𝐼𝐼 𝔦𝔫 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔫𝔦𝔰 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔞𝔰

Pale sunlight put an unfortunate end to Valentine’s tea party with a doe and a dog. One by one, Rhys pulled open golden curtains and stirred awake his slumbering lord without needing to verbally argue with the normal repetition of “five more minutes.” By the time Rhys made it to Valentine’s bedside to pour him his morning drink, Valentine was sitting in his mountain of pillows and reading his ironed paper. 

“You’re eager to face the day,” Rhys said. The butler’s graceful movements pouring his coffee used to enthrall Valentine. The younger man would stare with feigned interest solely on the coffee and whisk the steaming drink away the moment it was presented, yet his eyes would linger on Rhys’ gloved hands a heartbeat longer than necessary. Presently, when Rhys glanced over at Valentine, those disinterested stormy eyes dragged over the daily news. 

“Or rather…” The coffee was set by Valentine’s side, and when he reached for it, Rhys drew it back. The sharp glare Valentine threw at the butler was as he desired, if it meant getting the young man’s attention. “You’re dreading it.”

“How astute of you, give me my fucking coffee,” Valentine demanded.

Rhys obliged, but not without a calm, “language, my lord.” 

"Whatever, spare me the sermon, did you get what I asked for or not?” the young man asked before taking a needed sip. The newspaper was set aside for the more interesting read Rhys swiped from the tea cart. A guestlist of who would be attending Adam’s party.

“That was quick. I didn’t think you could do it,” admitted Valentine, but before Rhys had the opportunity to wonder if he was being complimented, the full cup was set back on the cart. “Remake that pot, it’s disgusting.”

What was worse than dealing with Valentine before his coffee? That was simple. Dealing with a Valentine picky about his coffee. 

“You were the one to ask me for a list, my lord. I don't know why you continue to doubt me,” Rhys’ offended hand came to his chest. 

Valentine’s languid gaze rolled over the names on the front page, all written in Rhys’ perfect handwriting. “Yes, but that was last night. What, did you sprint all of the way to Mr. Sterling’s estate in the middle of the night just to procure it?”

“How did you know?” Rhys' hands settled on the tea cart’s metal handle when he softly gasped. 

At first, Valentine only rolled his eyes. 

“Did you witness my departure through your window?” Rhys asked, his steps towards the door were slow. About as slow as Valentine was to realize Rhys' repetition meant he may have not been joking. 

“You are not serious,” the young man gawked. The list landed in his lap when he sat upright. Rhys kept eye contact with his owlish stare, until it broke when Rhys’ polite grin spread over his thin lips. 

“No, we have a telephone for a reason, my lord,” Valentine’s weak throwing arm was fortunate for Rhys, he didn't have to try and dodge the pillow flung at him and could calmly walk out of the room to prepare a fresh pot of coffee. The pillow fell short and flopped sorrily on the floor, a disgraced weapon Valentine all but glared at. 

Annoying as Rhys was, he had done Valentine a favour. That anger briefly reprieved his mind of this upcoming evening. Four days ago, Valentine had come to a decision. He ordered Rhys to respond to the invitation confirming their attendance. It meant Adam was changing his mind about what he expected of Valentine, and despite how badly Valentine wanted to ignore it, reality wasn't so sweet. 

It did him no good to get lost in the perpetual labyrinth of “what ifs”. He could go on and on, walking until the dirtpath of the labyrinth was worn down and he was tripping on roots. Every morning since then he woke up earlier and earlier, instead of sleeping in like the nocturnal creature he was, just to get lost in possibilities. Most people would be thrilled to receive an invitation from the beloved Monsignor. Even the nonreligious would find something good about the occasion. 

The lavish evening promised her attendees a decadent feast that nearly had the table under it buckling. It would not lack in flavor, as the chefs asked to curate the menu were located in the nearest multicultural city, Strathmore. The abundance of it was almost sickening. Servants would wander the grand room with crystal flutes of sparkling champagne, or glasses of wine for the taking. Between the murmur of gossip, laughter, and polite chatter would be the orchestra’s song, breathing life into the couples who decided to waltz. It would be a merry celebration for the holy holiday season. The annual spectacle always was. 

So Valentine tried—in an attempt to find any crumb of comfort—to do what most people would do.

A single plate was all Valentine could stomach, but if he hungered for delicacies, all he had to do was tell Rhys and the butler would have his cravings satisfied. What was more grotesque than the scent of so much food mixing with the cloud of perfume emanating from men and women alike, was that of alcohol. Wine left his stomach queasy. Valentine would much rather make his violin weep than endure another’s performance. And dancing—good Heavens do not get him started on dancing.

At the very least, he could engage in conversation with someone other than Rhys. The carriage ride to Adam’s manor, clear on the other side of Manestelladen, would no doubt be pleasant. They would have to go through the countryside, and the city to reach it, so there would be much to see. Much of the journey would be in silence, other than the ambiance of carriage wheels, and hooves thudding against frozen ground. It would give him the space to think about everything and nothing as the world passed him by through the carriage glass. Valentine had grown used to the estate’s perpetual stillness and Rhys’ endless presence. He knew he had gone mad when 60 days in, around bedtime, instead of counting sheep he tallied how many of Rhys’ footsteps he could hear, starting outside his bedroom door, until the butler was too far away. 

This new life of his had settled into his bones and getting out for one night would remind him there was a world beyond the estate, his butler, and secondhand words in a newspaper. It would be beneficial for his mentality in the long run, even if in the moment it caused him great headaches. Valentine understood that. 

Yet when he read the names of strangers he would be seeing later tonight, picturing what Florence Frideswide Eyston, or Lourenço de Faro may look like, a venomous snake wrapped around his intestines and stomach, constricted cruelly until the flesh became one lump and delightfully cackled as it sunk in its fangs. First, there would be nausea. His frantic heart thought it could outrun the venom—yet it foolishly spread it into every vein faster, not fast enough to avoid an excruciating, clammy, demise.

“Do you need help understanding my writing?” Rhys’ voice sent shivers slithering up Valentine’s left side. The butler swiftly raised the pot and cup he was pouring for Valentine, out of the trajectory of Valentine’s frightened back hand. It was an instinct meant to protect him from creepy crawlers, ghouls, and his sneaky butler, apparently.

There was a drip that echoed in the silent room. The last droplet of coffee from the pot spout caused ripples that weren't left long enough to still. It was a miracle not a splash spilled over the cup’s edge when Valentine hurriedly took it. 

“I can read it perfectly well,” he mumbled against the gilded china. For the benefit of both men’s sanity, Rhys didn't interrupt Valentine’s morning drink any longer. He simply took the abandoned newspaper and went on to finish breakfast preparations. He had brioche cooling, and after he checked his pocketwatch, Rhys’ return to the kitchen was not done in haste. 

 Not every name on the list was a complete stranger, like Augustine Prowd Silius, his wife, and his daughter. The Silius family was one he grew up with. They had a girl his age, Mable, that was invited over to his family’s estate for garden parties. It was around the same time Valentine’s family, and the Silius family, began being invited to the Monsignor’s parties. Moon In-ho was written not much further down. As of late he had opened a new boutique in Manestelladen. Valentine only knew his name because it had been published non-stop in the papers.  Azra Kartal, she was a reporter in the papers. Lijsbet Heermale, he had read her name in today’s paper, but for what slipped his mind. 

Once the list was cluttered by names his bitter tongue remembered from church, the offending list was flicked aside. It disappeared over the edge of his bed and perfectly fluttered under the skirt for Rhys to deal with later. With nothing to read, Valentine was forced to watch grim clouds out his windows for entertainment while finishing off his drink. He had a rule to not leave his bed until his coffee cup was empty. 

⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰

The braided brioche had a glossy top, and a satisfying bounce as he sliced off four pieces, perfectly measured to Valentine's preference. The younger man’s complaints over thicker slices of bread not being able to fit comfortably in his mouth got a comment out of Rhys once. 

“My lord. Have you ever thought about simply opening your mouth wider?” Rhys had inquired.  He had expected the kittenish glare from the younger man, he even expected some sort of saucy retort. Instead, the french toast Rhys put his morning into making was flipped off of the table. Splattering cream, maple syrup, and berries not only the hand-knotted wool rug it fell face first into, but on the walnut of the surrounding table and chairs. To top off Valentine's masterpiece—he poured the rest of his coffee on the bottom of the plate. 

If cleaning up after the brat had been the end of it, Rhys’ playful comments would've continued. Have you considered cutting up your food more? Might I suggest my lord consider… how about… But it went beyond a mess and into a stubborn fasting strike. Unfortunately, his duties required Valentine to eat, and forcing food down the young man’s throat grew tiresome. So Rhys held his tongue and complied.

Another thing he held his tongue over was his master’s choice in attire for breakfast. As Rhys set the table with a fresh cup and saucer, and Valentine’s serving of stuffed french toast, he lifted his eyes to briefly watch the shorter man lazily padding into the dining room, still in his frilly sleeping gown. 

Once again, it was something Rhys had attempted to fight against. But Valentine insisted, and would instead strip to bare nothingness to eat breakfast if Rhys so much as glanced at it disapprovingly. 

“Where did you put today's paper?” Valentine sat down at the head of the table and kept his hands out of the way for Rhys to lay the napkin down in his lap. 

“It’s been used as kindling, my lord. I presumed you were finished with it.” 

“I was… never mind that. Does the name Lijsbet Heermale ring any bells?” Valentine wondered and gazed upon the cream cheese and strawberry filled, pillowy french toast, topped in berry compote, slices of strawberry, and piped rosettes of cream, drenched in syrup, then dusted with powdered sugar, staged perfectly with not a speck on the rim of the Royal Albert Berkeley plate. It was one of Valentine's least favourite sets in this manor. They had one with blue roses on it he liked better. 

Rhys poured him another cup of rich coffee as he spoke, “I remember writing the name.” That’s right, Rhys wasn’t required to answer Valentine’s inquiries. Especially when it pertained to Monsignor Adam Sterling and his company, his business, or his anything. It was a miracle he even got Valentine a list. He should've been thankful for what he got, rather than asking for more. 

Valentine hummed lowly in response as his fork plunged into one of the strawberry slices.

“Did seeing who would be attentending help calm your worries?” Rhys asked next, with his hands behind his properly straight back. 

“Not at all,” Valentine sharply exhaled. The fork complained at the way Valentine’s teeth chomped down on its tines, just to bite off a single strawberry. With the same attitude, Valentine started working on the rest of his breakfast. After every creamy, fruity, soft bite of french toast, the impolite sawing and stabbing with his cutlery lessened into the refined, gentlemanly way of eating he had been trained to do. Such sugary goodness had a way of influencing even the foulest of moods.

“Perhaps your spirits will improve, once you’ve seen the evening attire that arrived for you this morning–courtesy of Monsignor Adam Sterling.” 

The butler allowed himself a grin at the younger man’s doubtful grunt mid-chew.