A true affection, it was often posited, found fertile ground only amongst equals. That axiom, Elias understood, was the very bedrock of contentment. Shared principles, harmonious lineage, equivalent stations in life, a commensurate education, and even a symmetrical measure of comeliness – these were the pillars upon which enduring happiness rested. Like drew to like, the world declared. A precocious child, Elias had grasped this simple truth as the swift passage to the felicitous future all men pursued.
Then, in the year he turned nineteen, a strange, undeniable current had swept through him. A love, it seemed, quite outside the bounds of what was deemed sensible, extraordinary in its very impertinence. Perhaps it had blossomed at first glance, an insidious seed only now forcing its way to the surface of his awareness. Yet, priding himself on a meticulous logic, on a rational mind, he had dismissed it. A mere infatuation, a youthful folly. He had brushed it aside with the practiced ease of one disavowing a trivial inconvenience.
Still, the burgeoning feelings, coiled tight as a watch spring within his breast, pressed against his throat. They tightened, and in time, they choked him.
“To The Corinthia Hotel, if you please.”
Now, the nascent light of dawn painted the grimy panes of the hansom cab, revealing the city’s somber awakening. A summons, abrupt and unwelcome as an uninvited spectre, had shattered the fragile peace of his early morning slumber. A hastily penned note, its script a familiar, infuriating scrawl, had stolen away his quiet hours.
He had sat for a long moment upon his unmade bed, the faint chill of the room settling upon his skin. Then, a soft curse escaping his lips, he had risen. No one stirred within the grand house save for Cook and the scullery maid, both sleeping soundly in the servants’ quarters below. His departure, he knew, would go unnoticed. So, with a grim set to his jaw, he had decided to go.
Stepping out onto the street, the cold stone biting through his thin slippers, he had scanned the alleyway. There, silhouetted against the greying walls of the neighbouring townhouse, a singular phaeton carriage stood. Its dark, sleek lines spoke of uncommon speed, its high wheels suggesting a reckless abandon. A year past, the formidable family who had resided there had decamped without warning, their place swiftly taken by new occupants. Elias had never caught sight of them, unsurprising in a district where towering walls and veiled windows ensured the utmost privacy. Yet the carriage, left so conspicuously against the brickwork, spoke of a youth with little care for propriety, perhaps someone older than himself, certainly bolder.
A single horse, a magnificent black stallion, was tethered to the iron post beside the gate, its rich leather harness glinting faintly. The carriage itself, though unattended, seemed almost to vibrate with a suppressed energy, like a thing held in check. It reminded Elias, with an uncomfortable pang, of himself. He had regarded it for a brief, weighty moment, then looked away, slipping into the waiting hansom.
Throughout the jerky journey, he had fixed his gaze upon the passing cityscape. Yet, prone to a certain queasiness on such rides, he had eventually surrendered, closing his eyes against the blurred impressions.
“…”
For nearly a year now, a persistent unease had troubled his digestion. A sigh escaped him, a quiet puff of air in the enclosed space. He tried to dislodge the oppressive knot that seemed permanently lodged in his chest. Ignoring emotions that unsettled him had become a practiced art, and with strenuous effort, he had maintained a composed facade throughout these months—precisely as he did now, stepping from the hansom and making his way into the grand, yet curiously discreet, vestibule of The Corinthia Hotel.
Inside the richly appointed lobby, Elias bit down hard upon his lower lip, a sharp, metallic tang flooding his mouth. His gloved hand clenched into a tight fist before he forced it open, palm sweating beneath the fine leather. His eyes fixed upon the small, folded paper in his grasp, the number scrawled within it seeming to pulse with a malevolent light. He located the corresponding door on the silent corridor and, taking a shallow breath, rapped three times, softly but firmly.
“Julian. Open the door, damn you.”
Silence answered him from the other side. A hollow, mocking void. Elias stared at the polished wood, irritation pricking at his skin, before exhaling a sharp, frustrated breath. He pounded on the door again, this time with considerably more force, the sound echoing down the deserted hallway.
“Julian! I know you’re in there, you cowardly lout!”
This entire scenario—it was, honestly, beyond repulsive. The very notion of what transpirations might have unfolded within that room overnight made his gorge rise, a cold revulsion crawling along his skin. Yet, he could not bring himself to stop knocking. Julian Blackwood had summoned him, and he was enduring this odious scene, enduring the stench of cheap perfume and stale champagne, because Julian was the very source, the architect, of that first, devastating “illness” that had taken root within him.
“Why in God’s name do you send for me when you’re engaged in some sordid dalliance, you worthless wastrel?”
Indeed, this was unbearable.
The suffocating burden of his nineteenth year. It weighed upon him, heavy and unyielding. The precarious nature of his existence, the impossible, unspeakable desire that festered within, all brought to a bitter head by the insolence of one Julian Blackwood.
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