Velvet Petals, Piercing Thorns - Chapter Twelve, Part Two
Title: Velvet Petals, Piercing Thorns - Chapter Twelve (Prologue+12/?)
Media: Fic
Author: a_glass_parade
Beta: mothergoddamn
Rating: Rated R
Pairing: Klaine endgame, bumps along the way.
Genre: Romance, AU, Historical Fiction
Warnings: This is essentially a romance novel set in a violent time. There will be, throughout the story, the following: sexual liaisons, murder, torture, sexual blackmail, and political incorrectness.
Spoilers: While events and references from both seasons of Glee (which is not mine and never has been) may be adapted and worked into the story occasionally, it's otherwise fully AU.
Word Count: Story: 67,000+ This Chapter: 5900+
Summary: England, 1485: The forces of Lancaster see Edward Blaine Anderson, Viscount Dalton, as key to their plans to retake and hold the throne of England. Allies of the House of York have come to the same conclusion and want to stop that from happening. Their secret weapon will be Kurt Hummel, stableman's son and reluctant spy.
Additional Notes: This is written in the vein of your typical historical romance novel with all the historical liberties taken that you'd expect. I do try to be as historically accurate as is feasible, though. There are some historical and some original characters that interact with the characters we know. If you haven't read any of this before, you can start HERE to read it on LJ or HERE to start it on AO3.
The ease that had fallen between them on the first day Kurt had arrived at Dalton was returning, and he felt a knot uncoil in his chest. All was not lost. All was still quite confusing and he wasn't sure how to fumble things back into the direction that had seemed so promising when Blaine was kissing him, but it was, at the very least, not lost. He breathed in, the action feeling easier than it had in days.
Quite apart from wanting to kiss Blaine for reasons unrelated to his mission, the mission was still there, along with the indelible mental image of his father being tortured by Jesse St. James.
Kurt realized Blaine was staring at him, that he hadn't responded to his statement. “I wouldn't mind helping take that off of you,” he offered, then realized what he'd said. His cheeks flamed a brilliant pink as Blaine threw his head back and laughed, loud and joyous and warm.
“I cannot tell you, Florian, how glad I am that I am not the only one who makes thoughtless innuendos.”
“They sound better coming from you,” Kurt mumbled, feeling like a gangly boy in a way he hadn't done in years. It didn't help that Blaine was simply dressed in boots, hose, and a loose shirt that was damp with sweat from his practice session, causing it to cling to his body in ways Kurt found deeply interesting.
“I would debate that.” Blaine stripped off the last shin guard and racked it, picking up the towel and walking over to Kurt. “Come, let's gather some snow and get it on that arm. I'm sure it's already tightening up.”
“A bit,” Kurt admitted. “Do you suppose Miss Pillsbury has some sort of poultice that I could apply?”
“Undoubtedly. And since you helped her clean the rug and you don't terrorize her as I do, she will probably even make it up for you.” Blaine smiled, a touch of guilt there. “I'm afraid she finds me quite difficult.”
“I cannot imagine where she might have gotten that notion, my lord,” Kurt drawled, dry as bone. “Surely all of the most dignified nobles go around dumping snow down ladies' dresses.”
“A fair hit.” Blaine unbarred the salle door and held it open for Kurt before following him out and closing it up behind him. “Here, there's a bench by this door. Sit. We won't be out here long.”
Kurt perched on the edge of the cold stone bench, watching as Blaine scooped snow into the cloth. Deftly, he twisted the bundle shut and tied it off, beckoning for Kurt to follow him into the manor.
“We'll go to my study. There's a fire in there and no one will disturb us while I tend to you.”
They slipped their boots off at the door, pulling on slippers and shuffling in companionable silence through the corridors. Before long, they'd arrived in the study, where true to Blaine's word a merry fire was indeed blazing away. “Here,” the Viscount murmured, gently guiding Kurt to his desk. “Lean here.”
He did, while at the same time trying to fumble with the lacing on his doublet. It was difficult with only one good hand to use - his injured arm was stiffening and aching more by the moment, and whenever he bent it, lines of pain shot through it. He was so intent on his work that it startled him when Blaine's hands covered his.
“Let me,” he said quietly, only a small hitch in his voice. He tugged Kurt's hands away and loosened the laces carefully. When he took the open lapels and tried to ease it down, however, a groan of torment escaped from Kurt's lips. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry!”
“It's all right.” Kurt clamped his lips together and tried to breathe in and out, deep calming breaths. “I think we're going to have to work together so that you pull it off of me quickly.”
“I don't want to hurt you more - “ Blaine was uncertain, his fingers frozen around the fabric that he held.
“Well, that compress is no good through a padded doublet, so Blaine, please, just - just please, take this off before the damn snow melts.” Kurt bit his lip and took one more deep breath to steel himself before Blaine yanked the doublet down his arms, causing a wildfire of agony that made him want to scream. With effort, he held back.
“Are you sure it's not broken?”
“Quite. I wouldn't be able to move my arm if it were.” Kurt flexed the protesting limb, feeling his face flush white as it throbbed.
“You can't really move it now,” Blaine pointed out, moving forward to try and roll up his shirt sleeve.
“I can, I simply don't want to,” Kurt corrected, peering over to see if he could see how terrible the damage was. The livid edges of a long bruise showed from beneath the rolled up shirt cuff, violent red and purple. Blaine tried to push up the sleeve further, eliciting another pained whine from Kurt, and then shook his head.
“It's no good,” he said, stepping back with an inscrutable look in his eyes. “You...ah...you...your shirt. It...it will have to come off.”
One, two, three deep breaths. Could this get any more awkward and difficult? Kurt closed his eyes. “All right. Let me just - ” He slowly eased the sleeve back down and worked his injured arm out of it, biting back whimpers and blinking back tears. “There. I'll need you to help get it off the rest of the way.” His face went back to burning apple red, a tone he could see matched on Blaine.
“Let's just - I'll just pull it right off, quickly, as I did with the doublet. Is that all right?”
“Do it before we die of embarrassment, Blaine.”
“Right. Right.” Now it was Blaine taking the deep breath, just before he seized the shirt hem and dragged it up and off over Kurt's head, tugging the other sleeve away from his arm.
The first place their eyes both went was to the injured area, and both of them sucked in hissing air at the sight of it. The weighted wooden sword had landed a solid blow across Kurt's upper arm and shoulder, raising a large bruise the color of blood and twilight there. It looked quite precisely as painful as it felt, and Kurt saw Blaine's eyes sheen with tears at the sight of it.
“Florian, I am so awfully sorry, I truly, truly am.” The words tumbled from Blaine's mouth in a rush as he grabbed at the compress, laying it against the bruise as gently as he could. “I don't know how I can make it up to you.”
“You can stop apologizing.” Kurt's voice was heavy with weariness. He was quite certain that no one anywhere apologized quite as much as did Blaine Anderson. “I know you didn't mean to do it, Blaine, and I appreciate you helping me.”
“Even if I had to strip your clothing off to do it?” Blaine's tone was teasing, but when Kurt met his eyes, they were that melting honey-hazel again, the shade that Kurt was already coming to recognize as the color of Blaine's desire.
He swallowed. “I don't mind.” Really, I really, really do not. “I wouldn't let you take my clothes off if I minded it.”
Watching Blaine turn even more red - something Kurt hadn't thought possible - was entertaining, endearing, and arousing, and Kurt vowed to keep going with the boldness he was digging from some hidden inner well of confidence he'd never known he had. It seemed to be the best approach to take in order to attract the man.
But every moment that passed between them made it more difficult for Kurt to remember that he had a purpose in doing this, a purpose that had nothing to do with his heart, which was getting ever more troublesomely involved.
~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~
For his own part, Blaine was standing in a roil of confusion, desire, responsibility, guilt, and worry as he held the compress to Florian's arm. He was trying very hard not to stare at the smooth, well muscled chest before him, trying not to clutch at the sculpted muscles of the arm he held. He was absolutely trying not to wonder what the rest of Florian looked like unclothed, and how he could manage to arrange to see it.
The sickening thump his sword had made against Florian's only lightly protected arm still echoed in his ears. He could still see, in his mind's eye, the wide, stricken eyes as the man tumbled to the ground, grabbing at his arm and letting go with a thready hiss of pain as soon as he'd made contact with the injury.
“I'm sor-” Remembering Florian's admonition, he stopped and shook his head. “You're lucky your doublet was padded. I think your arm would have been broken otherwise.”
“Perhaps.” Florian shrugged, very lightly. “I should have counted the cost a small one in the service of forcing you to speak to me again.”
“But why?” Blaine hoped the singer would be able to better articulate their confusing attraction to each other. “You don't even know me very well, nor I you.”
“It doesn't seem to matter,” Florian replied, keeping his eyes cast down. “I've been drawn to you since the first day. I didn't expect it and I'm sure you can guess from my previously kissless state that I'm not at all sure what to do with it.” He peered up from under his long lashes and smiled sweetly at Blaine, who felt as if his heart would stop. “But I do not oppose it.”
Blaine pressed the melting compress closer, tracing his fingers around the bare skin above and below it. “I seem to care a great deal about you already, Florian. I do not wish to harm that.”
A ghost of something unreadable flashed through Florian's eyes before he spoke again. “You do not strike me as a man who is afraid to take chances.”
Blaine could not stop a surprised chuckle from emerging. “You're quite bold and insightful for someone who had not been kissed before a few days ago.”
“I have lately come to the conclusion that being shy and retiring is a potentially fatal course of action,” was the surprising and wry reply. “If one wishes to accomplish something, then one must just do that - but if it makes you feel better, I do die a little of embarrassment on the inside to do it.”
“Ah, and so the angel proves himself to be human after all.” Blaine's voice was teasing, but then he froze as he realized what he'd just allowed to slip.
Florian met his eyes with an astonished gaze. “Angel? I'm no angel. Far from.” His laugh was a slightly bitter cluster of broken musical notes. “I'm merely a music teacher who once upon a time was a stableman. I could not be more human if I tried.”
Blaine fiddled with the edges of the damp cloth in his hands before removing it from Florian's arm and taking it to hang on the fire grate to dry. With his back still turned away from the other man, he murmured softly, “I think you're beautiful. You seem otherworldly. Sometimes when I see you out walking with Amelia, I think that you should have wings, that you're not of this world and never have been.”
He was surprised to feel hands on his shoulders, turning him around - once again, he hadn't heard Florian walking up behind him. The singer's eyes were a clear leaf green, the color of the spring that was soon to come to England. Blaine felt his hands gathered up in Florian's slender fingers, watched as he pulled them up to his lips and planted a soft kiss to the knuckles. He said nothing.
In that moment, Blaine changed his decision - choosing the option that was for himself and only himself. He wanted this beautiful, enigmatic man, who had made it clear that he did not oppose being wanted by Blaine. He wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to take him to his bed and make him whimper and moan. He wanted to see in reality everything he had experienced in his dreams.
Pushing away all of the long-ago objections from people who were not him, putting himself first for once - he wanted this. He would have it. They would be discreet, Blaine was older now and knew better how he could keep this secret and safe.
He could serve himself as well as his country. No one need know.
Blaine gently extracted his fingers and reached up to cup Florian's jaw with them, skimming his thumbs over those high cheekbones, watching in fascination as spots of pink rose on each one. Slowly, never breaking eye contact with those eyes of spring, he leaned in and softly, sweetly pressed his lips to Florian's in a kiss that was much more gentle than their first, but was devoid of not a single drop of desire.
Pulling back, he gazed deep into Florian's eyes, marveling at the wonder there. He moved one hand down to catch at the hand of the man's uninjured arm, keeping the other one touching that marvelous face. “There,” he managed to get out without his voice cracking. “That's how your first kiss should have been.”
Florian's heartbreakingly sweet smile made his heart sing. “Are you willing to show me how the second one should go?” he asked with playful hope in his voice.
“If you will have dinner with me in my rooms this night,” Blaine offered with his own smile, “I think I could be persuaded to provide a demonstration, yes.” He looked at Florian's bruised arm, the smile quickly becoming a worried frown. “But first, you truly must go see Emma for a poultice. I don't want to be afraid to touch you and hurt you.”
“We cannot have that.” Florian made his way back to the desk and picked up his shirt. “Help me dress?”
“It would be both a pleasure and a curse,” Blaine replied with a new grin as he joined the man and moved to assist him.
So intent were they on their task that they did not realize that Thad had been surreptitiously watching from the corridor for several moments, jealousy and agony twisting his face into an unrecognizable mask. With a whispered oath, he made his way quietly away, wondering what he could do to drive this troublesome singer away from Dalton House.
...Chapter Thirteen...
Media: Fic
Author: a_glass_parade
Beta: mothergoddamn
Rating: Rated R
Pairing: Klaine endgame, bumps along the way.
Genre: Romance, AU, Historical Fiction
Warnings: This is essentially a romance novel set in a violent time. There will be, throughout the story, the following: sexual liaisons, murder, torture, sexual blackmail, and political incorrectness.
Spoilers: While events and references from both seasons of Glee (which is not mine and never has been) may be adapted and worked into the story occasionally, it's otherwise fully AU.
Word Count: Story: 67,000+ This Chapter: 5900+
Summary: England, 1485: The forces of Lancaster see Edward Blaine Anderson, Viscount Dalton, as key to their plans to retake and hold the throne of England. Allies of the House of York have come to the same conclusion and want to stop that from happening. Their secret weapon will be Kurt Hummel, stableman's son and reluctant spy.
Additional Notes: This is written in the vein of your typical historical romance novel with all the historical liberties taken that you'd expect. I do try to be as historically accurate as is feasible, though. There are some historical and some original characters that interact with the characters we know. If you haven't read any of this before, you can start HERE to read it on LJ or HERE to start it on AO3.
The ease that had fallen between them on the first day Kurt had arrived at Dalton was returning, and he felt a knot uncoil in his chest. All was not lost. All was still quite confusing and he wasn't sure how to fumble things back into the direction that had seemed so promising when Blaine was kissing him, but it was, at the very least, not lost. He breathed in, the action feeling easier than it had in days.
Quite apart from wanting to kiss Blaine for reasons unrelated to his mission, the mission was still there, along with the indelible mental image of his father being tortured by Jesse St. James.
Kurt realized Blaine was staring at him, that he hadn't responded to his statement. “I wouldn't mind helping take that off of you,” he offered, then realized what he'd said. His cheeks flamed a brilliant pink as Blaine threw his head back and laughed, loud and joyous and warm.
“I cannot tell you, Florian, how glad I am that I am not the only one who makes thoughtless innuendos.”
“They sound better coming from you,” Kurt mumbled, feeling like a gangly boy in a way he hadn't done in years. It didn't help that Blaine was simply dressed in boots, hose, and a loose shirt that was damp with sweat from his practice session, causing it to cling to his body in ways Kurt found deeply interesting.
“I would debate that.” Blaine stripped off the last shin guard and racked it, picking up the towel and walking over to Kurt. “Come, let's gather some snow and get it on that arm. I'm sure it's already tightening up.”
“A bit,” Kurt admitted. “Do you suppose Miss Pillsbury has some sort of poultice that I could apply?”
“Undoubtedly. And since you helped her clean the rug and you don't terrorize her as I do, she will probably even make it up for you.” Blaine smiled, a touch of guilt there. “I'm afraid she finds me quite difficult.”
“I cannot imagine where she might have gotten that notion, my lord,” Kurt drawled, dry as bone. “Surely all of the most dignified nobles go around dumping snow down ladies' dresses.”
“A fair hit.” Blaine unbarred the salle door and held it open for Kurt before following him out and closing it up behind him. “Here, there's a bench by this door. Sit. We won't be out here long.”
Kurt perched on the edge of the cold stone bench, watching as Blaine scooped snow into the cloth. Deftly, he twisted the bundle shut and tied it off, beckoning for Kurt to follow him into the manor.
“We'll go to my study. There's a fire in there and no one will disturb us while I tend to you.”
They slipped their boots off at the door, pulling on slippers and shuffling in companionable silence through the corridors. Before long, they'd arrived in the study, where true to Blaine's word a merry fire was indeed blazing away. “Here,” the Viscount murmured, gently guiding Kurt to his desk. “Lean here.”
He did, while at the same time trying to fumble with the lacing on his doublet. It was difficult with only one good hand to use - his injured arm was stiffening and aching more by the moment, and whenever he bent it, lines of pain shot through it. He was so intent on his work that it startled him when Blaine's hands covered his.
“Let me,” he said quietly, only a small hitch in his voice. He tugged Kurt's hands away and loosened the laces carefully. When he took the open lapels and tried to ease it down, however, a groan of torment escaped from Kurt's lips. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry!”
“It's all right.” Kurt clamped his lips together and tried to breathe in and out, deep calming breaths. “I think we're going to have to work together so that you pull it off of me quickly.”
“I don't want to hurt you more - “ Blaine was uncertain, his fingers frozen around the fabric that he held.
“Well, that compress is no good through a padded doublet, so Blaine, please, just - just please, take this off before the damn snow melts.” Kurt bit his lip and took one more deep breath to steel himself before Blaine yanked the doublet down his arms, causing a wildfire of agony that made him want to scream. With effort, he held back.
“Are you sure it's not broken?”
“Quite. I wouldn't be able to move my arm if it were.” Kurt flexed the protesting limb, feeling his face flush white as it throbbed.
“You can't really move it now,” Blaine pointed out, moving forward to try and roll up his shirt sleeve.
“I can, I simply don't want to,” Kurt corrected, peering over to see if he could see how terrible the damage was. The livid edges of a long bruise showed from beneath the rolled up shirt cuff, violent red and purple. Blaine tried to push up the sleeve further, eliciting another pained whine from Kurt, and then shook his head.
“It's no good,” he said, stepping back with an inscrutable look in his eyes. “You...ah...you...your shirt. It...it will have to come off.”
One, two, three deep breaths. Could this get any more awkward and difficult? Kurt closed his eyes. “All right. Let me just - ” He slowly eased the sleeve back down and worked his injured arm out of it, biting back whimpers and blinking back tears. “There. I'll need you to help get it off the rest of the way.” His face went back to burning apple red, a tone he could see matched on Blaine.
“Let's just - I'll just pull it right off, quickly, as I did with the doublet. Is that all right?”
“Do it before we die of embarrassment, Blaine.”
“Right. Right.” Now it was Blaine taking the deep breath, just before he seized the shirt hem and dragged it up and off over Kurt's head, tugging the other sleeve away from his arm.
The first place their eyes both went was to the injured area, and both of them sucked in hissing air at the sight of it. The weighted wooden sword had landed a solid blow across Kurt's upper arm and shoulder, raising a large bruise the color of blood and twilight there. It looked quite precisely as painful as it felt, and Kurt saw Blaine's eyes sheen with tears at the sight of it.
“Florian, I am so awfully sorry, I truly, truly am.” The words tumbled from Blaine's mouth in a rush as he grabbed at the compress, laying it against the bruise as gently as he could. “I don't know how I can make it up to you.”
“You can stop apologizing.” Kurt's voice was heavy with weariness. He was quite certain that no one anywhere apologized quite as much as did Blaine Anderson. “I know you didn't mean to do it, Blaine, and I appreciate you helping me.”
“Even if I had to strip your clothing off to do it?” Blaine's tone was teasing, but when Kurt met his eyes, they were that melting honey-hazel again, the shade that Kurt was already coming to recognize as the color of Blaine's desire.
He swallowed. “I don't mind.” Really, I really, really do not. “I wouldn't let you take my clothes off if I minded it.”
Watching Blaine turn even more red - something Kurt hadn't thought possible - was entertaining, endearing, and arousing, and Kurt vowed to keep going with the boldness he was digging from some hidden inner well of confidence he'd never known he had. It seemed to be the best approach to take in order to attract the man.
But every moment that passed between them made it more difficult for Kurt to remember that he had a purpose in doing this, a purpose that had nothing to do with his heart, which was getting ever more troublesomely involved.
~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~
For his own part, Blaine was standing in a roil of confusion, desire, responsibility, guilt, and worry as he held the compress to Florian's arm. He was trying very hard not to stare at the smooth, well muscled chest before him, trying not to clutch at the sculpted muscles of the arm he held. He was absolutely trying not to wonder what the rest of Florian looked like unclothed, and how he could manage to arrange to see it.
The sickening thump his sword had made against Florian's only lightly protected arm still echoed in his ears. He could still see, in his mind's eye, the wide, stricken eyes as the man tumbled to the ground, grabbing at his arm and letting go with a thready hiss of pain as soon as he'd made contact with the injury.
“I'm sor-” Remembering Florian's admonition, he stopped and shook his head. “You're lucky your doublet was padded. I think your arm would have been broken otherwise.”
“Perhaps.” Florian shrugged, very lightly. “I should have counted the cost a small one in the service of forcing you to speak to me again.”
“But why?” Blaine hoped the singer would be able to better articulate their confusing attraction to each other. “You don't even know me very well, nor I you.”
“It doesn't seem to matter,” Florian replied, keeping his eyes cast down. “I've been drawn to you since the first day. I didn't expect it and I'm sure you can guess from my previously kissless state that I'm not at all sure what to do with it.” He peered up from under his long lashes and smiled sweetly at Blaine, who felt as if his heart would stop. “But I do not oppose it.”
Blaine pressed the melting compress closer, tracing his fingers around the bare skin above and below it. “I seem to care a great deal about you already, Florian. I do not wish to harm that.”
A ghost of something unreadable flashed through Florian's eyes before he spoke again. “You do not strike me as a man who is afraid to take chances.”
Blaine could not stop a surprised chuckle from emerging. “You're quite bold and insightful for someone who had not been kissed before a few days ago.”
“I have lately come to the conclusion that being shy and retiring is a potentially fatal course of action,” was the surprising and wry reply. “If one wishes to accomplish something, then one must just do that - but if it makes you feel better, I do die a little of embarrassment on the inside to do it.”
“Ah, and so the angel proves himself to be human after all.” Blaine's voice was teasing, but then he froze as he realized what he'd just allowed to slip.
Florian met his eyes with an astonished gaze. “Angel? I'm no angel. Far from.” His laugh was a slightly bitter cluster of broken musical notes. “I'm merely a music teacher who once upon a time was a stableman. I could not be more human if I tried.”
Blaine fiddled with the edges of the damp cloth in his hands before removing it from Florian's arm and taking it to hang on the fire grate to dry. With his back still turned away from the other man, he murmured softly, “I think you're beautiful. You seem otherworldly. Sometimes when I see you out walking with Amelia, I think that you should have wings, that you're not of this world and never have been.”
He was surprised to feel hands on his shoulders, turning him around - once again, he hadn't heard Florian walking up behind him. The singer's eyes were a clear leaf green, the color of the spring that was soon to come to England. Blaine felt his hands gathered up in Florian's slender fingers, watched as he pulled them up to his lips and planted a soft kiss to the knuckles. He said nothing.
In that moment, Blaine changed his decision - choosing the option that was for himself and only himself. He wanted this beautiful, enigmatic man, who had made it clear that he did not oppose being wanted by Blaine. He wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to take him to his bed and make him whimper and moan. He wanted to see in reality everything he had experienced in his dreams.
Pushing away all of the long-ago objections from people who were not him, putting himself first for once - he wanted this. He would have it. They would be discreet, Blaine was older now and knew better how he could keep this secret and safe.
He could serve himself as well as his country. No one need know.
Blaine gently extracted his fingers and reached up to cup Florian's jaw with them, skimming his thumbs over those high cheekbones, watching in fascination as spots of pink rose on each one. Slowly, never breaking eye contact with those eyes of spring, he leaned in and softly, sweetly pressed his lips to Florian's in a kiss that was much more gentle than their first, but was devoid of not a single drop of desire.
Pulling back, he gazed deep into Florian's eyes, marveling at the wonder there. He moved one hand down to catch at the hand of the man's uninjured arm, keeping the other one touching that marvelous face. “There,” he managed to get out without his voice cracking. “That's how your first kiss should have been.”
Florian's heartbreakingly sweet smile made his heart sing. “Are you willing to show me how the second one should go?” he asked with playful hope in his voice.
“If you will have dinner with me in my rooms this night,” Blaine offered with his own smile, “I think I could be persuaded to provide a demonstration, yes.” He looked at Florian's bruised arm, the smile quickly becoming a worried frown. “But first, you truly must go see Emma for a poultice. I don't want to be afraid to touch you and hurt you.”
“We cannot have that.” Florian made his way back to the desk and picked up his shirt. “Help me dress?”
“It would be both a pleasure and a curse,” Blaine replied with a new grin as he joined the man and moved to assist him.
So intent were they on their task that they did not realize that Thad had been surreptitiously watching from the corridor for several moments, jealousy and agony twisting his face into an unrecognizable mask. With a whispered oath, he made his way quietly away, wondering what he could do to drive this troublesome singer away from Dalton House.
...Chapter Thirteen...