Lord Justin Comfrey was dusty, travelworn, footsore, and horny enough to fuck a whore. Or his hand. Probably his hand. It was right there, and he’d have to go looking for anything better. He couldn’t even send his valet to find one on his behalf, because the poor sod had broken his leg in the accident that rolled the carriage. Assuming this benighted little town even had whores. It must. It’s got a boys’ academy.

They’d been coming to East Hansleigh from Bornswight, travelling light in a hired hackney, when one of the wheels had come off the vehicle. It had tumbled sideways down the green slope beside the hill road, rolling twice before its greatcat got it under control. Justin had leapt clear, and the greatcat swore she was no worse than startled by the fall, but Ethan had not been so fortunate. The valet’s leg had been twisted at an unnatural angle when Justin and the greatcat heaved the overturned vehicle off of him, brown skin turned gray-white with shock and pain. Ethan had tried to claim he’d be fine for the rest of the trip to East Hansleigh, but the greatcat had said the nearest Blessed for physical injuries was in Jadeholt, which was some fifteen miles in the wrong direction. Lord Comfrey was not by nature the self-sacrificing sort, but even his conscience twinged at the thought of risking a man’s leg in order to avoid some minor inconvenience. So he and the draycat had put the wheel back on – fortunately the greatcat had the sense to carry tools, even if many of them were unsuited to her paws – loaded Ethan into the hackney as gently as they might, and Justin sent them on to the hospital in Jadeholt.

Justin himself continued on foot for the remaining five miles to East Hansleigh. He had an urgent engagement there and various prior incidents had caused sufficient delay that there was no room left in his schedule for more. He’d already shed the rest of his retinue in the name of speed even before reaching Bornswight. Five miles was nothing – he could have run the distance in about half an hour if necessary. But it was a curst awkward walk in dress boots and carrying his own case: he’d’ve given much for walking shoes (left behind earlier with the rest of his retinue) and an undignified but practical pack. After the first half mile he’d put his sword cane over his shoulder and hung the handle of the case off of it, which was a rotten thing to do to an innocent sword cane and probably meant he’d need a new one. But nothing he did now would make him look at all the lord: covered in dust, travelling coat off in the heat of the day, shirt torn and breeches grass-stained during the tumble from the hackney, walking afoot and unattended across the grounds of East Hansleigh Academy.

A dozen attractive half-dressed youths cavorted like gazelles on the green field alongside, engrossed in an earnest game of backball. Justin was not at all weary in the physical sense, but he was disgruntled, and his mind had chosen to divert itself from the irritations of a dozen minor annoyances by focusing on frustrated lust instead. The image of those lithe young men wrestling for possession of the ball remained vivid in his mind’s eye as he walked the shaded path to Fenris Dremmond’s doorstep. The dean’s manor was screened from the rest of the campus by a tall hedge of blackberry bushes. You are not going to be here anywhere near long enough to sound out some sweet young man of a persuadable nature and seduce him, even if you could tolerate one for sufficient time to bed him, which you can’t, Justin told himself. Enough. He’d always found teenage boys profoundly tedious, including when he’d been one himself. Unfortunately, neither reminder nor admonishment had the slightest effect on his libido.

His knock at Dremmond’s door was answered by a portly middle-aged butler in a uniform of the academy’s colors of grey trimmed by orange. The man took one look at Justin and informed him coldly, “The servant’s entrance is on the left, sirrah,” before closing the door.

I will not beat him to death with my sheathed sword cane, Justin told himself firmly. He hammered at the door again. As it reopened, the butler was already saying, “I repeat, the servant’s—”

A clenched fist held at eye level interrupted him, the signet of Comfrey Viscountcy flashing on Justin’s index finger. “I am Lord Justin Comfrey, Viscount of Comfrey. Dean Dremmond is expecting me.”

The butler blanched in horror and bowed too deeply as he stood aside from the door, stammering out an incoherent combination of welcome and apologies. Comfrey stomped past him, leaving his case on the stoop. Dremmond’s entranceway had a hall tree, a high-backed carved wooden bench with a storage chest beneath the seat and a row of cloak hooks above. Justin fell onto the seat. “Hold your tongue and tell Dean Dremmond I’m here.”

“Sorry, my lord, yes, my lord. The parlor is—” the butler was saying.

Justin cut him off with a glower. “Silence. Tell Dremmond I’m here.”

The uniformed man clapped a hand over his mouth as if to forcibly prevent his next ‘Yes, my lord’, bowed silently, and fled. Justin leaned against the hall tree’s back and closed his eyes, bracing himself not to do physical harm to the next servant who attempted to evict him as riff-raff from the house.

Fortunately for Dremmond’s staff, the next person to materialize was the dean himself. “Savior keep us, Lord Comfrey, what happened to you? We were expecting you yesterday.”

“Don’t ask.” Justin forced himself to some semblance of manners, opening his eyes and rising to his feet to clasp Dremmond’s offered hand. The dean was a vigorous man of seventy or so, hair still dark brown but receding, stocky frame a good head shorter than Justin.

“You look like death, my boy, are you all right? Where are your people?”

“My valet’s at the hospital in Jadeholt by now, I hope. Carriage overturned. The rest of my retinue is meeting me at Brickwall. Truly, don’t ask. It’s been one thing and another this entire trip.” Justin grimaced. “Do I have enough time to make myself quasi-presentable for the ceremony? My bag’s on the stoop so I’ve suitable clothing, I promise.”

“Savior watch over us. How did you get here?” Dremmond placed a hand on Justin’s back, attempting to steer him to the parlor.

“Walked.” Justin resisted the turn down the familiar hallway. In truth all he wanted was enough time and privacy for a long soak and to jerk off, and he’d a feeling he’d get neither. “What time’s the ceremony start? I’d murder for a bath right now.”

“Oh, of course, of course, it’s at four o’clock, so…we need to leave for Aberdeen Hall in forty minutes? I’ve a room ready for you on the second floor, Lord Comfrey, if you’d like to go there now. I’ll send someone up with your case and to help you dress directly.”

The dark-haired lord managed a smile and a slight bow at that. “Thank you, sir. I’ll see you shortly.”

The dean’s manor house was a rambling building designed in the seventh century, when full suites had fallen out of favor. Justin’s guest room was a single large wood-paneled chamber. It was furnished with a desk and chair, a massive canopied bed large enough for three (what an abominable waste), and even a footmen’s bed at the foot. The practice of having a servant sleep in a lord’s bedroom had gone out of fashion a century ago, but some were trying to revive the style, and the academy would be packed enough for Ambrellan that they probably didn’t have space for guests’ servants elsewhere. The dressing/bathing area was loosely separated from the main room by a semi-opaque tri-fold screen. The room’s wardrobe was on the other side from the changing area; Justin had no idea what the point to the screen was, in truth. He stripped off shirt and vest as soon as he closed the door, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor – they could hardly get filthier, and it seemed unkind to let them shed road dirt onto perfectly good furniture. He walked to the basin beside the screen and its adjacent bathtub. He turned the taps on the basin, gazed longingly at the tub, and dismissed the idea. He’d barely have time to draw a bath and get comfortable before hauling himself out again to dry and dress. Instead, he washed his face and hands, and sponged off his torso from the basin with a washcloth. While he was rinsing soap from his chest, a servant rapped at the bedroom door. “Enter,” Justin called.

Footsteps clicked into the room. “Dean Dremmond sent me to serve as valet, my lord,” a young man’s voice said deferentially. Justin heard the thump and crack of the case being opened, and the shifting of hangers. With a sigh, Justin gazed at his own reflection in the basin mirror for a moment. His fine black hair was a tangled mess half-escaped from its ribbon, damp locks dangling before the golden-brown skin of his face. The expression in deep brown eyes beneath thick brows wasn’t quite as forbidding as Justin felt, but still less than friendly. I’ll have to work on that before I go back downstairs.

Taking a hairbrush from the basin stand, Justin walked to the armchair in one corner of the room. “Help me with these boots,” he said, sparing a glance to the servant. The young man had already finished hanging the clothes from the case in the wardrobe, and had started brushing out his formal jacket.

“Yes, my lord.” The servant hung the coat and turned. He was an absurdly beautiful young man with hair like spun gold and angular, perfectly-proportioned features: cupid’s-bow mouth, large intensely blue eyes framed by long dark lashes. Justin had always thought the pallor of Haventure skin looked rather sickly, but on this man the complexion was ethereal and otherworldly instead. Age indeterminate: twentyish, at a guess – glowing with youth, but with a man’s height and lacking the awkward bearing and pimpled skin of a teen. He kept his gaze averted from Justin’s face in deference to his rank. After a moment, Justin realized he was staring at the young man, which was not enough to make him stop staring. Human beings should not look that lovely. Angels, maybe. A better man than Justin might have found that angelic beauty too pure and unsullied to engender lust. But when the young man knelt by Justin’s feet, Comfrey knew it wasn’t his boot he wanted the servant to handle. The thought of taking that bent golden-haired head in his hands and guiding it to his prick flashed through his mind, accompanied by the maddening desire to feel those sensual lips engulf him.

Down, boy. Justin was not a man who molested the help, however attractive. He raised his right foot and the servant pulled the boot off with some effort: his foot had swollen inside the stiff leather. The blond man unrolled Justin’s stocking as well, then repeated on the other foot. “The dean said you’d walked a long way, my lord…I brought a foot bath if you like, in the event there’s not time for a proper one. And some finger sandwiches, if you’re hungry.” He motioned with his head to a platter on the desk.

Savior above. “You are an angel,” Justin breathed. The valet flushed, still not looking at him. “That would be splendid.” The servant nodded and rose, moved the plate closer to Justin, then went to fill the footbath. Justin wolfed down one of the bite-sized morsels as he watched the man cross the room. He moved with a feline grace, slender form elegant even in the unflattering orange-piped grey uniform, shoulders broad and hips narrow. No human being, certainly no human man, needed to be so beautiful. It was ridiculous. With a shake of his head, Justin pulled the straggling ribbon from his hair and yanked the brush roughly through the tangled mass, welcoming the pain as distraction.

The servant returned to Justin’s side, crouched to place the basin before him and set his aching, overheated feet into comfortably tepid water, just right to cool off without chilling. Justin closed his eyes and exhaled, letting the brush droop from his hand. The young man rose, slipping gloved fingers against Justin’s to wrap about the handle. “If I may, my lord…?” The viscount assented without words, releasing it. The servant gathered the ends of long black hair firmly in one hand and brushed out a short length at the bottom first, working his way up gradually, careful never to pull on the roots. The motion was wonderfully soothing. Justin relaxed, allowing himself to enjoy the ministrations, the grazing touch of gloved fingers against head and the bared skin of his shoulders as the valet gathered and released sections of hair in one hand, brush in the other massaging his scalp with each stroke. His mind remained strewn with inappropriate fantasies, but the solid reality of that contact had a charm nonetheless. Justin ate some more of the little sandwiches while the servant worked; he hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he’d started eating. Of course, he’d meant to arrive an hour and a half earlier and dine with Dremmond.

The tangles had long since been reduced to silken black waves before the valet finally stopped brushing and gathered the mass together with a fresh ribbon at the nape of Justin’s neck. Justin almost told him not to: just a little longer, please. Would an angel suspect him for the strangeness of that request? “Shall I wash your feet, my lord?” the young man was asking, a little hesitant.

Oh, that would be at least as good. “Yes, thank you.”

The blond returned from the washing area with towel, washcloth and soap, and knelt before Justin again (just scoot a couple feet closer, my handsome man, and put your head here…). Justin quirked an eyebrow as the servant dipped the soap into the basin. “I think you can take your gloves off for this.”

The servant darted him a shy smile, those remarkable blue eyes finally meeting his. “Thank you, my lord.” For a moment, Justin was bemused: why take that obvious statement as an honor? Why would a servant wear dress gloves anyway? He knew gentlemen who did so in imitation of the Blessed, but it was a curious affectation for anyone who needed to work with his hands. Then the man had stripped off gloves and Justin was lost in the pure sensual pleasure of slender strong soapy fingers gliding over his skin. The man was as thorough as Justin could have asked, not just washing his feet but calves as well, fingers and thumbs massaging the aches of a long walk in unsuitable footwear from the bottom of each foot. Justin’s head lolled against the chair back, eyes half-closed in bliss. For the first time in – months, since his father died and he had become Lord Comfrey instead of Lord Justin – Justin felt not merely attended to, but cared for. Not that Ethan or the others of his staff were incompetent, but they lacked this individual’s initiative, this instinct for anticipating what Justin wanted and giving it to him without making him think of it and ask. I wonder how wroth Dremmond would be if I poached his servant from him?  Making an effort to form words, Justin asked, “What’s your name, my good man?”

“Striker, m’lord. Nik Striker.” Soapy fingers stroked between each toe. The name seemed vaguely familiar, but Justin was too distracted by pleasure to chase through memories to discern why. Neither Nik nor Striker was an uncommon name in any event. All too soon, the servant was drying his feet and calves, fingers massaging the towel over skin with a gentle thoroughness. “My lord? Did you wish to dress for the Ambrellan ceremony now?”

Justin cracked open reluctant eyes to glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes to the appointed time. He sighed. “Best get it over with.” He let Striker fetch his clothes, going behind the screen to change into dress breeches. Justin had no particular modesty as a rule, but the last half-hour had done nothing to slake his lust and just thinking about stripping before his angel brought his briefly-subsided erection raging back. Would the servant blush and avert his eyes at the sight? Politely pretend not to notice? Inquire deferentially, “Shall I take care of that for you, my lord?” while wrapping slim white fingers around the hard shaft? Down, boy. Saints, but this is going to be a curst long evening.

He let Striker help with the rest, standing impartially as the servant helped him into shirt and waistcoat from behind, then circled to the front to fasten the myriad buttons. It was a routine he’d been through every day for most of a lifetime, but today Justin felt hyperaware of each accidental brush of the valet’s fingers. A stroke at the nape of his neck as the youth straightened his shirt collar, a long caress down his chest in smoothing the shirt placket, fingers curling about his calves to even his stockings and fasten the buckles below the knee on the breeches. After the first few times, Justin found himself wondering if these were accidental touches at all. Is my angel actually flirting with me?  He watched the beautiful man’s submissively bent head, Striker’s hand cradling his ankle as he slipped on a shoe, fingers sliding off stocking as he shifted to buckle the clasp. No, my fevered brain is imagining this because I want it to be true. Striker is being thorough, pleasant, and skillful. That is not flirting.

But the temptation to see more than chance at work remained strong despite Justin’s best efforts to control his fancy. At length, the valet finished tying the neckcloth and stepped aside so Justin could see his reflection. “Hah. I look very nearly human again. Thank you, Striker.” Justin took his hat in one hand.

Striker smiled – such a lovely smile – and bowed. “Dean Dremmond has placed me at your disposal for the remainder of your visit, Lord Comfrey. I will be more than happy to fulfill any needs you might have, my lord.” He moved to the bedroom door as if to open it.

That was not flirting. A pretty speech in no way inappropriate for a servant. Absolutely not flirting. An answering half-smile lit Justin’s face anyway. “‘Any needs’?”

Deep blue eyes flicked up to meet Justin’s, just for a moment. “Anything,” the angel breathed out, huskily. “At your pleasure, my lord.”

Now that – I am not merely imagining this. Justin closed the distance between them with a stride, cupping the man’s jaw in one hand and tilting Striker’s head to force their eyes to meet again, noting as he did that Justin was the taller by a couple of inches. Justin could feel the other man’s pulse quicken beneath his fingers, skin turning even paler. The servant swallowed, lips parting slightly, no sound emerging, and Justin needed no more invitation to capture that mouth with his own. Ah, saints, but the man tasted as good as he looked, a little salty and tangy, lips trembling under Justin’s unhesitant exploration. He flicked out his tongue to taste the corner of Striker’s mouth, then slipped between lips to slide against even white teeth. Justin tilted his head to deepen the kiss, hat dropping forgotten from his hand as his other hand circled to the nape of Striker’s neck. The blond made no murmur of protest, no motion to draw away – but neither did he offer any encouragement. Justin’s palm snuggled against the curve of the young man’s neck; he felt the pulse pounding there, the tremor of his mouth, the otherwise still form, arms remaining at Striker’s sides. That racing pulse is the product of terror, not lust. That knowledge ought to have cooled Justin’s ardor, but instead he only felt more enflamed, desire bleeding into anger at the lack of response. Did you think you could tease me for three-quarters of an hour and pay no price for it? You asked for this, angel. Justin kissed harder, bruising the mouth beneath his, grip on the back of the man’s neck punishingly tight, other hand stroking down the servant’s chest. I am the lord here, and you said anything, and no curst servant is going to stop me from taking what I want—

Beneath Justin’s hand, Striker trembled convulsively, a plaintive whimper muffled in his throat, and Justin returned to his senses with the shock of a plunge into icy water. What the fuck am I doing?  He released the helpless servant abruptly and took a pace back. Striker staggered to one side, further off-balance by the sudden change, round blue eyes snapping open to stare at Justin in panicked dismay, skin white, breathing too fast.

Justin met the silent terror in those eyes for only a moment before the servant remembered himself and dropped his gaze, dark lashes veiling his expression. I have to say something. Make light of it. Justin forced a bark of laughter and clapped the servant’s shoulder. “Ha! What kinds of needs do you imagine lords have, Striker?” His angel flushed, color flooding back to turn pale skin bright red. Justin shook his head, chuckling. “Don’t worry. Your virtue is safe. Trust me, you’re not my type,” he lied brazenly. Scooping his hat from the floor, Justin opened the bedroom door and stepped out, still shaking his head. “‘Needs’. Heh.”

He did not look back to see Striker’s reaction; even the thought of the dismay and pain in those astonishing blue eyes was hard to bear. Well, I handled that abysmally. Can’t imagine how I could have done worse, he thought, before an image sprung unwanted to his mind: of overpowering the other man and forcing him unwilling to the bed, face down against a pillow to stifle his cries while Justin raped him brutally. …all right, yes, I can imagine worse. Much worse. He suppressed a shudder as he strode down the stairwell, wanting to believe he was not capable of such monstrosity and terrified that he might be. You are already guilty a thousand times over of acting on a criminal lust, a treacherous voice whispered in his mind. What difference would another type of crime make?

All of it. Justin squashed the thought: that way lay madness. He was not afraid that the man he’d abused would complain – who would take a servant’s word over a lord’s? – but that was cold consolation. He’d met lords who were monsters, abusing their authority and tyrannizing those below them. He did not think himself one of them. Doubtless they don’t condemn themselves, either. With an inward sigh, he summoned a smile as he greeted the dean at the bottom of the steps, sweeping all the clutter from his mind to focus on executing his social duties.

Above the fourth floor of the dean’s manor was a cramped attic, accessible only by a pull-down ladder in a fourth-floor storage room, and through the garret window, if one were a small boy. Nik knew about it from the latter, when he’d broken into the manor on a dare five years ago. He wouldn’t fit through the window now, but he’d still remembered where the ladder let down. He’d pulled it up again after him, crouched in a small dusty space crowded with boxes and old furniture. Now he was curled in a tight knot between a wall and an ancient trunk, knees drawn to his chest, head against his arms, shuddering as he tried not to weep. Idiot idiot idiot idiot, a voice at the back of his mind taunted him, refusing to be silenced. Idiot!

You asked for this. In more ways than one. What were you expecting?  His cheeks burned in remembered humiliation. Lord Comfrey’s mocking laughter haunted him. “Trust me, you’re not my type.”

Savior forgive me.

Nik pushed his fists against his screwed-shut eyes. What was I thinking? Was I thinking?

Dean Dremmond didn’t have a large staff of servants: he regarded having an academy full of students to be the equivalent instead. Whenever the academy hosted a large event, dozens of pupils were drafted into service. It was an informal part of the curriculum: younger students played servants to older, older students performed the part for staff, and it didn’t matter if you were a trademan’s son or a lord’s. “Nothing prepares one to lead like learning to follow,” Professor Gilsmaine was fond of saying. No student used titles on campus: no “Lord Nikola” nor even “Mr. Striker”. Just surnames: “Striker”. Some of the students resented it, but in some ways Nik preferred the lack of status markers.

It was a relief not to be distinguished by “my lord” and all its attendant assumptions. Such as the assumption that since his parents were titled and Nik was Blessed, of course they must be wealthy. More than that: they had to act wealthy. His father’s entailed estates had to be maintained by more than a score of servants, and were understaffed at that. They had to entertain in style, and dress impeccably, and take care of their people, and they had sufficient funds for none of it. Nik remembered a week of cold winter nights spent huddled with his sisters in Anverlee Manor’s smallest parlor, because they were only allowed wood for one fire and that was the easiest room to heat. Then one night, there was a fire lit in every hearth of the main floor and candles burning in every socket of the crystal chandeliers because his parents were hosting a grand fete that Nik and his younger sister Daphne were not even permitted to attend. Appearances had to be maintained, and back then they’d still hoped Nik’s oldest sister Lysandra would catch a rich husband.

Nik could still remember the beating his father’d given him when he was eight and had accidentally ruined a new Sunday suit. For weeks he’d wept in terror every Sunday when dressing for temple, until his great-grandmother came to visit and showed him how to cure the trauma. His father hadn’t even been angry, so much as disappointed and determined that his son learn to take care. Because they couldn’t afford carelessness.

Nik was attending the East Hansleigh Boy’s Academy because the Academy had offered him a scholarship since he was Blessed, and his parents couldn’t afford a tutor any more. It was a relief to wear the ugly school uniforms because those were relatively cheap and Nik had outgrown all but two of his suits. It was a relief that the school would not allow him a servant, because he could not have afforded one and his parents would have insisted on one anyway. Nik looked forward to attaining his majority in the fall and finally being an adult and a part of formal society, but he dreaded it too. As a nobleman, he’d need an entire new wardrobe of elaborate clothing, and Nik had no idea where they’d find money for that. His father refused to discuss matters of finance with him. There was nothing Nik could do but turn over his receipts from petitioners, and Nik had no control over the quantity or size of those gifts.

He almost wished he hadn’t been born a nobleman. Sometimes it was a relief to follow simple orders and have no greater responsibilities to fulfill.

Today had not begun as one of those times. The Ambrellan Honors, which celebrated accomplished inventors in a dozen different fields, attracted hundreds of visitors, honorees, entrepreneurs, and other guests. Countless hours of preparation went into making the visitors comfortable and the ceremonies go smoothly. Nik had been drafted the day before and was sick of arranging tables in the school’s great hall less than halfway through the morning. He’d been shirking work in the dean’s kitchen when a harassed butler came in looking for someone to play valet for Lord Comfrey. Lord Comfrey!  Nik had instantly volunteered.

He had never met the man before, nor so much as exchanged two words with him, but Nik knew of him. Years ago, he’d watched Lord Comfrey – Lord Justin then – secure one championship after another in archery, hunting, fencing, backball, and more, first for his academy, Offglenn, and later in non-collegiate tournaments. The man was a legend, possessed of the body of a god. The closest Nikola had ever been to Lord Comfrey in person was at a gala his parents had hosted two years ago, where Comfrey was one of the guests and fourteen year-old Nikola was not officially allowed among them. He’d snuck down and skulked around the edges of the party anyway, catching some of Comfrey’s conversation and feeling overawed by his wit and physical presence. That was what a lord ought to be: physically, intellectually, politically powerful. Nik did not imagine he would ever match such a standard – Nik was pretty much everything a lord shouldn’t be – but seeing the ideal personified was nonetheless intoxicating.

The chance to see Lord Comfrey at close quarters – in private, even – was irresistible. So what if it was as a valet and not an equal? It wasn’t as though Nik could be said to be Lord Comfrey’s equal in any reasonable sense of the word anyway. Forewarned that the man had arrived after the most appalling journey, Nik had braced himself for a moody, angry lord, impossible to please. He resolved against attempting to introduce himself, or pestering the lord with his admiration, or hounding him with chit-chat. Nik would just…be as good a valet as he could.

Nik should have known he would not be able to conceal his attraction to the man: the sense of plummeting towards the inevitable began as soon as he stepped into the bedroom and saw that incomparable naked back, water drops glittering on the highlights of well-defined muscles, deep shadows inviting the eye to linger, explore. He had to keep his eyes schooled down and away for the entire duration, every glimpse making him ache to stare, to drink in that incredible, powerful body. Even so…he thought he’d been doing well. Lord Comfrey had looked grim and frustrated when he’d arrived, but Nik thought he’d relaxed. He even let me take my gloves off. I saw his mind, lord, as powerful and detailed as the rest of him. Nik was only sorry it hadn’t been a full bath. Would he have permitted me to bathe him then? Saints know he wouldn’t let me now. He hugged his arms to his chest, sweating and miserable in his overheated attic hiding place, wishing he could drive the memory from his mind instead of reliving it endlessly. In retrospect, it was obvious how he’d betrayed himself: lingering too long in brushing that long waterfall of hair, massaging Lord Comfrey’s feet without being asked, taking every opportunity to touch him under the pretext of dressing. At first Nik had been trying to be professional, but the temptation to make contact when he could, while he’d had an excuse – it was overpowering. And Comfrey’s demeanor had been so improved since his arrival, Nik had thought – hoped – wanted to believe the attention was desired.

Until that kiss.

That glorious, terrible kiss.

Nik had kissed women before, but he’d never kissed a man, not even Kelly. And he’d never kissed anyone like that, the way Lord Comfrey had kissed him, as if he were a delicious treat, savored even as he was devoured, consumed. He hadn’t known how to respond and been terrified he’d do something wrong and Comfrey would stop.

And then Comfrey stopped.

And laughed at him.

Nik wished he could just have stopped existing at that moment. Nothing so dramatic as dying on the spot. Just let him never have been, so he’d never have to experience that. He stared inward at his own mind, looking for a demon responsible for this awful pain, knowing there wasn’t one. Instead, there was only an ugly little knot of trauma rubbing raw between desire and interpersonal skills. He could ask the Savior to soothe it away, but he knew already what the answer would be – it was too fresh, too recent; it needed a chance to heal on its own so that he could learn from the experience. My mind will get tired of torturing me eventually, he thought dully. It brought him no comfort as he replayed again in his head those words – “you’re not my type” – that laugh, that amusement at Nikola’s foolish obvious ludicrous crush on a man, for all love, of course he wasn’t Comfrey’s type! Nik thudded his head against the wall. Idiot idiot idiot idiot.

He supposed it could have been worse. Comfrey could have responded with disgust, beaten him, exposed his weakness to the school, his family – oh yes, he could have done much worse than kissed Nik and laughed. But Savior, how was he to face the man again, ever? After that? He’d promised Jill and the Savior both never again, and he wasn’t seriously contemplating leaping out the garret window (not high enough even if I could fit). Maybe I could run away to the greatcat nation, and never have to face another human again. Even when Comfrey told the dean to give him a different assistant – and surely he’d do that? Comfrey could not possibly wish to have Nik around him now – they’d still move in the same social circles, now that Nik was no longer a child. How could he face the man at a party without reddening and shaking in remembered shame?

Well, you’ll have to find a way, Nik told himself. You can’t hide here forever. In fact, you’d better get back to your assigned task now, because they’re not going to be able to tell you that you’re being replaced if they can’t find you. He glowered at the painful nodule formed in his mind around the humiliating memory. And you, you are not going to be haunting me for the rest of my life. If I can’t process you, the Savior himself will cast you out, you hear me? I just need to survive the rest of the week.

That seemed like more than sufficient work, all on its own.

Nik did everything he was supposed to do: took Comfrey’s walking clothes to be cleaned by the washer woman, swept the dirt from the floor of the room, and ironed the clothes he’d unpacked earlier from the case. A greatcat arrived an hour or two later with a letter for Lord Comfrey and another trunk of possessions; Nik set the note on the desk and ironed and put the new clothes away as well. He brushed the dust off his own school uniform to make sure he himself was presentable, went to supper in the dorm at eight, and still no one had told him that Lord Comfrey had asked for a replacement. So after supper he returned to Comfrey’s room and turned down the bed. The evening had turned cold, so he shut the windows against the chill and set a fire, then placed a warming-pan between the bedsheets. At half-past ten, he drew a hot bath, which was perhaps excessive, but he reasoned that after the events of a difficult day Comfrey would retire early and want a bath before he did. Nik refreshed the bath at regular intervals, to be sure it was still hot when the lord returned, along with checking on the warming pan and the fire.

In between, he posted himself outside the door, standing at parade rest with the open-eyed half-doze perfected in classroom lectures, awaiting his lord’s pleasure.

By eleven o’clock, Justin had finally dropped enough hints and excuses to escape his host and go to his room. His angel was waiting outside his room. Justin had wracked his brain trying to produce a way to have Striker replaced without impugning his abilities – baseless slander would be as poor a repayment for excellent service as molestation had been. Unable to think of any fair solution, he’d let the matter slide. Now he found himself oddly gladdened by the sight of the man’s fair face. Striker’s eyes dropped as soon as he identified Justin. He gave an exactly correct bow and opened the door. “A note arrived for you, my lord. It’s on the desk.”

Justin nodded, unbuttoning his formal jacket as he stepped into the room. Striker followed and stood behind him to remove the jacket: Justin noticed with a twinge of regret that Striker was very careful not to let the slightest pressure of his touch be felt through the cloth. He unfolded the note from the desk. “Draw a bath for me, will you?”

“It’s ready now, my lord.”

Justin smiled involuntarily. Of course it is, my angel. The note was from Ethan: he’d arrived safely at the hospital and his leg treated, but been ordered not to walk for a week, and did his lordship want him to follow on to East Hansleigh or make other arrangements? He dropped it on the desk, figuring he could dictate a reply from the bath. He unfastened his waistcoat, and this time he observed Striker’s fingers trembling as the servant removed the garment. Justin sighed, feeling suddenly weary and old. The Savior sent me an angel, and I instantly broke him. He turned to face the man, and Striker twitched away, taking a half-step back. “Look, Striker, I’m not going—” Justin cut off as his eye fell on the man’s mouth, slightly swollen and reddened at one side. “Did I do that?” he asked despite himself, taking Striker’s chin in his hand to tilt it for a better look.

Striker shook at the touch, flinching out of his grasp. “It’s nothing, my lord. The headboy gives us worse for less cause,” he said, almost inaudibly.

Ah, so I’m not as bad as a schoolyard bully. There’s a character reference for you. Justin sagged back against the desk, feeling every inch the criminal he was, as he never had before. “Blood and death. I’m sorry, Striker,” Justin said, not caring that lords did not apologize to servants. “I should not have done – that. Any of it.”

The valet blinked startled blue eyes at him. “It’s – it’s not your fault, my lord, I should—”

Justin gave a bark of humorless laughter. “Abandoned world, man, having a title doesn’t make me right. Look, could we—” pretend it never happened, he wanted to say, but the words stuck in his throat. It was painfully obvious he’d hurt the man, and not just physically. His feeble effort earlier to pass his actions off as nothing had failed, and it wasn’t in him to try again. “Never mind. Just go.”

“…my lord?” The Haventure man took a step backwards, paling, voice fearful and confused.

Justin turned away, unfastening the buttons of his shirt. “You shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of insult, not and still be expected to do your job afterwards. It’s inhuman. Look, I’m not going to breathe a word against you to Dremmond or anyone else, Striker. I’ll tell ’em you’ve done excellent work – you certainly have. Just – take it as a holiday. I can look after myself for a few days, and no one need be the wiser.” The servant grazed gloved hands against Justin’s shoulders to take the shirt, and Justin closed his eyes, wishing he could enjoy that contact as an innocent pleasure, that his angel’s hands were not even now trembling with fear of him, of a renewal of undesired and uninvited attentions. “Just go,” he whispered.

The hands withdrew. “As you wish, my lord,” Striker said, just as softly. Then he was gone, and Justin was alone in the empty bedroom.

Shaking with emotion – nervousness, fear, lust, and Savior knew what else – Nik made it outside the house before he let himself collapse in the darkness of the night, hidden behind a tree for additional privacy. This doesn’t make sense, he kept thinking. It doesn’t make sense.

Why had Lord Comfrey apologized to him? It couldn’t truly be about a tiny bruise, could it? Would the sort of man who’d kiss a boy just to make sport of an obvious infatuation care about a trivial thing like that? Had something else made him consider the joke tasteless? What could possibly have happened in a handful of packed hours that would make Comfrey think he owed Nik an apology? Anyway, Comfrey hadn’t apologized at once. Whatever had happened, it happened in that room.

What? Why? It made no sense!

His logic professor’s voice floated into his mind: “If your answer doesn’t make sense, check your assumptions.”

What was he assuming?

Lord Comfrey had apologized for laughing at his crush. No, wait: he hadn’t said that. What had been his exact words? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done any of that.” That…was not exactly explicit, come to think of it. But it suggested the whole event, especially with his giving notice to the bruise. So the kiss, the bruise, the laughter: that’d be all of it, right? Was there anything else Nik could possibly be construed as taking offense to? He couldn’t think of anything.

Lord Comfrey knew Nik was infatuatied with him. Or did he know? He hadn’t mentioned it. In fact, when Nik tried to take responsibility for provoking the disagreeable jest, Comfrey had dismissed it. But if he hadn’t noticed, why else make the joke? Because Nik had said he’d ‘take care of any needs’, as a play on the general fears that schoolboys had about what their superiors might want? And then Comfrey decided afterwards he’d taken the joke too far?

That…almost made sense. But why not just say that, then? Why send him away? The viscount had looked so…defeated. Self-loathing. As if apologizing could not be enough.

Nik pushed himself off from the tree and to his feet again; turning the problem over in his mind made him feel steadier than he had since that kiss had thrown him off-balance several hours earlier. Was there some other possibility he had missed? The memory of that heated kiss flashed through him: so hungry, so passionate in the moment, turned to ash by that laughter, the knowledge Comfrey didn’t mean it.

What if he had?

Oh Savior, that hope hurt too much to think about. Nik swallowed against the possibility. Don’t be a fool. What interest would a rich, handsome, successful viscount take in a nearly bankrupt lord’s schoolboy son? Especially that kind of interest.

But what if he had?

What if Comfrey’s kiss had been sincere? What if he’d taken Nik’s paralysis for rejection? Mightn’t Comfrey try to cover the attempt with humor, pretend there was nothing signified by it at all?

It was a beguiling, beautiful fantasy, Nik reflected, stumbling along the path between blackberry bushes. It fed into everything he most wanted to be true. Of course it sounded convincing. He wanted to believe it. Wishing would not make it so, however. He ought to obey Lord Comfrey’s wishes, stay away from him, and be grateful Comfrey’d done nothing worse than laugh at him.

Nik strode the darkened sidewalks along the lawn towards Nighsburg Hall, heading back to his dormitory room. His mouth was set in the grim line of his resolve. It was the wisest, safest course. Anything else invited scorn, rejection, humiliation, or worse. Exposure, exile, sinking his entire family with him in shame. He ought to be grateful just to be safe, and not hope for anything else.

Back in his third-floor dorm room, tucked into the top bunk with his blanket pulled up against the chill, Nik firmed his decision. But as he lay his head against the pillow, he saw Lord Comfrey’s bitter expression, heard the self-loathing in Comfrey’s voice as he delivered that apology. What if Comfrey had wanted that kiss? What if he is just as miserable and rejected now as I had been then?

Am I so much the coward that I would rather another man suffer than risk rejection myself?

Classes were cancelled during Ambrellan, partly so that professors and some upperclassmen could attend the presentations, and partly so the students would be available to provide unpaid labor. Nik could have cancelled his petitioning hours, too, but he never did.

The Savior had granted Nikola the rarest of Blessings: the ability to heal minds. He was one of just five mind-healers in Newlant. While he wasn’t nearly as skillful as his great-grandmother, he could channel the Savior’s power to exorcise the demons that caused a third of mental illnesses. He could also diagnose dozens of more complicated conditions so that the Savior could heal those. Using that Blessing was a sacred duty, one Nik took more seriously than anything else in his life. Besides, he’d rather answer petitions than clean halls or serve food. He enjoyed working with the Savior.

Normally he saw petitioners in the school’s Toranger Hall, but they were holding Ambrellan events there today. So the staff had told him to use one of the classrooms in the old Wellinburg building instead.

When Nik arrived, petitioners were already spilling out into the hall, waiting for him. By their attire, they were mostly servants and employees, probably of Ambrellan attendees. Most were human and with Newlanture-tan complexions, but a quarter were greatcats, four-legged sapients as tall as a human and ten or twenty times more massive.

On normal days, there’d be one or two student volunteers here to wrangle the crowd, but today they’d all been conscripted elsewhere. Nik squared his shoulders and tried to work his way into the room. Several people let him pass without comment, but then one belligerent man blocked him: “Oy! Who’d’ya think you are? Wait yer turn wit’ the rest of us.”

Nik braced himself. “I am the mind-healer, sir. Please, let me pass.”

The man stammered an apology and stepped aside, but the announcement rippled through the crowd. A couple of impatient petitioners pushed forward, clutching at his hands. “Please, sir, you’ve got to—”

“My daughter needs—”

“Help—”

“—got to—”

“—right side—”

“She can’t—”

For a few minutes, the crowd dissolved into a chaotic mob pushing and shoving to get at him. Someone pulled off his gloves, and others grabbed for his face or hair. When Nik sensed demons inside those who managed to touch his skin, he called on the Savior and felt the golden warmth of his god flow through him to banish the demons and cure the afflicted. But with so many people grabbing him, his mindsense was too overwhelmed to make any diagnosis of more complex problems. He begged and shouted for order, to little effect. Eventually, two of the greatcats in the crowd pushed their way to him and growled and snapped at the humans until the rest backed off and allowed him to proceed with a modicum of dignity. Their snarling and hissing was an empty threat, given the pacifist temperament of the greatcat race, but with a greatcat’s size, it was still more effective than anything Nik had done.

Despite the best efforts of a few members of the crowd to control the rest, it was a trying morning. By early afternoon, Nik had managed to cure about two dozen people, and had the challenge of explaining to fifteen others and their relations that there was nothing he could do for them. “I cannot diagnose your problem. Try Lady Astraia of Fireholt, or Lady Beatrice in Gracehaven,” was all he could offer. It wasn’t enough, and they all knew it, and so many of them begged or argued for a cure. As if reality might bend to their will if only they used the right words.

When the last one finally accepted the truth and left, Nik gathered into his satchel the small heap of gifts that the cured had left in exchange for treatment. Little that was valuable: these people had been poor and could scarcely afford what they did leave. Nik would almost have rather they kept it, but that was the Code: a gift for a Gift. The Gift he’d provided left them with an obligation to him, and it wouldn’t be right to deny them the opportunity to repay it. At least whoever had snatched off his gloves during the tumult earlier had left them in the pile.

As he left the building, a tall, heavyset Newlanture man approached and said in an undertone, “Lord Nikola, if I might have a moment of your time.”

Nik gave the stranger a blank look. Then his gaze slid past the Newlanture man to the mute boy staring at his feet behind the man. “Sir, as I explained already, I am not able to help your son.”

“I know, I know, but I thought, Lord Nikola, maybe you could just have another look?” The heavyset man blocked his path and glanced to the side. With one hand, he surreptitiously attempted to tuck a wad of marks into Nik’s satchel. “Just a few minutes of your time, m’lord…”

Nik recoiled from the hand, jaw tensed. “Sir. I have already tried, twice, to diagnose your son’s condition. If I could do so, I already would have. I suggest you use your funds to travel to a healer who might be able to help you, instead of using them to insult the honor of one who cannot. Good day.” He shoved past the man, shaking with suppressed rage, trying not to hate the stranger. He’s just desperate. He doesn’t know me, or intend the insult. He just doesn’t want to miss any possibility, however slight, of curing his loved one. I shouldn’t blame him for that.

But it was hard not to. Curse it, Nik had spent his whole life dealing honorably with money, no matter how little he could afford to. He incurred no obligation he could not repay, accepted no invitation he could not reciprocate, and accepted no “gifts” except what the Code of the Savior permitted. The idea that he might withhold healing in the hopes of a being offered a bribe was utterly abhorrent. Nik couldn’t imagine living with himself after doing such a thing. But every now and then he’d run into some cretin who thought Nik might, and it always bothered him. It happened most often on days like this one, when he didn’t have any servants or volunteers around to check the worst impulses of the crowd.

At least it’s over now. Nik walked back to his dormitory. As he thought about what he ought to do next, Lord Comfrey’s apology and dismissal came back to him. “Take it as a holiday.” In truth, watching Lord Comfrey walk about half-naked in his chamber had been like a holiday. Nik blushed at the memory, still confused and unsure what to make of yesterday’s myriad strange events. He wondered how Lord Comfrey was doing without anyone to help him. Nik knew from experience that a man like Comfrey had enough responsibilities and obligations to occupy a squad of secretaries, valets, and servants. And today he’s got no one. Not even me.

He told me to stay away.

But was that truly what he wanted?