A thousand things filled Justin’s days and nights: business dealings, social events, mothers throwing eligible daughters his way, anonymous assignations in private backrooms where men of certain inclinations indulged their passions and parted without ever exchanging words. He was surrounded with ample distractions from any reflections on the past – but even so, Justin could not put his angel out of his mind. It’s just as well he didn’t accept my offer. I’d be bound to give myself away, with this kind of obsessive interest. This frustrated longing – not for simple release but for a specific person – was a new and unpleasant sensation to him. It was bound to fade in time. And if it didn’t – well, he could find some excuse to head to the East Hansleigh Academy again, in a year or so. Six months, perhaps. When would the current term be over? Will you be more amenable to my invitation then? Will you even be glad to see me?

Beyond that, Justin hated that he had left his angel empty-handed. Pressing some token sum of bills on him seemed crass on the one hand, and yet on the other – the man was a servant, for all love, and Justin a lord. Common decency demanded he offer something by way of esteem. What was the point to all his wealth, if he could not lavish gifts upon such a magnificent lover? He no longer thought that Striker’s actions had been rooted in the desire for such a gesture, but it had to be expected, given the difference in their social class.

When Justin returned to his home in Comfrey Viscountcy, he decided that this oversight, at least, he could rectify. He commissioned a wallet of finely-worked leather, embossed with a monogrammed ‘NS’. For a couple of days after the craftsman finished it, Justin held onto the item, his impulse to generosity warring with instincts that counseled for discretion and avoiding the appearance of extravagance. He could not reasonably correspond with the man – a lord writing another man’s servant, on the basis of a few days’ acquaintance? ridiculous – and what would he say in any case? After deciding he was overthinking the entire matter, Justin tucked some of the funds he kept on hand into the billfold, packaged it up, and sent it on its way.

Nik missed Lord Comfrey.

It was stupid, of course. To be yearning for a man at all, and particularly on such short acquaintance. It was not as if they’d even been friends. If anything, he ought to have found the role he’d played degrading – he was a count’s heir, and while that hadn’t gotten him out of chores at the academy before, they’d never previously had him act the servant for multiple days in a row. Dremmond’s butler had even offered to find a replacement for him when Comfrey had extended his stay. Comfrey’s joking suggestion that he take the role on permanently was an amusing one indeed: he could only imagine his mother’s horror and his father’s outrage at the idea.

But to Nik himself, that idea beguiled. No doubt the work would pall eventually, if he had to do it every day, or if he had to do it for a man less personable than Comfrey. But for a few days, taking care of Lord Comfrey and doing all the little chores that kept a lord’s day going smoothly had been soothing, pleasant work. It was simple, granted, and he was capable of far more complex tasks even putting aside his Blessing. But for all that, he enjoyed being able to make the man smile by having a snack at hand when he knew he’d be hungry, or a bath ready, or massaging his feet…or caressing all the rest of that gorgeous body, skin golden-brown velvet over hard steel muscles. Saints, but the man was divine.

He tried to put it out of his mind, but at night alone in his bed, his thoughts turned to daydreams of Comfrey. Nik fantasized not just of the things they had done, but things they might yet do when they next met. He’d be seventeen soon, and no longer barred from society events; he was bound to see Comfrey at one of those. “Until then,” the viscount had said.

Nik started and destroyed one letter after the next, trying to plan out how that next meeting might go. Every attempt was wrong: too familiar, or not familiar enough, or too intimate. Dare he sign his name to a letter that even hinted at any part of his conduct, not knowing for sure who might someday see it? Never mind not knowing how Comfrey might feel about being thus implicated. So when the package arrived, Nik still had not sent so much as a note.

The brown paper wrapping had only Nik’s address – no name, address, or seal to give a clue to its origins. He took it outside to open, doubting it was from Comfrey – more likely from some petitioner who’d been unable to present a gift at the time of healing – but caution wouldn’t hurt. Autumn was starting to change the leaves on the trees, mixing the green with pale yellow and orange. Sitting beneath an out-of-the-way tree with his gloves off, he ripped open the package and removed the wallet inside. The soft, supple leather had a pleasantly sensual feel against his fingers, and he smiled as he traced the monogram. Nik had received so many gifts from petitioners that there was no novelty left to the ritual, but he still had a certain appreciation for the care taken in choosing and making the items. A note fluttered out as he turned over the wallet, and he unfolded it. “In token of my esteem and appreciation —JC” was all it said, but it warmed Nikola’s heart more than the gift had. Lord Comfrey. No seal, but Nik had seen a few examples of the viscount’s handwriting and it looked right. Besides, a petitioner would have no reason to conceal his name behind initials. Nik stroked the folded leather again, then opened it to transfer the marks from his money clip into it.

And blinked, because it already had bills in it. He pulled out the currency and fanned it, gaping. Dozens of hundred-mark notes. His fingers shook as he stared at the sum. Intellectually, he knew he’d been given such sums before – but such were rare occasions by very wealthy and grateful petitioners, and the money had been funneled through his parents, who managed his funds on his behalf. There must be some mistake – I didn’t heal Comfrey – why would he – Nik glanced again to the note, the familiar handwriting, the initials. He wracked his brain, trying to recall a rich petitioner who might have those initials. Even as he did so, he knew it was foolish to pretend this – this – token – was from any other. Both anonymous and tardy gifts went against the spirit of the Code; anyone who intended to express this kind of thanks for a healing would at the least have told him as much in person.

It had to be Comfrey. Nikola fisted his hands around the crisp notes, crumpling them. For what? A bribe lest I speak against you? Pity for my family’s sorry state? Or is it just…payment for services rendered?  He screwed his eyes shut against rage and humiliation. Do you think I need your money, Lord Comfrey? Is that what you think me, a common whore?

He felt the ludicrous sum between his fingers. Well, not a common whore. Black humor rose in him. Is that a salve for my pride, that I am a very expensive concubine?

Nik jammed the currency back into the wallet and wrapped the whole in the anonymous brown paper again. Afternoon session started in twenty minutes; he’d have to figure out what to do with it later.

Ultimately, Nik stuffed the marks at the bottom of his school trunk and tried not to think about it, or Comfrey, again. He wanted to return it, but he couldn’t afford a courier and the thought of sending it through the regular post was appalling. He was determined to use not one mark from the funds, not even to facilitate its return. He didn’t even know what address to send it to – “Comfrey Manor, Comfrey Viscountcy” would doubtless get to him eventually, but who knew how many hands it would go through first and the only thing more humiliating than receiving the cursed thing would be having it looted before it finally reached the man. Nik started a few letters regarding its return anyway – resentful, sarcastic, childish things full of wounded pride. Like the correspondence he’d attempted before, Nik burned the unfinished drafts. It was clear now he had no business speaking to the man in any fashion at all.