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Chapter Text

"I tell you, he moved me to tears! Noah the Jew was in the box next to mine, and he was weeping even more than I." David put his cup down in emphasis.

"Noah weeping at a song is no rare thing." Wesley smiled, as the Jewish bravo's softness for music was as known as the hardness of his steel. Rumor, which he never refuted, praised the hardness and readiness of his weapon in love as well as war.

"But my tears are." He raised his voice as he saw their friend Blaine. "Come over, slugabed, I must tell you of Radamisto and of Hummel's triumph."

"Did his performance meet his reputation? Wes says such a thing would be impossible."

"That and more. Range, power, beauty, and a face and figure most would find fetching. Our Wes must experience this voice for himself."

"I fear that the drama of his story gives his singing more glory than it merits, that is all."

"I know nothing of his story, so tell us all." Blaine sat down and signaled for coffee.

"He was the son of a widowed carriage maker near Napoli. The Duca di Mantua heard him singing when he was still only twelve years or so. The Duca had him stolen, leaving some gold in compensation, and the boy was castrated." Wes paused to swallow more of his coffee and let the suspense build.

"So it was involuntary, poor boy. Stolen from his home."

"They say that after the operation, he caught fever,as they often do, and was near to death. The mad Englishwoman Susanna Sylvester passed the school where he had been taken and heard his cries for his father as he lay raving. They were so plaintive that they moved herheart and she found the father, who had already come to Mantua in search of his son. She forced the Duca to reunite them and let the boy live with his father."

"La Sylvester? The same virago who runs the school for dancers here in Venice?" David stared.

"The same. The father would have killed the Duca, regardless of the consequences to himself, but she prevented him while he was even still planning, telling him his son would suffer even more greatly. The boy finished music school and made his debut in Hasse's Artaserse. His fame grew and his father married again. Hummel's new brother, himself a fine singer, overheard the Duca in his cups laughing that even when the knife cut him, his very shrieks were pure and clear and beautiful. His brother challenged him for mocking Hummel's agony and killed him."

"So Hummel lost his brother as well?" Blaine leaned forward, his eyes dark with pity.

Wes shook his head. "No, that is the first story that makes fools claim that Hummel is the modern Orpheus. The stories say that before his brother was to be condemned, Hummel went to the judge and pleaded. He sang Antigone's aria of the love for a brother and the judge was so moved that instead of death, he exiled the entire family from Mantua, which was hardly a penalty. Cynics say that Hummel offered more than song, that he offered gold and his own fair body, which no man or woman had touched before, and it was these that succeeded, but the story is that it was the song."

Blaine nodded firmly. "I prefer the story as you first told it. A corrupt judge is no marvel, but a voice that can save a brother from death itself, that is truly extraordinary."

"The family went to Rome where he first sang for Handel and then followed him to Venice. He sang in a few concertos but only those in private homes, until last night at the opera, where he moved our David to tears."

David laughed. "I heard that he moved La Bella Mercedes to violence. He performed at a concert to which she was invited and they spent much time thereafter talking and singing. She professed her love, which he refused, and she hurled a brick through his window in her rage, that the woman that Venetians all but worship would reject her."

"Now that I refuse to believe," Wesley laughed. "A man, whole or no, who would reject her must either be mad or dedicate his love to Adonis instead of Venus."

"Nobody knows which it is with him. They say he is proud and cold with all save his family and La Bella Mercedes, whose friendship he regained, but whom he has yet to love."

"It would be difficult to blame him, poor man."

"Poor man?" David chuckled shortly at Blaine's pitying face. "He has fame and wealth now and legions of admirers."

"But never to be a whole man, to be taunted and mocked as much as he is admired, always to have laughter ringing in his ears as much as applause, and for some clerics to call condemnation on him for what was done against his will. Perhaps he would have been happier as a carriage maker in his turn after his father, singing only for his own pleasure."

"Oh, our Blaine is permitting himself a few dreams about Hummel, I see. Well, perhaps we will be able to see him again, if he remains in Venice."

Blaine smiled at Wesley's last comment. "I pleaded with my father when I heard Hummel would be singing in Orfeo. I have three tickets, my friends."

 

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At the opera house, fashionable visits and chatter lasted through the first recitatives, a fact which never varied or ever failed to annoy the three friends sitting in their box. Even though composers took this into account in their writing and rarely wasted any remarkable passages on the opening scenes, that was no reason not to give the composers of genius one's full attention.

When Hummel entered, though, the house fell silent. Blaine was instantly mesmerized by his presence before he even sang a note. In playing the grief-stricken hero Orpheus, he kept his movements spare and despairing and appeared to be mourning in silence until even the silence was too great for him to bear and his emotions could only express themselves in song. The first notes were as crystalline as a flute, but swelling in volume as no flute ever could, and he shaped the phrases of the lament as gracefully and mournfully as if he were placing mourning wreaths on the dead Eurydice's tomb. As the passages became more florid, though, and the vocal line was barely discernible among the ornamentation of trills, sudden leaps of octaves and tenths, and high notes, Blaine looked at his friends in confusion. Hummel seemed to be flinging the music at the audience, his eyes wandering across the boxes where the wealthy patrons sat. He seemed almost indifferent, as bored and unimpressed as a farmer scattering corn to chickens. Nonetheless, the audience was captivated and for Blaine himself, the precision of his notes and beauty and power of his voice was something he had never encountered before. The house exploded into applause when he had finished, but he stood still, not acknowledging it with even a nod.

At the intermission, David grinned at Wes. "Having heard him, do you admit that the stories are justified?"

"Gladly. He must have sustained that trill for more than half a minute, and the run across the three octaves must have been written for him. Could any other, except possibly Cesti, have taken it with that speed and accuracy?"

"Perhaps, but now our Blaine is deep in thought. Are you composing songs already for that voice or has he captivated you with that dainty face, perhaps?"

Blaine answered, slowly. "He is astonishing. It would be an undertaking, though, to write for such a voice, to do it justice. His acting, too, is remarkable. The gestures of mourning, of resolve, as he prepares to go to Hades to seek his wife. All seem from the heart, yet noble and simple, as though the spirit of Greek statuary possessed him. I admire him greatly, yet as he is only our age, what he has done abashes me."

"Those schools are not for the weak. Our music masters taught us enough to be able to read music and entertain ourselves or a company, and it was you who drew us together to do more. And yet from a young age, he has done nothing but study and sing and study again," David answered.

The door to their box opened and several other men their age entered, including Noah, Taddeo, Arturo, Nicolai, and Jeffrey. Noah was finishing a ribald comment, "A married woman often prefers a cannon with no powder, these share an advantage that we men do not."

"To think that Noah would envy a eunuch!" Arturo laughed. Noah good naturedly laughed, "Only the eunuchs who guard the Turkish serail, where he may pick from a thousand flowers of flesh, with the sultan none the wiser. But for fewer than a thousand women, no, since that is what I can satisfy in a week." He laughed, then said, "But his voice is beautiful and I would believe this Orpheus' songs could move stones."

"And his mezza di voce could move Faustina Bordoni to rage. Hers, alas, sounds more like a goose trying to honk softly and giving up halfway," Taddeo joked, trying to provoke Nicolai, who admired the diva greatly.

"While that of your adored Cuzzoni cracks in the middle like a sheet of ice," he retorted.

The bell rang to announce the coming end of intermission, although only the serious music lovers moved to return to their seats. Blaine, who had allowed himself to become lost in his thoughts, determined one thing, that he would call upon Hummel the next day, if the singer would receive him. The castrato was more than an artist; he was rapidly becoming a mystery.

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When Blaine announced his intention to Wesley and David after the opera, he gritted his teeth to endure their teasing. But instead, the shared a worried look before David said, gravely, "Be cautious, Blaine. Your parents think that it is because you are studious and modest that you do not make a name for yourself pursuing women. If they learn that you are pursuing Hummel..."

Blaine laughed. "Pursuing him? That I shall, if only to learn more of his voice and perhaps to compose for him. As for falling in love with him-"

"Ah, you said the fatal word yourself. A woman like La Bella Mercedes is wealthy and independent in her own right. If she chooses to love, there is no harm, why, loving a castrato is the fashion for many women. But should you love him seriously..." Wesley sounded equally concerned.

"Why do you think I should love him at all? As artists, we are equals, but he is only part of a man. How could he mean anything to me in matters of the heart?"

"A fair face and a sad story have won more hearts than yours, my friend." David frowned. "Be careful of yours, Blaine, for fear of putting it into cold hands."

Blaine laughed again and stepped on his father's gondola, which had come to take him to his family's palazzo. As the poles pushed it through the water, instead of the rippling of the canal against its walls, he heard Hummel's voice, and instead of the finely worked stone of the grand homes or the dark, wrinkled water, he saw the singer's face.

 

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That morning, after a restless night, he enthused to his parents about the opera. He did not notice that he made special attention to avoid describing Hummel's appearance, merely his voice. When he said, casually, that he would consider composing a cantata for Hummel, his parents voiced their approval. Music was a more than suitable hobby for a wealthy aristocrat and could even attract the favorable attention of the even more wealthy and powerful, even an invitation to a royal court. This undertaking would be pleasurable and potentially very profitable for Blaine. His father added, "Take a note from my banker to make him a gift, most of these singers earn their wealth that way." He chuckled, "Like courtesans, though a far cleaner pursuit. Better a lost note than a lost nose," he added, referencing the many clients of Venice's prostitutes who lost noses or fingers to the ravages of the French disease.

Approval won, Blaine dithered for nearly an hour over what to wear when he called upon Hummel. It could not be gaudy, lest Hummel take him merely for a peacock, but must not be too serious, lest Hummel think him a dull pedant. He settled on a red coat, trimmed with gold, over a white waistcoat with navy blue stockings and breeches. As he would take a gondola, rather than the streets, he was able to wear fine shoes, but he hesitated there. Sensitive about his height, he knew that the red would shorten him, but they were handsomer shoes than the blue that matched his stockings and breeches. He decided on the red, since he wished to impress Hummel with his taste rather than his appearance. A servant admitted him into Hummel's house and instructed him to wait. "I will see if he will see you, signore." Blaine was taken aback at the thought that a singer might choose not to see an aristocrat, but had no objections to contemplating the room where he waited, trying to discern Hummel's other tastes from it. It was far simpler than he had expected, as one thought of castrati as being as florid and exotic as their voices. While there were a few exotic touches, a screen that was either from Persia or a close imitator, and a set of enameled boxes from India, the rest was comfortable. The servant returned. "He will see you, signore. Come with me."

He followed the servant to a music room, where Hummel was standing at a desk, reading over a score. He turned and bowed his head slightly, just enough to avoid giving offense, but Blaine was too much in awe of the singer to consider it discourteous in the least. "Signore Anderson."

"Signore Hummel. I heard you in Orfeo last night." He was unable to remain formal. "Signore, you were magnificent. I've never heard such a voice, such a performance. I would have thought a composer could only dream of such a singer as you. I sat with friends and we were all astonished, even the most jaded of us. Tell me, the cadenzas after 'Cor perduto,' how ever did you sing those, they seemed impossible, you seemed never to breathe!"

"Much practice," Hummel answered, dryly. "At first I thought the composer meant to kill his Orfeo in the first act, to join Eurydice all the sooner." He looked at Blaine sharply. "You noticed the passage that is truly the most difficult in the opera, not the most ornamented or showiest. You yourself sing?"

"Yes, a little."

"Let me hear you, then." This was a demand that only an equal could make of another, or a more powerful to a lesser one, but even while he recognized this, Blaine determined to take no offense. Despite his association with the aristocracy, perhaps Hummel had not learned their ways. He seated himself at the harpsichord that stood in the center of the room, struck a few chords to get the tone of the instrument and to warm up his fingers, then began. He selected a solo cantata, "Lagrime mie, a che vi trattenete," by Barbara Strozzi, not daring to choose a more ornate or more recent piece that would stand in even poorer comparison to Hummel's singing.

At first, he didn't dare to look at Hummel's face, since he doubted that he would bother to conceal any scorn he might feel, but after he completed the first phrases, he glanced quickly at him and was astonished to see an open smile, the first he had won from the singer. When he finished, Hummel even applauded, lightly but no less sincerely.

"Bravo, Signore Anderson, you slight yourself when you say that you sing 'a little.' Will you not have coffee with me?"

"It would please me greatly. Where shall we go?"

"I prefer to take mine here." Hummel's face became closed again. "I dislike the coffee shops and their peering and chatter."

"Oh, oh, of course. To be so famous-" Hummel's face did not change at the praise and Blaine thought of a different approach. "Have you heard Bach's Coffee Cantata?"

"I had the music sent to me from Leipzig," Hummel laughed, his mood lightening. "Signora Mercedes heard it in her travels and insisted that I must." He casually sang the phrases that translated, "If I don't have my coffee three times a day, I'm just like a piece of old dry goat meat," then added, "La Mercedes insists that she intended only that I hear more Bach, but I suspect her of motives other than that."

Hummel rang for a servant to bring coffee and the Turkish cups and Blaine asked, "You have heard much of Bach's music?"

Hummel nodded. "I have, and my respect for him grows more with each new composition I hear. Elegance demands both ornament and simplicity and he masters both, though some find him heavy. He is perhaps less cosmopolitan than Herr Handel, who writes in the English, Italian, and German idioms equally well, but makes no pretenses of being other than he is. He has written no operas, which I regret, but I find great pleasure in singing his works for myself, or with my brother or La Mercedes." He chuckled. "My father finds him painfully modern and unfamiliar, and I see him longing to ask whether we really consider such sounds to be music. He also deplores Bach's reputation as a brawler."

Blaine shook his head in commiseration. "I found the true proof of my parents' love that they permitted me to live through the time when Gesualdo was my musical idol. They feared that his life would lead me astray and dreaded the times when I and my friends sang his madrigals. I heard them say such words amongst themselves as 'morbid,' 'dreadful,' 'emotionally overwrought,' and pray that it would pass without causing harm to me or my immortal soul."

When the coffee came and Hummel poured, the sleeve of his banyan fell from his wrist, revealing how slender it was. Blaine stared for a moment; from the bulky costumes in the theater and the heavy fabric and embroidery of the large robe, he had thought Hummel a larger man, but instead he was very small-framed, though taller than Blaine himself. The exposed wrist was so small that Blaine was certain he could encompass it between only two fingers of his own hand and even yearned to try.

"Signore Anderson?"

He realized that he had been lost in his contemplation and smiled an apology. "My thoughts were lost, I make my apologies."

"Will you take sugar?"

"If you please." Blaine looked at the coffee cups. They were beautifully painted in red, varying shades of blue, and gold, on pure white porcelain. The pattern was of several different kinds of flowers, tulips, roses, peonies, and other flowers he could not identify. "How delicate and yet vivid, how it catches the eye," he admired, softly. "They would seem so easily shattered, and yet even broken, they would be of great beauty. But they are strongly made and would withstand much."

"A gift from a Constantinople merchant. I rarely show them to guests but it seemed you would appreciate them. Your coat is handsomely made, it caught my eye immediately." Blaine felt unexpectedly deep pleasure that he had chosen the right outfit and that it had impressed Hummel.

"You have been there?"

"No, he was visiting all of Italy, seeking art to bring back to the Sultan himself. His host brought him to the opera, thinking to impress him. He called upon me the next day and said that though he rarely understood the libretto, he understood my singing at every moment." Hummel smiled reminiscently, clearly savoring the compliment, but added, laughing, "He also told me that he greatly enjoyed the moments when the orchestra tuned."

Blaine laughed as well. "A moment we do take for granted, but for one unused to our music, it must have seemed wondrous." He suddenly remembered something. "Ah, Signore Hummel, your story reminded me that I have been remiss." He took the banknotes from his pocket and handed them to the singer, who looked at them for a moment uncomprehendingly. "These I forgot to give you."

Hummel's face grew icy and he rose. His voice again haughty and overly-precise, he looked down his nose at Blaine, who gaped in shock. "Signore, I have no need or wish for another patron and you mistake me that you thought I solicited one. It will please you to finish your coffee and leave my home. I shall leave so you will not further offend me."

He started to stalk from the room as Blaine sputtered, "Signore, I meant no insult." He rose and dashed to block Hummel from leaving. The scornful look he received nearly made him retreat, but instead he continued. "I had thought no harm, is it not the custom to make gifts to artists? Signore, I would not have offended you willingly, I beg you to believe me. I often err in what I say or do, especially where it most matters to me, and I would not tolerate another insulting you, let alone insulting you myself. Signore Hummel, you must believe me. I shall leave, of course, but I beg that you not believe that I had the least intention, in my heart or my mind, of wronging one I so admire and whose company I have so enjoyed."

Hummel's face changed from icy contempt to wariness. "I would believe you," he said, slowly. "We have shared intelligent talk of music and laughter, two things far too rare in my life." He continued to the door, but turned as he put his hand on the handle. "You may call upon me again, if you wish."

The last words were cold but Blaine thought that he did not imagine that under the distant mask, Hummel's expression held no little wistfulness, as Blaine bowed, as deeply as he would to a man of far greater rank, and left.

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Kurt found himself thinking often of Blaine Anderson during that afternoon's rehearsals of Handel's Serse. The company was on edge as Handel had insisted upon adding comic elements to the serious drama and they were concerned about the potential hostile reception; Rachel Berry, the leading female soprano, and Finn Hudson, Kurt's brother and the lead baritone, were quarreling again; and Susanna Sylvester, whose dancing school girls were performing as well, was berating them and everybody else in the company, including Handel himself. The stage manager, William Schuester, trying to keep everyone appeased, was, to put it gently, failing, which did not go unnoticed by La Sylvester. All this meant that few noticed that Kurt, who usually enjoyed observing and caustically commenting on the intrigues, was unusually silent and unobservant.

The question that kept returning like a persistent fly was whether the young nobleman truly had only sincere intentions. It was far too easy to believe that he, like so many others, saw a castrato only as something to be mocked or put in his place for assuming the airs of a man. It would not be the first time, or even the twentieth, that a nobleman tried to make him the butt of a jest or humiliating rebuke for daring to think himself an equal. As a result, he avoided them as much as he could, preferring, once he had the option, to snub before he could be jeered at or patronized. But though he told himself he had admitted Anderson only out of a moment's boredom, the unease in his heart reminded him that he had admired not just his coat but his looks as he peered through the peephole into the entryway, and that was why he had granted him entrance. More, once they had spoken, he had felt a profound hunger for the friendship that the other man seemed to offer, and that was why he had rejected the attempted gift of money. It had seemed that the aristocrat was deliberately creating a gulf between them, a gulf that forbade friendship. Offering the money, as banknotes no less, seemed to be a clear and deliberate reminder to Kurt that as a performer, he was still a creation to entertain the aristocracy, not that different from a servant. But if the other man's apologies and confusion were sincere, then he had been over-hasty and over-proud.

"Kurt?" His brother hovered at his shoulder. "Where were your thoughts? Herr Handel called for your aria." Finn looked at him with some worry. "You seem upset, has anything happened?"

"It is nothing, a moment's distraction, that's all." It would be wisest and safest to consider Blaine Anderson exactly that, nothing, a moment's distraction, but Kurt knew, even as he began the beautiful "Ombra mai fu," that his heart and pride often forbade wisdom and safety.

 

 

On their return to the house, Finn confided his troubles with Rachel to his brother. "She is angered because I did not join her in demanding a new aria for her, not one written already for another soprano."

"But you know that her performances mean everything to her." Kurt rapidly corrected himself. "That, and your love, of course."

"She expects that I will second her in everything."

"Not in everything, dear brother, only in what is most important to her."

"Sometimes I do not know when you mock me or when you are sincere."

"You are my brother, can you expect me not to tease you?"

Finn, after a moment, returned Kurt's grin. "No more than you can expect me to yield to your authority as the elder brother."

"But I spoke mostly in seriousness. Rachel feasts upon fame but her hunger is augmented by feeding rather than satisfied. If you wish to love her and make her your wife, that you must accept."

"Perhaps Quinn?"

"She is also ambitious, but in a different way. Turning your fancy back to her would only change the woman, not the question." Kurt was loath to admit it, but added, "Rachel loves you the more of the two and has also lied to you far less."

Finn shrugged and changed the subject. "This morning you had a caller as I left."

Kurt feared that his expression revealed too much. "Somebody who had attended last night. I thought him a dilettante but instead he understands music more than most. I enjoyed our talk."

"And?"

"And nothing else passed." Finn continued to look at him and Kurt admitted, "Very well, I thought that he might become a friend, but at the end, he offered banknotes. He apologized when I told him to take his leave, which I hardly expected, but..." He sighed and admitted, quietly, "You know that I love you and our parents, and that Mercedes is a dear friend, but at times...I wish for more, I feel lonely."

"You are not alone, Kurt."

"Mercedes will wed, as will you. I know I will always be in your hearts, but...I am so happy that you are my brother and Carole is my mother, yet at times I miss the days when my father and I were all in all to each other. I will not have that again in my life, to be the reason another heart beats, and at times it makes my heart ache a little. To have more friends would ease that." He lowered his eyes. The truth was that he wished not to ameliorate the desire for a lover, even a spouse, with friendships, but to himself love and be loved. But few enough men desired another, and of those, to love a castrato was a shameful secret. He was too proud to be a hidden sin, ignored during the day, renounced, even, during confession, but visited at night for a few moments of lust. He lightened his voice. "I am ungrateful, to complain when I have our family."

His brother seized him forcefully in an embrace and Kurt instinctively swatted his hand away as it tried to ruffle his hair. "You deserve the world, Kurt. If I could give it to you, I would."

"I know," he whispered, and let a few tears seep from his eyes onto the fabric of Finn's waistcoat. "I know." After a moment, he released himself to laugh up at his brother, "You do realize, do you not, that Herr Handel has me singing to a plant for my greatest aria? It will be a triumph, it will make my name more famous still if I am any judge of such things, and yet, I will pour my heart out to a tree, declaring that the shade it casts is the most pleasing of all trees."

"It could be worse, could it not?"

"Yes, perhaps singing to a shoe that it fits me well-"

"Which you might yet, if I know you as I think I do?" Finn grinned at the relatively rare point won against his sharp-tongued brother.

"Touche, Finn, well done. For once." As their laughter ended, Kurt told himself that he would forget entirely about a certain nobleman's eyes and face and voice.

 

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Kurt often commented that the chaos of the opera house rehearsals and performances seemed a mere exchange of civilities compared to early mornings in his household. Then, he divided his attention among such necessities as keeping his father from more hot chocolate than his Arab physician had recommended, seizing more than a few morsels from the ravages his brother made among the breakfast dishes, and choosing a wardrobe suitable to the day and to fashion.

Adding to that, his brother had purchased a lap dog he intended to present to Rachel, and the creature's incessant demands to be petted and given treats left him even more distracted that morning. Finn had finally left with the dog, insisting that "Uncle Kurt" bid the animal a fond goodbye and that Kurt's expressed reluctance to bid it a proper farewell masked a desire to keep the pet. His father and his wife had gone for their usual stroll around their favorite piazza and Kurt finally had the house to himself.

He chided himself for thinking that all he desired then was peace and some solitude, yet when it finally came, missing the presence of others. At the harpsichord, he ran through scales, trills, and other exercises, then practiced his arias from Serse. It was difficult to concentrate, though, and he considered that perhaps a walk would calm him sufficiently. At least in Venice, it was no odd thing to go out fully masked, so he could do so without being identified. The all-enveloping bauta mask with its accompanying large hat and cloak disguised not only the face but the sex of the wearer, so even his high speaking voice revealed nothing.

He left through the door that opened onto the piazza rather than taking a gondola, and unresolved where to go, idly watched an elegant carriage, whose lines and decoration he appreciated with an informed eye, deposit a passenger. His hand flew to his mouth for an instant when he recognized the man as Blaine Anderson and saw that Anderson was approaching his own house. What was the cause of the man's prodigious persistence? He carried a case under one arm, and from the size and shape, Kurt guessed that it held musical scores.

Uncertain whether he wanted to see the nobleman again so soon, he hesitated, then strolled slowly around the piazza. If Anderson left quickly, it would say that he was one call among many other diversions for the day. But if he waited, as Kurt had told the servants that he would not be long, it would say that Anderson was determined to see him. Which, Kurt reminded himself, was already established.

As he strolled outside, attempting to pay attention to the fashions displayed among the other promenaders, he ordered his thoughts to consider this a mere experiment, satisfying a mild curiosity. He was certainly not shy about seeing Anderson again, certainly felt no trepidation, and it was only his professional vanity that was gladly noting how long Anderson seemed willing to wait for him. And if he was gratified when the quarter-hour and finally the half-hour rung from the church bells, more gratified than the situation called for, it was only that this morning he had already felt strange fancies and dissatisfactions. When another quarter-hour rang, he decided he may as well take pity on the man waiting for him, and returned.

The servant took his cloak, hat, and mask and said, "Signore Anderson has been waiting for you, signore."

"Ah, has he?" He was proud of his air of mild interest and maintained it. "I will see him in the music room."

 

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Blaine had passed the time waiting for Hummel by reading various pamphlets that had circulated throughout Venice, extolling one singer, condemning another, calling Vivaldi a gift of the gods, excoriating him as an amateur who when he had found a phrase, repeated it enough to drive a sane man mad. Or at least he had passed the time passing his eyes over the words. His thoughts were too full of whether he was asking too much of Hummel by calling again so soon and daring to bring his own music when Hummel sang the works of Hasse, Handel, Bach, and that young prodigy Mozart. He had taken Metastasio's texts, a further act of presumption, when the great composers had drawn from him so often. He was wasting his time and calling was wasting Hummel's, but yet, he was unable to make himself leave his apologies and go.

"Signore Hummel has returned and is expecting you in the music room."

Hummel's face was pleasantly neutral. "Signore Anderson, I had not expected you to return so soon."

"Am I trespassing too much on your time?"

"I admitted you, did I not?" The words were cool but there was a hint of a smile underneath, as if Hummel was amused by his eagerness. "It appears that you have brought music."

"I...I, yes, I have, some compositions of my own, I hesitated, but...to write for you, Signore Hummel, I had not known I dreamt of it until I heard you."

"Well, then, let us see."

"Shall I play them, or do you prefer to look only at the music?"

"No, no, play them for me, I shall look over your shoulder." As Blaine put the music on the stand, Hummel remarked, "You write for an ensemble?"

"Merely a few friends and I."

"Who are these friends?"

"I doubt that you know them, we are all amateurs. Perhaps you have heard of Noah the Jew?"

"Not of his singing, though his other performances are famous," Hummel remarked, dryly.

"He is a fine singer and plays the guitar as well."

"All the better for serenades."

"His words exactly," Blaine laughed.

At Hummel's nod, he began to play, occasionally singing the lead melody. Because Hummel was standing at his side, looking at the music, he was unable to see the other's response, but when Hummel put his hand on Blaine's shoulder to lean closer and better see the music, he felt such a surge of gratification that he heard it in his voice during the next phrases. Hummel himself sometimes sang a few notes, testing the harmonies. Blaine did not want the song to end, but he wanted nothing more than to hear Hummel's reactions, provided that they would not utterly condemn him.

"Signore? What do you think?" he asked, filling the silence as Hummel appeared to be choosing his words.

"They show talent, and if published, should become quite popular. That said, I must say that while they please the ear, they provide no challenge."

"To the voice?"

"No, to the ear. They never surprise, never take a turn that the listener at first thinks must be an error but then realizes is the only truly right way for that piece."

Blaine thought for a moment, then slowly said, "I see what you mean, they are predictable."

"A great piece, Signore Anderson, mixes the predictable and the astonishing. Think of a lovely face with an unexpected feature. A face that is all soft eyes and skin but sharp cheekbones, a dark-haired man with golden eyes rather than brown, dark eyebrows on a blonde, a voluptuous mouth on an austere face. These are the faces that stay in our memories, that are beautiful rather than pretty. In music, it is the same. All features must be beautiful, but some must be unusual."

Blaine lowered his eyes. He was used to extravagant praise for his talent in whatever endeavor he chose. An excellent student, he would write and translate in nearly every language, could speak easily and intelligently with men of science as well as those of the arts, and even Hummel had praised his voice. This was the first time he had heard anything that offered more than a minor criticism in a constellation of praise, and it stung more than he had thought, the more so because he heard the truth in what Hummel said. Hummel clearly meant no cruelty, as well, in his words, but spoke simply and sincerely, even with kindness.

Hummel had either noticed nothing or noticed everything, as he added, "Move aside, if you will, let me show you what I mean." He sat next to Blaine, played and then sang a few notes from Gluck's Orpheus et Euridice. "See here, how the line ends abruptly at 'Senza il mio ben,' instead of floating gracefully? Orpheus is throwing his despair at the very gates of Hades and of Olympus. It is more true that this line ends each time with that cry of pain, not the beautiful descending line that would give the music symmetry. Gluck has shown us through the rest of the score that he understands symmetry and grace—it is here that he shows us that grief can have little of that.

"Signore Anderson, a man whose heart is breaking does not burst into trills and melismas as a matter of course. When he is a victim of cruelty and fate, with no help or even mercy from God or man, he may sob, he may find himself barely able to draw breath except in gasps, he may feel the chill of his dying soul filling his veins and shiver with the cold of it, he may roar his injuries against those who have destroyed his happiness and peace forever, but he does not trill to make a pretty sound." Blaine nearly shivered at the intensity of Hummel's voice and the bitterness of his harsh laugh as he finished the last words. Hummel shrugged, as if regretting the moment, and Blaine's suspicion that he had spoken of his own sorrows, though obliquely, was now almost a certainty. "But too many singers and composers are either too dull or to enslaved to the fashionable that audiences demand, so they trill and run through scales as though that were great music and exactly what a conquered prisoner or mourning lover would do."

"Now I understand why you looked as you did in Orfeo," Blaine breathed. As Hummel raised an eyebrow, he continued. "You sang the last set of ornaments as if you were scattering corn to chickens."

Hummel roared in laughter, "Oh, you say it perfectly, yes, corn to chickens. I thought of it as false pearls to swine, but your words are better still, my friend."

Blaine swallowed hard and turned to look deep into Hummel's eyes. "That name you called me now, your friend, is that merely a figure of speech or have I earned it?"

Hummel looked away, in what Blaine would have sworn was a display of shyness, or at least a loss of the singer's self-control. "If you wish it, we could be friends."

Chapter Text

The young men had quickly fallen into a routine. They met in the late morning for coffee and music, Blaine bringing his latest pieces or revisions or simply to sing together or for one another. Once Hummel had accepted that Blaine had no desire to condescend or to mock, or to take advantage of their association to promote himself or his music to Hummel's musical connections, he had entirely dismissed his earlier façade of hauteur. He told ridiculous stories of the goings-on at the opera house, the chaos, tantrums, and battles, almost bringing Blaine to the point of tears, and swearing that every story was true. He promised to bring Blaine to the next rehearsal with Santana, Rachel, Handel, Madame Sylvester, and Herr Schuester so that Blaine himself could witness the events and personalities himself.

In return, Blaine told stories of his own friends, delighted at his ability to make Hummel laugh. If he said little of Hummel to these friends, he told himself that it was because Wesley and David persisted in their delusion that he was in danger of surrendering his heart to the castrato. He had, he admitted, spoken enthusiastically of his pleasure in the developing friendship, of Hummel's frank but kindly critiques of his music, but he had spoken warmly of other friends to David and Wesley and not had to undergo such searching glances and warnings. Accordingly, he spoke less and less of Hummel to them, to avoid possibly provoking a quarrel.

Nonetheless, his regard for Hummel had made its effect, not just with his two closest friends but with others. A man of their acquaintance had said in front of David, Wesley, and Noah that Hummel was infamous for seducing men into perversion and that easily half of his patrons were his bedmates, and all three had rounded on the man, saying such stories were both false and disgraceful. Noah had added, sneering, that such stories suggested that the teller wished that Hummel were such a man, in the hopes of winning an invitation to pay for access to his bed. When another friend told Blaine of the confrontation, he had been especially persistent during the next weeks in whipping out his purse before the others could pay for their drinks or meals.

As Blaine approached the house on a warm morning, he saw the servants scraping away dried paint on the wall. It was still all too easy to make out the words that had been scrawled in huge letters in black paint. Hermaphrodite. Castrato. Ganymede. Lady boy slut. Eunuch. Even if the letters were not still legible, the drawings, crude in every sense of the word, sufficed to convey the meaning. Blaine stopped and glared as anger coiled inside him like a serpent. How dare some louts efface the home of a man who had done them no harm and, moreover, gave more of beauty and art to the world than they would ever experience, let alone contribute? The servant nearest the door recognized him and admitted him immediately.

"No need to take yourself away from your task, I'll find Signore Hummel myself." He heard the click of his shoes beat out the rhythm of his anger as he walked through the hall and entered the music room. Hummel was sitting rigidly at the harpsichord, head held high as though he was defiantly facing his tormentors, though he sat alone in the room.

"Signore," Blaine called softly. It touched and pleased him more than he thought words could express when Hummel's face immediately softened into a smile. His anger returned, though, as Hummel remembered the affront daubed on his home and he smiled bitterly.

"As you can see, young men of the city do me the kindness of ensuring that I never forget what I am."

"My friend..."

"They also see fit to remind me that the tongues of gossips say that to earn my place in the theater and the favor of my patrons, I ply a thousand arts of seduction in my bedroom, luring them to the poisonous intoxications of my embraces, not a woman and yet wholly unmanning them of virtue." He stopped the brittle, elaborate mockery to look at Blaine sharply. "Have you not heard it so?"

Blaine threw himself on the instinct of honesty. He wished not only to lie but to be able to lie, for it to be possible for Hummel to believe him. He fixed his eyes on the castrato's and said, "I have heard such stories, but never told as truth among honest men. Indeed, the honest men of my acquaintance speak of such stories as malice and lies." He took an impulsive step towards Hummel. "Those men do not even have the privilege of knowing you and they give the lie to such stories. I have known you only these few weeks but would swear that only love would admit another into your arms." He stopped, aghast at what he had said. He had trespassed the boundaries of good taste and even more, he had spoken with a fervor that could have been mistaken for expressing more.

Hummel had looked away and Blaine braced himself for a glance of rebuke, if not more, as he turned his head back. Instead, he saw moisture in Hummel's eyes and a smile that on any other face, he would have called shy. Impulsively, Hummel gripped his shoulders. "Thank you." He momentarily lowered his head onto the hand that rested on Blaine's shoulder, and for an instant, Blaine folded his arms around Hummel.

He was more slightly built than any other man Blaine had embraced, but his back was no less muscled. His arms were strong and firm, yet his hair, which had lightly brushed Blaine's cheek, was the softest thing imaginable. Blaine had not expected this comforting embrace to arouse any other emotion, but now felt the temptation to press his cheek against Hummel's hair, to hold him more tightly and closely, to caress the back he felt slightly relax under his hands.

Hummel drew back with another quiet "Thank you," and Blaine felt his mind whirling. It couldn't be possible, he couldn't be feeling such things for a castrato, let alone one who had given no sign of desiring either men or women. He forced his attention back when he realized that the other was talking and he had already missed a few sentences.

"This afternoon, perhaps, if you should like. The principal singers and dancers will all be there and Madame Sylvester is in a rare temper lately."

"Of course. I should greatly enjoy that."

"Did you bring your latest work on the duet?"

"Ye-yes, of course." Hummel was looking at him strangely. Was it possible that somehow Hummel had sensed how perturbed he was and why? After a moment, though, he only said, softly, "Best not to think about them more than one must. Nothing will change them or what they do," then turned to the harpsichord.

 

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Blaine discovered that in his inattention, he had also agreed to lunch with Hummel's entire family before going to the opera house with him and his brother. This was his first time meeting them, though he had seen Hudson on stage a few times. Signora Hummel was a lovely and gracious woman and in no time Blaine understood fully why Hummel spoke of her so warmly and with such obvious affection. She doted on both young men and on her husband and immediately made Blaine feel welcomed. The elder Hummel was cordial but watchful; Blaine felt himself being scrutinized in every word and motion, even after he had fully answered the older man's questions about himself and how he came to develop his son's acquaintance. Yet as stern as he appeared, his son was not in the least intimidated by him, even scolding him for not resting that morning and not relenting until his father promised to rest that afternoon. It was like watching a lion cub frisking about its formidable father's paws and even batting at his ears and tail.

Hudson was far more in his mother's mold but had some of his step-father's protective instincts towards Hummel. He, too, eyed Blaine with some suspicion at first, but unbent much more quickly as he saw how at ease Hummel was with him and that Blaine treated Hummel and their parents with all respect. By the end of the meal, Hudson and he were on easy terms, discovering several other friends in common.

Hudson insisted, after the meal, on taking the gondola to the opera house, and Blaine, realizing that he meant to keep his brother from having to see the graffiti again, backed him, saying that the squares were crowded enough that the carriage would slow them. Hummel yielded easily, especially when both Blaine and his brother reminded him that walking would be unwise in his newest shoes, as rain had not cleaned the streets for several days.

On the water, Hummel laughed quietly. "There were too many Signore Hummels during our meal. Perhaps you would call me Kurt?"

The gesture truly touched Blaine. He could tell that intimacy did not come easily to this proud, wounded man, but he was offering it readily to him. "I'd be honored, if you will do the same."

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On the way, Kurt said that he had invited Blaine to join him at the opera house for that afternoon's rehearsals because they were rehearsing only the first act and his role did not have any major scenes until the second act. That way, he could explain to him all the nuances that might not be apparent at first glance.

"I believe you mean all the gossip?" Hudson asked, laughingly.

"The background of the interactions," his brother answered haughtily, ruining the effect with a laugh of his own. Blaine looked from him to Husdon and back again. The two seemed as far different temperamentally as they did physically, Hudson's expressions and manner as open and easy from the moment that he met Blaine as his brother's were guarded and austere at their initial encounter. But from the obvious affection between them, Blaine had no difficulties believing that Hudson had killed to avenge his brother or that Kurt would have given all he possessed, even his honor, if a castrato would perceive his body's purity as such, to save him. It occurred to him to wonder if Kurt truly would have felt any differently than a whole man or a woman would have, if the price for his brother's life had included yielding to an unwanted possession of his body. Perhaps he would have seen it as a sacrifice of his honor just as much as another would have.

Kurt's voice interrupted his surprised speculations. "Of course, my dear brother was the cause of the latest battle between the divas."

"I did not foresee it," he protested.

"What happened?"

"Finn thought that he would please Rachel with the gift of a puppy. He selected one, an appealing little thing, all fur and shining eyes, and presented it to her. She immediately loved him and made the habit of bringing him to the opera house with her during rehearsals, since he was so deeply attached to her and cried when she left it at her home. She had not intended to bring it to a performance but need I say that the poor animal cried? She shut him in her dressing room during the first act and it slept quite peacefully there. But during the second act, during the recitative to Armida's great aria, Santana went into the dressing room and took the little dog, walked into the wings holding it, and then released it. Of course, he ran directly to Rachel as she began the aria and when she attempted to ignore it, he began to whine and cry, all too clearly echoing Armida's lament that the one she loves scorns her." Blaine doubled over himself laughing at the image and the diva's fury.

"What did she do?"

"Rachel is a performer to the core and misses no chance for drama. She feigned that the pup's presence was part of the performance and that he was Armida's one consolation in her pain."

Hudson proudly added, "Many in the audience wondered who had trained the dog."

Kurt's smile was full of delighted mischief as he finished, deliberately tantalizing, "I advised her on her revenge."

"Which was?"

"In her role as Clorinda, Santana wore heavy dark eyebrows to better play the Eastern enchantress. She had them glued over her own. In the very final moment before her grand entrance, Rachel stood in the opposite wing and gesticulated in a frenzy that one of the eyebrows had fallen off. She had affixed a spare to Santana's costume so it looked as though that were the missing one. Since it was too late to reglue it, Santana pulled off the other, so that at least she should not appear with but one dark brow."

Blaine could guess the story's ending, but waited, laughing.

"Of course, the other brow had not fallen off, and so Santana appeared graced by only one. The audience laughed greatly, to her uncomprehending rage, and when Tancredi entered, he stared at the queen who was to steal his heart with a gaze that spoke of equal alarm and amusement rather than of budding infatuation, provoking still more laughter. Of course, her adherents tried to bury the laughter with their cheers and cries of her name, but with the rest of the house laughing, they themselves were drowned out." Kurt raised his head, "Ah, there they are now, best not to mention dogs or eyebrows, if your life is dear to you."

Handel marched his great bulk over to them. "Who is this young man you have brought, Signore Hummel?"

"Herr Handel, this is my dear friend Blaine Anderson, a lover of music and as such, a great admirer of your work."

"It is an honor to meet you, Herr Handel." Blaine bowed deeply and Handel nodded.

"Which of my works do you like best, then?" Handel fixed Blaine with a sharp eye.

"Theodora, Herr Handel, perhaps because it is so unjustly neglected."

"Ah, yes, you are a good boy. But women, they will not come to see an opera witha virtuous story, which is sad. Now Signore Hummel is a good boy, too, except when he pesters me for another aria, or a longer aria, or for the aria to jump yet another octave lest the world forget his range. At least he does not pester me for a finer costume."

Kurt was about to respond when a slender, tall blonde woman stalked into the theater, followed by several dancers. Handel turned and pointed at her dramatically. "Ah, there you are!"

"For which you would do best to be thankful, as my dancers are by far the best part of this production."

"Your dancers will dance during the ballets and the ensembles, but I will not have them dance during the arias and duets, they distract the audience from my music."

She looked at him and tilted her head with an air of frankness. "Singers show off their lungs, my dancers show off their legs. Which do you truly think the audience would prefer?"

"Madame Sylvester, you are a veritable devil and you know it. But what you do not know, Madame, is that I am Beelzebub, the prince of all the devils, and if you try to oppose me on this, I shall do this!" Moving with surprising speed and strength, he picked her up by the waist and carried her to the window. "I shall throw you into the canal!"

Her eyes narrowed and she hissed, "I shall take you with me. And I, Herr Handel, can swim."

"And I, Madame, am fat. I can float!"

"Very well. My dancers will remain on the stage during the arias but will not dance. That way, the audience will have something more appealing to their gaze than these pygmies and human trees that you employ." She gestured at Hudson and Rachel, who looked confused and indignant respectively.

"Very well, we will begin now."

Kurt and Blaine joined a few others seated in the front rows. Kurt quietly introduced Blaine to them, Michael and Brittany, the lead dancers, and William Schuester, the house manager. Then, his eyes bright with anticipation, he urged Blaine to watch the rehearsal closely, "The drama here can be greater than what the audience finally sees on stage."

The lead tenor, Jesse St. James, was arguing with Handel over a tempo, wanting to take it more slowly than the composer. Kurt whispered, "He is proud of how long he can sustain a phrase, claiming it shows his superior power of endurance." Handel continued to play the accompaniment as he had written it, to St. James' growing anger.

"Herr Handel, if you persist in playing at that speed, I shall have no choice but to jump upon your harpsichord and destroy it!"

"Truly? You must let me know when will do that, so that I might sell the tickets. We will give the ticket sales to the Foundlings Home, because I know more people will come to see you jump than to hear you sing."

"I, at least, am capable of leaping while dancing, unlike other musicians you favor."

Kurt's eyes narrowed, "Perhaps like a musician that Signorina Rachel favors?" he called, provoking a glare.

"Kurt..." William said, reproachfully, and Kurt turned to him.

"Yes, I know, but Finn is all too aware that he is no dancer and he cannot spar with words, so his attack is still more unjust than my response."

After a final rendition of the aria—at Handel's preferred tempo—Kurt was called onto the stage. Blaine paused to reflect on all the aspects that he had seen of him. Aloof and cold, laughing and impish, burdened and dignified, a serious musician, a deeply loving brother and son, they seemed so disparate and yet so harmonious, like music itself. If only he could ever write a counterpoint so complex and distinct yet well-blended, as intriguing and compelling, he would surely be as great a composer as any who ever lived.

There was a slight stir at the back of the opera house during a pause in the rehearsal, and Noah swaggered in, bowing slightly to the ensemble and favoring the dancers still on the stage with a lascivious smile.

"Blaine, I did not expect to find you here."

"Nor I you. Signore Hummel kindly invited me to attend."

"And I came to invite Finn, and of course the rest of you if you are so minded, to The Savage tonight," he said, referring to the inn near St. Mark's. "My uncle Giacomo has returned to Venice and is out of quarantine."

 

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When the rehearsal ended, Finn urged Kurt to join them at The Savage, but Blaine saw the hesitation on Kurt's face and stepped to his side, "I will be glad to accompany you there or elsewhere, if you choose." Kurt's sudden smile of gratitude was so extraordinarily sweet to Blaine that he swallowed hard. He is unsure of himself and how he will be received, which is no wonder, and grateful to be reassured. You enjoy providing him with that, it is nothing more, he told himself. Handel shouted genially that he would join them in a moment, as he had thoughts for an aria that he wanted to capture on paper before they escaped him.

Some put on their masks while others went uncovered and they left the opera house. Santana had taken her arm but once outside, Brittany had promptly joined Arturo in the closed sedan chair he used, and Blaine glanced at it in surprise as he heard sounds suggesting that neither minded that the chair was built to carry only one, requiring very close contact for two. Kurt chuckled at his astonishment, "Many would condemn Brittany for the liberties she offers her suitors, but those who know her understand that her heart is more innocent than that of many a nun. Nor is she a courtesan, as her sweethearts have included as many poor men as wealthy, and she values the gift of a flower as that of a jewel." Noah had taken Quinn's arm as she was without an escort, but after looking fixedly at the chair with an astonishingly desolate expression, Santana had taken his other arm, disregarding a glance of enmity from Quinn and Noah's preening at having a beauty on either side with equal haughtiness.

Inside the inn, Casanova sat at a table with two women, one perhaps ten years older than he in her middle thirties, and the other perhaps ten years younger. He was paying equal attention to each, eyes fixed on her when she spoke as though there was nothing more interesting than her words, and when he spoke, his eyes and posture seeming to say to both that there was nothing more important than her understanding him. He stood up gracefully as Noah led his group to the table, and called to the waiters to bring, if they could, more tables so that they might all sit together and that he might have the privilege of introducing his traveling companions to his friend and to the flowers of Venetian music that were gathered here. He warmly embraced Noah, "Yet why I should be so pleased to see the scapegrace who so rarely answers my letters I do not know."

"But Uncle Giacomo, so few of mine seem to find you."

"That is true, I must admit it. A man who seeks his fortune must travel-"

"Yes, sometimes ahead of the magistrates or the Inquisition."

"Mind, I received a full pardon from them for the crimes with which they never charged me so I could return to my dear home."

"What do you intend now?"

"Nephew, I have been a a law student, a scholar of ecclesiastical law, entered Holy Orders, been a soldier, an indifferent violin player, a professional gambler, a chemist, and a master of the occult. How can you not divine from this career that my dear adoptive father will send me to France as a master of finance and aid the King to raise a fortune without increasing taxes or borrowing."

"How will you do that?"

"God will guide me, as he has never abandoned me yet, even in my greatest peril." Blaine yet again was astonished by the company that Kurt drew him into, as Casanova was, by all appearances, utterly sincere. Casanova interrupted his thoughts by bowing apologetically to the entire company and nudging Noah, "Will you introduce me? Or will you guard the names of these lovely pearls, black and white, all to yourself, and forbid me the acquaintance of your friends as well?"

Noah laughed, "Your studies have wearied your brain, uncle, if you think I fear your rivalry for kind glances from beauties. Marquis, I would present Signore Schuester, Finn Hudson, who is like a brother to me, his intended, Mademoiselle Berry, and his brother, Kurt Hummel." The men bowed and Rachel dropped into a slight curtsey as Casanova bowed over and kissed her hand. "Senorita Lopez, Signorina Fabray, Signorina Pierce, Signorina Chang, Signore Abrams, Signore Chang, who is not related to Signorina Chang, Signore Anderson, and Signore Abrams." By all etiquette, Noah should have introduced Blaine first, as the one with the most ties to the aristocracy of Venice, followed by Will Schuester as the eldest, but instead, he had introduced them from his right to his left, quite casually. Blaine had first suspected that Kurt's similar treatment of Blaine as an equal was done through ignorance, then realized it was quite deliberate, and guessed that Noah's similar treatment was simply that he couldn't be bothered. It was impossible to take offense and he even rather enjoyed it, though some of his enjoyment was speculating how his other friends or his family might react.

Casanova introduced his companions as Signora and Signora Bellafonte, but upon their realization that they no longer had his complete attention, they declared themselves wearied from travel and retired. Noah was closest when the men rose to wish them goodnight, and the moment that they were out of earshot, exclaimed, "You received a note, my uncle, you received a note!"

"Sir, I did not receive a note."

Arturo Abrams spoke first. "True, he received two, one from the mother, one from the daughter."

While the others exclaimed, Casanova's mouth compressed. "Noah, remember that to say such things out loud, even out of earshot of the lady, does her a disservice, if she might be identified. A listener might suspect the worst, that the note is for a rendez-vous rather than an innocent invitation, and the lady might find herself the object of suspicion. A man who is labeled a libertine must be more careful than one known for his chastity, for if he is known as a gossip and one who boasts of his conquests, what woman would trust him? Worse, an innocent woman who might receive his attentions should he seek a wife might find herself suspected merely because of his reputation, and condemned for the very innocence that should be most praised in her."

Blaine had never heard the matter put so pragmatically, or so succinctly. His father's and his confessor's lectures on the subject of feminine chastity and a woman's reputation had taken far longer and had included many digressions on the vital importance of a woman's virginity before she was married and her fidelity to her husband afterward. An unchaste woman was an abomination, never to be treated with respect. If he ever were to find himself unable to refrain, he must seek out a courtesan who could prove herself free from disease, though that was advice only from his father. A man who lacked temperance was a libertine. Such a one might be respected for everything else, but not for his temperance, and associating with such men and the women who were drawn to them might expose him to dangerous ideas.

His father and confessor were constantly reminding him to be on guard against dangerous ideas, these including notions such as belief that society was continually reforming instead of deteriorating; belief in human reason; the elimination of galley slavery; the elimination of slavery entirely; secularization; a and the concept that machines and engineering were and should be instruments for the public good. What would those wise men say if they could see him openly consorting with a Jew and a known libertine and another, an infamous libertine, on the most equal of terms?

Most of the speakers paused when the dinner that Casanova had ordered for the company arrived, so Blaine's attention returned to the table as the hush highlighted Finn's exclamation, "A nun? You married a nun?"

"No, no, I did not marry her when she was a nun. We promised one another our faith sincerely and considered ourselves married before God, though her father had forbidden us marriage and she was too young to wed without his consent. Her father suspected my intentions and had her hidden in a convent and forbidden to write or send messages. I sought her out, we resumed our love when I could find a way to secret myself in the convent, but our ardor cooled. Some loves grow greater through obstacles and others find themselves cooling. We released one another from our vows and she is now happily married to another and the mother of two."

"But you broke into a nunnery," Finn said this almost under his breath as if he were trying to figure out whether this was even possible.

"The guardian who will not yield to young lovers' pleas may yield to gold, the guardian who would not be corrupt for gold may yield to sentiment, and for other guardians, there is no wall that cannot be scaled, given patience and courage."

"Do you regret losing her?" Rachel asked.

"How can I regret? She is happy and I found others to love."

Blaine found himself gazing at Kurt as he considered that, so unlike Casanova, he had yet to be tempted to seek out a woman for any but chaste purposes. That was another thing he dared not say that to either father or confessor, especially as the times he had experienced temptation, it was when looking at or thinking about a man. David and Wesley had discovered this when they had been staying with him and had entered his room late at night, and found him occupied with a collection of artist studies and sketches by Michelangelo that his father had purchased in Florence. The open pages and his own activities made the nature of his admiration clear.

Mercifully, they did not condemn him for it, but reminded him, gravely, of the penalties he might face. Neither the Church nor the State actively sought those who practiced sodomy to punish them, but his future would be ruined should his family or society know or even suspect. Should he ever be suspected of any other crime against Church or State, this would be another to add to the charges against him. While he reassured them that he was certain that when time or his urges made it necessary, he would be able to find a woman who appealed to him and satisfy himself with marrying her, he had not yet found such a one.

Amidst the roars of laughter at Casanova's stories, which he had automatically joined with the discipline he had been taught of never standing out in a group unless it suited a specific purpose, he heard Rachel and Kurt quietly talking about Vivaldi. Kurt's soft voice seemed to caress his ears almost as much as if he were singing. He caught his breath as he found himself imagining kissing that mouth instead of listening to it, feeling Kurt's body pressed against his, ardent and sweet and wild, hands and mouths and sighs all mingling in caresses.

He jerked himself back to the present. The supper was delicious and Casanova's stories engrossing, so fortunately, nobody had noticed his abstraction lest they have guessed Kurt to be the cause. But the thought that he was drawn, among all these around him, to a castrato, troubled him to his core. He had laughed off Wesley's and David's concerns, since the ideal bodies of his daydreams were all complete and unblemished, beautiful and whole. Castrati were disfigured travesties, usually fat and disproportionately shaped, though Kurt was neither. Italian castrati often lacked the male part so entirely they had to squat to release their water like women and those who had lost only the testicles were nearly as distorted in their privates as if they had lost them entirely. The idea of even looking at one of them unclothed repelled him, and yet if he looked again at Kurt, instead of gazing at one of the women at the table, he could easily again imagine his mouth fastened on Kurt's.

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Handel came in with the air of a man surrounded by an entourage, though he was in fact unaccompanied. He beamed as he saw the company and made his way towards them, sitting next to Blaine, whom he greeted as the "good boy who has the sense to like my Theodora." Casanova rose to pay his compliments, further reinforcing the composer's good mood, especially as he praised Handel's establishment of homes for foundlings. Handel ordered two suppers when the waiter came over, though he did not specify who would be joining them.

Handel and Casanova traded stories of London and of the king, Farmer George, as several nicknamed George III. "In England, they believe that today's kings still receive the benefit of having one of their predecessors' heads chopped off," Handel explained. "He is stuffy with the court but free with the people, which they approve. When a madwoman tried to kill him with her knife, it was he who defended her from the crowd saying she was mad and had not harmed him. But in France, I fear, things may well be far different, but what can one expect from a country where Lully reigned supreme over music for so long? In England, they like their music as they like their food and their kings, simple, solid, and easy to comprehend.

"Here in Venice, you have a Doge, and I approve. The citizens vote for him and on that day, the mask is mandatory for all citizens. You get, sensible people, the pomp of a king but one who can be disposed of without the bother of beheading." He beamed upon them as if the arrangement had been their idea.

Kurt listened happily to the composer as he held forth. He had been of a humor lately that made these stories more to his taste than those of amorous conquests. Many times he was able to laugh or sympathize during those, but lately they had seemed to remind him of what he lacked, in more ways than one. Handel often did speak admiringly of beautiful women but it was a frank and easy admiration of them as beauties, not as conquests, and as often as not he spoke more of their beautiful voices than their shapes or faces.

The doors slammed and Kurt looked up curiously, expecting it to be Handel's expected dining companion and hoping that it might be Susan Sylvester. She was undoubtedly mad and yet she was a magnificent dance troupe leader and her acts of kindness, though as rare as a bolt of lightning on a sunny day, were as potent. He admitted, though, that he mostly hoped it would be she because their bickering greatly amused him.

Instead, two large men, both handsome were it not for the scowls on their faces, came in and sat at the only empty table, not far from theirs. Kurt turned away abruptly but it was too late; they had recognized him. His feelings must have shown as Blaine asked, "Who are they?"

"Soldiers who were Finn's school fellows, called Azimio and Karofsky. They find my existence a personal affront." He saw disbelief in Blaine's eyes and then saw it fade as one of them loudly remarked, "Shall we drink elsewhere or can you stand the stench of corruption from an over-perfumed boy?"

"No, these offenses against nature are everywhere."

Kurt murmured to Blaine, "It is well that we outnumber them this time, or it would be worse than words. They throw stones, rotten vegetables, or worse missiles, or even attacks. It is why I never leave unmasked if I am alone or only with a lady, or I take the gondola out the back." As little as he liked the situation, he was astonished at how warmed he felt by the changing expressions on Blaine's face, in which pity was a small part and anger and affectionate concern much greater.

"If ever you need an escort, send a messenger to me or to any of my friends," Blaine urged him. "Mention only my name and they will provide the protection that decency and reason fail to offer."

"I would that it were that simple. They are not alone and I fear constantly that Finn or my father will demand satisfaction and come to harm. I would rather endure a thousand insults than see them or any other I love injured for my sake."

Blaine, he saw, was faster to comprehend this than Finn himself or his father. Perhaps it was that Blaine, though clearly no weakling, was far from intimidating and more easily imagined losing a duel or being set upon by paid cut-throats and not surviving. "I understand," Blaine murmured, "Yet it is unjust that either way you must suffer." Blaine seemed so intent upon him and on conveying his sympathy through his glance that Kurt was entirely lost in his eyes and expression. The others might as well have dissolved into the air for all they existed to Kurt at that moment and he felt an ache in his chest from what he longed to say. Had they been alone, he would have taken Blaine's hand and kissed it, and whether alone or in the crowded inn as they were, he longed to kiss his mouth in his gratitude and love.

The moment broke when the waiter came to the table to ask if all was well. "Where is my supper?" Handel demanded.

"Signore, we have been holding it for your companion to arrive."

"There is no companion, I ordered both for myself, and I am growing yet hungrier!"

As the waiter scurried away, Kurt wondering that he didn't outright run, Casanova started to describe the perfect meal for an intimate occasion, responding to Noah's question. "It must begin with food that tantalizes and awakens the mouth but is not too sweet. Champagne is a noble choice, as are fresh oysters, but only one or two. The rest of the meal should be served in small, light courses, each reminding the lady that even more delicious things are to come. Everything must be luxurious but it need not be expensive. If a fruit is out of season and must be imported, if it is no sweeter than what can be picked from any tree, the lady will learn that you value displaying yourself more than you value her pleasure. A woman's pleasure, like a woman's heart, is more difficult to win than a man's, and like anything more difficult to win, yet easier to feign, is the more valuable."

The women at the table were laughing, agreeing, and looking at Casanova appreciatively. Even Rachel had unbent enough to laugh and share her smiles with him, and Kurt, though no Oracle of Delphi, knew that soon he would be helping his brother to order a dinner.

To his relief, Azimio and Karofsky left after only a few rounds of drinks, perhaps disappointed at finding themselves ignored and too outnumbered to force attention in a public space with too many observers. He had drunk sparingly, preferring to remain sober while talking with Blaine, particularly after Blaine had mentioned that he would keep a steady head lest his parents hear that he had been drinking in the public room of an inn. When the company broke up, since the musicians had rehearsals early the next day, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to embrace Blaine as it did for Casanova to kiss the hand of every woman present.

Chapter Text

Blaine was disproportionately excited to read the note from Kurt inviting him to come to La Bella Mercedes' villa for a dinner there, simply because the note said that she was eager to meet him after hearing all that Kurt had told her about him. All fashionable Venice knew of her and he had even attended several festivals or dances where she had been, but he had never been introduced. The most aristocratic families of Venice deplored her influence, distressed that a foreigner drew such admiration, but the few that received her invitations never refused them.

Her whims were the stuff of legend and several averred that indeed she did dry her hands only on the small band of toy dogs that followed her wherever she went. Blaine himself was fond of making a grand entrance where possible, but felt as though he barely crept in, wearing dull monk's garb, compared to her entrance to last year's Carnivale. She and her entourage had floated to the central square on barges, draped with purple, gold, and silver, with Mercedes dressed daringly as Cleopatra and carried ashore to the square on a litter borne by four men dressed in loincloths and little more.

When he arrived, he was shown into a low-ceilinged room decorated in the Moorish style with gleaming tiles on the walls rather than wood panels or painted plaster. The seats were low, cushioned platforms, and Mercedes reclined on one of these, dressed in gleaming emerald silk, while Kurt lay at an angle to her, his head resting comfortably in her lap. As one with an eye for beauty, Blaine could not help admiring her magnificent arms and bosom, which seemed sculpted from the richest and most polished walnut, and her brilliant eyes, but if he had ever doubted that his love for Kurt was physical, it was proven now, as it was Kurt's smile, not Mercedes' that stirred his heart into thrilled disquietude.

After greetings, she gestured for him to sit on her other side, and Kurt smiled impishly. "Mercedes intends to hold a party to celebrate her name day. We were planning it as you entered."

If the history between Kurt and Mercedes had been any different, Blaine would have paid a compliment to Mercedes by asking how Kurt could consider anything but her beauty, but instead chuckled, "It seemed you were planning your nap, instead."

"As you see, Mercedes, he begrudges me even rest, and denies me recognition of my labors. I urged her to a theme of exotic feathers but she refused that. I then proposed the four seasons as a theme, for guests to come as the embodiment of a season, silvery winter, golden summer, rich autumn, or flowering spring, or that I should ask all to come as one of the monsters of mythology, so that we might see minotaurs dancing with unicorns or Medusa with Cerberus."

"My little white specter here has his uses," Mercedes teased, tapping his cheek with her fan. "But which idea is better?"

"Make the case for one, Blaine, and Mercedes, argumentative creature that she is, will certainly find reasons to select the other."

"Or perhaps I will agree with him, since you describe him as both wise and charming." She grinned mischievously at Kurt, who covered his face with one hand in mock chagrin.

Blaine hastily took another sip of wine to cover what he suspected would be a far too revealing and foolish grin, and composed himself to speak solemnly. "The costumes that we choose to disguise ourselves reveal more, perhaps, than we suspect. The decrepit Senator who wishes to take a young wife signals his intent by selecting Summer as the season nearest Spring, though Winter is also Spring's neighbor. A woman who has only slight doubts in her beauty will dress as Medusa to hear others say that the notion is ridiculous, while a man who doubts himself will choose to appear as the Minotaur, half man and half powerful bull. So for that purpose, the monsters of antiquity offer more scope for choices."

"Bravo, signore, you see society clearly. Truly for many, the pleasure of attending any party is second to the pleasure of talking about it after. Kurt, let us then give the most pleasure by making it a night of monsters."

"By your theory, Blaine, we see Venice unmasked only when she is undisguised." Kurt turned his head to look at Blaine.

"Not only, but best. Our city itself wears a half-mask at all times, hiding so much in our canals and lagoons, that in other cities would be open on the street or need to be carried to a river. When our citizens vote, they must do so masked. We adopted for our Tuscan tongue the Latin word persona, derived originally from 'per sonare,' the mask that actors wore to make their voices sonorous." Looking at Kurt's face, he added, somberly, "Sometimes I fear that were we to remove our masks entirely, our faces would be bare, not to the skin, but to the bone, and the secrets that one heart holds most dear and sacred would be hideous to the others that see it."

Kurt rose hastily to a sitting position and leaned to look more closely at him. "Blaine? How did this mood come to you? I have never heard you talk so."

Blaine laughed shortly. "Too late a night rereading Diogenes and the approach of a coming thunderstorm, they often set my thoughts awry."

"Are you certain, my friend?"

"I am certain." His gratitude for Kurt's concern was so deep that his smile was sincere and Kurt seemed entirely appeased.

The supper showed another one of the celebrated beauty's eccentricities. Potatoes had only recently been accepted as edible and only peasants would eat such an ugly root that could be grown on a tiny plot. Despite this, among the many dishes from which to choose, there were three dishes made with potatoes. She caught Blaine's surprise. "I believe in following what pleases me, and I find potatoes delicious. If there is one who would condemn me for this, I happily consign their opinion to hell." Blaine laughed appreciatively but found within himself some envy that she acted and spoke so freely. Certainly she had wealth and beauty enough that she need not grovel for society's favor or please a patron or employer, but others who had wealth and power were less courageous. It was a small act of defiance, but he tried all three potato dishes.

After the supper, Mercedes requested, or, as Kurt put it, demanded, music, and Blaine was not surprised to find her voice as rich and powerful as her presence. When Blaine first sang, she turned to Kurt and said, "You were right, little ghost, he could sing for any audience."

Kurt groaned lightly and turned to Blaine, "You must know that Mercedes and I speak of subjects other than you."

"Rarely," she countered. "Kurt spoke of his friend so often and praised him so highly that I felt each day spent without meeting this paragon was not merely wasted but misused."

Kurt was actually blushing, something Blaine had never seen before. He said, seriously, "Then I thank you, Kurt, that your friendship sees so many virtues in me." He lightly embraced him and then looked away to allow Kurt to compose himself.

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Blaine adjusted his mask yet again, gazing closely at his image in the mirror, wondering why the mask persisted in tilting every time he moved his head. Kurt came up behind him and chuckled. "Here, allow me, it's caught in your hair." He untied the ribbons and retied them firmly. "There, you satyr, your horns and mask are in place."

Blaine turned from the image of the two of them in the mirror to look at Kurt directly. "You are magnificent." Kurt laughed and bowed, and Blaine circled him, admiring the golden phoenix costume. The tailor had made the waistcoat and breeches in a golden cream and reserved the richer gold fabric for an overlying robe, embroidered with coppery feathers on a bright gold fabric. The gold mask completed the rich, exotic effect.

Kurt was looking at him in open admiration, and Blaine was delighted that he had let vanity dictate his choice of costume. He knew that the browns and greens of the woodlands satyr suited his coloring and that his thick curls added to the effect. He had almost thought that Kurt's hand lingered for a moment against his hair as he tied Blaine's mask, but suspected his imagination and hopes of playing tricks on him.

"Mercedes is waiting for us," Kurt reminded him, and they went back to the main salon where she was reclining on a chaise, dressed as a siren. Rachel, dressed demurely as a nymph, seemed none too pleased with Finn's attentions to their hostess, despite her earlier pleasure at being invited to Mercedes' even more exclusive supper before the party. Finn, dressed as a Titan, was admiring her sea-green costume rather too closely.

Blaine, wanting nothing to sour the evening and having already recognized Rachel's capacity to create a scene, immediately complimented her, declaring her as well suited to be one of the Graces as a nymph. He thought he caught a hint of perturbation on Kurt's face and wondered, for another delighted moment, if Kurt might even return his feelings and be jealous. On the other hand, she was his brother's intended, so his concern might be only for that.

"If I would not be an unworthy partner to one of the Graces, might I have the honor of a dance when the festivities open? Grant the request, lovely Rachel, as a merciful goddess might." She glowed at the flattery and smiled her acceptance, but looked over to see if Finn had noticed. He had not, and Rachel frowned, but Blaine could not help smile as he saw a distinct frown on Kurt's face.

Now he was to test whether it was jealousy or concern for his brother that traced the frown on Kurt's lovely face. Making his excuses to Rachel, he joined Santana, dressed as a she-devil. "Now temptation is made manifest, I see," he observed. She had let her hair fall loose and twirled a piece around her finger as she smiled at him. "You yourself might be many a lady's downfall," she purred, eying him seductively. As she ran her hand down his arm, he saw Kurt's frown deepen.

His mind quietly preached that he should be remorseful for so testing his beloved's emotions and bringing that sad frown to his dear face, but everything else of him shouted and bellowed song in exultation. He had attained everything and Kurt's heart was his. Nothing seemed an obstacle any more, not the opposition of the Church and the law, not the enmity of society, not even his Kurt's vicious mutilation. His blood was racing that he could finally say, if only to himself, his Kurt. He loved everything in Kurt, even the cold, harsh words that could flow so easily from his mouth, because they came from his pride, the dear pride that kept him holding his head as high as any doge's or king's among those who despised him for what had not been his choice. Blaine loved the prideful look that softened so readily into affection and humor with those he loved, and the ferocity and sweetness of that love. His Kurt, with the voice of an angel and the heart of a lion and, when he permitted others to see it, the tenderness of a saint. That he had won this heart was a miracle as real as any that the priests preached.

Mercedes interrupted his thoughts as she called for the group to enter the ballroom where the rest of the guests awaited their entrance. Blaine sought Kurt with his eyes to ask for a minute alone, but Mercedes called him to her side before he could do so. Blaine's anticipation of the moment when he would confess his love to Kurt was so enthralling that he hardly minded.

Mercedes took Kurt's arm for the first dance and Rachel came to Blaine to claim her first dance, her pretty face exhibiting showing some displeasure that she had been forced to remind him. He apologized as gracefully as his upbringing had taught him, explaining that he had needed to remind himself of the steps of the gavotte lest he prove to be an unworthy partner. She appeared quite satisfied and commented that having been trained in dance since childhood, she would be sure to remind him of anything he forgot and amend any errors he might make.

When the dance was half-finished, he noticed that Finn was looking at them somewhat disconsolately, and not just because he liked both of them, but because tonight he wished every lover complete happiness, he said, "Ah, Finn is waiting for you, now he seeks the pure pleasure of your company after the mixed duty and pleasure of paying respects to our lady hostess."

"It hardly seemed a painful duty," she answered, tartly, and Blaine answered, "Would you have him offend all other ladies he speaks to by showing his displeasure that they are not you? 'O lady who is not Rachel, permit me to snub you as I pass in search of her?'"

"Perhaps not," she grudgingly acknowledged, and then allowed herself to laugh at Blaine's deliberately inept attempt to mimic Finn's voice. Blaine saw Finn turn his head suddenly at the sound of her laughter and he said, "Smile at him, give him some reward." Had Finn been dancing with any other than Brittany, he would have been subjected to justified wrath as he stumbled, grinning to see Rachel's loving, luminous smile over Blaine's shoulder.

Finn almost pushed two dowagers to the ground as he made his way to Rachel, but one of them smiled indulgently as she saw he was claiming the hand of his lady love and the other, Blaine would have sworn, avenged herself by sharping tapping his tights-clad thigh with her fan with an air of intense approval. Both responses astonished Blaine until he remembered that it was La Bella Mercedes hosting the party and she rarely selected her guests for the closeness of their adherence to conventions.

Seeing that Brittany had claimed Kurt while he had been too astonished at the byplay, he bowed to the lady who had approved Finn so overtly and pleaded for the next dance, an allemande. As they moved through the dance, he was racking his brains over who she might be behind her Medusa's mask, and finally placed her as the widow of a former Doge. Of course, it would be a discourtesy to identify her aloud unless she indicated that he might, but she gave no such sign. Tonight, Blaine would unmask only one thing, the secret of his love for Kurt.

After this dance ended and he thanked his partner, he scanned the room again for Kurt but he was nowhere to be found. Brittany was returning to Arturo's side and he asked her where Kurt had gone.

"Oh, he went to make the bad monster leave," she said, vaguely.

"Which one was that?"

"The big one with the horns." Blaine, no more enlightened than before he asked, continued to look for him, regretting his lack of inches and wishing he could climb a chair to better scan the crowd.

What did you imagine would happen? Kurt fiercely told himself as he watched Blaine compliment Rachel and Santana with just the proper hint of flirtation. That he would never court a woman because he prefers singing with you?

Mercedes had sensed that he was troubled during their dance and touched his cheek. "What is it, little Kurt?"

"Ah, nothing, just a passing thought." And that is all that it must be.

He rapidly claimed Brittany for the next dance, since interpreting her chatter was enough to distract anyone. He couldn't even claim that his heart was breaking, only that it hurt him. Another reminder that he was doomed to be lonely and was made into a freak to better entertain others. Brittany's questions about how there could be only one phoenix since Noah took two of every creature on the ark distracted him enough during the dance, but when he surrendered her to Arturo, he was left alone.

He saw a familiar figure, dressed as the Minotaur, enter the room with a surge of dislike but couldn't place him until he saw him in full profile. He made his way to Mercedes, who was chatting with two other guests, quickly begged forgiveness for the interruption, and asked, incredulously, if she had invited Karofsky.

"Do you question my taste or my sanity? I would invite him only if I were to host a party in Hell and could leave my guests behind!"

"I thought so, most beautiful. I'll see that he's thrown out," he added as she looked around and didn't see any of her servants immediately to hand. He was about to seek them himself when his anger urged him to order Karofsky to leave himself. At least he had a target and a justified one.

"You were not invited, signore, and you are to leave, the lady demands it. I will show you to the door."

"Are you the lady herself, dainty singer?" Karofsky's mockery further irritated Kurt, but he did follow him.

In the deserted hallway, Kurt turned to face him, removing his mask. "What troubles you so about me? That a choice I did not make changed my life? That I sing? Why must you act as though you live to mock me when I have done you no harm, when I barely know you?"

"Be quiet," Karofsky growled. "You know nothing."

"This I do know, that you are only a dwarf who mistakenly thinks himself a giant because his piss spatters everywhere!"

Karofsky advanced on him menacingly, but before Kurt even realized it was happening, Karofsky pulled him into an empty side room, closed the door behind them, seized his face between his hands, and forced an angry, hungry, passionate kiss on him. Too shocked at first to respond, Kurt had just begun to struggle free when Karofsky briefly released him and then reached for him for another kiss.

Kurt furiously shoved him and to his amazement, Karofsky stumbled backwards a few feet, his face darkening with rage as he looked down at Kurt, his eyes and posture full of menace again. He clenched his fist and Kurt braced for a blow, but instead of striking him, Karofsky struck the wall and rushed out.

Kurt himself stumbled back, panting in anger, fear, and relief. That man, that monster who had always persecuted him...his hate was fueled by lust. Kurt wrapped his arms around himself. Before he had been afraid of him and now he was terrified. Tears, already close to his eyes from having seen Blaine pay attentions to women, began to fall weakly, barely trickling, but he knew they would turn into sobs if he could not control himself. He forced himself to breathe and then heard a voice calling his name.

"Kurt? Kurt?" As the voice grew closer, he recognized it as Blaine's and opened the door. "Kurt, I was looking for you-what is it?" Kurt could only shake his head and Blaine urgently took him by the shoulders and guided him to sit on the couch. "What is it, Kurt, tell me?"

"He kissed me," Kurt whispered.

Blaine's face registered more emotions than Kurt could even recognize. "Who, Kurt?"

"Karofsky," he whispered. "He had come uninvited. I told him to leave. He pulled me into this room and kissed me, by force...it was...there was desire in it, Blaine, it wasn't just to...to mock me..."

Blaine was staring at him, eyes full of anger and compassion. "Oh, Kurt," he whispered, then, his eyes rapidly examining Kurt's intact costume, "He did nothing more?"

"No...only the kiss..." Kurt heard his voice trail away weakly and he loathed it but could not do anything.

Blaine looked away for a moment, thinking. "He cannot be allowed to do this unpunished. Finn knows how to deal with such matters and he has the right."

Kurt's entire body jerked in alarm. "Blaine, no! He must know nothing!"

"Kurt, that animal wronged you!"

"Understand this." Kurt desperately hoped that Blaine would understand him. "I would rather have endured even more than for Finn to risk his life." He knew he was pleading against a code engrained into Blaine, but saw a hint of comprehension in his expression. "As long as no one hears of this, it can do me no more harm. But if Finn should be hurt, even killed, or if my father should hear of it, and he might even challenge Karofsky...could you expect me to endure it if either of them was hurt, killed, even? Could I ever look Carole in the face again, if my complaint robbed her of husband or son?" As Blaine's face softened from anger to understanding, Kurt felt the tension disappear from his muscles and it seemed even his bones weakened. "Blaine, promise me that you will never speak of it."

"I promise, Kurt," Blaine answered, quietly. "But it still grieves me that he...that he did such a thing and will go unpunished."

Kurt felt a strange, weary tranquility, now that Karofsky's attack was over and he had persuaded Blaine. "It pains me as well. But, oh, Blaine, I had wanted my first kiss to be from a man whose kiss I wanted, and he took that from me, my first kiss." Kurt's hand flew to his mouth as he realized that in this unguarded moment he had used the masculine noun. He waited for Blaine to express his disgust, dreading it but longing for it to be over, like a sacrificial victim awaiting the axe.

Instead, Blaine tenderly embraced him, stroking his back consolingly. Perhaps he didn't notice? No, that's not possible. Not unless he is so loving a friend that he heard only that it was unwilling? Blaine continued to hold him close and Kurt realized that he was shivering in his friend's arms. Blaine led him to the padded bench and sat down with him.

"Ah, Kurt...I hope my confession will ease you rather than cast another burden on you, my dearest friend...hear me out, knowing that I would never wish to offend you or do you harm." He looked in Kurt's eyes, waiting for a response, and continued at Kurt's shaky nod. "I love you, Kurt, not as a brother, as I had first thought. Tonight...I thought I saw a hint that you love me, Kurt, and I could only pour out my soul and my heart to you. I love you and desire you and would hold you in my arms forever if only I could."

Kurt felt a sudden agonized suspicion. Was this the most cruel jest ever planned, that Karofsky would force a kiss and then Blaine would plead his love? Were they planning to meet the next day, to laugh at him? Kurt desperately wanted to be able to don his dignity, to resume his haughtiness and remind Blaine that such things were against all laws and that briskly remind him that he should not mock the laws thus, for fear that somebody might take him seriously. He knew this would be the wise thing to do, even if Blaine were not making the master move in the game a predator might play with helpless prey. Instead, he could only pour out his soul to Blaine and trust in his decency. Against what he saw in Blaine's eyes and what he felt in his own heart, he was powerless to do anything but to subside in Blaine's embrace and offer his mouth for Blaine's kiss.

This kiss was nothing like the other. Blaine held Kurt in his arms as gently and reverently as a truly devout priest might handle a sacred relic. His tongue gently sought entrance to Kurt's mouth, caressing delicately and banking his eagerness. Kurt welcomed it shyly and tentatively explored Blaine's mouth with his own. It was utterly strange to him since his own fantasies had never proceeded as far as this. He had no sensation, though, of being lost, but rather, of being led to some place that was natural and inevitable, in the same way that a composition, no matter where notes might wander, always resolved in the proper key.

Blaine felt ridiculously blissful as he returned home that night. He and Kurt had done no more than exchange a few more kisses, barely even spoken beyond whispering the other's name, and held one another close, delighting in this newfound proximity of their hearts.

Kurt had stood before him and removed all the armor that had defended him so long, had abandoned his defenses as surely as a city surrendering to a besieging army might, uncertain and fearful at first. But his surrender had utterly disarmed Blaine and moved him in a way nothing ever had before. So his kisses promised not just his passion but his patience as he sensed Kurt's timidity in admitting and yielding to his love.

He quietly entered his parents' palazzo and went to his bedroom. He passed the vast bedroom that they had recently vacated, thinking ahead to the time when he would bring a bride first to the nuptial chamber and then to that room. For the first time since leaving Kurt with a last kiss on his lips and a whispered, ″Until tomorrow,″ he felt a moment of misgiving. Until now, the secret of their love had only seemed to newborn to share, too tender and ethereal to allow any other to glimpse. But now, that room reminded him of what he had set aside in his mind, thinking only of winning Kurt.

He would never be able to bring Kurt to his parents, hand in hand, inviting them to rejoice with him that he had found, wooed, and won the heart of the one he loved. They would never embrace Kurt as their new son, never summon the most fashionable portrait painter of the day to add his likeness to the gallery where the long rows of his ancestors seemed to watch over their descendants.

He opened the bedroom door hesitantly, resenting the loss of his earlier bliss. To dispel these shadows, he thought of how he could bring Kurt to Wes and David, happily enduring their triumphant teasing and reminders that they had called it a certainty before he even admitted to the possibility. They would share his happiness, welcoming Kurt into a deeper friendship as the one Blaine's heart had recognized. Then they would welcome Kurt for his own sake as they grew to love him.

Blaine's tension dispelled as he imagined their faces when he confessed that they had been right all along and the additional warmth when this time, they greeted Kurt not just as the artist and Blaine's friend, but as his beloved one.

Laughing to himself at the tender absurdity of it, he whispered a ″Good night, Kurt,″ to the darkness in the room as he turned down the lamp and got into his bed.

 

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At breakfast, his parents asked about the previous evening. Blaine duly listed the notables who were there.

His mother nodded approvingly, but added, ″It is very good that you are making these acquaintances through the singer, but you must remember not to become too closely associated with him or the theater. With music, certainly, but not stage performers.″

Blaine looked at her steadily. ″Signore Hummel is my friend, mother, and he merits friendship through his mind and heart, not his talent.″

She smiled tolerantly. ″My dear boy, you are reading too many French books, I fear. A craftsman's son, a castrato? How could such a man be your equal? Remember, influential clergy denounce stage performers, but have yet to denounce our kind.″

His father added, kindly, ″Son, it is generous of you to consider him a friend, but remember that you are destined for greater pursuits. Associating with him is all very well, and the better that you find it pleasant, but consider your future. Herr Handel might give you an entry into German or English affairs, for example. The King of England thinks much of him and has offered him a position at his court, as has the Duke of Chandos.″

″Signore, I do not intend to shirk my responsibility to you or to myself, and I know my association with Signore Hummel will open many such doors, but I do not regard him as a stepping stone, to be used and then forgotten.″

His father smiled tolerantly. ″As long as you do not forget your responsibilities or forget who you are, all is well, then. Tell us more of the costumes, then, my boy.″

Blaine automatically spoke of some of the more extravagant or beautiful costumes, but underneath, was all turmoil. How could his worlds be so divided that he had to defend his friendship with Kurt as a friendship, let alone not admitting his love? Soon, he would leave to visit Kurt, and there forget everything except his love. Of course it pleased him that he was meeting new people through Kurt, but what he treasured were the ones whom he could admire and like for their own sakes, like Handel or La Bella Mercedes or Rachel.

An idea struck him and he realized that at least part of his problem had an easy solution. He could not expect his parents to understand everything about his love for Kurt, that he loved Kurt as another man might love a woman, but if he were to bring Kurt to meet them, surely they would understand then that he treasured Kurt's friendship for its own sake. He determined to do this as soon as he could.

 

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Blaine would have sung his happiness to the world as he went to Kurt's home. In the music room, Kurt turned at his entrance and all but ran to meet him with an embrace and a quick kiss to his lips. That first kiss was almost shy, which caused Blaine to melt again with tenderness, but the next kiss was full of warmth. Kurt sighed happily as they pulled apart, and, his arm around Blaine's waist, started to sing to him, in a playful, casual tone, the first few lines of the love duet from Xerxes.

″I've done nothing but think of you,″ Blaine murmured to him.

″And I of you.″ It was almost impossible for Blaine to reconcile in his mind the cold haughtiness that Kurt presented to the world with the shyness and innocence in his eyes and touch now. He reached for Kurt's hand and held it to his cheek, lightly kissing the back of it and wondering at how smooth it was. After a few moments, it felt natural to separate to return to the harpsichord, picking up where they had left the solo voice cantata that Blaine was writing. Blaine laughed a little from pure happiness that rather than politely allowing the other as much space as possible on the bench, they were seeking the contact. Kurt turned to him and smiled, widely and openly, and turned the page to the part where Blaine was unsure of how to shape the cadenza. At Handel's advice, he had started to write out the ornamentation instead of leaving it entirely to the singer's discretion. ″Now, good singers like that nice Hummel boy, they can ornament without getting themselves and their listeners lost like a sheep in a thicket, each note catching them more and more until all they can do is bleat, eh? You are the composer and they are the singers and that is that. Write it like that and then bring it to me with a good bottle of wine and we will drink the wine and talk about it.″ Kurt had warned him to bring two bottles if he had any wish to drink himself.

As Blaine worked on the cadenza, Kurt would sing it so he could hear the results in Kurt's own voice, occasionally making a suggestion. Finally, Blaine was satisfied enough to call it finished, and he played as Kurt sang it through. He had selected a very simple text from Metastasio in which Aminta, the true heir to the throne, declares his love for Elissa, the shepherdess he came to love when disguised as a shepherd, saying that he loves her and will be always constant and happy with her. In the first iteration, Blaine wrote the lines to be very simple declarations, and the reprises far more ornate to reflect the young king's musings on his love. Finished, Kurt beamed at Blaine, who returned his smile and embraced him.

″Who wrote that?″ Finn's voice came from the doorway and both of them turned to see him and Burt Hummel there.

″Blaine did,″ Kurt declared, proudly.

″That was magnificent, well done.″

″Thank you, Finn, I had the perfect voice to inspire me.″ Kurt shook his head, laughing, and Finn clapped Blaine on the shoulder. He seemed delighted but the elder Hummel was looking at him with stern, almost suspicious eyes.

He then spoke. ″A word, Signore Anderson,″ and drew Blaine out into the hall and into another room.

″I saw how you look at my son.″

Blaine was petrified only for an instant before his training told him to let the silence remain until the other grew so uncomfortable that he would speak again, reveal more of what he thought he had seen and his reactions. He waited for an instant and then realized he had no wish to play such games with Kurt's father.

He sighed deeply and began to speak, trying to pick the words that would convey the truth but not arouse the other man's anger against Kurt. ″I love him, Signore, yes.″ After a moment, he continued. ″If he were a woman, I would have come to you to ask you to give him to me in marriage. But as it is...″ He sighed again and lifted his hands helplessly. The older man was looking past him, and then scowled. Blaine, alarmed, added, ″Signore, I respect you as his father. But I will leave rather than hear a word against him, and if you forbid him your home, I will give him shelter. And if you should denounce him to the authorities, I will protect him with my name and my life itself.″

He stood firmly as Kurt's father looked at him as if he could scrutinize his heart itself. Then the elder Hummel spoke, quietly. ″And what are my son's feelings in this?″

Blaine could not help the smile that came to his lips as he answered, ″Signore, he returns my love.″

Hummel wiped his forehead with a weary gesture and looked past him again, speaking at first almost as if it were to himself. ″A father's first duty is to protect his child. I failed Kurt in this. If he loves you and you love him and cherish him as you say, I will not interfere. If you prove yourself worthy, you will even have my blessing. But remember this, young man, this time, I will know how to protect him against any who would wrong him.″

″I understand, Signore.″ Blaine bowed deeply to him.

Chapter Text

"A new production of Gluck's Orfeo and Euridice," Kurt exclaimed, his face radiant. "I will be singing Orfeo, of course, Rachel will sing Euridice, and a singer I do not know Sunshine Corazon, will sing Amor, the goddess of love." Blaine could tell that Kurt was holding some other surprise, waiting for the moment to flourish it, impatient to do so.

"Is that all the news?" he asked, hoping this would be enough.

"I have decided to play the great simplicity of the music its due. Gluck's libretto and music themselves demand it. So rather than the great costumes that encase singers like bells, with their frills and enough feathers to replume an entire flock of birds, and looking no more Greek than a Chinaman's robes, I will wear, instead, this."

He held up a drawing of a simple Greek tunic of white linen, draped over one shoulder, that fell to just above the knee. Finn leaned forward and nodded appreciatively, but Blaine frowned and caught, from the corner of his eye, that Burt did as well. Kurt looked at him sharply, his voice on the edge of brittle. "It displeases you?"

"Aesthetically, it pleases me greatly. But...is it wise to draw such attention to yourself? They already say that you flaunt yourself rather than acting modestly, and this..." He looked pointedly at the bare shoulder and legs of the costume. "I fear they might take it amiss."

Kurt's eyes hardened. "I have chosen this. If you would not see it upon the stage, you need not attend the performances." Blaine recognized that on this point, Kurt would not swerve, so he immediately chose to admire his courage and determination, rather than to fear for the possible results of his rashness and refusal to consider his many foes. He immediately took Kurt's hand in his. "I anticipate your triumph in it," he said, inwardly praying that his words would be fulfilled.

 

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At the first rehearsal, the madwoman Sylvester found every excuse to taunt Kurt for his costume, telling him that it looked as though Orpheus had been bathing when he heard the news of Euridice's death and that he had seized the nearest towel, that he had doubtless designed it from two insubstantial handkerchiefs, or that his exposed skin was so pale that the total effect was of a wax candle that had somehow learned to sing, but there was a very grudging respect in her voice and expression as she did so. Handel, on the other hand, had so far failed to notice.

Rachel was beside herself with resentment that Handel had dared to cast a soprano "almost as good as myself" in the second female lead. She raged and threatened to leave the opera house if Handel did not cut Amor's two arias, leaving only the recitatives, but Handel remained obstinately calm during her scenes, noting only that he would keep her in mind next time he needed to cast an infuriated goddess.

Rachel tried to convince Kurt that the role of Amor threatened to overshadow him, and when that failed to sway him, turned to La Bella Mercedes, who was paying part of the cost of the production, but Mercedes was also unmoved. Rachel even sent a message to Sunshine telling her that the next rehearsal was at Handel's apartment and directing her to a home that had become a covert opium den. Sunshine returned to the theater the next morning and confronted Rachel, who at least then apologized. However, even Sunshine's good nature was pushed too far and she quit to join another theater, La Voce Stimulata.

"Brava, Rachel, brava! You've managed to find a way to undermine the success of this entire production!" Kurt coldly congratulated her when she next entered.

"What do you mean?"

"La Voce Stimulata is opening Bononcini's new opera the very night of our Orfeo."

"No, they open three days later," she protested.

"Wrong, they are opening the same night. They moved their opening 'to respond to the acclaim of their new singer and allow Venice to charm their ears the earlier.' Would you guess at the name of this new singer?"

"Sunshine..." she faltered.

"The same," Mercedes snapped as she entered, looking herself like an angry goddess in her vibrantly-colored silk gown of sea green and gold. "We may be lucky to fill the house."

Rachel was shaken to the core. She had thought only of ousting her rival, not of what La Voce Stimulata might do. Her remorse over her treatment of Sunshine was now greater that she had possibly harmed her own company and friends. "I...I swear it, I will find a way to undo any harm..."

"Let us hope you can," Kurt said, gravely as he left, offering Mercedes his arm.

 

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Blaine leaned back in the box he shared with David and Wesley, Noah, and Casanova. There was something in the mood of the theater that opening night that had him on edge, the sense of a hostility, of unrest. He told himself that it was nothing but his eyes kept roaming the theater, trying to find the source of his unease.

His eye passed over the front of the house and then returned. David Karofsky and Azimio Adams sat in the center, with others of their companions in the seats and rows around them. It seemed ill-omened that they were there and so numerous and he thought he saw sacks stowed under their seats. But before he could go to alert Schuester or, perhaps more effectively, Madame Sylvester, the first chords sounded.

There was nothing untoward during the opening scene, as the choral ensemble mourned the death of Euridice in dance and music. The performance began to wash over Blaine, especially as the dancers seemed to embody loss during the ballet. Madame Sylvester was no mere braggart, he reminded himself again, before allowing the performance to absorb all other thoughts.

After her companions had mourned Euridice's death together, the music announced an even deeper grief and Kurt made his entrance. Blaine caught his breath at how absolutely right his costume was for the moment and waited for that voice he knew so well to begin to sing.

Just as Kurt opened his mouth, a voice roared from the audience, "Get dressed, ugly bitch!" and was followed by repeated shouts of "Slut!" "Queen harlot!" "Dress yourself, woman!" and "Eunuch!" as rotten vegetables started to fly from the audience, raining about and striking Kurt, who stared in disbelief before fleeing the stage.

Blaine was the first out of the box, running around to the backstage. He heard the sounds of fighting in the audience and heard Noah shouting threats and then stopping. Whether Noah had stopped to fight or was still following didn't matter. Casanova was no longer beside him, either.

The usher guarding the stage door recognized and admitted him a moment before Blaine simply would have charged through. "Don't let anybody else through," he urged David and Wesley, who were still on his heels, when he saw a few of the audience members turning their way.

He called Kurt's name but heard nothing in the clamor. Starting to search for him, he nearly stumbled over Kurt who was sitting on the ground, unsuccessfully fighting tears. Blaine crouched beside him, putting an arm around him and torn with pity and anger and love as he felt Kurt shake with a snob. "How could I have thought they'd let me be," he sniffled. "The hate, the cruelty...what have I ever done to them?" he demanded, burying his face in Blaine's shoulder. Blaine tried to let his embrace and soft kiss on Kurt's hair say everything for him, say I love you, I want to protect you, forget the cruelty, forget the ignorance, I will hold you until this is over. He let Kurt weep his disappointment and pain.

"What do I do now?" Kurt asked in a choking whisper.

Blaine had been ready to find somebody to send for his servants to escort them home, but he realized that Kurt had only temporarily relinquished his strength, laying it down so that he could voice his grief and let Blaine comfort him. He had to give it back to Kurt now, or Kurt would never forgive himself for retreating, no matter how wise and justified a retreat would be. "Return to the stage and wait for the performance to resume."

Kurt's teary eyes seemed to first ask, "How can I?" but then Blaine saw resolve return to them and even a hint of a wry smile. "They'll have run out of vegetables now, at least," he commented, letting Blaine help him up.

The two of them walked through to the set, where the rest of the ensemble was waiting, awkwardly. Finn was peeking through the curtain. "Handel's hitting somebody with the horn," he reported. "The cello broke."

Kurt's voice shook only a little as he asked, "He's broken only a cello?" Finn turned at his voice and seized him in an embrace. "They're all idiots," he said, softly, earning a quick smile before returning to spy on the events in the theater.

"Noah and his cousin aren't in fights anymore, they're in, oh, that's Signora Argenti's box..." his voice trailed off and Blaine, remembering the lady's reputation, imagined why. "Oh, Handel's dragging the violinist back, looks like he's..." Finn straightened up as resolutely has Kurt himself had. "If he's getting ready, then..." He pushed through the curtain and shouted to Handel, "How long do you need?"

"Four more minutes to fetch whatever spare instruments there are and see who will play them. Is the stage clean now?"

"Mostly, but the dancers should be careful."

Blaine had actually forgotten about Madame Sylvester, but she was there, clapping Kurt on the shoulder and then telling her dancers not to dare break anything or she would break all their other limbs.

Noah appeared backstage, looking very pleased with himself, and said that he and Casanova would stay in the audience and watch for disruptions. Rachel finished brushing bits of debris from the floor and the vegetables from Kurt's costume and at the sound of the chord's announcing Orfeo's entrance, the curtain rose again.

Blaine felt a moment of absolute dread as the curtain finished rising and left Kurt exposed again. But this time, there was the sound of loud applause from a few boxes and more tentative clapping from other parts of the theater, until it was time for Kurt to sing. His first few notes were shaky but the applause at the end was genuinely enthusiastic. He was watching Karofsky carefully and saw that even he nearly brought his hands together in applause, but noticing Azimio look at him, pretended the gesture was only to wipe his hands. Blaine frowned in puzzlement, realizing there was no empty sack under his seat and that his hands weren't at all soiled. Apparently he'd rather misjudged him.

 

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Kurt borrowed a mask to leave the theater that evening, judging that he had shown his face proudly enough during the performance and could thus indulge himself in the comfort of anonymity on his route home. Blaine watched Finn gaze back and forth between his brother and Rachel, to whom Jesse St. James had given his arm. Rachel was always exhilarated by any performance that resulted in applause, but Finn was as obviously fearful that her glow and chatter were also sparked by Jesse's attentions as he murmured in her ear and pressed closer than necessity demanded. Blaine raised himself on his toes to murmur in Finn's ear, "Provide an escort to the lady, the others and I will see your brother home. Your height may even give his identity away, so best that you watch over her."

Blaine was grateful for the protection that the company of the others gave Kurt, but far less so for the lack of privacy. He had confided the fact that he loved the castrato only in David and Wesley, sheepishly yielding to their teasing and declarations that Blaine should show them the respect due to the oracles who had seen what was fated. Kurt had already confided in his father and told his brother and stepmother. Blaine knew it was wisest to keep their secret but he longed to take Kurt in a closer embrace and to cover his face with kisses as the gondolas floated to Kurt's home. "Will you not come in?" Kurt invited as they arrived, and Blaine had to struggle to conceal his relief at being the only one to accept.''

"I no longer regret that our parents could not attend," Kurt sighed, giving his cloak and the borrowed mask to a servant. "My father suffers enough on my behalf already."

Blaine knew that in the eyes of the world, he had no reason to envy Kurt, but he felt a pang as he thought of how his own father would respond if Blaine were ever attacked as Kurt had been. His father would have raged and sought revenge, but for the insult alone, not for the grief it caused.

Rather than his beloved morning or afternoon coffee, Kurt called for warmed milk for both of them. Blaine had sent words to his parents that if the performance and celebrations went late, he might spend the night under Kurt's roof, and he was so weary that he was glad of it.

Kurt came to sit next to him and Blaine rested his head against Kurt's shoulder while Kurt rested his on Blaine's. Occasionally, Kurt would sigh softly, but seemed disinclined to speak and Blaine thought it best to let only the sound of the cups returning to their saucers break the quiet. After perhaps a quarter hour had passed, Kurt stirred and asked, "More?"

"No, thank you."

"Then off to bed, I suppose." At the doorway, though, Kurt caught Blaine in a fierce, quick hug, and murmured, "Thank you."

"Of course, my heart," Blaine answered, and they went to their rooms.

The next morning, Blaine was the last to the breakfast table and stared at Finn's bruised face and hands. "Were you attacked last night?"

Kurt took advantage of Finn's full mouth to answer on his brother's behalf, "No, he and St. James clashed, but few injuries to either beyond pride. I have no doubt that Rachel is now beating upon the door of every composer in the city, demanding that it be set to music."

Finn glared but left the remarks unchallenged as he swallowed, while Blaine couldn't help but laugh at the image that came to his mind of Rachel rousing every great composer in the city from his sleep, waving the sheaves of paper on which she had described the combat. Kurt eyed Blaine speculatively. "Perhaps you might take on the challenge?" His eyes were gleaming with amusement but Blaine also noted that when Finn winced slightly and looked ruefully at his hand when slicing his chop, Kurt deftly removed his plate, cut the meat, and returned the plate without any further comment.

Carole asked their plans for the day. Finn admitted that he intended to call upon Rachel and renew his courtship while Kurt announced that he intended to practice some parts of Orfeo in which his performance last night left him unsatisfied, and call upon his tailor in the afternoon. His father gravely announced his sympathy for the unfortunate tailor, but his eyes were full of concern as he looked at his son. Blaine suspected that even if Kurt and Finn had spared them the worst of the story, Burt had guessed more than he would admit. He wondered yet again at how fiercely and protectively they loved one another and shielded each other from pain. Blaine himself had a regular monthly appointment with his father and the family lawyer that afternoon, and took his leave. Kurt accompanied him to the door, but first stopping in the empty sitting room to capture a brief, unobserved embrace and kiss. While Kurt believed most of the servants loyal, he would not risk discovering whether or not that loyalty was stronger than the allure of gossip, offended sensitivities, or the lure of reward from anyone seeking to denounce him or Blaine.

At his own home, he changed to more sober clothing for the lawyer's visit and read a little, though his thoughts kept returning to the scenes in the theater. The cruelty appalled him, all the more so because even his Kurt had retreated, briefly, in the face of it. He tried to imagine a world in which he could have defended Kurt in public as a lover would, but it seemed as impossible as his childhood dreams of machines that could travel through the air or being able to preserve the sound of a voice forever. Those days, when a man might acknowledge another man as his beloved, were long vanished with the Greeks, Romans, and Persians.

 

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There was to be another performance of Orfeo that evening and while Kurt thought it unlikely that the previous night's attack would be repeated, he wished that it were already over without incident. He had already practiced again and again the parts of the opera that had disappointed him last night and satisfied himself that was only his nerves that had betrayed him, not his voice or memory.

Another matter troubled him more. Blaine's kisses and caresses had become more passionate during their last times together and he knew that Blaine felt arousal during many of their embraces. He was utterly at a loss. He had read enough Classical poetry to know in the most general sense what happens when two men become intimate, but reading even that made him feel apprehensive and deeply uncomfortable. He feared that Blaine would eventually grow dissatisfied with him if he remained fearful of greater intimacy but feared equally that Blaine would be disappointed with the results of actual intimacy.

By now, his music room was so full of reminders of Blaine, scores that they had studied together, music that Blaine had written, and simply the memories of time spent there that he felt the room was filling with his fears. Instinctively, he sought out his father's company.

Burt had just risen from his morning rest and greeted Kurt with a glance that immediately comprehended that something was troubling him. "What is it, Kurt? Is it last night's audience?"

Kurt shook his head. "No, something more." The awkwardness of speaking with his father about intimacy suddenly made him want to create some excuse and rush from the room. It was only knowing that his father would not rest until he discovered the problem and helped his son that kept him from doing so. "It is to do with Blaine."

"Tell me."

"I...I know that men desire...consummation and that Blaine does. But I...I..." He didn't know what to say next and desperately hoped that his father would understand his meaning.

Burt sighed deeply. "Do you desire it?"

Kurt hung his head. "I...I believe so, but I fear it. I fear my ignorance, I fear...I fear everything of it, even though...I want, at some part of me, to give myself..." He raised his eyes and Burt stepped closer, taking Kurt's chin in his hand and raising it.

"Kurt, listen to me. Greedy men tried to turn you into something less than a man so that you could amuse them and ignorant, vile people choose to despise you for what was none of your choosing. But in all of this, you remained proud and strong and more of a man than most around you. You do not exist for others' entertainment and pleasure and you do not have to submit to any man who desires you, merely because he desires you. If Blaine, or any other man, wants more of you than you are willing to give him, he is unworthy of you, not the other way around. Never treat yourself as though you do not matter, Kurt, because you do matter."

At these earnest, grave words, and his father's loving, concerned gaze, Kurt felt more peace than he had felt since he realized that Blaine would desire consummation. He put his arms around his father and felt his warm, enveloping embrace.

 

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The family's lawyer, Arturo Genovese, greeted Blaine and his father, paying the usual compliments and asking the usual polite questions. They discussed the income from various properties and investments and the lawyer advised them on certain matters, such as changing the lease terms on certain buildings that the family owned as landlords and putting more properties or investments into Blaine's name and giving him responsibility for them. Then the lawyer and Blaine's father both smiled conspiratorially and Blaine's father turned to him. "I am proud, my Blaine, of how conscientious you have been with the investments already put in your hands and how you have shown yourself to be a man of judgment beyond your years. It is now time for us to discuss another matter befitting a boy who has become a man, that of your marriage."

"My marriage?"

His father laughed genially at his expression and Blaine realized that only his surprise had shown. "My boy, you look as startled as though you had forgotten a contract already made! No, no, but the time has come for you to consider it seriously and I would see you married within, shall we say, the year?"

"A...a year?" Blaine was only able to comprehend the matter in these tiny fragments of thoughts. His father wished him to marry. Within a year. Finally, his first objection came to mind and he immediately censored it so he could speak of it to his father. "But there is no woman that I love!"

"That is why I would see you married within a year. Time enough for us to find eligible families and for you to meet their daughters." He chuckled confidently. "Perhaps as your father I am prejudiced, but I doubt that many daughters or families would decline the offer of your hand, let alone an alliance with our family."

Blaine felt himself becoming almost dizzy. He had always been able to put off discussion of marriage by saying that he did not feel yet ready for the responsibility of parenthood and that he would rather marry when he was certain that he was ready, rather than marry prematurely, as so many did. But now it appeared his father would no longer listen. Instead, he continued. "As for love, if it develops before the marriage, that is well enough, but if it does not, affection, or even the likelihood of affection, is a sound foundation. After all, life is not one of your operas, is it now?"

"I suppose so." He needed to gather his thoughts.

"Good, then." He turned back to the lawyer. "As for the families, I would prefer a family of Venice, but if the most suitable match is from another city, I would have no complaints. Even Germany, Austria, or England would be acceptable, though I would prefer to avoid France, as I fear for its stability. She must, of course, speak Italian or be a very quick learner, though Blaine is fluent in English and German. I would also recommend a well-educated woman, unless, Blaine, you prefer otherwise." Blaine shook his head and his father continued. "Good, then. Arturo, I will send you a list of families once we have created them, and you will confirm their wealth and good standing, and if there are any families you consider eligible, send us their names."

Blaine managed the pleasantries and suitable thanks and his father patted him on the shoulder when the lawyer had left. "I did not expect to take you so by surprise, my boy. If you had not exclaimed that there is no woman that you love, I might have thought you were dismayed." Blaine searched his father's face but there was no hint of any hidden message or suspicion and his father continued, "I believe you are readier than you think, and a young man should not strain his continence too long, though you have remained admirably clear of even dalliances with courtesans or lower." With another proud clap on Blaine's shoulder, he left, and Blaine sank back into the chair.

He had always accepted the idea that he would marry, though it would be a marriage without desire. In his talks with David and Wesley, they had assured him that a virginal woman would question her own charms or consider her husband a man of chaste instincts if he found the marriage bed a duty rather than a pleasure. Furthermore, Blaine might even find pleasure, though not as great as he would with a man.

Now that he loved Kurt, though, what he had accepted as a duty now seemed more like a violation. As he had told Burt, if law and custom and religion allowed, he would have gladly asked for Kurt's hand. Could he stand at an altar, before God who knew his heart, and pledge that heart to a woman when it burned with love for another? How could such a thing be right? He retreated to his bedroom and tried to imagine an answer that would soothe his heart and conscience, but found nothing.

Rachel nearly leaped onto Kurt as he entered the theater for the afternoon rehearsal of Handel's Cleopatra. "Madame Thibodaux of the Paris Opera will come in an hour! She is attending the rehearsal!" Kurt could not help but pick her up and swing her about, but that did not prevent her continuing. "Can you imagine it? Paris! I'm going to Paris!"

"She's made you an offer already?" Kurt was beaming at her good fortune. Rachel had spoken so often of France, of its composers, its culture, and the glories of Versailles, and how she would one day dazzle even the King and Queen.

"No, but I am certain she shall. The company is looking for a new soprano, so what else could her appearance here mean but that she intends to hear me herself?"

Kurt had to acknowledge the truth of this but a sudden consideration sobered him. "Only a soprano?"

Rachel immediately understood and her smile fell for an instant. "They do not yet need a tenor, but I am certain that they will soon enough, or that Madame Thibodaux will hire him anyway should I require it. And you shall visit us often, of course!" She flung her arms around her neck again.

Kurt admitted to himself that the news and her expectations came with some amount of pain. As often as she exasperated him, he loved Rachel dearly and the thought of her taking a permanent position in Paris, rather than visiting only for concerts, meant a friendship maintained only by letters or the occasional and difficult journey. Finn would leave with her, of course, leaving him lonelier and the house without a beloved presence. French audiences had no taste for castrati, preferring counter-tenors or altos. As glorious as his career was in Italy, he could never dream of singing elsewhere. In France, or any other country, he would be even more of an oddity to be pitied, despised, and mocked, so even visiting would be an ordeal, especially as he could not wear a mask as he could in Venice. He reminded himself that he needed to be happy for Rachel.

Fortunately, she was happily lost in her anticipation and if any of his dismay showed, she had not noticed. "I am so thankful that today we are performing Cleopatra and the fifth act above all. Cleopatra's aria of rejoicing could have been written for me, not Cuzzoni, and it is practically my signature piece." She sighed happily and embraced him again. "It as if my life has been preparation for this day."

When she left to change into her costume, Kurt looked for Blaine. He knew that Blaine would hear what was in his heart without calling him an unloving brother or a selfish friend. However, while Blaine almost always came to the theater for the first part of every rehearsal, Kurt could not find him, and when he asked at the door, they told him that Blaine had not arrived.

He was soon caught up in his own costume fitting while the orchestra rehearsed, and then was fully engulfed in the rehearsal. Santana, whose role played a minor part in the third act and entered late, sat beside him as he waited for his entrance. She watched Rachel with an expression that was, unusually for her, more admiring than mocking or disdainful. Kurt knew her well enough to see even some affection in it.

"Well, that is one way to get La Berry out of my hair," she said, quietly enough not to disturb the performers.

"I'm sure you had many others," he answered, tartly.

"Well, of course, and I would have greatly enjoyed most of them, but this suffices," she smirked.

From their position in the wings, they could see Madame Thibodaux's entrance. She walked with the arrogance of an empress whose judgment had never been challenged since infancy and whose will had never been balked. For a moment, Kurt wondered what would happen if she and Susanna Sylvester, who was also sitting in the house, carefully watching the dancers, were ever to clash and decided he had no wish to know, let alone witness it.

His entrance followed shortly, as in the role of Caesar, he led his victorious army into the city of Alexandria to free Cleopatra from her imprisonment and declare her Queen of Egypt. The next moment would be Rachel's triumph, and the orchestra started the entrance to her aria. She faced Madame Thibodaux directly, opened her mouth to sing, and instead of the opening lines, gibberish emerged.

It seemed as though everybody in the house had stopped breathing. Everyone stared at Rachel and she shook her head in shock and disbelief. A voice rang from the audience, "Herr Handel, will you for once conduct that passage accurately? Or have you quite forgotten that you yourself wrote it? If I had written it, I would probably choose to forget it and try to make it impossible to sing the aria accurately." Kurt could not believe that it was Susanna Sylvester who called out, but it was her voice and she was standing, hands on her hips, glaring at the conductor.

He expected Handel to respond in kind to her taunt, pointing out that he had conducted it flawlessly but since her choreography made it obvious that she was unable to count to more than three, he would continue to ignore her. Instead, he said, loudly, "Send one of the errand boys to the Vatican to say that a great miracle has happened and that finally the impossible has appeared before witnesses. A piece of truth has finally emerged from the spewing volcano of folly that is Susanna Sylvester's mouth." Changing his taunting tone, he said, humbly, "Signorina, kindly forgive my lapse in giving you the wrong cue entirely. When you are ready, shall we begin again?" Kurt looked nervously at Madame Thibodaux's impassive face. Had she believed them? With luck, she would not know the piece well enough to detect that it was Rachel's error, not Handel's.

Finn rushed to Rachel with a glass of water and she took a few swallows and then nodded for Handel to continue. To Kurt's consternation, the same thing happened. Rachel rushed to the front of the stage as Madame Thibodaux got up to leave. "Madame, please wait, I have never lost my place so, I know this aria as I know my own name, Madame, please, I beg you, stay and listen, I swear that I will sing it for you perfectly!" Kurt was too frozen to move or even to think as he saw her abject pleading, but simply willed Madame Thibodaux to return to her seat and for Rachel to overcome her sudden weakness.

"Signorina Barry, I almost never permit a singer a second chance. I permitted you one because of your reputation. But you failed on your second chance." She left, Rachel and the entirely company watching her.

Finn, Kurt, and even Santana and Quinn all gathered about Rachel, who was sobbing inconsolably, almost collapsed against Finn's chest. Handel said, just loudly enough to be heard, that the rehearsal was over for the day.

 

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Blaine woke that morning with a sense of gloom which he could not understand until he remembered yesterday's discussion of his marriage. Morning sometimes brings relief and perspective on a problem that seemed insurmountable the night before, but if anything, the trouble seemed greater. His responsibilities to his family and city weighed heavily on him. He could hardly accept the privileges that he had received and refuse the duties that came with them. Any man of rectitude would advise him that his responsibilities to his family were greater than to any lover. If Blaine wanted to remain an honorable man, good citizen, and virtuous son, his only choice was to accept his marriage and inform Kurt that their love must end the moment that he and his parents chose a wife. A more lenient man might temper his advice by saying that he could, if he and Kurt so chose, maintain a discreet affair, as so many men did.

He had always known he and Kurt could never allow others to see their love in public and that even allowing others to guess at it could come at a great price. Perhaps adultery was only a mild crime, after all. But what would Kurt say should Blaine bring himself to propose that Kurt be, in effect, his mistress?

He adored Kurt's many contradictions, how he mingled pride and uncertainty, tenderness and distance, gentleness and tartness, but it made his beloved difficult to predict. Every time he thought that his Kurt would respond one way, he responded the other, like a chord rapidly shifting from major to minor. He knew Kurt's cynicism well, but also knew how Kurt struggled to maintain his own high moral standards, even if he often fell from them. Would Kurt be as cynical as most about the virtue of fidelity to marriage, or would he expect Blaine to remain as faithful to his bride as his own father had been to Kurt's mother and to Carole?

He groaned out loud as he imagined Kurt angrily ordering him to leave at the mere suggestion, and ending their connection over the insult. He knew that he could bring himself to be unfaithful to his wife, but also felt a loathing for the thought.

It was definitely best that he not see Kurt or speak to him until he had unraveled his own thoughts, or at least could remain silent while he continued his struggle to find the best path. He usually went to Kurt's house mid-morning but it was not a regularly scheduled rendez-vous, nor was his usual appearance at the theater for rehearsals, though he had promised to visit that evening for dinner. He had at least some time to decide what to do, as much as he wanted to be with Kurt for those extra few hours, looking at him, hearing his voice, kissing and holding him. They would be forced apart soon enough, whether entirely or only by Blaine's new responsibilities as head of his own household, so each moment should be precious, but at the moment, they would only make that separation more bitter.

Rachel finally said that she wished to be alone, to return to her apartment so that she could change into mourning dress to lament her humiliation, her lost dream and the end of her career. From another woman, these words might have alarmed Kurt and Finn into refusing to leave her side, but they knew that she found comfort for her disappointments in grand dramatic statements. If she had expressed herself with any sort of restraint or tried to brush the incident off, that would have alarmed them far more.

They took a gondola home, morosely staring at the water. Finally, Kurt spoke. "She said that her career was over. Could that mean that she would give up singing? She has never said that before, not even in her other disappointments."

Finn shook his head, smiling sadly. "No more than she would give up breathing. Her very pulse is driven by the rhythm of an audience's applause." After another pause, he added, "As, I have come to realize, is mine, though it need not be from an opera audience."

"What do you mean?" Kurt turned to look directly at his brother.

"I enjoy music but I do not live for it as you and she do, and on the stage, I shall never find the glory that I seek and shall never be a leader of men." He averted his eyes from Kurt and said, softly, "In a year, I shall be twenty. My father died when he was twenty-one."

In a moment, Kurt understood. Finn's father had died in sea battle for the Republic of Venice. The men under his command all spoke admiringly of his courage and his capability as a commander. His body had never been recovered and so there was only a memorial stone in the church where the ashes of his ancestors lay. The entire family visited it there on the anniversary of his death, and Kurt knew that Carole and Finn visited far more often. His own father visited it each day after the anniversary of his wedding to Carole, as a gesture of respect. It was no source of wonder to him, then, that such thoughts preoccupied his brother.

He was relieved that they had arrived at the house at that moment, as disembarking gave him a moment to think. He turned to face Finn and put a hand on his shoulder. "Remember, dearest brother, your father was from a large family. You are your mother's only child. This consideration must continue to guide your choices, for her sake. Your father himself would have wished it, I am sure." He held his breath, hoping that Finn would not take offense.

"I was her only child. But now you are indistinguishable from her own."

"Except that I cannot continue his family line and hers." Had he ever before been grateful for this? "That is something only you can do for her and for his memory."

They entered the house and Finn answered him, "You speak as though my death were inevitable. And yet most soldiers live and many who have never picked up a sword die of illness or accident."

Kurt silently cursed the fates for choosing to put the power of logic at Finn's disposal now. "What you say is true," he admitted. "But is it a risk you would ask her to accept?"

Finn looked uncomfortable and then scowled. "If every man thought as you, Venice would have a small army indeed."

"At least, wait before deciding. Can you promise me that?" Finn nodded, reluctantly, but let Kurt embrace him and then returned the embrace fully.

"I know you want the best for me, little brother," he said, quietly. "But it is I who must choose."

 

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Blaine had a foretaste of what separation from Kurt would be, staying away from his beloved's home in the morning and from rehearsals in the afternoon, but he could not bring himself to break their appointment for that evening. They planned to discuss, among many other things, which of Blaine's compositions to publish, now that he had written enough to create a collection. The combination of the Anderson connections and Kurt's name had enticed Maria Foscari, a member of one of the oldest aristocratic families in Venice and a notorious musical and social snob, to agree to hear the pieces in a private performance at her family palazzo. If they sufficiently pleased her, she would allow Blaine to dedicate them to her, virtually guaranteeing their success in Venice and perhaps in all of Italy. The question was which compositions would be most likely to please her, as they needed to be modern, marking her as a woman of the times, but not excessively so, lest they appear novel for the sake of novelty or incompetent rather than innovative.

His relish for this, too, was dulled. But nonetheless, he arrived punctually, and the servant showed him into Kurt's music room. Kurt rose and they exchanged friendly embraces until the servant left, closing the door, and then Kurt pulled him in for a long kiss. At least then, Blaine was able to lose himself for a moment, letting every thought be engulfed by the enchantment of having Kurt in his arms and the sensation of their kiss.

Kurt finally ended the kiss and looked at Blaine soberly. "You missed a sad spectacle at the theater today." He briefly described the scene and Blaine could only imagine Rachel's sense of humiliation and loss. "The Paris Opera is not the only theater in Paris, let alone France, and as long as nobody gossips about this afternoon-" Kurt's sardonically tilted head and raised eyebrow reminded him how senseless it would be to expect members of a theater troupe not to gossip. "Perhaps if we appeal to Madame?"

"Unfortunately, Madame Thibodaux is rather taken with her own importance and intervention may well antagonize her rather than convince her to give Rachel another hearing."

"Or might appeals satisfy her vanity? After all, Rachel is applauded widely here in Venice, so for her to pine for the Paris Opera, even if it were only for the most minor of roles, would flatter Madame."

Kurt smiled teasingly. "There speaks the courtier." He remained in thought a moment and added, "You are right. Finn and I will send word around. If everyone accosts Madame, it will at least make her feel like a queen, surrounded by suppliants, and she may yet deign to be merciful."

Blaine asked curiously, "Have you any desire to see Paris?"

"For its fashions and the opulence of Versailles, certainly. But Turkey, where those like me are not uncommon, or England, where no man is thus mutilated, would be more to my taste. Spain, perhaps, though its empire is decaying and Madrid's grandeur is all sobriety and heaviness. Perhaps the south of Spain, where color reigns amid the sun." He smiled brilliantly at Blaine. "We may go to those countries together, you and I, as composer and singer."

Blaine yearned to begin planning their travels immediately, if only in shared thought, but the improbability weighed on him too heavily. He knew this would be a moment in which he could speak of the marriage that was weighing on his mind, but he told himself he could not speak now and turn Kurt's expression from pleasure to dismay. Instead, he smiled and said, "Yes, indeed."

"And as our first step there, of course, we should return to the work at hand." Kurt laughed. "An idea struck me earlier. There are twelve pieces, all equally fine, that each evoke the sea. Would that not be a fine theme? Ulysses' lament, the cantata for the Doge's marriage to the sea, the cantata for San Marco's relics, the storm aria for Aeolus, the trio for the sirens, the cantata of the birth of Aphrodite, those are my favorites, and then we have the others, here."

He handed Blaine the pieces that he had selected and Blaine considered the idea. It would draw from Classical and modern themes almost equally and it would be a direct tribute to Venice, making it even more likely to earn Maria Foscari's favor without overtly pandering. "Certainly, I like that idea. Thank you, my dear one."

Kurt smiled, mock-coyly. "Will you pay my price of a kiss?"

Blaine leaned over and said, "Gladly," surrendering again to the sensation of Kurt's mouth on his and Kurt's body in his arms.

 

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Kurt went early to the theater the next day, hoping to find Handel and ask him to intercede on Rachel's behalf. But on his way to find the composer, instead he found Susanna Sylvester. Feeling like a hunter preparing to accost a bear, but armed only with his empty hands, he approached her cautiously.

"Signora, it was both clever and gracious of you to try to give Signorina Rachel a second opportunity yesterday."

Her blue eyes seemed even closer to the color of steel as she looked at him. "It was indeed clever, but it was not gracious, as I saw it only as a moment in which I could humiliate that bag of beer and bread that calls itself a composer." She said the last words so loudly that it was clear Handel was close and she spoke to antagonize him.

True enough, he popped his head into her office. "Ridiculous maypole of a Signora, I am a fine assemblage of champagne and beef, not beer and bread. I would not expect, though, a woman who could model as the personification of famine to understand any more of the fine art of eating than she does of the art of dancing." He advanced upon her until they were only inches apart, and Kurt, utterly alarmed, moved away.

"Your music for dancing is hardly more than a series of thumps, better suited for a blacksmith's hammer than for my dancers."

"I would rather listen to a blacksmith's hammer than your raucous crowing, you-"

Kurt left, closing the door behind him, but returned, carefully, when he heard the sound of furniture striking the walls. He pressed his ear to the door to make sure there was no actual slaughter happening, but upon hearing Handel asking Susanna if she wanted the carnality of rage, and Susanna asking if there was any other kind of carnality, he fled, covering his ears, without waiting to hear anything more.

 

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Chapter Text

Two days after the debacle, Rachel attended the scheduled rehearsal in a dramatic black mourning dress and threw back the veil as she mounted the stage. The others watched her anxiously as she began her entrance aria, but while her first notes were too breathy and unsupported, she soon sang as before, as if she had never faltered. She bowed gravely at the applause at the end of her aria, and Kurt saw the hint of a smile. The company would have been in a predicament had she lost her nerve entirely, as her understudy was ill and the opera opened in three days. She and Kurt completed their duets and scenes together with bravado and Handel called a break after the first of the three acts.

It was as if singing had made her regather her forces and her ambition, as she confided in Kurt that she intended to besiege Madame with presents and would send her tickets for the opening night of the opera. Santana joined them and announced her intention of calling upon Madame.

"She needs to remember that I am from the poorest fishing village in Spain and that we always carry knives. I will tell her that unless she invites you to join the company and thus keeps you from further annoying me here, I will gut her as a sailor guts a fish."

"Santana, that will not, I hope, be necessary. We can reason with Madame first." Kurt knew it was never safe to assume that Santana was exaggerating.

She shrugged angrily. "If you insist, my ladies. Although my way is surer than yours." She flounced in her chair as she turned to Rachel. "I will even accompany you to Madame's accommodations here."

"You know where she is staying?"

"Yes, she is staying with the Sisters of the Holy Name, in their convent." She shrugged again and studied one of her nails, which Kurt noticed looked unusually sharpened. "Perhaps, Signorina Hummel, you might be more able to enter there than I."

He merely rolled his eyes, knowing that protesting would delight her. At least when she insulted them, he knew that she would be the first to lash out if anybody else dared to do the same in front of her. On the opening night of Orfeo, he saw her leading Brittany and the other dancers in throwing the rotten vegetables back into the audience with furious accuracy.

He looked about for Blaine, who had yet again not appeared at his house this morning or at the rehearsal, nor had he visited on the day before. He knew that Blaine did have responsibilities and other interests and friends, and yet it bothered him, especially as the morning was the best time for unplanned amorous moments. He disliked the thought that perhaps Blaine was tiring of him, especially since he had not yet yielded himself. He told himself that Blaine was honorable and had said that he would wait, but still, men have their hungers.

By the end of the rehearsal, Blaine had still not appeared and Kurt realized that unless it was a scheduled meeting, he had not seen Blaine for nearly three days. He left the opera house, feeling disconsolate, when a young man rushed up to him and began speaking so quickly that Kurt could scarcely make out the words.

"Dare I ask if it is Kurt Hummel under the mask and cloak? Have I truly the honor of being in his presence? If so, this is the most fortunate of days for me!" The young man almost bounced up and down like a terrier in his excitement.

Kurt removed the mask, since the young man had spoken so loudly the entire piazza could have heard him. "How, may I ask, did you recognize me?"

"Having once seen your walk, your grace, your bearing, how could I forget it? Had I even doubted that, the elegance of your clothing would have provided the confirmation." He clasped his hands over his heart and gazed at Kurt, then added, in another rush of words, "I forget myself, signore, I am Chandler Kiehl, the most humble of your servants and admirers."

Kurt had to chuckle at this seemingly disingenuous flattery. He had encountered enough flattery in his life that he could tell the exact moment that some request would come, for money, a recommendation, an introduction, and yet no such appeal was forthcoming. Instead, Chandler remained silent, looking at Kurt as enraptured as a child first seeing the Carnival processions. Kurt himself broke the pause, asking, "Are you a musician yourself, signore?"

"Only for my own pleasure and that, mostly the music of my native Persia."

"You are Persian, though your name is German?"

"My father is a German who married a woman he met on his travels in Persia. The country pleased him so much he remained and I consider it my home. He sent me with my tutor to travel in Europe so that I might spend some time surrounded by the languages that I learned only from him or my teachers there." Chandler sighed, "If I had seen only you and heard you only once, the voyage would have been worthwhile for that alone."

Kurt had heard of Persia and how men take lovers there as readily as they take mistresses in Europe. Had Kurt been a woman, Chandler's words would have been clearly an invitation to flirtation. Was this man indeed flirting with him? He wasn't sure whether he was pleased or displeased, but the admiration in the other man's eyes was a balm he had been missing from Blaine. "You are too kind, signore."

"It is you who show me kindness by granting me a smile from those lips and the light of your eyes." A voice called from the other end of the piazza, "Chandler, where have you gone?" and Chandler looked over his shoulder. "I am here, Alexios," he called, then turned back to Kurt.

"My tutor. I must leave, but may I write to you?" Kurt knew that he should refuse the request, and yet a moment of resentment of Blaine's seeming neglect spurred him to give the young man his address. After all, he had committed himself to nothing, only to receive the adulation of an admirer.

 

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Rachel had, true to her word, sent presents of all kinds to Madame Thiboudox's lodgings with the sisters, baskets of festive breads and cakes, flowers, and portraits of herself in her favorite roles. The gifts were not acknowledged, she confided in Kurt, but they had not been returned, so that could only mean that they were softening Madame's heart. She and Santana would visit Madame later that day, and Kurt had already written her a letter, as had Handel. If Rachel's and Santana's visit would not move her, then Carole would accompany the men as a chaperone.

Kurt told himself that at least Blaine's absence at rehearsals meant that he could talk with Rachel and Handel during the intervals, without interruptions. Chandler had sent another letter to the theater and Kurt perused it, with Samuel, who sat next to him, occasionally craning his neck to see what was making Kurt chuckle. The letter was both gratifying and amusing, and while he would never show it to Blaine, it was harmless enough for Samuel to see. The last page was a poem, in imperfect but comprehensible Italian, comparing Kurt to a statue of ivory skin, chestnut hair, ruby lips, sapphire eyes, and pearl teeth, singing in a voice of pure gold that dissolved into the air, making it precious by having sung. He chuckled again, shaking his head slightly but refolding the letter and tucking it inside his brocade jacket for safe keeping. He'd put it in his desk at home with the others.

La Bella Mercedes had invited him to join her for dinner and to inspect with her a shipment of silks and fine cottons from Egypt and the East that a Turkish merchant would bring for her inspection. He thought to himself that if Blaine no longer saw fit to compliment him on his wardrobe, there were others who would.

 

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Mercedes reclined on her divan, wrapped in blush-pink silk that was embroidered in soft gold patterns so thin that they seemed to appear and disappear as she moved. Its delicacy accentuated her lush form and vivid eyes and mouth, and as Kurt entered, he bowed over her hand and said, "You are a fire in a bed of pink roses."

"And you, my little white ghost, the treasures of the sea bed." His coat and breeches were a rich blue-green, also embroidered in gold but far more boldly. They matched the lavish buckles on his shoes, which added more than an inch to his height. He settled in the bower of pillows by the divan, tucking his legs under him and leaning his head against its edge.

Most who sought to buy from the Turkish merchants went to the Fondaco dei Turchi, the building once constructed as a palazzo for Niccolo d'Este of Ferrara and which served as a residence for many visiting dignitaries until it was converted into a combined warehouse, market, and residence for visiting Turks. Mercedes, though, preferred for goods to be brought to her house so she might examine them at her leisure, and every merchant in the city was willing to agree, as even the invitation was prestigious. The Republic of Venice was suspicious of the great Turkish Sultanate and so while they were free to travel throughout the city during the day, they were required to return to the Fondaco at night. Because of this, Mercedes had told the merchant to come in the afternoon.

He arrived and after lavishly complimenting her on the beauty of the room and her taste, he began to unroll bolts of fabric. "The softest ivory cotton from Egypt itself, signora, woven to be as light as the sunshine on the lagoon, perfect for a shawl or a summer dress. Touch it, signora, and feel, it is worthy of your wearing it. This heavy silk, signora, all the way from Siam, so difficult to obtain that I am the only one in all of Italy to have it to sell. See how it changes on each fold, from red to purple and to red again?" Kurt looked at the fabric as though it were of casual interest, while mentally imagining how it would look on him as a set of breeches. "Or this, signora, a black silk darker than the night itself." Mercedes reached out languidly to touch the rich fabric that seemed to slip through her fingers like water, as though it were a remote possibility.

When the merchant departed, he left the silk from Siam in Kurt's possession and the black silk in Mercedes', as well as a bolt of heavy gold satin for Mercedes and a rich indigo cotton for Kurt. Over their meal, Kurt and Mercedes chatted easily of fashion, the latest social and political events of the city, and her latest suitors. She mentioned that Noah the Jew had paid court in his own way, saying that he inflamed women with passion, she inflamed men, so they should themselves couple, and so had Samuel, though he sought to win her heart by making her laugh at his impersonations of prominent men. He asked her which she intended to choose, or whether she had already chosen, and she smiled provocatively but would say no more.

He nearly told her of how Chandler appeared to be courting him and of how he feared that he was losing Blaine's attention, but refrained, not wanting to dim the evening's lightheartedness. He would see Blaine soon enough and perhaps then, he would learn more.

He returned home somewhat later than he had anticipated and found Blaine waiting in his music room. Blaine turned as Kurt entered and said, in a tone that mixed fury and misery, "Perhaps I should instead publish a collection on the theme of betrayed love!"

"Blaine, I was but a few moments late!"

Instead of answering, Blaine threw a handful of papers at Kurt's feet, and when he looked down at them, he saw they were Chandler's letters. Contrition and anger warred briefly in him, but anger won. "You have been going through my papers? How dare you?"

"So who is this lover of yours?"

"He is not my lover, merely a young man who writes to me in an excess of admiration." Kurt could not stop himself from adding, "While the man who is my beloved avoids my presence unless we have an appointment and barely greets me with even a kiss and has no more compliments on his lips for me. Or is it possible that you have tired of me and it is your guilty conscience that makes you accuse me of infidelity?" Another accusation occurred to him and he launched it at Blaine as well. "Perhaps now that your music is ready to publish, you have no further use for me?"

Those words, intended to hurt, indeed seemed to break through Blaine's defenses. "Kurt, you could think that of me?" he asked, eyes beseeching.

"What am I to think, Blaine, when you used to seek my presence at every moment and always spoke to me so lovingly?" Kurt felt tears in his eyes and lost his anger. "I love you, and always will, always, but what am I to think?"

Blaine stepped closer. "I admit it, I have neglected you, but not because my love has faded. It is because...it is because each moment with you already pains me with the thought that everything must change."

"Must change? What do you mean?"

"Kurt. Kurt, my love. My parents insist that I must marry, and marry within the year." Kurt was unsure if tears were filling Blaine's eyes or if it was only the tears in his own that blurred his vision, and then he heart Blaine's voice choking. "The thought is breaking my heart."

"You must marry," Kurt repeated. He backed instinctively to the padded bench and sat. "Who is it?"

Blaine laughed shortly. "She remains to be chosen. They told me a week ago but I have been so afraid to tell you."

Kurt rose, slowly, and advanced toward him. The two of them clung to one another, and Blaine murmured, "You do not hate me, then?"

"No, no, you are my heart itself. But what are we to do?"

"It is for you to choose. You know that I must obey my parents." Kurt nodded. Had their situation been reversed, he would have obeyed as well.

He swallowed hard. "I am yours. I wish always to be yours. I will not share your heart with another, but as long as it remains entirely mine, I will be yours."

Kurt decided to keep his letter to Chandler as simple as possible, but struggled at first with finding a way to say what was necessary without condemning the other man's devotion, whether it was as light-hearted and easy as it seemed on the surface or whether it ran deeper underneath Chandler's natural exuberance. "Signore Kiehl, I fear that your letters express an emotion that I cannot return. I must beg your forgiveness if my request that you no longer write to me causes you any pain in the least and I deeply regret anything I may have said to cause you to think that I could return such a regard." He hesitated and then decided that a little ambiguity would be a pardonable deception and added, "My destiny makes such a thing impossible." He hesitated and then added only, "I wish you pleasure from your travels and a safe return to your home. Kurt Hummel." He sealed the letter and rang for a servant to deliver it to Chandler's lodging.

He had kept silent about Finn's thoughts about joining the military as his brother had said nothing of it since their earlier conversation and seemed to be instead devoting himself to consoling Rachel. Although Rachel had targeted Madame Thibodoux with a barrage that would make an artilleryman proud, she had shown no signs of unbending in her judgment. However, as she had returned none of the gifts, including the tickets to the opening night of Cleopatra, Kurt hoped that she might yet hear Rachel at her best.

He himself anticipated the opening night with the same mix of dread, determination, and hope that Rachel felt, although for an entirely different reason. Kurt planned to give himself to Blaine that night, an arrangement made easier by the absence of Blaine's parents. Kurt knew that he could expect benign encouragement from Carole and a somewhat grudging approval from his father if Blaine remained in Kurt's bedroom for the night. It was the thought of his brother's reaction, whether hearty but tactless congratulations or protective threats against Blaine, that made him wish for more privacy for their first time. He would never be more ready or more certain of Blaine's love, nor would he become any less aware of his mutilation. And as much as he blushed to recall the specifics, he had gone to Casanova, pretending only that he wished to more convincingly play the part of Caesar, beguiled by Cleopatra, to ask him to describe the art of loving.

Casanova had been glad to oblige and spoke of how Cleopatra would have used her charms. "One accomplished in the art of seduction knows that anticipation must whet the appetite without sating it. If a man achieves his body's satisfaction too quickly through an overlong tasting, the climax is not perfectly served, and yet if it is not fed enough, one's hunger becomes so overwhelming that one's palate does not taste. In such an instant, a man cannot tell the difference between a perfectly seasoned dish designed for his specific delight or any piece of food before him, he will gorge too quickly and be dissatisfied."

"I believe I understand. Cleopatra would not give Caesar either too much or too little in kisses and caresses before-" He felt himself blushing but Casanova only nodded.

"Nor would she allow herself to become merely an anonymous servant of his desires. Caesar has had many women before and she must make herself the woman he cannot forget, the memory that may not blend into all the other memories of fluid limbs and soft lips. She must remain triumphantly herself as he remains triumphantly himself."

"How would one do that?" He realized that he should have asked how Cleopatra would have, but Casanova seemed not to notice.

"By the talk that proceeds and then accompanies the deeds and by savoring his body as he savors hers. Too often a woman who has won a man's heart through her dignity and pride allows herself to become only his plaything in his bed, all but inert, for fear that men do not wish strong desires in women. No man is flattered by a woman who merely complies with his wishes as though either she has no desires or believes so little in his ability to satisfy her that she will not ask it of him."

That was the answer that Kurt had dreaded hearing, that a man is unsatisfied by a lover who cannot feel carnal desire. "But...are there not women whose nature is fundamentally pure, who...who feel no desire for men but yet please them? One, one reads love poetry to chaste women. And one reads that Cleopatra seduced Caesar with her wit as much as with her body." He held his breath as he waited for an answer.

Casanova thought for a moment as Kurt felt his entire body become as tense as an overtightened bow. Was he doomed to disappoint Blaine? "That is where mens' tastes differ. There are those who, perhaps for fear of failing to please a demanding woman, are drawn to those who are austere. Others savor the knowledge that they alone can make a woman who seems to the world as pure and cold as marble become consumed by fire. Others enjoy the singular pleasures of innocence, the knowledge that the body they touch and possess is pristine and that they are the ones to open it. Others prefer a cold woman as a wife, knowing that she will not be tempted to stray. But Cleopatra was far from this, she was clearly a passionate and fiery lover, which enabled her to beguile Caesar and Antony both, two very different men."

"Is...is true love of no account then, in pleasing a man?" If he did not have the breath control of a singer and long experience at wearing a mask of cool indifference, Kurt's voice would have shaken.

Casanova laughed and shook his head. "Ah, that is a different question entirely from how Cleopatra beguiled Caesar. She was capable of fire and passion and desire but not, I believe, of true love. She was willing to die with Antony but not solely for love of him. Had he died saving her kingdom for her, she would have mourned him but passed on. She could live without love but not without her throne and her pride." He shook his head again. "No, a woman who loves, not merely a woman who desires a lover or takes one for her own purposes, she pleases a man with the skill she learns of what gives him the greatest pleasure, the knowledge of his body that comes with her tender attentions, and the simplicity of her wish to be one with him." Casanova went on to speak more of Cleopatra as a woman who always brought variety to her methods of love and played a hundred different parts with her lovers, but Kurt's mind kept returning to the hope that Casanova's words had given him.

 

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Blaine was barely able to retain his seat in the box he shared with David and Wesley, their fiancees, Noah, Arturo, and Casanova. Kurt's performance in the scenes with Cleopatra was somehow more vibrant than it had ever been in the rehearsals, his glances and gestures more knowing and assured, his bearing that of a man who has conquered women as well as countries aware that he has met a worthy match. He wondered if perhaps it had something to do with the words that Kurt had almost whispered to him the day before, but then resolutely put the thought from him, so that he might concentrate on every nuance of the performance and not embarrass himself with a more physical reaction to his thoughts. He could sense Rachel's awareness of Madame Thiboudox's presence in the audience and the way that she was directing her glittering performance to her, all but daring Madame not to be dazzled. While Blaine could see only her profile, Madame did indeed seem to be impressed, nodding to herself at a particularly sparkling passage of high notes. If this performance would not win Rachel a place at the Paris Opera, nothing short of divine intervention would.

As the first act ended, the house erupted into applause. The audience was roaring the performers' names and Blaine and his friends were no exception. Casanova was the first to leave the box in search of a rendez-vous with his latest conquest, but Blaine was contented to sink back into his chair for a moment's relaxation as the servant poured him a glass of champagne. Arturo had also remained since his chair made it difficult for him to navigate the crowded hallways. They exchanged grins and when the servant poured them more champagne, Arturo raised his glass, "To the performance," a toast Blaine repeated with a happy sigh.

After a few moments, he rose to watch the audience. The colors of the fine outfits, the gems that the women wore about their necks and wrists, the glow of the gilded wood against the golden light of the candelabra all exuded beauty and luxury. He told Arturo which of the city's notables were visiting which boxes and speculated on the possible political reasons and implications. Venice never forgot its politics for an instant, and an extra degree of warmth or coolness in a greeting could signal a change in a family's fortunes. In a moment, he would have to present himself at the Doge's box, but he could not appear too early, lest he seem overly eager or inadvertently inconvenience somebody on more urgent business by being admitted before they were. In the meantime, he commented, "Jacopo Contarini is speaking with Francesco Barbaro most politely. It would seem that they have mended their dispute over who is to serve as Ambassador to Rome." Arturo replied, "I have heard that they agreed upon Marcello Zenobio." Blaine watched the audience for a moment longer and then said, "Ah, that would explain why Augusto Pesaro greeted Zenobio and his son so warmly, as he wishes for his son to receive advancement as a Cardinal and hopes that Zenobio as Ambassador may have some influence." Arturo chuckled. "He has been trying to marry his daughter to Messer Francesco for a month now, perhaps he will shop her charms to either of them now as well. She is a beauty already at fourteen and should ripen well," he noted, with a tone that reminded Blaine yet again of how people were given in marriage as commodities, and women, in particular, as commodities designed for a man's enjoyment and consumption. For every marriage of a young man to an old woman, there were hundreds of young women married to old men. Perhaps the prospect of wealth and independence in widowhood was enough consolation, or perhaps some of them found at least affection, if not passionate love, but it seemed a sad fate nonetheless.

He judged enough time had passed and when Wesley and his fiancee returned to the box, Blaine left to pay his compliments to the Doge on his family's behalf. He was received after only a few minutes of waiting and the Doge made a few remarks about the performance, adding that he heard Blaine had become good friends with Hummel.

The Doge's face and intonation revealed nothing of his thoughts, whether he approved or disapproved. The words by themselves could have been anything from a mild encouragement to a strong warning. Blaine responded in a humble tone but made his feelings clear with his choice of words,"I have that privilege, yes, my lord." The Doge nodded in recognition of Blaine's meaning and Blaine's imagination suddenly formed an image of a room of clerks inside the Doge's head, writing down the fact and filing it in a cabinet. If only he could see where and how it was filed.

The Doge gestured to his servant to admit the next guest and Blaine bowed deeply and kissed the Doge's ring. Returning to his box, he decided that the Doge's message was that he was being observed and that his friendship with Kurt must never be allowed to become a matter of rumor. He hoped that the publication of his music would help mask their true attachment. Perhaps it would, indeed, as the idea of a true nobleman using a castrato for his own musical ambitions was so much more plausible as well as so much more acceptable than his loving one.

He repeated the conversation, except for the words about his friendship with Kurt, to the others who had returned to the box, and the second act began, just as Blaine noticed that Casanova remained in Marchesa Aldobrandini's box, clearly plying the young widow with compliments and offering her some kind of sweet from a silver box. He chuckled and let his attention return entirely to the performance and remained enraptured until the end.

Blaine luxuriated in their triumph and delighted in the applause as much as if it were for him. Kurt's face was always guarded and proud, even haughty, when he faced the audience, but by now Blaine knew him enough to know that he was entirely satisfied with the performance, and Kurt's face even softened for an instant when he glanced across the theater and saw Blaine and his friends in the box, shouting their approval. When she took her solo bow, Rachel's face was all charm and smiles and then he saw her gasp and her practiced smile turned into an immense grin and her eyes glowed even more. Blaine looked to Madame Thibodoux's box and saw that she was standing and applauding like the rest of the audience. He couldn't see her face but Rachel must have seen something encouraging there.

As the theater emptied, Blaine said his goodnights to his friends and went backstage. Kurt had changed into his street clothes already and was again congratulating Rachel, along with the rest of the cast. Blaine added his congratulations and after a few more minutes absorbing the mood of exultation, he and Kurt left.

As they returned to his home, Blaine regretted the necessity of masks, even though it gave them protection from those who might wonder why Kurt Hummel was accompanying Blaine to his house so late at night and not emerging until morning. He wanted to meet Kurt's eyes, but at least this way, he could hold Kurt's hand in his. Kurt would accept no compliment that compared him to a woman, nor would he agree to dress or be treated as one, so Blaine did not offer him an arm as he would have offered a lady of rank, although it might have served as another mask. Kurt retained his mask until they were alone in Blaine's bedchamber. When he removed it, Blaine thought his eyes had never been lovelier, appearing huge with emotion. He removed his own and they did not even remove their cloaks before kissing. When they separated long enough to remove their cloaks and let them drop to the floor, Blaine could feel, even through all the layers of fabric, the pounding of Kurt's heart against his chest. Kurt removed his jacket and whispering Kurt's name, Blaine started to unbutton his waistcoat, lovingly teasing, "Your vanity of dress, far too many buttons," and when he thought he had unfastened enough, he impatiently pulled the waistcoat over Kurt's head. Kurt automatically started to pat his ruffled hair back into place but then, to Blaine's delight, started to undo Blaine's waistcoat in return. Blaine kicked off his shoes and fumbled with Kurt's shirt and unbuttoned enough that he could splay his hands across Kurt's warm, smooth skin. He could feel the pounding of his beloved's heart even more closely now.

When Blaine touched his breeches, Kurt's arms slowly dropped to his sides and he lowered his head. "What is it, sweetheart? Have I been too eager?" Kurt drew a shaky breath. "No...no...it is not that...but give me a moment to..." He took a small step backwards and kept his head lowered. Blaine, after a moment of bewilderment, realized that Kurt's consciousness of his mutilation was distressing him, even now. Knowing Kurt, he understood that he could only fathom how it must feel to expose himself like this, even to the most loving of eyes. He had to wait patiently, allowing Kurt to find whatever strength he would need, and instinct told him to remain silent in a time when his words would be superfluous.

Finally, Kurt's hands began to fumble with the fastenings and he raised his eyes again to Blaine, who felt so much tenderness and love for Kurt in that moment that he thought he could die of it. Kurt slowly pushed down the breeches and undid the cloth knotted about his waist that covered his privates. Despite his every wish, Blaine could not help a quick gasp at what he saw. There was only a stub left, shorter than his thumb, and knotted scars that showed where his scrotum had been. That his Kurt had been subjected to this cruelty filled him with rage and pity as it had so many times before. "My dearest one, my treasure," he murmured, and slowly trust and reassurance replaced the hesitant vulnerability in Kurt's eyes. Blaine closed the space between them and clung to him in a long embrace before drawing his hands down the muscles of Kurt's back to rest on his buttocks. He knelt and rested his head against the inside of Kurt's thighs, which he kissed as he removed his stockings and shoes. He led Kurt to the bed by the hand and removed the rest of his clothing before joining him.

Nothing could have been more loving than Kurt's embraces and endearments, even though Blaine wished that Kurt could share the same urgency and release that he experienced. But Kurt was smiling each time that Blaine looked into his eyes and he was running his hands over Blaine's exposed skin and returning his kisses. As Blaine finally fell asleep, he thought muzzily how odd it was that although this was the first night they had slept in each others arms, it seemed as familiar as if they had done so always.

 

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Kurt woke in the morning with a sense of utter well-being, even before he realized where he was and remembered what they had done. Blaine had brought the family alarm clock into his room the day before and set it to wake them early so that Kurt could leave before a servant would enter with breakfast. The sound was unfamiliar enough that it jolted him to full alertness although it barely roused Blaine, who grunted and stirred but nothing more. He smiled and ran his fingers through Blaine's hair, remembering how all of his fears had vanished like smoke the night before. Blaine still thought him beautiful and still loved him. "Wake up, my love," Kurt said as he gently shook Blaine's bare shoulder. "I must dress and leave." Blaine grumbled an inarticulate protest and reached for Kurt again. "At least open your eyes, sweetest," Kurt smiled, and Blaine reluctantly rubbed his eyes and sat up.

"I love you so much," he finally said.

"Ah, words at last," Kurt teased, but pressed his mouth to Blaine's. The kiss helped restore Blaine to greater alertness and he put his arms around Kurt and pulled him closer. Kurt luxuriated in the absolute acceptance he felt pressed against Blaine's body with those loving arms around him. Blaine was the first person since childhood who had seen him unclothed and Blaine had not rejected him. Instead, Blaine had lavished his body with loving attentions and had not been repulsed. Kurt wished he could stay in that bedroom with him for hours, but he knew the necessity of secrecy. It was too dark to see clearly so he rose and fumbled his way to the table near the fireplace, where he found a spill to use to light the lamp. Blaine got up as well and they clung in another embrace before dressing. "I will come see you in a few hours at the rehearsal," Blaine promised, seeing him to the door. Neither could resist another long kiss and they were so absorbed in this neither heard footsteps approaching or saw that a figure observed them closely before it withdrew.

 

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Kurt stole from the house and hailed a public gondola which he took to a piazza near his house, and walked the remaining distance. He let himself in and happily threw himself on his bed for another few hours of sleep before the day.

He and Finn went to the opera house together. Finn eyed him sidelong and finally spoke. "I have never seen you smile like that at nothing." He frowned in puzzlement. "To tell the truth, I have never seen you smile like that for anything. You seem," Finn struggled for the words. "You seem almost like Cas-" His eyes widened and he seized Kurt by the shoulder, almost upsetting the gondola. "Have you?" He began to grin so infectiously that Kurt couldn't help but grin himself.

"Must you shout it to all of Venice?" he hissed, unable to glare as he would have liked to.

Finn became serious again. "Was it-?" He fell silent as Kurt pressed a hand to his mouth.

"Elsewhere." He stared resolutely at the canal to discourage Finn from asking any further questions.

Inside the opera house, Finn drew Kurt into an empty dressing room. "Was it Blaine? I never would have dreamed that he, but then you, it wouldn't be wrong if, because you..." He stopped and looked utterly confused again.

"I would rather not name, but yes, I have..."

"You are blushing!" Finn accused, laughing. "You are scarlet!"

Kurt had not expected Finn to guess, but at least Finn seemed happy for him. He needed to be certain, though. "You do not condemn it, then?"

Finn grew serious at Kurt's anxious question. "Earlier, I know I would have...but now knowing you as I do. I cannot condemn it. I cannot believe Noah a wicked man for being a Jew and not converting, I know that you are a true and good heart for all your irritating ways." He smiled sidelong at Kurt who rolled his eyes ostentatiously, "If your comfort is in Blaine, where can the harm lie?" He held out his arms and Kurt seized him tightly in relief.

They had barely left the dressing room when Rachel rushed into the room, waving about a letter. "I received this this morning at the opera house! Madame has invited me to the Paris Opera!"

She threw her arms around Finn, laughing and crying at the same time, then flew to Kurt and even to Santana, who had, for once, no sharp remark to make, but returned the embrace heartily. Blaine arrived a few minutes later, greeting Kurt with a quick private smile before Rachel ran to embrace him as well. Kurt saw her notice that after his first burst of happiness at her overflowing joy, Finn's face fell, and he wondered what, if anything, Finn had revealed to her about his own ambitions.

Handel and Susanna arrived only seconds apart. Handel responded to Rachel's news with a philosophical, "So, you will not sing true operas or oratorios there, but I suppose Paris has some consolations, and you can always tell them of my music, so brava, little one." Susanna sniffed, looked Rachel up and down, said, "Well, I suppose some company was bound to like oversized voices and oversized expressions in a stunted body. Eventually. At least I never had to exhaust my patience by trying to teach you to dance."

There was little to review from the performance. Handel chided the chorus for a messy entrance in one spot, "You must come in together, forte, not shyly, in timid little expeditionary groups. There, do it again, like that." He nodded. "Signorina Santana, will you and Signore Hudson take the duet again from the fifth bar to the fifteenth, and make sure that your voices swell together with the viola da gamba? Ah, yes, that is perfect, I will cue you both for that the next night." Rachel leaned over to Kurt and murmured, "Is he hungover, perhaps? I have never seen him rehearse so quickly?" Kurt murmured back, "Neither have I, but he looks to be in the pink of health." When he finished, Susanna admonished the dancers, "You could waste a good deal of my far more valuable time by rehearsing until you are plausible as charming young women rather than exceptionally boring cows. Just do the entrance to the second act. Brittany, if that little waste of space next to you doesn't move her hand exactly as you do, you have my permission to cut it off. Now, go away, all of you, the aura of failure that you exude is disturbing my nostrils." She stalked away and Handel followed a moment after. Kurt tried to tell himself that it was only coincidence that they were both in a hurry and appeared to leave together.

As he left the stage, Blaine came up to him, and Kurt smiled and felt foolish as he said, "Good day." Blaine's smile, though, in return, was just as happily foolish as he said, "And to you. You are well?"

"Quite, quite well." The two of them burst into laughter for no particular reason and as Kurt caught Quinn looking at them quizzically, said, "I am lightheaded with joy that everything turned out as beautifully as we could have desired. That Rachel's dream will come true."

"I am still ecstatic from last night, myself. It was a night of enchantment, never to be forgotten." They grinned at one another and Kurt asked Finn if he was returning home with them, as Blaine and he planned to work further on his music collection.

"No, no, I plan to speak with Rachel and then Noah and I will meet for some games, perhaps Samuel and Michael will join us."

They continued to trade glances and to laugh in sheer pleasure as they returned to Kurt's home. Kurt ordered coffee and fruit to be brought to the music room and after it was delivered, told the servant that he and Blaine were not to be interrupted for anything. He and Blaine looked at one another and laughed again as they embraced. When they pulled apart, Kurt said, "Best to sing a little, loudly enough that they can hear us." He took one of the arias, sat at the harpsichord, and sang it at the top of his voice, shifting the key up by several pitches to show off his high notes and adding extended trills and vocal leaps with deliberate disregard for the natural shapes of the phrases. It was difficult to keep a straight face at Blaine's vacillation between laughter and outrage, but he managed, frowning sternly during the instrumental pauses as if to ask Blaine why he was reacting so oddly. When he finished, Blaine tried to take the music from him, but Kurt teased him by holding it above his head. Instead, Blaine took him in his arms again and Kurt conceded, putting the music down so he could return the embrace.

"You are the most beautiful, most wonderful creature on this earth," Blaine murmured. "I never dreamt I could be so happy."

"Nor I. Ever."

 

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The next afternoon, Blaine had returned to his home for another meeting with the family lawyer. His father had sent word that he may be delayed on his trip back home but that he would join them if possible. The lawyer explained that he had drawn up a list of prospective brides, in two categories, the daughters or sisters of younger sons or minor branches of the greatest families and the daughters or sisters of the eldest sons or direct lines of inheritance from the second level of nobility. Blaine listened patiently as the lawyer explained what he already knew, that the first category would bring better connections and more direct access to power, while the second would put a greater portion of the dowry in Blaine's hands and, in the case of only daughters, future inheritances. If Blaine chose well and was both judicious and fortunate, his sons and daughters might marry into the direct line of descent of the greatest families. He might see a grandson, or, if he were especially fortunate, even a son take a place on the Council of Ten, the administrative council that held even more power than the Senate, and perhaps might even become the ancestor of a Doge of Venice. Despite his misgivings, he could not help a moment of pride at the thought.

They first discarded candidates who were already the subject of obvious interest by more powerful men. There were enough potential brides that did not bring the risk of a grudge. As they looked at the remaining candidates, Signore Anderson entered the room. Blaine and lawyer rose to greet him and the lawyer explained their deliberations so far. Signore Anderson fixed Blaine with a sharp glance. "Very well. I prefer for Blaine to marry sooner rather than later, as long as there is no undue appearance of haste. Above all, Venice must believe in my son's virtue and rectitude, as befits our family."

"Caterina Bon has been convent-raised," the lawyer paused to pull a particular sheet of notes. "Her mother and father are known for pious works. As a daughter of one of the oldest and greatest families, her dowry would be largely settled upon her own person, but if she is as generous as her parents, as her husband, Blaine would benefit in reputation."

His father nodded slowly, considering it. "She is on my list as well. At fifteen, a little younger than Blaine, but not enough to matter." Blaine had faint recollections of meeting her at various grand functions, but she had made little impression upon him, for good or ill. His father continued, "Blaine, your mother or I will see that you are introduced at the Grimaldi ball this Friday. Pay her attentions and observe how she receives them and your mother and I will observe her parents. If they appear to approve, I will speak to her father of the match." He fixed Blaine with another sharp glance. "Unless, of course, you object?"

"No, no, sir."

"You hesitate?"

"No, sir."

"Of course, with marriage come responsibilities, as you are well aware. I think it best, once you publish your works, that you pay less attention to music." He paused just a fraction of a second, "And singers."

Chapter Text

The Grimaldi ball was a model of propriety. The music and dances were sedate, the conversations never veered towards topics more sensational or controversial than whether 1643 or 1646 were better years for French white wines, and the dress was expensive, new, and yet conservative. After five minutes of conversation with her, Blaine considered that Caterina Bon was in her element.

His mother arranged for an introduction and he bowed over her hand. "I hope you are enjoying the festivities, signorina?"

"I am, and you, signore?'

"The Grimaldis are most gracious hosts. Everything is both lavish and in perfect taste."

She looked at him politely but without making any further comments, so Blaine tried again. "The musicians are quite good. What music do you prefer, signorina?"

"I am very fond of music but have no preferences, signore. And you?"

"I find the human voice the most noble of instruments. I am passionate about the opera and song, although I also enjoy the more vigorous dance music."

"Dance is a pleasant pastime as well as a suitable form of exercise." Blaine searched her face for any genuine enthusiasm and found none. She was convent-bred, perhaps a question related to that might lie closer to her interests and experience.

"Have you a favorite church painter, signorina?"

She paused for thought."Giovanni Bellini."

"And what makes you favor him, signorina?"

She thought another moment. "His colors are very pleasing and the forms are graceful. And you?"

"I admire the intensity of modern painters, such as Caravaggio." She said nothing and Blaine turned to ask her father for permission to ask Caterina to dance. Signore Bon consented with an approving smile and Blaine took her hand for the pavana. She danced as correctly as she had conversed with him and since prolonging the conversation after a dance would seem too pointed an attention too early, Blaine passed to other partners for several further dances before returning to Caterina. This time, he decided that he would wait for her to choose a topic of conversation, and after a few moments of silence, she commented approvingly on the lace on another woman's dress.

Blaine responded, "It is indeed beautiful, as is the lace on your dress. The delicacy of the lace complements the flow of the fabric."

"Thank you, signore." Her smile remained placid and Blaine tried another topic. "Do you read widely, signorina?"

"I read devotional books and I enjoy Greek plays, as long as they are not indelicate."

"In the original Greek?"

"Yes, signore, I learned it in the convent from the good sisters."

Her father spoke proudly. "While a son's education prepares him for the world, a daughter's should be rigorous as well so that she might distract herself from temptations by occupying her mind."

Blaine's mother bowed her head in agreement. "You speak wisely. Even a wife may find herself with time on her hands and idleness can permit self-indulgence or a taste for wild companions. Blaine occupies himself with music in the time when he is not attending to family business. He composes and already has enough works to publish."

"Of course," his father added, "As I turn more of our family affairs to him, Blaine will spend less time on such matters, except as it might benefit his career. He is of an age to marry and it is best for men to marry young in a world of temptations, lest they allow themselves to be led astray by the corrupt. I would fight a threat to his virtue as I would a threat to his life."

"You are wise, signore. Your son's reputation does you credit," Signore Bon responded, nodding benevolently.

 

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Kurt sat alone in the music room after dismissing his tailor, who left with the cotton and silk and a long list of specific requirements. At a knock on the door, he called, "Come in," hoping that it might be Blaine arriving early. Instead, it was Carole.

He rose to greet her and she took a seat near his. "Kurt," she began, hesitantly. "For a son, the time in which he confides all in his mother passes, but the time when a mother ends worrying about her son if he seems troubled never ends. Finn has been moody the last few days and it seems to be about more than Rachel and the Paris Opera. I will not ask you to break a confidence if he has trusted a secret to you, but does it appear the same to you?"

Kurt sighed. "He has said to many of us that he is restless at the Venice Opera, especially with the prospect of Rachel leaving." That much he could say safely.

Carole nodded her understanding. "It is difficult for a young man, perhaps, to see his beloved and his brother applauded so widely and to have only small roles himself. He does admirably, but the great roles are not written for voices such as his." She added, softly, "I have seen him gazing at his father's portrait more often lately, with what seems to be regret."

If Carole had noticed this much and somehow guessed that the two were connected, Kurt decided that he might tell her more, and silenced the momentary pang of his conscience. "His father was a commander at an early age. Finn fears being unworthy of him and contemplates following in his footsteps. He does not understand that he is worth-" He broke off when he saw Carole's stricken look, but before he could say anything, she rose and said, "I must speak to your father. And to Finn." Without a further word, she left the room. Kurt stared after her, but decided it was not his place to follow, since she had not asked him.

When Blaine arrived, he embraced Kurt and then looked rueful. "Last night, I escaped the Grimaldi ball. Kurt, how can we admire and even foster blandness so?" He began to pace. "What is so dangerous about a woman with her own opinions? The women I spoke with last night had no opinions, no original ideas, while women such as Mercedes and Rachel and Santana, even the mad Sylvester woman, burst with opinions! And yet Mercedes would never be asked to the Grimaldi ball-"

"Nor would she accept," Kurt laughed.

"While Rachel and Santana would never be considered for wives of the greatest nobility and yet they have more strength and more greatness to them than a hundred of proper women have!"

"Remember, dear Blaine, a woman is counted virtuous more for what she does not do than for what she does. The women you and I admire and whose company we enjoy would never be satisfied with such a life." Kurt put his arms around Blaine's waist. "Tell me, is it only a boring ball that has you in such a fervor?"

"Not just the ball, my Kurt. I met a woman my parents are considering, indeed, have almost chosen for my bride. They spoke of my music only as an occupation to keep me from becoming corrupt in my ways and as an asset to my career." He sighed. "Even this morning, my father told me that I must shun too close connections with those below me." Kurt felt a surge of anger which was immediately mollified when Blaine said, "I told him that I would continue to avoid such connections and that I chose my friends for their goodness, honor, talent, and wit." He shook his head. "Too much of this talk, can we not pass to other subjects, such as the great philosophical paradox of how well your clothing today becomes you and yet how much I yearn to see it discarded from you?"

"Perhaps you could demonstrate what you mean?" Kurt answered, coyly adding, "I believe a concrete example would help me understand."

 

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When Blaine left, Kurt frowned at what seemed to be the sound of shouting, and went in search of the source. As he approached, he heard Finn shout, tearfully, "Why are you telling me this? That my father was no hero?"

"Finn, Finn, he was! He was a hero who sacrificed everything for his homeland. His life simply lasted a year after the battle ended." Carole's voice was pleading

"But you say he fled Venice and died on the streets of a foreign city."

"Battles can destroy mens' minds as well as their bodies. You know this, you have heard of this." Kurt realized that he was eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for his ears but he listened nonetheless as his father continued. "What your father saw and what he was forced to do killed him as surely as if he had been shot through the heart. Sieges are long and vicious and kill the innocent as much as those who wage war. The siege and its aftermath destroyed him. He was a hero and an honorable man."

"He abandoned us! How can you still call him honorable!" Kurt barely managed to withdraw into another doorway when he heard Finn's voice growing louder. Finn threw the door open and stormed out, tears streaking his face. He hesitated whether to pursue him and looked inside the dining room, where Carole was sitting limply in a chair and his father stood next to her, his hands on her shoulders.

"Kurt. Go find your brother," he said when he noticed Kurt. "Or wait for him to return if he has left the house."

Kurt nodded and went to Finn's rooms. Fortunately, Finn had left the door open, because he was staring so dully at the canal below that Kurt wasn't sure that Finn would have even heard a knock. Kurt entered and stood next to his brother. After a moment, Finn noticed him.

"Would you leave?" he asked, but so spiritlessly that Kurt simply said, "Not even by force." Finn looked out the window again and after a few minutes, spoke.

"My mother lied to me all these years. She said my father died in battle as a hero. He survived, but shortly after he returned, he deserted us. I was still in swaddling clothes. How could a man leave his wife and child like that? He died a beggar in Genoa, a year later, a hopeless drunkard." He stared at Kurt with beseeching eyes. "Why would they tell me this now? Why did my mother lie and let me idolize him?"

"Perhaps he knew the best thing he could do for you was leave. If the battle broke him so...you know drunken men can unwittingly harm those they love. Perhaps that was what he could do for you."

"He wasn't strong enough," Finn answered, stubbornly. He swallowed hard. "Now I don't have to live up to him. I have to redeem his memory."

"Finn, no!"

"What, you want me to be a coward, too?" Finn turned and kicked a chair to the floor. "Is that what you wish of me, Kurt? Or perhaps you think that I am capable of no more than he was?"

"Finn, you know that siege was a brutal one. So many died of hunger inside the citadel and when it finally surrendered..." Kurt shuddered in remembering stories of various sieges. "The commanders fought to keep order but some of the soldiers started sacking it like beasts. Violating women, even violating children, killing for the pleasure of it...you know your father was one of the ones who tried to keep order, to force them to keep the promises of merciful treatment, but seeing it...a man may witness a hundred killings on the battlefield and accept them as the cost of war, but seeing such brutality, perhaps having to kill his countrymen to stop it. A man with an infant at home seeing infants murdered, a man with a beloved wife seeing women violated...a man of honor could be broken by such sights. Only a man without honor or conscience could brush that off." He was not even certain if Finn had heard him at all or whether his sudden rage had cooled, as they typically did. He put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Shall I leave you or should I remain with you?"

"Leave, please." This time, Finn sounded as though he truly wished for it, so Kurt briefly embraced him and left. He returned to the dining room and saw Carole and his father looking somewhat calmer.

"He is in his rooms." Kurt considered adding that Finn was profoundly upset but it seemed pointless, so he nodded and left.

 

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The next morning, Finn was calmer but still subdued. He agreed, at least, to go with Kurt for a walk. In the piazza, they separated slightly, Kurt drawn by the market stalls. It was crowded and Kurt felt a sharp blow to his back. He turned to see who had struck him and a masked man bowed his head contritely, "Forgive me, signore, the crowd, I stumbled." He left hastily and Kurt wondered why the pain in his back was growing stronger, and then felt himself falling forward. He tried to call out to Finn but felt so sick and weak that he barely heard himself rasp the name before everything became circles of strange colors and then darkened.

 

Finn heard the sounds of surprise and confusion behind him and turned to look. He pushed through the onlookers when he saw it was his brother stretched on the ground, face down, with another man kneeling next to him, feeling for the pulse in his neck. "What happened?" he demanded.

The other man, who looked to be an Arab, looked up at him. "He fell, but I cannot see why. His pulse is faint but quick. Do you know him?"

"My brother."

"Does he ever faint or have fits? Is he unusually sensitive to heat?"

"No, I've never seen him like this. Perhaps he's just sick, I'll carry him home and call a physician." He put his arms under Kurt to turn him when the man seized his arm.

"Stop!"

Finn stared and the man said, "Remove your arms without moving him, if you can. I see what happened." The Arab's grim tone filled Finn with dread.

"I myself am a physician. Bring me clean cloth from one of the booths," he said, handing a few coins to a woman standing nearby. Looking at Finn again, he said, "Your brother was stabbed."

"But there's no blood, no wound!" Finn was ready to seize his brother and go, but the man pointed. "You see this?" There was a small, irregular glint in the fabric of Kurt's waistcoat. "He was stabbed with a glass dagger. The assassin broke it off at the hilt. That way, you see, it stays inside the wound and may not even be noticed until the victim is dead." He reached for the cloth that the woman brought back. "Had you picked him up, it would have driven the dagger further into his body." He removed a knife from a bag slung from his side. "Let us see how deep it is and the exact placement of the wound." He cut at the fabric around the spot and Finn could see the broken edge embedded in the skin and the miniscule trickle of blood around it. He watched, feeling entirely helpless, as the physician examined Kurt's back from every possible angle, muttering to himself in his own language.

Finally, the physician said, "As I feared, it would be best to remove it now. I will need someone to stanch the wound with firm pressure as I remove the weapon. Are your hands steady or should I ask another?"

Finn looked numbly at his hands and said, "I can do this."

"Take these, then, and press strongly around the flesh, here. When the knife is out, press at the center as well" The physician put the cloth into place around the wound, touched his forehead, mouth, and heart in a brief gesture of prayer and then, using a forceps from his bag, pulled the weapon from Kurt's back. Finn pressed the cloth hard and felt sickened as he felt it becoming warm and damp under his hands.

"There, raise your fingers just enough for more cloth, the wretch struck a strong vein." Finn let the physician press more cloth underneath and to his relief, this layer did not soak through as quickly as the first. He was unable to look at anything but the blood staining his brother's skin in smears and trickles that ran under what was left of his waistcoat and shirt and saturated the layer of cloth underneath what he was pressing.

He heard, as if from a distance, the physician's voice saying, "Keep pressing, hard, you will not hurt him. I will reach around you to tie it around his back to help keep the bandages in place." When this was done, the physician felt again for Kurt's pulse, but said nothing.

"He will be all right, will he not?" Finn asked. "The bleeding is slowed, and while he looks fragile, my brother is healthy, so he will recover fully, wouldn't you agree?"

"It is as Allah wills, my friend." The physician sighed and then patted Finn on the shoulder. "There, you can stop pressing on the wound. Is your home nearby?"

"Just down there, you can see."

"Ask your servants to bring a table or shutter or something flat, best to carry him like that." A priest had been watching and said, "I can go, if you wish to stay with him."

Finn nodded, gratefully. "Please do." He was aware now of having passed from shock to numbness to exhaustion, without any of the violent emotions he would have anticipated. The scene seemed so unreal, the onlookers who were still gaping, his brother still sprawled on the ground. If Kurt had sat up to sing a death aria or the small crowd had burst into a chorus, it would have seemed somehow more real, more plausible than what his mind was trying to tell him had happened. It seemed impossible to believe that his brother had truly been stabbed, here in broad daylight, without even a sound.

Under the physician's direction, the servants and Finn carefully placed Kurt on the table and carried him the short distance home. When they got there, Carole and Burt were gone for their morning constitutional walk, so at least Finn did not have to tell them yet.

While the physician checked Kurt's pulse and eyes, folded another blanket over him, and had more cloth readied for bandages, Finn struggled with what message to send to Blaine, Mercedes, and Rachel. He finally left it at, "Kurt was attacked and is seriously hurt. Come immediately." The physician finished examining Kurt and Finn anxiously asked him, "Will you stay? We can pay, handsomely."

"I have other patients that I must attend to, but I will return within a few hours." Finn opened his mouth to protest but the doctor continued. "If anything changes, there is little that I or any human power could do for him. If he awakens, keep him still and quiet but make him drink, first water and then watered fruit juice. Do not give him wine yet or any other spirits. If he becomes feverish, let it be unless it rises so high that his skin is unpleasantly hot to the touch. If that happens, wipe his face, throat, and wrists with lukewarm water, not cold. He is more likely to become chilled, in which case, add more coverings and light a fire." He lifted his bag and repeated, gently, "I will return within a few hours. I can see myself out."

Finn moved a chair near the bed and sank down. His brother looked so fragile and pale against the sheets, even his lips drained of color. Finn picked Kurt's hand up and held it in his. Not knowing what else to do, he leaned forward and started to sing, a soft children's song of a lamb wondering where to sleep at night, perhaps the bed, perhaps the chicken coop, perhaps the horse's manger, perhaps in the pond, before deciding to sleep, as it did every night, beside its mother.

He heard footsteps running towards the room and went to meet whoever it was. He had thought it would be Carole or Burt, since they rarely went far during their walk, or Mercedes, since she lived closest, but it was Blaine. His face and eyes were already red with tears.

"Where is he? Is he going to be all right?"

Finn wasn't sure that he could control his voice, so he just put a hand on Blaine's shoulder and led him into the bedroom. Blaine stared at Kurt and asked, in a shaking voice, "What happened?"

"Somebody stabbed him. I don't know who or why or anything, I just turned around and he was on the ground. I...I might have killed him if I had picked him up, I didn't even see any blood or anything. There was a doctor there and he's going to be back, but..."

Blaine demanded, furiously, "Stabbed? Who would-"

"I don't know!" Finn shouted, and then immediately lowered his voice. "I don't know who would try to kill him, but they did. Try. And...there was so much blood..."

This time it was Blaine who shouted, "He is NOT going to die!" He glared around the room as fiercely as if Death itself was there, waiting, and repeated, softly, "He is not going to die."

Now that Blaine was there, Finn reluctantly left Kurt's room to wait for his mother and Burt. He dreaded telling them, first for the pain that it would cause and second because he was fearful for Burt's heart. How could Finn tell him that his son had been attacked by a secret murderer and might well die?

When Burt and Carole came in, they looked so much at ease, arm in arm, that Finn immediately felt the torment of breaking the news. Carole noticed his expression first. "What is it, sweetheart?"

"It's Kurt. He's...somebody tried to kill him."

She looked uncomprehending while Burt's face turned red and then white. Finn reached out and put a hand under his arm to support him. "What happened?"

"We were out in the piazza. He was only a few steps behind me and I didn't even know anything until I heard a sound, I looked back, and, and he was on the ground, somebody had stabbed him with a glass dagger, it was still in his back, but I couldn't even see it, if the physician hadn't been there, he...I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

His mother took him in her arms and he sobbed on her shoulder. "Shush, shush, it's not your fault, baby boy, it's not your fault." He looked up and saw that Burt must have gone to Kurt. He and Carole followed.

Mercedes and Rachel soon followed, and as word circulated, so did the others. Even Susanna came, standing for a few moments at the head of his bed, repeatedly brushing her fingers over Kurt's forehead and through his hair. As she did this, her face was as soft as Finn had ever seen it, but when she turned to leave, without a word to anyone, it was set in ominously steely lines.

When the physician returned, he nodded when Finn said that Kurt had not regained consciousness. "So much blood, it is not surprising, though I had hoped he might." He showed them how to trickle a few drops of water at a time into Kurt's mouth, waiting between drops so that he would swallow naturally rather than choking.

"Will he live?" Burt sounded as though he were pleading.

"I cannot tell yet. He lost almost enough blood to kill. If he continues to bleed internally or should the wound fester, then yes. If the wound knits and does not fester, he will live."

"Will he sing again?"

"Rachel!" Santana sounded outraged but Burt raised his eyes for a moment and then said, "Please answer."

"If the knife penetrated his lung, he will not perform again. I believe it did not but cannot be certain from nothing more than listening to his chest."

That night, Blaine, Rachel, and Mercedes insisted on staying. Burt refused to leave his son's side but they persuaded him to sleep for a little on the couch while Finn and Blaine kept watch. Finn watched Blaine hold Kurt's hand to his mouth, not even kissing it, merely holding it against his lips. He admitted that he had been uncertain whether the wealthy, lighthearted aristocrat could truly and faithfully love Kurt, but now there was no doubt in his mind that Blaine would gladly switch places with him, even if he were to die. Midway through the night, Burt woke and insisted that Finn rest, as he had maintained the vigil the longest of them all.

Finn woke up to find Burt and Blaine side by side, Blaine holding Kurt's hand and resting his head against Burt's shoulder. "How is he?"

"Nothing has changed, but must be good, no? If he were still bleeding, would he not have...?" Finn nodded, wearily. Blaine's belief was plausible and furthermore, he wanted to believe it. Kurt's skin felt cool and Finn noticed that while he had slept, Blaine or Burt had added another blanket. But at least he was not feverish or icy cold.

When the physician came, he agreed with Blaine that it was a good sign that Kurt had lived through the night. "I would not say that he is safe, but I am more hopeful now." He added, with a shake of his head, "Outside, there is a small gathering of well-wishers, or at least those waiting for news. They know that the great singer Kurt Hummel is unwell, but the rumors they share are quite fantastical." He laughed shortly. "Some claim that he dueled with another castrato for a great role in a new opera, others say he was injured when pirates from the Barbary Coast attempted to kidnap him to sell to the Czar of the Russias, still others that he was sent a venomous snake by a jealous husband, others that he was attacked by a rejected suitor." He half-laughed. "Shall I tell them that he was attacked by a ruffian and that you ask for them to disperse and pray for him rather than crowd the doorway?"

"Thank you," Burt said, absently. "Please do that." Carole, who had joined them when the physician arrived, insisted that he rest for a while in their own room. When he had gone, Blaine looked at Finn with intent, burning eyes.

"What he said made me think. I know who did this to him."

Blaine continued, grimly. "A man was writing to Kurt, letters and poems. Kurt permitted it for a while and then asked that he stop, saying that he could never return such feelings. I am certain it is he, who else would hate Kurt enough to kill?"

Finn was looking at him in utter confusion. "Are you certain? Kurt never mentioned anybody pursuing him enough to make him concerned, and no sane man would kill over rejected letters."

Blaine laughed shortly. "Somebody as beautiful and fascinating as Kurt, do you believe he could not inspire such a passion? I would die for him, perhaps he drove another man to this by rejecting him, either killing him to punish him or so that no other might possess Kurt."

"Most men who are rejected do not kill." Finn's expression was even more full of doubt than before.

"Then this man is insane." Blaine rose from his chair, uneasy at the way that Finn was rejecting his deduction.

"Wait, Blaine. If this man were insane, surely he would have made some further attempt to pursue Kurt after he asked him to stop writing? Have tried to lay hands on Kurt?"

"He did not have the opportunity. Kurt only wrote to him."

Finn tilted his head and looked at Blaine as if he were the madman. "You believe that this man was simultaneously so maddened with passion or hatred that he would kill, but at the same time, he made no objection, did not come to the house or opera theater to press his suit or to threaten Kurt?"

Blaine felt his belief deflate with each word. He wanted so much to believe that he had found the source of the attack and serve as Kurt's avenger and protector. "It does sound far-fetched," he admitted, slowly, resuming his seat. "But who else would harm him?"

Finn asked, slowly, while taking a cloth to squeeze water into Kurt's mouth. "What of Karofsky? He often muttered threats about teaching Kurt a lesson, that a castrato who tries to seduce men should not take on the airs of a man."

Blaine considered it a moment. Karofsky was another man Kurt had rejected and if Kurt were ever to say that Karofsky had tried to kiss him, it would be an embarrassment, even if only a handful believed Kurt. To that extent, Kurt was a threat. But by now Karofsky would have realized that Kurt had not spoken and as time lapsed, he was less and less likely to speak. But somehow he could not imagine Karofsky striking at Kurt thus. "Perhaps, but would a man like that attack from behind, in a crowd, with a glass dagger? He seemed more intent on humiliating Kurt and if he were to attack him, it would be more likely in a fit of rage or in his cups." He had also seen Karofsky nearly applaud Kurt for his courage in returning to the stage in Orfeo. There had been no anger or hatred in Karofsky's face then.

"He has also said or done little against Kurt lately," Finn sighed. "If it were not that Kurt were unmasked and so difficult to mistake for another, I should think he were attacked in error."

"But he was not, and we must protect him." Blaine turned sharply to see Mercedes looking at them both with folded arms.

He rose and gestured Mercedes to his seat, but she walked past him to sit on the other side of the bed. "My boy is no better this morning?" She brushed her hand against Kurt's cheek and then bent to kiss his brow.

"No," Finn shook his head. "He is unchanged, but that, at least, may be good news." He looked at Mercedes seriously. "We know you love him dearly, but leave finding his attacker and avenging him to men, Mercedes, this is no work for women."

She stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. "I will forget that you said that provided that you never say it again." Her voice became brisk again as she addressed both Finn and Blaine. "I heard you rule out a rejected lover and a prejudiced boor and I agree. Remember, my friends, this was an assassination attempt in Venice, not on an opera stage or in a ballad. A glass dagger in a crowd suggests a man accustomed to killing, perhaps even a professional who knew how to approach, attack, and leave unnoticed."

Her straightforward statements sparked other ideas in Blaine's head. "And attacking in a crowd in daylight, that suggests some urgency. To ask an assassin to take that much risk suggests somebody who could pay."

"Somebody powerful, but not powerful enough to successfully denounce him to the Council of Ten as an enemy of the state." Mercedes frowned in thought at she spoke.

Blaine dripped a little more water into Kurt's mouth as he thought. The Council was infamous for quietly disposing of suspected enemies of the state—or personal enemies of its members—in the canals, as disguised accidents or attacks by robbers. "Or who could not denounce him for fear that the denunciation might be used against him."

"So then," she concluded, "Kurt must present some threat or block some desired opportunity for somebody wealthy and powerful, yet not a member of the Council or an intimate of its members, or a close enough intimate to be able to denounce without questions. Finn, you know your brother's finances well enough. Does he hold any secret debts?"

"No, Kurt prefers to keep his money savings in gold and jewels, in case he or we should ever need to flee. He would not buy debts, and I am sure that as a creditor, he would deal only with friends and be generous." Finn paused to think. "The theater has insured his life, I believe, but no huge amount, he is worth far more to them alive and able to sing."

Blaine had not thought of that angle, but as Venice's leading castrato and a fierce negotiator, Kurt was earning a fortune. Men could kill over ducats, let alone wealth. "At the theater, who would take his roles if he should die or be unable to sing?"

Finn shook his head in response to Blaine's question. "Most likely Senesino, perhaps Marchesi, Vittori? But they are all in great demand elsewhere, they would not need to take such a risk."

Mercedes added, "Siface was the theater's other choice for a lead castrato, but he went to England instead. Perhaps if he had lived after returning to Italy he might have wanted to replace Kurt, but he could hardly do so from the grave." She sighed. "Such cruelty, greed, and false pride. That is why I have such a terror of marriage, there are only a few men I would trust." Siface had been murdered for refusing to end his affair with an aristocratic young widow. Her brothers, the Marchesi Marsili, had him murdered and were exiled for it. They claimed it was to avenge the family honor, while others said that it was rage that Siface defied and laughed at them, and still others that they feared the young, wealthy widow would spend her money on enjoying life with her lover, rather than leaving it to them and their families.

"And Kurt's sponsors?" Kurt's rivals at the great theater would have no need for money, but the favor of a wealthy patron might be easier for a rising singer or a lesser one to grasp.

Finn shook his head. "There are many, but they are all so wealthy that their giving to Kurt does not preclude their supporting others. The Duca of Este, when he visits Venice, he patronizes twenty singers, at least, and the others each give to at least six or seven. It would hardly seem worth the risk."

Mercedes looked thoughtful, "There are many other singers who dislike him and would gladly see him humiliated or his career ended, but not enough to pay an assassin, I should imagine, or to take the risk themselves."

"Then we know nothing." Blaine had at least felt more alive when discussing the possibilities, but now worry sat more heavily on his shoulders than ever. He squeezed a few more drops of water into Kurt's mouth.

"Did he move his head a little just then?" Mercedes almost pushed Blaine out of the way to see Kurt more closely. Blaine put his finger to the pulse in Kurt's throat but could feel no difference, but a moment later, Kurt unmistakably turned his head a little to the side.

"Is he waking up?" To see Kurt's eyes open, to look into them as he had feared he might never again on this earth, to see a smile or hear a word from him, if he could hope for this...Blaine felt tears in his eyes.

Mercedes went to the door and called for a servant to summon Burt and another to send for the physician immediately. As Blaine watched, Kurt seemed to sigh and his arm moved a few inches. Mercedes knelt to pray and Burt came into the room, his face still alarmingly grey, but his eyes more alive than they had been for days.

Finn all but babbled, "He hasn't woken up yet, but he moved, it looks as though now he's sleeping, sleeping naturally, he seems to be breathing more easily, we all saw his arm move and he turned his head a little." Burt sank into the chair and, clasping his son's hand to his heart, leaned to kiss his forehead. Kurt stirred a little, so slightly that a casual glance would not have detected it, and sighed again.

When the physician arrived, he smiled in relief. "I cannot promise, my friends, that he will live, that is in the hands of The Merciful, but it seems more likely now." As he changed the bandages, he examined the injury and then ran his hand lightly over Kurt's long ribs. "Ah, I believe I see it now. In an ordinary man, the angle of the dagger would have been through the lung to the heart. But you see, a castrato's build is different, the ribs are longer and wider, thus, and so the rib deflected the blade. It still cut deep and cost him much blood, but the only organ it wounded was the liver. Now, I can say that I truly believe that while he is not entirely out of danger, I believe he will live." He took two small bottles from his bag. "When he does awaken, he will be in pain. Give him ten drops of this in water, no more often than every four hours. It will ease the pain and make him sleep. Give him a mix of water and juice, as much as he can stomach, when he is awake." He took a folded paper that held a grainy dried paste. "Mix this with honey and spread it on the wound morning and night. If the wound begins to turn red or swell or smell foul, smear all of it on and send for me immediately."

"There is nothing more?" Finn looked almost belligerent and Blaine shared his doubts. During his rare and minor illnesses, he had been bled and given at least ten different pills and tonics. Surely Kurt needed more than that.

"I prefer to use only what medications are entirely necessary when a patient has lost so much blood and when nature appears to have taken charge of the healing."

Burt intervened. "It sounds wise, as Kurt was healthy and strong before. During my own illness, I received little medicine and I recovered."

When the physician left, Burt addressed Blaine, "You have been here without a rest these last three days. I want you now to go to your own home, since your parents must wish to see you." He smiled affectionately. "I know you wish to stay with Kurt, but when things like this happen, all parents worry, no matter how irrationally, and nothing eases their fears like having their child under their own eyes." Blaine wanted to protest but as gentle as his smile was, Burt's eyes were adamant, and Blaine reluctantly left, taking a gondola to avoid the crowd that waited in the square for news.

 

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At home, his father looked at him and asked, "So Hummel has died, then?" He added, gently, "I am sorry that it grieves you."

Blaine realized that the exhaustion and grief of the last few days had left more marks on him than the recent relief. "No, no, thanks be to God, he begins to recover." He remembered neglected duties and continued, "I will have a hundred masses said in thanksgiving."

"Better not to be presumptuous in the eyes of God, it may not yet be his will for Hummel to live. Too, if you have the masses said and he dies, you would look foolish." Blaine's exhaustion did not permit the anger that he would have expressed, and he merely said, "With your leave, I will go rest."

His father waved a hand in permission and Blaine, without even allowing his manservant to help him undress, collapsed on his bed. Within moments, he was asleep. He woke shortly after with a nightmare of Siface's murder. His carriage was ambushed and he was dragged from it. Despite his struggles, the four murderers beat him to death. When Blaine managed to sleep again, the nightmare seemed to repeat endlessly, with variations, as though it were a musical theme. Sometimes Siface's face was Kurt's, sometimes the murderers seemed utterly unknown, and yet other times, he recognized their forms and movements under their disguising cloaks but could not put names to them. When his manservant woke him for dinner, he felt uneasy, though at least somewhat more rested.

To his relief, his parents spoke little of Kurt as they dined together, His mother said that she would keep Kurt in her prayers and his father expressed his approval. His father also said that he had told the Bon family that Blaine had been just outside Venice visiting an old teacher who had fallen seriously ill.

"Why would you say that instead of the truth?"

"My dear boy, the attack on Hummel and the rumors about it are the talk of the town. If word got out that you have been with him without rest for the last three days, you would not be able to stir without being besieged by questions, and I would not have had your anxiety increased." He gazed earnestly into Blaine's eyes. "A few lies are permissible to a father whose purpose for the deception is his son's peace of mind."

Blaine had not expected such understanding and answered, gratefully, "Thank you, father. Nobody could hold that against you and I apologize for sounding as though I accused you."

"I am glad you see it thus." His father, seemingly impulsively, pressed Blaine's hand.

His sleep that night was equally restless, although this time he could not remember the nightmares, only the fear of some hidden, lurking danger. He dressed and left to see Kurt. As he arrived, he was astonished to find Handel and Susanna leaving in the same gondola, Handel's arm about her shoulders. The water carried Handel's voice. "So, you see, you need not burn the theater to the ground as his funeral pyre."

"Be silent, beef barrel, and make better use of your mouth."

Blaine hurriedly turned his head so he could not see them kissing one another. At least he had the pleasure of imagining Kurt's face as he shared this piece of news.

Kurt was dozing when he entered the bedroom, with Mercedes and Rachel watching. They told him that Kurt had woken up three times, disoriented and in pain, but awake. Finn, Burt, and Carole were resting. Rachel excused herself a few moments afterward, saying that she wanted to make sure that Finn was indeed resting.

Mercedes looked Blaine up and down. "You look better, but not yet entirely yourself."

"I do not think that I can be, until he is recovered." Mercedes herself was only barely recognizable as the dark goddess of Venice, her eyes red and puffy, her hair and dress disordered, her pose speaking of weariness and grief rather than pride.

She watched Kurt again and then smiled, reminiscently. "Did I ever tell you, or did he, of how passionately I loved him when we first met?" Blaine shook his head and she continued. "I heard him sing and was enraptured, but thought him enclosed in ice. Then when he spoke to his brother, I saw impishness and affection and knew that he was no ice prince. I pursued him and because he responded to my invitations with his and gladly took my arm as we walked, I thought he was responsive to my charms, but not ready to speak of it." She laughed a little. "Poor boy, he had no idea even that such thoughts were in my head. When I finally invited him into my bed and he realized it was not to share a nap, his face. Have you ever seen him blush?" She chuckled again at the memory. "I was so enraged at the thought that he was refusing me, but I am thankful now that we became friends, lasting friends. I think, perhaps, the reason I pursued him so was that some part of me knew that he was entirely safe, that he would never become jealous or possessive, never seek control over me or my wealth, never want more than I would freely give." She sighed, "I would accept an offer for my hand only under those conditions, however much I want a family and children."

"You are true to yourself. As he is." Blaine sighed. "And as I fear I am not."

"What do you mean?"

Blaine explained his family's plans for his marriage and how he felt he must yield. Mercedes listened with sympathy and they sat in companionable silence, holding one another's hands. Kurt woke with a quiet murmur that made Blaine ache with tenderness and he helped Kurt drink, stroking his cheek with shaking hands. Kurt's eyes focused on him for a moment but he was asleep again before he could speak, and Blaine settled him back on the pillows.

Samuel came in, bearing a small folded packet. "The servant gave this too me, he was unable to read it." He squinted and said, "I have difficulty with the writing myself, perhaps you, Blaine?" He gave him the packet and, kissing Mercedes' cheek, sat down and put his hand on Kurt's.

The packet held a white powder and a note from the physician. "To assist in his recovery, give him one large spoonful of this in water each hour." Blaine frowned. It made no sense to him, the physician had spoken against tonics and called in the early afternoon each day. When he explained this to Samuel, the other man's eyes widened.

"Give that to me, then. I wish to be certain of something." Blaine handed it over and Samuel left the room. Santana and Brittany appeared a few moments later, just as Sam returned.

Sam remained standing and addressed them all. "I, well, I soaked a few grains of the powder in water and put it on a piece of bread. The powder, it worried me, after what Blaine said. I went out and found a duck and fed it the bread. Since the note said to give Kurt a large spoonful, I figured a few grains would be about right for a duck." He paused, "Only a minute after I gave it the bread, it died."

Blaine felt as though time and his thought had slowed to motionlessness. He was only barely aware that Brittany's eyes filled with tears and Santana squeezed her shoulders. "All is well for the duck now, Because he gave his life for Kurt, he went right to duck heaven."

"That is so, he even smiled as he died," Samuel added his reassurances, and then met Blaine's eyes, gravely.

Santana told them that she would be back after she had helped Brittany plan a funeral for the duck, and walked out slowly, muttering something under her breath.

"Somebody must have thought that Kurt was not dying quickly enough," Mercedes almost whispered.

"Or known that he was recovering." Sam was staring straight ahead. "But who knows that, other than than his friends? Nobody who has been admitted would have the least reason to harm him." Blaine added grimly, "And if it were a servant, it would be far easier to add poison to the water we have been giving Kurt."

In an instant, he remembered his dream and bent forward, gasping, trying to drive away the realization. A powerful and wealthy enemy. Not able to ask the Council of Ten to remove an enemy, because the reason was an embarrassment. Who needed Kurt removed quickly. And who, unlike nearly anybody else in Venice, knew that Kurt was recovering. Whatever part of his mind regulated his dreams must have been trying to warn him with the repeated nightmares about Siface, murdered for a perversion of the concept of honor. Blaine tried to say, "My parents," but only gagged. Mercedes, acting quickly, thrust the basin under his mouth as he retched and vomited, as though his body sought to reject what his mind could not.

Blaine retreated to another room to think, saying only that he still felt unwell. He desperately tried to find some weak link in his chain of reasoning. Instead, his thoughts added new links and reinforced the existing ones. He and Kurt had shared their bodies with each other at his home. A servant or even a passer-by might have seen them and sought out his father to inform him, hoping for reward. His father had spoken so often of the duties of a father to protect his son from corruption. In hindsight, it had been not a statement of principle but a warning for Blaine to drop his association with Kurt. He laughed bitterly. He, trained since childhood to be astute to hidden meanings in the lightest of conversations, had been utterly deaf to the warnings. He had been deaf because Kurt's love was as far removed from corruption as anything on earth could be.

True, he had no proof. The facts were enough to make a judge have a person of no consequence arrested, but no judge would dream of even hearing an accusation against an Anderson unless there were proof. His father was not one, like the Marchesi Marsili, to boast of his deeds or to flourish his hatred before all. He would not even warn his son openly.

Worse, Blaine reflected desperately, the murder attempts had not removed his obligations to his family and to his homeland. His father had been capable of ordering the death of an innocent man, but that removed only Blaine's obligations to him. He could not drag the family into infamy.

Was there any other remedy? He considered Finn's words. Kurt had collected his wealth in gold and jewels, easily transported if he or his family ever had to flee Venice. Kurt had even spoken of traveling the world with him. Blaine's own money was in banks and land, more difficult to liquidate than Kurt's, but he owned enough precious rings, gem-set shoe buckles, and valuable small items such as ancient gold coins, to support a small family in a modest lifestyle. Combining his and Kurt's funds, they could certainly assemble enough to live comfortably, even if Kurt never sang again and Blaine could find no work.

Would living in obscurity be sufficient protection, though? Travel into Venice was heavily guarded for fear of carrying disease and those leaving Venice were subject to scrutiny for fear that they carried trade secrets or smuggled goods subject to export tax. Within Venice itself, masks provided safeguards, but a disguised departure was well-nigh impossible, especially since Kurt was so recognizable, his wound making him even more so. Even if they were able to leave successfully, they would not be able to move quickly enough to evade pursuit, Kurt weak from his injury and his father's heart not strong enough for hard riding. They would be as easy to follow as if they lit firecrackers every night to mark their location.

If Blaine fled with them, he knew his father would be unrelenting in pursuing them. What, then, if he offered his surrender in exchange for Kurt's life? Perhaps he should admit himself defeated. If Kurt and his family left and Blaine remained in Venice, obedient and chastened, his father would have no more reason to wish for Kurt's death.

It was the only solution he could imagine, and yet his heart rebelled, not just at the pain of separating from Kurt, but from the injustice. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed in his helpless anger and grief.

He heard the rustle of skirts at the door and raised his head. Santana entered swiftly, and when he tried to rise as a gentleman should, she pushed him back down onto the seat by his head and then sat next to him, pulling him into her arms and running her hands up and down his back soothingly. "Shhhhh, we have every reason to hope now," she murmured.

"We do not," he choked. "And it is my fault."

"The devil it is!" she exclaimed. "Or have you gone quite mad? I always imagined Rachel Berry to be the first of us to need to be carted to an asylum, I would have wagered money on her, not you!"

He explained, choking over his words, but she took his hands, even stroking the back of them with her thumbs. When he told her that he would go to his father and plead for Kurt's life, she burst into rapid Spanish and then back into Italian.

"To beg for Kurt's life and promise to lead a life as an obedient slave? This I refuse to hear!"

Now his anger turned towards her. "What would you have me do, then? Let Kurt die for the sake of my pride?"

"It is your father who should be pleading and promising obedience, not you. Let me think a few moments." She rose and paced back and forth, muttering and gesturing to herself. Even in his misery, Blaine had to admire her incandescent rage and determination. After several minutes, she turned back to him triumphantly. "I have it!" She added, in a darker tone, "That is, I have it if you are ready to act with courage and if you are ready to defy everyone."

"For Kurt? Yes."

"Then this is what you must do." After she had explained and Blaine and she finalized their plan, she strode to the hallway and bellowed for Mercedes to join them. Mercedes was at first as bewildered and doubtful as Blaine that such a plan would work, but after reflecting, she was also as convinced as he that this was not only a way to save Kurt's life, but to provide for their happiness.

 

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Before he left, Blaine entered Kurt's room to find him sleeping lightly. He watched lovingly, hoping that they had overlooked nothing and that he would return with the news that they and their love were safe. When he bent to kiss Kurt's cheek, Kurt stirred and opened his eyes.

"Blaine?" he asked, groggily.

"Yes. I love you so much, so very much."

"Love you," Kurt murmured, falling asleep again a moment later. Blaine determined to see it as a promise and a sign that their plan would have God's blessing.

 

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He returned to his home and hesitated as he stood in front of its beautiful facade. At that moment, he truly would have preferred to flee, no matter what the cost to him would have been. But this had turned into a game of life or death. He reminded himself of Kurt's courage in facing down insults with the scorn that they deserved, and walked in.

His father was sitting with his mother in their library, each reading. The scene looked so peaceful and serene that it tore savagely at Blaine's heart. His father looked up at him in some expectation.

Blaine gulped and his father's expression grew sympathetic. This sufficed to enrage Blaine. "I believe you thought I would come with news that Kurt Hummel's murderer succeeded in poisoning him and that he is dead."

"You are speaking strangely." His father's eyes now clearly held a warning.

"I will tell you what the future holds for us."

"Your tone is a trifle arrogant, Blaine, speak in a manner befitting a son." He looked at Blaine for a long, considering moment, and then said, quietly, "Signora, will you excuse us?" She left the room and Blaine realized that his father was more uneasy than his words suggested.

"Even at this point, you will not speak clearly? Then I will." Blaine swallowed hard, hoping that his rage and disillusionment would not bring him to tears again. "I will do my duty to my ancestors and city. I will marry a woman worthy of the honorable name we hold in this city and, if it pleases God, we will have children."

"Blaine, this is not news. We have always known you to do your duty, to do what is right." Now his father's voice was indulgent. "I fear that sleepless nights and anxiety have confused your thoughts, but a few good nights of sleep will cure that. Drink half a glass of wine, no more, and go to bed, dear son."

The indulgent tone and praise filled Blaine with a sudden longing for his world to be what it had been before, where his father's praise meant that he was a good son and a virtuous man, and when there was no problem that his parents could not solve. But time and truth had stripped that away, and he must, for his own sake and for Kurt's, travel down a harsher path, but one that might lead to both safety and honor.

"I am far from confused, signore, instead, I am seeing clearly at last. I will marry and the woman will be one of my choosing who accepts me of her own volition. I will also maintain my friendship with Kurt Hummel and no harm will come to him."

"You speak of marrying and in the next sentence, speak of this 'friendship?'" For the first time, Blaine saw his father sneer and his tiny remaining hope that he had misunderstood everything vanished. "With a whore, a eunuch, a corruption who would drag all he encounters into the mire and then into Hell?"

"With the honorable and proud man whom I admire and love."

His father looked at him as if he had never seen him before. "You have gone mad," he said, flatly.

"No, I am not mad. And if you should attempt to have me declared mad and locked away, consider the disgrace to the family name. Who would have an alliance with our family then?" Blaine felt a rush of strength as he felt the balance of power shift. "Consider it well, father. I can do more to our family name than Kurt Hummel could even imagine doing. I have written several explicit letters addressed to various notorious courtesans, detailing how I adore them and their bodies, describing myself as their slaves, begging for them to trample me under their feet. There are even letters to an Ottoman courtesan who was here, pleading with her to let me follow her to her homeland and saying I will turn Mohammedan for her favors. And another to the Sultan himself, saying that for sufficient gold, you and I will together change the maps that our ships use, adding errors to give them great advantage over us should they wish it. As you have the contract for making the official maps, this is even plausible." He felt a harsh grimace of a smile transform his face. "These letters are in safe hands. Thus far. If you attempt to have me called mad or imprison me here, or if harm comes to Kurt or his family, they shall circulate throughout all of Venice." He was relieved that his voice did not shake as he made his one bluff. "You may think you have power over most in Venice, enough that they would fear to do the Andersons any harm, but you have no power over foreign ambassadors. They, signore, are not as easy to have stabbed in a public square, without calling the fury of the Doge upon yourself. And once a serious wound is inflicted, even cowards unsheathe their weapons to join an attack."

"You would do such a thing to your family? This Hummel creature has corrupted you utterly! How could you imagine such an infamy?"

"Signore, I have not even finished explaining what I will do. I also have a singular use for this." He held his waistcoat aside to show a belt with a dagger about his waist.

"You would kill me?" His father snorted in contemptuous disbelief and Blaine saw him believe that the power in the exchange had shifted back to him.

"Kill you? Signore, I am no murderer. I will take this dagger and use it to make myself as he is. It would take only an instant to do, yet generations would talk of how our family line ended thus."

He saw the incredulity fade from his father's face as the nature of his threat became clear. His father sat and Blaine could see him considering his options, as if his thoughts were written upon his face. He walked to his father's chair in vindictive triumph and leaned forward. "Now, signore, the honor of this family rests in your hands. Do you swear, as you hope for God's grace, do you swear upon your soul itself that you will permit my marriage to a worthy woman of my choosing and that Kurt, his family, and our friends are safe from any harm from you, direct or indirect?" When his father did not answer, Blaine repeated, in a shout, "Do you swear it?" He stalked to the wall where a crucifix hung and took it down. "Take this in your hand and swear that you will abide by the words and by the spirit of that oath."

Finally, Blaine's father reached out and held the crucifix in his hand. "I swear it as I hope for God's grace." His voice was level but without its accustomed tone of command. Blaine knew that his father would consider the oath binding; he had spoken often of what it meant to break an oath. Even an oath made under duress was sacred and binding, as a man of honor would never agree to a vow he would not keep.

Blaine stepped back. "Then we may be at peace. But should you break this oath, I swear that this family's name will be destroyed." He backed from the room and once outside, leaned against the wall, bent at the lower back so that his hands rested on his legs, breathing as deeply as if he had run the length of the Grand Canal.

He returned to Kurt's home, barely able to think coherently. So much had changed in so little time, it somehow seemed bizarre that the Grand Canal, the buildings, the people he passed were unchanged. Nor was he outwardly changed. Market sellers, public gondoliers, and others who recognized him made only the customary small bows and did not seem to notice anything different in his aspect. But still, he felt as if he were walking in a dream in which one knows one is dreaming, so knows that this is a place of unreality, where truth is as unsubstantial and changeable as the water of the canals.

As he entered the house, Santana and Mercedes were waiting for him in the hallway and Santana only asked, "Well?"

"He agreed and swore." Now that he was among loved ones who stood at his side and shared their strength and will with him, he allowed himself to weep again. His tears were largely in relief but with some mourning for the illusions that he had lost. They held him in their arms until he was calmed again, and Mercedes gave him her embroidered handkerchief to wipe his tears when he fumbled for his own. "There, dear heart, the fight is won."

"How is Kurt?"

"Still sleeping." Santana patted his shoulder. "Go to him, you have earned it."

"I wish I had the words for thanks," he said, looking into her eyes.

"You shall write me great arias or cantatas," she answered, casually. "And buy me a parure of magnificent pearls, including of course necklace, tiara, bracelets, brooch, and earrings. A splendid ruby ring, as well, or a great black pearl for the ring." She left, chuckling, and her head held as high as if the tiara already adorned it.

Mercedes said nothing but leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek and he clasped her hand and then bent low to kiss it.

Burt was sitting in his son's room and Blaine decided not to postpone telling him of the events. "Signore, I have found who tried to kill Kurt and have ensured that his life and those lives connected to his are safe."

"Who was it?" Blaine felt fear and misery return at the fury in Burt's eyes.

"It was my father. He thought that Kurt was a threat to the family honor." He felt his mouth twist in contempt at the last words and he could see Burt begin to understand. He lowered his head and begged, "Please forgive me, signore, I never would knowingly have brought harm to him."

Burt closed his eyes for a few moments and sighed. "I know that. But how have you guaranteed Kurt's safety?"

"Handel, Santana, Mercedes, Michael Chang, and my own trusted friends David and Wesley all have letters that I have written. These letters would disgrace our family forever and even condemn us as traitors if they were revealed. I told my father that the letters are in the hands of powerful people, including foreign ambassadors. If anything should make me even suspect he has tried to harm Kurt, the letters will be made public. I also told him that I now carry a dagger on my person. Not only would I have the letters published, I would use the dagger to make myself as Kurt is. Even if he could discredit the letters, that would disgrace the family and end our family's direct lineage. There are cousins and distant relations enough, but I am the only direct descendant."

"Bravely done, Blaine," Burt answered, quietly. "This must have caused you much pain." He rested his hand lightly on Blaine's shoulder for a moment. "My son chose well."

"You are not angry, then?"

"Of course, but not at you. How could I blame you for what is not your fault?" He drew Blaine close to his side and added, "Let us wait to tell Kurt until he is stronger, I would not have him upset now when he still needs rest and peaceful sleep."

A week later, Kurt was sitting up in bed, a sheaf of plans lying at his side. "You are certain of this, Mercedes?" he asked, doubtfully.

"I have already told you that I am certain, little cherub." She smiled. "I believe Blaine when he says that he promises me the freedom that I now enjoy and that he will never seek to control my fortune or my actions. Should I take a lover, I need only be careful in my choice and discreet. We both desire children, he needs an heir, and we like one another well enough that conceiving children will not be onerous. I will continue to enjoy your companionship and his and as I am already known to Venice as your friend, none shall think it odd that we have taken and shall rebuild our home next to yours." Her eyes glowed with amusement. "And none shall see the discreet passages between the two." Since space along the Grand Canal was at such a premium, houses were only feet apart, in some areas, only a hands breadth apart. Tall, solid gates at the front and the back of this space would make passage private from outside eyes. Mercedes had even taken the precaution of hiring away Kurt's stableman who was married to one of his two chambermaids. Anybody who happened to observe a cloaked figure passing from one house to the other at night would most likely think it was the chambermaid joining her husband or perhaps another servant running an errand or visiting a friend or lover.

"And your builders and decorators will benefit from my taste," Kurt added in a tone of great satisfaction as he patted the sheaf of papers.

Blaine watched them with a heart full of gratitude. His Kurt bore no grudge against him for the attack he had almost not survived. Kurt even said that after his first wrathful thoughts, he had no desire to seek revenge or even to see Blaine's father punished. The threat had been neutralized and perhaps what he and those who loved him had suffered was granted justice by what Blaine's father must endure now. In private, Blaine and his father were entirely estranged, though in public they still appeared to be in flawless harmony, and his father also had to watch Blaine select and announce Mercedes as his future wife. Already, the Bon family had delivered several snubs, as had one or two others. He took Kurt's hand in his and kissed it lightly, winning an affectionate smile.

Rachel had left for Paris that morning, but Finn had remained behind. Seeing Burt and Carole's grief when they had thought Kurt might be taken from them made him decide against the choice of entering the military. He had first contemplated acting as a career, but a gentle rejection from the theaters he had chosen and several heartfelt conversations with William Schuester, Handel, and others made him decide that he wished to become a music master. Handel had arranged for him to apprentice to a choir master and each day, even the difficult ones, made him happier with his choice. He, too, had forgiven Blaine the grief that he had unwillingly brought, and happily acknowledged him as a brother.

Blaine reflected that neither he, Kurt, or Mercedes had everything that they could have dreamed of, but still, they had more than enough for a foundation of happiness. Perhaps in some unknown part of the world or some forgotten past, he and Kurt could have been able to claim one another as husbands, or Mercedes might have been able to marry without both her person and her fortune becoming entirely subject to a husband's whims or tyrannies. Or, since all things are possible, perhaps a future might hold that. Truly, who would have considered that the marshy lagoons and rough huts of a small band of refugees from the invading Huns would have grown into a beautiful, wealthy, and powerful city, the proud queen of the Mediterranean Sea?