Chapter Text
Lake Windermere, Cumbria
August 1816
It was a dark and stormy night–
Well, Henry thought, lips pursed. Not particularly.
It wasn’t all that dark, being only half-past three in the afternoon, but it was stormy as tea time approached. A thunderstorm, black and wild, was rolling down over Claife and Low Wray. The rain drove in sheets against the windows and sides of the cottage, the racket nearly rivaling the crackling fire in the hearth. Wind battered the shutters and roof tiles, shook the juniper trees in the small garden, and carved impossible curves into the surface of Lake Windermere.
Henry put his pencil to his lip and pulled his banyan robe closer about his shoulders. At least he was inside, he thought. Tucked in his small library in his family’s lakeside cottage instead of out in the wind and the wet. At least, he reasoned, there was a merry fire, and good tea, and a loyal hound resting at his feet. Creature comforts, that was true, but when one quit London for the solitude of the Lakes District, it was best to not take certain things for granted.
A single decisive line, he struck out dark and stormy night .
He could come up with a better line. He knew he could or – more accurately – he hoped he could. His writer’s mind was vexing him, stubbornly uncooperative even after months of combating it. Henry had chosen to make his living as a writer, and he’d been damned good at it since leaving Oxford. He’d gotten a printer – Ware – to take a chance on his poems and short histories, even a little treatise on all the English flora in Shakespeare’s works started by his mother, finished by him and his sister-in-law, and illustrated by his sister. His brother, admittedly, had done half the business deal on Henry’s behalf but it had stuck.
Henry had delivered, consistently, for three years. It had been luxurious, how the words flowed – as if all nine of the Muses were trading places holding his hand as he wrote. Suddenly, it had dried up. Cut off, withering on the vine, Henry’s head spun with too many stories and none of them would make it to paper. No roots found purchase, the galing winds blew them away.
Ware had given him a deadline, an ultimatum nearly. Henry couldn’t hardly blame him. If he didn’t have something substantial by October 1st, their contract would be null and void.
Henry couldn’t afford to start over, sweet-talking publishers all over England. He could afford to not write, but his health couldn’t take the strain of unrealized plot lines and poems and prose. The lack of words drove him to distraction. The unrooted thoughts kept him up nights. He overindulged on most things, hoping something would kick in. He had run away to the countryside, desperate to see if the Peaks, the cooling water, and the fresh summer air would cure him.
But, this was no summer.
This was cold days by fireplaces when there should be balmy blue-skies. The greyness crept in like so much cinder and frost danced on the window glass most mornings. His summer linens remained packed away while Henry relied on thick broadcloth and heavy lined silks. July had been traded away for deep autumn. Smoke hung in the skies over the remains of Sumbawa, across the world in the southern seas. The whole of Britain was seeing a year with no summer.
Henry Fox, tucked away in his cottage with half-formed plots, wondered if ash could fall through the air like snow.
Henry had quickly learned how solitary a bunch the Lakes Poets were and, not minding much, endeavored to be more in their ways. Tempered, secluded, almost ascetics in their isolation. Nearly monk-like, if Henry wasn’t fully aware of their distinct lack of chastity, temperance, or abstinence. Still, like the anchorites of old, they enclosed themselves — only somewhat metaphorically — and wrote as though the final Fate would snip their life’s thread the very next moment.
It was invigorating, the constant of concentrated focus.
At first.
Then, the energy waned, dimmed, then faded altogether. Then the ideas began to dry up, and the threads he had spun wouldn’t bind. Then, in rare moments in their company, Henry saw how much of this life was aesthetics, airs, carefully crafted parlor vignettes for those around them. All of it was, in Henry’s eyes, nearer to blunt vanity than anything else.
Perhaps that discovery would have been heartbreaking to Henry’s unfortunate romantic heart — if he hadn’t met Michael Holleran first.
It had been an accident, their crossing paths along the craggy shoreline of Windermere — Henry taking David out for a run in the heather, Michael simply taking a walk — but Henry often wished it had happened sooner. Perhaps it would have spared him the agony of attempting to emulate Coleridge, Southey, and the Wordsworths.
Michael Holleran was altogether different, damn near refreshing compared to Henry’s lot. He was a jovial older gentleman, still social from years of entertaining clusters of the London elite for decades but as partial to thoughtful quiet as Henry was. He hunted for interesting plants on long walks, trailed after hunters to observe the red deer rather than hunt them, and bought rounds at the village pub as often as he hosted quiet dinners with his family. Holleran’s writer’s retreat was truly a country house; his wife, Rosalie, and their few grandchildren were present in its rooms and gardens. He thumbed his nose at the ilk of the Lake School writers, but had taken a shine to Henry.
Henry quite liked him. Liked his humor and observations. Didn’t mind how Holleran littered their weekly walks with short lectures about moss, fungi, local rabbits, and whatever else they came across along the way. The man was a lauded naturalist, the head of East London’s Linnean Society, had spent his younger years touring Scotland, Wales, Ireland, and the continent, writing his massive treatise on wildflowers. Henry had told him that his father had had a copy, tucked onto his desk alongside a book of constellations.
He liked the rest of the Hollerans too — the whole family. Rosalie, the mistress of the house, and their granddaughter, Nora, who was a more permanent fixture than her cousins. They laughed and teased more than simply talking, were thoughtful with one another, presented gifts and tokens often. They had pulled Henry into their fold, Rosalie having determined him to be not lonely but alone in the world, and Henry was still trying to parse out the difference.
She insisted he attend their Seder dinners, and Henry considered it an honor to have been invited at all. He had stayed the night after many of them, having overindulged on the generously poured red wine. The first time, he’d been terribly embarrassed, only to be reassured it was a foregone conclusion and he should strengthen his constitution for the next one.
Rosalie always had a guest bedroom made up for him, no matter the time of day. Henry would let his guard down, reminded of every happier memory of his own family. Michael would clap him on the shoulders the following morning as Henry nursed a headache, teasing him for his own misery as Nora, his granddaughter, lobbed cheeky comments across the table.
Henry always accepted their invitations, whenever they arrived. He would turn down an audience with the Prince Regent if it conflicted with one of Rosalie’s salons or a pub night with Michael, Nora, and Percy Okonjo, his best friend.
Tonight was a simpler affair. A more casual gathering of friends to raise spirits with drinks, parlor games, good conversation, and a generous, delicious meal. Nora had invited Percy Okonjo, Henry’s only friend and one of her favorite additions to gatherings. Rosalie and Michael had both insisted David, Henry’s constant beagle companion, attend as well. He was currently sat politely in front of Michael, tail swishing against the floors as he waited excitedly for a bit of chicken.
Henry was settled next to Mrs. Holleran at the card table, a glass of brandy in his hand. She preferred Henry on her left and Percy on her right while playing Whist, insisting they were a pair of good luck charms against the whiles of her daughter-in-law, Esther. They were happy to indulge her. Henry had just raised his glass to his lips when he felt the air shift.
Just a fraction. Merely a hair, a half-note, and no more.
He should have thought more on it, pondered the sensation. He should have let himself dwell on the sudden awareness for a moment longer. Instead, Henry let his gaze turn to the newcomers and let his conversation falter irreparably.
Esther covered her snicker with the few cards in her hands. Rosalie was not so demure, laughing fondly at his expense. She patted his shoulder. “Oh dear. Nora owes me a half for the look on your face.”
“Pity the poor boy, Rosalie, look at him!” Esther giggled.
Pez was snickering as Henry blinked back to the moment. A hot flush rose in his cheeks as he cleared his throat, swallowing a too-large mouthful of brandy. “Pardon?”
“No pardon necessary, dear,” Rosalie sipped from her wine glass and squeezed his hand. “You aren’t the only one. Fascinating creature, isn’t he?”
Henry took another sip from his glass, attention already drifting and tongue half numb from the alcohol. “Indeed.”
As though he hadn’t stumbled over his own tongue in spite of his firm grasp on the English language. As if he best friends in the known world weren’t finding his awestruck expression funny. As if he hadn’t just laid eyes on the most beautiful man in Christendom, then promptly forgot his mother tongue.
The man on Nora Holleran’s arm was, in a word, beautiful. In another, surreal. Never mind the young woman accompanying him. Henry took one glance and decided he must know him — personally, biblically, whatever the universe would allow if it decided to be so kind to him.
He was a stranger, broadly and strongly built; his form obvious under his clothes. Dark eyes and fanned lashes caught the glint of candlelight like jewels. Warm brown skin glowed like the bronze of the gods, aided by gold jewelry banding his neck and wrists, studding his ears and fingers.
Henry had to take the whole of that in, piece by piece, before he could catch the stranger’s clothes and the further oddities therein. He’d never been mesmerized in his life before, but knew this must be the same sensation overcoming his brain.
Embroidery littered his shirt with bright flowers and vines, the fineness of the linen on full display. He wore no stock or cravat, the collar of the fine shirt left to gape at the man’s throat, showing every tendon, hollow, and curve. There was no waistcoat to speak of, no jacket either; all and sundry replaced by a colorful length of woven cloth worn like a sash about his narrow waist. He wore a pair of navy breeches and riding boots that might have gotten him sneered at in any other setting, but altogether the impression was startling, enthralling, undeniably handsome.
“Who is he?” Henry breathed, the words meant for no one in particular.
Esther answered kindly, if pityingly. “June Claremont and her charge, Gabriel. Nora met them on her most recent trip to London and brought them back for a jaunt in the country. Miss Claremont is an American. Her charge is quite the mystery.”
Henry blinked. “Mystery?”
Rosalie hummed and nodded. “She’s his translator, dear. Communication takes time, but is worthwhile.” She laid down a few cards then motioned for Percy to take his turn.
“He doesn’t speak English?” Henry asked, realizing only after how stupid it sounded.
“Spanish, dear,” Rosalie supplied. “Nora said that Miss Claremont told her he’s the illegitimate son of a priest and an Aztec princess. Might be a prince in his own right, if there was anything left to rule over.”
“Fascinating,” Pez answered with a tricky smile.
“Fantastic,” Henry murmured.
“I’m glad you think so,” Rosalie mused, a smile pulling at her features.
The man moved with Nora through the room, greeting guests. Strangely, Henry noted, but only from the eyes of British society. Fully genuflecting to the ladies, lifting their hands to kiss the backs of their hands and a smile. Bowing to the gentlemen, the deepness of which showing off the curve of his backside. Henry half thought about stepping out for some air.
Some guests seemed surprised, others nonplussed until the man moved away then revealed their confusion. In truth, the displays were sweet and effusive, perhaps a bit childlike but only because Henry couldn’t imagine being so openly affectionate past the age of ten.
I wonder why we stop , he thought idly, his played his hand. “Why is that?”
“Because they’ll be staying with us again I imagine,” Rosalie replied. “And I believe you’re sitting next to him at dinner.” She traced a finger over the cards in her hand, then made her next move. Henry could see the ancestor of Nora’s own impish smile in her features. “Unless you mind, Henry?”
Henry shook his head. “I don’t mind at all. Not in the slightest.”
“Good. Percy?”
“Hmm. Oh.” Pez laid down a few cards, haphazardly at best, then flashed a grin in Henry’s direction. “Just remember, Hazza, anything you might want to say to that man has to pass through translation first.”
“What on earth do you think I’ll be saying to him, Pez?” Henry smirked, ignoring the flush growing under his collar.
“Something salacious, no doubt,” Pez snickered. “Don’t you think, Essie?”
Esther smiled demurely, primly laying down and collecting a few cards. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re referring to, Mr. Okonjo. Mr. Fox here has only ever been the epitome of grace and politeness.”
She grinned wickedly as Percy laughed. Rosalie held a hand over her mouth to hide her own laughter.
“Come off it,” Henry chuckled, cheeks pinking. “I’m the very worst sort of rake, and you know that as good as I do.”
The ladies laughed harder. His best friend sloshed his wine over his wrist and cuffs. Their little tableau caught the attention of a few others in the room, but Henry couldn’t be arsed to change course. It was all teasing, all joking. He’d never considered himself funny, only witty, but he very much liked making his friends laugh.
“Don’t tell me I’ve been missing out on all the fun?” Henry glanced up from his cards and his brandy to Nora Holleran’s wry smile. Her new friends lingered just behind her, dark eyes catching the flicker of candle flames in them.
Henry grinned up at her. “Oh, not at all. Just besmirching my character and name, same as every card game.”
Nora clicked her tongue and shook her head. “I thought my grandmother would know better.”
“You should know better,” Henry laughed. “All Percy. Your gran was just helping.”
“And what about you, Esther?” Nora teased.
Esther laid her cards down on the table, regarding her husband’s cousin with a warm smile. “I’ve been defending our dear Mr. Fox as vigorously as I can. It isn’t my fault that he keeps siding with the aggressor.”
Nora chuckled. “You’re far too smart for us fools.”
“I’m aware,” Esther snickered, veneer cracking away to reveal a bright smile. “Whatever would you do without me?”
“Be convinced that I’m a scourge upon the earth, scandalous in the utmost, and entirely incurable of the habit,” Henry replied quickly, then straightened up. The card game was well and truly forgotten. “Perhaps some introductions are in order, Nora?”
“Mmm, you are correct.” Nora stepped aside to make room for her two companions. “Henry, Pez, I’d like to introduce my new friends, Catalina Claremont and Gabriel Diaz. Catalina, Gabriel, this is Mr. Henry Fox, our resident man of letters.”
Henry rose to his feet faster than Pez, extending his hand to the young woman first. She smiled prettily at him, but her features conveyed another depth to her – more than simply pretty or polite . A precise intelligence turned over in her gaze, ghosted her smile as she laid her small hand on Henry’s palm.
“It’s very good to meet you, Miss Claremont,” Henry said, clasping her hand in both of his. He didn’t bend to kiss the back of her gloved hand – he preferred not to confuse his intentions – and felt her studying him closely for it.
“June, please,” she answered, her voice curling up at either end in an accent implacable to Henry’s ears. “Nora called you a cousin. I don’t see the likeness.”
“That’s because there is none,” Henry replied. He pulled away, glancing at Nora. “We aren’t family, only very good friends, for which I’m very lucky.”
Nora hummed. “Good that you know it.”
Henry rolled his eyes fondly. “Of course I know it. Did you think it escaped my notice, how you took pity on me in my isolation up here, then convinced your mother I was worth something?”
Nora waved her hand in the air, turning towards June. “Don’t listen to him. He always talks badly about himself because he likes the quiet and doesn’t know how to make friends properly.”
“That’s perfectly accurate,” Henry chuckled.
“I’m sure,” June mused. “Our meeting in London was quite similar, and I am very glad for it.”
Before Henry could answer, Pez was nudging him over to make June’s acquaintance as well – leaning far more into flirtation than Henry would dare to, even with someone he was interested in. He shifted, finding himself directly in front of the unusual man with his glowing gold accessories and thread garden growing across his shoulders.
Gabriel Diaz , Nora had said, pronouncing his first name with an emphasis Henry was unused to hearing. He was more arresting up close – all moth-like eyes framed by unfairly long lashes and warmth radiating from his body. Henry nearly swallowed his tongue as he forced a smile, stomach flip-flopping at the beauty of him. The cut of his shoulders and waist, the way his breeches only served to highlight the muscles of his legs. Diaz wasn’t the tallest man, but he made up for it in presence, in strength. Henry wanted so badly to reach out and touch, just to be sure he was real.
“H-Hello,” Henry managed, then remembered the man didn’t speak English. He flushed hotter under the collar, then tried again, holding out his hand and smiling broadly, welcoming.
The smile was returned in spades, Henry’s heart fluttering at the sight of it. Diaz looked him up and down, lips pressed into a smirk as he landed on Henry’s outstretched hand. He took it, weighing it more than shaking it. A breath later, he bent at the waist and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the center of Henry’s palm. He peered up at Henry, entreating and endearing. Henry felt heat bloom in his cheeks, hot and prickling under the skin.
He could hardly summon words, let alone the dizzy smile he knew now graced his features. “Oh. Well. I, erm–.”
“ Gabriel .” June appeared at Henry’s side with an admonishing tone. Gabriel straightened, head tilted in confusion at her. “ No los caballeros, sólo las damas. Recordar, manito? ”
Gabriel nodded, pulling his hand away from Henry’s with a sheepish smile. If his manner had left Henry stumbling, nothing could have prepared him for Gabriel’s voice. “ Se me olvidó. Lo siento, señor.”
“He says he’s sorry,” June quickly said, laying a hand on Henry’s arm. “He’s still learning, you see. I hope you’ll be patient with him–.”
“It’s no trouble, truly,” Henry rushed to soothe her worry. “I wouldn’t manufacture offense where there would never be any.” He still smiled, willing the flush to calm itself. “I’m certain he only meant it kindly. Please, no apologies are necessary.”
June demurred, then spoke back to Gabriel – translating Henry assumed. When Gabriel replied, June only nodded before turning back to Henry. “He appreciates your forgiveness –.”
Gabriel cut her off. “ El azul de su abrigo hace juego con sus ojos. ”
“ Estas seguro?” June frowned.
“ Sí. Díselo, Catalina .”
“ Ah, bien, ” June sighed. “He wants you to know your coat matches your eyes.”
“Pardon?” Henry blinked, stomach swooping low again. At that rate, he might not be able to eat dinner for the unsteadiness of his guts. “My coat?”
“The blue,” June clarified. “The blue matches your eyes.” She patted his arm then pulled away. “He meant it as a compliment, Mr. Fox, I assure.”
“I’ve no doubt,” Henry replied with a shaky breath. He could feel Percy and Nora watching him; could feel Rosalie and Esther listening in while continuing their game of Whist without them. He smiled at Gabriel, knowing it was all he could do to not squirm where he stood. “Call me Henry. I insist.”
“Henry,” the young lady repeated, a brimming relish in her voice. “I’ll be sure to.” She nodded to the card table. “We won’t keep you from your game.”
“You could,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t mind it, either of you. Nora knows that.”
“There will be time later, I’m sure.”
“Yes, there will be. I, erm. I look forward to talking more over dinner.” Henry held his breath a moment, leveling his gaze at Gabriel. “Would you do me the honor of joining me at the table?”
Something flickered in June’s expression – a knowing, a suspecting, something deeper Henry had lost the vocabulary to name. Still, she relayed his words to Gabriel, who grinned and nodded. Henry didn’t need to look at Percy to know how gone his heart already was.
Rosalie Holleran was withholding his greatcoat. “You are not going out in this. I forbid it.”
Henry sighed, giving up his fight a second after Pez. It wasn’t worth it. She was far more formidable than either of them in the best of times. “We wouldn’t want to be a burden–.”
“ Hush .” Rosalie passed their coats back to a waiting housemaid, who rushed back down the corridor with them. “You are family. There’s hardly anyone else to keep the guest rooms prepared for.”
“What about your guests?” Henry tested. “Gabriel and Catalina–.”
“We’ll share,” Pez over-ran him, slinging an arm around Henry’s neck. “You know us well, Madam Rosalie. Give us a pillow and a blanket and we’ll make ourselves comfortable on the library floor.”
Henry rolled his eyes, but Rosalie merely shook her head. “The dramatics are unnecessary, Percy, but I appreciate your willingness. Nora’s parents’ room – the pink bedroom – is open, and I insist you make yourselves comfortable. David as well.”
“Yes ma’am,” Henry answered. “I imagine you’ll find David with Michael. I haven’t seen neither hide nor hair of the little beast since I arrived.”
“Then I shall fear for my leftovers,” Rosalie said. “My husband would squander the chicken for the affection of that dog, Henry, I do hope you know that.”
“I do, and I’m unfortunately the same. Why I take him with me on all my walks.” Henry stepped forward out of Pez’s grasp to wrap the older woman in an embrace. “Thank you. I promise, only until the weather clears enough for David and I to walk home.”
She returned the embrace tenfold. “You’ll stay until I say so. I refuse to write to your mother for the first time only to tell her you’ve frozen to death on my watch.” She pulled away and patted Henry on the cheek, then shot Percy a motherly smile. “Go and settle in, dears. We’ll have brandy in the drawing room a bit later.”
“Thank you, Rosalie. We’ll be sure to join you.” Pez came up even with Henry again, subtly tugging the back of his cutaway jacket. He was as sincere as he ever was – which was to say very genuine – but knew Henry’s anxiety wouldn’t allow him to break away from the lady of the house.
“See that you do.” She smoothed the front of her dress and pulled her cashmere shawl closer around her shoulders, glancing at the windows. “Snow in August. Who had ever heard of such a thing?”
“Once in a lifetime, I imagine,” Henry murmured.
Percy nodded. “We’ll take our leave for the moment.”
They wandered to the upstairs of the country home, silent for most of the walk. Pez hummed lightly, seeming unbothered by their spate of poor luck. Henry chewed his lip nervously, wondering why he hadn’t gone home earlier, when the flakes were thin and charming.
He should have taken Esther’s cue, bundling her husband and tiny son up before sending one of the house servants for their gig and pony. The crowd thinned in varying degrees to how far afield their homes were, but Henry hadn’t paid it any mind. A little bit of snow was a bit odd in August, but not catastrophic. He could walk home in the morning, no harm done.
Christmas in summer , he had thought, how novel .
Now, he was stuck, despite being able to see his cottage from the Holleran’s scrubby back lawn – just there across a few of Lake Windermere’s many small coves. If only the path wasn’t steep, rocky, and fiddly on the best of days. If only Rosalie didn’t know that as well as Henry. Then, maybe, he might have been able to sneak out, risk the walk, without her chiding him about getting lost, falling into frigid lakewater, and freezing.
“Cheer up, Hazza,” Pez said, lilting and cheery, as he pushed the door open to the pink bedroom. “It’s just a spot of weather. You’ll get back to battering your notebooks soon enough.”
Henry frowned and followed him inside. “If only it were going that well.”
It had, at one time, been occupied by Nora’s mother, and the room bore the remnants of her – framed dried flowers, a delicately painted shelf filled with well-worn fairytales, a porcelain figurine of a cat, and a washing up basin too small for one grown man, let alone two. There was, at least, a decent sized bed and good downy quilts to make them comfortable.
“Oh, are we moping?” Pez asked slyly, brow arched.
Henry made a noise but didn’t answer.
“Oh, we are moping.”
“Don’t start. It’s already a miserable enough endeavor.” Henry propped himself next to one of the windows, sliding the drapery back with two fingers. “I’m wondering truly if I’ll ever have a proper idea again, or if that whole section of my brain has dried up.”
Outside, night had fallen behind the spread grey clouds, casting the land of the Holleran’s home in velvety blackness. There were no stars, no moon to be seen, yet the surface of the lake still seemed to twinkle. Snow fell thick and slow, piling up on the ground like the layers of a brick wall. Henry chewed his lip, determined to be irritated with it. Still, he had to admit it was lovely looking – idyllic were it December and not August.
Pez flopped down onto the bed with more grace than should have been possible. “I’m certain it hasn’t, whatever shred of comfort that might give you coming from me.”
“Some.” Henry cast him a grateful smile. “It’s just irritating, feeling so useless.”
“Perhaps not useless , but…” Pez thought for a moment. “Overtaxed? Maybe?”
Henry rolled on the wall just enough to look at him. “How do you mean?”
His friend rolled his eyes. “You write constantly , Henry. All the time, all day, just to keep up with someone – I’m not sure who.” He took in a slow breath. “Might your mind need a break from itself?”
“I’ve never had to, it’s never been necessary, I–.” Henry exhaled, closing his eyes and crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t know how to even if I tried.”
“So it makes more sense to keep thrashing at the walls until something breaks?” Pez asked.
“Yes.”
“What if you break the wrong thing?”
The question gave Henry pause, touching on one of his worst fears without any effort at all. He pressed his lips together, scrounging for some sort of rebuttal. He came up short at every turn, then resolved to not answer. His silence was as good as confirmation between him and Percy.
“You need rest,” Pez declared. “Rest and brandy.”
Henry smirked. “Are you a physician now?”
“I could be.” Pez grinned.
“Lord help us all.”
“The Divine has nothing to do with it, and you know it.” Pez pushed himself up off the bed, rounding the foot of it to join Henry at the window. “You know I’m right, Henry. Rest, a bit more booze, and maybe the wide eyed attention of a handsome foreign man.”
Henry rolled his eyes, letting himself be steered back towards the door. “Come off it.”
“I shan’t. He seemed rather taken with you at dinner.”
“Hardly. Don’t exaggerate.”
“I only exaggerate when I’m right.” Pez shoved him into the corridor. “And I’m nearly always right.”
Henry smirked. “Need I remind you about Somerset–.”
“You need not.” Pez’s nose curled up at the memory. “Though now I’ll need a good bit of something to rid myself of the memory before bed. I won’t let that affair ruin my time.”
“Ruin your time?” Henry arched a brow at him. “Am I going to be subject to some fondling? I thought we left your fifteenth birthday as a bad job all around.”
Pez rolled his eyes. “As delightful as you are, no. Demonstrably not you.”
“Should I be offended?”
“Of course not. Just disappointed you aren’t as engaging as Nora and her new friend.” Pez winked. “But. Put in a good bit in the drawing room here, and maybe your pert arse won’t go the weekend unappreciated.”
Henry opened his mouth to argue, but Pez had already taken off for the stairs, laughing all the while. Henry shook his head, laughing, knowing he could take his time. Pez would be waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him, he already knew it.
The hours had ticked by under the haze of good alcohol, games, and the warmth of a fire kept happily crackling in the hearth. Rosalie had taken up her embroidery as she listened to June and Nora speak to one another, Pez sat cross-legged at their feet. Michael read in his chair next to the fire. David had found his way back to Henry’s side, allowed up on the sofa to snooze in his owner’s lap.
Gabriel was sprawled on the carpet, an arm’s length from Henry’s shoes, basking in the heat wrapped in one of Michael’s banyans – one Henry had borrowed on several occasions. Henry did his best to listen to the conversation, sipping his spirit while petting David, but his gaze kept drifting towards the man. It felt inevitable, the staring, the wonder. Strange and beautiful things were meant to be appreciated, he reasoned. Besides, the man’s eyes were closed as he lay on his back, oblivious to Henry’s lack of restraint.
They’d sat side by side at dinner. June had sat on Gabriel’s other side, sandwiched between him and Pez. Some words had passed between them, in translation, but many more passed without. Henry couldn’t make any meaning out of Gabriel’s Spanish, and he imagined his French wouldn’t help the matter any. But there was more that could be said between two people beyond the realm of letters, Henry knew, and the pair of them had reached a kind of understanding. Or, at the very least, Henry felt he had between shy smiles, pointing gestures, and calming breaths after Gabriel licked sauce from one of his fingers. The man ate neatly with his hands and, though Henry could hear his gran screeching etiquette in his head, he had never been so enthralled.
He was enthralled again. It seemed safe to say he would be so for the duration, for however long this man’s and his lives were collided. Henry was at peace with that. Maybe he’d write love poems instead of histories.
“Since we’re in such fine company,” Michael began as the fire crackled and the wind blew. He stood, book folded in his hands, as he addressed them in velvet banyan and slippers. “I’d like to propose a challenge to you all.”
Rosalie paused her stitching for only long enough to smirk at her husband. June and Pez exchanged a look as Nora grinned catlike. Even Gabriel, sprawled on the floor as he was, blinked back awake and turned his face towards Michael. Firelight caught the ends of his lashes, and Henry’s heart fluttered under his ribs.
“Challenge?” Nora leaned forward in her chair.
“Challenge indeed.” Michael smiled indulgently at her. “Seeing as we are bound up together for an indeterminate amount of time, and with so many of us gifted in the art of language–.” He glanced from Henry to Percy to June. “Perhaps we can entertain ourselves with story, the way the ancients did in the grips of a dark English winter.”
Everyone else seemed to lean forward. Henry felt his heart drop nervously, David pressing loyally against his stomach. He kept his hand moving in even strokes down the beagle’s back, hoping to keep his distress from his face. He felt the prickle of eyes on him. Lowering his eyes, he found Gabriel’s gaze on him, steady and curious, when no one else’s was. Henry let his own settle there, neither of them blinking or pulling away as Michael talked.
“Whether we are all here tomorrow night or not, I propose each of us write something to perform for the rest,” he continued brightly. “A story, a history, song or verse, whatever your heart desires. We’ll finish them up by dinner tomorrow night, gather here again, and present.”
“Challenge indeed, sir,” Pez said with a grin.
Nora matched it. “Challenge accepted, grandfather.”
“Perhaps I’ll stay to my embroidery, dear,” Rosalie mused with a glitter in her eyes. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not one bit, neshama ” Michael replied. “But, the children always requested your fairy tales before mine. If you find yourself with something, I know we’d all love to hear it.”
Rosalie preened a moment. “I’ll think about it.”
“ Gabriel ,” June began, and the man’s eyes pulled away to her. He sat up, one leg stretched out and the other bent in the air, and listened to her. He nodded, grinning, and replied in kind. Henry would have been content to listen to their back and forth.
“Henry,” Michael called to him, an expectant smile on his face. “My fellow novelist, what say you?”
Henry cleared his throat and smiled weakly. “I would say yes, let’s. Nothing’s nicer than a good story.”
“Couldn’t agree more, lad.”
“I suppose paper and pencils are in order.” Henry swallowed tightly. He clicked his tongue and rose from his seat, David hopping from the cushions alongside him. “Perhaps some more brandy, as well?”
As he went for the door, looking to at least use his notebook and pencil as props, Henry found himself caught in the sights of the man on the floor. Dark and wide, taking him all in, leaving Henry’s heart beating rabbit fast and a flush rising up his throat. He was rolled over onto his belly, arms crossed under his chin, leaving images of panthers, lions, and wolves flashing through Henry’s mind. That man, with no curved claws or sharp teeth to bear, could have pounced on him, knocked him to the floor, and devoured him whole – and Henry knew he would let him, would submit fully to his soft parts metaphorically being torn to ribbons.
Slipping out into the dark, chilly corridor, Henry took a breath before moving towards the staircase again. He was lonely, he realized, with nowhere for love to go.
One by one, they trickled off to bed.
Rosalie first, then Michael not long after. Pez yawned and bid them goodnight, flashing Henry a grin that said he would not be in their shared bedroom at all that night. Nora and June went next, them sharing Nora’s bedroom; June pausing only for a moment to whisper into her charge’s ear. Nora pressed a kiss to his temple, telling him not to stay up too late that night.
Henry clung to his notebook as they departed, suddenly aware of the newfound emptiness of the room. Once clustered with many, it was now only the two of them. David snuffled on the floor in front of the fire, tail thumping in the grips of dreams. Henry struggled to put one word in front of another on his page. All the while, Gabriel laid on the floor, watching him with slow-blinking eyes and head tipped curiously.
“Just us then,” Henry said, voice quivering lightly in the face of those eyes running up the length of him. He tried to turn back to his notebook page, but the messiness of scrawled ideas crossed out roughly hurt his head. “Although, you’ve not a clue what I’m saying, unfortunately.”
Gabriel blinked at him, a smile pulling at his lips. “ Te entiendo, cariño .”
Henry blinked, stomach gone funny again. “See?” He smiled weakly. “You could have told me to bugger off just now, but I’ll never know. Not without your, erm, companion with you.”
“ Eh, lo dices .” The man pulled himself up onto his knees, sitting back on his ankles with his thighs spread wider. He ran a hand through his dark curls, shaking them out as he rolled his shoulders. He caught Henry’s stare and grinned mischeviously. “ Te gusta, amor? ”
Henry’s breath caught. “Oh. I know that one. Ah-amore?”
“ No .” Gabriel moved closer on hands and knees, coming to rest at Henry’s feet. He leaned against the sofa, chin tilted up towards him, looking as inviting as ever. He waved a finger between them. “ Ah. Mor. Amor. ”
Henry repeated it, the words coming out flat and almost listless. He flushed. “Oh dear. I don’t know if I–. That roll with your tongue? I’m not–.”
“ Otra vez,” Gabriel said, undeterred. He rolled up, sitting higher up, hands coming to rest on Henry’s knee. “ Intentrar, Otra vez. Andale.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Henry whispered. He was a bit awestruck by the proximity, more so than he had been at dinner. From there, he could see the dust motes of light in Gabriel’s eyes. He could smell the salt on his skin, the faintness of spices – turmeric, cinnamon, coffee, sugar and rose leftover from dessert. Henry could feel the heat from his palm, the fineness of his linen shirt; see the gloss on his lips where he had licked them, and could barely breathe for it.
Gabriel turned a finger in the air. “ Otra vez. ”
Henry fumbled. He held up a finger. “Once more?” Gabriel bit his lip and Henry knew he was gone. He stumbled over every syllable. “ Amor . Is that–? It sounds flat, honestly, I–.”
“Bueno, amor .” Gabriel grinned, pressing closer.
There, pencil limp in his fingers and story long forgotten, Henry heard the comma between the words. The slight shift, the intake. An endearment, he realized; an endearment for him . This man with his unguarded mannerisms and rich voice, the rumored son of a priest and a princess, was watching Henry as though he were desirable and saying love over and over. Henry tried to shake himself, sure he was imagining it. He’d been sleeping badly, was up late at night now, and it only made sense for this to be a wonderful, heartbreaking illusion.
It wasn’t. It was all too real.
Henry learned that – flushed and flustered – as Gabriel slid up beside him, bracketed his hips with strong arms, and kissed him. Fully, wholly, soft and warm on the mouth. Tasting of ginger, rose, sweetness, and something that could only be him .
Henry broke this kiss for breath, mind reeling from simpering emotions flooding his senses. Those dark eyes still shone. That grin still had a hook in him. His broad hands were gentle on his hips, and Henry smiled.
He raised a hand in the air, twirling his finger in a circle the same way Gabriel had. “ Otra vez ?” he asked, hoping it meant what he imagined.
Gabriel grinned, nodded, and pulled Henry right back in. Right back under.
His journal and pencil dropped to the floor beside them, consigned to oblivion.