Chapter 4: The Witching Hour

I sat down on the corner of the pavement that had no house above it for me to disturb. The liquor I had been drinking all through my time spent in Baneberry Lane had long since passed my head. I was completely sober, and I completely felt worse than I did in the afternoon.

I felt the side of my cheek were the blood from my mouth had dried and the sting of my father's hit had cooled down. I was hungry, cold and lost, but neither made me want to find my way back to the manor.

So I sat with my legs spread out in front of me and my expensive white shirt had enough grime and dirt on it to make any servant lady at the house gasp. I laughed to myself at the thought. I quickly shut my lips in case anyone saw me and thought of the wrong idea. Night was closing in and a crazy young teenager was sitting at the side of the road with nothing but the shirt on his back and the small pouch in his pocket.

I coughed against the cold and knew I had to find somewhere warm to sleep for the night. Perhaps, I could convince a bakery if I could sleep outside their furnace enclosure. I thought I would be able to find a lodging house when the carriage driver dropped me at the head of the street. Yet, the first passing woman I asked laughed straight at my face.

"Ain't nobody wantin' to lodge in The Valley, lad. Get yur wits aboot you" I strained to understand through her accent. It turns out the further south you go, the deeper the illiteracy and unability to articulate. Then I thought it was nice of her not to rob me having known I was wealthy from my accent. So I asked her where the nearest bar was instead.

"Plenty of those around" before redirecting me to a pub just on the edge of Baneberry Lane. It turns out she had a kid around my age and she knew if had the choice, he'd stay the hell away from The Valley as often as he could.

I wondered why the people called it The Valley. I later asked the bartender and he looked at me like I fucked his wife in front of him. I quickly paid for the four pints of beer I had and ventured out the pub.

So that left me here, at the corner of Baneberry Lane. Just dark enough for no one to see me and jump me. Yet, in a place where the dark just so happens to be where the residents most feel comfortable.

"Excuse me, can I help you?" the softest voice sung from behind me.

At first, I thought I might still be drunk. Perhaps, I wasn't as sober as I initially made myself out to be. No voice that gentle was made for a place as verminous as this.

"Sir?"

I turned my head around and looked down a set of stairs to a young boy around my age standing in front of a doorframe with a lit lantern in his hand. I swallowed a cold breath and stared at his features.

The moonlight and the candlelight was enough to make out the choppy dark brown hair that sprayed against his forehead. His youth given away by the smooth lines of his face. I couldn't stop looking. He had a splatter of freckles across his nose, his eyes a hazel from what I could make out.

"I-I'm sorry" I spoke before trying to get up from my position. The swift change made my head rush and I lost my balance before tripping over my own feet. I saw the boy dash from the door and run up the stairs to where I now lay on the cold pavement.

I raised my hand to let him know I was okay, and mentally hit myself for being so clumsy. I got up to my feet and dusted my hands by the sides of my coat. I looked at him and was taken aback by how close he stood now.

I could see the curves of his face and the dips beneath his eyes. He shifted under my scrutiny and looked at the pavement underneath us. Not knowing if it was a game of the light, but his features seemed too soft for somewhere like this place. For somewhere like this world.

"I didn't mean to wake you. I was just –" I paused.

What was I doing?

"I was already awake." He murmured. I saw him shaking slightly from the cold and realized that I completely lost track of the escaping heat from my body. His voice seemed different from the people I met today, so did his accent. I could hear the distinct southside tilt to the ends of his sentences, but it was like he was forcing himself to sound deep.

Thinking perhaps it would be rude to ask or hover, I left the topic. Yet, I couldn't get myself to turn around and walk away from him.

Before I could think of anything to say to make my desire to hear him less obvious, the boy spoke first. "What are you doing in Baneberry, sir? If I may ask."

"Finn. My name's Finn. Don't – please don't call me Sir. I'm probably not too much older than you" I said into the distance between us that seemed palpable now. Frankly, I was never one for words. I hated conversation, socializing even more so. I always stood back and observed whilst my brothers and sister did all the charming and pleasantries. There was only so much false plastic I could wrap around myself before it began to eat into my flesh.

The boy nodded in front of me and I saw his cheeks redden. I wanted to think it wasn't from the cold, but I knew it was.

"I just needed... needed some space to think." I finally answered.

"Have you come here to die?" The voice was a bare whisper against the enveloping dark. It sounded stark and cold, with nothing in offer linked to safety. Yet, it brought me comfort of great proportions.

I didn't say anything. I couldn't take my eyes away from the way his lips moved. How it molded around each word that came out of his mouth. I felt warm thoughts flood my mind. Thoughts I usually kept for the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep at home. Thoughts that helped me escape from a present I hated. I imagined his mouth on other places.

Like clockwork, the boy shifted on his feet and licked his lips, his body letting me know he was uncomfortable at me looking so closely at him. I forced my eyes away and focused on a spot on the ground.

My father's voice rang in between my ears. Faggot.

I was never a violent person. I never thought an act of violence was justified. Had every regent, general and commanding officer sat down and gone about creating a new way to peace, decades of bloodshed, warfare and persecution could have been halted. Yet, the one and only time I ever could see myself hurting someone is punching whoever made that fucking word in the first place.

"I think you ought to go home... Finn"

I raised my head at the sound of my name from his voice. I wanted to hear him say it again, I wanted to hear him say more.

"I don't actually know where that is for today." I shrugged before moving my body around. Maneuvering myself to sit back down on the pavement. If sleeping in the cold and suffering from frostbite, starvation and a possible assassination through the night meant not having to enter that manor for as long as possible. So be it.

"N-no, don't... You'll just... You're going to get jumped. By the morning, everything including your bloody socks will be taken off you" his voice came out rushed, like he didn't know who he was trying to convince.

"Well unless you have a spare room, that will just have to be it" I was too tired to argue with anyone. I was too hungry to stay on my feet anymore. I needed to shut my eyes and just temporarily stop the pain. All of it.

I heard the boy sigh frustratingly and move around in his feet. I saw him head back before hearing all footsteps halt. I heard them retreat and come closer to me.

"How much money do you 'ave on you?"