Chapter Text

Prelude

He watches the games from the shade of the porch. Unreasonably strong men pathetically flaunting their might in a dozen ways. Shamelessly. Games that the Akielons and Scottishmen brought with them from the Far World as they joined the scramble for precious metals in the Rocky Mountains here in the Near World. Sun glistening on sweating skin, their muscles flowing and tightening and relaxing beneath as they moved. He couldn’t argue that this isn’t an exquisite view.

In particular, he acknowledges, taking another sip of tea and maintaining a neutral expression, he watches the tallest one. Oh, yes, quite a few tall ones with curly dark hair competed. But the tallest one, with particularly luscious locks and rippling copper-brown skin. And a smile to die for.

That one. Yes. That one had a heart that, when given, would need to be treated tenderly. He smiles slightly, embarrassed even to himself, into his tea. How did he end up here, thinking these thoughts, watching that man?

Chapter 1: Year One: Goldcuff

Expressing Oneself Forcefully

Laurent kept a firm grip on his emotions at all times. It was how he won, when he needed to win. How he made allies, when he needed allies. How he more or less thrived in a rough mining town that had grown from an empty mountainside to a seething mass of lusting humanity in only two years—lusting for silver, or gold, or money, or power, or—him. Laurent preferred not to clutter his mind with profanities. Or, usually, his speech—that, he kept for dire situations. Now he realized that apparently at all times did not include this particular situation, nor was it something he could win at, and it had nearly pushed him to the breaking point.

Water. And mud.

He fumed as he carried his delivery basket through the torrential downpour, ankle deep in mud and horse shit from the rough haphazard road, oilcloth draped over the basket and himself. He cursed the idiotic so-called town of Goldcuff and the idiotic so-called merchants of Goldcuff who couldn’t cooperate to build a consistent boardwalk along the so-called main street to save their brain-dead penny-pinching souls. And, as long as he was at it, he also cursed the Rocky Mountains as a whole after nearly slipping on a mud-buried stone while descending the hillside, and cursed the fucking downpour that had been dumping on them for nearly three straight fucking days and that wasn’t supposed to ever fucking happen here at all.

He dashed under the expansive eaves of the small general store on this side of town—built only six months ago—and paused briefly to catch his breath and assemble his determination. Water and mud soaked his corduroy pants through from his belt down to the toes inside his boots —and how did that happen anyway while wearing a fucking Scots-made Mackintosh for which he had paid twenty fucking golds to import? And he was certain that the boots themselves each held more water inside than all the lake-sized puddles put together—

But Laurent would not let a little (fucking) water keep him from much-needed payments and his best client, the proprietor of the Hotel Ravenel, who relied on Laurent’s baked goods and sweets as a signature of his boarding house. Just as he stepped back into the muck and under the drenching skyfall, someone rode past him, too close, too fast a pace for the condition of the road, the horse splattering him with undoubtedly unmentionable slop that he wouldn’t be able to get out of his clothes until next spring. A brief flash of concern for the horse distracted him before he nearly slipped again and hoped that none had splashed up under the oilcloth, and although he had double wrapped his load (which, incidentally, made it four times as heavy), he was not feeling the blessing of Nature today. Or yesterday. Or the day before.

He wound past a cluster of stumps that had been trees not more than a week ago that were now the wall of someone’s hut or the fuel for someone’s fire, to turn past the barely started framework of someone else’s makeshift who-knows-what-it-would be, probably another saloon, how many saloons could one mining town support anyway? And arrived at the back door of the Hotel Ravenel, which had only a sparse overhang because guests didn’t go in or out this way. He kicked on the wall by the door—he had no idea whether they had finally made an actual sturdy door instead of nailed-together broken-down crate boards after all this time—and he felt the first glimmer of relief as someone opened it almost immediately.

He stepped inside and the morning cook, François, shrieked, swore, and yelled, “No! No! Out! Out!!”

Laurent yelped. “It’s Laurent! François! Stop!” he shouted to get through the pounding of rain on the kitchen’s metal roof and the cook’s panic as he seemed inclined to push Laurent back out again. “If you push me out, I swear I will fucking dump this entire load into the mud! You know I will! And Martial will charge you for it anyway! So stop!”

François himself began cursing in a garbled mixture of Veretian, Romansh, and French—Laurent often wondered whether anyone really understood him at all, ever, except for a few random occasional words and grunts—and stopped pushing, but held Laurent in place with a very strong arm. “There,” he ordered, pointing to the floor just beyond Laurent.

Managing to retain his broad-brimmed hat, Laurent pushed the hanging oilcloth from his head and from the basket onto the floor, and François shrieked again and leaped backwards to avoid the sopping, undoubtedly filthy fabric. Laurent gave him a cold, malicious grin, set down the wrapped parcel, and carefully removed its wrappings. To his relief, everything still looked as it had when he had loaded them up in his bakery. They even retained some warmth.

He grabbed the covers under one arm and looked up to ask for a cup of hot coffee, not quite in time to avoid François shoving him and kicking open the door at the same time, and out Laurent went, barely staying upright after several steps with flailing arms. He turned back and kicked at the wall again, whereupon the door opened just wide enough for his oilcloth to fly out into his face. He grabbed it and quickly tossed it back over himself. All right, François. So, that’s the game you want to play this time. Laurent would remember this. He never forgot anything. And François’ activities filled a long list of things that he would remember for a long, long time. François was not an ally. And Laurent usually won. However, too wet today to care. Later, he’d come up with a suitable revenge.

He turned and began the long trudge back up the slippery hill, the street running water like a river, to finish the next load of breads and rich pastries for the mining tent in an hour or so. And so on for six deliveries a day, seven if he could manage it. In a normal world, which consisted of no fucking rain or mud, he sold some piecemeal to miners, merchants, lumbermen and all the others who had enough coppers or silvers for a rare treat. But not during this (he emphasized in his own mind) fucking flood.

As he slogged past one of the recently thrown-together tiny log-and-crate shacks leaning against a saloon, the oilcloth door flew open and a red-bearded, bulky, shirtless man roughly shoved another man through, who would have landed in the river of horse-flavored mud stew if Laurent hadn’t braced himself right at that moment to catch him and hold him upright.

The swarthy man laughed harshly, “Ha, there you go, you disgusting beast, maybe he’ll pay you for your flea-bitten service!” He stepped back inside as Laurent quickly evaluated his garb, and pulled the door back across.

The slight man held up by Laurent stepped away from him and shouted, “Hey, where’s my money?” He tried to push back through the door, but it was already fastened tightly. He started grabbing and yanking at the door’s fabric, continuing to shout.

Laurent’s stomach sank—really, again? This town’s gold- or silver-grubbing newcomers grew more grotesque by the day. But still he gently grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him back a step. Whereupon the man whirled and took a swing, which from long practice Laurent knew how to easily sidestep. “Maybe I can help,” he said, voice elevated to be heard over the pounding of rain on the mud and the wood and the occasional sheets of metal that made up the ever-growing town.

“Mind your own business,” the other man shrieked and turned back to the door.

Again, Laurent grabbed his arm, not quite as gently, but let go and took a step back as soon as the other man spun back to him. “He might owe you money, and it might not be any of my business,” he continued firmly and loud enough, “but that’s a good way to get a knife in your gut.”

“What do you know anyway,” the man, whom Laurent now realized wasn’t all that old, maybe 20, maybe 18, either way, maybe too young for this, choked out a reply. And Laurent realized that’s because maybe he was trying not to cry.

Yes, he had a very good idea of what was going on here. “Chin up,” Laurent said, trying not to be impatient. “I can help you if you talk to me.” The man swallowed whatever he was going to say and his shoulders fell. Good. Submission good. “First, did you deliver –what he asked for?”

The young man stared at him for several seconds and finally gathered himself enough to say “Yes.” In a whisper. Because no one wanted to admit to this activity. Laurent figured that anyone who didn’t want to admit this shouldn’t be doing this, but then sometimes being broke and starving and a long way from home didn’t leave a person with many choices. As Laurent knew well.

“And he didn’t pay you?”

Still staring at him, wide-eyed: A slight shake of the head.

“How much did he say he’d pay?”

The man, dressed only in sparse, soaked-through clothing, had begun to shake. Cold, probably yes. Angry, possibly. Scared to be talking to a stranger about this on top of losing what was likely his only hope for income for the day, likely. Lowering his gaze, now. “Twenty coppers.”

“Twenty co…!” Laurent ground his teeth. The bastard had not only kicked him out without paying, but that price undoubtedly came nowhere near what was fair and right for the kinds of service they usually asked for. He turned his gaze towards the shack. Fuck. How many times had he stepped in to manage exactly this scenario in his twenty months here? Sometimes he thought that this was the mostly likely way for him to die. Not being kicked by a horse. Not a badly constructed wall falling on him. Not losing his way in a blizzard. Not from a mine cave-in. Not from the terrifying bleeding spotted fever that took so many men here in the spring and summer. No, by this: Being the avenging angel—or maybe demon—against men twice his size and strength. But he’d do it again and again, he would. Because he couldn’t—

He just couldn’t—

He stared back at the young man with as much command as he could summon from underneath his Mackintosh and hat and oilcloth—oh, right. Fuck. Did he always swear this much in his head? And out loud? He took a breath, knowing that he was about to get even more wet. “Hold this,” he said, shoving the basket covers into the man’s arms. “Do. Not. Drop. Them.” The man was still staring at the ground and shaking and, possibly, looking a bit scared of him. Good. Laurent pulled the large oilcloth off himself and draped it over the other man. “Step back there,” pointing at the wall of the saloon next door, “and do not—do not—under any circumstances—move away or try to help me.”

The man stood there as if frozen to the spot, so Laurent slowly raised his hand to press against the collarbone and push him back two steps. “Go!” he said. The man backed up until he hit unexpectedly against the wall and, thank the absent gods, stayed there.

Business time. At least the first part was usually easy. He examined the door and the shack and looked around him as far as he could see through the dense curtain of rain. The saloon. The shack. Several full-sized logs on the ground by the shack amid the tumbled boulders and rocks alongside the street. He then reached into his Mac to unsheathe his Bowie Knife. He took and released one long breath, exhaling any stress with it, and stepped up to the door. He knocked on the door’s edge—yes, as he expected, just oilcloth on a simple wood frame—and said, loudly but calmly, “I believe that you promised this gentleman some money. Step out with ten silvers in your hand and I’ll consider this situation to be resolved.”

The deep voice laughed harshly and yelled profanity-laced instructions for Laurent to do the usual impossible activity.

Laurent shook his head sadly, using the expression he reserved for badly misbehaving courtiers, although no one likely could see it today. Still, it grounded him. “Let’s be civilized, sir. We are all gentlemen here. It would deeply hurt my feelings if this minor inconvenience to you ended up becoming quite a major inconvenience to yourself. Please hold a hand outside with the silvers.”

Again, the muffled voice: “This is none of your business!” This seemed to be the leitmotif for this party. “And I don’t owe anyone shit!”

“I can’t speak for your feces-hauling business dealings with others; I’m simply interested in a mere few silvers for this gentleman’s trouble.”

“Get! Away! From! My! House!”

House. Laurent snorted. He gently poked the center of the oilcloth door with one finger. Indeed, no center framing at all. An all-around sloppy builder with a sloppy mind. He hated that. “Did he not deliver what you had ordered?”

“None of your shit-head–business!”

Laurent’s mind began to simply cancel out the other man’s profanity. A handy equilibrium tool in tense situations. Laurent grasped the knife particularly firmly—oilcloth could be hard to cut through—and sliced the door diagonally from corner to corner. Like slicing shortbread. A very sharp knife also came in handy in tense situation. Sometimes to increase the tension, of course. An interesting game.

He stepped back three steps.

Cursing more, now addressing Laurent’s imagined horrific bedtime activities, the miscreant stepped close enough to the door to pull open the slice and glare out. “You owe me a whole vulgarism new door, which will cost you a vulgarism wagonful more silvers than twenty! I’ll send the sheriff after you!”

In this weather? Laurent almost laughed out loud at the poorly improvised bluff. If he knew the Sheriff at all, the man would be huddled in his cozy cottage in front of the fire. “I suggest that handing over twenty silvers would be your optimal alternative.”

The face disappeared, saying nothing. This was the dangerous part; was he simply hoping to hide until Laurent went away? Although Laurent hoped the man was smart enough to realize that wouldn’t happen. If he was, then he’d undoubtedly be grabbing a weapon. Time for rapid, aggressive distraction.

Laurent stepped forward quickly and slashed through the door again, a diagonal between the door’s other two corners. Now most of the door hung open, allowing pouring rain to blow in. He saw a fist-sized rock in the mud alongside the road, grabbed it, and hurled it as hard as he could through the flapping fabric. People often took in his slender build and lovely face and assumed him to be weakl, an easy mark. An advantage to him because they would also underestimate his skills. He looked for another stone of any size, grabbed two, and hurled them also through the mutilated door, one after the other, each splattering mud as they went. However, bundled up as Laurent was now, he wasn’t sure whether the filthy bastard could determine his build or underestimate him that way, which made the situation even more dangerous.

But the rocks apparently were the correct catalyst, as he burst through the door and stood there, legs bent, fists clenched, ready for a fight, rain pouring down onto his head, sending tendrils of sopping hair into his face. Laurent quickly evaluated the man—no weapon visible—even while the other man evaluated the rain, the quiet man against the nearby wall, and then Laurent and his knife more closely. He then stared directly at Laurent. A challenge. “Who do you think you are, bitch? Art Rudley?”

Laurent glanced down with surprise at his weapon. He carried no guns today. “With this?” The ignorance of the man astounded him. Or his lack of observational skills. “Gun fighting is not my modus operandi. Throat slitting, on the other hand—”

The other man snarled. “Mr. Bloody FancyWords wants a fight?”

Laurent stared calmly, wondering why Mr. Ignoramus was standing in the pouring rain, body poised to but not attacking, if he didn’t want a fight. He smiled. “Not my name, either. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

The other man bellowed and threw himself at Laurent, apparently hoping to knock him back into the mud. Such a shame. Laurent moved a fraction of a second before the man made contact. The momentum of the charge had the man struggling for balance in the muddy, rocky road, lost it, and crashed forward onto the shithole of a street. He pushed himself to his hands and knees, rain soaking his garments thoroughly, and as he started to rise, Laurent’s boot placed firmly to his back put him right back down again.

This time, Laurent grabbed the man’s—oh, how sweet—sock-clothed feet—and dragged him backwards into the roiling street river. The man screamed and then choked as his mouth filled with mud and filth. Laurent leaped onto the man’s shoulders, pushing his head deeper, and he began to struggle rather than fight. Then, desperately.

Laurent stood, grabbed the man’s belt, and hauled him out of the slime until he was again on his hands and knees, where he coughed and gagged as if spewing his lungs from his body. All to the roaring of the rain. Laurent reached down to the man’s belt, sliced through the strap holding a pouch there, the one he had noticed earlier, and lifted it. Heavy. Sound of coins striking each other. He unfolded it and looked inside. Couldn’t help his eyebrows snapping upward. Much, much more than a mere twenty silvers.

He used his foot to again push the man over when he tried to rise, still gagging and choking. Laurent grabbed one of the man’s legs and flipped him onto his back. He stepped onto the man’s closest wrist, pinning it to the ground, and brought the tip of the Bowie Knife close enough to the man’s face and throat so that the man could get a good look at it. The man tried to move, still trying to catch a clean breath, and Laurent placed the tip of the knife against the center of his throat. The man froze except for the nearly uncontrolled coughing. Laurent didn’t need to apply pressure for the man to manage a pinprick into his flesh as his body shook.

“Pity you’re having trouble inhaling. I’d be glad to cut you a new breathing hole if you’d like.”

The man glared at Laurent from reddening, rain-drenched eyes and said nothing. Because he really couldn’t, although the coughs seemed to be getting clearer.

“Excellent, my dear brute. Wise choice to prevent me from ensuring that you stay there to rot.”

Laurent walked to the young man who still leaned against the wall, clutching the basket wrappers as if his life depended on them. He stopped an arms-length away, keeping his body sideways to the man who now sat up, still gagging.

Laurent opened the bag again and started rummaging. Bags of money no longer tempted him in that way; removing a few coins and certificates rather than taking the entire purse—likely the man’s entire savings—would make it less likely for the purse’s owner  to come after him.

“Hold out your hand,” he said without looking at the young man, who hesitated and then, gingerly, still clutching the covers, did as bidden. Laurent dropped five silvers into his palm.

“Th—thank you—I don’t—”

“You do,” said Laurent. “Open that hand again, you have another fifteen coming.” He counted them out of the bag and placed them with the others. He turned back towards the man on the ground. “And, sir, for the trouble you have caused me,” while digging again, “I’ll remove five of those heavy golds from your amazing stash and I thank you kindly.”

More cursing that was more coughing than actual words, but the man stayed where he was, in the pouring river that had once been a street. Laurent tied a knot in the bag and tossed it to land heavily on the man’s stomach.

He moved closer to the man and said, just loud enough to be heard over the downpour, “If you ever try something like this again, I will not only relieve you of this entire purse, but also the equipment,” he gestured at the man’s crotch with his knife, “that you used for this attempted crime. And, incidentally—” he couldn’t help his grin, “the sheriff and I play chess together weekly.” The man just clutched his money back and looked away, clearing his throat. Laurent nearly felt sorry for the bedraggled, mud-smeared, rasping man, but at least the ongoing rain deluge had already begun rinsing mud from his head and shoulders.

Laurent returned to the young man still leaning against the wall. He had to gently pry the covers from the stunned man’s hand. And then the youth started to pull off the oilcloth. Laurent grabbed it to hold it in place draped over the man’s head and body. “Put the coins in your pocket,” he said gently. As if waking up, the young man quickly did so. “I’m Laurent,” he added. “And you are—?”

“Erasmus.” So shyly.

“Erasmus. Good. Come with me.” He turned and continued walking through the unending wall of rain ahead of him.

The Bakery

Laurent finally could make out the two-story building squeezed between two others in a prime spot on the main street. His own building. The building in which he now lived and ran his baking business. Even if the second-floor interior consisted, so far, just bare framing. He trudged up the steps to the beautiful porch with its welcoming broad overhang. Standing facing the double door he had designed, he noted as he looked down to unlock the padlock that mud covered all his visible pants and a good portion of his Mackintosh, even though he had never himself contacted the ground. He glanced back at Erasmus, and from what he could see beneath the oilcloth over the man’s head, he was literally covered with mud from his unfortunate exit from the bully’s hut. Still, Laurent was not much better. At least his clothes under the coat should be relatively clean. He sighed and pushed open the door.

The welcome warmth of the waiting fires and the aroma from his ovens’ earlier work enveloped him and said, home. It had barely begun to feel like home for him. He hadn’t been sure whether any place ever would again. And now they were tracking in mud and dripping rain from sodden clothing. He gritted his teeth: This, too, can be managed, he reminded himself.

He stopped to dump mud and water from his boots and tossed them inside to the right of the open door. Luckily the wind had given up roaring for today.

“Drop the oilcloth here,” he pointed towards a corner of the porch, between the decorative but sturdy fence-like railing and two benches. Erasmus hesitated, so he continued, “It will be fine”—Laurent looked him up and down again—"we really don’t want that muddy monster inside.”

Laurent stepped inside, closed his eyes and paused for a minute, inhaling, finding more strength. He moved forward just a few steps, with enough room to gesture Erasmus in behind him as he finished emptying his own boots. He pulled off the hat and Mac—the hooks by the door holding them easily—and began unbuttoning his surprisingly wet shirt.

“Close the door,” he said, hoping that “you idiot” did not come through in his tone. Erasmus was staring at him, wide-eyed.

“Oh, for— You realize that we are both drenched to the bone and bearing enough mud for a sty full of hogs. I’m not walking farther into the house, and neither are you,” as he regarded Erasmus, “with any of this clothing on our bodies. Besides,” he said, “you are very much not my type.”

In fact, no one was his type. He felt no need for or interest in anyone getting that close to him. He unbuckled his belt and dropped his corduroys to the floor, stepping gracefully out of them. His shirt came quickly off and dropped in a pile beneath the Mackintosh; he unbuttoned his unfortunate water-retaining long johns, pulled his arms out and started on the legs, which turned out to be difficult. How uncomfortably clingy could wet wool get, anyway? He peeled them off slowly, finally standing naked in the grand entry to his home.

Erasmus had begun removing his, also, his back turned to Laurent, who rolled his eyes.

“I’ll bring you a robe to wear until we can fill a bath,” he said, and padded off on bare feet, leaving wet footprints behind. The laundress would have plenty of extras to wash tomorrow.

When he returned, wearing one robe and carrying another, Erasmus still stood in the hallway, hands tensely covering his genitals. Laurent rolled his eyes again. “Put this on and follow me to the kitchen.”

He turned and followed his own instructions, heading down the long hallway to the back of the building.

In the perfectly laid-out kitchen, he filled a basin with hot water from the stove’s well and set it on the lonely countertop where eventually a sink would reside. After he connected the cistern. Eventually. At least, he thought with a quick cheeriness, both cisterns should be more than full of rainwater by now. He quickly washed his hands and arms in the basin with a bar of the palm-olive soap he had carried with him across the continent. He dried using the small towel hanging on the nearby wall, then pulled two chairs away from the cozy makeshift table—he couldn’t afford everything all at once—and filled a kettle from the hot-water well on the side of the cast-iron oven. Yes, still hot from its wood fire this morning, hot enough to make passable tea. He dumped in carefully measured tea leaves and left it to steep.

Erasmus came hesitantly to the doorway and stood. “Come in,” Laurent said.

Erasmus lifted his hands and framed his face with his fingers. “Mud—” he started with that same shyness. How did a man like this ever end up offering the kind of service he had apparently offered? Or had it really been offered? Laurent opted not to answer his own question. Instead,

 he waved his hand gracefully as an invitation to to the washbasin. The younger man moved forward and began removing the mud from his face and hair.

Laurent took two tin mugs from the cabinet by the stove and placed them on the table. Pulled three wooden plates out as well, opened the door to his cooling cabinet, and piled one with a variety of pastries. He put all three plates on the table with the pastries next to the always-resident oaken bowl of oranges.

Next, Laurent rolled out his large pastry cloth on the side table and dusted it with just the right amount of flour. Precious flour, no one within 500 miles was yet milling. Pulled a giant wooden dough bowl nearly overflowing with risen dough from the warming cabinet next to the kiln, punched it firmly but gently down, turned it out onto the cloth, and covered it with the same bowl, inverted. He inhaled the released yeasty scent and held his breath. Nearly paradise.

And turned to the table, where Erasmus still stood, his hands clenching the back of a chair so hard that his knuckles were white. Laurent gritted his teeth. “Sit. Eat. Drink. Or don’t you—” He took a quick breath. Cannot be irritated with this boy right now, he reminded himself. Erasmus was like a puff pastry, he imagined; required delicate handling to avoid crushing the fragile layers. And, to Erasmus, “Have as many of the pastries as you want.”

Again, Erasmus stared at him, briefly and wide-eyed, but finally sat, picking one pastry and nibbling at it.

“I have to get these loaves into the oven. I’ll join you in a few minutes.” He hustled to test the iron oven’s temperature, added two logs to its firebox, then slid three shallow pans of dough shaped into loaves onto the customized racks inside. Soon the tart, tempting sourdough scent would fill the room. Later, he would cook a large batch of macaron halves prepared from his favorite choux dough.

Finally he joined Erasmus at the table. He sipped his tea as he considered his guest. Erasmus was a bit of a puzzle. When first kicked out, Erasmus’ anger had taken him back to the door to demand payment. And had tried to punch Laurent, yet then wilted quickly. Laurent had met plenty of the punching type and plenty of the wilting type, just not typically combined.

Erasmus finished his first pastry and then stopped, hands in his lap, eyes downcast.

“Have another,” said Laurent with an intentionally commanding tone as he picked up one for himself.

Erasmus took another one and again nibbled.

“How long have you been in Goldcuff?” he prompted.

“Almost two months.” Murmured.

“Do you like it here?”

“Mostly, yes.” And nothing else, still looking down. Irritating.

“Please look at me when I’m talking.”

So Erasmus did, but with his head slightly tilted down, looking up through his eyelashes.

Laurent sighed. Wrong kinds of questions for this lad.

“What do you like about it?” He might get back to the what-didn’t-he-like question if needed. Eventually.

“Lots of things.”

Laurent waited, slowly sipping.

Erasmus’s gaze dropped again. “All the construction,” he said. “It’s as if the town is alive and growing. Like an acorn planted in the soil.”

After a pause, Laurent prompted again. “And?”

“The acorn’s growth seems unstructured as it puts out roots. Sometimes scraggly in its branches. But it’s a strong foundation, don’t you think?” He took another nibble.

Laurent blinked. Unexpected. But he liked the metaphor. He could be charming and conversational when he chose to be so, gradually over the next half hour, with breaks to check, remove, and stash his baked goods until he was ready to brave the torrent for another delivery, he drew Erasmus out. Who managed to eat well more than half of the pastries with small prompts. Hungry, then. Not unexpected.

Hoping that this would not be a mistake, he invited Erasmus to stay in the back bedroom for a few days and nights, at no charge for now. He also offered a few free meals if Erasmus would make himself useful. In the kitchen or the areas under construction or fetching water from the cisterns or making deliveries occasionally. Shyly, Erasmus accepted.

He set Erasmus to work feeding the fire in the bathing room to heat water for the bath. And, yes, to haul water to the large metal tub from the cistern’s spout at the back of the room. Leaving Erasmus to his work, he packed another delivery basket to go up to the mining tent. A place to relax and talk and drink for all the rich people involved in mining who never actually did any of the work. They paid well. He had well-honed smiling skills.

He wrapped things up, instructed Erasmus to take a bath as soon as the water was ready, pulled on cleaner clothing (laundry, he made a mental note, something else for Erasmus to do to save him having to pay the laundress), opting for denim this time, and with a grimace pulled on the muddy Mac and his hat and boots. And headed out into the monsoon, starting uphill this time. He decided that he hated rain even more than he hated—And he pulled his thoughts away and concentrated on walking safely.

When he returned, Erasmus had not only already bathed himself, but had washed both his and Laurent’s clothing from this morning in the tub without being asked and had figured out where to hang them inside to dry. Laurent nodded in approval, gave him a smile, and packed another delivery basket.

A New Idea

That evening, after Laurent bathed in the refilled tub, he pulled the cauldron of stew out of the cold box packed with snow and ice and set it on a burner atop the iron oven. He turnedthe crank for that burner, letting in the hottest air, and stirred it until it steamed. That stew had fed him the past two nights and should last another four beyond today; Laurent believed in feeding an army—oh, right, two nights with a house guest. Erasmus ate greedily from the bowl Laurent gave him, and ate more than even Laurent, who had worked hard most of the day. Maybe it would last only one more night? Laurent wondered how long it had been since the young man had eaten actual food. They chatted cautiously between mouthfuls.

Erasmus still hadn’t asked him any questions. Did he have no curiosity? Or did he live in fear of doing something wrong? Laurent needed to get to the Big Topic, preferably before dragging his aching body to bed.

“About this morning,” he began. Erasmus’s head flew up, his eyes wide. His hand holding the spoon froze in midmotion. Laurent hummed under his breath. “Is that how you’ve been surviving here? Fucking men for money?”

Erasmus swallowed heavily, set down his spoon, and resumed his earlier posture, staring at the table, hands in lap.

“It doesn’t matter to me, Erasmus. You can do whatever you want. I don’t care. But I said that maybe I can help you, and I need to know.”

“You’ve already—” Erasmus’s mouth moved as though practicing words, “helped me three times today. You don’t have to do any more.”

“Three times?”

“Getting my m-m-money. M-m-more than my money. Feeding me. Letting m-m-me sleep here.”

Erasmus hadn’t stuttered even once before now. Interesting.

Laurent made a dismissive gesture. “It’s what I wanted to do. Not simply because you needed help.”

“I—”

“No. Just—answer the question.”

The response came after several ragged breaths. “Yes,” he whispered.

“How often?”

Pause. “Every night.”

“Every night.” Hiding his astonishment. Or dismay. Or whatever he was feeling. First, that a man would be willing to do that, night after night. Second, that there was enough business to keep him busy every night.

Almost in a whisper, now, “If I can.”

Laurent closed his eyes, a tightness forming in his chest. Looked again at his guest. “In almost two months, how many men?”

“I don’t… He cleared his throat. “I don’t count.” Irritating again.

“I think that you know exactly how many men. You’re young and smart and desperate for money. You don’t spend it on ale or, oh, heroin?” and added, “I didn’t think so,” when Erasmus shook his head. “And it’s your body, and surely you’re aware. So: How many men?”

Erasmus closed his eyes and Laurent could tell that he was slowly counting using his hands. “Would you like a calendar to refresh your memory?” Laurent asked dryly. “Faster than counting on your fingers.”

Erasmus startled again, shook his head, and went back to counting. Finally, “Maybe thirty?”

“Maybe.”

“I might have missed some.”

“Some.”

“This is hard,” Erasmus said defensively, finally looking up. “M-m-making do like this.” Laurent said “Hm,” and raised an eyebrow. “I have to work all day, finding a m-man who—someone who—”

“I heard that there are nearly 8,000 people in and around Goldcuff now. Almost all men. Almost all desperate for companionship. And you are, frankly, gorgeous. And it’s hard to find someone who wants to fuck you?”

Erasmus blushed under his dark mop of hair, and Laurent envied how it barely colored his skin tone. Unlike Laurent, whose entire face and neck would light up like a hot ember.

“Not everyone w—” Erasmus paused and started again. “I t-try to find someone who will treat me right and let me stay the night. It’s c-c-c-cold!”

Laurent rolled his eyes at that. “But you still don’t know how many men?”

“I c-c-c-counted how many days I’ve been here. I subtracted all the nights I slept more than one night with the same man. I subtracted the days I slept cold or in a shed or stable. I th-think I counted right.”

An intriguing way to count, Laurent had to admit. And, considering it, probably more accurate than simply trying to remember faces. And that was why it took him that long to figure it out. He had actually been doing arithmetic. Erasmus continued to astound. In a variety of ways.

“Good,” Laurent said. “Good. Now tell me, why are you doing that instead of finding a job? As you noted, a lot is happening here. People always need help.”

Erasmus’s expression turned sheepish. “I like it.”

“You like—prostituting yourself.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not—” He drew another deep breath. “I li-li-li-like doing… it.”

“It.”

He lifted his chin, as if gathering dignity. “Sex,” he said. “Doing sex.”

Laurent blinked again. “You like being fucked—.”

Quickly, “yes.”

“You’re not—”

“With them. Doing it with them.”

Another deep inhale at the sudden outpouring of honesty. “—not doing it for a warm place to sleep at night and a bite of food?”

“That’s nice. To have.”

“So, I’m offering you a warm, dry, private place to sleep at night, food for meals, and pastries. Will you stop seeking out men for sex?”

Erasmus shook his head.

“You need the money, then? That’s the main reason? Because after a trial period, I can pay you.”

Erasmus shook his head again, then nodded. “It’s—I need it for food. And things. That’s not why I like it.”

At least Erasmus was talking to him, but still—what on earth—“Why would you—"

Abruptly Erasmus snapped his head up and met Laurent’s gaze full on. “I like it. You like baking? I think?” Laurent, caught off guard, had no response. “Yes,” Erasmus continued, as if answering for him. “Why do you like baking?”

Laurent stared. Erasmus, full of surprise after surprise. He changed his approach. “How often have you been looking for a man to fuck you ‘every night if you can’?”

“A long time.”

“Longer than two months.”

Erasmus didn’t respond.

Laurent stood to retrieve more pastries from the pantry and placed the filled plate in the middle of the table. Erasmus looked at his remaining stew, then looked at the pastries.

“Eat whatever you want. Tonight, I’m spoiling you.”

Erasmus smiled shyly and took a pastry to nibble. Nibbling. Already irritating and Laurent wondered how long he could stand it before yelling, Eat it!

“It’s why,” Erasmus offered. Stopped. “It’s why I’m here.”

“To find men to pay you for sex.”

A nod. “And because I wasn’t allowed to stay where I was.”

Ah. A familiar story. “And where were you?”

Erasmus took a big bite out of the pastry—thank the gods of sugar and baking, thought Laurent—and chewed for a long time before swallowing. “Home,” he said.

As Laurent climbed into bed an hour later, he thought of the string of men he had helped here in Goldcuff. Many he had rescued from jerks like Erasmus’s customer this morning. Customers who didn’t pay. Customers who hurt them. Customers who held them prisoner. Laurent had given them room and board and found them regular employment for reliable pay. And yet, half—no, more than half, he realized, counting—had done the same thing. Work by day. Spend nights with different men. Or days. Or any time they could get it. Not for free; they all would say eventually that if they ever found the right partner, of course the intimacy would be included. But only one had, so far, found “the right man.”

Well, when the construction on his two-story boarding house completed, he could rent them or their customers a room for a night or however long they could pay for. He’d give his rescued boys a discount, of course.

Wouldn’t it be nice, though, if they truly enjoyed this as a—vocation— If they did, then wouldn’t it be nice if they didn’t have to go out hunting all day, guessing whether the man they found would treat them well, trying to meet someone new, or what if someone wanted a pretty man to spend an evening with. Or one who wanted to see them over and over didn’t have to search them out. If only there were a trusted place, a safe place, for them and for their—

Laurent sat up, suddenly wide awake. Erasmus could find a paying customer “almost every night.” Paying.

Not a boarding house.

A brothel.

And he realized suddenly that the rain had stopped.