“How much?”

The voice was rough and impatient, spoken as though the question were about grain or livestock, not a living thing. 

Madam Lucinda didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she studied the child. She noticed the way his chest barely rose, the blue shadow beneath his eyes, and the fragile insistence of his breathing. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, yet sharp. 

“My, my,” Lucinda replied. “How bold of you to come here and demand payment. And for what, exactly?” She paused. “What am I meant to do with him? He can’t be more than seven. He’ll be lucky to make it through the night.” 

Cain drifted beneath their voices, suspended in a half-dream. Words didn’t quite reach him, but warmth did. He remembered warmth. The stranger’s arms, which he had nestled into, were firm and unfamiliar, but they had held him upright when his legs could not. That warmth lingered even after he was set down, replaced by the fire’s gentle breath against his face. 

It was enough. 

His body, so used to cold, loosened its grip on waking.

He slept. 

“Word travels, Madam,” the man said. “You take in strays. Everyone knows that.” His gaze lingered too long. “This one will be something special. Train him young, and he’ll run this place one day. Think about it.” 

Lucinda’s voice hardened. “You speak of him as if he’s an animal. He’s a child! If you have any decency left, you’ll help me find who he belongs to.” 

The man scoffed. “Look at him. You think anyone’s coming back for that?” A shrug. “I speak of him like an opportunity. There are men out there who would ruin themselves for a beauty like that… once it learns how to behave. A few years of shaping, a little discipline here and there. Think of it as an investment. Whatever you spend tonight, you’ll earn back tenfold.” 

The fire crackled. 

Cain stirred.

A small sound escaped him. 

Lucinda closed her eyes. 

When she opened them again, she reached for the key to unlock her chest. 

The man left richer than he arrived. 

The physicians came in the days that followed, their hands smelling of alcohol and smoke. Pneumonia clung to him stubbornly, dragging him under again and again. Cain floated between fever and silence, between breath and the edge of it. Attendants fed him broth by the spoonful, wiped his mouth, and whispered words of encouragement he couldn’t understand. 

Weeks passed like this. 

Colour eventually returned to his face, and his ribs retreated beneath his skin. His breathing evened. Life crept back into him, inch by inch. 

Cain believed this was mercy. 

To him, it felt like being born a second time, into a world where flowers bloomed in courtyards, and sunrise didn’t mean another body to step over. 

He slept in a warm bed now.

He ate fresh bread. 

And learned to smile again. 

Two years passed the way they often did for children: swiftly, and without ceremony. 

One day, Cain was eight, and then suddenly he was ten, rooted firmly within the walls of the Praecia Veil, truly convinced that he had been given a good life. 

Perhaps it was meant as recompense for all that had nearly killed him before. Or perhaps Madam Lucinda simply found him… promising. Whatever the reason, it was clear that she truly favoured him. She rarely lingered with the young women who lived beneath her roof, yet she hovered around Cain with attentive precision. 

Physicians were summoned at the slightest cough. Meals were tailored to his taste and constitution. Private tutors were brought in who spoke softly and treated him as though he were something precious, something worth shaping. 

Cain didn’t question the kindness. Why would he? 

His days soon fell into a rhythm so consistent it felt sacred. 

After breakfast, an attendant would escort him to the east wing, into a room that drank in the morning sun. Light spilled across marble floors and caught on gilt frames, on sculptures carved from stone that felt cold and important beneath his fingertips. Even Cain, who knew nothing of art at this age, understood instinctively that these things were valuable. 

Save for this, the room itself was almost bare, furnished with only what was deemed necessary. There were no toys, no clutter, nothing that encouraged idleness. 

This was where his first lesson began. 

Music. 

 For hours each morning, Cain practised the violin. His small fingers stretched and strained against the strings until they burned and trembled. At first, he complained when the pain grew sharp, when his wrists began to ache, and his fingertips blistered. The complaints were met with gentle smiles and firm encouragement. Pain, he was told, was proof of effort. 

Beauty demands endurance. 

It didn’t take long before he stopped complaining at all. 

After music came etiquette. 

Another tutor, with another set of rules. 

Cain learned how to hold himself, how to walk without sound, and how to speak so that each word landed softly and correctly. He was taught how to pour tea without spilling a drop, and how to serve a meal with lowered eyes and perfect posture. This was his least favourite lesson, though he never let it show. 

He didn’t understand why these things mattered, but assumed they must. 

Perhaps this was simply how refined people lived. 

Perhaps this was what being safe looked like. 

After lunch, Cain helped the attendants prepare the house. He cleaned, polished, and rearranged, moving through the grand hall, which was far too large for someone his size. Madam had once taught him that the devil will find work for idle hands to do, and Cain took this to heart. 

He worked diligently, eager to be useful, eager to belong. 

And then, at 5:00pm each evening, he was escorted upstairs. 

The older girls were preparing for work. 

They taught him how to braid hair with deft, practised fingers. They guided his hands as he learned how to apply powder and paint lips. They taught him the right colours to use for softening facial features. 

Cain listened carefully, nodded earnestly, and did exactly as he was told. He didn’t understand why these lessons were meant for him, but he trusted they were important. 

After all, everyone here was so kind. 

༻𐫱༺

By the time Cain turned twelve, he had begun to bloom. The word they used was “radiant.” 

A careful sort of beauty had settled into him. He’d learned when to speak and when to stay silent, how to laugh softly at jokes even when he didn’t understand them, and how to meet another’s gaze just long enough to seem attentive without ever appearing bold. His body was still small, but his cheeks had filled with a gentle rose beneath skin pale and smooth as polished jade. 

Madam ensured it stayed that way. 

Cain was rarely permitted outdoors. 

Too much sun, she explained kindly, would damage the skin. Still, in her generosity, she allowed him a daily walk through the courtyard each morning under the careful watch of an attendant. Fresh air, after all, was good for the constitution. 

And when Spring came, an art tutor joined him outside in the afternoons, teaching him how to paint flowers as they bloomed; how to capture softness, fragility, and colour before it wilted. 

Cain adored those lessons. 

He adored Madam, too.

༻𐫱༺

“Cain, sweetheart,” Madam cooed. “How was your day?” 

“It was wonderful, thank you for asking, Madam,” Cain replied at once. “How was yours?” 

She smiled, indulgent. “Oh, there’s no need for pleasantries between us, darling.” 

She studied him for a moment, then, the way one might assess a finished piece of work. 

“You’ve been doing exceptionally well with your lessons lately,” she continued. “So well, in fact, that I thought I might invite you to begin working alongside me.” 

Cain blinked. “Oh… I wouldn’t know what to do.” 

“Nonsense,” she said lightly. “You already know everything you need. Exactly as I’ve taught you.” Her hand rested briefly on his shoulder. “I couldn’t be prouder to show you off to everyone. You’re such a radiant young boy, and this is a wonderful opportunity.” 

He felt his chest swell at the praise. 

“Oh.. well… what would that involve, Madam?” he asked carefully. 

“As a reward for your hard work,” she said, “you won’t need to assist the help anymore. You can sleep in, begin your lessons at 10:00am, and once you’re finished, you’ll rest before work begins at 5:00pm. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Cain’s eyes shone. 

“I… I think I’d like that a lot. Thank you, Madam. Really.” 

“Good boy,” Lucinda said warmly. “The girls will help you get ready for your first shift. Make me proud tonight.” 

༻𐫱༺

Cain descended the spiral staircase for the first time.

The older girls were kind; so kind that it eased the knot in his stomach. They brushed his hair, powdered his skin, and straightened the clothes Madam had chosen so carefully for him. They told him how lovely he looked. How lucky he was. 

He was nervous. 

But at least he wasn’t alone.

Lucinda had paired him with a girl only a few years older than him, 16, maybe. She was soft-spoken, polite, and patient. She guided him as he balanced the tray on his arm and gave him gentle reminders about keeping his shoulders straight. She had him copy her as she moved through the room as though she belonged there without ever demanding to be noticed. 

“Slowly,” she murmured the first time his hands shook. “They’ll wait for you, it’s okay.” 

Cain nodded and followed her lead, weaving between velvet chairs and low laughter. The room smelled of wine and perfume and warm candlewax. Every step felt watched, but not unkindly. 

A gentleman smiled as Cain set a glass before him. 

“Well done,” he said. “Such good manners. You must have been raised beautifully.” 

Cain flushed, ducking his head. “Thank you, sir.” 

Another voice chimed in as he passed. “What a pretty little thing. Don’t you just brighten the room?”

He didn’t know how to answer that yet, so he smiled the way he’d been taught. 

“That’s it,” the girl whispered as they crossed the floor together. “You don’t need to say much. Just let them feel seen.” 

Cain glanced at her, uncertain. “What… if they ask my name?” 

She hesitated for just a moment. “Then you give them whichever one feels safest.” 

The patrons smiled back at him pleasantly. They praised his posture, his grace, and the way he moved as though he’d always known where he belonged.

Cain glowed beneath the attention. 

At the end of the night, Madam praised him. 

And Cain went to bed believing he had done something good. Something worthy.

From that day on, he studied even harder. He practised longer. He smiled brighter.

Life, he thought, had finally decided to be kind to him. 

༻𐫱༺

In the Keeping of Hermes: Beyond his role as the divine messenger, Hermes functioned as the ultimate intermediary. Whether protecting children, guiding travellers, or escorting souls to the underworld, his influence suggested a unique form of 'temporary custodianship.' 

The devil will find work for idle hands to do” - Idle hands are the devil’s workshop (Proverbs 16:27-29). This particular phrasing, however, is taken from The Smiths song ‘What Difference Does It Make?’ 

P.S love that song, but Fuck Morrissey x