A gentleman's apology, when issued by a youth barely past his majority, is a frail, transparent thing. Devoid of true contrition, it is nothing more than a childish plea for leniency, a calculated maneuver to escape consequence.
Valerius Sterling leaned back, his posture one of languid arrogance, the mahogany chair groaning faintly beneath him. A faint smile touched his lips, a fleeting shadow rather than genuine mirth, as he surveyed the polished ceiling of the Royal Infirmary’s private dining room. His arms crossed over his chest, the fine linen of his cravat undisturbed.
"Harsh words, Lysander," he purred, his voice a low, resonant note. "Do you not believe in the adage?"
Lysander, perched on the edge of his own seat, felt a prickle of unease. Valerius's gaze, though distant, seemed to pierce through the fragile layers of his composure.
"That a man is either a brute or a child?" Valerius answered his own rhetorical question, a delicate arch to one dark brow. "I am no brute. So whether I bear the weight of years or not, we are all but children, are we not? What difference does a decade or two truly make?"
Lysander pressed his lips together, a faint tremor in his fingers. Valerius's logic, as always, was a twisted knot of cynical wit and self-serving pronouncements. It unsettled him, yet held a strange, magnetic pull.
---
A soft chime, distant yet distinct, echoed through the quiet corridor. Valerius stirred, unfolding his arms with an almost feline grace. He rose from his chair, a fluid movement that belied his imposing frame, and disappeared through a discreet side door.
"Keep watch over my… things," he tossed over his shoulder, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Lysander glanced around the small, opulent room. There was little to guard, save for the untouched goblet of spiced wine at Valerius's place. He felt a familiar flutter of indignation at the casual command, yet remained rooted.
Moments later, Valerius reappeared, a tray balanced with effortless ease in each hand. Lysander blinked. One held a steaming tureen of bisque, the other a heavy, ornate silver platter laden with roasted fowl and vegetables. The sheer weight of such service, typically requiring a footman, seemed to vanish in Valerius's grasp.
"Is that not... cumbersome?" Lysander managed, his voice a little strained.
Valerius merely offered another of his ephemeral smiles. "It lacks true heft. A trifle."
He set them down on the polished rosewood table without so much as a breath of exertion. The delicate clatter of porcelain against wood seemed impossibly loud in the hushed room. Lysander found himself staring, a curious blend of admiration and resentment coiling in his gut. Valerius observed his gaze, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.
"Enchanted by my humble display of servitude, Lysander?"
Lysander bristled. "Merely observing a peculiar strength, Lord Sterling." He reached for his spoon, the silver cool against his fingertips. "Eat."
"How can one consume sustenance with lips sealed? Like this?" Valerius pantomimed, pressing his mouth shut and bringing a spoon of bisque to it, a glint of dark humor in his eyes. Then, with a flash of white teeth, he relaxed, picking up his own cutlery.
Lysander lowered his gaze to his plate, the rich aroma of the bisque filling his senses. He picked at a delicate garnish, his eyes drawn, against his will, to Valerius's hands as he expertly navigated the roasted fowl with a fork and knife.
"I have often observed," Lysander began, the words leaving him before he could censor them, "your remarkable precision with such instruments."
Valerius paused, a piece of fowl delicately balanced on his fork. "Mine? You find it so?"
"Indeed. It is… remarkably proper."
*Too proper for you,* Lysander thought, the unspoken words heavy in the air. Valerius seemed to catch the lingering sentiment, his brow furrowing slightly, before his lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. "Ah. You saw it."
"Saw what?" Lysander asked, genuinely perplexed.
"Feigning ignorance, are we? My astute, observant Lysander. Very well. I shall enlist your keen eye in this little endeavor."
Lysander frowned, sensing the trap. "What endeavor?"
Valerius leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "When we go to see young Alaric... there is a certain impression I wish to convey. A subtle reinforcement of my narrative."
Lysander hesitated. "I have no interest in your theatricals, Lord Sterling."
"Nonsense. Your presence is vital. Consider it a quiet endorsement."
---
Valerius finished his meal with a speed that belied his deliberate movements, pushing his plate aside. He settled back, watching Lysander with an unnerving patience. As soon as Lysander placed his own cutlery down, Valerius gestured sharply towards the corridor.
"Visiting hours, Lysander. We must adhere to the regimen." He tapped a bare wrist, though no timepiece adorned it.
"I am quite finished," Lysander said, a faint irritation stirring within him. "There is no need for such haste."
"Time waits for no man, especially not one seeking absolution." Valerius rose, his shadow falling over Lysander. "Come. The hour draws late."
"I am coming, I said." Lysander pushed away from the table, a flicker of resentment warming his cheeks.
"Then move with purpose."
Lysander muttered under his breath, striding towards the door and reaching for the ornate brass handle.
"Excellent!" Valerius's voice, brimming with an almost paternal approval, grated on Lysander's nerves.
Lysander shot him a discreet, withering glare. Lord Sterling, for all his polished aloofness, possessed a peculiar clinginess once he decided to include someone in his orbit. It was a realization that had dawned on Lysander only recently, a subtle facet of Valerius's manipulative charm.
---
As they walked down the hushed corridor, Valerius's fingers idly traced the edge of the large, neatly applied bandage upon his jaw. The stark white patch, once firmly secured, began to peel back slightly under his touch.
"Do you intend to dislodge that?" Lysander inquired, a detached curiosity in his tone.
"It impedes. A nuisance when one wishes to present a certain visage."
Before Lysander could respond, they reached the antechamber of the private wing. Valerius paused, turning to Lysander. From his pocket, he produced a small silver flask, taking a quick, unhurried sip. Then, with a sharp, decisive tug, he ripped the bandage free.
A low hiss escaped Valerius's lips. "A trifling sting."
The discarded patch vanished into his coat pocket, leaving a faint, irregular bulge in the fine fabric. Valerius turned to face Lysander fully.
Lysander's breath hitched. The exposed skin of Valerius's jaw was a canvas of bruised purples and deep, angry reds. It looked, in truth, rather brutal. Yet, Valerius merely smiled, a slow, confident baring of teeth that was both chilling and profoundly unsettling. His dark, melancholic eyes, usually so shadowed, now held a glint of predatory satisfaction.
"How does it fare? Is the narrative sufficiently compelling?"
Valerius, Lysander reflected, was a master of performance. Every pronouncement, every gesture, was a spontaneous yet calculated act, designed to persuade, to entrap, even to delude himself.
"Who can say," Lysander murmured, his voice barely audible.
A fleeting memory surfaced then, of a conversation Lysander had overheard between Valerius and another courtier just a few days prior. Valerius had recounted it with a detached air, as if discussing a character in a novel. He spoke of visiting the Grand Cathedral for the first time in years, of a peculiar confession. Not of sins, but of a prolonged absence from social piety. The Archdeacon, Valerius claimed, had been rather put out by his lack of genuine spiritual distress.
"Oh, a thousand apologies, Your Reverence," Valerius had supposedly replied, then, in a moment of absurd impulsiveness, had taken it upon himself to deliver the benediction meant for the Archdeacon. He had confessed to a mortifying embarrassment, questioning why the sacred texts were displayed so prominently if not to tempt such impropriety.
Yet, Lysander knew, Valerius would likely not be seen within the Cathedral walls this week, nor the next. Such was his particular, self-serving consistency.
"My esteemed father, and various esteemed personages from the court, often enquire as to my regular adherence to social observances," Valerius had said, a dry chuckle in his voice. "Is it not tedious? One must maintain a certain, predictable presence."
Lysander had nodded then, a strange acceptance settling over him. Yes, in his own twisted fashion, Valerius was consistent. And that consistency, however self-serving, had yet to place Lysander at a distinct disadvantage. In fact, it had drawn him in, a spider's web woven with glittering, dangerous threads.
A sudden, sharp impulse seized Lysander. He lifted his hand, his fingers finding the delicate, almost invisible plaster covering the bridge of his own nose. He peeled it off, a faint, tearing sound in the quiet corridor.
A faint, horizontal red mark marred the pale skin of his nose, a subtle testament to the recent brawl. Lysander met Valerius's gaze, a challenging glint in his own eyes.
"This, I trust, shall suffice?"
Valerius's faint smile widened, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with what seemed like genuine amusement.
---
Valerius lowered his head slightly, bringing his face closer to Lysander's, his voice dropping to a hushed, almost intimate whisper. "Do you comprehend, Lysander, why young Baronet Finch is such a monumental fool?"
His thin fingers drummed lightly on the coat where the discarded bandage lay hidden.
"He lacks foresight. Utterly. He fails to grasp that if he persists in such reckless conduct, his entire future will unravel, like cheap embroidery."
"He should have heeded his father's admonitions. They say that to listen to one's parents is to invite prosperity and respect."
Lysander swallowed, the words *And do you listen to yours, Lord Sterling?* dying on his tongue. Yet, in a bizarre, performative way, Valerius did. He meticulously crafted the illusion of adherence, weaving his own self-interest into the fabric of expectation.
Valerius's voice, though quiet, was laced with a chilling laughter. They paused before a grand, polished oak door. Valerius made no move to open it, merely waited.
For a brief, agonizing moment, Lysander analyzed his own complicity. Why had he followed Valerius to this place? Why did he allow himself to be drawn into this elaborate charade? The most compelling reason, he admitted to himself, was a dark, unbidden desire to witness Baronet Finch's complete, humiliating downfall. To see the unraveling with his own eyes.
Lysander raised his head, meeting Valerius's expectant gaze. He placed a hand lightly on Valerius's back, a gesture of unsettling alliance.
"Let us proceed."
A slow, triumphant smirk spread across Valerius's face, as if Lysander's words were the cue he had been patiently awaiting. He ran a hand through his impeccably styled dark hair, deliberately ruffling it, and hunched his shoulders slightly, adopting an air of weary humility. Then, with exaggerated care, he pushed open the heavy door. Valerius stepped inside, and Lysander followed him into the hushed confines of the Royal Infirmary room.
Baronet Finch lay pale and still upon the bed, his head swathed in bandages. Beside him, in a high-backed chair, sat a figure Lysander recognized with a jolt of surprise: Baron Finch himself. Lysander had not anticipated his presence.
"My apologies for the delay, Baron Finch. I am Valerius Sterling," Valerius announced, his voice smooth and gravely, his chin lifted with an almost insolent confidence, despite his contrived air of deference. Lysander, though momentarily thrown, quickly composed himself, offering a respectful, albeit shallow, bow.
"My Lord Baron."
The old man's gaze, which had been fixed intently upon Valerius, now shifted to Lysander. A flicker of something akin to recognition, or perhaps surprise, crossed his weathered features.
"...Lysander? Is that you, Lysander Thorne?"
"I encountered young Lysander in the Infirmary's receiving hall, my Lord Baron. A mere happenstance," Valerius interjected smoothly, his lie delivered with such practiced ease it sounded like a polite truth. "Are you here for a visit as well, Lysander?"
Lysander, though his mind reeled at the audacious fabrication, merely offered a tight, polite smile. There was no denying Valerius's narrative now.
"Indeed, Lord Sterling. A brief visit."
"Ah... But, well..." Baron Finch's worried expression faltered, his gaze flicking between Lysander and Valerius. It was clear he wished to say something more, but hesitated, the unspoken request hanging heavily in the air. Finally, the Baron broke the silence.
"Lord Sterling, I thank you for your presence. I am certain Alaric will be pleased, when he rouses. Lysander, my dear boy, my sincerest apologies, but might I impose upon you to step out for a moment? There are matters of some delicacy I must discuss with Lord Sterling."
"Of course, Lord Baron." Lysander bowed again, turning to leave without hesitation. For a fleeting instant, he considered leaving the door ajar, to catch snippets of the impending confrontation. But Baron Finch's earnest, sorrowful gaze was fixed upon him, a silent plea for discretion that Lysander, for all his dark curiosity, could not ignore.
So, Lysander remained ignorant of the true nature of their discussion.
---
He turned to the window, the ornate glass pane framing a sky of shifting grey clouds. The passage of time outside seemed distorted, impossible to measure. Was the conversation of 'delicacy' a fleeting whisper, or a protracted, heavy exchange of accusations and pleas? Lysander could not tell.
Eventually, the heavy oak door opened, and Baron Finch emerged, his shoulders slumped.
"Lysander."
"Lord Baron. Have your discussions concluded?" Lysander turned swiftly, offering another shallow bow. The soft rustle of Baron Finch's silken robes, and the gentle tap of his polished leather shoes, grew closer. Only then did Lysander raise his head, studying the man who, in a convoluted way, was connected to Lysander's own long-buried resentments.
Baron Finch looked utterly ravaged. Only a few months had passed since their last encounter at a court function, yet his face was lined with a profound weariness, his once-imposing figure stooped. It stirred a strange, unsettling pity within Lysander.
"My sincerest apologies for my abrupt dismissal. Alaric... he has been most reckless of late. But your coming, Lysander, means a great deal. He is under a physician's tincture now, so he will not wake for some hours."
"No apology is required, Lord Baron. I felt it my duty to call. Though it is indeed a shame I shall miss speaking with him." Lysander's words were perfectly polite, perfectly false.
"Yes, your understanding is appreciated." Baron Finch let out a low sigh, a sound so faint it bordered on a whimper. Gone was the bellowing, proud nobleman who once fiercely defended every transgression of his son. In his place sat a fragile, defeated man. Lysander could not fathom such profound despair over a mere scuffle.
"I had always hoped, Lysander, that your gentle influence might steady Alaric... But lately, he has only drifted further into unsavory company, falling prey to certain... influences. And now, this..."
Baron Finch paused, his gaze growing distant, lost in some private sorrow. Then, he looked at Lysander, his eyes wide and clouded.
"Lysander, my boy, do you perchance know a certain Lord Elias Croft?"
*Elias Croft.*
Lysander's fingertips, resting lightly on his thigh, trembled almost imperceptibly. A cold, sharp dread pierced through his carefully constructed composure. He was so utterly, sickeningly tired of this name.
"Lord Croft? Yes, Lord Baron. He... he is a fellow illustrator in the Royal Academy, in my cohort." Lysander's voice, though carefully modulated, held a slight, involuntary tremor.
"What manner of boy is he? Do you know anything of his character?" Baron Finch pressed, leaning forward, a desperate urgency in his tone.
"He is... observant, Lord Baron. Highly skilled in his craft. And while his family's standing is not of the highest degree, he has always striven for excellence within the Academy."
"And?"
Lysander closed his eyes for a split second, a battle raging within him. He had known Elias Croft for years. Elias was not some 'bad influence'. He was... complicated. A rival, a peer, sometimes a reluctant confidant. But Valerius had clearly planted a seed of suspicion, twisting Elias's name into a convenient scapegoat. The subtle web of manipulation tightened around Lysander. He would not outright condemn Elias, but neither could he fully defend him without revealing far too much, without undermining Valerius's insidious scheme, a scheme he was now, horrifyingly, a part of. The velvet chains were subtly drawing tighter.