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‘My Beloved Bluebird,

I know you have ever grown discontented with my stultiloquy, and even now I can picture the scene it paints. You read this beneath our willow, idly tracing the lines with your forefinger and its faithful companion, your palm grazing my words as though they were my hand instead. You grow waspish at my foolish turns of phrase, yet you cannot deny the telltale rose that blooms upon your cheeks. Ah, do not pout, my love; you know it only renders you dearer still.

I carry a thousand apologies within my mind, yet the moment pen meets paper they scatter, like dandelion seeds loosed to a brisk wind. I watch them drift away, forlorn and wandering, rising toward the heavens; yet I cannot admire the sky, for it only reminds me that even its vast beauty holds no candle to yours. The Lord may strike me down for my impertinence, but He cannot fault me for falsehood.

Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s Day, and I mourn it more keenly than I did the dowager’s passing. Crude, I know. Yet to me, it is a small hell upon this earth to endure such a day without you at my side.

Forgive me, my love. I can see you now—scoffing, huffing, thoroughly exasperated—as you murmur to the breeze that you are quite content to pass the day of lovers’ alone. You may deceive the flowers and the birds who bear witness, but you cannot deceive me. I know that when night falls, you will lie wakeful, pressing your face into those unkindly stiff pillows, and weep. There is no crueller fate to me than to know such unhappy tears should fall because of my absence. You know how dearly I love the shimmering trails drawn from the hidden oceans of your eyes, but only when they are born of pleasure.

I swear upon my family, my forebears, and all who may come after me: I will set right this most abhorrent circumstance with all possible haste.

Please forgive me, my love.

Yours truest,

S.’

William Hargrove—Billy to those admitted to his heart, and Ocean to his late mother—sat beneath the luxuriant willow of the Lover’s Lake. The great, ancient tree stood some two acres distant from the House of Hargrove. Far enough that he knew himself unobserved, and yet not so far that he did not glance back toward the winding path with anxious regularity.

He rubbed at his cheeks in an effort to banish their warmth, though the roughness of his touch only deepened the telltale flush. When he leaned over the lake’s glassy surface, his mouth twisted at the sight of his own reflection. He looked, he thought bitterly, like a simpering fair lady. Soft-eyed, undone, pitiful. And he resented it. Such a look was forbidden.

The letter lay against his folded legs, its edges trembling faintly in the breeze. He knew well what his love would urge him to do. Let it slip from his grasp, watch the ink blur and dissolve upon the water’s skin, make an end of it. Yet his fingers would not obey. To destroy it felt a betrayal. To keep it, a transgression.

Tomorrow was Saint Valentine’s Day. A day for lovers. And though he would never give the confession voice, the truth pressed heavily upon him all the same. He was lonely.

The years before had been easy enough. His younger half-sister would seize him by the arm and drag him out to the great parks for a promenade, any excuse to flee the house on that wretched day when their father would bumble and blunder in his attempts to woo their stepmother. Billy never protested. He would linger at the edges of the paths, leaning against a tree or a balustrade, half-hidden yet dutifully visible in his role as chaperone, while Maxine tittered and tripped her way through her own courtship with the heir to Count Sinclair.

It had always been so. 

Until last year.

Once more, Billy found himself in attendance upon his sprightly sister, this time during their shared riding lesson. He had barely settled into his usual quiet watchfulness when his own mount spooked beneath him. Cam, a too hot-blooded thoroughbred by half, was generally tolerable of Maxine’s pony, a Dartmoor christened Spitfire. But today, Spitfire’s overzealous sidling proved too much. The pony drifted too close, and Cam bolted like a falcon loosened by a sudden gust.

Billy was accustomed to her erratic temper, he prided himself on that composure, on remaining unflustered when others might panic. Yet when she plunged headlong toward the dense thicket bordering the Gulch trails, his confidence faltered. The woodland swallowed light and sound alike, and as Cam carried him deeper into its grasp, a cold unease settled in his chest.

For the first time, Billy feared he might not simply fade into the background and wait for danger to pass him by.

Cam tore through the undergrowth, branches snapping and leaves shrieking in her wake as she startled Aves and Mammalia alike. Billy hauled at the reins, his fingers burning with the effort, yet for reasons beyond his understanding, she had fixed upon her course and would not be turned from it. He pulled harder yet she merely shook her head and surged onward.

She cleared two fallen trunks in a single perilous bound causing Billy’s breath to leave him in a sharp gasp—less for himself than for her, as one misstep would have broken bone and spirit alike. He whistled, low and steady, coaxing as he always did, pouring every calm thought he possessed into the sound. It availed nothing.

The ground sloped suddenly. Ahead, through the thinning brush, he glimpsed the dark ribbon of a brook cutting deep into the earth. Cam’s stride lengthened, wild and heedless, and panic rose cold and fast in his chest.

“Woah—easy!”

The voice cut through the chaos, firm and unyielding. A stranger stepped courageously into Cam’s path as though he had been there all along. She reared violently, and the world tipped sideways.

Billy was thrown, and he struck the water hard. Cold swallowed him whole. He surfaced coughing, sputtering, soaked through to the bone as he dragged himself upright in the shallows, his heart thundering in his ears. For a breathless moment, all he could hear was the rush of the brook and his own ragged breathing.

Then he looked up.

A man stood upon the bank, framed by shadow and green. Billy could make out the deep blue of his tailcoat first, then the pale line of a neatly tied cravat at his throat, black pantaloons disappearing into tasselled boots darkened by mud and spray. The rest came indistinctly, edges softened by the water stinging his eyes, by the shudder still working its way through his limbs.

He watched, mortified and transfixed, as the gentleman approached Cam. There was no suddenness to him, no force. His voice, calm and clear, reached her before his hand did. He rested his palm against her neck as one might soothe a restless child, murmuring words Billy could not hear but somehow still understood. Cam’s sides heaved once, twice, and then she stilled, releasing a quiet, shamefaced nicker.

With unhurried care, the man took the reins and secured her to a nearby branch, checking the knot twice, his touch lingering just long enough to be reassuring.

Only then did he turn.

His gaze met Billy’s, steady and unembarrassed, as though finding a soaked, dishevelled stranger in a brook was the most ordinary thing in the world. Without a word, he stepped into the shallows and offered his hand.

Billy hesitated, aware all at once of his dripping clothes, his clumsy sprawl. But the gentleman did not falter. His grip was firm, warm, unmistakably sure. In a moment, Billy was drawn from the creek and set upon solid ground, the stranger’s hand remaining at his elbow a heartbeat longer than necessary, to be certain he would not sway.

For reasons Billy could not yet name, the world felt strangely serendipitous then, as if something had settled into place.

“Are you quite all right?”

The question was asked with genuine concern, phrased as if the answer mattered greatly. The stranger’s voice was calm, unassuming, almost apologetic for intruding upon Billy’s misfortune.

Billy tried to reply. His mouth opened, then closed again, traitorous and uncooperative, like a fish hauled briefly from water. Heat rushed to his face as he took in the man before him, and his thoughts swiftly scattered like marble upon a hardwood floor.

Brunette hair swept into a careless arc across the gentleman’s brow, dark and thick, fallen upon his forehead in a gentle lick like it had never known vanity. His eyes, cedar-brown and steady, were downturned at the corners, soft in the manner of a young stag’s, alert yet gentle. Skin pale as new snow bore only one imperfection: a delicate scattering of moles across one cheek, trailing upward beneath his eye. Little stars, Billy thought, unbidden. Familiar constellation of Ursa Major. A perfect copy as though the heavens themselves had stooped to mark him.

Those blessed with marks of beauty beneath the eye are destined for sorrow.

His mother’s voice returned without warning. She had said it lightly, once, while idly turning the pages of the morning paper over tea. Billy had been very young then, a quiet, fragile child still prone to hiding within the folds of her skirts. He had not asked what she meant.

He would not ask now.

The stranger shifted, mistaking Billy’s silence for distress. “Forgive me,” he said, a faint, uncertain smile touching his mouth. “I fear I startled both you and your horse. I hope I have not done you a greater harm than  the creek seems to..” Billy’s heart hammered painfully against his ribs. He felt—uncomfortable. Fear, embarrassment, swirled like mismatched paint down the drain inside his abdomen,

“I—no,” Billy managed at last, his voice scarcely his own. “I am… quite unharmed.” The lie was small. The damage inside him was not.

“Billy!”

Maxine’s voice rang out from the clearing. She was still some distance away, yet the sound carried easily through the trees. Billy startled and turned, then offered the gentleman an apologetic, reluctant smile.

“I fear my sister calls me,” he said, hating how small his voice sounded now. “Thank you for your kindness, and for your hand…” He faltered, suddenly aware of the absence. His mouth felt oddly bereft of the stranger’s name.

The gentleman’s lips curved into a bright, almost mischievous smile. “You do not know my name—?”

“Sire! Sire!”

The call came sharp and urgent from the opposite side of the glade, breaking  Billy from his confusion at the statement. The stranger before him stiffened at once. Another man burst through the brush, breathless and plainly distressed, his attention fixed wholly upon the gentleman.

“Sire! There you are—the party was beginning to worry.”

Billy’s ears burned. All at once, he became acutely aware of his damp clothes, his disordered hair, and his general state of disgrace. He looked down and hastily attempted to smooth himself into something more respectable. The newcomer did not spare him so much as a glance.

“Ah—Tommy,” the stranger said quickly, shifting his stance just enough to place himself between Billy and the other man, an off-handed gesture by instinct. “Do not fret. I shall return shortly.”

The words sounded like a dismissal, and Billy, mortified, took a hesitant step toward Cam. He was shivering now, though he could not say whether it was from cold alone.

A hand closed gently around his wrist.

“Wait,” the stranger said softly. “I did not catch yours.”

Billy froze. The touch was brief, proper—and yet it felt unbearably intimate, especially with an audience. He lifted his gaze despite himself.

“M-my name is Billy.”

The stranger’s expression softened at once, something tender settling into his eyes. “Billy,” he repeated, testing the sound of it. “What a very sweet name.”

“Your—your gra—” The other, Tommy, began.

The stranger turned sharply. Whatever look he gave was unseen by Billy, but it was enough. Tommy fell silent at once.

“Billy! Where are you?” Maxine’s voice rose again, nearer now, edged in worry.

“I must go,” Billy said, regret threading the words.

“Of course,” the stranger replied—and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he slipped off his coat and settled it around Billy’s shoulders. The fabric was warm, carrying with it a faint, unfamiliar scent. “You are cold.”

Billy smiled, helplessly so, his fingers curling into the borrowed sleeve. He gave one last glance over his shoulder before turning away.

Behind him, voices fell into hurried, whispered confusion. 

He did not look back.

{~~~}

Steve sprawled across the breadth of his bed, one leg hooked idly over the other, staring up at the gilded canopy above him. Gold-leafed ribs arched like the inside of a cathedral ceiling, catching the afternoon light that spilled through tall windows of summer cream. He sighed, long and pleased, utterly undone.

“You saw him yourself, Tommy,” he said dreamily. “Wasn’t he gorgeous?”

Tommy, stationed at the dressing table, drew a whetstone along the length of his blade with practised precision. The sound rasped through the room. He did not look up. “Yes, Your Grace,” he replied dryly. “You have mentioned it no fewer than eleven times.”

Steve laughed and rolled onto his side, propping his chin in his hand as he turned his gaze toward the window. Beyond it stretched the Hawkins grounds, manicured gardens, distant fountains, the orderly beauty of a world built to impress. Once, he would have lost himself in it.

Now all he could think of were blue—impossibly blue—eyes, wide with shock and shining with something like wonder.

Tommy broke the quiet. “I trust you have no intention of acting upon this… infatuation,” he said carefully. “It would be most unseemly for the Crown should you take a lover and forfeit your betrothal to the Princess of Sienna.”

The words struck Steve deep in chest, reminding him of things he had so easily forgotten. He sat up at once, the silk coverlet pooling around his waist, and rose to his feet. The room felt suddenly too small.

He paced. He theorised.

He constructed futures at alarming speed.

“No,” he declared suddenly, stopping short and spinning on his heel. “No—I shall speak to my parents. I will tell them plainly that I refuse Lady Wheeler’s hand. That my heart already belongs to another.”

Tommy snorted. “Get real, Steve.” Steve froze. Tommy rarely used his given name.

“You do not even know the boy’s family,” Tommy lacquered on, finally lifting his gaze. His voice was firm, not unkind. “How do you propose to find him? What if the boy from the forest is a bastard? A servant? Worse. A criminal. There is no world in which the Emperor and Empress permit you to abandon the heir of Sienna for a nobody.”

Steve’s robust adoration flared hot and bright. “Mind your tongue,” he snapped. “You will not speak so ill of my future partner.” Tommy lowered his eyes at once, chastened, though worry still lined his brow.

Steve inhaled, steadying himself, then continued, quieter now, but no less certain. 

“I know his name. Billy.”

He turned back to the window, already imagining paths unfolding. “He is of age. He must have debuted. Which means his name—his full name—will be recorded somewhere. In the registries. The family records.”

A grin broke across his face, brilliant and unguarded. “I will find him.”

Behind him, Tommy sighed, setting his blade aside with reluctant care, already bracing himself for the storm he knew would follow.

{~~~}

The next time they crossed paths, Billy did not recognise him.

The masquerade ball.

Juvenile, Billy thought, though Maxine had been keen. And of course, their father had insisted he accompany her. 

The Marquesses Holloway were hosting, a rare indulgence, and Billy took in the palace’s sprawling opulence with wide, wondering eyes. Embellished columns rose like trees in a golden forest, crystal chandeliers scattered light across polished floors and live instrumental music drifted through the air like wafting scents of confectionery.

The Holloways seldom opened their doors, but whispers travelled quickly. The Crown Prince was said to be seeking a counterpart. 

Politics and dynastic manoeuvring held no interest for Billy whatsoever, but when the young master of the House of Sinclair had let slip quite casually to Maxine during their last promenade that he would be in attendance, she had seized upon the invitation like a house cat spying a mouse.

Lady Hargrove had spared no expense on Maxine’s costume. She was resplendent as an exotic red bird, her gown a cascade of deep crimson and burnt orange that set her auburn hair aflame. A matching mask of red plumage and gilt details framed her bright eyes. She looked radiant. Confident, delighted, entirely at home.

Billy trailed behind her.

He had never known the luxury of bespoke attire, but he bore his sister no resentment for it. She deserved all the gentler fortunes life might offer, and if his own path must be the rougher one to secure them, so be it.

Instead, Billy had been… inventive.

Keeping to Maxine’s avian theme, he wore a white frilled blouse beneath a soft cream waistcoat, paired with matching breeches. His mask was pure white. A quiet counterpoint to her vivid red. He had chosen to dress as a swan, inspired by the graceful birds that drifted upon the lake beside the estate, which he would watch dreamily from his window on sleepless nights.

The mask itself was old. His mother’s.

He had discovered it long ago, tucked away at the back of her wardrobe while hiding from his father, its feathers still pristine despite the years. From that day forward, Billy had kept it carefully stored in a chest beneath his bed, a relic of gentler times. 

Wearing it now felt like carrying a piece of her with him.

The ballroom was stifling with bodies and sound. Billy followed close behind Maxine, suddenly warm beneath his collar, acutely aware of his own smallness amid the splendour. He did not know many faces here. Lady Cunningham had mentioned she intended to attend dressed as a flamingo, so he kept a vague watch for flashes of pink, but otherwise his eyes never strayed far from the firebird leading him onward.

He need not have worried for his sister.

Maxine moved through the room with effortless grace, laughing and conversing with the young ladies of the ton as though she had been born to it. When the music swelled, a sweet, careening melody of violins and flutes, the young master of Sinclair stepped forward and bowed. She accepted his hand without hesitation. Together they made their way onto the dance floor, red and gold sparkles flashing beneath the chandeliers.

Billy smiled to himself. At the very least, his father would never need to fear for Maxine’s prospects.

“Ahem.”

He turned at once, startled—then relaxed into a fond smile.

Lady Cunningham stood before him, a knowing little curve to her lips. She wore a trailing fuchsia gown, its bodice adorned with gold and black beading that caught the light with every breath. Her arms were hidden beneath matching silk gloves.

“I would say I am surprised,” she said lightly, her gaze drifting affectionately toward Maxine’s spinning figure, “but we both know you came to watch her.”

Billy nodded, sheepish but unashamed. Chrissy had been his friend for as long as he could remember, nearly a sister. Their estates bordered one another, and as a wandering child, he had often strayed onto her family’s grounds, only to be gently corralled home again. They had been raised side by side, their education neatly aligned. When it came time for dance lessons, she had been his partner as Maxine then, had been far too young and small.

Chrissy extended her hands. “Well then—care for a dance?”

Billy straightened instinctively, repeating words long practised at her side. “Of course, my lady. It would be my pleasure.”

The music shifted. Brighter now, livelier, and the Cotillion Waltz began. Billy took her to the centre of the ballroom. He placed his palm to hers, moved as he was taught, clapped when the music crested, spun when it demanded. Faces changed in a pleasant blur. Strangers laughed. Gloves brushed. All he had to do was follow the steps, follow the rhythm, and allow himself to be carried forward.

Until—

He turned too quickly.

Billy stumbled into the next dancer with a breathless, undignified sound—would have fallen outright had strong hands not caught him at once, steadying him with practised ease.

“T-thank you,” Billy managed, mortified.

His partner did not release him.

The man was dressed entirely in black: velvet and heavy cloth, rich and severe, broken only by the subtle gleam of glistening embroidery at his cuffs. His mask was obsidian, scattered with silver like a slice of night sky. It framed deep-set brown eyes that struck Billy short-winded with a sense of wrong-footed familiarity.

The music did not pause.

They moved together.

Close—closer than any of the others had been. Billy felt heat rise unbidden to his cheeks as their hands aligned, as their steps fell effortlessly into rhythm. Their faces drew near—too near—only to drift apart again in time with the dance, like a tide obeying the private laws of the sky.

He became acutely aware of everything. The warmth of the man’s glove through his own, the measured steadiness of his breath, the way his gaze never wavered. Billy had danced with half a dozen partners already, yet none had made his heart race like this.

For a moment—just one—everything else fell away. There was only the quiet certainty of being held exactly where he was meant to be.

And then, cruelly, the steps demanded separation once more.

Billy did not dance again that night. No—he was far too… unsettled to remain calm.

He lingered at the edge of the ballroom, watching Chrissy and Maxine whirl and glide, their laughter sparkling with the music. He sipped at his drink, though he barely tasted it, his eyes never straying from the masked man in black.

There was something impossible about the way the stranger moved. Graceful, practised, like he had danced a thousand such nights. He floated across the floor with effortless dignity, every turn and bow measured and precise, yet carrying a lightness that reminded Billy of a slender heron.

Billy felt a thrum deep beneath his ribs whenever the man drew close to another dancer, and eased when the stranger would draw away again, eyes scanning the crowd as if seeking someone. That feeling, the sudden, sharp tightening in his chest, was both thrilling and wrong. 

He fisted the collar of his blouse and huffed. He needed air.

Setting his glass aside, Billy slipped from the ballroom, stepping out into the cool night. He tugged free his cravat, drawing a long, shuddering breath to calm himself. Maxine would be safe for a few moments; he would return soon.

He wandered further, the noise of the ball fading until only murmurs and distant laughter remained. A large floral display caught his attention, a green bush trimmed into the shape of a swan, dotted with pure white gardenias.

Billy’s chest tightened. 

He bit his lip, gazing upward at the night sky. His mother had always loved swans. She had once told him, long ago, in a voice tinged with mystery. When she moved to the next realm, high above the clouds, she would return as a swan to watch over him. Eccentric, yes, but her words had always soothed him.

A wave of sadness struck, and he blinked rapidly to keep back the tears. He wished she were here, to take his hand, to whisper that he was not as loveless as he feared. His future, the endless speculation about marriage and prospects, seemed suddenly insignificant. What he wanted most was the comfort of someone who truly saw him.

Footsteps crunched through fallen leaves behind him. He swivelled, wiping his eyes in a fluster, heart hammering with the embarrassment of being caught.

And there he was.

The man in black.

Even exposed, vulnerable, Billy felt his shoulders ease for reasons he could not name. The stranger stepped closer, his presence gentle, his voice soft.

“I hope I did not startle you.”

Billy’s breath caught and his heart throbbed painfully in response. He drew in a steadying breath. “No,” he said softly. “You merely caught me at an inopportune moment, I suppose.”

The stranger stepped closer.

Not abruptly, but with a gradual, undeniable pull, until they stood toe to toe. Billy forgot how to breathe. He inhaled despite himself, his nostrils flaring slightly as the scent of the man reached him: rich ochre, warm spice, something clean and unmistakably precious.

The stranger looked down at him, eyes dark and luminous, and smiled.

Billy’s gaze traced the familiar lines of his face, and suddenly his eyes widened—shocked, delighted, undone—as recognition struck. There it was again. The constellation beneath the eye. Ursa Major.

“It’s you,” Billy gasped, beaming before he could stop himself.

A gentle hand lifted his chin, tilting his face upward. The man whispered directly into his ear “…Your eyes are like sapphires.”  

Reverent, mesmerised. 

Billy’s breath hitched again. They were so close now that he could feel the ghost of the man’s breath over his nose, across his cupid’s bow. His lashes fluttered, eyes falling half-lidded without permission.

“I fear I encounter you only at unfortunate moments,” the stranger murmured, his voice  low.“Perhaps… I might improve this one?”

Billy’s pulse thundered in his ears. “Your name,” he whispered. “What is your name?” The stranger leaned closer still, his silence a heartwrenching pant across Billy’s lips. 

He closed his eyes.

Their lips met—just barely.

A fleeting touch that could have been a heartbeat or an eternity. The stranger’s mouth was soft as rose petals, warm and careful, and the sensation ignited Billy from the inside out. He burned, bright and breathless, like a turtledove set aflame mid-song.

“Billy! Billy!”

Maxine’s voice shattered the moment.

They tore apart at once, both breathing hard, eyes wide with something like disbelief. The stranger lifted trembling fingers to his lips, staring at Billy with those deep, fathomless eyes. He glanced toward the sound of Maxine’s approach, then back at Billy once more, an unreadable expression crossing his face.

And then he turned.

Vanishing into the night.

Billy stood frozen, chest heaving, heart racing, just as Maxine rounded the corner.

“Oh, Billy!” she cried, reaching for him. “Are you all right?” She cupped his face, frowning. “You’re bright red—have you taken ill? You’re burning up!”

Billy could only sigh.

{~~~}

Steve did not sleep.

He paced his chambers like a caged beast, fury coiling hot beneath his ribs—not at Billy, never at Billy—but at himself. At his cowardice. 

At the way his courage had fled the instant the nearly kiss had ended. He could still feel it: the warmth, the certainty, the way it had felt right in a way nothing else ever had.

And yet—

Fear gnawed at him.

Fear that the moment Billy learned who he truly was—what he was—the softness would vanish. That wonder would harden into wariness. That those blue eyes would look at him and see not a man, but a crown.

He hated himself for that fear most of all.

The summons came the next morning.

The throne room gleamed in imperial splendour, marble veined like frost, banners heavy with gold thread, sunlight pouring through high arched windows as though the atmosphere had bent to listen. 

Steve knelt out of habit, and stood before his parents. His spine straight in respect and his heart open in rebellion. “I will search the land,” he said, before either could speak. “High and low. I will not be ruled by expectation, nor cowed by it.”

The Empress and Emperor exchanged a look.

“Mama. Papa,” Steve continued, voice tight but resolute, “I know you are dissatisfied. I failed to procure a match. But I will not rest until I find the person meant for me. My destined lover.”

The Emperor exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Steven, you are very poetic—but you are also wasting time. Ours, and the Holloways’.” He waves the hand clinging to the gold sceptre into the air, harassed by the notion.

“The papers are buzzing—buzzing! Every noble house in the realm is dissecting that masquerade, attempting to deduce which gentleman you were. Our secretaries are drowning in offers, proposals, and inquiries. So for the love of sense—choose someone.”

The Empress lifted a hand.

The Emperor fell silent at once.

Steve watched the exchange with a flicker of fond recognition. This—this—was where he had learned it. Listening. Respect. Love without domination.

“Who is this person, Steven?” his mother asked gently.

He softened at once. “They are,” he spoke, without hesitation, “the most beautiful person to walk this earth.”

The Emperor groaned aloud.

The Empress smiled, eyes alight with memory. “Ah,” she said, turning to her husband. “Do you recall our younger days?”

“I was young,” the Emperor muttered. “But not blind.” She ignored him pleasantly and returned her gaze to Steve. 

“What matters,” she said, “is that you love wholly. Entirely. Through comfort and hardship alike. If you can swear to that, then you have our blessing.”

Steve bowed his head, emotion tightening his throat. “Thank you, Mama. Thank you, Papa.”

{~~~}

The sun had eased in the sky, and he stood over Tommy recounting everything as they practised. Steel rang sharp and bright in the crisp air. Steve thrust, Tommy parried with ease, laughing.

“Whatever you say, your grace,” Tommy said dryly, stepping back. “You’re still hopeless.”

Hopeless did not begin to cover it.

Billy consumed him.

Every drifting white cloud reminded Steve of that swan mask, luminous and pure. Every body of water called forth those eyes, blue as oceans, aching and forlorn. Golden leaves, sunlight, sunflowers—everything bent toward Billy.

Billy. Billy. Billy.

He buried himself in records, spreading registries across his study until the desk vanished beneath parchment. Titles, debuts, lineages. Nothing. No male peer of age with a given name beginning with B.

He scratched it out in frustration.

Days passed.

His fingers tangled in his hair. A nickname—just a nickname—was useless amid thousands of names. Why had he not asked?

Because he had been overwhelmed. Because the need to be close had swallowed all sense whole. 

Tommy, leaning in the doorway, said casually one day. “You could check the stable block.” 

Steve stilled a hand over his extensive list.

“You said you handled his horse,” He continued. “Stable hands know everything. Ask after the owner. Someone will remember.”

Steve turned slowly, parchment slipping forgotten from his fingers. “Tommy,” he said reverently, eyes alight once more, “you are a genius.”

Hope surged again—bright, reckless, unstoppable. And he ran with it.

Steve had to retrace his steps with great care, his cloak drawn close and his hood pulled high to shadow his face.

The stable block lay along the Gulch trails, northeast of the kingdom, an older, humbler stretch of land.

Estates here belonged to the lower peerage: barons, dames, viscounts. The architecture lacked the grandeur of the West, the sweeping lands of the North, the noise and spectacle of the Southern courts. It was quieter here. More honest.

Steve rarely visited, save for the forests. It had been on one such visit—during a royal hunt—that he had first seen Billy.

The memory rose unbidden as he walked.

The hunt had been a formality, horns blaring and horses restless, knights and confidants eager for sport. Steve had mounted because he was expected to, not because he wished to. The idea of chasing a frightened fox on horseback had always unsettled him, cruel and pointless.

When the whistle finally sounded, he had handed off his reins and wandered away from the tents, slipping instead into the woods.

That was where fate had found him.

Now, Steve reached the communal stables. Here, even the nobility entrusted their horses to shared care, sponsored by the fees every estate paid. It was practical. Anonymous.

If Billy had been riding near the Gulch, his horse would be here.

Steve vaulted the fence with practised ease, landing softly on packed earth. Only one stable hand was present, far off in the paddock, murmuring to a restless gelding. Steve waited, then moved—slow, measured, alert.

He passed stall after stall, assessing each horse with growing tension.

Wrong colouring.
Wrong markings.
Wrong build.

His hope thinned with every step. Near the end of the row, his resolve wavered. Perhaps this had been foolish. Perhaps—

A horse shifted.

A dark head extended curiously from a stall as Steve passed, soft breath ghosting his sleeve. He stopped at once and turned.

Recognition struck like lightning.

“It’s you,” he whispered, unable to stop the smile breaking across his face. He glanced down at the placard affixed beneath the stall door.

Camille.

A breathless laugh escaped him, quiet, devout. A trail. At last.

Steve stepped closer, and Camille whinnied softly, accepting his touch without hesitation as he rested a hand against her brow. She was a fine thoroughbred, strong, well-kept, her coat gleaming with care that went beyond the work of stable hands alone.

“You’re loved,” Steve murmured, meeting her deep, warm eyes. “Just as he is…” Hope flared anew, bright and steady.

Steve lingered with Camille a while longer, stroking her warm neck in slow, absent passes. His gaze stayed lowered, thoughts turning over themselves like restless waves. There were no house crests fixed to the stalls, no heraldry to guide him. Just wood, iron, and the soft breath of horses.

“Billy? Is that you?”

The voice cut clean through the stillness.

Steve stilled, then smiled before he could stop himself. He hadn’t expected to hear that voice again. Footsteps approached, hesitant, curious.

“No,” the man said slowly. “You’re not Billy. Who are you?” Steve turned and, in one smooth motion, pushed his hood back.

“Your Grace!” The man dropped to one knee, bowing low out of instinct more than sense.

Steve laughed softly. “Up, Munson. Be at ease. You no longer serve the crown. You aren’t bound by protocol.” Eddie Munson rose slowly, still wary. 

“Apologies, Your Grace.”

“Steve,” he corrected gently.

Eddie shook his head, stubborn as ever. “Your Grace.” He glanced past him, eyes landing on Camille. “If I may ask—what brings you here? And the…horse?”

Steve’s mouth curved. “Same question to you. Last I heard, you’d left your post as royal musician to chase stardom in the theatres. What are you doing in the stalls?” Eddie looked down, embarrassed and crossed his hands behind his back in shame. 

“Hard times,” he admitted. “This is temporary. Just until I get back on my feet.”

Steve looked upon the other with nostalgic affection. “You know the crown would take you back in a heartbeat,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Eddie replied. “But Their Majesties have already given me more kindness than I deserve. I won’t take more.”

Steve hummed, thoughtful, and returned his hand to Camille’s mane.

Eddie shifted, then gestured toward the stall. “You still haven’t answered my question, Your Grace. What brings you here—to Billy’s horse, no less?”

Steve’s lips twitched at the nickname. “Billy?” he echoed, carefully neutral, ignoring the sharp curl of something in his chest. “You’re close, then?”

Eddie flushed scarlet. “Good heavens, no! That would be wildly unseemly.”

“Yet you sound fond,” Steve observed.

Eddie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I owe him my life. Last winter was a bitterly cold one, and I fell gravely ill. Since I had been the lowest rank of the stable, I commonly slept  on hay bales.” He looks to the sprawling fields afar, mind elsewhere. 

“…Billy had found me. Had dragged my shiverous corpse into his rooms. Hid me there and nursed me himself until I recovered.”

“ If he hadn’t…” His voice faltered. “I wouldn’t be standing here.”

Camille nudged Steve’s cheek gently, and he sighed, something aching and warm settling behind his ribs. “That,” he murmured, “sounds like him.”

He turned back to Eddie, expression suddenly serious. “Munson. I need you to answer me honestly.”

Eddie straightened. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“I have searched this kingdom without rest. I have left no record untouched to find Billy’s true identity.” Steve’s voice softened, but did not waver. 

“I love him. Deeply enough that, when the time comes, I would name him my other half.”

Silence fell.

Eddie studied him. Really studied him, eyes sharp beneath the wild curls. Then Steve asked the question he had been holding back from the moment he had lain eyes upon his love.

“Do you think I am good enough for him?”

Eddie looked taken aback, but after a few moments he broke into a wide, unguarded grin. 

“I think,” he spoke in deep esteem, “you’d be perfect for one another.” Steve closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself.

“Then,” he said, opening them again, “Please, tell me his name.” Eddie glanced to Camille, who snorted softly, as if in approval.

“His name,” Eddie said at last, “is William Hargrove. Young master of Baron Hargrove.”

The name rang, a sonorous melody in his mind. Chapel bells ushering in a new age.

William Hargrove.

Billy was no longer a dream. 

He was real. And Steve was coming for him.

{~~~}

Billy drifted toward the willows as the light began to thin, dusk settling gently over the estate.

It had been weeks since he had last seen the beautiful stranger, and hope had grown heavy in his chest, bruised with every passing day. 

Once, foolishly, he had allowed himself to believe that fate might be kind enough to grant him another meeting. That they might become more than fleeting figures in one another’s lives, bound only by stolen moments and cruel timing.

He knew better. Or so he told himself.

Dinner would be called soon. He would return to his chambers and do what he had done every night since. Mourn the fantasies that would not leave him alone.

His family whispered that he was unwell, and so they gave him space, not realising how much lonelier that made him feel.

The willow’s long, trailing leaves brushed his cheek like a gentle benediction. Billy tilted his head back—

—and stopped.

Halted.

The world narrowed to a single point beneath the tree.

He stood there.

The stranger.

At the foot of the willow, as if he had always belonged there. As if he had been waiting.

The man turned at the sound of Billy’s unsteady breath, and when their eyes met, his face broke into that same beautiful smile Billy had carried with him through sleepless nights.

“You,” the man breathed.

Billy didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He ran.

Arms wound tight around him, fingers clutching fabric as if letting go might shatter the world entirely. Tears spilled freely now, hot and unashamed, and the man held him just as fiercely, one hand cradling the back of his head.

“This isn’t real,” Billy sobbed. “It can’t be—” 

They sank to the ground together, knees giving way, the stranger shielding him as they fell beneath the willow’s sheltering boughs.

“It’s you!” He cried again, voice breaking.

A gentle finger traced beneath his eyes, catching tears as they fell. “I’m here,” the man whispered. “I’m sorry, my love. You have been so patient.”

Billy clung to him harder, breath hitching. “Y-you… you—” The man eased him back just enough to look at him. That face—those eyes—those familiar stars set within them.

“William Hargrove,” he said softly.

Billy gasped. Hearing his full name spoken like that. A promise, a prayer. It sent a wild shiver through him. “You know my name…how?” 

The stranger takes the arms Billy clings with to rest between them, stroking tenderly.  “I have been searching for you, my dear. Will you forgive me for taking so long?”

Billy is already nodding his head, tears spilling anew. “Tell me your name, please.” he begged, breathless, afraid of the pause. Afraid of everything.

The man smiled through his own tears. “Stephen Harrington.” Billy’s remaining airways closed in a sharp, startled sound. Yet he carries on, unperturbed and smiling. “—My dear ones call me Steve.”

The prince.

The prince.

The man–Steve–queries his silence, growing restless and much less sturdy as Billy just wheezes.

 “Will  you still love me, even though I am not who you thought?” 

Billy laughed and cried all at once, throwing himself forward, arms around the man who was no longer a stranger but his fate, his other half, the one his heart had known long before his mind ever could.

“Yes,” he sobbed into his shoulder. “Yes. Always yes.”

Steve drew back just enough to look at him, and his hands came up slowly, tracing the curved lines of Billy’s face as if committing them to memory all over again. The world felt hushed beneath his touch. He leaned in, resting their forehead against one another, breaths mingling, unsteady and warm.

Billy’s lips parted as Steve’s hand cradled his cheek, brushing across with a soft, almost-questioning touch. Billy lifts his hands, fingers slipping into the brown locks at the nape of his neck, grounding in the familiar weight of them. 

The space between them disappeared.

Their mouths met in a gentle touch, a touch that began with awe rather than urgency, as though both were afraid. 

It was gentle, adoring. Until Billy pulled closer. And Steve deepened the kiss, stubble lightly scratching against Billy’s cheek. When Billy made a soft moan, Steve answered it instinctively, like he’d been waiting for that cue all along.

He never wanted the moment to end. He never wanted to let go.

Beneath the willow, as the sun dipped low and the sky blushed with evening, destiny finally exhaled.

~

‘My Dearest Dove,

You know me too well, my love. Yet as surely as you know me, I know you. Though you might pretend you can bend the stars and coax the moon into better alignment, I know even you cannot do the impossible.

Do not fret for me.

To be apart from you on Saint Valentine’s Day is the greatest hardship I have endured in some time—and it is one I bear with pride. For my days and nights, my hours, minutes, and seconds are filled, regardless: either loving you, or longing to be close enough to do so. Tell me, then, what more could I ask of the world?

My dearest darling, I love you so deeply that one single day, even one consecrated to lovers, could never contain the breadth of my devotion. I know you smile as you read this, slow and careful, because you cherish every fiber of me, whether it reaches you through ink and paper, or through the sky you claim betrays you with the colour of my eyes.

I know, even now, you have paused. You have looked from the window of your rattling carriage and lifted your gaze to the heavens. I know this because I have done the same.

I carry a thousand consolations within me, yet when pen meets paper they scatter, like starlings at dusk, soaring upward, hopeful and unbound. I watch them go, but I cannot admire the night sky for long, for even its vast beauty pales beside yours.

I will take your hand as you step down from your carriage, and I will not care who looks upon us or what judgments they dare form. Our love is far too great to be diminished by the gaze of others. I will kiss those ever-soft lips of yours, and I will smooth away the frown I know deepens the longer you are kept from home.

This distance, this single Saint Valentine’s apart, is no more than a droplet in the ocean of a lifetime ahead of us. I swear this upon my family, my forebears, and all who may come after me: I will love you until my final breath, come rain or shine.

Like raindrops from the desert sky, for you I will wait. 

Yours, always and truly,
B.’

~FIN~