Two days later, Lysander discovered a small, folded note tucked between the vellum leaves of his copy of Veridian Sonnets. Its plain cream stock contrasted sharply with the ornate script surrounding it.
“My Lord Lysander,
Might I entreat a moment of your precious time in the lesser conservatory, just before the afternoon promenade?
— E.”
Lysander’s brow furrowed. An initial, fleeting thought of a clandestine admirer, quickly dismissed. He was Lord Lysander Thorne, not some flighty debutante. Such overtures were unheard of, especially from one with merely an initial. More likely, Elian, his newest and most timid artistic apprentice, sought guidance on a particularly vexing heraldic crest.
The note slipped his mind until the clatter of the clock tower signaled the hour. He was due to join the family for the afternoon promenade through the manicured gardens, a ritual he dreaded. Escaping the oppressive weight of expectation, he made his way to the lesser conservatory.
Sunlight, filtered through dust-moted panes, painted striped patterns across the flagstone floor. Elian stood by a withered citrus tree, a small, polished wooden box clutched in his hands. His black hair, neat and trimmed, almost seemed to flatten against his skull, as if trying to shrink his very presence. His gaze darted nervously around the empty chamber.
“Elian?” Lysander’s voice, usually soft, held a thread of annoyance. He detested being cornered, particularly in such a secluded space, with a junior member of the household staff. Rumors in Veridia’s highest echelons could be more lethal than any duel.
Elian started, nearly dropping the box. His small head snapped up, revealing eyes wide with apprehension. He managed a tremulous curtsy, lips forming an apology that never quite materialized.
“What is it, then?” Lysander pressed, his patience wearing thin. He wanted this done. He wanted to return to his own chambers, to the solace of his inks and parchment, before any prying eyes could spy this ill-advised rendezvous. Appearing morally upright, but never truly engaging, was his chosen defense.
Elian twisted his fingers, a nervous habit Lysander recognized from their few, formal interactions. The lad’s gaze skittered across the intricate trellises, the exotic potted plants, everywhere but Lysander’s face. Indecision warred with a desperate resolve.
“My L-Lord… I… I wished to speak with you about… about a matter of some delicacy…”
“Well, speak it.” Lysander’s tone sharpened. The air in the conservatory felt thick, stifling. His own anxieties, the lingering shame from his last encounter with Julian, gnawed at him. He felt stretched taut, a silken thread about to snap.
Elian’s small mouth opened, then closed. He chewed on his lower lip, a habit Lysander found inexplicably irritating. Perhaps he was overly sensitive today, his nerves frayed raw. A dull ache throbbed behind his temples.
“Forgive me, Elian, but the promenade awaits. Can you not simply state your purpose?”
Lysander’s irritation was a live thing, coiling in his gut. Perhaps it wasn’t truly aimed at Elian. Perhaps he simply craved an outlet, a target for the simmering frustration and inadequacy that haunted his waking hours. His stomach clenched, a familiar discomfort.
Elian finally seemed to steel himself. His voice, barely a whisper, was hoarse with suppressed emotion.
“My Lord… I… I found… a missive…”
Before he could elaborate, the heavy oak door to the conservatory was flung open with a violent thud. Both Lysander and Elian spun around. Julian stood framed in the doorway, chest heaving, his immaculate cravat askew. His eyes, usually a compelling indigo, blazed with a manic, possessive fire. But they were not fixed on Elian. They were locked onto Lysander.
Julian’s heavy breathing echoed in the sudden silence. Lysander felt a suffocating dread blossom in his chest, imagining Julian tearing through the manor, a bloodhound tracking its scent. He dropped the hand he’d unconsciously brought to his throat.
Julian strode into the room, his movements dangerously fluid. His gaze flickered once to Elian, dismissive and contemptuous, before returning to Lysander. His jaw was clenched, knuckles white at his sides.
“What are you doing here, Lysander?” The words were not a question, but an accusation, a growl. It was not a query of passion or fervor. It was the demand of a man consumed by rage, jealousy, and a frightening, absolute madness. The face of a man deranged by his singular, terrifying devotion.
Lysander’s outward calm was a fragile mask. Inside, his organs felt pummeled. He wanted to scream at Julian, to blame Elian for this ridiculous entanglement. Why was Julian staring at *him*, with such profound resentment? He had merely responded to a summons.
“Julian, what is the meaning of this intrusion?” Lysander managed, his voice trembling despite his efforts.
“Meaning?” Julian laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “The meaning is that you stand here, alone, in a secluded chamber, with… *him*.” He gestured vaguely towards the terrified Elian. “As if you could be so easily approached. As if you were not… *mine* to guard.”
His words, his tone, were a violation. Lysander glared back, hatred curdling in his gut. *You look pathetic, Julian.* Yet, a chilling thought whispered: *No, it is I who am truly pathetic.*
Julian’s long strides closed the distance between them. The moment Julian’s face filled his vision, the world tilted. A hand, strong and unyielding, gripped Lysander’s arm, twisting it sharply. He cried out as he was shoved, violently, against a stone pillar. The impact jarred his teeth, breath knocked from his lungs. He slid to the cold floor, his head ringing.
“No…” he whispered, his trembling fingers going to his bruised arm, then his throbbing temple. How could Julian… How could he do this?
“My Lord! Lord Thorne!” Elian, horrified, stumbled forward, clutching his wooden box. He moved to aid Lysander, but Julian whirled, his face contorted into a snarl.
“Get out, you sniveling fool! Do not dare touch him! Do not dare even look at him!” Julian’s voice cracked, raw with fury. “You promised! You promised me you would remain… untouchable!”
Elian recoiled, tears springing to his eyes, his face pale as parchment. He shouldn’t be crying, Lysander thought bitterly. *I* should be crying. Tears pricked at his own eyes, hot and unwelcome.
Before Lysander could succumb to the humiliation, Julian seized Elian by the shoulder, his grip brutal, and dragged the protesting boy from the conservatory. The heavy door slammed shut, plunging Lysander into a sudden, suffocating silence.
He remained on the floor, staring at the closed door. A sliver of late afternoon sun pierced a crack in the frame, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Something inside Lysander finally fractured. The carefully constructed dam holding back his despair burst, and tears streamed freely down his face.
He hated everything. Elian, who had lured him into this trap. Julian, who had assaulted him, shamed him. He wished they would both simply vanish. He felt utterly miserable, reduced to a pawn in Julian’s twisted game.
Pushing himself up, Lysander stumbled from the conservatory, skipping the promenade. He sought out his personal valet, feigning a sudden migraine. His flushed, tear-stained face lent credence to the excuse, and his request for seclusion was granted without further inquiry.
---
Later, confined to his darkened bedchamber, Lysander drifted into a fitful sleep. When he awoke, his arm throbbed, and a faint bruise marred his temple. Out of habit, he reached for the small, leather-bound portfolio containing his current sketches and notes. Tucked beneath, a discreet message had been left by one of his footmen.
“My Lord Thorne,
Received your valet’s dispatch. Trust you are well? — Alaric.”
Lord Alaric, Julian’s most trusted confidante, rarely troubled Lysander directly. They had little in common beyond their tangential connection to Julian. Lysander scowled. If it were anyone else, he would have ignored it. But Alaric held considerable sway within Julian’s inner circle. To dismiss him entirely would be foolish.
“Lord Alaric,
Merely a fleeting indisposition. Nothing of consequence.
— Lysander.”
He kept his reply brief, deliberately vague. The thought of Alaric, or anyone for that matter, discovering the truth of his predicament – that Julian had laid hands on him – was an unbearable humiliation. All because of that insufferable Elian.
Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over him. Even Alaric’s perfunctory message felt like a suffocating shroud. Other acquaintances, his artistic patrons, had sent their regards via their own staff, but none of it was what he craved.
No one who inquired, no one who expressed concern, was Julian. He was utterly insane to even expect it. Yet, he consoled himself, this was the fate of one entangled in such a maddening, possessive love. Even knowing the monstrous truth, he lay there, a foolish idiot, closing his eyes and turning a blind eye to his reality.
Perhaps Elian and he were caught in the same, grotesque snare. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with the thought. As he stared at the ceiling, another message arrived, slipped beneath his door this time. It was unsigned, unsealed.
“My Lord, are you much unwell?”
Lysander frowned. Who among his peers would be so informal? Alaric? This was not his usual hand. Before he could dwell on it, another followed, relentless and infuriating.
“I am so very sorry. Truly sorry. It was all my fault.”
“Forgive me.”
Whether three words or four, the message made him want to scream. He crumpled the missive, throwing it across the room in a burst of frustration. How had Elian acquired access to his private chambers? The boy was not even a page!
Then it dawned on him. Oh. He had, weeks ago, provided Elian with a means of discreet contact, a private drop-point for illustrations, for the sake of efficiency. He cursed his own meticulous nature and let out an angry sigh. To vent his fury, he pounded his fists against his plush mattress until exhaustion claimed him. Just before consciousness fully faded, one last thought lingered.
*“Please, do not hate me.”*
Funny. He had harbored a quiet disdain for the boy for months.
When he awoke the next morning, the bruise on his temple had darkened to a sullen purple. His arm ached, a constant reminder.
---
Lysander remained secluded within his chambers, feigning a prolonged bout of malady. No matter his inherent diligence, his pride would not permit him to appear in society with such marks of public shame.
The housekeeper, a stout, kindly woman named Mrs. Gable, brought his luncheon herself. As he picked at a plate of bland consommé and steamed vegetables, she clucked her tongue, urging him to be more careful. He swallowed the soup quickly, seeking only sustenance, not enjoyment.
As he set his spoon down, reaching for a glass of spring water, Mrs. Gable returned to clear the dishes. With a delicate porcelain plate in one hand, she announced, “My Lord, you have a visitor.”
“A visitor?” Lysander’s heart gave a sudden, illogical flutter. Before he could identify the emotion, his mind, foolish and desperate, began to conjure a face. *Julian.*
It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, yet not entirely impossible. Few among his acquaintances had ever crossed the threshold of his private wing. And Julian… he had never before resorted to physical aggression. Surely, he must be racked with guilt, consumed by worry. Yes, he must be here to apologize.
“Yes, Mrs. Gable, pray allow them entry.” The fantasy solidified into a certainty. Even as he chastised his own naivety, a small, treacherous satisfaction bloomed within him. Despite everything, he was still important. That thought filled him with an inexplicable, fleeting warmth. He turned towards the antechamber, his pace quickening with a fragile excitement.
But the person waiting there was not the one he had envisioned.
“Lysander, my dear fellow, still moping?”
Lord Alaric, his sharp features arranged in a sardonic smirk, leaned against the doorframe, a small, dark bottle clutched in his gloved hand. As his gaze fell upon Lysander’s face, his smirk faltered. His expression sobered, an unusual gravity in his tone.
“Good heavens, what in the blazes happened to your countenance?”
Lysander’s knees nearly buckled from the sudden, profound disappointment. He felt a wave of crushing humiliation. How did Alaric even know of his indisposition, let alone dare to visit?
“I… I took a tumble,” Lysander replied flatly, his voice devoid of emotion.
Alaric frowned, twisting his lips in that familiar, cynical way that always preceded a cutting remark. “You truly are an idiot, aren’t you?”
Lysander did not bother to argue. He merely touched his throbbing temple, feeling the dull ache of the bruise. Embarrassment, hot and sickening, surged through him. He was an idiot. Julian clearly did not consider him important. And here he was, wagging his metaphorical tail like some hopeful, desperate hound.
“Here, catch.”
Alaric tossed the dark bottle. Lysander caught it reflexively. It was a chilled vial of laudanum, favored for its palliative effects.
“Laudanum?”
“Indeed. Thought you might need something stronger than herbal tea.”
“Figures. Why would you care?”
“Harsh, Lysander. What do you take me for?”
“Why are you even here, Alaric?”
“What do you imagine? To offer my condolences for your rather… unfortunate ‘tumble.’ May I enter?”
“Alaric, wait—”
Without an invitation, his long legs carried him across the threshold and into Lysander’s inner sanctum.
“Which way to your salon? Or your study, perhaps?”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Where else? There’s nowhere else to go in your private wing.”
Lysander had no adequate retort. Alaric was, regrettably, correct. Every gentleman’s private suite contained the same essential chambers, after all. Feeling profoundly awkward, Lysander followed Alaric, who seemed oddly intent on inspecting the interior of his carefully curated, intensely private world.