about me getting hard for you?” He held up his hands and let Henry pull him to his feet.

“I really did. You’re not too mad to get hard for me now, are you?” Henry held out his hands for his cuffs to be unbuttoned.

Martin laughed. “I don’t think I could ever be mad enough for that to happen. I like having sex with you too much.” While Henry pulled his shirt off overhead, Martin kicked off his own boots, trousers and drawers. Henry watched as Martin took off his own shirt and they stood there a moment looking at each other naked, pleased and a little shy. “See,” Martin said, making a little gesture toward his hard prick. “I’m not too mad.”

Henry stepped forward, drew Martin close, and ran his hands all over Martin’s back and perfect ass. Neither of those boys at the party could compare to his Martin. “What did you want to have happen? Tell me what to do.”

“Get on the bed, on your back.” Martin gave him a little push. Henry sat down on the edge of the bed, leaned back and swung his legs up. He shifted towards the center of the bed, where he lay propped up on his elbows, watching as Martin climbed up after him and straddled his hips. “This is how I pictured it. I’d get you upstairs and put you on your back and have my way with you.”

“You’d put me on my back? You’d just climb on and use me?”

Martin laughed and shoved his shoulders. “Yes! Lie back, Henry!”

Henry lay all the way down and took hold of Martin’s hips, lifting his own against Martin’s weight. “All you need is for me to be hard for you?”

Martin reached for the drawer of the nightstand and retrieved the oil bottle. “That’s all I need.” He grinned and stroked Henry’s cock affectionately. “I can do the rest.”

Henry laughed, too. “I’m capable of a lot more than…than dildo service, you know.”

Martin wet his fingers and reached back to oil his hole. “I know what you’re capable of,” Martin assured him. “But I need you to let me do this.”

“Whatever you want, Martin. Whatever you need me to do.”

Martin leaned forward and kissed Henry thoroughly, his mouth very wet, and he kept a hand braced on Henry’s shoulder as he used his other hand to oil Henry’s cock and hold it in position. He sat back on it, a moment’s hard squeeze on the head before it slid inside, where everything was molten and pressured, slippery and tight, the grip of Martin’s hole just slick enough with oil that the heavy drag against Henry’s skin was intensely pleasurable. Henry concentrated on his breath, on the feeling of Martin’s body molded around his cock, and watched as Martin moved, lifting and lowering, tilting his hips. Martin sighed and let his head fall forward, hair hanging like a curtain before his handsome face, then lifted his chin to look at Henry, wide-eyed and serious and seeming so vulnerable. With a little moan, he let his head roll back, exposing the length of his throat, and ran his hands over his chest and belly as he rode Henry harder.

Henry put his hand on Martin’s cock and Martin shuddered as a thick surge of clear fluid slicked the head beneath Henry’s thumb.

“I’ll come so quick if you touch me,” Martin said in breathy warning.

“I want to feel it,” Henry assured him, rolling the fat head between his fingers. “On my skin.”

Martin whimpered and came down harder against Henry’s hips. “Tell me again, Henry.”

“I want you to come on my chest. I want to see your face when you come.”

Martin moaned, the long muscles in his thighs trembling. “Oh, god, Henry, Henry, are you close?”

“I’m right there with you,” Henry promised. All it would take for him would be to see Martin caught up in it and he’d come, too.

Martin bent forward and kissed him, hungry and insistent, and Henry thought of the strange boys kissing at the party and felt a hard surge of blood to his cock. He felt guilty but also somewhat pleasantly naughty for thinking of them at such a time. It felt right that he could bring the arousal he’d felt in the basement into bed here, now, with Martin; that it wouldn’t go to waste.

“Oh, god, Henry, Henry!” Martin reared up, tossing his hair back with an impatient jerk of his chin, and juddered to a halt, teeth bared in an almost-sneer as his cock jerked in Henry’s hand and he came in hot spurts across Henry’s chest. At the first stinging splat of semen on his skin, Henry’s vision went white and he arched up into Martin’s weight and came deep in his ass, trembling to his very marrow.

Martin bent and kissed him again and Henry buried his hands in Martin’s hair and ran them over his shoulders and back and pulled him close as they kissed. Martin seemed content to let his spendings grow cool on Henry’s skin. He rolled off Henry to lay at his side, his hand on Henry’s hip.

“Did you see the little red-haired fellow, Henry? The one who was up front watching me?”

“Hmm? No, I didn’t. Watching you, eh?”

“You would have liked him. Maybe a little small for your taste, but so very pretty. Bright copper hair, blue eyes, pale skin with just a scattering of freckles. Really, he was more your type than mine, but there was no question he wanted me. If I’d asked, I’m sure he’d have come upstairs with us.”

Henry had only had eyes for Martin and the worrisome boys after the dance; he’d not seen this little red-haired seducer.

“You could have made him fuck me, or you could have watched me fuck him. Would you want to see that, Henry? Me fucking some pretty ginger?”

“Uh…” Henry didn’t know. The answer was yes, except that it meant Martin fucking someone else, and doing something he hadn’t done with Henry.

“Or you could have fucked him, of course, if you wanted to do a thing like that.” Martin looked as though he found this option distasteful, however. “I think he’s one of the Spanglers’ footmen,” Martin continued. “If you wanted him, I could arrange it for you. Or I could find those boys you liked—”

“I didn’t like them; I only watched them,” Henry insisted. “And only because they reminded me of us.”

“I could find out who they were and get them for you. You could watch them, or you could touch them if you wanted; it’s not so uncommon, really, for masters to touch even if it is forbidden. You think you’re the only one who wants to do forbidden things, Henry, but you’re not.”

The idea of allowing Martin to procure supplemental bed partners was too overwhelming. Did his friends’ slaves do this for them, find them additional partners? Were they all gleefully and carelessly touching slaves’ bodies? If Henry had grown up in a family where they’d owned slaves for generations, would he be more relaxed about doing forbidden things?

“I’ll get you anything you want,” Martin said. “I’m sure I’ll be less jealous if only you’ll let me help you and don’t go off on your own.”

“No, no, that’s okay.” It sounded risky and terrifying. What if he let Martin bring him some attractive stranger, some fiery-haired little minx, and the fellow told other people that Henry had watched him, touched him? “But thank you, Martin. Thank you for offering.”

“I’ll do anything for you, Henry, you know this.” Martin seemed especially concerned that Henry understand this, giving him a searching look before getting up to fetch his basin.

Sunday morning, Martin let Henry sleep late.

“I thought you might be hung over, Henry.”

“I think I’m all right.” Henry swung his feet over the side of the bed and stretched. He felt a little creaky, perhaps, but not too bad. “How do you feel today?”

“Well, I didn’t really drink, but I’m a little tired. I’m sure they’re even more tired downstairs, though, having to clean everything up last night.”

Henry had not considered this, of course. Selfishly, he hoped that the quality of his breakfast wouldn’t suffer secondary to the kitchen slaves being up all night washing punch glasses. Quick on the heels of these selfish thoughts, he decided that he would be willing to overlook substandard offerings from the kitchen knowing how hard the slaves had worked for the party.

Henry washed, shaved and dressed and went downstairs to the breakfast room, which he had entirely to himself.

“Do you want to eat with me?” he asked.

“I’ll drink some coffee, Sir, if that’s all right.” Martin went to the sideboard to prepare himself a cup. “And maybe I’ll have a scone, as well.”

“Whatever you want,” Henry told him. He was relieved that his breakfast was as varied and tasty as ever, with no negative impact from the slaves’ late night, and so he was not put in the position of having to be magnanimous.

Martin sat beside him with his coffee and scone, and Henry smiled at him between bites of pancake.

“Was that what a slave party is normally like?”

“Well, it was my first party outside of my House, Sir, so I don’t have anything to compare it to, really, but it was quite like parties back at Ganymede.”

“Really? At Ganymede there was all the—” and here Henry lowered his voice “—sex going on, too?”

“Oh, certainly, Sir.” Martin nodded in the affirmative. “But you know our lives are different than yours, Sir. In some particular ways, we have more freedoms.”

Henry wanted his life and Martin’s to be the same, for them to have the same freedoms, the same amount of leeway, and felt jealous again thinking of how wantonly Arthur had kissed Tom, how delighted Jerry had been to kiss them both.

“I know this party was a little different, though, Sir, in that your father allowed it to be held here, at your house. Usually, slave parties are held downtown at dance halls or other rented rooms. Most masters don’t want all the commotion on their premises, you see.”

This was another thing that the head of an old family would know, Henry thought: not to have slave parties in the family home. Having the party here had probably been nicer for the slaves, but he supposed it might make his family seem tawdry, low-class. It might make it seem like the Blackwells sanctioned all the indiscriminate fucking that slaves engaged in.

“How often did you have parties like that at Ganymede?”

“Not often, Sir.” Martin broke off a bit of scone and ate it. “We’d have smaller parties at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and another for spring equinox, but the biggest party of the year was always in August when we’d say goodbye to the sixteens, the companions going up for auction.”

“So there was a big party for you when you left?”

“Yes, Sir.” Martin sipped his coffee and broke off another piece of scone.

“Well, tell me about it!”

Martin leaned close and in a confidential tone said, “It’s not really breakfast room talk, Sir.”

Henry decided to forego seconds and thirds and put down his fork. “Will you make me a cup of coffee to take upstairs?”

“Of course, Sir. I’d be happy to.”

In Henry’s room, Henry hurried to sit on the bed and patted the mattress at his hip. “Come sit down and tell me about your wild sex parties!” he urged.

Martin laughed nervously. “Are you sure you want to hear this, Henry?”

“I promise I won’t get mad at you,” Henry told him. “I know it was all in the past. I know it was part of your training.” These were the things he told himself, over and over, though he couldn’t help remembering the fact that Martin had enjoyed his training.

Martin sat and sipped his coffee. “Well, I went to a few more parties than some of the other boys in my cohort—”

“Your what?”

“My cohort. My age group. Everyone born between September 1, 1883 and August 31, 1884.”

“Oh. I sort of wondered how that worked.”

“The slave calendar centers around the companion sale, since companions bring in the most money. September 1st is like New Year’s Day—everything starts over. The name of your cohort changes—you go from being fifteens to being sixteens, see? But it doesn’t happen for just companions-in-training; it happens for everyone in the cohort. All the footmen and butlers and coachmen—everyone.”

“And when was it you were sorted? At 12?”

“Yes. You’re given your number when you’re just little,” he said, pointing to his tattoo, “but you don’t get the disc until you’ve proven yourself worthy, which either happens or does not when you’re a thirteen, after you get your assignment. You get your training assignment when you’re a twelve, you see, but once you get that assignment you’re a thirteen.”

“You told me a long time ago that you were one of the first to earn your mark.”

“I was the second companion-in-training in our cohort to receive it. My friend Richard was the first.”

Henry felt a niggling unease at the mention of Richard. Something about the way Martin had talked about the dead boy in the past made him slightly jealous, even though it was ridiculous to be jealous of a boy who was dead, after all.

“But about the parties: I went to more of them than most others in our cohort because I played in the band. Richard and I were both in the band, as was my friend Georgie. He was another of the Superior boys, one of the dark-haired ones.” Martin paused to sip his coffee again. “Being in the band, we didn’t participate in the goings-on, of course, but we saw a lot. The summer party is the last chance for all the sixteens to be together before the companions are sent away and…a lot of feelings get expressed.”

“So, wait. Are you sixteens or seventeens when you’re sold?”

“Oh, we’re actually seventeens, I suppose, but we never get called that because we leave right away, you see. We still think of ourselves as sixteens.”

“Well, how many sixteens were there, anyway? I know there were twenty-three companions in your group.”

“When I left, there had been one-hundred-twenty-seven in my cohort, including companions. That’s everybody: all the butlers, footmen, coachmen, grooms, and men-of-all-work, and a lot of them are sold as eighteens or older. Of course, boys can die, so there might be fewer now. Actually, some boys are sold off sooner than companions, though there’s no fuss made over them, unfortunately.”

“Which boys?”

“Stable boys like our Little Bob and Danny. Johnny, as well. Little Bob and Danny were actually sold right after they were sorted, but Johnny was only 10 when Mr. Tim chose him. It was a bit irregular, I must say. It was only done because Mr. Blackwell has been such a valued patron of the House.”

Henry had been taken along when Father and Timothy chose Johnny two years prior, but he hadn’t realized there had been anything unusual about the sale. They’d gone to the Ganymede showroom and there had been five small boys there for them to choose from. Henry hadn’t taken an interest in any of the boys; he had been sulking about being dragged along to the slave House instead of going to the arcade with Louis. Johnny had stood out in some way and was selected, and then he was taken into a back room and tattooed. He’d come out with tear-streaked cheeks and a fresh mark weeping beads of blood, and they’d taken him home.

“Stable boys don’t bring in a lot of money,” Martin said with a shrug, “so they don’t get a big party. But the Houses give companions a chance for some resolution so they can go to auction prepared to show their best faces.”

“What do you mean by resolution?”

“It’s the last opportunity to tell people how you feel about them, or to have sex, or to pass on your treasures—since companions don’t take anything away from the House, you have to do something with your mementos and talismans, whether it’s burning them or giving them away.”

“Burning? Like the bonfire last night, that kind of thing?”

“Yes, exactly, Henry. You take your old love letters and things like that and you…let them go. Or you can give them away to another boy to keep a little longer. I had a few notes like that, things that had been passed down four or five times before they got to me. But when it was my turn, I burned everything, even the things I’d carried for other people. I needed to come away clean.”

“What did you have that you needed to burn?”

Martin hesitated a moment and looked down into his coffee cup. “I had a letter from Richard, one that he wrote knowing I’d burn it someday.” He bit his lip, still staring into his coffee. “We were very special to one another.”

Henry’s jealousy flared, roiling in his gut, and it took every bit of his strength not to say something horrible, something he’d regret. He’d worried, of course, that Martin had had someone he’d loved at Ganymede, and he’d imagined it was Charlie, but it was worse somehow that it was Richard.

He had all kinds of questions, but he wouldn’t let himself ask any of them. What had the letter said? Would Martin rather be with Richard now? Did Henry and Richard look alike? What kind of sex had Martin and Richard shared? They’d been so young when Richard died—was it possible that they hadn’t had sex? Henry wondered this for only a hopeful moment before dismissing it as ridiculous. He knew Martin, and Martin would have wanted to be intimate with any boy that he’d cared for like he’d obviously cared for this Richard.

Martin was looking at him, his eyes sad and serious. “Please don’t be jealous, Henry. I care for you so much that you have nothing to be jealous about.”

Henry let out his breath in a long, quavery exhale. “I’ll try, Martin. All I can do is try.”

Rather than waiting to see how Henry might react, Martin decided to forge ahead with his story. “The summer parties are very emotional, much more so than the party last night. Even though boys would be ashamed to admit it, there’s a lot of crying.”

“Why so many tears?”

“We’re all separated into our training groups, and we naturally grow closer with the boys we share training with, but you don’t forget those earlier friendships. I had a friend, Harry, that I shared a bed with from 6 to 12, and we had little in common anymore when we were sixteens, but for those six years he was my home. I told him how grateful I had been for his friendship my last night at Ganymede.”

Henry desperately wanted to know if Martin had fucked this Harry, but he knew better than to ask when he was feeling so emotional. It shouldn’t matter, he told himself.

“What happened to Harry? What’s he being trained for?”

“He’s training to be a footman. He’ll be at Ganymede until he’s an eighteen at least.”

“You had a lot of friends,” Henry said. He knew this to be true, wasn’t asking a question.

“Yes, I did.” Martin agreed. “We all tried to get along, you know.”

“Because of Hetaeria.”

“Yes, because of that, Henry, but also because it’s good practice for getting along with masters. Not all masters are as sweet as you.” He put his hand atop Henry’s, interlacing their fingers. “I’ve told you that I thought right away that you would be kind, and it turned out to be true, but some of my friends’ masters gave first impressions that were deceiving.”

“Like who?”

“Do you know Howard? Mr. Fox’s companion?”

Randall Fox was one of Adam Pettibone’s few remaining friends, not someone Henry had ever liked, so it was not surprising to Henry that Randy would be deceptive or unkind. Howard was a pale, ethereal boy, a sort of bedraggled angel with dirty-blond hair and big grey eyes, and Henry did find him more attractive than not, albeit somewhat grudgingly. But all he said was, “I know which one Howard is.”

“Mr. Fox was very…seductive at the auction. He said things to Howard that made him want Mr. Fox to take him, that made him think Mr. Fox would care for him and be very tender. He was fully prepared to be devoted to his master, but Mr. Fox hasn’t made it easy for him. Howard’s feelings are easily hurt, and Mr. Fox treats him very carelessly.”

“What about my friends? Which of them don’t get along with their slaves?”

“Well, we’ve talked about it before, but I don’t think Mr. Lovejoy and Julian will ever have a good relationship, though I believe that’s more Julian’s fault than his master’s. Mr. Townsend and Dick aren’t the best match, either.” Martin shrugged, as he said, “They disagree on most things and poor Dick feels very stifled.”

Henry remembered what Martin had told him about Charles being a real lover to Simon. “What about Charles and Simon? Do they still get along all right?”

Martin laughed. “Simon remains very devoted to Mr. Ross, and I assume with good reason!” He nudged Henry with his shoulder.

“But out of all of you, it’s just you and Simon whose masters are…are extra-kind?”

“I’m not certain, but I think Mr. Hollingsworth and Allen might be particularly close.”

Daniel and Allen made an odd couple to Henry’s eye. Daniel was short and slight, blond and cute, and Allen was tall and lanky with long auburn hair and piercing dark eyes. It was difficult for Henry to imagine diminutive Daniel on top of Allen—but, then again, it was difficult for him to picture little Louis bending Peter over. Actually, it was probably better to not imagine any of his friends having sex; there wasn’t one of them he wanted to see naked, not even handsome Charles.

“Daniel seems all right,” was all Henry said.

“Did you want to know more about the party? I don’t want to bore you, of course.”

“Yes, tell me more. What kind of party is it? There’s a band, so I guess there’s dancing, right?”

“Well, it’s summertime, so there’s a barbecue picnic, and someone always spikes the lemonade—it’s a teacher, to be certain, but they pretend otherwise so we think we’re getting away with something, you see.” Martin shifted in his seat. “Can I get more comfortable, Henry? I want to lean back, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, of course.”

Henry bent and yanked at his bootlaces while Martin removed his own boots, then got down on his knees to finish what Henry had started. They moved to sit at the head of the bed, side-by-side, with their backs to the headboard. Martin wedged a pillow behind his hip and angled himself toward Henry.

“Are you comfortable, Henry?”

“I’m fine. Keep talking.”

Martin picked up Henry’s hand and played with his fingers. “As you said, we had dancing, and it was a lot like last night’s dancing, in that people would be very affectionate. From our vantage point, playing at the head of the room we saw everything that went on, all the kissing and groping and fondling, and most of us found it very titillating. You have to understand that the majority of slaves really are very comfortable having their needs met by friends of their same sex, even if their preference is for an opposite-sex partner.”

“You must have been happy growing up,” Henry said, chuckling.

Martin gave him a short, assessing glance to ascertain whether he was joking or about to become blameful. “Yes,” he agreed a little hesitantly. “Boys like me make happier slaves.”

“You’re telling me a lot of general things about these parties,” Henry pointed out, “but I’m interested in your party, the party this last August. Who did you have to say goodbye to? Who do you miss the most?”

“Oh. Well, I said goodbye to my Harry, who I was so close to when I was little—”

“How did you say goodbye to him?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Did you hug him? Did you have sex? What did you do?”

“We hugged and kissed a little, and I talked to him a long time about how much it had meant to me to have his affectionate heart to come home to when we were boys. We didn’t have sex because we didn’t have that sort of relationship. We were friends.”

“But you would have had sex with him if he’d wanted.”

Martin sighed. “Henry, why do you ask me these things? They make us both so unhappy.”

“I’m not angry, Martin, see?” Henry paused so Martin could look at him, could see how even-keeled he was. “I just want to understand, all right? So tell me, who else did you say goodbye to?”

“Well, David was a childhood friend who’d thought he would be a companion, but he’d been chosen to be a butler instead and he was still disappointed over that. We said goodbye and I encouraged him to work hard. Noah was probably the closest to Richard besides me, and we never got along because there were jealousies, but we came together to remember Richard—”

“Which means what?”

“We talked,” Martin said. “We only talked.”

“You didn’t have sex with him?”

Martin wrinkled his nose in distaste. “We really didn’t get along. We just talked.”

“About Richard.”

“Yes. We both cared so much for Richard.”

Henry didn’t much like the reminder that another had had a claim on Martin’s heart, but he let it pass without remark. “All right. Who else?”

“I said goodbye to my friends Leo and Sandy, as well. Leo was a Superior boy, like me, but Sandy was only Choice, like Noah. Leo and Sandy had managed to share a bed all their lives, which perhaps shouldn’t have been allowed, because they were so attached to one another that it’s hard for me to imagine that they’ve fared well in separation.”

“I’m guessing that you shared a bed with Richard from when you were sorted until he died, but who did you share with after that?”

“Yes, I did share with Richard until he was gone. After that, I slept alone sometimes, but mostly I shared with the other boys in our room, Charlie and Stuart, or Leo and Sandy. My friend Georgie would sometimes stay with me, but his regular bed partner didn’t appreciate it when he did.”

“Who was his regular bed partner?”

Martin colored a little. “Noah.”

Henry laughed. “So you were always stealing Noah’s sweethearts.”

“Well, that’s how he saw it.”

“Do you and this Noah look alike or something?”

Martin made a sour face. “Well, we’re both pale. He’s got red hair and blue eyes. I suppose there’s a lot of crossover appeal. I’m sure you’d have found him attractive if he’d been shown to you.”

“What about the boys you were fond of? Did they all look alike?”

Here Martin looked very uncomfortable, and Henry laughed.

“Do I look like Richard? Go on, tell me.”

“There are similarities,” Martin allowed, somewhat unwillingly. “Your coloring is very similar. But I could say that of so many of my friends.”

“I know Richard and Charlie, then, but who else?”

“Georgie, Leo, Mitch…lots of boys, really, Henry. These are just companions I’m naming for you. There are so many dark boys in the world, and that’s reflected in the stock at Ganymede, as well.”

In the past, Martin had pointed out that there were plenty of dark free boys he wasn’t attracted to, as well, such as Louis. But Henry realized he’d never asked who amongst his friends Martin did find attractive.

“If you were going to be with any of my friends, who would it be?”

“I’m sorry?” Martin seemed to be made quite nervous by the question.

“Just answer me, Martin. You must have thought about it.”

Martin squirmed, clearly uncomfortable. “Well…perhaps Mr. Ross, since I know that he’s a more attentive lover than most. Mr. Ross isn’t really my type, but he is a very handsome boy nonetheless.” Charles was pale, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes, just overall several shades lighter than what Martin preferred.

This made perfect sense to Henry, and he found he did not feel terribly jealous. “Anyone else?”

Martin frowned and seemed to be seriously considering the question. “Well, I’d do whatever you asked of me with any of your friends, of course, but I don’t want any of them for myself.”

Although he already knew the answer, Henry asked, “What about Louis?”

Martin screwed his face up in instantaneous distaste, then immediately rearranged it in a more neutral expression. “Mr. Briggs and I would not be compatible at all. He’s very kind to Peter, but I want more from a master than Peter does. Both Peter and Mr. Briggs are good-natured about their sexual relations, but neither one wants another man. They’re making do, for the time being. Mr. Briggs would not be sensitive to my needs in the least. He would think me a very silly and demanding fairy.”

Henry supposed it was possible Martin was a silly and demanding fairy, but he didn’t mind; it was, in fact, exactly what he wanted. He shifted up on his hip, facing Martin, and touched his cheek, and Martin closed his eyes and leaned into Henry’s touch. Henry kissed him and his mouth was wet and melting, his tongue slippery and tender as it twined with Henry’s own.

They kissed a few minutes, separating only to struggle out of their jackets and then falling back into one another’s arms. Henry felt so full up with emotion that he grew shy, hiding his face against Martin’s neck while Martin touched his cock through his trousers and made him tremble, feeling so vulnerable and exposed.

“Martin?” he whispered.

“Yes, Henry?” Martin pulled back to look Henry in the eyes, his expression a little concerned. “What is it?”

“I only know you, Martin, you know this, and when I think of sex, I think of you, and what we’ve done together, but you’ve had a broader experience—”

“Henry, please—”

“No, it’s okay, Martin. I’m not mad, I promise. I just wonder…do you think of the others when you’re with me? Do you ever think of Richard when we’re having sex?”

Martin was quiet a long moment. “Honestly? Sometimes I am reminded of Richard. He was like you: he was so tender with me, and he wanted me to feel good above all. He would have been happy for me, ending up with you.”

“He wouldn’t have been jealous?”

“Not exactly. He wouldn’t have begrudged you my body, but he would have missed having my heart all to himself. Even so, I think he would have been happy for us. If he’d been able to pick out a master for me, I think he would have picked you: someone I’d be irresistibly drawn to, someone who’d be kind, someone who’d be loving beyond my wildest dreams. Sometimes I even think that it was Richard who brought you to me.”

Henry didn’t know how he felt about this, the idea that the dead boy had generously selected Henry to be his replacement.

They were quiet a few moments, Martin stroking Henry’s hair. “I know you’re wondering,” Martin began, “so I’ll tell you.” He hesitated a moment longer, then said, “I have better sex with you. Everything I did with Richard was special because we were doing it for the first time, but it’s better with you, Henry. The way your cock fits my body is just so perfect; it feels like you were made for me. You’re so handsome, exactly what I like in a man, and the taste and smell of you gets me so excited. You know just how to touch me, Henry. I truly love having sex with you.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

Martin snorted. “No, I’m not just saying it. You’ve had sex with me so many times, after all. Can’t you tell how much I like it?”

Really, when he thought about it, Henry had no idea how Martin might possibly seem more enthusiastic about their sex. Martin blatantly loved being fucked by Henry, groveling on hands and knees or spread wide on his back. He indisputably loved having Henry suck his cock; he was helplessly in thrall to Henry’s mouth on his ass. He was endlessly eager, endlessly arousable. He got hard when Henry kissed him, got hard when Henry licked his ear, got hard when Henry told him he was beautiful, got hard when Henry told him to take off his clothes. He was always willing, always giving and generous. At this stage of their relationship, it was unreasonable of Henry to doubt him.

“I-I think so,” Henry said. “It’s just…it’s just that I’ve been very lucky, I guess, and I don’t think I should depend on luck.”

“But you’ve always been lucky,” Martin said gently. “You were born into fantastic wealth, after all. You’re physically gifted, too—you’re tall and beautiful, and you’re good at anything you choose to do with your body, whether that be sports or sex.” Now Martin touched Henry’s face. “You’re blessed with a kind heart, too, and you’re loving and giving. You had all these advantages before we met.” He smoothed Henry’s hair off his forehead and pressed a kiss between his eyebrows.

“Really, I was the lucky one. Chances were I’d end up with a master who wasn’t all that handsome, not terribly concerned with my feelings, and not particularly sexually adept. That’s what most of my friends have to contend with, you know, Henry; their masters are just regular boys.”

Henry could see that this was true, that Martin wouldn’t have been happy with a less-passionate master, a more traditional master, someone who was a stickler for the rules and steered clear of the forbidden.

“Do you wish I was smarter?” Henry felt so ashamed asking, but he often wondered. Martin was smart, and he’d grown up surrounded by smart, handsome, talented boys, and surely he couldn’t help but want an intellectual equal, too, and Henry knew he wasn’t that.

“Some people don’t do well in a classroom setting—”

“I’m not smart, Martin. It’s okay; I know it.”

“You might not be terribly good at some subjects, Henry, but you’re not stupid by any means. You’re very good at math, after all, and you have a vivid imagination.”

Henry didn’t point out that most of his imaginings had to do with Theo and George, as he liked the idea that he was imaginative.

“I think that you could do something creative if you wanted. You could write your own stories, or we could do it together.”

“We could?”

“If you wanted to. I’m good at grammar and spelling and you could think up the actual story.”

Henry wondered what his father would think of that, of Henry writing fiction. Would he scoff at it? Forbid it? Think it entirely beneath his notice? It would probably be the latter. “That might be fun,” he allowed.

“We could enter a magazine story contest, if you wanted,” Martin suggested. “Pals or one of the other magazines.”

The only stories that Henry really wanted to tell were the sex scenes missing from Drake’s Progress, however, and he didn’t imagine Pals would be eager to publish anything like that. “I’ll think about it,” Henry decided. It would be fun to do it with Martin, even if no one ever read it but the two of them.

Martin pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “We’ve talked a long time. It’s nearly time for lunch. Kiss me just a little longer and then we’ll go down.”

Martin pushed Henry down on his back and climbed on top of him, his knees pressing into Henry’s sides. He held Henry’s face between his hands and kissed him tenderly, lavishly, just the way a boy would kiss his beloved. Henry felt a pain in his chest, a sweet ache that was his longing for Martin, and it seemed he could never get Martin close enough to make the pain go away.

Martin sat up, taking Henry’s hand with him, and he pressed Henry’s palm to his chest over his heart. Henry felt the rapid thudding of Martin’s heartbeat under his fingertips and Martin’s voice resonating in his chest as he said, “I feel so much for you, Henry. Can’t you tell?”

Henry swallowed hard. “I can tell,” he said. “I think we’re the same.”

Martin pressed his own hand over Henry’s heart and smiled. “I think you’re right.” He climbed off of Henry and then down from the bed and held his hand out for Henry to take. “Come on, Henry. Let’s eat.”

Henry obediently followed Martin downstairs and sat together with him in the breakfast room, eating pea soup and cheese sandwiches and wedges of vanilla cake with chocolate icing. All the while, he felt as though they were somehow separate from the world, enclosed in a golden bubble of warmth and tenderness, and every time he caught Martin’s eye, it seemed evident that Martin felt as he did. Martin slid his foot across the carpet so that their boots touched, though he did so without looking at Henry at all, as if this would keep Randolph or the footmen from noticing if they came into the room.

In between bites of cake, Martin leaned close and in a low voice said, “Sir? I’m happy I was able to talk to you about Richard a little. Thank you for being a good listener.”

What he meant, Henry suspected, was Thank you for not having a jealous, childish fit and making me feel bad about my dead friend, but Henry would accept ‘good listener.’

“I want us to be able to talk about anything,” Henry told him, which was very true. “He meant a lot to you. You should be able to talk about him.”

Martin beamed at him. “He would have liked you, Sir.”

Henry didn’t know how he felt about this, but he knew it was meant to be complimentary. And, really, there was no reason to be jealous of Richard. First and foremost, Richard was dead. Besides, Martin was never Richard’s to begin with. Martin was always destined for life with some rich young man, a free man; in Henry’s most fanciful imaginings, Martin might have been destined for Henry and Henry alone from the moment of his birth.

Paul came to the dining room doorway and Martin quickly withdrew his foot.

“Sir? Mr. Briggs is on the telephone. Shall I tell him you’ll return his call?”

“I’ll talk to him now,” Henry decided. “We’re done, aren’t we, Martin?”

“I’m finished, Sir,” Martin said agreeably.

Martin followed Henry down the hall to the telephone alcove and lounged in the doorway while Henry talked.

“How was the slave party?” Louis asked.

“Wild,” Henry told him. “I saw a lot of things…”

“Really? What kinds of things?”

“Lots of people having sex,” Henry said in a loud whisper.

“Tell me more!”

“Not over the phone,” Henry said, blushing at the idea of an operator listening in.

“All right then. Did you see Peter? I let him go for a little bit and he met up with his girl.”

“No, I didn’t see him. I was mostly just watching the band play.”

“That’s right. Martin was playing. Did he do a good job?”

“He did great. Everyone did.”

“After this, all the slaves are going to want to have parties at their homes from now on, you know. No more downtown dance halls.”

“My family keeps messing things up,” Henry said cheerfully.

“It’s understandable that you and your father don’t know how to do anything properly,” Louis said affectionately, “But your mother should know better.”

“I think she might enjoy seeing the havoc my father causes,” Henry admitted. “Or maybe she just doesn’t care at all.”

“What are you doing right now?”

“We just finished eating lunch.”

“Can I come over? I want to get away from all these people.”

Henry had been hoping to take Martin upstairs and lock the door and expand on his golden, tender feelings, but he felt sorry for Louis cooped up with all his annoying siblings, especially terrible James.

“Sure. See you in a few minutes, then?”

“Thanks, Henry. You’re a good friend.”

Henry hung up the telephone. “Louis is coming over.”

Martin looked a little disappointed, but all he said was, “Very well, Sir.”

They walked up the staircase side by side, shoulders touching. “I wanted to be alone with you,” Henry admitted in a confidential tone, “but Louis is having a hard time.”

“You’re a good friend to Mr. Briggs, Sir.”

Inside the bedroom door, Martin put his hand around the back of Henry’s neck and pulled him into an ardent, impassioned kiss. When they broke apart, breathless, Martin said, “Remember that for later.”

Louis and Peter were sent up a few minutes later. Henry had spent the intervening time wishing fervently that he had not let Louis invite himself over, but once Louis was in his room, sprawled across the foot of his bed, he was glad to see his friend.

“What did you think of the party, Peter?” Henry asked.

Perched at the end of the bed near Louis’ head, Peter seemed very pleased to be asked. “I enjoyed myself very much, Sir. Good food, good music, strong punch…I don’t think there was any way it could have been improved upon, Sir.”

“Plus you had your girl,” Louis pointed out. “Whatsername…Frances.”

“Yes, Sir. Frances,” Peter agreed. “Or…or I call her Franny, actually, Sir.” He turned to Henry and said, “She had a good time, as well.”

“She belongs to the Spanglers, doesn’t she?” Martin asked.

“That’s right. She’s been with them two years.”

“Do they have a red-haired footman there, a little fellow, quite handsome?”

“Oh, yes, that’s Jimmy. He’s a good egg.”

Martin gave Henry a sly smile and Henry blushed. If he wanted it, Martin would get it for him.

“Did you meet Jimmy, then?” Peter asked. “Was he at the party?”

“We didn’t meet, but he seemed very appreciative of the music, so I wondered who he might be.”

Henry had a moment’s fantasy, fucking Martin from behind while some little ginger pixie fed Martin his cock, and he shuddered pleasurably.

“What’s with you?” Louis nudged him with his foot. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“What? No, I’m fine,” Henry hurried to assure him, flushing a brilliant crimson.

“So you said on the phone you saw all sorts of people having sex.” Louis propped himself up on his elbows, prepared to be a good listener. “What did you see, anyway?”

“Every combination you can think of,” Henry told him. “Men and women, men and men, women and women—”

“Tell me about the women!” Louis urged. “Everything you can remember.”

“There really wasn’t that much to see,” Henry pointed out. “Everything’s so hidden on a girl.”

“Well what were they doing? Licking? Fingering?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “Both those things.”

Louis gave a frustrated growl and rolled his eyes. “Oh, Henry, you’re the worst at this!”

Henry blushed again, and worried that his lack of descriptive powers was showing him up as queer, or at least questionable. “Well, they were doing things I’ve never done, obviously, so I don’t know how to describe it, Louis.” He thought a moment. “There was a girl leaning against the wall with another girl kneeling between her legs, licking her, I guess, and she was gasping, and she’d pulled her skirt up so her friend could get at her cunt, but she’d sort of forgotten to hold it up, so it covered the girl’s head and shoulders. She seemed very caught up in what was being done to her.” He looked at Louis, who seemed pleased. “Was that better?”

“Yes, much so,” Louis said happily. “What else did you see?”

“A woman lying on the floor being fucked with another man stretched out beside her kissing her, with his cock in his hand.”

“Okay, what else?”

“There were a lot of men together. Really, mostly men together.” This wasn’t strictly true, but it was what Henry remembered. “Do you want to hear about that, or just things with women.”

Louis wrinkled his nose. “I get enough of men together at the swaps,” he said. “Just stick to ladies, please.”

Even though he hadn’t actually seen it, Henry transposed his fantasy about Martin and little redheaded Jimmy into something Louis would like. “There was a woman on her hands and knees, her skirt bunched up around her waist, who was taking on two men at once: one fucking her cunt and the other fucking her mouth. She made these great little greedy noises around the man’s cock, and they were both just slamming into her, and she seemed to love it.”

“Did you see her come?”

Henry blushed. “I-I don’t know. She was making a lot of noise.”

“That was probably what was happening,” Louis said from a position of moderate knowledge, post-Bridget O’Malley. “So this was all happening out in the open?”

“Well, in the back bedrooms—there are these unused bedrooms down there, just in case we get more kitchen slaves—”

“Your family has way too many slaves as it is!” Louis protested.

“Anyway, there are unused bedrooms down past the kitchen, and people were using them with no concern for privacy at all. People were wandering in and out of the rooms the whole time. No one seemed to care that they were being watched.”

“Is that true?” Louis asked Peter. “Do you slaves not care if anyone sees you fucking? I don’t mean at swaps, of course, but when it’s personal sex.”

Peter blushed. “I care, Sir. Franny cares. But some people, if they’re drunk…maybe they don’t care so much.”

“You know, Henry, you probably could have gotten some pretty slave girl to suck you off,” Louis pointed out.

Henry frowned, finding the idea very distasteful. But he said, “I wouldn’t want it to get around that I’d done that. There would have been so many witnesses. And the girl could have been in so much trouble.”

“They were all drunk,” Louis countered. “You could have gotten away with it, I’m sure.”

“Well, I didn’t even try,” Henry said with a shrug. “Do you want to play cards or something?”

“Sure, but would you get Martin to play some of the music from the party? Peter was really impressed and I’d like to hear.”

Henry turned to Martin. “Would you mind?”

Martin beamed at him, clearly delighted to have the opportunity to play. “I’d be happy to, Sir.”

Martin ducked into his room to get his violin. Henry got the cards and his tea tin off the mantel and dumped out the money on the bed so that they could each count out fifty pennies. Louis laughed at Henry’s wads of bills and called him a barbarian, but he shut up and listened when Martin began to play.

They sat on the floor with the cards, Martin standing over them, light on his toes. Henry glanced up at him as often as he dared. Martin was playing with his eyes closed here, as he always did. Martin played waltz after waltz, lush and rhythmic and Henry noted that Louis took frequent opportunities to look up and watch and seemed very appreciative.

Henry fared better than usual, but he was still the first one out.

“This is kind of stupid,” Louis said. “Just me playing Peter. We didn’t need to come over here to do this, after all.”

Henry lay down on his back on the carpet. “If you’re having fun, keep playing. I’ll just listen to the music.”

“I am going to beat him,” Louis pointed out. “It’ll only take a few more hands.”

“Sir?” Martin said. “Sir, do you think I might play the partita? Not the chaconne, of course, but the other movements?”

Henry opened his eyes and saw how much Martin wanted to do this. “I don’t see why not. Go ahead.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Martin began to play the first movement, the allemande.

“This is different,” Louis remarked. “Pretty, though.”

“I like it,” Henry said mildly. In fact, he loved it, and he loved that Martin played it now, in front of other people, and that the playing of it was like a secret message just for Henry. Every note harkened back to the dozens of times Henry had heard its like played for his ears alone, and the particular times that were especially significant—like the times Martin had played in the nude, and the time Henry had jerked off. In Martin’s playing here and now, Henry heard the echoes of these memorable occasions, and it was amazing to him that neither Louis nor Peter could hear that Martin was seducing him with the violin.

“It must be nice,” Louis remarked, peering at his cards, “to have him play any time you want.”

“It is,” Henry agreed. He looked up at Martin, and Martin was looking back at him, perhaps a little amused. Henry sat up, knees bent and feet on the floor to hide that his cock was threatening to get hard. He pretended interest in Louis and Peter’s card game, his eyes unseeing, all of his effort put into listening for Martin’s musical messages. He could hear that Martin was impatient to be alone with him, could hear a reiteration of all Martin had said before lunch. With visceral clarity, he remembered Martin kneeling over him, Martin’s heartbeat against his palm, and wanted to be alone with him so that he could show him all that he felt.

“The dance hall wasn’t nearly as wild as a slave party, I guess,” Louis said, frowning at his cards, “but it was still a lot of fun. I’m thinking I could go again, but maybe to a different venue.”

“You don’t think you could go back to the same one?” Henry asked, just to be asking; he didn’t believe Louis could go back to the hall where he’d treated Miss O’Malley so shabbily, either.

“I’d hate to see Bridget with another guy, and her friends would probably kill me on sight, anyway,” Louis said glumly. “But I’d like to try again with a different girl. Those working girls really know how to cut loose and have fun.”

“Don’t be stingy next time,” Henry suggested. “Buy the girl a drink, take her some flowers.”

“Did you think I was being stingy?” Louis sounded a little hurt, but also genuinely curious.

“A little,” Henry admitted. “You can afford whatever a girl might ask for, especially if she’s being so generous with herself.”

Louis laid his cards down: two pair to Peter’s flush. “Why won’t you come, Henry? It’d be so much more fun if you’d come!”

Henry flushed, his cheeks hot. “You don’t need me. All the other guys will go with you.”

“But I want you there,” Louis insisted. “You’re my best friend. When we’re old men, I want to be able to remember these times together.” He gestured toward Martin. “You say you’re perfectly happy to stay home with him, but that’s not normal, Henry, even if he does have some sort of special skills—”

Here, Peter snickered and Martin hit an off note, though neither Louis nor Peter noticed.

“—and you should be getting out there and trying things on with girls. I know you like to dance, Henry, and I’ll bet girls would line up to dance with the likes of you.”

Henry shook his head, rejecting the entire idea. “I don’t know, Louis—”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Henry. These are just practice girls; it doesn’t matter if they’re not exactly what you want.”

Henry didn’t want to talk about his chances with downtown girls any more. He tried to divert the conversation a little. “Are the rest of the fellows still going to the dance hall where Miss O’Malley goes?”

“Wendell definitely is. He’s got that Betsy he likes. I don’t know about everyone else. Hey, maybe Betsy would have a friend for you! Some churchy girl who wouldn’t scare you too awfully much.”

“Ha.” Henry flopped back down on the floor and shielded his eyes with his forearm, attempting to head off further discussion of female companionship by feigning fatigue.

“I was wrong to push you toward someone like Bridget,” Louis continued. “You’re too bashful to want a girl like that, I see that now.” He dealt out cards to Peter, then added, “I won’t push you anymore, all right? I just don’t like seeing you get left behind, Henry. You won’t do swaps and you won’t try to meet girls, and all the rest of us are just passing you by. I get that Martin’s a great slave and you two get along really well, but it seems like you’ve gotten even shyer now that you have him as an excuse to stay home.”

Henry lay on his back, arm blocking out the light, and felt how hot his face was, imagined how red he must be.

“You’re not saying anything. Are you mad, Henry?”

“No. You’re right, I guess. But really, Louis, I don’t mind for now.”

“Don’t mind what?”

“Getting left behind. I-I’m not ready to get mixed up with girls, even churchy girls.”

“What are you afraid of, Henry? Why are you so scared of girls?”

Henry was annoyed that Louis would ask this at all, and especially in front of the slaves. “What makes you think I’m scared?” he said defensively.

“Because I don’t know what else your problem could be,” Louis told him. “You’re rich and handsome, you don’t say too many stupid things, and you’re nicer than most. You’re the sort of boy girls want to meet. All you’ll need to do is make yourself available and the girls will come to you.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Louis,” Henry said. “But I’m not scared, so stop thinking that I am.” He sat up abruptly. “Can we talk about something else now? I’m sick of talking about girls.”

“Fine.” Louis sighed and laid his cards down. “Three of a kind.”

Peter said, “Sorry, I’ve got a straight, Sir.”

Louis swore under his breath. “It’s more fun with more people playing. We need to deal you back in, Henry. And maybe Martin, too, when he finishes this piece.”

“Should I stop playing, Sir?” Martin asked, his voice a little constricted by the angle of his neck.

“I want to hear the rest of it,” Louis said, “but then you can take a break.” He turned to Peter. “Count out some pennies for Martin, will you?”

“Of course, Sir.” Peter got up and went to the bed to draw coins from the pile of money Henry had dumped there while Louis and Henry redivided the pennies that were already in play into three equal piles.

Martin was halfway through the fourth movement, the gigue, the last one he’d be playing. “Deal him in, too,” Henry said. “He’s almost finished.” They left their cards face down and sat and listened to the last measures of the lilting gigue. Martin lifted his bow from the strings and gave a deep bow as they clapped.

“Bravo!” said Louis. “That was beautiful, Martin. Peter, is it too late for you to learn an instrument?”

“I had no aptitude when I was a boy, Sir; there’s no hope of me learning now.”

“I’ll just put my violin away, Sirs, and I’ll be right back,” Martin said, seeming pleased by Louis’ praise.

When they were all seated on the floor, having made their first bets, Louis said, “I was thinking about it the other day…whatever happened with that master who was kissing his slave?”

“Sir?” Peter asked.

“Remember when you were telling me slave gossip to cheer me up? You said one of our friends was kissing his slave, and the slave wanted it to stop. What happened with that?”

Peter and Martin looked at one another, and clearly neither wanted to talk.

“Well, Sir…” Peter began reluctantly.

“He hasn’t really talked about it again, Sir,” Martin said.

“I think he’s probably just going along with it, Sir,” Peter said with a shrug. “He doesn’t have much choice, after all, does he?”

“He should probably try to enjoy it, I guess,” Louis said, laying down his cards. “Full house. What have the rest of you got?”

Louis’ full house beat Martin’s straight, Peter’s pair, and Henry’s garbage hand. Louis scooped up the pennies from the pot and Martin dealt out the next round of cards.

“Well, what about that Alex?” Louis asked. “David’s slave. Is he still acting crazy?”

Martin frowned at the mere thought of Alex. “Well, he does continue to be very disrespectful of Mr. Maxwell, Sir.” He tossed two pennies onto the carpet.

“Why doesn’t David do anything?” Louis asked, though he clearly did not expect the slaves to have an answer. “Neither of you would get away with acting like that.” He put in two cents.

Henry suspected Martin might. He didn’t know if he had it in him to discipline Martin should the need ever arise. However, he would not be doing himself any favors if he let Louis know of this lack of fortitude.

“Maybe he thinks he’ll get somewhere with kindness,” Henry suggested, matching Louis’ bet despite having nothing in his hand. “Some masters might not have it in them to punish a slave.”

Louis snorted at this, as if to make it clear he would have no such compunction.

“Alex does brag that Mr. Maxwell is very forgiving, Sir, though I must say he doesn’t respect him for it.” Peter made his bet and frowned at his cards.

They all took their turns discarding and drawing cards.

Louis asked, “Henry? Has David ever said anything to you about Alex?”

“Me?”

“I’ve never heard him say anything about Alex misbehaving, have you?”

“No...but we’re not close, after all. If he’s talking to anyone, it’s Philip.” David and Philip had always been good friends.

“Well, I’m curious,” Louis said. “Aren’t you?”

Henry shrugged. He could certainly understand a master wanting to keep details about his relationship with a slave secret. “Not really, I guess. He’s just a bad slave.”

Martin and Louis placed their bets. Henry had nothing in his hand, but he placed a bet anyway.

Peter placed his bet and they all showed their cards. Martin had a flush, Louis had three of a kind, Peter had a pair, and Henry had useless cards.

“Why did you bet?” Louis asked him. “Why didn’t you just fold, Henry?”

Henry blushed, feeling foolish. It didn’t seem sporting to fold when it was just him and Martin, and with a larger group he never even thought about it until it was too late. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t care about winning anyway.”

They played awhile longer, until Henry ran out of pennies, and then Martin and Peter went downstairs to see if there was any cake left from lunch. They returned with generous slices for all along with glasses of milk.

“Your cook makes better cake than ours,” Louis remarked, picking up the last crumbs of his slice with the back of his fork. “Don’t you think so, Peter?”

Peter, who still had a little wedge of cake left, said, “I wouldn’t say it anywhere our cook might hear, Sir, but I do agree with you.”

Henry was pleased at this praise. “Martin, tell Cook how appreciative we all were when you see her again.”

“I’ll be happy to, Sir.”

Henry leaned back against the foot of the bed to watch while the other three continued to play poker. Clearly, he wasn’t going to have any time alone with Martin until after his dinner. Martin didn’t seem too obviously unhappy, laughing with Peter and Louis as they played, but Henry felt confident that he, too, would have loved to spend the afternoon in bed. He remembered what Martin had told him, that he might have done everything with Richard first, but that Henry had done it better, and he felt compelled to prove it over and over again, just so Martin would never forget.

Henry must have dozed off, struggling to sit groggily upright out of a glittering dream where he was blindfolded and Martin fed him bits of chocolate-iced cake from his hand in order to claim him.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” Louis said. “We’re going home after this hand. Peter needs his dinner.”

Henry yawned and rubbed at his eyes. “I’m glad you came over.” He was, too, mostly. “Who’s winning?”

“Peter.”

Peter won the final hand with a flush, all hearts.

Henry and Martin went downstairs with Louis and Peter and said their goodbyes in the front hall. Paul brought Louis and Peter their coats and let them out as Henry went back upstairs, Martin close behind.

Henry wasn’t even aware that he had reached for Martin; they were inside the room, the door was locked, they were in each other’s arms. Martin’s mouth was hot and sweet and liquid, his hands were tight in Henry’s hair, his body was molded to Henry’s own.

“I’ll have to go down soon,” Martin whispered, clearly regretful. “Later, Henry, after your dinner, promise you’ll take your time with me, please.” He nuzzled Henry’s neck and rubbed his prick through his trousers. “Promise you’ll fuck me nice and slow.”

Henry felt lightheaded. “Whatever you want,” he promised. He ran his hands up and down Martin’s back, from the nape of his neck to his ass and back again, tangling in his hair. Martin sighed in his ear and clung to him, trembling.

“Or maybe I should skip my dinner. I could stay here with you, and we could—”

“No,” Henry said firmly. “No, you’ve got to eat.” He rubbed his cheek against Martin’s hair and pulled him closer still, feeling Martin’s hard cock pressed against his own. “I’ll wait for you,” he promised, resolving not to jerk off while Martin was gone. “I won’t do anything on my own. I’ll just be waiting and wanting you so much…”

They separated after a few more kisses and Martin went downstairs, leaving Henry alone with his achingly stiff prick and nothing to be done about it. He took off his boots and sprawled on the bed staring at the ceiling for a few minutes and then, sighing, sat up and forced himself to act. He read some more of his detective story; he understood that one of the pleasures of such a story was trying to figure out the mystery for oneself, but he knew he wasn’t clever enough to do so and was content to let the solution be revealed in due time. So far, all of the brilliant detective’s deductions had been decidedly non-intuitive, and Henry was simply not believing Charles’ claims that he’d figured out the identity of the murderer on his own before the end of the book.

He heard Martin’s rapid footsteps in the corridor and sat up straighter, eyes on the door.

“Henry, we’ll need to dress you in a hurry.” He seemed very apologetic. “I hoped to get back to you sooner so we might have time for, well, a little something, but all the others wanted to talk to me about my performance at the party and I couldn’t be rude.”

“No, of course you couldn’t,” Henry agreed. He stood and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “They were all proud of you, I hope.”

Martin beamed and ducked his head shyly. “They were, and of Jerry, as well. The girls in the kitchen did such fine work, too. The whole neighborhood seems in agreement that it was an especially good party, so we’re all rather proud of our showing.”

Henry let his trousers fall to his ankles and stepped out of them, then picked them up with his toe, knee raised, for Martin to take them and hang with the rest of the suit. “Are there slave parties often? You’ve never mentioned any, but have there been parties that you might have gone to that you never told me about.”

“Oh, well, yes,” Martin admitted. “But I haven’t wanted to go and leave you alone. It wouldn’t be right to take you to another family’s party, and I’d rather be with you anyway.”

Henry wondered if this was really true. Really, really true. Even though it pained him to say so, he claimed that, “If you wanted to go to a party, Martin, you’d just need to let me know so I could be prepared.”

Martin shook his head and took Henry’s worn shirt from his hands. “I’d rather be with you.” He helped Henry on with his dinner shirt and said, “You saw what the party was like. That’s what they’re all like. People go to parties looking for sex, but I don’t need to do that.”

“You could just dance,” Henry pointed out, although of course he didn’t want Martin to go at all.

“I don’t want to dance with anyone,” Martin said firmly. “I’d just be standing around getting drunk with my friends and they’d all be putting pressure on me—” Here he stopped abruptly and knelt with Henry’s dinner trousers. “Step in, please.”

“They’d be putting pressure on you for what?” Henry thought he knew, though. He remembered Tom’s embrace after the dance, Tom whispering in Martin’s ear.

“My friends don’t have with their masters what I have with you. They don’t understand that my needs are amply met by you, and I can’t really tell them so without telling too much.” He buttoned Henry’s braces on in the back while Henry buttoned them in front. “I often wish I could tell them, though. I want to tell them how happy you make me.” He gave Henry a shy smile and took his waistcoat out of the wardrobe.

This gladdened Henry’s heart. “I wish that, too. I wish I could tell Louis, especially, but he wouldn’t understand at all.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Martin agreed. He held up the waistcoat and Henry slipped his arms through.

“If I were a slave, too, we wouldn’t have this problem,” Henry noted. “We could be together and no one would think anything of it.” They had talked of this previously, though, and Martin had found the suggestion very impractical.

“Yes,” Martin said, “but we’d have other problems. We’d likely belong to different households and we’d never see one another. Our masters might not allow us time on our own. If you want to be with me, this is the best way. And besides, I’ve said it before: I don’t think you’d be happy as a slave.”

“You don’t think I’d be any good at it, you mean.” Actually, Henry didn’t believe he’d be any good at it, either, but he disliked the idea that Martin would think him lazy or shiftless.

Martin held up Henry’s dinner jacket and shrugged. “If a slave is unhappy, he doesn’t do a good job. I don’t think you’d get satisfaction from the work, not the way that I do, or that Peter does, or any of my friends do.” He came around to face Henry and smoothed the jacket over Henry’s shoulders, picking a speck of dust off the silk lapel. “You’re suited to being my master, Henry; take pleasure in that.” He kissed Henry lingeringly, a flick of his tongue against Henry’s lip.

Dinner was uneventful, Father busy with his paperwork and Mother off in her own world. Afterward, upstairs in the family parlor, Henry slumped in his chair waiting for Pearl to read, but Pearl did not pick up her book.

“Darling,” Mother said, “I understand you went to the slaves’ party last night.”

Henry froze. How did his mother know this? Who had told? “Uh, yes, ma’am, I did.” He flushed crimson and shifted in his chair to move out of the lamplight.

“I’ve always wanted to go to a slave party,” Mother continued blithely. “I understand that they’re quite licentious!” Mother giggled at the naughtiness of the idea, which embarrassed Henry further. He had had no idea Mother was hiding this sort of frisky nature under all her layers of black depression.

“Er, maybe a bit more so than a society party,” Henry allowed, unwilling to share all that he’d seen with his mother! “There’s some kissing that goes on.”

Mother laughed. “You’re sparing my sensibilities because I’m a lady, aren’t you darling? I know very well it’s more than that! When we were young, my Pearl loved parties and told me all about them.” At this, Pearl blushed to the tips of her ears and looked down at her hands in her lap.

The idea of the Pearl he knew, a gentle and modest lady, having sex in a back room at some wild party was a little upsetting, but there was no reason to think it couldn’t be true.

Father cleared his throat. “You understand it was fine to attend this party since it was in your own home, Henry, but you’re not to go to slave parties elsewhere. If you let Martin go, he goes on his own, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re not to get mixed up with slave girls. It’s bad for your reputation, and the consequences are dire for the girl.”

“Yes, sir. I know.”

“You have Martin to take care of your needs,” Father reminded him. “He’ll have to be sufficient until you’re old enough to marry.”

This was mortifying beyond belief. Henry shrunk into himself, flushing a furious crimson.

“Henry. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.” Henry hunched in his chair, feeling exposed and persecuted.

Mother sat up straighter and adjusted her shawl around her shoulders. “By the way, Hiram, why on earth did you allow the party to be held here?” she asked. “I was quite surprised, you know. It would have been much more usual to rent a hall.”

Father gave her a black look. “Perhaps if you’d seen your way to give me counsel beforehand, I would have made a different decision.”

“Didn’t Timothy suggest—?”

“I thought to do Billy a kindness for his years of service,” Father said. “I didn’t see the harm in having it here. It’s a very large house and it was no bother to any of us. A few broken glasses was all the damage.” He rattled his paper and settled back behind it.

“Our family surely has an eccentric reputation,” Mother remarked with a haughty sniff.

Henry thought she was right, but just as much for her reclusiveness as for Father’s social errors.

Down the hall, behind Henry’s locked door, he shook with relief to be alone with Martin at last. They undressed quickly, leaving their clothes scattered on the carpet. Henry bent Martin over on the bed and dropped to his knees behind him. He parted Martin’s ass cheeks and spit on his asshole, which twitched as Henry’s saliva slid down the cleft toward his balls. Martin whimpered and shifted his weight back, toward Henry’s mouth.

“Please…”

“Please what?” Henry blew across Martin’s wet asshole and grinned as Martin sucked in a sharp breath and squirmed.

“I can’t wait. I want your mouth on me.”

Henry spit on him again and chuckled at Martin’s frustrated whine. He couldn’t wait, either, though. He licked Martin, a slow drag of his tongue from Martin’s balls up to his hole, making him wet, flicking and probing and drilling down while Martin shuddered and moaned, his voice muffled by the bedcovers.

Henry tugged on his own cock while he licked. Martin thrust against the coverlet, sinuous twists of his hips while he pushed back against the pressure from Henry’s mouth and tongue. Henry usually didn’t let Martin rub against anything while he licked his ass, but he would let Martin have it this time. He liked the feeling of Martin moving under his mouth, grinding against his own cock. He imagined that this was what Martin would move like if he was fucking the Spanglers’ ginger footman, the muscles of his buttocks contracting and relaxing as he humped the coverlet.

Henry lifted his head and spit on Martin’s asshole and then pushed his finger inside. Martin groaned and arched his back. Henry got to his feet and reached with his free hand for the nightstand drawer. “Do you want to be fucked now?”

“Please, Henry. I’ve wanted you all day.”

“Spread your legs.” He nudged Martin’s leg with his knee. “More. Nice and wide.”

“Like this?” Martin drew one knee up beside himself on the bed, splayed open.

Henry pushed two oiled fingers in Martin’s hole and gave him an affectionate slap on the ass with his other hand. “That’s perfect.” He oiled his cock and slid the head along the cleft of Martin’s ass. His heart beat faster as Martin shuddered.

“Please,” Martin murmured, rocking his hips against the bed. “Nice and slow, like we talked about, please.”

Henry leaned over him and Martin turned awkwardly so that they might kiss. Henry lined up his cock and pushed his hips forward, letting loose a little moan as his cock breached Martin’s hole. Martin whimpered and his fingers clutched at the coverlet as he arched his back and offered himself to Henry.

Slow and steady, in and out, every stroke flaying Henry’s nerves, leaving him raw. His entire skin was tingling and sensitive, his cock most tender of all. He gripped Martin’s hips with bruising pressure just to stop the shaking of his hands. Martin writhed beneath Henry and rutted against the bed, making little helpless cries with each of Henry’s thrusts. He pushed his shoulders and chest up off the bed and twisted to look back at Henry and reach for him. Henry took his hand, bent over it and kissed it.

“Henry, oh, Henry, you’re mine.”

Henry’s chest ached with love. He felt sodden and foolish. “Who else’s would I be?” He blushed and let Martin’s hand go, caressing Martin’s buttocks and parting them to look bashfully down at his cock sliding deep in Martin’s hole.

“Will you come in me? I want to feel it.”

Henry immediately began to tremble and kneaded Martin’s ass to steady his hands. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Then do it.”

Henry fucked him a little faster, a little harder, jolting the bed frame with each thrust. Martin cried out and made breathless grunts as Henry’s hips slammed into his ass. Martin slipped his hand beneath his belly to touch his own cock, humping his fingers and grinding his hips back against Henry’s. The dusky skin of his asshole was shiny with oil, stretched tight around Henry’s cock, and he moved like his hole was greedy for Henry, that he needed him ever-deeper inside. He lay sprawled on the bed, brazenly offering up his ass with his back arched, his tawny hair spilling over his face, and Henry wanted to say momentous things to him, impetuous things, but he bit back the words and came in a blast of white light.

Impulsively, without any forethought, Henry pulled out while he was coming, his cock jerking with each thick spurt, painting Martin’s fucked-open hole milky white, and reveling in the sight of his spunk on Martin’s skin and dripping down over his hole. Just as impulsively, he thrust back inside, the way slicked by his semen, and felt his cock jerk a final satisfying time.

Martin had still not come. He made frantic noises and ground his hips down against his hand. Henry tried to continue to fuck him, but his spent cock went soft and slipped from Martin’s body.

“I’ll clean you up,” Henry suggested. He spread Martin’s buttocks with his hands and looked at the mess he’d made with complete possessive tenderness.

Martin began to breathe in excited gasps. “Oh, Henry, are you going to…? Oh, god, that’s so dirty! Please, Henry…”

Henry bent over and put his face between Martin’s cheeks and licked him thoroughly, licked the white from his skin and his sensitive open hole. Martin shuddered with each stroke of Henry’s tongue and began calling his name with desperate urgency, his hips jerking as Henry thrust his tongue deep in his ass. He stilled and groaned and came, his hole twitching under Henry’s tongue.

Henry ran his hands up and down Martin’s back and over the globes of his ass. He bent to kiss the back of Martin’s neck, an open-mouthed, soft bite, and then lay on him a moment, his chest pressed to Martin’s bony back. Martin rolled beneath him, up on his hip, and slipped his arm around Henry’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

“I made a mess,” he murmured. “All over the coverlet.”

“We have people to do the laundry,” Henry reminded him. He pushed Martin over on his back and noted the darkened wet spot on the bed and the sticky shine of semen on Martin’s belly. Henry bent and licked him clean, and Martin made breathy, excited exclamations and petted Henry’s head as he did so.

They lay sprawled across the bed, Martin on his back and Henry curled around him, Martin stroking Henry’s hair, until Martin sighed and gently pushed Henry away. “I need to take our laundry down to Mary.”

Henry wanted to cling to him, to make him stay, but knew it would only annoy him and he would leave anyway. He lay waiting on the bed and listened to Martin working the taps in the bathroom, first taking a minute to clean himself and then filling his basin.

Martin padded back into the room and Henry propped himself up on his elbows to watch Martin wash his cock, his touch purposeful yet also lingering and tender. When he looked into Martin’s face, Martin smiled back at him, his expression open yet intimate and so wonderfully fond, and Henry felt things for him he’d never felt for any other person, things he’d never imagined he was capable of feeling.

Martin put on his pajamas and dressing gown and collected the laundry in his basket. He kissed Henry and said, “I’ll be right back.”

While he was gone, Henry brushed his teeth and then flopped down on the bed, accidentally rolling into the wet spot and then fastidiously out again—it was cold!—before returning to it to smell Martin there, feeling like a dirty little animal for doing such a thing.

Martin returned in short order and shed his dressing gown and pajamas as soon as he was inside the door. He went naked to the bathroom and brushed his teeth and then joined Henry on the bed.

Under the covers, in Henry’s arms, Martin asked, “Henry? With all of the dirty things you do for me, don’t you think you might let me try doing some of them for you, too?”

Henry stiffened a little, wary. “What do you mean?”

“I could lick your ass—” and here, he seemed to instantly recognize that Henry was about to protest “—or if not that, then maybe I could touch it for you? It feels so good that I know you’d like it.”

“I don’t know, Martin…” As always, Henry couldn’t help thinking that he was just somehow dirtier—actually dirtier—than Martin. He wasn’t terribly hairy, but he was hairier than Martin, and that added to his sense that his own ass crack was more complicated than Martin’s fine-haired faerie-prince cleft.

“We could try, and if you didn’t like it I wouldn’t ask again.”

“Why do you want to?”

“For the same reasons you do. I want to make you feel good.”

“You already make me feel good,” Henry said firmly. “I don’t need anything else.”

“I want it, then, Henry. I want to know you in that way. If we’re really lovers, shouldn’t it go both ways?”

It was a good point. Henry sulked a little as he contemplated it. Had Martin’s other partners allowed him such latitude? Henry didn’t want to ask, but he was fairly sure the answer was yes. He felt unquestionably that dead Richard had let Martin do whatever he wanted, and he didn’t want Richard to have that over him.

“I’ll think about it,” he promised, kissing Martin’s forehead.

Seeming satisfied for the moment, Martin said, “Thank you, Henry,” and craned his neck for a kiss on the lips.

Henry felt good about how they’d left it: he hadn’t made any promises, and he would think about it, and Martin seemed happy enough for the time being. He decided he could wait a few days before making any decisions; if Martin responded favorably to Henry’s Valentine’s Day declaration, then he’d feel more inclined to allow Martin a little leeway.

Henry fell asleep quickly and dreamed of Martin fingering and licking and fucking the ass of an appreciative little ginger and Henry was hurt and jealous that Martin would do such things for anyone but him. He woke Monday morning unreasonably irritated at Martin for these ephemeral transgressions and struggled not to punish him for things he hadn’t actually done. It did occur to him, though, that Dream Martin had only gone after the little redhead because Henry wouldn’t give him what he wanted.

In the few remaining days before the Valentine’s holiday, Henry became more anxious about his planned declaration. What would Martin think? Would it matter to him? Would he be happy? Would he say the words back to Henry? And what if he did? What would the words mean coming from a slave?

Henry had gradually come to understand—dimly, inarticulately, and with fretful concern—that any declaration from Martin, no matter how heartfelt it might seem, was tainted by circumstance. Martin was Henry’s property—Father’s property, actually—and he was no more able to make choices for himself than was any of the family’s horses. Henry wanted Martin to have the freedom to choose to be with him, but he could take away Martin’s ability to choose at any time, which meant it wasn’t Martin’s to begin with.

Henry believed that Martin cared for him, and he also believed that Martin would have cared for him had they met as free men, but he had an uncomfortable awareness that Martin had been trained to be devoted to his master, whoever that master might be. The thought that Martin might have cared so deeply for anyone who’d taken him home filled Henry with anxiety. Martin was so special to him, and the thing he wanted most was to be truly chosen by this boy he adored. But there was no way to separate Martin from his slave status, and Henry wasn’t sure Martin’s romantic feelings could be separated from his desire to be the best possible companion, the best possible slave.

These niggling ideas were upsetting and unwelcome, coming to the forefront of his mind in quiet moments and draining the enjoyment out of little intimacies. He didn’t want to ask Martin about the truth of his feelings because he didn’t think it would help. He knew that Martin would confidently claim he wouldn’t have felt so passionately about any other young master, and he’d probably believe it himself, but Henry wasn’t so easily convinced.

But even if Martin’s affections were colored by bondage, even if Henry could never be sure Martin loved him above any other boy he might have called master, Henry had to tell him how he felt. The pressure to share his feelings bubbled up in his chest, in his throat, threatening to burst from his lips. He was afraid he’d blurt it out in front of his friends—or his father. If he could say the words to the one person who needed to hear them, then maybe he’d be able to keep quiet in front of everyone else.

However, there was some indication of finer feeling on Martin’s part—the red rose painted on his protection stone—and Henry clung to this proof. At the party, Tom had been firm in his characterization of red roses as symbols of passionate love, not mere affection. With the stone, had Martin already made a declaration? Henry agonized over possible interpretations and their significance.

There were other reminders of the uncertainty of love. On Monday after school, Martin had a report about the progress of Tom’s affair with the stable slaves.

“I understand that they had a lovely time together Saturday night. I think Tom might be falling in love with them,” Martin remarked, helping Henry off with his school uniform. “He normally prefers a female partner—”

Henry did not believe this for a minute. “He likes you, and now he likes them,” Henry pointed out. “I do believe he likes girls, too, Martin, but I don’t think he actually prefers them.”

“Well, regardless, Henry, he’s grown so very fond of Jerry and Arthur, and he seems a little surprised to feel this way. I worry that they aren’t taking him seriously and he’s going to have his heart broken.”

“Don’t get in the middle of it,” Henry advised. “No one will thank you for getting involved.” He stood in his underwear before the open wardrobe. “The blue suit will be fine, I think. And the waistcoat with the serpentine stripe.”

“Very good.” Martin handed Henry a clean shirt, which he pulled on and let Martin button.

“They’re quite a bit older, aren’t they? Jerry, at least.”

Martin fit a fresh collar around Henry’s neck. “Well, yes, Henry, they are older. Jerry must be 24 or 25, and I know Arthur is 20. But what does that matter?”

“Just what you were saying about them taking him seriously. To them, he’s nothing more than a boy, isn’t he?”

“He’s just as capable of great feeling as any adult, though, Henry. Just as you and I are, after all.” Martin seemed a little offended at Henry’s shortsightedness. He knelt down with Henry’s suit trousers and held them ready. “It will be difficult to see Jerry and Arthur at dinner and not want to put in a good word for him. Maybe you don’t see it, but Tom is a fine person and they’d be fortunate to have his love.”

Henry was annoyed by this generous assessment of Tom’s value, as it stirred up his simmering worries about Martin’s real feelings for Tom and Tom’s intentions toward Martin. Tom might well be in love with Jerry and Arthur, but that didn’t necessarily diminish his desire for Martin. But all he said was, “You’d best not say anything. Let them handle their own affairs.”

“Of course. I know you’re right.” He bit his lip and buttoned on Henry’s braces. “It’s just that I want his feelings to be returned. I want happiness for everyone. Don’t you want that too?”

Henry kissed him in answer, touched by Martin’s sweetness, and the kissing intensified such that Henry soon shed the clothes he’d just put on, overcome and giddy with his passion. Martin’s stated desire, happiness for everyone, gave Henry hope that Martin might be receptive of his feelings when he made his announcement.

Henry had signed Martin’s valentine the evening he brought it home, waiting until Martin went down to dinner before sliding it out of his magazine. He had written With all my love. H. and had drawn a little heart. He’d thought that if the card was found by some nosy person in the household, it would be better to have just the initial, but now he felt silly: it was obvious who H. was. Now, on the eve of the fated day, he wondered if four words were enough, if it would have been better to put a poem, even if he was just copying it from elsewhere. But it was too late to make any changes; he’d just have to hope for the best with his uninspired offering.

Although it pained him to do so, Henry decided to forego making any announcements in the morning. They wouldn’t have any time to celebrate—assuming there was celebrating to be done—so he decided to hold off on making declarations until they returned from school.

Martin was brisk and chipper and kissed Henry sweetly as he straightened his tie. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Henry.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too.”

None of Henry’s classmates had real sweethearts. Some had girl cousins with whom they were close. A few had casual associations with working-class girls that they kept hidden from their families. Wendell had his girl, dance hall Betsy, and was meeting her downtown after school to give her a card, and Freddie was going along in case she brought a friend. Louis gave Albert his card to give to Abigail, and when Louis wasn’t looking, Albert rolled his eyes.

After school, as Martin held Henry’s coat for him to put on, Henry noticed an envelope sticking out of Martin’s pocket. “What’s that?”

“Oh, that, Sir. It’s from Tom.” Martin hurried to add, “He gave cards to others, as well, Sir.”

Henry felt a surge of irritation. He wanted to snap that Tom should turn his attentions elsewhere and not get above himself, but all he said was, “Oh, Tom,” and shrugged into his coat.

All the way home, Louis chattered manically about the card he had sent home with Albert, about whether or not Abigail would remember him fondly, and whether this gesture would make her more favorably disposed toward him in the future. Henry caught a glimpse of Peter smirking at Martin as Louis talked and felt a little sorrier for Louis. There was not a single person who believed Abigail would ever turn her favor on homely little Mr. Briggs.

Billy let them in and took their coats, informing them that they might find cookies for the holiday in the breakfast room. They found a plate of heart-shaped, pink-iced shortbreads on the sideboard.

“Tell Cook thank you,” Henry said happily, stuffing a cookie into his mouth. “Martin, let’s bring the rest to my room.”

Inside Henry’s room, the door locked, they kissed, their spit sugar-sweet. Breaking away, Henry said, “I have something for you.”

“I have something for you, too, Henry.”

“Really?” Henry drew back and looked at him quizzically.

Martin laughed. “Let me go get it.”

Henry had hidden his card beneath his desk blotter and got it out now. He had no reason to feel as nervous as he did. Martin liked him very well, he knew it, but what if he didn’t feel as Henry did? Martin had said himself that he’d wanted his master to like him a little more than he ought, and he had certainly gotten that with Henry; maybe everything between them had simply been a ploy to secure better working conditions. Maybe Henry was about to make a fool of himself.

Martin emerged from his room with an envelope in hand and high color in his cheeks. “It’s nothing special, really; it’s just a card.”

“That’s special,” Henry insisted. “Or I hope it is, since it’s all I have for you, either.”

They sat on the side of Henry’s bed and exchanged envelopes.

“Should we open them at the same time?”

“Ready? One, two…three!”

Henry worked his finger under the flap and popped it open. His hands shook a little. Would it be a friendship card only? He should be prepared for that, and, after all, friendship was a very fine thing in and of itself. He would be happy with friendship, he would. With the flap open, he could see a wedge of the card, vivid colors.

It was a love card. Two cherubs, one dark, one tawny, fishing hearts from a stream beneath a canopy of cherry blossoms. “To My Valentine.” On the back, Martin had written I belong to you, Henry, body and soul and signed it xo Martin. Henry gasped in relief and felt the heat flood his face.

“Do you mean this, Henry?” Martin asked urgently. “When you wrote ‘love,’ did you really mean love?”

“Yes, I meant it,” Henry told him. “I love you, Martin.” It felt wonderful to say so.

Martin made a little noise, sharp and excited and triumphant. He threw himself into Henry’s arms and kissed him, trembling and digging his fingers into Henry’s biceps. “Say it again, Henry. Tell me again.”

“I love you.”

“Can I say it back to you, Henry? Do you want to hear it from me?”

“I do if it’s true.”

“It’s true, Henry. I love you.”

Henry held Martin’s beautiful face between his hands and Martin put his hands lightly on Henry’s wrists. Henry believed him; Martin didn’t look like a liar. He seemed so happy, bright color in his cheeks, his brilliant eyes alight. Henry slid Martin’s glasses from his nose, folded them, and groped one-handed to place them on the nightstand while kissing him, then kissing him harder and pulling him close.

Martin pushed him gently away. “I don’t want my card to get bent.” Henry laughed, finding this charming, while Martin collected the cards and envelopes from the bed and put them safely on the nightstand. “Laugh if you must, but I’m going to treasure this valentine.”

“Believe me, I will, too.” He pulled Martin back down to lie on the bed. “Do you want me to say it again? I’ve been wanting to say it for so long that now I just want to say it over and over.”

“Once more, then, please,” Martin said, smiling.

“I love you, Martin.”

Martin clung tight to Henry, burying his face in his neck. “I love you, too, Henry.”

They made love—that was definitely the right word for it, at least today—in a fervent rush, half-undressed, clothes jerked awry, aquiver with the enormity of what they shared, what they had together. Henry couldn’t stop himself saying I love you over and over, but it was all right because Martin wanted to hear it. Martin was shaking, deep in the grip of some strong emotion as he moved urgently over Henry’s lap. He begged Henry’s name, and Henry heard it with fresh ears, understanding that what Martin was asking for, over and over, and every time, was Henry all to himself.

He could give Martin that. He’d do it happily.

Was it possible for people to be closer than this, inside each other’s skins and breathing each other’s breath? When at last he put his hand on Martin’s cock, Martin cried out and came, and then he came, too, like a natural consequence of Martin’s pleasure.

Martin curled against Henry’s chest while catching his breath as Henry’s cock softened in his ass.

“Say it again,” Henry murmured. “Tell me.”

“I love you. No one but you.”

“What else?”

“You’re mine.”

Henry hadn’t known that was what he’d wanted to hear, but it was exactly right. He sighed and held Martin closer still, rubbing his back in soothing circles. He was so happy, happier than he’d ever thought possible. He was full up with joyous relief and felt silly for ever doubting Martin’s feelings. Hadn’t Martin shown him love every day?

As and after Martin performed his clean-up, they shared a dreamy interlude of what Henry felt could now properly be called lovers’ talk, which was marred only slightly by Martin’s tentative assertion that Henry would have other lovers at some future point. Henry was annoyed, but he would not let it ruin his mood.

“There’s not going to be any future person,” Henry said firmly, tamping down his irritation. “The one I love is you. I don’t need anyone else. I certainly won’t be looking.”

“I don’t need anyone else, either.” Martin was meek, apologetic. He drew Henry into a close embrace.

“I don’t want to fight,” Henry murmured, kissing Martin’s neck.

“Me, neither. I’m sorry.”

“Please stop worrying about what’ll happen in the future,” Henry told him. “You really don’t have to, and it hurts my feelings besides.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said again. “I just…I’m trying to be realistic.”

“You have to trust me,” Henry said, willing Martin to do just this. “Forget whatever they told you at Ganymede about how masters act. That’s not me. I love you. So much, Martin.” He kissed Martin’s mouth and gave him a little shake, as if that would make him understand.

“I’ll do better,” Martin promised him. “I love you, too. More than I thought possible.”

“Yeah?” Henry was pleased by this.

“Yes, definitely. I didn’t think I’d have a master like you.”

Henry shook his head. “This isn’t to do with me being your master,” he said. “It’s just love.”

They made love again, this time up against the wardrobe mirror because Henry wanted to see their faces together, to appreciate their pained, adult expressions. He enjoyed seeing how his hands looked on Martin’s skin, fingers digging in, holding him in place. His face in the mirror over Martin’s shoulder was dark with passion, his expression somber; this was his real self, the face he would show only to his beloved.

It was dirtier this time, rougher, the way Martin liked it. Henry’s hips slammed against Martin’s ass, jolting his body up against the glass, and Martin gave a hitching gasp with each thrust. When he gave Martin leave to touch his cock, he came calling Henry’s name, and so Henry came, too, collapsing against him, cock jerking in his ass. He never wanted to let him go.

For once, Martin was in no hurry to clean up, in spite of the spunk dripping down his thighs and the surface of the mirror. He turned in Henry’s arms and kissed him deeply, urgently, as if he hadn’t yet had his fill of Henry. They kissed and kissed as their ardor slowly mellowed. Henry’s blood stopped fizzing and his impulses gentled; he could enjoy their closeness without needing to act upon it.

Martin broke off kissing. “Henry?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want another cookie?”

Martin lay on his back on the bed picking the icing off a cookie and getting crumbs on the coverlet. “This goes against all my training,” he said happily. “My teachers would be so angry with me.”

Henry ate the last bite of his own cookie and licked his fingertips. “What part of it goes against your training?”

“Offering up my feelings without you asking for them. My feelings aren’t supposed to matter, after all.”

“Your feelings do matter to me, though.”

“I’m certainly glad they do, Henry. But it’s still wrong, you see? In telling you I love you, I’m encumbering you with my emotional concerns and putting them on par with yours.” He did not seem at all sorry of this, though, which Henry found gratifying.

“Well, I’m glad you did. Nothing has ever made me happier.”

“I hoped you’d feel that way. It is good service if it makes you happy, is what I think.”

Henry preferred not to consider Martin’s love a service, so changed the subject. “Say, when did you find a moment to buy a card, anyway?”

“I should ask you the same. I skipped lunch one day—they’ll let us do that sometimes if we have a legitimate need. I said I needed to buy you some headache tablets and went to the shop.”

“They let you go off by yourself?” Henry wasn’t sure he liked that Algonquin would do this without asking his permission. Henry didn’t think Martin had ever had occasion to be out in the world on his own before, and his immediate concern was that someone might have harassed Martin, interfered with him.

“I was a little nervous,” Martin admitted, “and I did worry you might not like it, but I really wanted to get you a valentine.”

“No one bothered you?” Henry worried that people—that men—would have sought to waylay Martin, to talk to him or touch him.

Martin laughed gently. “No one took any notice of me, Henry. I was just a slave on an errand. Every time we go downtown we see unaccompanied slaves going about their business and we don’t pay them any mind.”

Those slaves weren’t Martin, though. They hadn’t his appeal, his charm. They weren’t special, and Henry didn’t love them. He didn’t like the idea of Martin moving unaccompanied and unprotected through the world, but he did appreciate that Martin had done it for him, out of love. With effort, he let his worries about Martin’s safety go, and returned to discussion of the cards.

“That was a smart plan. I got yours when I went to buy that magazine, remember?”

“Oh, of course. While I was looking at the peep shows.”

“Hey, show me Tom’s card,” Henry said, suddenly remembering its existence.

Martin rolled off the bed and brushed crumbs off of his chest as he padded to his room.

Tom’s card was an unambiguous friendship card, signed Friends always, Tom, with an innocuous little heart drawn alongside. Henry could find no real fault with it. Martin should have friends, of course. He’d hoped Martin would be close with Peter, and they seemed to like each other well enough, but their friendship was nothing like the strong affinity Martin had for Tom.

“It was very thoughtful of Tom, don’t you think?” And perhaps he could read Henry’s mind, because he added quite casually, “I didn’t have one for him.”

Henry shrugged and handed the card back. “I’m glad you have a good friend,” was all he said.

The next day brought a letter from Uncle Reggie.

Little Prince,

I am writing to you from my charming villa in the Italian countryside, though admittedly it is somewhat less charming at this time of year than it will be in the spring when everything is in full leaf. It’s so beautiful in the spring—I wish you could see it. I regret that I won’t have the opportunity to show the house to you, or to throw you one of the parties we were known for. I am going to miss this house and all the good memories it contains.

I am making progress, albeit slowly. There are furniture dealers coming out from the city tomorrow to look at the contents of the house—I put it off as long as I could, but it has to be done. I am going to have a few special pieces shipped back home to put in my rooms in Gilbert’s house, but I will have to let go of almost all of it. I am feeling most crushingly sentimental at the moment and am certain I don’t want to sell a stick of it!

I am reluctantly entertaining offers from Mr. Ellsworth’s former rivals for the purchase of his antiquarian book business. These are, for the most part, grisly old men, and they’re circling like hideous, moth-eaten vultures. Some of them were quite terrible to Mr. Ellsworth when he was alive—it’s a business full of back-stabbing and craven behavior, surprisingly—and I am disinclined to sell to any of them. Eventually, however, I will have to choose one, though none is deserving. I have to remind myself that the sooner I am free of my encumbrances here, the sooner I can come home to my siblings and my dear nephews.

I can’t quite get used to the idea that the little boys I left behind are now almost grown men. I had worried that there would be no remainder of the fondness you had for me when you were children, but I’ve been delighted and gratified to find that you both love me still and are willing to forgive my long absence. I love the other children, of course, but you and Jesse have always been special to me, and I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you like one another as well as you do. I do hope you will try to spend more time together. I think you’ll find Jesse sympathetic, and I hope you boys will be supportive of one another as you grow into adulthood.

I’ve written to my friend Sullivan about your predicament. Sully is the youngest of my friends. He was only about 15 when I left the city, so he’s right between us in age and might have the best idea of where a boy as young as you could meet the right sort of people. I don’t want you getting mixed up with a bunch of toughs, and I don’t think you want to make friends with a bunch of flamboyant types, either.

I hope this letter finds you well. All the love from Benjy and myself to you and your lovely Martin. Write when you have a moment, darling boy—I’d be absolutely thrilled to hear from you.

R.

Henry showed the letter to Martin. “You’ll help me write to him, won’t you?”

“Whatever you need me to do,” Martin assured him. “But, really, it should be easy enough. Just tell him what you’ve been up to. That’s all he wants to know.”

Imagining the letters Jesse must be writing, the poetry and grand descriptions, Henry wasn’t sure that a mundane accounting of his schoolboy existence would be enough to satisfy Reggie. If he were face-to-face with Reggie, he might be inclined to confess that he’d officially declared his love to Martin, but he certainly wasn’t going to write that down in a letter—too bad, because no doubt his uncle would have found it interesting.

The declaration loomed large in his mind. Henry resisted the urge to constantly tell Martin that he loved him. Since first declaring his love he’d said it only a handful of times more, and surely that was wise, but his heart hammered out the words and they threatened to leave his mouth with every breath. Trying to be mature about declaring his love was leaving him feeling just as desperate as if he’d not said anything in the first place. Restraint seemed prudent; surely his love would mean more if he wasn’t constantly blabbing it about. He had intended to restrict himself to one declaration a day, at nighttime, in bed; he had so little experience of adult people expressing love that he wasn’t sure what was or was not reasonable, but that was where he intended to start.

It was difficult, though, as Martin did so many things that were eminently lovable. For instance: the affectionate way he straightened Henry’s jackets across his shoulders. The occasional unthinking nudges he gave his glasses to keep them on the bridge of his nose. The look of intense concentration on his face as he ran a razor over Henry’s throat each morning. Mundane, ordinary things transformed by Martin into holy acts.

Martin always said it back, sometimes even said it first. Martin was actually freer with it than Henry, clearly not worried about overdoing it. He said it when they were fucking, his voice roughened, grunting it out, which threw Henry off his rhythm, overcome with the desire to perform especially well, to warrant the love that Martin professed.

Henry wondered if Martin were practiced at saying the words, if he’d ever told any other boy that he loved him, but hesitated to ask. He thought he knew what the answer would be, and he didn’t want to hear Martin admit that he’d been in love with Richard. He didn’t want Martin to lie to him, but he did often want the truth to be something other than what it was.

Sunday evening, they lay curled together on top of the bedding, sweat cooling on their skins, and Henry burned with the desire to say what he felt. He readied himself to say it, his official daily love announcement. It wouldn’t be the first time this day, though. He’d been unable to resist telling Martin in the morning, leaning over to whisper in his ear as they sat alone in the breakfast room, Martin with a drop of maple syrup on his lip that Henry longed to lick away. Martin had been wide-eyed at Henry’s daring, but had not returned the sentiment until later, up in Henry’s room with the door locked.

Henry had been unable to resist saying it again then, either, during their post-breakfast sex, with Martin riding his prick and coming on his chest, saying Oh god, Henry, I love you so much, as he wrung an orgasm out of his pretty cock. The combination of Martin’s words and his hot spunk splatting against Henry’s chest was the catalyst for an unparalleled intensity of feeling on Henry’s part, and the words came out of him without volition, as if he were in a trance.

He’d managed to keep from saying it the rest of the day, though he’d wanted to, many times. It helped that they were in company with friends, where such declarations would have been both inappropriate and foolhardy. They’d gone walking in the park with Louis and Peter after lunch, met up with some of their other friends at Bethesda Terrace, and spent the afternoon following three vivacious young ladies and their very comely slaves hither and yon. The girls had accepted the boys’ attentions as if they were their due, which Henry took offense at, and he hung back while his friends fell all over one another trying to impress the girls with their gallantry, wit, and manliness. For once, girls read Henry’s signals correctly and focused their efforts on the boys who were receptive to their charms, leaving Henry free to watch Martin at leisure.

Freddie wasn’t with them, so neither was Tom. Martin had to make due with Simon, Dick, Ralph and Peter for company, but he gave every indication of enjoyment, laughing and chatting with the others, and Henry had longed to hang back and walk with him, to listen to him talk, to smell and touch him, but instead had to listen to his friends trade hectic, suggestive banter with some big-headed girls.

He watched Charles flirting with the prettiest of the three, a brunette in a blue hat decorated with sad little stuffed birds, and glanced at redheaded Simon and considered what he knew of their relations. From what Martin had told him, he understood that Simon preferred men and was quite satisfied with Charles as a master, though of course he couldn’t know if Simon loved his master. He wondered if Charles loved Simon, if he’d ever said so. Charles wasn’t like Henry, though; Charles definitely liked girls. He was just nicer to Simon than he had to be.

When they got home, Martin wanted to practice his violin and Henry let him do it. He lay on the bed with his hands behind his head, his cock half-hard and his eyes closed, and said, “I love…the way you play.”

Martin said, “Thank you, Henry,” with a brilliant smile, but said nothing more.

Hours later, after both had eaten dinner and all had listened to Pearl read another batch of magazine articles aloud, Henry was dismissed to his room, where he let himself be undressed and put into bed. Martin put on his pajamas and went downstairs with the laundry and the little green glass bottle, as they were out of oil. He was gone longer than usual, which Henry supposed was to be expected, but he grew impatient nonetheless.

Martin returned with a full bottle and an impish grin, and climbed onto the bed and into Henry’s embrace. They rolled around and wrestled a little, ending up on their sides, spooning, Martin twisting his upper body so that they could keep kissing while they fucked. Henry loved that they could have so much of their bodies touching in this position, that they could be so close.

Martin asked, “Do I feel good to you, Henry?” in a breathy voice, a little shy, as if he really wasn’t sure.

He felt so good that Henry was shaking. He wrapped his trembling hand around Martin’s cock and said, “You feel amazing. You feel so good to me.” He couldn’t last. He kissed Martin and said, “Can I come? Are you close?”

Martin made a throaty little growl and his cock flexed in Henry’s fist. “Do it, Henry. Let me feel it.” He arched his back, pressing his ass against Henry’s hips.

Henry let go of Martin’s cock and took hold of his hip for leverage and began to fuck him with purpose, wanting to come, wanting to explode into him. Martin’s body, his ass, was the perfect meld of velvety heat and tight slickness; Henry’s cock never felt better than when it was inside Martin. He felt the tension build deep at the root of his cock and the last few frantic seconds were like a race, running pell-mell for the tape and bursting through. He shuddered and groaned in Martin’s ear, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Hold me.” Martin wriggled against Henry, his back pressed to Henry’s chest. “Help me come, too.”

Henry held him close, wanting to keep his cock inside Martin as long as possible. He kissed the back of Martin’s neck, his hand spread low across Martin’s belly, while Martin tugged at his prick.

“Henry, Henry, oh, god, I—” He cut off his own words with a shout and he stilled as the muscles of his belly jumped under Henry’s hand.

Henry curled around him, still inside him, but Martin turned in his arms so that they might kiss, causing Henry’s cock to slip out of his body, and both made sounds of dismay. Henry trembled still, little shivers that gave him goose bumps.

In a low voice, Martin asked, “Are you cold?”

“No,” Henry said. It had been nearly twelve hours since he’d last said it; surely he could say it again now. “I’m not cold. I just feel so much, Martin. I…I love you.” Saying it aloud, at last, was like being parched and sere and then drinking a river, and Henry exulted in it, drenched in emotion.

Martin moaned and held Henry closer, fitted himself against his body. “I love you, too, Henry. I want to tell you all the time, you know. I stop myself a thousand times a day—”

“Why? Why stop yourself?”

“I don’t want you to think I’m saying it frivolously. I want to come to you as a man who loves you, not a silly child.”

Henry laughed and gave Martin a squeeze. “I feel the same way. I’m trying to be very mature, but it’s hard when I want to tell everyone how amazing you are, and how lucky I am to have you.”

“You’re so sweet.” Martin was quiet a moment and then said, “It’s too bad there’s no one we can tell, no one at all.”

“It’s not safe,” Henry said by way of agreement. He thought his best chances of being understood were among other queer men, but he supposed it was possible that even queer men would frown on a man falling in love with a slave. He recalled Reggie’s promise to help him and hoped that his uncle would come through. If he could tell just one person, and that person would be happy for him, he might be able to be content.

On Monday, Freddie was uncharacteristically taciturn and irritable in between morning classes. In the break between Mr. Granger’s class and Mr. McLachlan’s, he came to Henry’s desk and leaned over, speaking to him in a low voice.

“I need to talk to you alone, Henry. I’ll find you after lunch, all right?”

Henry was instantly concerned. “What’s this about, Freddie?”

Freddie shook his head. “After lunch.”

It was cold and raining, so boys opted to stay indoors after lunch, wandering the hallways and lounging in the library. Henry found a quiet seat at an empty table in the reference section by a rain-spotted window. Martin stood near his chair and Henry turned to look up at him.

“Do you know what Freddie wants? Did Tom say anything?”

Martin paled. “I think Mr. Caldwell should tell you, Sir.”

“So you do know something! Tell me what’s—”

“Oh, here’s Mr. Caldwell, now, Sir. He’ll explain it all.”

Freddie approached, his expression grim, and Tom followed with his head bowed, looking miserable and ashamed. Freddie sat down across from Henry, Tom at his back.

Freddie leaned over the table and spoke quietly. “So, listen, Henry. I have to tell you something I’d rather everyone didn’t know. If all the guys found out, there’d probably be a riot, but it affects your slaves, so I’m telling you and only you, all right?”

Henry was a little alarmed. “What’s going on, Freddie?”

“It’s Tom,” Freddie said. “He’s got the clap and he’s probably given it to your stable slaves. He won’t have given it to any of our friends, thank god, but I know some of them would panic anyway if they knew, so please don’t tell anyone, Henry, I’m begging you.”

“Uh…okay. Wow.” Henry was a little overwhelmed. “How did he get it?”

“One of his girls,” Freddie said dismissively, his face twisted with disgust. “I gave him leave to do as he pleased, but I thought he’d use some common sense!”

Henry had some minimal knowledge of gonorrhea thanks to James. When James had contracted gonorrhea, he’d bragged of it just as he’d bragged of the promiscuity that exposed him to the disease, but he’d complained bitterly of the weeks-long cure.

“We had the doctor in to see him,” Freddie continued. “He spent the entire weekend having his prick flushed with silver solution, and he’ll probably have to keep on treating it another couple of weeks at least.” He turned and looked over his shoulder at Tom, and although his annoyance was still very apparent, he gave Tom a lopsided smile. “Poor idiot.”

He turned back to Henry. “He’s very worried about your slaves. What are their names again, Tommy?”

“Jerry and Arthur, Sir,” Tom said glumly.

“Maybe you knew already, but he’s been carrying on with them for awhile,” Freddie said. “He’s quite fond of them, you know, so this is bad luck for him.”

Henry thought of how happy Tom, Jerry and Arthur had all seemed at Billy’s wedding and felt terrible for all three of them. He supposed it was possible that Jerry and Arthur might overlook this, but it seemed unlikely.

“I wanted you to know so you could have your doctor look at them. It’s best to catch it early, they say.”

“I-I’m really sorry, Sir,” Tom said in a quiet, tremulous voice. “I never wanted anything like this to happen.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Henry said, trying to sound reassuring. “Have you talked to Jerry and Arthur yet?”

“Not yet, Sir. Mr. Caldwell is letting me go see them after school today.” Tom certainly did not seem as if he was looking forward to this, however.

“So, promise you won’t tell the others, Henry.” Freddie’s eyes darted nervously around their corner of the library. “I haven’t even told Wendell, and he’s my best friend,” he said. “It’s all under control now. I haven’t taken Tommy to a swap in awhile, and I’m keeping him out of them until he’s cured, so I don’t see why anyone should need to know.”

This sounded reasonable to Henry. “I won’t tell. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll make sure Jerry and Arthur are looked after.”

Freddie got up from his chair. “I need to go find Wendell, or he’ll wonder where I am. Thanks a lot, Henry. You’re a good sport.”

Henry turned to look up at Martin, wide-eyed. “So,” he said, his voice just louder than a whisper. “This is bad news.”

“Do you think we should just tell Mr. Tim, Sir?” Martin asked in an equally hushed tone. “Maybe your father won’t even need to know.”

Henry had not thought that far ahead. He stood up; it was easier to talk in whispers if Martin wasn’t having to bend over to hear. “It’s good that Tom is going to tell them himself, don’t you think?”

“He’s so worried, Sir! He’s afraid they’re going to be very mad at him.”

Henry rather thought they would be. He felt bad for Tom, and for Jerry and Arthur, but he felt vindicated for opting out of swaps, and for keeping Martin all to himself.

Louis and Peter rounded the nearest row of shelves.

“There you are!” Louis crowed triumphantly, unconcerned that he was in a library. “What are you doing over here by yourself?”

“I was looking something up,” Henry said, making a vague gesture toward the books.

This seemed to satisfy Louis, who shrugged off this uninteresting information. “Do you have any cards?”

“Cards?”

“We want to play poker, but no one has any cards.”

“We’re at school,” Henry pointed out. “Who has cards at school?”

“Apparently nobody,” Louis said, with another shrug. He turned to Martin, “Say, do you have any idea why Freddie is so cranky? You being so close with Tom, and all.”

Martin lied smoothly. “No, Sir. Tom hasn’t mentioned anything that might be bothering Mr. Caldwell.”

“Come on over here with the rest of the guys,” Louis said, with a jerk of his chin. “Jeremy has some new dirty pictures he’s showing around.”

“Really?” Henry tried to sound interested and thought he came off rather weak, but it seemed to pass muster with Louis. He followed his friend to a corner deep in the stacks where boys were passing around photographs of women exposing their tits and cunts. Henry feigned interest in these lewd images, hoping there might be a sex photo with a glimpse of cock, though he was ultimately disappointed in this regard.

While Henry shuddered inwardly at images of women’s soft parts, he glanced up occasionally to look at Martin where he stood leaning against the shelves with Tom, who seemed near tears. When the bell rang, Henry and his friends followed their slaves downstairs to their respective classrooms, and he noted with some jealousy that Martin put a comforting arm around Tom’s shoulders.

After school, they could say nothing until they parted from Louis and Peter at the front gate.

They gave Billy their coats and went upstairs.

“What do you think we should do, Henry?”

“Father and Timothy won’t be home for another couple of hours at least,” Henry said. “I guess we just wait.”

“Will you come down to talk to Mr. Tim with me when he’s home? I don’t know why, but I’m a little nervous.”

“I’m sort of worried that Jerry and Arthur will be in trouble,” Henry admitted.

“Me, too, Henry.” He sat next to Henry on the edge of the bed and leaned his head on Henry’s shoulder. “Tom is so frightened. He’s worried that Jerry, especially, will never want to see him again.”

“Well, that’s not unlikely,” Henry pointed out. He picked up Martin’s hand and intertwined their fingers. “He really does like them a lot, doesn’t he? I could see how upset he was this afternoon.