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Edel Vice
1 — Buch der Lieder (für Piano)
• • •
The thick aroma of oats and equine musk so early in the morning was nearly enough to overpower a man’s senses.
And yet, Roderich Edelstein mused as he strolled into Aintree Stables, blinking in the dim light and waving a hand in front of his nose, through the humid air—one could certainly grow to appreciate it.
Located on the outskirts of Liverpool, the complex was buzzing with activity already, even as the sun had just emerged from beyond the horizon. Stablehands rushed haphazardly around with open containers of leather polish and oversized bundles of straw. Jockeys in their racing silks jogged sporadically up and down the aisles (whether to calm the nerves or simply for warm-up exercises, it was difficult to be certain). Veterinarians burst out of stalls with heavy medical cases and little warning, and navigating it all was proving to be rather a treacherous exercise.
Roderich kept a tight grip on the brim of his newly buffed top hat as he weaved his way through the hustle and bustle and rows of stalls, toward the back of the building. He kept his gaze to the floor, careful to ensure that his shoes stayed clear of any debris. Patent leather and manure made a poor pair, after all.
Approaching a stall tucked away in the far corner of the busy stable, Roderich spotted the horse first. Indeed, it would have been difficult not to. Gleaming like a diamond in the dim light that filtered into the building, this was the only true white horse in the stable. There were some grays and some roans, yes, but this horse—Edel Vice of the distinguished Edelstein estate, to which Roderich was the heir apparent—was a rare, true white.
Roderich glanced down one last time, applauding himself for keeping his shoes in a more-or-less respectable condition. When he looked back up, a glimpse of gold at the horse’s side caught his eye.
“Bonnefoy,” he called out. “Good morning.”
The man in question turned, his ponytail of long, blonde hair whipping the horse’s side lightly and eliciting a soft huff from the beast’s nostrils. Francis Bonnefoy was the head horse trainer for the Edelstein estate, several years Roderich’s senior, and a close, if unexpected, friend. He was also, in Roderich’s opinion, the only man in Liverpool short of a beggar who could get away with wearing his hair like he did—a fabulous mane nearly as long as a Friesian’s, and comparably well-groomed.
“Good morning to you, Master Edelstein,” Francis said, giving a nod as he turned back to the horse, working away at its coat with a curry comb in his hand and a gleam in his eye. “It’s always nice to see you out in a more active state. I sometimes believe you’re glued to that piano of yours for so many hours you’ll forget how to walk.”
Roderich rolled his eyes but conceded with a small smile, rather against his better judgment. “Amusing as always, Francis. But, unfortunately, I’ve not walked through all this muck to make small talk with you about my finer pursuits.”
“Well, my darling,” Francis shot back, “if it’s finer pursuits that you seek this morning, I suggest you look no further than out back.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, yes.” Francis looked terribly smug for such an early hour, brushing out Edel Vice’s snowy coat, but Roderich could begrudgingly appreciate the convenience it provided him—and the discretion. “And I would hurry, myself. If I didn’t know Vash better, I might dare to say our winning jockey is a bit nervous.”
• • •
It really was the perfect day for a race, Roderich thought as he stepped back out of the stable and into the sun. It was a rare dry April day, with only a handful of clouds dotting the sky as far as the eye could see. Beneath sprawled the Aintree Racecourse, in all its glorious four miles of track, its sixteen fences and thirty jumps, and its great array of buildings and roads and lots besides. Oh, yes, it was the perfect day for the most prestigious—and perilous—steeplechase in all of Great Britain, perhaps the world: the Grand National.
Roderich had attended every Grand National since the end of the War, though horses and the culture surrounding them had featured in his life far longer. Some of his earliest memories had taken place in Vienna, inside the imperial box of the Galopprennbahn Freudenau, watching as affluent families like his own had conducted their business and leisure to the thunder of hoofbeats. Ultimately, the Edelsteins had transplanted themselves to Liverpool as the growing reach of the the Nazi party had threatened their property and profits—and much more, in hindsight.
Now, as a young man with a robust inheritance of equestrian investments, Roderich was certainly no stranger to the gentleman’s side of the racetrack. And if one thing was certain, it was that the racetrack always offered novel entertainment.
With a bit of luck, there was some extra spending money to be had as well.
Outside the stable, the smell of manure was slightly less pervasive, but apparently no relief was to be had when it was replaced not by fresh air, but by the acrid tang of smoke.
Roderich let his eyes trail along the wispy gray rings floating lazily through the air until they led back to a cigarette, perched between two fingers. Those fingers belonged to what Roderich unhesitatingly believed to be—if he were to indulge Francis’ witticisms—his finest pursuit, of all the many sophisticated activities in which he partook.
The fingers belonged to the Edelstein family’s jockey-on-retainer, a young man named Vash. His hair was blond, like Francis’s, though more yellow than gold, and not quite as long. It was just long enough to stir up pinched conversation among the older gentry, and just short enough that it couldn’t quite be tied away beneath a riding cap, leaving it doomed to stick out at either side and remain that way even after the cap had been taken off. The effect was atrociously unfashionable and utterly charming, and it never failed to lift Roderich’s spirits.
Roderich took a step in the jockey’s direction, tipping his hat courteously. Vash, ever-attentive to his periphery, looked up.
“I must admit, I’m surprised to find you out here,” Roderich offered. “Usually you’re stuck fast to your horse until all the others have left for the lockers, at least.”
Vash folded his arms and looked back at the ground with a small frown.
“Didn’t know it was a crime to want some fresh air,” he muttered. Roderich chuckled.
“Of course it’s not. In fact, it’s surely a crime not to, on a day like today.” He couldn’t be certain if it was an illusion from the rare sunlight, but as Vash took another pull on his cigarette, Roderich suspected he was looking a bit green. “I just wanted to be sure you’re feeling alright this morning?”
“’M fine.” Turning his face away as smoke curled out past his lips, Vash tapped the end of his cigarette, and Roderich watched him watch the ash fall to the ground and smolder for a moment in the dirt. Even the most ordinary actions, Roderich was always finding, were quite fascinating when performed by Vash.
He regarded Vash for another moment, before saying, more than asking:
“I’m sure you haven’t eaten anything this morning.”
If he were having this conversation with anyone else, Roderich thought, he would have been put off long before receiving the withering scowl Vash offered at that moment. As it was, he found it mostly endearing.
“I have to weigh in. You should know that.”
“Are you honestly worried about that?” Roderich asked, not particularly surprised but incredulous on principle. “Vash, you always weigh low. How can you possibly think you won’t make weight? They’ll handicap you if you’re under, besides—you should know that.”
Vash only shrugged. “If you’re just here to tell me to eat, you should know that Francis tried to force-feed me already this morning.”
“As he should—”
“I hit him.” Vash’s expression was still flat, but the words took on a satisfied undertone. “Hard enough that he won’t try it again.”
Roderich sighed and made a mental note that he should arrange for Francis to get a pay raise, but didn’t force the matter further. He knew better than to force most matters concerning Vash, having had almost a full year to acclimate to the young man’s disposition.
Vash had immigrated to England last June from some nameless little village in Switzerland, pink-faced and wide-eyed, his English gruff and broken and roundly accented. Roderich thought Vash was lucky to have been put up at the Edelstein estate, where their German-speaking houseguest had been provided a relatively forgiving introduction to the foibles of the English language, which Roderich himself had not been so lucky to receive.
At only nineteen, three years Roderich’s junior, Vash was quite an anomaly. Roderich hadn’t understood, at first, why his father had chosen to finance this seemingly inconsequential career. The only evidence he’d heard of Vash’s equestrian proficiency was some absurd hearsay about a rising name in the Alps who had taken to racing horses through the snow and ice, and winning. What was more, Roderich had found Vash to be uniquely disagreeable upon their first introduction, and generally unpleasant to spend more than a passing moment with. He sported a temperament worse than a colicky mare, and it seemed to Roderich that he’d prefer the company of one to any person—at least, if the English lessons Roderich was tasked with organizing were a reliable indication.
But all of that had been turned on its head one otherwise routine morning, when Roderich had forced himself out of bed early enough to watch the stablehands warm up the horses. (Really, it had been on Francis’s suggestion—perhaps after having to field one-too-many complaints about this new jockey who’d had the audacity to take up residence in Roderich’s home and his schedule—that he get a glimpse of Vash in his natural habitat).
And there Vash had been, with the other stable staff. He’d been cantering around the ring on Rook Bruckner, a temperamental young stallion that the Edelstein Estate had acquired just a few months prior.
Roderich had needed only one look at the wiry, fiery, inexplicably ethereal young man to believe those rumors about winter racing wholeheartedly.
More mornings of watching, and Roderich’s impressions, and his interest, continued to evolve. In the saddle, Vash Zwingli seemed untouchable, windblown, graceful. Out of it he was surly, stubborn, and perpetually stiff—and somehow that made him all the more fascinating.
So, undoubtedly, all the social circles of Liverpool had been taken by surprise the first time this untested young jockey with no table manners and even less social stamina placed first on Rook Bruckner at a novice event in Haydock, the horse’s first ever steeplechase. And then third in a Grade 2 race in Exeter—a substantial upset for all but the bookies for whom the improbable odds had delivered handily. It hadn’t taken long before Vash was riding the family’s prized white Thoroughbred, Edel Vice, quickly bringing himself and the entire Edelstein name a smashing victory: fourth place at the Grand National Trial and squarely at the front of the pack for today’s main event.
Vash finally let out a long-suffering sigh and looked over, fixing Roderich with an unimpressed eye.
“What’re you really doing here, then?” he grumbled. “Isn’t there some party you should be off getting drunk at, like usual?”
Roderich waved a dismissive hand. “Perhaps. I’m avoiding all that this morning. Not much of an appetite for it today.”
“Aren’t they going to wonder why you’re not off…” Vash’s face soured, as though he was just now realizing how little he cared for what he was saying. “…dallying with your damsel?”
“Ah, but all the better if they miss us,” Roderich retaliated with a coquettish smile and a tactical maneuver, sidling up next to Vash and intercepting him at the wrist as he tried to take another drag from his cigarette. “That’s what they assume we’re doing, I would imagine. Dallying.”
Vash’s frown remained fixed on his face, but he didn’t object to Roderich’s fingers dancing up the silk of his sleeve, catching him by the elbow, and turning him so that they stood facing one another. He eyed the hand on his wrist dubiously.
“So you’ve left her locked in a closet somewhere, then.”
“Goodness, of course not!” Roderich laughed, finally pulling Vash in close. He relished the opportunity to lean down and murmur silkily into his ear, “Elizabeta and I each have our separate agendas this morning, so I can assure you that this is a mutually agreeable arrangement.”
He half-expected to be fought off, but it seemed that Vash really was nervous, as Francis had surmised, because instead of pushing Roderich away he only leaned into the embrace. Tossing the end of his cigarette to the ground behind him, he acquiesced to the soft kisses Roderich pressed into the top of his head as they swayed, arm in arm. Roderich smiled under the bright, warm sunlight; smiled into Vash’s light, warm hair; smiled at the two hands that landed on his waist, soft and reluctant and sneaking under his jacket, kneading into the fabric of his shirt.
Roderich pressed his lips once more to Vash’s temple, tasting all salt and stale smoke and sweet straw.
“Are you sure you’re feeling alright, darling?” he asked quietly, taking great delight in the way Vash hmm-ed as Roderich massaged his shoulders. “I do want to be confident I’m placing all my money on a winning ride, you know.”
Vash made a derisive little noise, breath warm and muffled against Roderich’s collar.
“Stupid, we’re not even close to the favorite,” he mumbled, pressing further into Roderich’s chest. “Having more money than you can spend must make you stupid.”
Roderich knew for a fact that this was Vash’s concession to his own self-doubt, and in no way justifiable to anyone who was even passively attentive to equestrian sports. Since the first win on Rook Bruckner, Vash had become something of an overnight sensation, or at least the focus of much gossip from the gutters of London all the way up—so the gossip seemed to suggest—to the newly crowned Queen Elizabeth II herself. Word was that he was being called a national treasure from Canterbury to Galway, at least if he stuck around long enough to lay any claim to it. Vash, bless his soul, basked in none of it, going so far as to decline joining the Edelsteins on their weekend trips into town for fear he’d be recognized and, God forbid, have to speak to someone.
I tolerate it, he’d said of the newfound publicity when Roderich’s father had all but dragged him to a Race Quarterly interview after the Grand National Trial, for the horses. I do this because of the horses.
Roderich could have predicted that the public would latch onto his reticent modesty with even greater enthusiasm, but Vash, who had apparently lacked such foresight, was only subjected to more of the endearment he’d tried in vain to shrug off.
In any case, Roderich was thankful for the focus on the horses, which did well enough to stave off most of the inevitable questions about Vash’s private life, which Vash as a rule would not take kindly to. Certainly, Roderich himself would rather die than have to participate in any petty curiosities over the cold shoulder Vash turned toward his unrelenting lot of swooning female suitors.
It was hard to deny their raison d'être, though; Vash did make quite the picture, after all, on his gleaming white horse, where his breeches slipped beneath those tall, glistening black boots, the bright red jacket on his back and commanding leather crop in his left hand.
Sometimes Roderich wondered about that crop, late at night. In the cover of the dark, it was hard not to imagine how it might feel to be on the receiving end of such a wicked tool in such capable and exacting hands.
“Nonsense,” he whispered, hoping Vash could feel the grin in his hair.
Stepping back to hold him at arm’s length, Roderich tilted his head with mock thoughtfulness.
“Well, not entirely nonsense, I suppose,” he continued. “But I don’t think it’s money that’s made me stupid, my darling—I’m certain it’s love.”
This time the effect was quite immediate: Vash scoffed, twisting out of Roderich’s hold and shoving him away. He ducked his head and turned his back, but Roderich didn’t miss the way his cheeks flushed, nor the way he bit his lip to stop a smile from creeping up on his face.
Emboldened by the reaction, Roderich stepped forward, catching Vash from behind and holding him fast.
“I love you,” Roderich said once more, pressing his lips to the back of Vash’s neck, feeling his shoulders soften again.
And Roderich knew Vash would eventually capitulate to that particular word, one he was so reluctant to use. That’s for people who have time to waste, he’d griped late one night, under the cover of the dark and Roderich’s bedcovers and the house staff on break after Zose Hanukkah, for people who have no real responsibilities. But in the end he’d lain back and permit Roderich to take his love anyway.
Vash turned around, then, leaning forward into Roderich’s chest once more and hooking his arms around Roderich’s waist. His face was deeply red, all the way up to his hairline, as he muttered:
“—ve you too. Idiot.”
Pleased enough with that response and wise enough not to expect more, Roderich let his eyes flutter shut and his hands wander up and down Vash’s back, still determined to rub out the seemingly impenetrable tension from his shoulders.
“Be careful, Roderich, he might slap you if you get too close.”
Roderich and Vash both started, looking up at the voice that emerged from the stable door. Vash immediately jumped back and crossed his arms defensively, and the moment was ruined, but Roderich felt a wave of relief wash over him. It was only Francis.
“Vash,” Francis addressed the jockey, “as much as I revel in seeing you enjoy yourself for once in your life in this beautiful weather, we’re due to finish getting ready. Everyone is heading to the weighing station already.”
“You don’t need to tell me what to do,” Vash shot back, ever-prepared with a petulant retort. Without further ado nor so much as a glance behind him, he marched off, leading the way back inside.
Francis smirked in Roderich’s direction, Roderich raised an eyebrow in return, and they followed Vash back into the building.
• • •
“You know,” Francis began as he leaned casually against the wooden slats, back at Edel Vice’s stall. “I used to have aspirations of becoming a jockey myself.”
Roderich rested one hand against the wall, eyes still adjusting to the darkness.
“Did you?” he asked mildly. “I’m not sure I knew that.”
“Oh, yes. I think I could have gone far, too, if I’d really tried,” Francis lamented, a melodramatic flair in the way he tossed his hair and wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. “But I could never. Unlike all these boys who have no qualms eating a perfectly good meal and then throwing it right back up—” he tossed a pithy glance over his shoulder “—I simply couldn’t bear to deprive myself of life’s greatest pleasure: eating fine cuisine.”
A derisive snort could be heard from inside the stall.
“Leck mich im Arsch. You’re lucky I take this job seriously,” came Vash’s muffled-sounding voice. “Clearly, I’m the only one.”
Vash had disappeared into the stall when they’d walked back, unsurprisingly disinterested in any small talk. He’d immediately busied himself double-checking that all the tack was in place and properly adjusted, muttering quietly in German—to the horse, Roderich hypothesized—as he went.
He glanced back toward the stall. Vash was standing face-to-face with Edel Vice, pressing his face to the bridge of the beast’s nose and rubbing its muzzle with one hand as it munched happily on the bit. He looked up at the horse’s eyes and whispered something.
Roderich had no idea what to make of his near-certainty—and even less idea what to do with the little twinge beneath his ribcage that accompanied the revelation—that Vash had just called the horse liebling.
Vash straightened up.
“Let’s go now,” he said, walking out of the stall and straightening his cap on his head with one hand, hiding any signs of nervousness and only some of his hair beneath it. He gestured with the saddle on his other arm. “And watch—we won’t be a pound over ten stone.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Francis huffed as he made for the stall, unbuckling Edel Vice’s halter from the hook on the wall with one hand and grabbing the reins in the other. Roderich caught Vash’s gaze, and he averted his eyes, adjusting the saddle in his arms as he stepped out into the aisle.
Francis followed with Edel Vice in tow. “I am counting on you to kick that mongrel Kirkland’s arse for me, today, Vash. I don’t want to see the Queen’s jockey anywhere near the front.”
At that, Vash graced them with one more scoff before turning down the aisle, horse and trainer bringing up the rear.
“Vash—”
Vash stopped short and turned back at the sound of his name. Francis suddenly looked very concerned with the horse’s bridle.
“Ah, just…”
Roderich wasn’t sure what he was going to say, nor had he planned to say anything at all, really. Vash cocked his head questioningly, a small clack-clack as his foot tapped on the ground.
“Just... be safe,” Roderich decided on, swallowing down the feeling he’d gotten watching Vash walk away and making an effort to focus on what was actually important. “That’s all.”
Vash blinked, cheeks going slightly pink. But he gave a small nod of his head, and Roderich watched the jockey, trainer and horse in tow, make their way toward the stable doors.
Roderich glanced down at his shoes, gambling on his own luck that they were still clean enough to pass for the club box, and began slowly, carefully walking back through the building.
It was time for the race.
• • •