Chapter Text
“...and if you do condescend to help me in this endeavour, I will show you boundless gratitude,” the young Lord Tiberius begged his fellow student.
“Gratitude alone will not suffice, Tiberius,” the dark skinned student replied.
Tiberius looked crestfallen.
“If… you obtain for my best chum, here,” the student gripped a close-by boy’s arm and pulled him into the discussion, “a mutton pie. Then I shall give you what you wish.”
Tiberius looked toward the interloper, “You cannot obtain your own pies?”
“I did not desire this affront, but alas what Bartholomew says is correct,” the small boy stated sadly.
“I could easily send my fag [*see notes!] to fetch…” Tiberius realised he had no idea who this fine young lad was, “What is your name?”
“Sorry M’lord, I’m Cyrus Goodman,” the boy answered with a slight bow.
Tiberius scoffed, “Please none of that bowing while we’re at school. I may be your better, but there’s no need for that here. And please call me Tiberius,” the last sentence spoken with a hint of friendliness.
Cyrus smiled slightly, “Thank you, Tiberius.”
“Now as I was to say. I could send little Gus away and he would rapidly return and sock you a pie… or I could teach you a thing or two about getting what you want.”
“Oh thank you! m’lor… Tiberius,” Cyrus smiled broadly.
Tiberius grabbed Cyrus by the shoulder, and turned him away from Bartholomew, “Now you need to walk right over to the Buttery and enter the kitchen…”
“Cyrus can’t do that! He’s only Third Form!” Bartholomew cried.
“What-ho. Do not tell him what he can and can not do. Gus is only a Lower Boy and he goes through that door more times than you’ve been up Judy’s Passage,” Tiberius admonished Bartholomew.
“Now, once in the Buttery, you… take the pie,” Tiberius said plainly.
“I… just... take it?” Cyrus said unsure of himself.
“Yes. Off you toddle,” Tiberius pushed the smaller boy toward the door, “And take a second for me.”
Cyrus left the House on his mission.
Tiberius looked at his new business partner quizzically, “You’re a queer cove, Barthy.”
Bartholomew looked concerned, “Whatever do you mean, Tiberius?”
“Well, you’re not as good looking as other boys…” he realised his rudeness so added, “I don’t mean you're ugly. Just…”
“Is it because of my skin’s colour? Or my tight curly black hair?” Bartholomew asked.
“You do have an inordinate quantity of hair, for a boy,” a thought dawned on the young lord. He lent in close and asked in a quiet conspiratorial tone, “Say, you ARE a boy… aren’t you?”
Bartholomew’s eyes went wide for a moment before he answered, “OF COURSE. Girls cannot attend this school.”
Tiberius’ gaze fell upon another student across the room, “What of your friend, Andrew? He also strikes me to have a certain... femininity about him.”
“Andy? HE is partly of Asian stock, they have that look about them…” Bartholomew said nervously.
Andrew’s ears pricked upon hearing his name and so he bounded over to his friend.
“Did I hear my name?” Andrew asked as he approached.
“Only in passing,” Tiberius said as the door flung open and a proud Cyrus held two pies aloft.
“Tiberius may be onto us,” Bartholomew whispered into Andrew’s ear upon the distraction.