Part 3

[choclitbunny]

Part One -- Part Two -- Part Three

* * *

Every day for the next three weeks, Brendon had lessons with Patrick for hours. The first hour, they worked on musical notation and learning how to read the music. The next was a whole hour on breathing. It was only the third and final hour that Brendon sang anything at all. It was rather ridiculous, in Brendon’s opinion.

Pete came to every lesson and said very little in his corner chair.

After weeks of this treatment, Brendon finally cleared his throat and said very humbly, “Perhaps this isn’t worth the effort. If it takes three hours a day for me to sing, then maybe I am not a singer. Surely someone else could do better.”

That was when Pete threw his head back and laughed, eyes scrunched up and hand running through his hair. “If you couldn’t sing, Brendon, we would put you through the five hours a day that Ryan has to endure.”

Patrick sighed. “Do not let Pete make it sound like Ryan cannot sing. He merely needs more practice than you.”

Brendon blushed, unsure of whether to feel complimented or embarrassed for Ryan.

Pete was still grinning when he said, “He is getting better, I’ll admit. And I have no doubts that you’ll both be ready for the stage in time.”

Patrick cut in and said, “And now, we return to your warm up.”

* * *

Sleeping Beauty was the play listed as the very first musical performance Decaydance was going to showcase. It might not have been the strongest production to begin with, but Pete was thrilled about it. Brendon derived a childish satisfaction from bringing a love story with a happy ending to people. Not many people got to experience it in real life. Might as well let them live vicariously, he thought.

Poor William was dragged into playing the evil fairy-a role he was very clearly unhappy with-with his hair wrung into dark, stringy clumps. Patrick had to use a stain made from crushed up tea leaves (and other unpleasant ingredients that he refused to disclose) to discolor William’s otherwise lovely skin. The costume and make up were perfect, but the blotchy stain left William’s skin mottled for at least a day afterward.

Pete endured quite a bit of protest from William over the casting. From the moment he discovered that he was listed as the ugly, old fairy, he was very vocal about his displeasure. He finally ceased his complaints when Pete pulled him away and talked to him privately. After that, he was nothing but docile.

Brendon saw him in the dressing room while he was running the sticky wax through his hair to make it snarly. He stared at himself in the looking glass with a sort of resignation that stung Brendon in a way he didn’t understand.

“What’s the matter with William, lately?” Brendon had asked Jon quietly.

Jon stopped for a moment, confused by the question, then his eyes rolled with realization. He sighed and said, “Merely a case of green eyes. He misses being the star, I suppose. He feels like he’s been demoted to a boy player again as some sort of punishment. Rubbish.”

Brendon tilted his head to the side inquisitively, but Jon waved him off.

“A story for another day, perhaps. Just don’t take any of his actions to heart. Before we found you and Ryan, William was the one in your shoes.”

* * *

At first, the pressure did not seem to settle the way it should have. The rude audition on the street corner felt like the world bearing down on his back, but this did not leave him feeling as ill at ease. He went through the endless rehearsals-this time going twice as long to fit in musical numbers and choreography-without anything more unpleasant than sore muscles.

Ryan seemed to be constantly trying to find ways to curtail his apprehension. Only with the ease that came with experience did he manage to do just that. Brendon had once watched the silent hysteria circle in his eyes until he looked ready to flee out of the window. But then he had shut his eyes for a few moments, face frozen in a scowl, until the panic turned to determination and his eyes opened clear and unwavering.

Brendon still felt fine.

Perhaps it was the music. The ever-calming presence of music was a new element that Brendon had never enjoyed during rehearsals. He found that he always received this inexplicable combination of serenity and vigor from singing. It felt like there was so much life in music, especially the music Pete and Patrick wrote. He couldn’t help feeling more alive singing it.

Opening night came. And as if the worry had not been absent, only waiting and accumulating, it hit him like a giant wave. All the things he maybe should have been fretting about were now buzzing between his ears like angry hornets.

This needed to be Decaydance’s comeback performance. They had even more to prove that night than their first appearance. And this time, Ryan and Brendon couldn’t slouch back in their chairs, relieved that it was someone else taking center stage. No, this time it was on their shoulders. This was his first time in front of a real audience, one that would be watching every minuscule thing he did, criticism quick on their tongues. They would expect things from him that normal townsfolk on a street corner wouldn’t. And what of his singing? What if he just wasn’t enough? The audience would slaughter him with their condescending stares and whispered disapproval.

He wished he was Ryan, who had slowly built up his courage. Not only that, Ryan only sang in two songs and Brendon had three.

He was sitting in the dressing room, peering into his own eyes in the looking glass blankly as he thought about all of this. Ryan was in the next room doing vocal warm-ups with Patrick. As Brendon stared at his reflection, he caught himself picking out imperfections.

His voice wasn’t deep and rich. He was small of stature and gangly. He hated his nose and his mouth. His complexion was tan even under the stage make-up. He looked common and unworthy of attention. And besides all of this, he was only sixteen. How could he possibly compete with actors who had been performing in theatres for years? How could his voice match a thirty-year-old man in an opera house? He wasn’t old enough, handsome enough, or talented enough.

He was so focused that he didn’t realize Ryan had finished his warming up until the boy was standing right next to him.

“Hey,” he said quietly. Brendon jumped in his seat.

Meeting Ryan’s eyes in the looking glass, Brendon gave a fragile smile. “Done already?”

Ryan nodded. “We need to start getting in costume. Are you ready?”

“I should hope so,” Brendon replied. He stood from his wobbly stool and went to go for the costume draped over a dressing room table. Before his feet moved more than a few steps, Ryan’s hand was on his wrist. He didn’t look up, at first.

“Are you afraid?” Ryan said softly, sounding not too courageous himself.

Brendon swallowed and bobbed his head. He found Ryan’s eyes and whispered, “Petrified.”

Slow and unsure, Ryan let go of Brendon’s wrist and swept both his hands up to cup Brendon’s face. Brendon couldn’t move. One thumb stroking along the cheekbone, Ryan started at him with the most determined and terrified face, lips trembling almost unnoticeably.

“Me, too. I can scarcely breathe.” His mouth cracked in a frail smile.

Brendon found it hard to breathe for other reasons. Ryan’s thumb grazed Brendon’s cheek, sweeping back and forth like he was rubbing on rouge. He seemed to mean it simply as a comfort until his eyes dropped to Brendon’s mouth and went vacant, like he was lost in his own thoughts. After a few moments, they snapped back up to Brendon’s in a sort of inquiring manner. The hands on Brendon’s face, little by little, slid down his neck. Fingers ghosted over skin slowly, silently, and Ryan did not break eye contact, as if Brendon meeting his eyes meant that Ryan could continue.

When his hands stopped at the feel of Brendon’s collar, Ryan’s eyes floated down to the vest under his touch. He dragged one finger down to the top button, stroking it thoughtfully. His eyes shone amber in the light of the candelabra illuminating the room. Brendon didn’t move when Ryan looked up, gaze asking permission again. All he could manage was to swallow the lump in his throat. Slow but purposeful, Ryan unbuttoned the top of the vest.

The second button came undone, then the third. Once he had gone past every button and slid them out of their hole, he pushed the vest off Brendon’s shoulders. After Brendon finished shrugging out of it, only his thin, white tunic shirt covered his chest.

Desperate to touch, to reciprocate, Brendon grabbed the tails of the almost identical shirt on Ryan. Slow as molasses, he tucked his hands under and pushed the shirt up. Both hands moved tentatively at first, sliding up Ryan’s sides with fingertips barely grazing the skin. Then, Ryan lifted up his arms, wrists crossing like a prisoner, and Brendon let his palms inch over Ryan’s smooth chest as he pulled the shirt over his head.

Eyes hungry, Brendon’s eyes swept over the naked torso like he couldn’t help himself. And while some fading sense of modesty still tugged on his eyes, Brendon was enthralled, fascinated by the flawless expanse of skin and the tapered waist. He shyly raised his hand to Ryan’s collarbone and brushed his fingers along the protruding angle. A small, quick exhale escaped past Ryan’s lips. Brendon looked up and saw his eyes closed, teeth tugging on his bottom lip. Brendon’s fingers skimmed downward, and Ryan shivered acutely when the pad of Brendon’s smallest finger brushed the small, pink bud of his nipple.

Ryan’s face was growing pink, either from embarrassment or excitement, Brendon wasn’t sure. Perhaps both. He watched with fascination as the flush spread over his face and down his neck. Ryan wet his lips and his mouth parted, breath coming in shallow, audible puffs. It drove Brendon half mad to look at it, so invitingly pink and wet. And when Ryan opened his eyes, they had gone dark.

Steadying himself with both hands gripping Ryan’s shoulders, Brendon leaned forward and tilted his chin hopefully. He would give Ryan the chance to back away if he should wish to.

He waited there, eyes hooded and mouth mere centimeters from Ryan’s. In this proximity, their intermingling breaths echoed in Brendon’s ears like panting. It made his heart race. He could feel Ryan’s breath on his bottom lip, and he still waited so patiently. He heard Ryan lick his lips again, and then they were on him. Like food after a famine, like water after a desert trek, it felt indescribably satisfying. He kissed Ryan back with the desperation of a boy starving.

The warmth of Ryan’s hands came up under his long shirt and settled on his hips, just below the top hem of his breeches. If he had moved his hands just a few inches north, he would have met bare waist. Brendon wanted him too, wanted skin on skin everywhere.

The hot press of lips had Brendon’s mind reeling, and it made him whimper when Ryan pulled back and broke the kiss. He was past caring about his dignity.

Hands steady on Brendon’s hips, Ryan whispered, “May I try something?”

Brendon nodded mindlessly and sighed when Ryan kissed him again. After waiting a moment, Ryan’s lips parted and his tongue ran along the seam of Brendon’s mouth. Brendon jerked a little. Then Ryan did it again, the smooth glide of his tongue coaxing Brendon to open to him. When he complied, the soft, hesitant brush of their tongues caused a dark and delicious curl in his stomach. Brendon’s fingers dug into the flesh of Ryan’s shoulders, and Ryan’s hands tighten in response.

Then all of a sudden, the sharp knock of someone banging their knuckles on the door had Ryan and Brendon jumping apart. Pete poked his head in the door and said, “Half hour until show time. Make haste with your costumes.”

He looked back and forth between them-from the rumpled state of Brendon’s shirt to the absence of Ryan’s-and promptly disappeared without another word.

After the door closed and Brendon’s thudding heart quieted down, the two looked at each other owlishly.

Wiping his thumb over the corner of his mouth, Brendon said, “We should get to work on your dress.”

Ryan gave a small, sheepish smile. “Yes, I have no doubt that half hour is scarcely enough time to get that wretched thing on right.”

* * *

The flickering footlights were shining hot and bright at him, causing him to perspire under his thick costume. The audience was staring expectantly at him from their seats, just as he had anticipated. The women fanned themselves irritably while the men sat stiff and serious.

With a deep breath, he said his first line. Everything after that just seemed to fall into place.

During the whole performance, he felt like his soul had left his body and was hovering over him, watching the still-animated body move and speak and sing without his control. His voice came strong and clear, echoing off of the walls. And the beautiful way his and Ryan’s voices melded together during their duet had Brendon’s heart soaring.

They came to the scene where Brendon finally reaches the sleeping princess in her tower. With his back shielding them from the audience, Brendon leaned down and kissed Ryan gently. And the way Ryan’s eyes fluttered open, a little surprised but still glad, made Brendon feel like he was truly the prince to wake up a slumbering princess.

The audience roared with applause.

* * *

The next morning, Pete awoke Ryan and Brendon in a frenzy.

“Eleven nights. Eleven nights, Sleeping Beauty will have a full house,” Pete exclaimed, dancing and whooping. He grabbed them both by the collar in turn and kissed them on the mouth. Then he hurried out to spread the news.

For a moment, there was absolute silence in the room. From outside, they could hear Pete rousing Gabe and Ryland, but Ryan and Brendon glanced at each other with not a word to say.

Gabe started hollering from the next room and they both began to laugh.

Brendon was still chuckling as he wiped his mouth with his wrist. “I haven’t known Pete as long as you, does he always do that when he’s excited?” he asked.

Ryan was flat on his back in bed, laughing up at the ceiling with a hand over his eyes.

“Perhaps he just hasn’t been this happy in a long time,” Ryan said.

* * *

By the fourth night, there were more than just merchants and well-off artisans coming off Drury Lane to the Theatre Royal. A slow trickle of wide-skirted women and men with showy, lace cravats started making their way into the seats. One particular couple seemed to catch everyone’s eye upon their arrival.

Their names were Lord Pierrepont, Marquess of Dorchester, and his Lady Catherine.

Lady Catherine was a woman decades younger than her aging husband. For every aspect of beauty and vivacity that he lacked, she compensated. Like most nobles, she was snobbish. Nose in the air, she followed her husband to their special seating like she thought she was the Queen.

Brendon watched them in their premium box seats, dressed to the nines. With the excitement surrounding their attendance, he found it difficult to ignore them. He glanced up at their box in the theatre a few times, watching them watch him.

Lady Catherine was the sort of audience member Brendon liked most. She stayed engaged through the whole performance and applauded generously at the proper times. Most importantly, though, she attended more than just one performance. Pete had always said that it was the highest compliment for someone to return to watch an actor perform. And so when Lord Pierreponte and Lady Catherine came to see Sleeping Beauty again the very next night, Brendon felt rather flattered.

And after the performance of the second night, as the other guests were filing out of the theatre, the Lord and his Lady came boldly up to the orchestra pit where Patrick was hunched over sheet music. While maintaining the ever-important sense of decorum, Lord Pierrepont gave Patrick a polite compliment. And while his words were meager, the act of coming to Patrick himself was the heavy compliment that most theatre managers never received.

Brendon stood on the edge of the stage and watched it, the way Patrick’s chin had tucked into his chest with modesty, his words getting jumbled with gratitude.

“I-I, um, yes, it’s been a great-uhh-honor having you attend,” he’d said, fumbling.

Lord Pierrepont had given a gracious bow of his head and said cordially, “I should very much enjoy the opportunity to see your men perform again. However, it is such a long trek from the Dorchester manor to the theatre. My Lady and I are quite weary from the second journey. I would like it most if I might see another delightful performance on my own stage.”

Patrick was speechless.

Brendon only hoped he understood all this correctly. Lord Pierrepont wanted to hire them to perform at his manor. And, he had come to request it personally.

Sweet Lord Jesus.

Patrick had just barely regained his verbal skills long enough to thank Lord Pierrepont profusely and ask a date, any date, for Decaydance to come to the manor.

Next to the old man, Lady Catherine looked up and caught Brendon’s eye. A quick flash of something treacherous flickered across them for a moment as she waved her feather fan in front of herself elegantly. Brendon looked down at his boots and didn’t dare look up again until the two had departed.

* * *

If Pete had been excited about the play selling out, he was ecstatic at being invited to Lord Pierrepont’s home. A theatre was grand, but private performances always earned more money and more prestige. Being invited to perform somewhere specially, particularly by someone of high rank, was an enormous honor.

The Ways were equally excited. And Pete promised them that once they were finished with the special appointment in Dorchester, Decaydance was to return to the theatre and write up a contract.

They finished out their season for Sleeping Beauty and then began working on a new play.

* * *

The forest was like a dark, tangled moat around the manor. The mass of entwined trees lined the wide, rugged path leading to the only entrance. Brendon feared that if he were to ever get lost in there, he may never get out.

Like a parade of horse-drawn cats, Decaydance marched along the path with the soft sound of Patrick playing a mandolin at the front, strumming out tinny chords and sometimes singing a few verses of a song Brendon had never heard. He wondered if Patrick had written it himself. He hummed along quietly, making his own little tune or harmonizing with Patrick’s.

Up in the distance, Brendon could make out some arching structure acting as a gateway to the manor. Upon closer inspection he could see that the entrance was an archway of pale stone, cut and carved to reveal the bodies of angels and gargoyles, all of them looking out with vigilant eyes.

Jon saw Brendon staring and leaned over to whisper, “Guardians. They see all that goes in or out.”

Once he tore his eyes away from the arch and the manor came into full view, Brendon’s breath snagged in his throat.

The mansion-more a castle, really-was lined with white columns, stretching from floor to roof, and rows of long, spotless windows. The great entrance doors were covered in intricate curling designs of gold.

They rode down the groomed path in their shabby carts, past the labyrinth-like garden and up to the marble fountain. The path circled around it, leading up to the grand entrance.

Brendon was speechless. Pete used the word “baroque” flippantly to describe the magnificent house, and he seemed vaguely unaware of the place beyond that observation. To be able to ignore the sort of extravagance that surrounded him, Brendon could only imagine the kind of places Pete had been to.

“These places are always even more incredible inside, from what I hear,” Jon said. “You just wait.”

* * *

Brendon didn’t see any of the party. He had imagined what it would be like, a great hall dotted with nobles twittering together and tables of endless food. However, he didn’t get to watch the guests trickle in like a pageant of wealth and decadence, or watch them dance in delicate, planned steps. No, he was in the dusty backstage, running his eyes over the script again and again, trying to imprint it into his brain so it would be impossible to forget.

Ryan sat upon a crate next to him, preening before a grimy glass that Spencer patiently held for him. They squabbled back and forth over Spencer’s sore arms and Ryan’s ornate make-up. It felt familiar and comforting.

“The marquise doesn’t wear this much make-up, Ryan,” Spencer carped.

Brendon looked over. “Perhaps you should attempt a more natural style. You are, after all, trying to play a little girl.”

“Little Red Hood may be just a girl, but I’m still going to be on a stage with lighting that will wash all the color out of me,” Ryan argued.

Brendon shrugged his shoulders and went back to his script, thinking about innocent, virginal Ryan in the scarlet hood being tracked by a predatory Brendon.

He held back a wolfish grin of his own.

* * *

The play had clearly been a success, for they could all see the way Lord Pierrepont and Lady Catherine positively glowed with pride once it finished. The guests had been impressed, and the hosts were waiting for the praise that was sure to shower them.

Once free of the heavy stage paint-while Ryan was supposed to wear only light make-up, Brendon’s wolf character required a rather generous amount-they were all behind the stage and in the servants’ quarters making a merry time of things. It felt like opening night all over again, only with the new additions of the Lord’s servant joining in. They had probably been denied a good time like this for far too long.

It was during this time that a servant came with a summons for Pete, reporting that Lady Catherine required his presence immediately. Eyes caught each other amongst the performers as Pete was escorted away, but they were soon enthralled in the loud laughter and conversation over the spirits they were passing around.

Time passed unwatched, everyone too wrapped up in the celebrations to notice the hour. The candles were burning low.

When Ryan leaned over to Brendon and said, “I’m going to so search for Pete. He’s been gone quite a while, now.”

Brendon couldn’t seem to recall it being terribly long ago, but he also had been taking long swigs from Jon’s flask. His perception of time had been slightly skewed. He waved Ryan on, boldly pressing his lips to Ryan’s cheek before the boy left in his search.

When Gabe came prowling around as he often did at events like this-always eerier after a drink-he asked where Ryan had gone to. He and Travis wanted to congratulate him on the performance.

“He just went off to look for Pete. Don’t worry, I’ll go and find him,” Brendon said, getting up and walking out the same way Ryan had. He felt the drink working into his legs, making him feel light-limbed and tingling. He giggled at the feeling.

He traipsed up and down the halls, catching quick glimpses of the glorious party going on in the grand hall but always darting away artlessly to avoid being seen. He called Ryan’s name down the empty corridors, the word reverberating off the stone walls and floor.

Still fruitless in his search, Brendon heard the echo of quiet voices coming down the corridor. Two of them. With curiosity leading him like a puppet on strings, he followed the sounds. A few turns down the hall, a strip of dim light peeked out from a crack in a doorway where someone had failed to properly close the door. It was practically an invitation to eavesdrop. As he crept closer to the door, he recognized one of the voices as Pete. Sure enough, through the sliver between the door and its frame, he saw Pete standing in the room, a shadow cast over his features belonging to the other person he was speaking to.

When the shadow spoke, Brendon knew precisely who it was.

“You are no fool, Wentz, so I will not speak to you as one. I know who you are,” Lady Catherine said softly, sounding as condescending as a marquise could ever. She went on and said, “If it hadn’t been for your little redheaded beau, you would have slipped by me like you have past everyone else. How did you manage to keep yourself hidden for so long? Peasantry truly does not suit you.”

“My lady, might I humbly suggest that you may have me mistaken for someone else?” said Pete. He sounded rehearsed, as if he had repeated that line several times before. Brendon recognized an act when he saw one, now.

Her tone suddenly went fierce as she hissed, “How dare you lie to me a second time! You may have deceived that entire party out there, but your false innocence is useless before me. I request that you return to me the same candor that I am extending to you.”

Pete squared his shoulders. “Very well, then. In that case, I suggest you say what you must and do it swiftly, lest someone find you here alone with me. That, my lady, could make your reputation just as undesirable as mine.”

She seemed flustered for a moment, surprised by his admission and perhaps by how easily he surrendered, but she composed herself. “My intentions for speaking with you privately were to discuss your leading boy.”

“Brendon?”

Brendon’s heart fell like a heavy stone into his gut. He swallowed and listened closer.

“If he was the boy playing the wolf tonight, then yes-Brendon.”

Pete paused a moment before saying, “What about him would you like to discuss?”

“Quite a talented young man, he is. And handsome, too,” she said coyly. Brendon didn’t like the direction she was taking this.

Pete nodded.

“How much would you sell him for?”

Brendon felt his ribcage clamp down on his lungs, making him incapable of drawing breath. He struggled to be silent and still.

Pete was quick and firm when he replied, “My men are not servants. They’re not for purchase.” His face was stone hard.

Lady Catherine chuckled in that dark way a person does when they seem to know something that you do not. She purred, “He will cost you more to keep than to sell.”

Pete did not speak, only waited for her to explain.

“I am willing to pay for him, you see. I believe that one should always take the nobler path whenever possible. However, sometimes things get in the way. And so, I present you with the vow that I will have that boy, and you may either choose to stand in the way and be cut down, or you may help smooth the road. The choice, Peter, is entirely yours. Just remember the weight I carry over your head. I could drop it this very moment and your life would practically be over. I need only tell those people in the other room who you really are, and your whole troupe would be thrown into jail as accomplices. Brendon would be too easy to retrieve once you were locked up. Either you give up Brendon to me, or you give up everything.

“However, let me repeat that I wish to do this properly. I’m offering you the opportunity to do this quietly and with dignity, and you would be a fool to refuse. You are too shrewd to not see the wisdom in cooperation."

Brendon could feel his fingernails stabbing into his palms as his hands curled into nervous fists. He looked down to see them shaking.

When he peered back through the crack, Pete’s eyebrows were furrowed in deep, silent thought. The tight line of his lips loosened for a moment to speak.

“I appreciate your honesty, my lady. My one request is to have the night to consider your offer and return to you in the morning with my decision.

She seemed to prod him with her silence, looking for the lie in his words that gave her reason to demand an immediate answer. Such an impatient woman. As she began to protest, Pete stopped her.

Standing up straight with his chin high, he called upon that seemingly long-lost sense of regality and said-no, commanded-“We shall speak on the morrow, my lady.”

With a rude bob of his head in lieu of a proper bow, Pete turned to exit the room. She gave an offended huff as the door closed behind him with a loud echo bounding down the halls.

Of course, it was only a moment before Brendon was spotted. When Pete saw him flattened against the wall, trying to miraculously become invisible, he grabbed the boy by the arm and led him out without a word. Past the grand hall and beyond the servants’ quarters, Pete brought him out onto a tiny balcony jutting out into the humid night. The sky was as black as tar, save for the dusting of stars. A torch burned brightly by the stone doorframe.

“How is it that you are always the one putting us both in danger?” Pete said, frustration seething out of him like a palpable aura. He brought a hand up to his face to rub at his eyes. “You do not understand. If she had seen you...”

Brendon just stared at Pete with wide, confused eyes and winced as Pete’s grip tightened.

“Do not go near her. Do not let her see you unless you cannot avoid her. Out of sight, out of mind,” Pete warned, agitation replaced by skittish nervousness. Brendon had never seen Pete like this before, and it left him feeling more ill at ease.

His breathing quickened. “Why? What have I done?”

Pete rubbed his eyes once more and mumbled, “She wants you too much, too fast. You don’t understand, Brendon. If a spoiled child wants something badly enough, she’ll stop asking nicely and just take it.”

Brendon had the strange urge to laugh a bit hysterically. He needed some relief from all this. Just as he felt the corners of his mouth twitching, Pete let go of Brendon’s arm and placed his hands heavily on Brendon’s shoulders instead.

“Time is key,” he said. “Because you have between now and the morning and tell me your decision.”

“My decision?” echoed Brendon.

After taking a deep breath, Pete squeezed Brendon’s shoulders softly said, “Of whom you wish to stay with.”

“I already--!”

“Take the night to think it over,” Pete interrupted. “Whatever decision you make, I’ll help you see it through.”

With a friendly pat, Pete turned and disappeared behind the door.

Brendon felt he might faint.

* * *

The Marquess insisted that Decaydance spend the night in their lavish home, an honor rarely extended to people of their class. However, Brendon was more inclined to think that Lady Catherine had manipulated her husband into keeping them there so Pete couldn’t run away from his obligation. The next morning, Pete would wake up and have to give Lady Catherine his answer--right after Brendon gave Pete his.

He tried to consider both options. Pete had seen it fit for him to spend some time pondering his decision, so he thought it only right to actually sit down and do so.

After the lights had been blown out in their quarters-he shared the room with Jon, Spencer, and Ryan-he mulled over it in his head.

What if he stayed with Lady Catherine? It would be a comfortable life. He could bathe every day in their sauna, eat like a king, and have more clothes than he would know what to do with. A feather bed would replace any crude, prickly mattress he could manage on his own. If he fell ill, someone would take care of him. Never again would he have to strain his back with the efforts of hard labor, just so long as he kept his mistress happy. Every angle that he inspected it from, agreeing seemed to promise a life of luxury like he had never dared to imagine, never knew how to.

And yet, even with all the comforts that he could ever acquire, Brendon could not bear the thought of leaving Decaydance. It would be a comfortable life, but an empty one, at the end of it all.

There was no adventure in a life like that. No discovery or fascination. There would be more restrictions than there would ever be freedoms. Brendon’s legs ached to run the more he thought about it; the idea of being so confined frightened him. Then he thought of Pete. If someone like that, with such a bright future ahead of him, could give up that life, then Brendon was convinced it wasn’t a life worth having.

Most importantly, though, he would never again see anyone in Decaydance, and that thought alone was enough reason to instantly decline.

If there was something Brendon understood better than anything else, it was family.

Then, another thought entered his mind. The memory of the pitiful hut bursting at the seams as it tried to contain him and the rest of his family. The others were still out there, probably barely staying alive. Perhaps if he stayed with Lady Catherine, he could send for them and they could stay at the manor. They wouldn’t be forced into that cruel excuse for a house anymore, and he could finally be with them again. He could be a good son.

“No,” he thought forlornly. His eyes went misty. “They aren’t my family anymore.”

Years and years ago, when his parents didn’t bicker so much and his siblings wanted him around, Brendon had felt like he understood what it mean to have a family. The encouraging smiles and warm embraces. The gentle comfort of a mother and the strong guidance of a father. The idea that you were there for one another regardless of the trials.

Then the world began to shift. And when family should have been the one thing that held their heads above water, it only served as another weight on their feet to pull them down. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t stand to watch the family he loved so dearly rip each other to shreds as a product of their poverty. He preferred freezing his toes off to watching his family erode like they were. He hoped his absence might have helped ease some of the tension; one less mouth to feed, one less back to clothe. The most tragic part was walking out the door and no one moving to stop him. A family shouldn’t do that to one another.

When he found Decaydance, a tiny spark of hope lit up the dark, gloomy corner of his head where he kept thoughts of his family. This was something new. This was something right. And now that calamity was once again knocking on his door-this time disguised as safety and extravagance-he knew that his new family would not yield the same results as his birth family.

He wouldn’t stay. He felt a stab of shame at his own terrible selfishness, but he knew that even if he saved his family from poverty, it wouldn’t heal their relationships and make things better. It would have been fool’s hope to think it could.

He couldn’t stay for his own comfort or for his family’s, but could he dare put his new family in the danger Lady Catherine promised would come if he did not stay?

The sound of bed linens rustling caught Brendon’s ear. The material rubbing across straw made a dull scratching sound.

That was when he heard a small voice whisper with all the conviction in the world, “You can’t go. She can’t have you. You’re ours.”

Jon. Of course it would be Jon, the start of it all. Brendon smiled fondly, warmed by Jon’s unwavering stubbornness.

“How did you hear?” Brendon breathed, trying not to rouse Spencer or Ryan.

“Gabe is a filthy gossip,” Spencer cut in, no trace of sleep in his voice. “Then when we saw your face as you walked in before the lights went out, we knew it had to be true.”

After a pause, Ryan said flatly, “I’ll kidnap and stuff you in a trunk you if you try to stay behind.”

Brendon chuckled under his breath and shook his head, even though none of them could see.

The crackling of straw mattresses sounded again in his ears, and he felt a pair of hands fall upon him in the dark. He sat up and reached a hand out to pull them down. Spencer made an oof sound when he plopped on the mattress. Then before he knew it, Ryan and Jon were crowding him on his bed, as well. They huddled around Brendon like they were trying to protect him. He could feel Ryan’s long fingers find the back of his neck and stay there.

“You can’t stay,” Spencer said close to his ear.

“No,” Brendon agreed. “I can’t lose my family again.”

There was no choice in the matter. They had to find a way to escape.

* * *

The morning met Brendon much too quickly, and the color around his eyes hinted at his failure in pursuing sleep. Once the sun started leaking into their rooms, Decaydance was up and active, working to pack all of their things in their carts. Once midday came, they were to be on their way back to London.

Rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, Brendon got up from his bed and went to find Pete.

He found him sitting outside with the carts, his back pressed against a painted piece of wooden scenery with a book in his hand.

Brendon shuffled his feet and Pete looked up, neither of them saying a word for a few moments.

“I used to read through entire libraries full of books. I miss it,” Pete said. He must have snatched the book up from the Marquess’s library. It was so like Pete.

“I think you already know what I came to tell you,” Brendon said, sounding much more awake than he felt.

“I can make a good guess,” Pete said with a nod. His eyes went back to the book but Brendon knew he was listening.

“I never make things easier for you,” Brendon said with a sheepish chuckle.

Pete laughed and snapped the book closed. “No, you certainly don’t. And it’s a very good thing that the hardest things in life are always the most worthwhile.”

He jumped from the cart to the dusty ground and walked the two or three steps to stand in front of Brendon. It was only when Pete was this close that Brendon remembered just how small Pete was. The man had a deceptively large presence.

“Are you certain?” said Pete.

“Absolutely.”

“Well, then, Patrick and I had better get thinking about our plan of action.”

“What of the Ways?” Brendon asked.

Pete tossed his head and the dark hair flicked out of his eyes. “We cannot go back to the Theatre Royal. That is the first place everyone will search.”

“I thought you were going to write up a contract with the Ways.”

“Don’t you worry about that. I’m trying to send word to them, but we have more pressing matters to deal with. They would understand.”

Brendon wrapped his arms around himself, nervous and fidgety. “What shall we do?”

With hands planted surely on his hips, Pete said, “We shall escape, of course.”

* * *

“Patrick said that Pete spoke to Lady Catherine,” Spencer said. “He convinced her to let us play one more show before departing. He told her it was our way of saying goodbye to a performer, that it was tradition.”

“Is it?” Brendon inquired.

“I haven’t the faintest. Never have I seen it done like that.”

“Right, then.”

“Maybe it’s part of the escape plan.”

“Does Pete have one brewing?”

“No idea.”

Brendon laughed. “You’re certainly not much help.”

Spencer waved a hand dismissively and said, “Just wanted to let you in. Pete says we’re skipping the musical tonight. Just regular, old-fashioned theatre.”

“What production?”

“Some old one, not sure which.”

Brendon laughed. “Entirely useless, that’s what you are.”

* * *

The day seemed to pass in a flurry of scripts and colorful costumes. Brendon felt like he was standing in a tornado of it all. At the very least, it was easy to remember the material-he could still recall most of the lines from Cinderella straight from memory.

Pete still hadn’t told him of any escape plan. It seemed almost as if Pete had given up on the idea and not even alerted Brendon of that much, either. And every instance where Brendon went to go to Pete and inquire about it, someone else tried to catch his attention first. There was just too much going on with trying to rehearse for a play in just one afternoon. They spent all day reading through lines and arranging the sets.

Time crept up on him like a thief in the night and he was struck was the delayed realization that they had ten minutes until they drew back the curtains and began the show. He stood in the offstage in costume, feeling absent-minded and completely propelled by the automatic reactions one had to things. His mind was too lost in the whirl of memorized lines and choreographed actions.

Where was Pete, all this time? Since early morning, he had disappeared and left Ryland in charge of the rehearsal. He hoped it was because he was scheming something, but Brendon never knew with Pete. He only hoped that Pete would not fail him now.

He heard the slide of the curtains dragging across the wood of the stage, signaling the start of the play. It was time to prepare himself.

And so, it was to “end” just as it began.

His introduction to the stage had the audience murmuring. The same guests that had seen him play the night before were sitting before him again, the recognition igniting in their eyes and the expectation following right behind. Having seen him before, they awaited a performance as grand as the night prior.

(An event stretching across two nights? Oh, surely the Marquess would be the talk of court for weeks.)

The performer in him thrived on that recognition, that certainty the audience seemed to have that they were in for a good show. Quiet compliment that it was, it awoke him from the hazy-headed stupor he had been in. He was abruptly alert of all the things around him-Ryan’s footsteps as he came closer, the hum of the crowd, the performers watching from the wings. He took it all in.

However, the moment Ryan came into view for the scene at the ball, everything else seemed blocked out. As if the combination of being lost in his character and lost in Ryan had made everything else cease to exist. He was a prince, dancing at his castle with a princess on his arm. And as the lights reflected off of Ryan’s eyes, made them glitter, he looked down at the pink-stained lips and wanted.

The thing that finally brought him back was the touch of Ryan’s hands on his neck, sliding up into his hair. He stopped cold. This had not been in the script. This had not been rehearsed. His brows knitted together as he looked at Ryan and saw an inscrutable look in his eye.

He then realized how Ryan must have felt on that first performance, seeing Brendon move in closer, not precisely sure what he was doing, and then not being able to move for fear of disturbing the scene. When Ryan closed the whole distance and pressed his lips to Brendon’s, the world went silent. He stood there stiff as a post until he heard the first outraged gasp. That one was followed by a multitude of others, all of them getting louder and seemingly more appalled until the men were shouting and the women were shrieking. Ryan’s hands were clamped together behind Brendon’s head, keeping him there.

“Sodomites! Sodomites!” a woman cried shrilly. The whole place burst into an uproar and Brendon had to tear his mouth away. The guests’ response had been enough to get his heart pounding, but it was the clattering of weapons as the guards moved closer that had Brendon absolutely panicking.

He looked up at the Lord and Lady Catherine to see him clutching a hand to his heart and her on her feet with murderous fire in her eyes. All of her decorum leaving in a flash, she screamed like the selfish shrew she was at the guards, “Get them off that wretched stage! Take them!”

All of a sudden, Pete and Patrick came darting out onto the stage with their fists up like they came to fight. They bolted to stand in front of the boys and threw down handfuls of a familiar exploding powder. When the colorful smoke had them hidden, Patrick grabbed Brendon by the arm and spirited him away, away from the guards and the (now even more upset) cries from the audience.

Hotfooting through the purple haze, they found their way outside via a servant’s back entrance. Brendon could still hear the pandemonium stewing inside. Waiting for them there were two horses, already saddled and tied loosely to a tree. Pete and Patrick jumped on their respective steeds and Pete reached down a hand for Ryan, who followed promptly. When Patrick did the same, Brendon stopped for a moment.

“Brendon, what in God’s name are you waiting for? We need to get out!” Patrick barked. “You must get on and grab hold of me!”

“Like a woman?!” Brendon cried.

“Get on that bloody horse, Brendon, or so help me, God, I will fong you within an inch of your life!” Pete shouted out as he tugged the reigns free from a brittle branch. Behind him, Ryan threw down his wig once he’d secured himself in the saddle and hiked up his skirts.

The commotion coming from inside-the reminder of the imminent danger-was the thing that finally kicked Brendon’s arse into the saddle with Patrick. He barely had time to hold on before the horse was shooting off like an arrow down the road. Pete and Ryan were already riding at a full gallop ahead of them and crowing victoriously. Brendon felt it a little too early to be celebrating quite yet.

“Where is everyone?” Brendon said over the thundering of hooves. Had everyone else been left behind?

“Already gone. They left a good half hour ago with as much as they could fit into only two carts,” answered Patrick, his voice muffled. “But don’t fret. We should catch up to them soon enough. Everything we lost could always be replaced. We have what is important.”

Brendon’s chest warmed at that.

Their horse was gaining on Pete and Ryan’s, and they settled at a speedy pace side by side. Ryan looked over and smiled wide, hair being thrown about by the wind that went whistling past them. Brendon could see his own fear mixed with relief mirrored in Ryan’s expression.

“You quite alright there, Brendon?” called Pete from across the small gap.

“A smidge shaken, but fine,” admitted Brendon breathlessly. Pete laughed like only Pete did.

The pounding of the Marquess’s guard in hot pursuit had Brendon’s heart suddenly hammering with terror. He looked behind and saw smears of black horses against the dark grey backdrop of the mansion. He felt a sharp twist in his gut. Two riders made a horse slower; the guard might easily overtake them.

When he looked ahead, however, he saw the edge of the manor coming into view. Beyond it stood the vast forest they had nearly lost themselves in on the journey over. The gnarled trees and thick foliage were enough to make Brendon hope. They would never outrun the guard, but they could stand a chance if they could hide. With the way they were headed, that seemed to be precisely the plan.

Brendon glanced over at Pete to see his face almost blank in concentration, but his eyes sparkled with the thrill of success. Pete was nothing if not a confident man.

“When you said that we might try to escape, I had pictured something more subtle. Like sneaking away when everyone was asleep,” Brendon hollered to him. “You know, climbing out the window on bed linens and such.”

It was Ryan who answered with, “And where is the adventure in that?” Pete whooped in agreement, practically taunting the guard behind them.

Brendon could do nothing but laugh. He laughed nearly to the point of relieved tears and gripped Patrick tighter around the middle, not caring how ridiculous he must have looked with the side of his face pressed hard against Patrick’s back.

With their horses only a few feet apart, Ryan stretched out his hand with his fingers spread wide. Brendon copied it until the very tips of their fingers brushed for just a fraction of a second. Suddenly jostled in his seat, Brendon’s arm clung to Patrick once more for fear of falling. Ryan laughed at him teasingly. For a moment, it was easy to pretend that everything was sure to turn out fine.

The sound of barking suddenly threw Brendon back into this terrifying reality.

“Bloody hell!” Patrick hissed.

Brendon held on tighter, his stomach tossing like he was being spun round and round without stopping. He knew just as well as Patrick that even if they lost the horsemen in the forest, the dogs could still find them and tear them to pieces.

The limits of the manor were rapidly approaching, and so were the dark horses and angry dogs of the guard. As the four of them rode under the stone archway like a door to the outside world, the two horses separated and darted off into different directions.

Brendon looked worriedly over to Ryan just in time to watch him and Pete disappear into the shade of the forest. He offered up a quick prayer for their protection and then tried not to think anymore about the possibility of them getting caught. He doubted that he could handle the stress of fretting about it, at that moment. He was already feeling half mad with worry over his own safety.

The forest was frighteningly dark with the barest hint of moonlight bleeding through the treetops to keep Patrick from driving the horse into a sturdy oak. Brendon closed his eyes and practiced his deep breathing. It made things only somewhat easier.

The neighing of those black horses sounded like hellish shrieking in the darkness, raising goose bumps on Brendon’s skin. The rumbling of hooves beating the earth slowly ebbed, and shouting replaced it. The horsemen must have been confused, at first, or maybe discouraged by the tedious task of locating the two in the middle of the night. He was sure it was going to be tedious enough for them to just navigate out of the wood.

Then Brendon heard the horses galloping again, but the sound grew fainter every second. The same went for the howling of the hunting dogs. He hoped against hope that this meant the riders had given up, proclaimed them lost to the forest.

Still, Patrick rode hard and fast, heading towards any sound that hinted at water. Each time they passed a tiny creek or a stream, Patrick followed it up until it reached an end. The cold water splashed up to Brendon’s boots and the tight stockings fitting snuggly around his calves. He prayed that it would be enough to keep dogs off their scent.

“Where are we going?” he called over the pounding of hooves.

“A meeting place, first. We’ll reunite with Pete and Ryan before heading to port.”

“To port?”

“To flee the country,” Patrick explained, steering clear of a tree. “Because Lady Catherine recognized Pete, and now you’re a wanted man, they’ll come looking for us once more. All of Decaydance is in danger as long as we stay in England.”

“And no one had a moment to explain this to me?”

“Last minute plans,” Patrick said, somewhat apologetic.

The forest turned to blurs of grey-green and black as they rode. The adrenalin was still coursing madly through Brendon’s veins. Everything was happening so fast.

It was going to be a long, sleepless night.

* * *

Hours and miles later, Patrick halted the horse at a crossroads. They’d been alone for miles, but he still looked around and listened for any sign of followers. It was still too dark to see very far away, but Patrick kept a sharp eye out. Every so often, he took off his eyeglasses and clean them on this sleeve, just to make sure he wouldn’t miss anything.

When Patrick carefully slid out of the saddle, Brendon was jolted with the realization that he’d been leaning so much on Patrick. He nearly fell face-forward off the horse, and it startled his nerves almost painfully.

“Now we wait?” Brendon said. He eyes were fighting to stay open. He dismounted with a heavy thud and held the saddle for a moment to regain his bearings. Once he let go, he practically fell to his knees from exhaustion.

Patrick never stopped watching the roads. At length, he replied, “Yes. It shouldn’t take them much longer.”

However, what should have been a short wait turned into an excruciatingly long, hopeless period that involved profuse pacing and hat-wringing on Patrick’s part. Brendon wanted to sleep so terribly much, his body feeling the strain of all that fear, but he was too afraid to shut his eyes for longer than an instant. At the sound of leaves rustling or tree branches brushing together in the wind, Brendon would jump and survey the horizon, terrified that any sound might be heralding the arrival of the guard or their vicious dogs.

Hesitant to speak, Brendon carefully said, “Where might they be?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Patrick said feverishly. He twisted the poor, abused hat in his hand again and began muttering half-statements nervously, if not angrily, to himself. “Supposed to be here. Don’t have time to waste. Any moment. Need to be here.”

“Are we at the right location? Perhaps we’ve come to the wrong place, and they’re waiting for us somewhere else along the road,” Brendon suggested.

Patrick shook his head surely. “No, this is exactly the place. They are late.”

“What will happen if they don’t arrive?” Brendon asked anxiously. He panicked at the thought.

Patrick turned to him, red-faced and shaking, and said, “Damn it, Brendon, I don’t know! We would have to depart without them! If they’re not here by sunrise, we won’t have a choice! But I will say this much: something terrible will befall them whether or not they make it here before the sun comes up. I’ll kill him myself!”

Brendon shrunk into himself a little. He thought Patrick might be going mad. Then, when he thought about it, he could feel his own hands shaking uncontrollably, the hysterical and inappropriate laughter fighting to bubble up. Maybe they were both feeling a bit moonstruck.

It was just at the end of Patrick’s little tirade that a slightly muted sound like far off footsteps reached their ears. Someone was coming, but not very quickly. It couldn’t be the guard, because their numbers would have caused a much more blatant announcement. It was a small party, maybe Pete and Ryan but maybe not.

Brendon saw Patrick’s back go rigid when he first heard, and he snapped his head to and fro, searching desperately for the source. It was so hard to see in the dark.

“Get on the horse to escape quickly if we must,” Patrick urged him, pulling Brendon up by the arm and pushing him along. Brendon obeyed hastily. With a little more elevation, Brendon looked out again and tried to make out a figure in the distance. The sounds were growing steadily louder.

Then, a small black dot appeared in view, moving slowly closer. Patrick’s grip on the reigns tightened until he heard a voice.

“Hoy! Patrick!” Pete shouted. “Is that you?”

Patrick’s hands went completely limp at his sides and he practically fell against the side of the horse in the deepest relief one can ever feel. He righted himself after a moment and then the fire was back again, making him grit his teeth and narrow his eyes.

Pete and Ryan’s horse trotted their way, horse and men alike looking a little worse for wear. It took only an instant for Brendon to be off his horse and sprinting to them with the energy he didn’t realize he had. He legs felt light and liquid. Ryan leaped from behind Pete before the horse came to a halt and stumbled a bit as he hit the ground. When Brendon finally reached him, they collided together and launched their arms around each other. Holding on a little bit too hard helped Brendon know for certain that Ryan was indeed there. This was no making of his imagination. Ryan squeezed back just as fervently.

“Sorry we took so long,” he whispered. Brendon choked on a relieved laugh.

He looked over at the other two men and watched their reunion. Pete slid from the saddle to see Patrick and stopped in his tracks when Patrick struck him hard in the gut. Then Patrick did it again, hands curled into white-knuckled fists, and Pete put his open hands in the air as a sign of goodwill. Patrick only kept punching him.

“Oof! Patrick!” Pete said. “Stop this! What is the matter with you? Ahh!”

“Where on this bloody earth have you been? It’s been hours! I thought… I was sure you were dead,” Patrick said hoarsely.

“Calm yourself. We had to take a bypath to escape the guard. They were on our heels most of the time,” Pete explained. “But we’re here now, are we not? We made it in time.”

Patrick punched him again, weaker this time.

Pete barreled forward and wrapped his arms around Patrick, who squirmed and twisted, still trying to fight him. Pete didn’t let go. He said softly, “Stop, stop. Hear me, Patrick. It’s all right. We’re here. We’re going to be all right.”

The anger melted away and Patrick was left boneless in Pete’s arms. He was shuddering as he said, “This is the second time I’ve had to fear for your life.”

Pete gave a weary laugh. “The things we do for the sake of love.”

Ryan’s fingers dug into Brendon’s back.

Pete looked over at Ryan and Brendon, still entwined in each other, and he laughed. “We’re a right manly bunch, aren’t we?”

Brendon let an easy laugh slip past his lips and released Ryan, at last.

* * *

They didn’t stop for food or rest until they reached the harbor about midday. Once there, they sold their horses and ate at a tavern, all of them bedraggled and truly spent. None had eaten a morsel of food in at least a full twenty-four hours. It made Brendon wince to feel the familiar sting of the first stages of starvation happening yet again.

They sat at their sturdy table in the tavern-a place that seemed to constantly smell like fish and salt from the harbor-and had twenty glorious minutes of respite.

While remarking on their pathetic states, Brendon inquired, “Was all that really necessary? Wouldn’t it have been easier to slip out the night before?”

Pete leaned back in his seat comfortably and said, “I speak from experience when I say that stealing away in the night does not happen as smoothly as one would think. It would have been much too difficult to try and escape discreetly with the number of men in our troupe. You don’t think at least one guard would notice such an exodus?”

Brendon shrugged, conceding.

Pete continued on with, “It was our best chance at escaping with everyone if we used the play as a sort of diversion.”

Patrick chimed in with, “Also, try thinking of it this way: the uproar was our form of insurance. After that, there was no way Lady Catherine could keep you. If we were going to get caught, then we would all be locked up or executed and there’s nothing Lady Catherin could have done about it.”

“Quite a morbid thought, Patrick,” commented Pete.

“You know what I mean. If we were going to fall, we were going to leave nothing behind for which she could scavenge. Do you really think Lord Pierrepont would ever have allowed you in his house after what had happened, Brendon? Of course not. So we were either to escape or die trying.”

“And as a windfall, it brought me the joy of seeing Lady Catherine’s face when she realized that her whole plan was in shambles,” Pete muttered.

Ryan laughed lightly and said to Pete, “I smell a bit of animosity still simmering over there.”

“I shall not deny that I hold a pinch of contempt towards her,” Pete admitted. “However, could you possibly blame me? Threatening humiliation and even thievery? The wench deserved it.”

Brendon could not help but agree wholeheartedly.

* * *

The ship was to set sail by late afternoon, and the deck hands were eagerly loading on the last of their provisions as the four made it aboard. The vessel loomed over them as they approached it, enormous and intimidating-a ship clearly made for a very long journey. Wherever they were heading, it was sure to be far, far away. Brendon found that to be a comforting thought.

Brendon kept an eye out for the rest of Decaydance. Port was bustling with sailors, passengers, and merchants, but he hoped to spot at least one familiar face to lead them to the rest. It wasn’t until they set foot on the grey, sun-bleached wood of the ship’s deck that he heard a happy shout. When the four of them turned in the direction of it, they saw Gabe and Ryland leaning against the starboard edge of the ship. They hurried over, hooting and hollering and throwing their hands up in a rather undignified celebration. It was the most endearing sort of welcome he had ever known.

While Gabe and Ryland were shouting their names, other recognizable faces popped up to see what the commotion was about. With every emerging face, Brendon’s heart felt fuller, ready to burst. He was home again. Amongst all these rowdy, indecorous people, he was home.

“Ryan! Brendon!” Spencer hollered. He ran to the two of them and locked an arm around each of their necks. Brendon had never known strangulation to be an affectionate gesture, but Spencer’s beaming smile was enough to convince him otherwise.

When Spencer kissed Ryan on the cheek, Ryan made a show of scrubbing it off with his palm. However, he grabbed Spencer by the shoulder and wrestled him into the most inelegant and dewy-eyed embrace he could manage.

Gabe came over and lifted Brendon off the ground with a bone-crushing hug. “You’re safe! You sly little fox!”

“Off scot-free!” The Butcher said happily. “

“Yes, without a penny to our names,” said Brendon groused. He couldn’t help but notice just how much they’d left behind.

Pete looked offended. “Do you expect so little of me, Brendon? Lady Catherine may be crafty, but she’s as green as a spring sapling. Every good merchant knows you never pay before you receive your goods. Let me just say that Lady Catherine is no merchant.”

The group hooted as Pete grinned, soaking in the praise.

“Pete is a trade-savvy man before much else, ain’t that right, mate?” Gabe said. He wrapped himself around Pete like a huge, overgrown monkey. Pete patted one of Gabe’s long arms around his chest.

“You should feel complimented, Brendon. You fetch a pretty penny. Enough to help us start up wherever we’re going,” said Patrick, pushing his eyeglasses closer.

“How much was it?” asked Gabe, curiosity right there on his face just like all of his emotions. A group of other voices echoed him, wanting to know.

Brendon could not seem to suppress his own burning interest, either; he wanted to know how much he was worth.

“Enough,” Pete said. And that was that.

Jon hung an affectionate arm around Brendon neck and said, “Nothing would be enough to buy Brendon away.”

Spencer made mock cooing noises and earned a few laughs from the others. Brendon punched him in the shoulder lightheartedly. Ryan smiled at Brendon from over Spencer’s shoulder.

The group began to dissipate, breaking off into smaller crowds that ambled away after some time. Michael Carden and William were talking about finding the galley, and Brendon very much wanted to join them.

Before he could tear himself away, he heard Jon ask, “Where are we headed, anyway?”

The question was for Pete, of course. The others waited for an answer, a revelation of the plan that their leader always had.

It suddenly struck Brendon how much loyalty it took for someone to willingly agree to something that sounded so foolish and dangerous as what they just did, even though they had not been let in on every detail. That was the level of trust they bestowed upon each other. Staggering.

Eyes captured by the view of the vast, cobalt sea, Pete gave no immediate reply. He took a moment to breathe in the salty aroma of the ocean, to appreciate it. Then, he distantly said, “I hear the Americas are full of promise. We could use a fresh start.”

The End