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The sun warmed Patrick’s body as he dozed on his favorite spot on the manor, taking in the familiar the smells of freshly tilled earth and compost alongside the sounds of the chickens and hogs milling about. The slope he rested on was the only hill for miles around. The towering bleached-stone walls of the manor house were perched at the top, keeping watch over the land. Patrick rested on the southern side every day after his morning duties, as well every evening as the serfs readied themselves for bed. It seemed to him that the sun shone brighter on that spot than any other, though he could not find a reason why.

He would often lie there and look down at the thatched-roofed huts of the serfs and wonder what would have happened to him if things had not turned out like they did. If his parents had not died, would he have led a better life as a serf rather than a servant? If Lord Ardal had not taken him in, would he have spent his entire life tilling, planting and harvesting like he was born to do? If his great-grandfather had not taken the oath of serfdom, would he have known freedom, perhaps even nobility?

“Patrick!”

Patrick craned his head to acknowledge the speaker. It was a woman dressed in a simple linen dress with dark hair tied up messily with a strip of cloth. “Hello, Victoria.”

Victoria smiled at him. “Good morning, Patrick. The Lord has been looking for you. He expects his guests to be arriving very soon.”

“Who is he expecting?” Patrick asked as he shoved himself up from the ground.

“A vassal – Ryan Ross, I believe – Lord Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, and Spencer Smith, a vassal of Peter’s,” Victoria replied, accompanying Patrick as he headed toward the manor house. “I hear Lord Ross and Lord Smith have gotten into a rather heated dispute over land that they wish to resolve.”

“Well, what else would they fight about?” Patrick asked with a laugh. “Aside from money, that is.”

“Women,” Victoria offered. “Sometimes they fight over women.”

“Women that bring them money and land,” Patrick pointed out.

Victoria chuckled. “Very true.”

The pair entered the house, but before the door could close behind them, a strong hand wrapped around Patrick’s wrist.

“This way, hurry!” said Suarez, the Spanish cook that the hand belonged to. “I need your help.” He deposited the confused Patrick across from a cooked bird, explaining, “I made this duck for the dinner tonight. I want you to taste it and tell me if it tastes alright.”

Patrick tore a bit off the flank and popped it into his mouth. He made a contented noise. “It is incredible, Suarez. What did you put on it?”

The cook beamed. “Some nuts that I found at the market this morning. Are they not wonderful?”

“Yes, they are,” said a servant who was leaning in the doorway. “I told you that earlier.”

Suarez shrugged. “Yes, I know, Adam. I only wanted a second opinion.”

“Sure,” Adam said with a smirk before turning to Patrick. “Come, the Lord is waiting for us in the courtyard. The guests are going to arrive any minute.”

Patrick, Victoria and Adam rushed to the courtyard, stepping in line with the several other servants Ardal had summoned. Lord Ardal stood glaring nearby, ready to strike out at the trio, but the first carriage rolled in before he could chastise them. Adam stepped forward to help the man down from the carved wooden buggy, but he was promptly ignored. The man was shorter than Adam and much slimmer, with dark hair and skin that suggested that he was of mixed heritage. Behind the man, a tall, skinny servant with long hair slipped down from the carriage and guided the horses to the stables.

“Peter,” Ardal greeted the dark-skinned lord with a bright smile. “Good to see you again, my good friend.”

“Good afternoon,” Lord Wentz returned, matching the smile, but with many more teeth. “Spencer should be along soon; he had some pressing business to attend to at his manor. It seems that a few of his serfs have fallen ill.”

Ardal nodded solemnly at the news. “That is unfortunate indeed. It was difficult for us all when I lost a couple of my own to the Black Death all those years ago.”

A pain ripped through Patrick’s chest at the subtle mention of his parents, like a dagger he had become accustomed to shifting and piercing him anew. His expression must have showed it because Victoria reached over to pat his hand with a sympathetic frown.

“He does not think it is the Plague, God willing,” Wentz replied, removing his mantle and revealing the vibrant clothes that flaunted his noble status, “but he will be a few hands short for the spring planting nonetheless.”

“Ah. Well perhaps we can negotiate the transport of some of my own servants to assist him temporarily when we settle this matter.”

“That is very kind of you,” Wentz said with a smile. “Much appreciated.”

“Not a problem at all.” Ardal motioned at the young lord’s cloak. “Here, let one of my servants take care of that for you.”

Taking the cue, Patrick shuffled forward to take the cloak, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.

“No, it is quite alright,” Wentz protested, keeping the mantle close to his chest and leaving Patrick standing nearby, hand awkwardly extended.

Ardal’s polite façade faltered momentarily as his lip twitched in mild irritation. “I really do insist.”

Patrick lifted his eyes briefly, only meet Wentz’s hesitant gaze. He broke eye contact immediately, staring intently at Wentz’s high-cut boots. Finally, the cloak settled into Patrick’s hand, so he took the opportunity to bow nervously and hurry away.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

The house was bursting with activity as the remaining lords arrived. Servants scurried about, readying the dining room and making sure everything was perfect for the guests. Victoria stood about the kitchen as Suarez made his final preparations, biting at her lip and wringing her hands nervously.

“Stop doing that,” Suarez said, slapping her lightly on the wrist. “You are making me anxious.”

“Sorry,” Victoria muttered and wiped her clammy palms on her skirt, taking a steadying breath. “I suppose I am a little wound up. Could you not see that way he was looking at Patrick, though?”

“Who? The Lord?” Adam asked as he carved the meat off of one of the several birds being served. “You cannot expect him to be happy with us when we almost arrived late. Our tardiness would have reflected poorly on him.”

“Yes, I know that,” Victoria agreed, “but he was not who I was talking about.”

Adam looked up curiously from his work. “You mean Wentz?” Victoria nodded and returned to chewing her lip. Adam shook his head and went back to carving. “He always does that. He does not enjoy treating servants like they are stepping stools and coat hangers.”

“How does he treat his own servants, I wonder?” Victoria asked. “He must have to treat them like servants sometimes, or nothing would get done.”

“I think you would be surprised,” Adam chuckled. “They hardly work at all, so I hear, yet they say his manor is always pristine. No one is quite sure how he does this.”

“Maybe he—” Victoria began, but was promptly cut off by a frazzled Patrick spilling into the room.

“I hope you all are ready,” he said, making a hurried attempt to catch his breath, “because the Lord and his guests are just about ready to have dinner, and if we cannot get it on the table before they get there, we are done for.”

“Ready enough,” Suarez announced, shoveling tableware into Patrick’s hands. “Here, you get those out to the table before he kills us all.”

“Kill us?” Victoria cackled. “He could not live for a single day without us!”

“Maybe if we are lucky, he will choke,” added Adam with a grin.

“He really will have your heads if he hears you talking like that,” Patrick warned. “Now, stop playing around. We have a job to do.”

Patrick balanced the plates tentatively in his arms as he rushed them out to the dining hall, Victoria following close behind with silverware in hand. Voices rose in the adjoining room, and bits of conversation were carried over the clash of dishes as the servants set the table.

“That land belongs to my lord, Ross, and you know it,” Lord Smith was saying. “It is his to distribute as he wishes.”

“Your lord,” Ross replied, more than a little haughtily, “is not in formal possession of the land and therefore—”

“I have the deed right here!” Wentz cut in, irritated. “What more formalities do I need? Do you want me to have a ceremony?”

Patrick widened his eyes at Victoria, silently mocking the bickering lords. Victoria smirked, but the smile vanished as footsteps approached the hall. The servants scattered as the lords entered, and the attendants lined up across the wall awaiting orders as Patrick and Victoria escaped to the kitchen.

“Perhaps now is not the best time to discuss this matter,” Ardal suggested as they sat. “We do not want to bring strife to the table, do we?”

“Of course not,” Wentz agreed, smiling politely at the scowling Ross. “How has your daughter been, Ardal? Is she well?”

“Well enough,” Ardal replied. “She has been in France for quite some time now, but she shall be returning within the week.”

Wentz nodded politely. “That is very good news. Does she return with a suitor?”

“She does not show much interest in most of the men that have tried for her hand,” Ardal said, “but she does ask me of you often.”

Wentz smirked. “I will try not to read into the implications of that.”

Patrick returned with their food, his eyes carefully on the floor as he laid the plates in front of the lords.

“Thank you,” Wentz said as Patrick set his food before him.

Patrick glanced up, again inadvertently locking eyes with the Lord. He backed away quickly, staring pointedly downward.

“Your staff is truly second to none,” Wentz added to Ardal.

Ardal merely huffed. “They all serve their purpose.”

A heavy silence fell as the four began to eat, and Patrick tried to use the opportunity to sip away quietly but a strangled choke stopped him in his tracks.

“My Lord?” Spencer asked cautiously, carefully examining Ardal’s face.

When Patrick turned to look back, Ardal was turning red and letting out labored gasps.

Wentz was tensed and poised to stand. The attendants stood nervously nearby, glancing about, but making no move to help.

“You,” Ryan growled, glaring across the room at Patrick.

Patrick snapped to attention, eyes darting uneasily. “Yes, my Lord?”

“What have you done?” the Lord hissed. “Send for a doctor!”

“I -” Patrick started, his eyes drawn to Ardal’s swelling face. Wentz was kneeling over him, offering him water, but looking completely at a loss. “I never -”

Adam and Victoria burst into the chaos accompanied by the manor’s doctor, Ryland.

“You,” Ryan said, turning to Adam, finger pointed at Patrick. “Take that boy to the dungeon.”

Patrick’s protest caught in his throat as Adam obediently secured his hands behind his back.

“I am sorry, Patrick,” he whispered, and led Patrick away.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

There were whispers of death. Patrick had been hearing them through his prison door. No one truly knew what had happened, but Patrick knew that once he was blamed, it was off with his head. Hang him from a rope. It is the only punishment for treason. Everything was dark. His only light tricked in from a southern facing window which was little more than a slit in the wall. Outside, the manor was unnaturally still. Not a whisper of wind moved through the fields of barley. The eye of the storm, he thought fleetingly. The worst is yet to come. He stared out the window out over the land and wished for the last time that things had turned out differently.

Hours passed slowly and silently, and Patrick had begun to debate the practicality of cracking his own head against the stone wall and sparing everyone else the trouble of killing him. That was when he started hearing muffled voices coming from below. He stared dumbfounded at the dense stone floor. He was in the middle of convincing himself he had finally lost his mind when the voices came again, this time more clearly.

“…not the way to go about handling this.”

“That is not yours to determine. Keep your…”

He crawled along the floor, shackles jangling as he searched for the course of the sound. Patrick hissed in pain as the chain that tethered him to the wall reached its end and his manacles wrung his wrists roughly. He cursed and tugged the chain in frustration, only succeeding in pulling the chain taught and hurting his wrist worse.

“…Punished as I see fit…”

Patrick put his ear to the floor, the cool stone pressing against his cheek, but the effort only muffled the sound. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed, but upon doing so, he saw a spot of light trickling up from below. He followed the light to find an indent in the floor, which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a small hole in the stone. He leaned close to it and listened carefully.

“I do not doubt that you are doing what you think is best,” one of the voices said, “but I wonder if executing him is letting him off easy.”

“What on earth are you babbling about?” the other replied.

“Many would rather be put to death than endure the consequences of their crime,” the first voice rationalized. “The wise would give them those punishments, and make them as harsh as possible.”

“Are you suggesting torture?” asked the second, who Patrick assumed to be his less than gallant Lord.

“Not necessarily.” Patrick peeped through the hole to make out the speaker, but he could only see Ardal. “You must overwork him. Push him to exhaustion.”

“I have neither the time, nor the patience to do such a thing” Ardal declared, walking out of Patrick’s line of sight, “besides, I do not want him around to make another attempt on my life.” A mess of dark hair and skin and lavish clothing took his place, reluctantly following the Lord.

“Wentz,” Patrick whispered to himself and the Lord below cocked his head at the sound of his name.

Patrick held his breath as Wentz glanced around, letting it out only when the Lord gave up and followed Ardal.

“I could do it,” he said. “I will take him off your hands.”

There was a pause. “I do not know if that is…”

“I swear I will make him wish he had died here,” Wentz promised.

Another pause, longer this time. “Very well,” Ardal agreed finally. “Let us hope that you do not come to regret this.”

The voiced trailed off as the two moved out of earshot, and Patrick groaned, his stomach churning nauseatingly. He was not even sure what had happened in the dining hall, let alone who had done it, and he was now forced to suffer a fate worse than death for it. He flinched as the door to the dungeon groaned open and Patrick’s shackles were removed.

“You live to see another day,” the person said. “Wentz must have taken a liking to you.”

Patrick bit his lip and tried not to sob.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

No one spoke as the carriage pulled away from the manor. The skinny servant eyed Patrick curiously, not even attempting to be subtle. The obvious scrutiny made Patrick shift, looking anywhere but at Pete, who was staring serenely over the gardens outside. Patrick briefly considered leaping out of the window, but he knew that he would be caught in no time, so instead he mimicked Pete, leaning against the carriage wall and gazing out at the scenery as the carriage rattled along.

He watched the gardens of the manor house fade into the distance and give way to flat stretches of grass dotted by the crops and shacks of the lower class. Mud-caked faces stared up at him as they passed, half in wonder and half in resentment as they silently cursed the lords that passed through their land displaying tokens of their wealth, and envying the servants that walked the halls of a manor rather than sleep on the dirt floor of a hut.

Patrick had once been one of them, yearning to even see a castle, to witness any splendors beyond the wheat fields and rats. Now he only wanted to get out and return to the life of peace, to farming his own land, even if he was never allowed to leave it. The manors were wondrous, but they held no meaning - no beauty - when one only lives serve its master. It is empty, a façade, a roof and walls only, a constant reminder of a privilege that a lowly peasant does not deserve.

Patrick cast his eyes to the floor. He did not feel privileged. He felt like a prisoner in a luxurious dungeon with a well-dressed and meticulously groomed warden. He was a dog with a master that would think of him as nothing else than a beast, bred to serve.

“Do you miss home?”

Patrick snapped his head up, staring wide-eyed at the skinny servant who had posed the question. He glanced at Pete but the Lord had not reacted in the slightest to his servant speaking out of turn.

“I did, too,” said the servant, “but I think you will like your new manor. It has hills and cliffs and gardens and a wonderful view of the ocean… Oh, I am William, by the way. I take care of most of the cleaning.”

“I am Patrick,” he replied hesitantly, “and I am not sure what he wants me to do.”

“Neither am I.” William looked over at Pete, who shrugged passively. “I am sure we will figure out something,” he said brightly, though it was less comforting than he had probably intended. “You will love it there, I promise.”

Despite his doubtful thoughts, Patrick offered, “I have never seen the ocean before.”

William smiled warmly. “You will not be disappointed.”

Patrick returned it weakly, but winced when Pete shifted in his seat. He said no more as they slowly approached Pete’s manor.

It truly was beautiful, Patrick had to admit. Colorful flowers covered much of the lazy hills of the land, making everything seem brighter. Even the serfs seemed happier, smiling up at the carriage as they passed. Pete no longer held his stoicism, but was grinning and waving at the land workers. The carriage turned sharply and took a winding road toward the top of a hill where a castle loomed, seeming foreboding despite its cheerful surroundings.

The carriage rolled to a stop and Patrick swallowed thickly, staring down at his hands as the carriage door opened. He stepped out, eyes politely on the ground.

“Patrick.”

Patrick startled at the rough voice. He had not heard it since they left Ardal’s manor, and even then, it had never said his name. When he looked up, Pete’s eyes were shining and he was pointing past Patrick. “Look.”

Patrick could not hide his awe when he turned to see the steep cliffs that dropped straight into the ocean, their white faces battered by swelling waves that broke over the stones in bursts of foam.

“Welcome home,” Pete said, then turned to be greeted by several servants and a small, but strong-looking woman.

Patrick looked curiously about while Pete was turned. To his amazement, nearly the entire castle was surrounded by magnificent and colorful gardens, making the dark stone look slightly less imposing. He fantasized briefly about wandering through those gardens, smelling the flowers all around him. The scent so strong, he could practically taste it. His good feeling faded quickly as Wentz turned back to him, reminding him he may never get that chance.

“Patrick,” he said simply, looking him over.

Patrick shifted under his gaze. “My Lord?”

“Pete,” the Lord corrected with a crooked smile. “I will have none of this ‘Lord’ nonsense. It depresses me.”

Patrick nodded his accord obediently.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Pete?” Patrick said slowly, unsure.

Pete smirked. “Not quite as enthusiastic as I would have liked, but it will do for now.” He turned to the woman at his side. “Greta, will you show him to his quarters?”

“Gladly,” the woman said, “so long as you explain to me how exactly you came in possession of this poor boy.”

“Later,” Pete said, looking uncomfortable. “The story is long, and now is not the time to tell it.”

“I will hold you to that,” Greta promised, then touched Patrick lightly on the shoulder. “Come, it is getting late.”

She led Patrick dutifully toward that castle, humming a little bit on the way.

“Are you the Lady here?” Patrick asked as soon they moved out of Pete’s earshot.

Greta laughed incredulously. “No, I am not. Pete and I,” she shook her head and chuckled again, “No.”

“What do you do here then?”

“I sew, I tend to the gardens, and I make sure Pete does not have a mental breakdown.” She listed. “It is hard work. That last one, I mean.” She saw Patrick gaping and amended, “Well, he is not always on the verge of a mental breakdown. He is sometimes hard to understand, though.”

“No, I meant…” Patrick waved a hand, “I mean, you keep all of the gardens?”

“It is all one garden,” Greta corrected politely, “but, yes.”

Patrick was still speechless, even as Greta led him inside and into the servants’ chamber. The room was sparse, but nicer than Patrick had been expecting. There were a few tapestries on the wall, a small cupboard, and an actual bed tucked in the corner instead of the small stuffed mats he was used to sleeping on.

“Sleep well,” Greta said as she turned away, “I will see you in the morning.”

“I will,” Patrick said, glancing around the room. “Goodnight.”

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

“You bought him?”

“Technically Ardal gave him to me.”

“And you took him?”

“They were going to kill him, Greta,” Pete murmured, chewing on his nails. “I could not let them do that.”

Greta slapped his hand away from his face. “Stop that.” Pete grimaced. “You cannot just go taking young boys from other lords! How do you think that looks?”

“I was not going to -” Pete started, but Spencer stepped in.

“Is anyone else concerned that the boy actually did try to kill Ardal? We may have a criminal on our hands!”

“Did you see his face?” Pete protested, “He did not know what was happening any more than we did.”

William nodded from where he leaned on the wall. “Pete is right. I do not think Patrick is the one to blame.”

“Do you know that?” Spencer asked, “He could very well -” Greta raised a hand.

“Be quiet. He comes.”

Patrick stumbled into the room, tugging frantically at his loose linen hat. “I am terribly sorry,” he spewed in a panic, “I did not see the time and I am afraid I -”

“Do not worry about that,” Pete said, smiling sweetly.

“- may have overslept and… Pardon?”

“Do not worry about that.” Pete said again. “I would have roused you if you were needed.”

Patrick paused as his mind caught up to the words. “You did not…?”

“How about you go take a walk around the castle?” Pete suggested, his smile never fading. “This is your new home, after all.”

Patrick looked back at the door. “But I…”

“I could show you around if you would like,” William offered.

“No,” Patrick said faintly. “I think I will just…” he backed into the hall, choked by the heavy stares. He caught his breath as the door shut behind him, his mind wheeling as he walked dazedly away from the hushed conversation beyond the doors.

The more he thought, the less sense everything made. He had heard with his own ears what Pete intended to do with him, but since he left the other manor, he had received nothing but hospitality.

It was suspicious.

Were they welcoming him just to make his incoming workload seem hard? Or had Pete lied to Ardal just to save him? Neither made much sense, especially not the second. Patrick was worth nothing to a Lord like Pete.

“There has got to be a reason,” He said aloud. Patrick jumped when a reply came.

“I hope you are not talking about Pete.”

A small, tough looking man in servants’ garb crossed in front of him, looking over him with a measuring stare.

“Why?” Patrick coughed, a half attempt to cover up the crack in the word.

“Pete and Reason are not the best of friends,” the guy said. “They avoid each other as much as possible.” He looked Patrick in the eye at last and said, “You must be the convict.”

Patrick cringed. “I prefer Patrick if you would not mind.”

He smiled. “Of course. I preferred Frank myself, when I was in your shoes.”

Patrick‘s eyes widened. “When you were in my shoes? What did you do?”

“Nothing bad,” Frank assured him, his smile unwavering. “Or, not terribly so. I was caught sneaking off my old Lord‘s land and was thrown behind bars.”

“And Pete saved you?”

“No, Gabe did.” Frank smiled fondly, “Real nice guy, him. A little strange, though.”

“You mean Gabriel?” Patrick sputtered when his mind caught up. “The King?”

“Yeah,” Frank confirmed, “He and Pete are real good friends, so he handed me off to him when that drought hit three years back.”

“So you are a serf,” Patrick said, relieved to finally understand something.

“Not exactly. There has been nothing for me to do since then, really.”

Patrick buried his face in his hands. “That does not make sense at all.”

Frank clapped his shoulder. “Of course not. You are used to Ardal, who lives by the rules of a defined upper and lower class. Pete does not like that system.”

“There is a reason for that system,” Patrick said.

Frank patted Patrick’s back, “I told you, Pete and Reason do not get along. You would do best not to look for it here.”

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

Patrick’s first day at the manor was uneventful. He was not fond of this. Everything in his body told him to clean, to serve, to be ready to carry out any and all task his Lord required, but he found everything to be immaculate, and if it was not, it was being taken care of. On the second day, he confronted Pete, more or less begging for some sort of duty, lest he go completely insane. Pete only looked at him, head tilted, and suggested, “I have a vast collection of books. You may look at those if you would like.”

“I appreciate the thought,” Patrick said, trying to keep his building frustration in check, “but I cannot read.”

The fact that Pete looked genuinely shocked made Patrick want to punch him. “Not even a little bit?”

“No.”

Pete was silent for several beats. “How do you write, then?”

“I do not write either.”

“At all?”

Patrick only glared.

He spent the rest of that day much like the first.

The third day, he distracted himself by complaining to Frank. “How do you live? There is absolutely nothing to do around here!”

“Sometimes, you stay for the company,” Frank laughed. “I have friends here, and they are far from boring. Having to cook and clean and wait on people? Now that is boring. If that is the way life is over there, I am surprised no one has tried to do away with old Ardal sooner.”

“I did not try to kill him,” Patrick insisted.

Frank nodded. “Of course not.”

There was a long silence before Patrick spoke again. “Frank?”

“Hmm?”

“Who did you belong to before you tried to sneak away?”

Frank broke out in a wide grin. “Myself. But that was part of the problem I suppose. I was part of Lord Bryar’s fief before he had to hand it over to Lord Ross. I tried to sneak back across the border to be on Bryar’s land again.”

This peaked Patrick’s interest. “Why would Lord Bryar have to give up his land?”

Frank sighed. “I am not clear on the details, but I believe that Lord Ardal had helped saved Bryar’s Lord from attack from barbarians, so the land was given in payment of that.”

Patrick shook his head in wonder. “I was not aware that Ardal had an army.”

“He did not need one,” Franks said. “He has a reputation as one of the finest knights for miles around. He has since retired to a simpler life of managing land and crops.”

“Where do you hear all of this?” Patrick asked.

Frank smiled. “You just have to keep your ears open.”

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

Patrick heeded Frank’s advice and gave up on logic the fourth day. Instead, he took a stroll through Greta’s garden. Inexplicably, he felt like singing. Everything around him was so cheerily colored and it just felt natural to hum a note or two. He did not know many songs, so he settled on a crooning lullaby his mother used to sing, humming in the parts where the words escaped him. He milled about the flowers, singing and humming, caught up in the calm of the midday sun until he began to hear the breeze fill in the words where he hummed. Patrick repeated them and they fell in line with his memories, making them seem fuller. More alive.

The song came to its end, the final note hanging soft and sad in the air, lingering on Patrick’s lips long after it ended.

“Please, do not stop,” came a whisper from behind him and Patrick knew before he turned whose it was.

“Pete.”

Soft fingers encircled his wrist and directed him to a stone bench under a flowering apple tree. “Sit with me,” Pete pleaded. “Sing another, please.”

Patrick bit off the protest rising in his throat at the awe and adoration he found swimming in Pete’s dark eyes. Instead, he sang, his voice breaking on the first word. Patrick’s eyes closed as he sang and Pete’s hand fell softly on his shoulder. Patrick shivered as fingers brushed his neck ever so slightly and swallowed the next note. The song was one that Victoria taught him about a tricky mouse who loved to snatch the belongings of others and hoard them. The song closed with the mouse growing bored with his collection, so he returned everything he took. The touch pulled away and when Patrick opened his eyes, Pete was staring at the hands folded in his lap.

“Thank you,” Pete said quickly as he stood.

Patrick swallowed thickly and nodded. He sat quietly in the garden long after Pete left, his neck tingling where the fingers had grazed.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

For days, Pete was nowhere to be seen. The door to his chamber was locked and no one was permitted inside. Patrick could not help but worry. He delivered meals to his room, knocking, but with no reply forthcoming. He placed the food outside the door, only to find it untouched when he returned.

Greta told him to push it from his mind. “He gets like this sometimes,” she said, “It is no one‘s fault. It is just the way he is.”

Still, Patrick religiously placed the meals by the door, lingering to stare at the doors, a silent plea for Pete to emerge.

On the second day, lunch showed signs of picking, but little eating. Patrick was pleased until dinner came back, wholly untouched.

The next morning, Patrick stayed at Pete’s door long after he placed the food next to it. He pressed an ear to the thick wood straining to catch any sound of movement. A small rustle caught his attention, as if someone were stirring in bed.

“Pete?” Patrick asked, but as soon as it left his lips, the room went silent. “Pete,” he said again, but the room was still. “You should eat something,” he placed his palm against the rough grain, “Please.”

Patrick heard nothing for several beats but soon he heard rustling again, followed by the soft pad of footsteps. The door jerked open almost sending Patrick to the floor. Pete slipped through, closed it softly behind him and slid to the floor beside Patrick.

“Pete,” Patrick said, running his fingers though Pete’s stringy hair, “You look like hell.”

Pete snorted and laid his head on Patrick’s shoulder. Slowly, Patrick reached for the plate beside him and held it up for Pete, but Pete made no move to take it. When Patrick held up the fork and attempted to feed him, he turned his head into Patrick’s neck. The stubble pricked at his skin uncomfortably but he dared not complain when Pete was finally, finally, there beside him, alive and breathing softly against his jaw. Patrick rubbed a hand across Pete’s back, drawing a contented rumble from the lord’s throat. Softly, Patrick started to hum. Pete melted into his side with a sigh, then suddenly pulled away, leaving Patrick’s side exposed to the cold air. Pete silently stood and returned to his chamber. Patrick sat for a while longer, but when it became apparent Pete would not come back out, he left. He found the food gone when he returned.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

That night, Patrick was startled awake by the sound of someone entering his room. He jerked upright to see a dark, familiar shape creeping toward his bed.

“Who is there?” Patrick whispered, but the figure did not reply, instead inching closer and crawling into his bed, repeating the same muttered words over and over.

“I am sorry, so sorry,” it said, and Patrick know the voice well, though he had not heard it in days.

“Why are you here, Pete?” Patrick murmured, reaching out to the shadow. His hand reached nothing as Pete ducked under the outstretched and laid beside him. Patrick lowered back down to the bed, attempting to calm his spinning head and flipping stomach.

“Patrick, I am sorry,” Pete said, his coarse voice muffled by the lush pillows. “I want you to sing again.”

“Why are you sorry?” Patrick asked. “It is my duty to follow your command.”

Pete’s eyes shone through the dark as he curled into Patrick’s side. “I do not want to command you.”

Patrick pressed his lips to Pete’s forehead. “You are not.” he launched into his mother’s lullaby and Pete hummed softly along.

Soon, Pete’s voiced faded as he drifted to sleep, but Patrick still sang through the quiet, watching his face slowly relax in the moonlight. When he finished, Pete groaned in his sleep and thrashed discontentedly until Patrick sang again, the words garbled with the occasional yawn. Finally, Pete quit his tossing, clinging tightly at Patrick’s side instead.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

The next day, Patrick found Pete wandering outside his room, catching up on the business that he had pushed aside. He smiled at Patrick when he saw him.

“Good morning, Patrick,” he greeted, sounding genuinely cheery.

Patrick could not help but smile back. “Good morning, Pete. Did you sleep well?”

“Better than ever,” Pete replied, then lowered his voice as he added, “I would like you to do that more often. If you want to. I would be very grateful.”

“I would love to,” Patrick assured him. “It’s about time I contribute something to this house.”

And just like that, life on the manor drastically changed. During the day, Patrick was still free to roam, but many nights, Pete would drag him to the bedroom and ask him to sing him to sleep. He even brought Patrick out when guests were over, occasionally, and praised him until Patrick’s face burned red. Anyone with an ear to spare was told of Patrick’s greatness and it would be a lie to say that such renown did not bring much interest. Within months, the word spread, and many came from all around to hear the servant’s voice, starting with various lords and ladies passing by, to barons and dukes and, once, the King of France.

The more people that came, though, the less Pete was willing to share. He began turning guests away at the door saying that Patrick needed his rest and that there was no room to accommodate them no matter how false the story was. Patrick, who was growing less and less fond of his fame, was relieved and grateful for the break. He had sung his throat raw and his voice broke far too often for his liking, but Pete still called him forth most nights to put to rest his fitful sleep.

It was only after Patrick saw a familiar carriage hobbling up the trail to Pete’s manor, that he fully understood the price of his reputation. He burst into the castle, yelling for Pete only passing for breath when Pete stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and a cool, “Calm down, what is wrong?”

“Ardal… is coming,” Patrick gasped between breaths.

Pete bit off his soothing response and the words hit him. “He comes now?”

Patrick nodded. “He is coming… up the path… as we speak.”

Pete and Greta exchanged a glance before speeding off. They met the carriage in the courtyard just as Ardal stepped out, offering a hand for his daughter Lady Emelia. She was undeniably beautiful with her long red hair and button nose and eyes so blue they were practically transparent.

“My Lord, my Lady,” Pete called as he approached. “I am honored by your presence, but I am afraid I am not taking any guests presently.”

“So I hear,” Ardal replied, his smile seeming more like a sneer. “It is good for you that we do not seek you hospitality.”

“What do you come for?” Pete asked, though he knew and feared the answer.

This time, Ardal’s smile was real, “I hear a certain servant you acquired has been causing quite a stir.”

Pete winced. “I pray you do not come to reclaim him.”

“Not without a fair offer of course.” His grin was so sharp, Pete half expected to see fangs. “I will pay in gold, along with a quarter of Lord Ross‘s fief for wrongly accusing the boy and,” he gestured Emelia, “My lovely daughter‘s hand. What say you?”

Pete struggled to keep himself from gaping and gasping - and quite honestly, squealing - at the offer. “My Lord, that is far more than fair,” he got out finally, “but, no.”

“No?” Ardal and Greta echoed together. Greta coughed to cover her surprise as Ardal asked, “Why?”

“I already traded him,” Pete answered slowly, thinking as carefully as possible for once.

Ardal’s smile disappeared, “Where?”

“…France.”

An eyebrow rose. “France?”

“Yes.”

“For land?”

Pete’s eyes darted to Emelia, “For a princess,” he lied.

Ardal’s arms crossed. “And her name?”

Pete thought for a second. Then said, “Patricia.” Greta choked. “She is Irish,” Pete explained.

“I thought you said she was French.”

“She is an Irish relative of the French,” Pete blurted, his careful thinking falling through.

The older Lord was silent for a long while before saying, “Interesting. Are you planning to meet her?”

Greta shook her head vigorously behind Ardal’s back, her eyes wide with warning.

“Surely. She is staying here next week.”

Greta wilted.

The smile reappeared on Ardal’s face. “Good. I hope you will not mind if I stop by. After all, it is only proper to introduce myself to the future lady of my fellow Lord.”

Pete cracked the biggest smile he could fake. “I will be expecting you.”

Greta gritted her teeth as Ardal helped his daughter back into the carriage and accompanied Pete into the castle. Words of reprimand were right behind her teeth and were about to burst free until she saw that Patrick had been waiting for them right inside the door.

“What happened?” he asked shakily. “What did he want?”

Pete sapped on the false smile again. “Nothing that you need to worry about yet.”

Patrick looked dubious, but said “Alright,” and left quickly.

By the time Greta turned to yell at Pete, he had already fallen into a crouch, groaning into his hands. “What have I done?”

“That hardly matters,” Greta replied. “What is done is done. The question now is ‘What will you do?’ An Irish princess will not present herself in a week.”

“I do not think there is such a woman in the first place,” Pete admitted.

“Wonderful,” Greta said dryly. “We cannot just wish one into existence, Pete.”

“We can fake one,” Pete suggested.

Greta rolled her eyes. “You cannot fake anything. Even your fake smiles make you look like you are in pain.”

“We can try,” he insisted.

She scoffed. “How many women do you know that Ardal does not?”

“Plenty.”

“And how many are unmarried?”

Pete paused. “A few.”

“And out of those few, how many of them look even remotely Irish?”

Pete opened his mouth for a long while before saying slowly, “Hayley?”

Greta threw her hands up. “Great. We will just retrieve her from Germany within the week and all will be well.”

Pete dropped to the floor, groaning as if she had wounded him. Hand still over his face, “We are doomed.”

Greta sighed, resisting the urge to kick him. “No, we are not. Pick yourself up; you look pathetic.” Pete peeked up at her through his fingers as she went on. “We will find a woman.”

“And if we do not?”

Greta thought for a moment. “I think I can make things work.”

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

“The damned fool!” Ardal swore, kicking over a richly decorated - and obviously expensive. - chair. Outstanding, Victoria thought passively as she stood nearby, having no doubt she would have taken the full force of his anger if the chair had broken. “He lies to me!”

“I do not think he does,” Emelia commented. “He would not have allowed you to come next week if he lies.”

Ardal sneered. “He would, because he is a damn fool. He will find a woman just to thwart me.” He kicked the fallen chair again. “I will find out what he is up to, and I will ruin him when I do!” Victoria took a breath and sent a silent prayer that Pete knew what he was doing.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

“What the hell are you doing?” Pete asked as Greta sewed away at the hem of a richly-colored garment.

“I am making you a princess,” Greta informed him. “We cannot have royalty dressed in a serf‘s robes.”

“What about the wig?” Pete asked, pointing across the room at the disembodied batch of smooth, golden-red hair. “What is that for?”

Greta looked up at it, then smiled at Pete. “That is for our back-up plan. If we cannot find a woman, we can make one.”

“And who would act the part?” Pete did not like the smug look on her face.

“I figured since you wanted to keep Patrick so desperately, you would not mind marrying him.”

Instead of the shock Greta expected, Pete only looked thoughtful. It was disconcerting. “He does have an Irish look about him, now that I think of it,” he said finally.

Greta dropped her sewing needle. “You are not thinking…”

“I need to talk to Patrick,” Pete declared, spinning on his heel toward the door.

Greta pressed two fingers to her temple. “This will not end well.”

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

Pete found Patrick in his bedroom sprawled across the bed, tinkering with an odd stringed instrument he had found in the store room.

“I see you found my lute,” Pete remarked as he entered, startling Patrick into sitting up.

“I am sorry,” he said, “I did not know it was yours.”

Pete sat next to him, the corners of his mouth upturned softly. “Do not worry; I was never very good at it. That is why I put it in storage.”

“I think I am figuring it out,” Patrick said meekly, plucking out a simple tune, “but I am afraid I am not terribly good at it, either.”

“You are better than I ever was.” Pete assured him. “I am sure you will get better with practice.”

“Thank you,” Patrick muttered, ducking his head modestly. His fingers moved carefully across the neck of the instrument as he continued to strum his nameless tune.

“Patrick…”

He looked up expectantly and something in Pete’s brain detached. “Um. How high does your voice go?” There was a discord as Patrick’s hands stilled suddenly.

“What?”

“When you sing,” Pete said, choosing his words carefully, “you can hit some high notes. I was wondering if you could perhaps speak like that.”

Pete really could not blame Patrick for the blatant confusion stamped across his face. “Speak like what? In a high pitch you mean?”

“Sort of? I was thinking speaking a little…” Pete sucked in a nervous breath, “feminine.”

Patrick’s face was now completely twisted as he futilely pursued a semblance of understanding. “You mean like a woman?” Pete nodded slowly. “I have… never tried.”

Pete’s mouth quirked in mild disappointment. “Oh.”

Patrick started playing quietly again and said, “I would, though. If you wanted me to.”

The statement hit Pete like a punch in the gut. “Why? It is a completely ridiculous request.”

“It is,” Patrick agreed, “but if it makes you happy…” he let the sentence hang as if the soft notes he played would fill in the blank.

“I thought I talked you out of blind loyalty.”

“It is not blind,” Patrick said with a fond smile. “You care about me. It has been a while since anyone has bothered to do that.”

The two went silent after that, the words hanging heavy between them. Patrick played on for a while, but the rhythm slowly fell apart until he finally stopped playing.

“That part is wrong,” he said under his breath.

“It needs words,” Pete replied absently. “The syllables will give it a steadier beat.” Patrick looked up and started to say something, but Pete suddenly stood and said, “Do not trust me on that.”

Patrick’s mouth was frozen open in question even as he left. Pete was not sure if he had an answer.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

Something was wrong. Patrick could feel it in the atmosphere. It was in the way everyone looked at him. It was in the way Pete talked to him - foreign, like he knew only the sounds he made, but not what they meant. It was in the way he could not quite pin down that melody and how no words seemed to fit the song quite right. The world was in a discord somehow, and he knew that Pete knew why. Something kept him from asking, though. He though that perhaps it was his servant’s instincts not to butt into the troubles of the house, but the way Pete looked at him… He saw something protective in them, like not knowing would keep Patrick safe, so he let it go. It was two days later that Greta approached him, wrapping a strip of cloth around his waist without prelude.

Patrick squirmed. “Um?”

“Stay still,” Greta ordered, marking the cloth “You will ruin the measurements.”

“You are making clothes?” Patrick guessed.

“You will need them if you will be staying here,” she confirmed with a look that suggested, And you had best be staying here.

The look - or at least the sentiment behind it - made Patrick smile. “Of course.”

Greta returned it. “Good. I am sure Pete would be rather disappointed if you decided to leave him.”

Patrick’s smile disappeared. “He knows I would not.”

Greta pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I think that is what worries him.” Before Patrick could think too hard about the statement, Greta finished with a flourish of cloth. “That is Pete for you, though. He never thinks he is good enough for anyone or anything. If he could, he would probably raise you to nobility and swear to serfdom himself.”

“You are exaggerating,” Patrick muttered.

“Sometimes I wish I was,” Greta replied.

Patrick could only wish he knew what that meant.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

“Have you found anyone yet?” Greta asked a hovering Pete as she sewed.

“No,” Pete signed.

Greta gave him a sidelong glance. “Have you really been trying?”

Pete crossed his arms. “I have,” he insisted, “but no one seems to fit quite right.”

“No one but Patrick,” Greta said dryly. “With all you are going through to keep him, it seems like you want to marry the boy.”

“I need him around,” Pete said softly. “It keeps me sane, somehow, knowing that he is nearby.”

“Then he will be better for you than any woman,” Greta replied with a gentle smile, then said, “Good morning, Patrick.”

Pete’s eyes flicked to the doorway where the boy stood, his suddenly dry mouth croaking, “Patrick.”

“Pete,” he said tiredly, “I need to speak with you.” His eyes fell on Greta, and he smiled apologetically.

Taking the hint, Greta rose and left Pete standing nervously amongst the colorful dresses.

Patrick breathed deeply and said, “Something is wrong. You may deny it, but I have been feeling it since my former lord came.”

Pete could not meet Patrick’s eyes as he murmured, “It is not important.”

“But it is,” Patrick said stubbornly. “It has been bothering you all week. It worries me.”

Pete rubbed at his face. “Patrick.”

Patrick frowned. “You say you do not want to treat me as a slave, yet you will not tell me what I need to know,” he said sternly. “You make me a slave to your whim if I cannot know until something goes wrong.”

“It is already wrong.” Pete muttered to no one in particular. “It has been wrong since the start. I was never meant to save you.”

“But you did, and here I am,” Patrick said. “If you regret that, send me back, for I would no longer have a reason to stay.”

“I do not want you to leave,” Pete said. “Therein lies the problem.”

The anger faded from Patrick’s eye. “I do not understand.”

Pete sighed. “Ardal was impressed by your reputation and came here to get you back. The amount he offered could have bought nearly forty extra hands and possibly exceeds your worth as a possession tenfold.”

Patrick paled, but muttered, “If you intend to take the offer, I would not hold it against you.”

“I do not,” Pete assured him, “but I did not formally buy or trade you, and as a possession of Ardal’s, he may take you back at any time. As a result, I lied about trading you away, and he will be returning in two days and will expect me to have an Irish fiancé by my side.”

“How?” Patrick asked incredulously.

“I am trying to figure that out. The search for women is coming up blank and -”

“I meant, how did you manage to get yourself into a mess like this?” Patrick clarified.

“I do not think well under pressure!” Pete huffed.

“I am not sure you think well otherwise,” Patrick chuckled and fingered the lace on a nearby corset thoughtfully. “So you intend to marry?” he asked, his voice unusually melancholy.

“If it means you will stay, then yes,” Pete confirmed.

“That is completely foolish.”

“Well, I am a complete fool,” Pete said with a shaky smile. “Which is why I must ask something important of you.”

“I will do anything you will.”

Pete winced. “I know, but you will not like this.” Patrick looked up in puzzlement and Pete went on, “I need you to be my bride.”

Patrick’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “Your what?”

“My bride,” Pete said again. “You can pull it off with a wig and perhaps some make up and you said you could maybe speak…” he trailed off as the blank expression on Patrick’s face remained frozen.

It was a long while before Patrick spoke carefully. “If you ask it of me, I will do this, but I must ask you a few things.”

“Ask away,” Pete said confidently.

“First,” Patrick started, ticking off a finger, “How long were you planning on waiting to ask me?”

“I do not know,” Pete answered honestly. ”I suppose I was hoping it would go away.”

“Secondly,” Patrick went on, shaking “What in Hell makes you believe this will work?”

Pete laughed nervously. “I never thought it would work,” he admitted, “but we have to try.”

Patrick stared at him or a moment with a perfect Why would you think that? expression before continuing, “Third, why me?”

“I do not want anyone else,” Pete replied simply.

Patrick dropped his hands to his sides, coloring slightly at the last answer. “You must be some sort of crazy.”

“I am,” Pete said with a wry smile, “but you knew that.”

Patrick glanced back at the corset at his side. And yet you follow him, he thought, then said aloud, “I must be too.”

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

“God damn!” Patrick gasped as Greta collapsed his lungs with the pull of a corset string. He dropped a hand to his abdomen. “I cannot breathe!”

“Get used to it,” Greta replied, unsympathetic, “And stand up straight. It will be easier to breathe that way.”

Patrick straightened and the pressure on his lungs let up slightly, but not enough to accommodate his gulping breaths. “Must I wear this? I never -” Greta cut him off with a harsh tug of the strings.

“Yes, you must. I have to make you look like you have at least a hint of curves. Speaking of, how are your breasts holding up?”

Patrick snorted at the word choice. “They do not have a choice but to hold up,” Patrick quipped, poking at the padding for emphasis, “but they are not very convincing, I am afraid.”

The “breasts” he possessed were essentially small, hand crafted pillows designed to fill out what little swell was left in the corset. They were soft to the touch, but felt more that cotton than skin. They were, in short, a poor substitute for the real thing.

“They will be covered,” Greta assured him, holding a sweeping gown up to Patrick, leaning back to examine it. “No one will notice unless they try to touch them, and that would be an entirely different problem.”

“That is really less than comforting,” Patrick informed her, at which she just laughed.

“Do not worry so much,” she said, “Now let us work on your accent while I get you dressed.”

“I cannot help but worry,” Patrick replied, letting his voice slip into lazy vowels and hard R’s. “Everything hinges on this plan working.”

“Try a lower pitch, dear. You sound like you are trying too hard.”

Patrick made a frustrated noise stepping into the dress. “I cannot believe I am doing this. What has Pete gotten me into?”

“Much better,” Greta praised as she helped his arms into the sleeves. “And I think you will find yourself saying that a lot more often the longer you stay here.”

“Again, not comforting,” he said as Greta turned him to look into the mirror.

Patrick swallowed thickly as he looked himself over. He could still see himself in the image as his round cheeks and slim mouth remained unchanged, but long strawberry blond locks flowed around his face and across his shoulders. The delicate blue gown chased away whatever green was in his eyes, revealing bright crystalline pools.

“You look beautiful,” Greta cooed, running a comb through the wig. “Keep your accent up and no one will know the better.”

“I feel ridiculous,” Patrick said, smoothing out his skirt.

Greta only rolled her eyes. “Come, let us find Pete. Ardal will be here any minute.”

Greta tugged him by the arm and he shuffled hesitantly after, again wiping his hands on the smooth silk of the skirt.

“What if it does not work?” Patrick whispered to her, wringing his hands. “What do you think will happen?”

“Relax,” Greta replied. “It will not work if you are so obsessed with the consequences of failure.”

They eventually found Pete in the courtyard dressed in some of his nicer clothes, his hair washed and carefully brushed out of his eyes.

“My Lord,” Greta said grandly. “I present to you the Princess of Ireland.”

Patrick stepped carefully forward, studying the look in Pete’s scouring eyes.

“If you laugh, I will punch you,” Patrick said after standing awkwardly for several minutes.

“I will not- I am not-” Pete approached him and grabbed his hand, spinning him full circle. “You look amazing.” his hands dropped to Patrick’s waist, smoothing over the ribs of the corset underneath. “Amazing,” he repeated softly. His eyes inevitably landed on the swell of Patrick’s chest. A hand slid up, “May I?”

“Do not even think about it,” Patrick snapped.

Pete barked a laugh. “I am kidding,” he said, but he glanced down one more time before moving away.

Soon the courtyard doors swung open to accommodate Ardal’s elegant carriage. Patrick’s eyes dropped habitually to the cobbled ground as the carriage door opened, but a subtle nudge from Pete got his eyes up just in time to notice two figures stepping from the carriage instead of one.

“Ardal, Emelia,” Pete greeted, then tried to keep the venom from his voice as he said, “Welcome.”

“Peter,” Ardal returned. “Lovely day, is it not?”

“Looks like rain,” Patrick commented casually.

Ardal gave a questioning glance and opened his mouth to rebuke, but Pete interrupted with a loud laugh.

“My lord,” Pete said with a grin, sweeping an arm across Patrick’s shoulders, “My betrothed, the beautiful Patricia.”

“Patricia?” Patrick scoffed, low enough for only Pete to hear. “You are honestly no more creative than that?”

“Just go with it,” Pete said through his teeth.

Ardal stepped forward and dipped into a sweeping bow holding out his hand expectantly. Patrick paced his hand in his compliantly, nearly wincing as Ardal kissed it. “I am honored, my lady - Pardon, your highness.”

Patrick snatched his hand back, resisting the urge to wipe it on his skirt in disgust. “Charmed.”

Emilia offered no greeting, only a spiteful glace as she as she approached Pete. “It is unfortunate that you were forced to wed this way, all over some criminal slave prodigy.”

“A prodigy that your own father has his eyes on,” Pete reminded her venomously. “You would do well not to insult him.”

“He is right, darling,” Ardal agreed, “More importantly, you insult the circumstances in which this princess blesses us with her presence.”

Pete’s fingers threaded with Patrick’s as he said, “It is a shame you could not have heard his voice, highness. It was certainly something to hear.”

Patrick squeezed Pete’s hand. “It must have been.”

Pete gave him an adoring smile, then went back to conversing with Ardal about some political manner or another when a movement by the carriage caught Patrick’s eye. William was busy freeing the horses form their ties, but there was another servant - a woman - helping him. She turned around, and Patrick recognized her immediately. Victoria!

He slid in closer to Pete, suddenly afraid he would be recognized. His shoulder bumped with Pete’s, eliciting a curious look. When Patrick did not acknowledge him, Pete let go of his hand in favor of splaying his warm fingers across Patrick’s lower back. Patrick’s heart was racing now, and his restricted breathing did not seem to be enough to support him. Pete was still talking, but was throwing concerned glances at Patrick. Victoria continued her work, oblivious.

“Your highness,” someone said, drawing his attention. His head snapped up to find Ardal smirking victoriously. “What do you think on this matter?”

Pete’s jaw tightened. “I do not know if-”

“I agree with Pete,” Patrick interrupted.

Ardal raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why is that?”

“From what I have seen, Pete seems to know what is best for his people and his land,” Patrick explained. “I trust him unquestionably.”

A shadow passed over Ardal’s face as Pete beamed shamelessly, adoration gleaming in his eyes. “Of course,” the older Lord muttered, successfully deflected.

The four headed inside shortly after, Patrick glancing back to where Victoria stood earlier only to find that she had gone.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

By dinner, Patrick had nearly reached his breaking point. He had been practically interrogated by Ardal for almost an hour straight before Pete finally diverted his attention, he had been buried in abhorrent glares from Emelia all damn day, and on top of it all, he had to pretend he was not dying as Pete attached himself to his side, aiding his corset in suffocating him slowly. He could not even find the capacity to eat, though he was painfully hungry because his stomach had no room to extend without collapsing his lungs entirely. He had to get out of the room before he imploded, so he excused himself politely, explaining in Pete’s ear that he had to “extract my ribs from my goddamned lungs” and hurried into the hallway.

Breathing quickly and swearing, Patrick braced himself against the wall, arching his back in an attempt to alleviate the pressure on his chest. His very bones ached as he slowed his breaths and traded shallow gasping for deep gulps.

“Are you alright?” someone asked him.

His head snapped up in shock, but he was relieved to be rewarded with a familiar face. “Victoria!” he cried, enveloping her in a hug.

“Patrick?” she gasped, shoving him back at arm’s length. Patrick bristled when she burst out laughing.

“This is not funny,” Patrick snapped, his face burning.

“Sorry,” she apologized, but her laughing hardly let up, “What did they do to you?”

“I would explain,” he replied, “but I think I am suffocating and I cannot get the back unlaced.”

“Hint taken,” she said, holding back the giggles. “Turn around.”

Once he was freed, Patrick slid to the floor, beckoning Victoria to sit beside him. He explained at length everything he knew about what happened, which was admittedly not much. Still, after he finished, she nodded as if she understood.

“None of this makes sense to me,” Patrick groaned, jealous of her comprehension.

“It does not make sense to me either,” Victoria confessed with a shrug, “but the simple fact that you are willing to go to these lengths to stay with Lord Wentz must mean you care about him very much.”

Patrick smiled softly at the mention of Pete. “He is…” he shook his head. “He is confusing. I like him, though. He is good to me.”

Victoria rested a supportive hand on his thigh. “That is good. You deserve that.” She sighed, “Was life with us really that bad?”

Patrick blinked. “What?”

“I mean, was it so bad at the manor that you did not want to come back to see your friends?” Victoria clarified. “So much that you would resort to this?” She waved a hand at Patrick’s long blue gown.

“Ardal tried to kill me,” Patrick pointed out. “This has nothing to do with how much I wanted to see you again.” Patrick grabbed the hand resting on his thigh and squeezed. “I am glad I was able to.”

Victoria leaned over and kissed him quickly on the mouth. “As am I,” she said as she pulled away.

A shadow fell over the two of them before Patrick recovered from the initial shock. He looked up to find deep brown eyes staring down, not at him, but at Victoria.

“Pete,” Patrick started to explain before slowly realizing he had nothing to offer.

“I came to check on you,” Pete said, not taking his eyes off Victoria, “but I can see that you are busy.”

Guilt twisted in Patrick’s stomach as Pete turned a numb look on him. “Pete…”

“Patrick,” he returned, his tone bitter. “Just be careful that no one sees you.”

Pete turned on his heel and departed stiffly.

They sat in silence for several beat before Patrick finally muttered, “I should get back to dinner.”

Victoria nodded, standing with him to lace him back up.

“He is not usually like that,” Patrick said after a while, as much to himself as Victoria. “He is just sensitive.”

“If he treats you well, I do not care how he acts toward me,” she said simply as she tied the laces at the top. She turned Patrick around and looked at him sternly in the eye. “Be sure to visit us once all of this is over.”

“I will try,” Patrick promised, pulling her into a hug.

“Good luck, Patricia,” she mocked as she pulled away. Patrick made a face at her before wandering back into the dining hall.

“Ah-hah, you have returned!” Ardal remarked upon seeing him. “Your betrothed has just invited us to your wedding next week, and I was hoping to discuss some plans with the two of you.”

Patrick’s teeth clenched. “I was not aware the ceremony was to be held so soon.” he hoped that his hard glare at Pete would translate the “so soon” to “at all”.

If Pete noticed, - or cared - he did a great job of hiding it. Patrick knew Pete could not act that well.

“I figured we should get it done as soon as possible.” Pete said with mind-bending nonchalance. He stood and practically sauntered to Patrick. “We would not want you to go back on your part of the deal, now would we?”

Patrick resisted taking a step back when Pete slipped in too close. “This is not about the deal,” Patrick noted.

“Of course not,” Pete replied, and pressed his lips softly to the corner of Patrick’s mouth.

Patrick blinked slowly at him, venom on his tongue as he said, “Whatever you wish, my lord.”

He took mild satisfaction in Pete’s cringe.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

Patrick withdrew to his room at the end of the night in an attempt to avoid an inevitable second encounter with Pete. He started to undress, not realizing the futility of that avoidance until a second set of hands was helping him out of his corset. He let out a resigned sigh as Pete pulled at the laces, realizing he could not have done it himself. The corset came off in short order, but the hands did not stop. Patrick’s stomach twisted uncomfortably as Pete’s rough fingers smoothed over the pale skin of his shoulders. They lowered to run across the red imprints where the corset’s ribs dug into his skin and Patrick stepped away.

“I hope it did not hurt you too much,” Pet said, his sympathy genuine, but he was clearly not concerned with the subject.

“That should be the least of your worries,” Patrick replied, sharper than he had intended. “You should be worried about inviting someone to a ceremony that will not take place.”

When Patrick turned, Pete’s mouth was pressed into a thin line. “The ceremony will take place. Greta and I have already made plans to…”

“I do not doubt you have one planned, but it will not take place,” Patrick interrupted. “A marriage ceremony is official and irreversible in the eyes of both the kingdom and God, and I tell you now that I will not be bound to you in that way.”

Pete’s expression flickered from anger to hurt and back again. “Then maybe I should send you back so you can be with your strumpet,” he spat meanly. “She obviously means more to you than your freedom.”

“What if she does?” Patrick snapped, his face burning. “You cannot take that from me, no matter what you do.”

A snarl ripped from Pete’s throat and suddenly Patrick’s bare back was slamming into the wall.

Despite his shock, Patrick surged forward and sent Pete sprawling onto the bed. “What the hell are you trying to do anyway?” He seethed, his hands twitching at his sides. “Are you trying to put some sort of claim on me?” Pete did not even look at him, but the set his jaw spoke in spite of the silence. “Get out,” Patrick hissed. “Get out and do not come back.”

Patrick fully expected Pete to snap back, to strike with his tongue like a verbal snake, but instead he pulled himself weakly from the bed and stalked out of the room. Patrick fell to the bed, resisting the wracking sob that threatened to rise in his throat. The best friendship he ever had was in shards at his feet all because of a simple, impulsive kiss that yielded no emotions. No spark like when Pete’s fingers threaded with his, or when Pete tucked him close at his side.

A tormented scream bounced off the walls as Patrick sent a pillow flying across the room only for it to land on the discarded gown on the floor.

A fire burned in Patrick’s chest as sleep overtook him. Everything was about to change.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

“There is something off about that woman,” Emelia commented as they rode home, “but I cannot place it.”

Victoria did her best to hide her knowing smile as Ardal said, “I have told you, Peter is trying to keep the boy for himself. There is something off about this entire arrangement, I will wager.”

“If the boy is still in his hands, then we can find him,” Emelia suggested. “Somehow, we can find a way to look for him.”

The carriage pulled up to the manor and they filed out, only to find Lord Ross standing in the courtyard.

“I have found a flaw in his planning,” Ross said triumphantly. “There is no princess of Ireland.”

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

Pete woke for the second time in the three hours of sleep he managed to snag and it was clear he would not be drifting off again. A grey light filtered through the window as the sun struggled through an overcast sky and soft singing came from beyond his door. He groaned as he stood, stretching as he shuffled toward the door, vaguely recognizing the tune as one Patrick made up one day as he milled about the castle. He was not surprised to find Patrick on the other side of the barrier, cutting off his humming to stare seriously up at him.

“I am not here to apologize,” Patrick said quietly, “but I do not want you to hate me.”

Pete sighed. “I will never hate you,” Pete admitted. “I want to right now, but I cannot.”

The bravery in Patrick’s eyes wavered and his head ducked on instinct. “I…” he started, then lifted his head and steeled his expression. “I want us to stay friends, Pete. You did this to keep us together. Do not let it tear us apart.”

“Friends,” Pete echoed, turning the word over in his mouth. He felt more bitterness in it than he thought there should be. “Yeah, let us be friends.”

Patrick stepped closer smiling cautiously. “May I?” he asked quietly before pulling Pete into a careful hug.

Pete almost protested, but his mind kept a better grudge than his body, which chose to melt into Patrick’s arms on contact. He returned the hug, tentatively wrapping his arms around Patrick’s torso. Patrick started to pull back a while later, but Pete only tightened his grip.

“Who was she?” He asked, voice low.

Patrick pushed at his chest to look him in the eye, but Pete held firm. Finally he sighed in resignation and replied, “She was a friend from the old manor. Trust me when I say I feel nothing for her.”

Pete loosened his grip, allowing Patrick to step back. “But you kissed her.”

“She kissed me.”

“You let her.”

Patrick huffed and looked away, tellingly silent.

“Why do you care?” Patrick asked finally.

It was a good question. “I did not want you to get caught,” Pete said, though he knew that was not the answer. “They would take you away if you did.”

Patrick sent him a doubtful look, then looked past him toward the window. “You should get ready for the day. It is far too nice to stay inside.”

Pete turned, catching a glimpse of the separating clouds and the unhindered sunlight spreading across the floor. Pete smiled for the first time in what felt like days. “You must have brought out the sunshine.”

“Yes, I was keeping it in my pocket for you,” Patrick said dryly. “Now get dressed. We have a wedding to plan.”

Pete could not help but beam.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

Pete was rather shocked at how Patrick took charge of the wedding plans. He worked with Greta to coordinate the color of the flowers to the décor of the manor’s chapel and gave her directions on the specifics of the dress.

(“If I have to wear a corset with that, I will cut my own throat.”

“But it gives you such a nice figure!”

“No!”)

He badgered Pete to invite everyone he knew, which was unexpected because Pete figured Patrick to be the small wedding kind of person.

“I am,” Patrick responded when asked, “but I figured a noble should marry like one.”

Pete knew that Patrick was probably referring to him, but the idea of Patrick being a noble made Pete’s heart flutter a bit. He wanted more than anything to be an equal to Patrick, to shed the ridiculous master/servant relationship. He had briefly considered declaring serfdom to Gabe, but that meant not only sacrificing his manor and abandoning his vassals, serfs and servants, but there was the possibility that Patrick would be relocated elsewhere and Pete would never see him again. He did not know if he could handle that.

Pete spent the whole of two days watching in awe as Patrick and Greta worked away and going about his normal routine with an air of contentment and glee.

“One would think it was actually your wedding,” Frank commented at one point.

“It will be the only one I have, this is as real as it gets,” Pete replied seriously.

Frank raised an eyebrow on that. “How can you be sure of that? How do you know you will not fall in love? And besides,” Frank added, chewing his lip, “Who will be the heir to your manor if not your children?”

Frank regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth because he saw the wheels turning in Pete’s eyes.

“Children?” Pete echoed absently.

“Pete…” Frank warned, but Pete had already turned abruptly and ran off to find Patrick. He sighed. “Poor kid.”

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

“You can get her pregnant!” Pete shouted without prelude when he found Patrick resting in the garden.

“What?”

Pete just barreled on, ignoring the lack of comprehension in Patrick’s eyes. “I can buy your lover off of Ardal and you can get her pregnant and then we can pretend you are with child - Greta can do that, right? With the padding and all? - And then we can have children!” Pete slowed down long enough to breathe before he asked, “What do you think of that?”

“You are absolutely out of your mind,” Patrick said incredulously.

“Probably,” Pete agreed.

“Look,” Patrick said, making room for Pete to slide onto the bench beside him, “I am agreeing to marry you because Victoria said that I must really care about you if I am willing to wear a dress for you.” Patrick let out a heavy breath. “She was right. You are my best friend and I am willing to do what I can to help you, and I do not know if you know this, but you do not actually want me to father anyone’s children.”

“How would you know?” Pete asked defensively.

Patrick gave a wry smile. “Because you do not want to think of me like that with anyone. It was all over your face when you caught us kissing.”

Pete opened his mouth to respond, but closed it quickly when he saw Greta rushing toward them, looking panicked. “Greta, what is wrong?” Pete asked, her panic rubbing off on him.

“You need to go,” she panted. “Ardal just showed up and is coming inside. I need you to distract him.”

“Goddamn!” Pete swore, then sprinted toward the manor.

He saw Greta grab Patrick from the corner of his eye, hopefully, he thought, to take him someplace to hide. He prayed - for the first time in a long time - that it was not too late and that Patrick had not been seen.

He slowed when he spotted William leading Ardal at a glacial place to the garden, Emelia in tow.

“My lord,” William called as he approached. “The gracious Lord Ardal and his daughter have blessed us with their presence in this joyous time to lend hands to our labor.”

“That is gracious indeed,” Pete replied, but he knew better because there was a smugness pulling at the edges of Ardal’s smile.

”I have with me my finest workers: Alex Suarez, my chef, and his preparation crew with Victoria Asher, whom I am sure you remember from the last time we met.”

Pete refused to give him the satisfaction by wincing. “Of course. How could I forget?”

Ardal’s toothy grin made Pete feel like he was about to be devoured. “Also, if you do not mind, I would like to keep a watch over my servants in the time that they spend here. You have a spare room I trust?”

“Several,” Pete replied with a grimacing smile of his own.

“Good. I am looking forward to my time spent here.”

“My lord,” William interjected quickly, eyes darting, “Why don’t you show our guests to the garden?”

Pete froze. As far as he knew, Patrick was still in the garden. “No, I-”

“Actually I am quite interested in seeing the garden,” Ardal cut off, sensing Pete’s discomfort.

Pete gritted his teeth, vowing to punch Ardal in the nose the very day that chivalry was no longer needed.

“Very well,” he said and turned on his heel.

The garden was blessedly empty when they arrived.

“It is a lovely place,” Ardal said, disinterested.

“Greta tends to it herself,” Pete stated proudly. “It is Patricia‘s favorite part of the entire manor.”

“She tends to the gardens as well?” Ardal asked, eyebrow arched.

“She does not dirty her hands with such lowly activities.” Pete said haughtily, apologizing slightly to Greta in his mind. “She enjoys finer activities.”

“Such as?” Emelia huffed.

Pete beamed. “She makes music.”

“Of course she does,” she grumbled and turned away.

“Sorry I am late,” came a voice from behind them. Pete spun to find Patrick dressed in full costume.

“Patricia!” Pete greeted, trying not to sound too surprised.

“Good of you to finally join us,” Ardal said, his daughter sneering behind him.

“I am sorry,” Patrick apologized with a curtsy. “I had a long night.”

“I hope Pete did not keep you up,” Emelia said suggestively.

Instead of starting the blushing and sputtering Pete had come to expect, Patrick only pasted on a smile and replied, “Quite the other way around, actually.”

As Pete watched the blood drain from Emelia’s face, he fell a little bit in love. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Patrick’s temple, pulling him closer to his side.

When Pete led them inside to show the guests to their rooms, he whispered to Patrick, “You are amazing, did I ever tell you that?”

“The last time I sang, actually,” Patrick answered, “but it never hurts to hear it again.”

“I love you,” Pete announced and led him inside

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

“I seriously cannot take this wig off to sleep?” Patrick asked on frustration later that night. “It itches,” he complained, rubbing his hand over the scalp.

“Greta says it is only a precaution,” Pete replied, shedding his overcoat.

Patrick watched the movement, swallowing thickly. Because they had guests, Patrick was forced to share a room with Pete to uphold their charade. It would be suspicious for the Lady of the house to retire to a servant’s quarters. The problem was not that Patrick disliked Pete, but he was uncomfortable with the way he could not help but stare at Pete as he pulled his shirt over his head, baring himself shamelessly.

“We cannot risk someone walking in on you without it, come morning,” Pete went on, oblivious to Patrick’s blatant gaping. He did notice when Patrick did not answer and turned, eyebrows raised. “Patrick?”

Patrick looked away, face burning. “You are right.” Patrick agreed, his tongue feeling dry and heavy in his mouth. “We cannot risk that.”

“So, Ardal brought your friends,” Pete said conversationally as Patrick was desperately trying to convince himself that the wall was more interesting that Pete dropping his breeches. “Are you glad for that?”

“Yes, Suarez will be very useful for the wedding feast.”

Pete smiled softly to himself. “I meant that you get to see them. Did you not miss them?”

“A little,” Patrick admitted, “but I am happy here.”

Pete snorted. “I am sure you love to live with a needy lord who makes you wear a dress.”

“I do not have a problem with the dresses. I have a problem with the corsets,” Patrick said, turning to see Pete thankfully dressed in his nightclothes, “but that does not mean anything.”

“How does that not mean anything?” Pete asked incredulously.

“My last lord tried to kill me,” Patrick pointed out, “Your dresses can not beat that. I would much rather be with the one who is trying to marry me than the one who wants me dead.”

“That seems like sound logic,” Pete said with a smile, crawling into bed, beckoning Patrick to join him.

Patrick climbed in next to him, sinking into the soft mattress and laying his head on the plush pillow. He had always liked Pete’s bed. During the days he still sang Pete to sleep, he would sit on the edge, marveling at the softness of it and wondering how Pete was unable to sleep on it. Already, Patrick’s eyelids were getting heavy, but Pete still sat upright, tracing patterns in the bed sheets.

“What are we going to do?” Pete wondered out loud.

“Mmm?” Patrick responded distantly.

“After the wedding,” Pete clarified, “What happens?”

“According to you, we have children,” Patrick said jokingly, but Pete remained serious.

“We cannot keep pretending forever,” he said.

“Sure we can,” Patrick assured. “It is not ideal, but we can make it work.”

Pete frowned at him. “Someone will find out one day, Patrick, and the day that happens, everything we worked for will be lost.”

“What is it that we are working for, Pete?”

The question hung in the air for too long and Patrick was soon fast asleep.

“I just want you to be safe,” Pete whispered finally, then slid under the covers.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

Patrick woke to Pete thrashing in his sleep. His face was twisted and his mouth was open like he was screaming, but the only sounds that came out were strangled gasps. Patrick reached around him, placed his hand on a sharp shoulder blade to steady his flailing, and began to sing softly.

Pete tensed at first, but his muscles slowly relaxed under Patrick’s fingertips. The thrashing had stopped, but there was still a twitch in Pete’s limbs like he needed to be closer. Patrick pulled him in, rested Pete’s head on his chest and held him there, stroking his hair until sleep took them both.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

To Pete’s relief, Greta was the one to wake them up. His relief quickly turned to annoyance when she relentlessly mocked him for waking up curled around Patrick.

“Have a good night?” She teased when Patrick was changing in the other room.

“I had trouble sleeping,” Pete defended indignantly, “And besides, we are supposed to act like we are getting married.”

“You two could not act more married if you tried.” Greta said. “In any case, we have much to do today, so hurry up and get ready.”

Patrick returned moments later asking for Greta’s help with lacing up something or other. Patrick caught Pete staring and offered a shy smile. Something in Pete’s chest fluttered at the glance, and he smiled lovingly back. Perhaps Greta was onto something.

After she left, the two stood alone in silence, Patrick adjusting his dress carefully. “Suarez has quite the feast planned for us, I hear,” he said.

“I hear that Victoria’s been quite a help as well,” Pete said stiffly, a wave of jealously hitting him.

Patrick froze, frowning deeply. “Pete. Please do not act like that.”

“I will act how I choose,” Pete hissed.

Something washed over Pete then - a familiar feeling of dangerous impulsiveness, like an urge to ruin the only good thing he had - that had him grabbing Patrick by the chin and pressing their lips together. Patrick’s head snapped back at the sudden contact, but Pete broke away muttering, “You let her, let me.”

“That is not-” Patrick started, but was already on him, kissing him chastely.

Patrick was not sure why his mouth opened against the assault and Pete was not sure when his tongue sipped between the parted lips, but soon Patrick was being pressed against the door jamb, acquiring odd shaped bruises along his back as Pete licked into his mouth and suddenly there was nothing chaste about the action.

Pete’s body was pressed so closely to Patrick that his knee was wedged between Patrick’s legs in order to keep balance as he nipped Patrick’s lower lip.

“Pete,” Patrick gasped, unsure if he was supposed to be warning or encouraging.

It did not matter much because Pete jumped back, shocked and disturbed by his own actions.

“I think I should leave,” Patrick said shakily.

Pete deliberately looked away from Patrick’s lost eyes and swollen red lips. “I think you are right.”

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

The day of the wedding was frantic. Greta was rushing all over the castle making last minute arrangements and sending Victoria to take care of some errands. Patrick tried his best to stay out of the way, plucking at Pete’s lute in their room. It felt so natural under his fingers, with its smooth wooden frame and sturdy strings. He found it interesting that the only thing that felt real to him now was something of Pete’s. Something that he discarded after boring of it.

Patrick wondered fleetingly if maybe Pete might do that to him someday – simply toss him aside when he got bored of him, as if he were some sort of plaything. He shook the thought away. He knew that Pete wasn’t like that. Pete cared about him, and he cared about Pete, perhaps more than anyone else in his life.

He loved Pete. There was no denying it now, not when his heart ached whenever Pete came near, or when he melted into Pete’s embraces, or when that white hot bolt flickered through him as their tongues slid together. He loved Pete and, though he could not deny it, there was little use in admitting it.

A knock at the door roused Patrick from his thoughts, and he rushed to answer it. He was eager to speak with Pete, but he did not want to confront him until they both were ready. To his disappointment and surprise, it was not Pete on the other side. A hand grasped his arm and pulled him roughly from the room.

|-|-|-|-|-|-|

Pete paced in his chamber, wringing his hands to keep himself from tearing off his wedding garments and telling everyone to go home. The guests were there, though, Gabe included, and there was no going back now. Patrick had not spoken to him at all in the days leading up to the ceremony, just as Pete’s mind finally allowed him to think what he had been suppressing since the day in the manor gardens, when Pete first heard his voice. Patrick hated him. Of course he did, because Pete was stupid and impulsive and so hopelessly in love, and Patrick had every right to be angry.

Pete groaned loudly and flopped onto his bed. Moments later, there was a knock on his door. He almost screamed for them to go away, but his sense of propriety won over.

“Come in.”

The universe clearly hated him, too, because when the door opened, Ardal spilled in with Patrick in one hand and his wig in the other. They are quickly followed by a panicked Greta, a smug Emelia, and Gabe. Pete wanted to cry.

“I am so sorry, Pete,” Patrick blurted. “He grabbed me before I could stop him. I was-”

“Silence!” Ardal roared, jerking on Patrick’s arm. “You have no place to speak here.” He turned to Gabe and went on, “This wedding is a fraud designed to rob me from what is rightfully mine.”

The silence that followed was murder, all awaiting Gabe’s words.

“Is this true?” he asked finally, and all eyes turned to Pete.

Pete opened his mouth to lie, but he saw the pleading look in Patrick’s eyes and a wave of resignation came over him. “Yes,” he said.

Betrayal and fear flashed through Patrick’s eyes at the answer. Pete looked away.

“Patrick?” Gabe asked, to everyone’s surprise, “What do you say of this?”

Patrick lowered his eyes and answered softly, “I do not want to go back.”

“It is not his choice!” Ardal protested. “He is my property, no matter what his thoughts are.”

“You were going to kill him for something that was not his fault!” Pete spat back. He lowered his voice. “If I had not taken him, he would have been murdered.”

Gabe looked thoughtful, then turned to Patrick. “Did you ever agree to marry Pete?”

Patrick shifted, confused at the change in subject. “What do you mean?”

“Did you agree to this, or did Pete force this wedding upon you?” Gabe repeated.

“I agreed to this,” Patrick said hesitantly, turning his eyes on Pete. “Pete would not force anything upon me.”

“Then he no longer belongs to you, Ardal,” Gabe said simply. “The boy has agreed to marriage and is therefore bound to Pete as his betrothed.”

“I did not approve this arrangement!” Ardal reddened, but he released Patrick’s arm. “He cannot be betrothed to a man!”

“No one needs to approve besides the two involved,” Gabe shot back. “And Lord Wentz may be betrothed to whomever he chooses, so long as they go through with the arrangement.” He looked meaningfully at Pete. “But do remember, there is no going back. If you wed him, you are wed for life.”

Pete squared his jaw and nodded. “I intend to go through with it,” he said, then dropped his gaze to Patrick, “but I cannot decide another’s fate for him.”

Patrick closed the distance between them quickly and kissed Pete, closed-mouth and sweet, but he pulled away before Pete could react. “My fate is in your hands, whether you want it or not,” he whispered. “I wish to marry you, but my freedom has little to do with it.”

“Patrick,” Pete said weakly, but the right words fled his mind. Instead, he kissed him, eliciting a surprised noise when he pressed his tongue to Patrick’s lips. His mouth fell open as he responded with his own tongue. Pete’s thoughts blurred until he forgot they were not alone.

They finally broke apart, flushed and breathless, when Gabe spoke, a smug grin crossing his face. “I suppose we have a wedding to attend,” he announced, ushering Ardal and his daughter form the room.

“I thought you hated me,” Pete muttered, pressing his forehead to Patrick’s, close enough to make them go cross-eyed. “You never said anything.”

Patrick pulled away and buried his face in Pete’s shirt. “You never gave me the chance.”

Greta rushed up to the pair, taking both of them into a cramped hug. “You two are absolutely crazy, but I hope you know what you are doing.”

Pete grinned. “When have I been known to know what I am doing?” he said, and kissed Patrick once again.