Yves went quiet, watching blood seep through the handkerchief. “He’s allowed to leave if he wants to.”
“Naturally,” Percy said. He picked up another paper. “Whatever you say.”
Yves looked at the wall connecting his room with Charon’s. Charon was the one crack in Yves’ resolve. People claimed he was from Katoikos, since they had been the same people once, before Arktos had closed their borders. Yves hadn’t particularly cared at first. All he saw was a tall, attractive dominant—someone to tease when he wasn’t taking clients, and maybe tumble if he was lucky.
Except Charon wasn’t the kind of dom who threw submissives over his lap to spank the brat out of them. His dominance wasn’t the braying bluntness Yves was used to at home, but a quiet thing, easing frayed nerves and smoothing over arguments before they started. He was smart, careful, and kind, and after years of late-night visits and borrowed books, Yves couldn’t see a future that didn’t involve tea on the chaise in Charon’s room.
A few days after Tony’s visit, Yves had heard the door open through the wall. He’d waited for Charon to descend the steps, and then, when he was certain no one could hear, he had slipped out on his own.
Charon wasn’t alone downstairs. Lord Laurent de Rue was sitting on one of the long couches by the door when Yves crept down the stairs. Laurent was always lovely, a lithe, violet-haired man with a biting dominance and a taste for high fashion. His evening robe that night was embroidered with golden swans, and he cut a handsome picture of noble repose as Charon sat next to him.
“I would like to resign from my place in the House of Onyx,” Charon said.
Yves stiffened against the wall of the stairwell. It was as though all the air withdrew into a void inside himself with one horrendous, rattling suction of breath.
“Pardon?” Laurent sounded as winded as Yves felt.
“I’ve been here long enough.” Charon’s voice was devoid of emotion. “I paid off my debt to the house years ago, and I’ve always wanted to travel. It’s time I took that step.”
Hiding on the stair, Yves only saw a glimpse of Laurent as he leaned toward Charon. “You know I can’t stop you. But I always thought…when I pass the House of Onyx on…”
“I’m sure you will find someone suitable to run it,” Charon said.
Yves bit his knuckle to silence himself. He’d known that Charon longed to travel. Half the books in his room were full of histories of other countries in Iperios. He just hadn’t thought it would happen so soon.
“And you’ll be doing this alone?” Laurent’s voice was careful, as though he were trying to beckon a startled animal. “You and Yves have always been close. Attachments do form, here.”
Yves pressed his free hand over his heart. Why did his own heartbeat feel soloud?
“An attachment with Yves would be impossible,” Charon said, and for once, Yves felt Charon’s dominance strike him with all the bluntness of a hammer-blow.
Impossible.He couldn’t hear the rest of Charon and Laurent’s conversation over the ringing of that word in his mind.Impossible.He staggered back to his bedroom in a daze. He stared at his jewels and silks, and he thought of his mother and father holding hands under the dinner table, his mother’s disdainful look when Yves had announced his intention to travel to Duciel, and the first time a client had kissed him with no promise of enduring affection.
He thought of Charon, smiling warmly as Yves ate cookies on his chaise after a long night.
Charon’s voice, low and flat.Impossible.
Impossiblebore him through the next few days, while Yves stared at the lavish decorations on his own walls.Impossiblebrought him to the calligrapher’s office, then to Laurent, who heard his plan to retire in style with a small, tight expression that Yves couldn’t quite translate.Impossiblebrought Yves here, with Percy sifting through poetry that didn’t matter while Yves’ thumb throbbed with pain like a beating heart.
“Here’s an odd one,” Percy said, holding up an envelope. “It’s tickets to the theater. ThePrince’s Play? What’s that about?”
Yves looked up, startled. “What? Let me see.”
He took the tickets from Percy. This couldn’t be right. How could anyone know? Maybe it was a lucky guess. The play was wildly clever, and despite the crude humor, Yves adored it. He’d seen it four times—once with Charon, then with Nanette, then two times on his own. “It says it’s from Raul Vitrier. I don’t think he’s one of my clients.”
“No title?” Percy asked.
“None.” Yves flipped the card around. “The stamp is from Kallistos, though. Charon taught me—artisans paint their seals with different colors to show their guild…” He trailed off at Percy’s blank expression. “What? It’s interesting.”
“So he’s from Kallistos,” Percy said. “You’re sure you haven’t seen him before?”
“Not unless he’s using a different name. There’s an address. Do you think I should say yes?”
“That’s your favorite poem, a ticket?”
“The play,” Yves said. “Yes. I wonder how he guessed it.”
“No one else would. You could have set a less challenging task, Yves.”
