Bandom Big Bang: Drowning Lessons, Pt 1
Title: Drowning Lessons
Author: sailorstkwrning
Length: 33,060
Characters: MCR (incl Bob), P@TD/TYV, Korse, extended cameos by Maja Ivarsson, Travie McCoy, Cobra Starship, Lyn-Z and Chantal Euringer, mention of various others.
Warnings: Indentured servants; physical restraint (boys briefly in a bridle and also a cage); mention of past physical abuse; implied past sexual trauma; an attempt to exchange sex for protection/favors; voluntary cross-dressing; and a non-fatal duel.
Beta: egelantier, arsenicjade , corvide, and also my sister. Any remaining mistakes, gross historical inaccuracies, or flagrant ridiculousness are entirely my fault.
Author's notes: This story would not exist without egelantier and arsenicjade; it began life as chat-fic passed between us in email over the course of a year, which they have graciously allowed me to expand and contract, prune and flesh out, to make what you are about to read today. This story also owes a considerable and significant debt to the work of Patrick O'Brian; most notably, the trope of house-as-ship originates with him.
PART I | PART II | PART III | PART IV
Bonus Material: FANMIX by prettykitty_aya
"Set us a course, Mr. Bryar," Mikey said, raising his voice to be heard over the chatter of the street.
Bryar made a thoughtful noise, then walked over to a fruit stand and bought an apple to eat as they ambled through the market. Mikey took a sip of warm whisky from his flask and followed him, hanging back as if he were a servant. It was a cold, wet day, and the mood of the street was oddly uneasy. Bryar paused a couple of times, once for steaming hot chicken pasties, again for a bag of sewing trifles and a couple of lengths of linen. They were on their way back to the inn and their waiting coach when Bryar's face hardened abruptly and he veered towards the well at the center of the market, where a crowd of rough men had gathered.
Mikey noted several loathsomely familiar faces before the crowd shifted, and he saw what must have unsettled the market and caught Bryar's eye: a sale circle behind a hunched figure. Even from a distance Mikey could see that the men on display were the scarred and probably scrofulous dregs of someone's breaking yard, and would probably as soon commit murder as spit. Most of them were slumped in their chains, but one was standing as rigidly straight as his shackles and bridle would allow.
Bryar went directly to the one with the bridle, while Mikey skirted around the edges of the circle, looking more carefully at the other men.
"Who'll give me five," the tout called out, yanking on the lead so that the bridled man - boy, really, and a skinny, filthy, injured boy, at that - stumbled forward.
"He has articles?" Bryar asked, silencing the hoots and catcalls of the others.
"Of course," the tout said, his eyes widening with mock outrage. "They all do, I'm a law-abiding businessman."
Bryar's face didn't move. The tout pulled a grubby sheaf of paper out of his jacket and handed it to Bryar, who glanced at it briefly before he tucked it under his arm. He glanced briefly at Mikey, one eyebrow raised. When Mikey shook his head, Bryar carefully extracted just five gold pieces from his purse.
The tout was good, Mikey had to give him that much; when Bryar dropped the coins in his hand, shock flickered only briefly across his face, and was soon replaced with the solicitous pleasure of someone who has found a fool eager to part with money.
Mikey kept his eyes on the boy while Bryar and the tout fussed around getting the chains off him. He was sunburned under his crust of filth, and his eyes were blank and empty. At least one of his shoulders was out of its socket.
"You'll want to leave the bridle on," the tout murmured, grabbing Bryar's sleeve with filthy bandaged hand as Bryar reached for the buckles. "He bites."
Bryar didn't reply, just tugged his arm loose and carefully eased the bridle off the boy. That, finally, got a reaction: the boy blinked a couple of times, then turned his head and spit on the ground, only narrowly missing the tout's shoes.
The tout squawked his outrage, but subsided rapidly under the weight of Bryar's glare. Mikey waited until they were a few steps away before he offered the boy a sip from his flask. The boy took it, wincing a little when the whisky burned his throat.
"Thank you, Master," he said, so softly it was almost a whisper, and Mikey flinched.
"That is Mr. Way," Bryar said, equally as quietly, and Mikey saw Smith's eyes widen in recognition. "And I am Mr. Bryar. Your papers say your name is Spencer Smith, is that right?"
"Yes, Ma - Mr. Bryar," Spencer said.
"We're going to fix your shoulder now, Mr. Smith," Bryar said, leading them into the lee of a building, away from the main throng. "Mr. Way, hold him, please."
Mikey did as he was bid, and a few moments later Smith slumped against him breathing raggedly. Mikey patted his back awkwardly and the boy jerked away then went still, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Mikey handed him the flask again and he took another, longer drink.
"Thank you very much, sir, " Smith said, as he handed it back.
Meanwhile, Bryar had unwound his scarf from his neck, and fashioned it into a rough sling for Smith's arm. Mikey stepped back to allow him room to work, and took the chance to study the boy more closely. Despite the sunburn and layer of grime, he didn't have the look of a street urchin, and there was a certain amount of wary intelligence in his eyes.
Mikey opened his mouth to ask What did you do to be put in with those men?, but before he could get the words out, Bryar produced both another apple and a pasty from his pocket and handed them to Smith. The boy ate them quickly, neatly and with ill-disguised hunger. A few passers-by stopped to murmur and stare. Mikey tilted his head towards the inn and set off at a brisk pace. Bob and the boy followed him in silence.
The carriage was waiting for them when they arrived. Bryar climbed up into his usual place next to the Conrad, the driver, and Mikey helped Smith into the inner compartment. Smith succumbed to sleep before they were even through the town gates, and between the whisky and the horses' easy gait, Mikey soon followed him.
They arrived home just as the sun was setting. Bryar took charge of Smith, and directing the unloading of the carriage. Mikey left him to it, and climbed the stairs to his brother's study. He found Gerard at his desk, surrounded by balled up pieces of foolscap and covered in ink.
Mikey cleared his throat softly. Gerard raised his head, and Mikey watched as irritation at being interrupted was rapidly replaced by pleasure.
"What's the manifest?" Gerard asked, sprinkling sand over his drawing.
"One," Mikey said, settling down in a chair and extracting a cheroot from his pocket. "A boy."
Gerard frowned and set down his quill.
"He was in with the breakers," Mikey explained, lighting the cheroot. "And injured."
Gerard's face darkened some more, but not, Mikey knew, because of any anger at him.
"Bryar has done what he can, but I'll have McCoy check him over tomorrow. And I'll send a note to Armstrong to let him know the Revenge can still sail on the first tide." Mikey said, filling his lungs with sweet smoke. Gerard settled back in his chair.
"The boy has no family?" Gerard asked, a tinge of puzzlement in his voice.
Mikey shrugged one shoulder. "Bryar has his papers."
Gerard made a thoughtful noise, and Mikey took another deep drag on his cheroot.
Eventually Gerard bent his head to his work once more. Mikey finished his cheroot and quietly showed himself out.
**
Spencer woke up slowly, tugged towards consciousness by the twin puzzlements of the soft bed he was lying in and the smell of frying bacon. He inventoried his hurts before he opened his eyes. His shoulder was still sore and throbbing, but not as awfully as it had been, which was puzzling until he remembered Ma - Mr. Bryar had put it back in joint the night before.
That, in turn, reminded him his contract had been sold, again, and he was in a new household. And not just any new household: one of the mad Way brothers had bought him and he was at Wolfhame. He was almost sorry that so far it was not nearly as scary as all of the stories had promised it would be.
Spencer had been expecting a dark, dingy castle with massive spider webs and bats and perhaps a flinty-eyed butler, and had instead been presented with a shambling but still stately manor home, and greeted by two men, one tall and quiet, the other short, excitable and heavily tattooed. Their names had slipped past him in the general tumult, but he could remember he had thought their faces seemed kind. And while Spencer had not spent very much time in Mr. Way's presence, even he had not seemed as fearsome as kitchen scuttlebut implied he should be.
A bell rang somewhere in the house and Spencer sat up slowly, clutching the bed linens until the room stopped spinning. He vaguely remembered Mr. Bryar helping him to get out of his filthy clothes the night before, but when he looked for them, they were gone, replaced by clean things.
He struggled into them, somewhat hampered by the sling, though he felt he was mostly presentable at the end. The shirt was miles too big for him, and the trousers a little short; nonetheless he was grateful to be decently covered. Whoever had taken his clothes had left his boots; he slipped them on and followed his nose to the kitchen.
**
"The new boy is at the door, sir," Iero said, his voice pitched low, and Ray turned from his baking tray to consider the newcomer.
It had been too dark, and the scene too chaotic, for Ray to get a good look at him the night before. In daylight the boy was tall, fair though ruddy with sunburn, and well formed, if a little thin and hollow around the eyes. And as Mr. Bryar had warned them earlier, he had one arm in a sling. He was studying the kitchen intently, but when he felt Ray's eyes on him he dropped his gaze to the floor and seemed to try and make himself smaller.
"Good morning, Mr. Smith," Ray said, wiping his hands on his breeches.
"Good morning, sir," the new boy said, tugging anxiously at his shirt with his free hand. Ray made a mental note to see if better-fitting clothes could be found for him.
"I'm Mr. Toro," Ray reminded him. They had already been introduced, but the boy had been half dead with exhaustion and Ray doubted he remembered. "And the scoundrel making off with my scones is Mr. Iero. Would you like some tea?"
"Yes, please," Smith said. Ray noticed that he hung back a moment longer before sitting down at the table, and wondered what his previous house had been like.
"You've met with the governor?" Ray asked as he put the kettle on.
"Not yet, sir," Smith said, and shifted as if he might get up.
"Be at ease, the Captain will send someone for you when you're wanted," Iero said, grabbing another scone.
Smith settled, accepting a scone when Iero offered him one. Ray occupied himself with the tea things, and stole only the occasional glance out of the corner of his eye. He noted that the boy ate quickly and efficiently, and had - perhaps unknowingly - sheltered his breakfast in the crook of his free arm between bites, as if he feared it might be taken from him. Ray met Iero's eyes over the top of Smith's bent head, and they exchanged a grim look.
Smith was on his fourth scone - it had been a long time since they had taken in anyone new, and Ray had almost forgotten how much the young ones could eat - when Bryar stuck his head around the door and informed them that Mr. Way would be pleased to receive Mr. Smith in his study at his earliest convenience.
"Mr. Way?" Iero repeated, lowering his paring knife and looking up from his potatoes with a frown.
"Aye, and then the gov'nor will see him afterwards," Bryar said.
Meanwhile, Smith looked like he might soon choke on his last bite of scone; Ray nudged his tea cup towards him and watched while he took a drink. Then both he and Iero stayed quiet as Smith untangled himself from the table and followed Bryar out of the room.
**
Gerard was composing a sonnet when Mikey arrived with his latest acquisition. The boy looked to be in the middle of his growth spurt, and gawky with it.
"Captain Way, may I present Spencer Smith," Mikey said as he handed over the boy's papers.
"You may sit down, Mr. Smith," Gerard said, unfolding the documents in order to study them.
"Thank you, sir," Smith said, his voice soft but clear.
Gerard read the papers carefully - it seemed as if Mr. Smith had at one time been apprenticed to a blacksmith; the original signatory's name had been crossed out and changed so often it was nothing but inky blur, but the terms were, as usual, ruinous and cruel - then looked up. The boy was perched on the edge of Gerard's second best chair in an attitude of submission, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
"Do you have any family, Mr. Smith?" He tried to make his tone gentle; he suspected he already knew the answer. No-one with resources, any resources at all, would have submitted themselves to the terms of the agreement.
"My parents and sisters emigrated to the colonies several years back," Smith said, raising his head. "Some day I hope to join them."
Gerard met Mikey's eyes briefly, then looked back at the boy. "You preferred to stay here, rather than travel with them?"
"I was well settled at the forge at the time, and my parents thought the girls might have better prospects abroad," Smith said, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. "By the time the smith died, they were well away, and I took whatever work I could to get by."
Gerard winced in understanding, picked up his quill, and attended to the document.
"There," he said, when he was finished. "Your debt is cancelled. I can offer you passage to the colonies on the Black Parade, whenever she next sails, or a place can be found for you here. Or if you have other friends, I should be pleased to contact them on your behalf."
"Passage," Smith repeated, the blankness of his expression replaced by pure bafflement.
"That was the original consideration, was it not?" Gerard asked, flipping the documents over.
"Yes, sir," Smith said, his voice still sounding like it was coming from a long ways away.
"I would warn you against seeking your fortune on the public roads," Gerard said. "The bailiffs are sharp-eyed and the press is quite active in these parts, and you may find yourself imprisoned for vagrancy or at sea and subject to His Majesty's will."
The boy blinked at him some more, and Gerard attempted a reassuring smile. When the boy still did not speak, Gerard decided to take his silence as an indication that he would be remaining at Wolfhame for the forseeable future.
"I shall presume you recognize my name?" Gerard said glancing briefly at his brother.
"Yes, sir," Smith said, coughing a little bit. "I have only read a small part of your book, but - I have heard stories."
Mikey made an undignified noise and Gerard glared at him briefly. "Really? What kind of tales go before me?"
Smith's face went blank, and Gerard could see he was struggling for tact. Behind him, Mikey's eyebrows were ascending towards his hairline. Gerard scowled at his brother and then softened his expression for Smith's benefit.
"Wild ones," the boy said, slowly. "Of burning ships and demons and -"
"We did fire several ships to the waterline," Gerard agreed, his grin broadening at the memory. "Though no demons were in attendance. In any case, we are reformed characters now, are we not, Mr. Way?"
"We are," Mikey agreed, his lips twitching at the corners. "Respectable businessmen, with philanthropic and artistic interests."
Smith's face smoothed over again as he digested that information. Gerard set his quill down and waited.
"What would you have me do here, Master?" Smith asked.
"Captain," Gerard repeated, sharpening his tone for emphasis but smiling to ease the sting. "First you should recover your strength. I shall conference with Mr. Way and Mr. Toro regarding the needs of the household. Where did you work, after the smithy?"
"I was a laborer - a stagehand," Smith said. His voice was steady, but Gerard could see his hands clenching into anxious fists.
"A stagehand, you say?" Gerard looked up in time to see the boy nod. "What theater were you at?
"I've been at several, sir," the boy said. "The Freya most recently."
"The Freya," Gerard repeated, noting the way the boy flinched. The name was familiar; he vaguely remembered it being the papers. "Well, if my brother and I are successful in our next endeavor it may be you could pursue that line of work again. In the meantime, you are on light duty, and can report to Mr. Toro. You have the liberty of the house and grounds. Good afternoon, Mr. Smith."
"Thank you, Captain," Smith said, then rose - perhaps a hair unsteadily - and left the room.
**
"Do you think you could use a paring knife?" Toro asked, his eyebrows knit into a thoughtful frown.
"Yes, sir," Spencer said, easing his arm out of the sling, oddly comforted by the familiar prospect of work.
His shoulder ached, but bearably; meanwhile, his debt had only been cancelled for half an hour and his head was still spinning.
"Well, then you can see to these," Toro decided, and shifted a basket of apples onto the table.
"Thank you, sir," Spencer murmured, taking the knife when Iero held it out to him.
"And don't let Mr. Iero steal more than a quarter of what you peel," Toro said, mock-sternly.
"I get hungry," Iero protested, playing at indignance and stealing an apple off the top of the pile at the same time. "And I have a wooden leg to keep it all in!"
"Only half," Toro reminded him, and stole an apple of his own. "Now come and help me spit the hens."
"You're a cruel one and no mistake," Iero said, but he was laughing as he followed Toro over to the fireplace.
Spencer waited until they were well away to sit down. The captain's words echoed in his ears. Your debt is cancelled. It seemed impossible. The warm kitchen and Iero's laughter seemed impossible too, though the periodic scrape of the sharp blade of the paring knife against his fingers suggested it was real.
At one point he put extra pressure on the knife, enough to draw break the skin, just to see if he would wake up back in the breaker yard, or perhaps in a cage somewhere. All he got for his trouble was a sore knuckle. He sucked on it briefly, the bright copper taste of the blood convincing him he was awake, and tried to wrap his head around his new reality.
When the basket of apples was finished, Toro gave him a basket of potatoes and carrots to work on. Later, Iero flopped down across from him and joined in the peeling. Spencer kept his head down and listened to Iero and Toro trade bawdy stories. He could plan his next move later. For now it would be useful to find out more about the household.
**
"Eight of clubs?" Bryar asked, squinting at his cards.
"Fish for it," Mikey replied, and took a sip of his grog.
"Sea devil," Bryar murmured, though without any heat, and took a card off the top of the deck.
Bryar sighed heavily when he looked at his prize, and Mikey fanned his cards out in his hand to study them. He was considering his strategy when Bryar tapped his wrist with his fingers.
Mikey glanced up, startled and a little annoyed, and Bryar put one finger to his lips then looked at the ceiling. Mikey arched an eyebrow at him, but looked up. After a moment he heard it: the creak of footsteps, too heavy to be his brother, too light to be Toro, and definitely two footed, which excluded Iero, and, most damning, headed the wrong way for the bathroom.
Mikey grabbed his mug and stood up as silently as possible, then ducked into the corridor. Smith was quiet on the stairs - Mikey's eyes widened, impressed; he had only been among them for three days, but clearly the boy had been paying enough attention to identify the creaky steps - and when he didn't turn towards the kitchen, Mikey's theory blossomed into certainty.
"Mr. Smith," he called out. "If you are seeking a snack, you have strayed off course, the kitchen is this way."
The boy froze, then turned to look at him. Even in the dim light Mikey could see he was pale with terror.
"The kettle is still warm," Mikey continued, making his tone as friendly as possible. "Mr. Bryar and I would be pleased if you would join us."
Smith managed a nod and followed him. Mikey waved him into a seat next to Bryar, and made them all fresh cups of tea. Bryar took his black, as he always did; Smith did the same, though Mikey suspected that was born of fear and not preference.
"Thank you, sir," Smith whispered, and Mikey tilted his head in acknowledgement.
"Do the dogs disturb your rest?" Mikey asked, clearing away the cards.
Smith raised his head, and met Mikey's eyes. His gaze was startling direct, and Mikey met it. He could see alarm there, but also a glimmer of calculating intelligence.
"No, sir," Smith said after a moment. "I was wakeful on my own account."
Mikey made a sympathetic noise, and shuffled the deck. "Perhaps you would care to join Mr. Bryar and I at cards? I find that sometimes the exercise attracts Morpheus."
Smith hid his face in his teacup for a moment before nodding his assent.
"If we had a fourth we could play bridge, but, since the household is at rest, could I interest you in a game of Faro, gentlemen?" Mikey asked, already shuffling the deck.
Bryar hummed his agreement, and when Smith made no argument, Mikey dealt the cards. For now he was content that the boy was safe in the house; he could investigate the reason Smith had tried to run away at another time.
**
The next evening, Spencer waited for the others to get sunk in their card game before he slipped away to the barn to wash, the cold water rattling his bones but steeling his resolve. Then he grabbed a candle and a brush, as if he were going to tend to coats, and boldly walked into Captain Way's room. He did actually brush the coats, since it needed to be done; then he stripped quickly, piled his folded clothes neatly by the bed, and knelt down to wait.
The room was warm, and Spencer had been working in the kitchen all day; later Spencer would convince himself that that was why he failed to notice the second set of footsteps on the stairs. But at the point Captain Way walked through the door with his brother at his heels, Spencer was both surprised and mortified.
Captain Way stared at him for a minute, his mouth forming a round, shocked O. Before Spencer could even stammer out an apology, Mr. Way dodged around his brother, pulled a blanket from the bed, wrapped it around Spencer, and stepped back.
Spencer wasn't sure what to do. Mr. Way wasn't part of the plan. Spencer had heard the tales of the Captain's depravity, but even still he doubted the man's disdain for common customs extended to swiving a servant in front of his brother.
Captain Way started talking, but his voice was shrill, and Spencer's head was too sore from hours of anxiety and uncertainty to absorb anything he was saying.
"Mr. Smith, what are you doing here?" Mr. Way asked, quieting his brother with a hand
on his arm.
Spencer raised his head slowly, painfully aware that his eyes and face are both burning with embarrassment. He could not bring himself to say the words, but he could see from their faces that he did not need to.
"But why, why would you come here, like this?" the Captain stammered. There were two spots of color high on his cheeks.
"To beg forgiveness," Spencer said, and swallowed carefully. "And a favor."
Captain Way made a baffled noise, but Mr. Way sighed heavily, and Spencer looked to him.
"We will leave you to dress," Mr. Way said. "If you will excuse us, Mr. Smith, we'll discuss this when we return."
And then they were gone, though Spencer could hear the Captain's voice rising and falling as they went down the stairs. He scrambled into his clothes and knelt down on the floor. Mainly, he hoped he would survive whatever punishment they chose to mete out.
**
"Forgiveness for what?" Gerard asked, as soon as Mikey closed the door behind them. "He's barely been here a week and I have not seen him more than twice, and his conduct has not been offensive on either occasion."
"He tried to desert last night," Mikey explained, moving quickly down the stairs and into the kitchen. "I encountered him on the stairs and foiled him."
Gerard's narrowed his eyes at his brother's back and sat down at the table. "Why was I not informed?"
"I wished to make my own enquiries," Mikey said, his expression deceptively mild. "I intended to do it this morning, and was myself foiled by Mr. Gokey's uncanny ability to demand complicated printing jobs at the very last moment."
"Christ's bones," Gerard muttered into his elbows, then sat up and scrubbed at his face, stretching his fingers out to try to shake off the adrenaline.
Mikey offered him a glass of water and he took it, then drank slowly while Mikey put the kettle on.
"Where did you find him again?" Gerard asked.
"Hangman's Hill," Mikey said, decanting milk into a small pitcher. "Oxblood and Fife's stall."
"Fuck," Gerard said, barely audible over the whistle of the kettle. "I thought we shut them down."
"We did," Mikey said, lifting the tray. "Oxblood got out of prison and they're back."
Gerard stood up and straightened his clothes, steeling himself for the coming interview.
Mikey led the way up the stairs and nudged the door open with his knee. Spencer was dressed, but still kneeling on the floor. Somehow he looked even younger with clothes on, drowning as he was in Bryar's castoffs. He raised his head when they came in the room, but only briefly. Gerard could see he had a white-knuckle grip on his knees.
"Get up, please, Mr. Smith. You may sit on my sea trunk, if you like," Gerard said, gesturing towards the end of the bed, and the boy hastened to obey.
Mikey set the tray down on the table and poured out three cups of tea. Gerard settled himself in the massive armchair he inherited from his grandfather and tried to look a dignified as possible.
"I ran away six times," Mikey said, softly, moving the tea things to the table, and both Gerard and Spencer turned to look at him, wide-eyed with surprise.
Mikey handed Spencer a cup of tea and he took it, pure bafflement in his face.
"You seem confused, Mr. Smith," Mikey said. "Did the tale-tellers not mention my sordid past? They certainly are keen to remind me of it at every opportunity."
Spencer's bafflement turned to a mixture of alarm and shame. Gerard racked his brains for some way to defuse the situation, and then Mikey took pity on him.
"As you may remember, when my brother was captured, the Dey of Algiers demanded a ransom, which of course His Majesty refused to pay," Mikey explained, lowering himself into another nearby chair. "The family was able to scrape together about half the sum needed, but could not get the rest. So I sold myself into service for a year to - a gentleman."
Mikey paused, and Gerard took a mouthful of tea. He did not like to think how he had repaid his brothers' sacrifice. Rather than coming home upon his release, he had fallen into drunken debauchery in all of the ports of the Caribbean. It had taken a hurricane destroying the hovel he was living in to finally wash him home to England.
"It was done quietly at the time, of course," Mikey continued. "It was advantageous to both of our families to keep the arrangement out of public knowledge. But at the end of the year he refused to release me. Publicizing my plight would reveal the whole scheme and shame us all, so I ran away."
Gerard drank more tea.
"The first five times Master caught me," Mikey said, Spencer's eyes grew impossibly wider. "The sixth time I made it all the way to town before I caught the eye of a lady."
"But -" Gerard began, because this was not a story he had heard before. Or at least, not told quite this way. Mikey didn't lie. He did sometimes leave things out.
"She and I had a meeting of the minds," Mikey continued. "She had need of a bodyguard, I had need of passage over the mountains."
Gerard sagged back into his chair, shaky all over again. Over the mountains, across the moors, to the edge of the sea, where Gerard had been drowning in alcohol and his own filth.
"Eventually the other party shared our secret - that was part of why my brother and I turned to privateering, to make the appearance of earning money he falsely claimed he was owed while still being out of his reach. But enough of my misspent youth. Where is it you need to go, Mr. Smith?" Mikey asked, balancing his tea cup on his knee.
There was a long silence. Gerard could see the boy was considering all of his options.
"Salem's Pocket," Spencer finally said. "Please, I need to get to Salem's Pocket. I - I have to - please -"
Gerard leaned forward; he knew that name, and not for any good reasons. Mikey made a thoughtful noise and drank some of his tea.
"That's miles from here. What -" Mikey paused, considering, "- or should I say, who, is in Salem's Pocket?"
Spencer inhaled sharply and Mikey arched an inquisitive eyebrow.
"My - friend Ryan, my particular friend," Spencer said. "We - that's where I was last, at the theater -"
"The Freya," Gerard cut in. "I think I remember that it failed quite spectacularly last fall."
"Yes," Spencer murmured, taking a deep breath. "Mr. Hill - he was the owner - he had invested poorly, and then a ship sank, and - well, we thought we might salvage what we could after the bailiffs were done and make a go of being a traveling troupe, all of us."
Clearly not finished, Spencer paused to fortify himself with more tea. Gerard took another drink himself and poked at his memory for more details. He had a vague feeling it had been quite a tragic story - a consumptive daughter in the mix somewhere, perhaps. He knew he had followed it quite avidly in the papers until more pressing matters had demanded his attention.
"We were just starting to get organized when Mr. Hill sent a note that a charitable gentleman, a Mr. Korse, was wanting to start a private company," Spencer continued. "In fact he'd asked about taking all of us on. He was wanting to put on plays to raise funds for his charitable work."
"Korse," Mikey repeated, setting his teacup down on the table with a faint clink, and Gerard settled his own cup next to it. Suddenly a few things from last fall made more sense. Clearly he had not been reading the papers closely enough, if he had missed Korse's name in the proceedings.
"You know the name, sir?" Spencer asked, his eyes widening a fraction.
"Yes," Mikey, his voice flat and grim. "And to call his nature charitable is a grotesque lie. And then what happened?"
"Well, Ryan and I didn't have anywhere else to go, most of the lads didn't, so we all signed on, and -" Spencer paused again. "Korse was - he had - rare taste. Very - old fashioned. He liked a lot of blood and thunder."
"He was cruel," Mikey said, more a statement than a question, and Spencer nodded jerkily.
"It wasn't so bad, for me, I mean, I - I was mainly in the wings - but Ryan had been our best Ophelia, and Korse liked him as the Duchess of Malfi as well," Spencer said, fixing his gaze on his knees. "And for his own more private entertainments."
Gerared swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat. "You escaped?"
Spencer made a noise that was almost amused. "Korse was enthusiastic about punishing stagehands for mistakes, and Ryan and a few of the other actors tried to strike, to protect us. Korse ordered us used as cannon fodder. I was at the back, and so was knocked out rather than killed. He dumped the bodies and sold the rest of us on. After that - " Spencer shrugged one shoulder, then fell silent.
Mikey nodded, a tense, tight movement, then stood up. "I'll only trouble you for a full description of your friend before you find your own bed."
Gerard could see relief in the boy's eyes as he obeyed, as well as the protest, and the questions, forming and faltering his expression.
"We've had dealings with Mr. Korse before," Gerard said, when Spencer fell silent. "We didn't realize he'd become a patron of the arts."
"In fact we thought we'd left him to rot in a Nassau jail," Mikey said.
"He's a pirate too?" Spencer said, his expression suggesting that perhaps this news explained much of his experience.
"We were privateers," Gerard corrected him, gently but firmly. "But no, he was not a pirate. We would have just hung him from the yardarm of the Revenge if that were the case. He is - or at least was - a Navy man, so we had to turn him over to the governor."
"What - what was his offense?" Spencer asked, now as wide-eyed as a child being told an adventure story.
"Uncommon cruelty," Mikey murmured. "He was quick with the cat and stingy with provisions, except when it came to his own table, and - well, he was no gentleman. His crew endured until he shot both of the cabin boys in cold blood, and could not account for their crime."
Spencer inhaled sharply. Gerard exchanged a brief glance with Mikey, who nodded at him to finish the story.
"We were resident in his brig at the time," Gerard explained. "It came to a fight - one of the sailors freed us, in order to borrow our strength - and, well, it concluded with him in irons and myself bringing the ship into port."
"That's not in the book," Spencer said, then blushed furiously.
"The governor demanded our discretion - our silence - on the subject as a condition of our release," Mikey said, smiling grimly. "We were given to understand that his wife had a family connection with Korse, which may have affected his thinking."
"But -wouldn't the sailors carry the tale?" Spencer asked, his brows knitting into a frown.
"Perhaps, but likely only as far as the waterfront bars," Mikey said, shaking his arms out. "So far none have committed pen to paper. At any rate, we'll start making inquiries in the morning. Good night, Mr. Smith."
"Good night, sir - Captain," Spencer murmured, standing up slowly and executing a rough bow before seeing himself out.
**
Spencer made his way back to his room slowly, dizzy with relief and sick with worry in about the same measure, the Ways' words swirling in his head. He crawled into bed and curled around the pillow - he didn't miss the chaos of the breakers yard, but he still felt strange, all alone in the room, and the bed - and slept in spite of himself.
The next day he was sure it was a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, but then Mr. Way came to the kitchen during breakfast and asked him a few mild questions about Korse's social habits, his expression darkening as Spencer answered. Afterwards Bryar and Toro vanished for most of the day, leaving Spencer and Iero alone to peel a small mountain of carrots and potatoes. Spencer stabbed his own fingers several times in his distraction, but Iero was polite enough not to comment.
**
Three days later, a grubby, crumpled and heavily folded note appeared next to Gerard's plate at breakfast. Captain Shit-for-Brains was scrawled messily on the back flap. Gerard stabbed it with his fork and glanced at Mikey for an explanation.
"McCracken," Mikey said, buttering his toast. "I think. I cannot say for certain, since I found it pinned to Snake Child's bridle this morning."
Gerard suppressed a sigh, freed the note, and unfolded it carefully. Our Lady of Sorrows Hospital, Bell Town, was scrawled on the inside in distinctive and familiar handwriting.
"McCracken," Gerard confirmed, refolding the note. "He suggests an almshouse that is, I think, within a few hours ride."
Mikey made a thoughtful noise, and took a deep drink from his teacup, and then the only sounds were those of hasty eating. One of Iero's terriers - Gerard couldn't tell if it was Scylla or Charbydis - stuck a cold nose against Gerard's ankle and he dropped a crust for her.
"Mr. Toro and Mr. Bryar, you'll come with us," Gerard said when they were finished, pushing himself out of his chair. "Mr. Iero, you have the ship."
"House," Mikey said, mildly, and Gerard dismissed him with a wave.
**
Ryan heard the lock clinking against the bars of the cage, and did not move. Partially because he couldn't, and partially because he didn't care what happened to him any more. The iron bars of the cage, once hated, had become almost pleasant, keeping the world away the way they did. The straw he was lying on was filthy and prickly, but still mostly dry, and his pervasive aches distracted him from frivolous concerns like temperature. He was, all things considered, perfectly content to die here.
Then someone or some thing jostled the cage, setting off a cascade of agony and provoking him into a token protest. He was vaguely surprised when he felt rough, unfamiliar fingers moving over his arms in slow, soothing motions. Perhaps Korse had given him away again. He was startled again when the cage creaked open, and bitter liquid passed over his lips, stinging at the cracks and tears.
It didn't taste like the other drugs, but Ryan still tried to spit it out. He also tried to convey, to the extent that he was able, that he would be good. But he couldn't remember exactly how to say anything. The next thing he tasted was cold, sweet water, which was so strange he spat it out as well; when they tried again, he managed to swallow it.
Ryan wondered for the first time if he had died and not noticed. Heaven was a lot louder than he had thought it would be. He could hear people (angels?) talking, and they had oddly familiar accents. At least he hoped they were angels. He assumed they were good angels. He didn't think bad angels would have given him water. The cage rattled some more, and there were more hands on him, but they were still gentle hands. After that there was more water, and more bitter, somebody draped something heavy and cool over him, and he let oblivion pull him under.
**
Gerard kept a slow pace over well-traveled paths as they went home, hoping to ease the strain of travel on the boy. They arrived at Wolfhame just as dawn was breaking. Iero and Smith came spilling out of the front door almost as soon as the horses' noses passed through the main gate; Gerard assumed Iero must have been watching for them. He let Mikey and Toro and their precious cargo get ahead, and paused to watch the hubbub only briefly before nudging his mount towards the stables.
When his horse was settled, Gerard retreated to his study to rinse off the worst of the road dust and see if any urgent correspondence had arrived in the night. Some time later, Iero appeared with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. He was much quieter than usual, and leaning more heavily on his peg-leg; Gerard assumed the scene downstairs must be grim, and didn't keep him.
A couple of hours later Gerard was awakened from an accidental nap by the creaking of floorboards. He opened his eyes just as someone began tapping on his door. When he bade them enter, it was Travis McCoy, former ship's surgeon, who crossed the threshold, his shoulders hunched in order to fit his lanky frame under the ancient lintel.
"Mr. McCoy," Gerard said, stifling a yawn. "What's the butcher's bill?"
"I don't expect Mr. Ross will last the night," McCoy said, lowering himself into a nearby chair. "I have given Mr. Smith a calming tonic."
"Thank you, Mr. McCoy," Gerard murmured, shifting forward to press his fingers against his eyes.
Perhaps rescuing the boy had been foolishness, but Gerard could not find it in his heart to regret it. If Ross did die, at least he would not do so friendless and alone in the filthy pit in which they had found him.
"Our old adversary has resurfaced," McCoy commented, clasping his heavily tattooed hands in his lap.
"Yes," Gerard grimaced, shaking himself into further wakefulness. "He's styled himself as a charitable gentlemen and a friend of the theater this time."
McCoy made a wry face, and then the bell above Gerard's desk began clanging noisily, and he rose in one rapid, graceful movement, excused himself, and departed.
**
**
Ryan woke up because Spencer was talking nearby. Spencer was dead, so maybe Ryan had died. He tried to call out, or make some sort of move to get Spencer's attention, but his body still wouldn't cooperate. He still couldn't get his mouth to open.
Then somehow Spencer was there, next to him, heavy and warm. Part of Ryan's brain filled in alive, but the rest of him glided past it. Maybe bodies were warm in heaven too. Ryan grabbed hold of one of Spencer's fingers and slept until the angels woke him to give him more water and rich, salty chicken broth.
Ryan thought eating and drinking ought to be unnecessary in Heaven, but he was too tired to argue the point. He was also too tired to manage more than a couple of mouthfuls at a time, but the angels didn't seem put out, so he tried not to worry.
Once Ryan woke because an angel was humming - the tune was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it - and then he discovered he could open his eyes. It turned out heaven was really dark and blurry. Spencer was asleep next to him, which was kind of awful and kind of a relief. Ryan squeezed Spencer's finger gently and lay quiet, listening to the angel, not sure if he should make a noise or not. He could see things moving in the shadows, but he wasn't scared. He thought they might be tiny angels. Korse had had a book on the subject; Ryan could remember the pictures.
He was starting to drift off again when the angel stopped humming and came over to the bed to straighten their covers and give Ryan more of the bitter liquid. He opened his mouth obediently and swallowed without protest. The medicine tasted vile, but it muted the throbbing in his knee and hands. He was a bit disappointed, actually, that everything still hurt, even in Heaven.
Though Ryan had started to wonder if maybe he (they) weren't in Heaven yet, but rather trapped in Purgatory. That maybe the angels were just waiting for him to beg Spencer's forgiveness, so they could both move on. He hoped that Spencer could forgive him, so that they could go together. He couldn't stand to have Spencer caged anymore, even here, in this dark, quiet place.
He fell asleep composing his speech to Spencer.
**
"Will you be joining us for dinner tonight, Mr. Smith?" Mr. Iero asked, not looking up from where he was studying Ryan's chest, and the outlines of the doctors' careful stitches. "Toro's clootie dumpling is a rare treat."
Spencer hesitated - he didn't like to leave Ryan for long - but on the other hand he knew when an invitation was not an invitation. Iero was friendly enough, but it would not do to annoy him, or to offend the others by rejecting their company.
"I will, thank you," he murmured, and was rewarded with a bright, quick smile.
"Six o'clock or face the consequences," Mr. Iero said as he left, the amused twist of his mouth easing the sting of the warning.
The kitchen was almost full when Spencer came down, and the table was all but covered in dishes. Spencer nodded his hellos and took the only empty seat left, which was next to Mr. Iero.
That night, and the next several that followed, he kept quiet, content to stuff himself with hot food and wash it down with cold foamy beer. He was careful to save some of what he was given -small things, like chunks of bread and cheese, and pasties - which he wrapped up in an old but clean rag and secured under his bed. Spencer dipped into his reserves only occasionally; mostly he just liked knowing the food was there if he needed it.
Then one afternoon he heard the terriers barking in the hallway outside of Ryan's room. When he went to investigate, he found his tidy bundle in shreds, and Scylla making a meal of a lamb pasty while Charbydis gnawed on a hunk of stale bread.
"No," he yelled, not caring if he woke Ryan up. "Stop it. Bad dogs."
The dogs ignored him. Spencer shouted at them until they vanished down the corridor in a hail of clicking toenails, then knelt down to try and clean up the worst of the mess.
He was almost done when he heard the familiar muffled thud of a wooden leg on carpet. Spencer staggered upwards just as Mr. Iero came around the corner, and forced himself to stand up straight and breathe normally.
"Am I right in suspecting that my ladies have behaved disgracefully?" Iero asked.
Spencer shook his head, because truly the dogs were blameless. He should have found a more secure hiding place for his reserves. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he could feel his face heating as Mr. Iero studied him and the remains of the mess on the floor. Part of him wondered if this indiscretion might finally provoke them into punishing him.
"The kitchen is always open to you, Mr. Smith," Iero said. "And I would be pleased to show you where Mr. Toro keeps the leftovers. Perhaps you can assist Mr. Bryar with reducing the frequency of the appearance of Potted Meat Surprise."
Spencer raised his head, to stunned to be embarrassed by any indiscretion that might be revealed by his face. Iero's grin broadened a fraction, revealing the edge of his gold tooth.
"Though when we are finished here, Mr. Toro requires our assistance with disposing of some extra pie," Iero said. "The top is apparently a shameful disgrace and not fit for the Captain's table."
With that he dropped down into a loose crouch and started to gather up the remains the food the dogs had destroyed. Spencer stared at the crown of his head for a while, then joined in the effort. When they finished Spencer looked in on Ryan; finding him still asleep, Spencer followed Iero to the kitchen.
**
Spencer took over Ryan's nursing as soon as Mr. McCoy and Mr. Way would let him, and carefully did not let his gaze linger long on Mr. Toro and Mr. Iero's worried, sympathetic expressions as they bustled in and out of the sickroom. Instead he brought his mending to Ryan's bedside - he would not repay the generosity of the household by shirking his duty - and spent his time alternating between tidying hems, repatriating all of Mr. Way's truant buttons, coaxing Ryan into swallowing water and thin chicken broth at regular intervals, and changing Ryan's multitudes of bandages. When Ryan wasn't thrashing and mumbling in his sleep, he was still as death and Spencer checked often to make sure he was still breathing.
Eventually Mr. McCoy came to check Ryan himself; he sounded both pleased and surprised to report that Ryan was improving. Not long after the doctor went upstairs to talk with Captain Way, Ryan opened his eyes for a few moments, and seemed to see Spencer.
"I'm sorry for killing you," Ryan murmured, squeezing Spencer's fingers for emphasis.
"You didn't," Spencer whispered. "I'm alive. You're alive, Ryan."
"No," Ryan murmured, frowning the way he did when Spencer didn't understand a bit of stage business. "The cannon - you all fell. And died."
"No," Spencer countered, letting a little bit of steel slip into his voice. "I am not dead, and neither are you." He swallowed the yet that was threatening to append itself to that statement.
"Cannon," Ryan muttered, his tone turning pettish. "Saw you fall. Don't be difficult, Spencer."
Spencer glared at him, irritation well-mixed with a few cautious tendrils of hope - he never thought he'd be so happy to hear Ryan being cranky with him - then picked up
Ryan's good hand and pressed it to the pulse-point at his throat.
Ryan frowned, irritated at first but it gradually shifted into puzzlement, and Spencer released his hand.
"We're alive," Spencer repeated, allowing himself a smile for the first time since he arrived at Wolfhame, and lay down next to Ryan.
"Cannon," Ryan muttered to himself, then rolled towards Spencer and fell back to sleep.
**
The village girls will only speak in whispers, but they tell me he's (still) a bastard, and several of them have the bruises to prove it. Suarez reports the town fathers seem to be quite taken in - pleased to have a place for their prodigals to roost.
Mikey sighed and rubbed his eyes; Saporta's handwriting had only gotten worse with time, and he would insist on writing on tiny pieces of paper.
And for all Korse's bleating about his tenderhearted weakness for the downtrodden, Mr. Ripley has made two unannounced calls on the matron, in search of haven for a relative, and been frostily turned away both times.
She seems to be unmoved by his plaintive wailing about his most wayward and beloved sister. (Miss Victoria grows restive, and plans a bravura performance, should he ever melt the icy heart.) I suspect a quantity of gold may be needed to start the warming trend.
"No," Smith murmured, pulling Mikey back to the present, and Mikey heard the bed creak as he shifted. "Stop it, I said -"
He paused, a frown darkening his features, and shifted again, drawing his legs up as if prepared to kick.
"No," he said, louder; Mikey saw his fists clench in the bedclothes and stood up, setting Saporta's letter aside.
Ross was quiet, next to him, as he had been for almost all of his ordeal, pale and clammy and breathing raspily. McCoy had tried separating them when it became apparent Smith had developed a sympathetic fever, but they had both seemed to weaken and suffer, and so had been reunited.
Mikey cleared his throat and clanked around a bit, as sometimes that was enough to jar Smith loose of whatever nightmare gripped him. Mikey had tried shaking him awake once, and gotten a sharp left hook for his trouble. He had passed off the resulting black eye with a shrug, but he didn't make that mistake again.
It seemed to work; Smith relaxed and settled, coughing a little bit as he moved around. Mikey was about to return to Saporta's missive when the door creaked open and McCoy stepped in the room.
"Any change?" He asked, unwinding his scarf and peeling himself out of his greatcoat.
"Mr. Ross' breathing seems a fraction easier today," Mikey reported. "And they were both awake and able to take some soup this morning."
McCoy made a thoughtful noise, and moved closer to the bed. Mr. Smith's eyes opened as soon as McCoy's hands came near him, and it was only McCoy's reflexes that saved him from a black eye of his own.
"Feisty," he murmured, gently releasing Smith's wrist. "Perhaps too much hot blood."
"Your helpers must be stunned by this sudden season of feasting," Mikey said, fighting not to bolt from the room as McCoy pulled the jar of leeches out of his bag.
McCoy grinned briefly in response, then addressed himself to his patients. Mikey repressed a shudder and went back to his letter, where Saporta's account of the various and sundry quirks of the pub landlords of Salem's Pocket proved most diverting.
PART II
Author: sailorstkwrning
Length: 33,060
Characters: MCR (incl Bob), P@TD/TYV, Korse, extended cameos by Maja Ivarsson, Travie McCoy, Cobra Starship, Lyn-Z and Chantal Euringer, mention of various others.
Warnings: Indentured servants; physical restraint (boys briefly in a bridle and also a cage); mention of past physical abuse; implied past sexual trauma; an attempt to exchange sex for protection/favors; voluntary cross-dressing; and a non-fatal duel.
Beta: egelantier, arsenicjade , corvide, and also my sister. Any remaining mistakes, gross historical inaccuracies, or flagrant ridiculousness are entirely my fault.
Author's notes: This story would not exist without egelantier and arsenicjade; it began life as chat-fic passed between us in email over the course of a year, which they have graciously allowed me to expand and contract, prune and flesh out, to make what you are about to read today. This story also owes a considerable and significant debt to the work of Patrick O'Brian; most notably, the trope of house-as-ship originates with him.
PART I | PART II | PART III | PART IV
Bonus Material: FANMIX by prettykitty_aya
"Set us a course, Mr. Bryar," Mikey said, raising his voice to be heard over the chatter of the street.
Bryar made a thoughtful noise, then walked over to a fruit stand and bought an apple to eat as they ambled through the market. Mikey took a sip of warm whisky from his flask and followed him, hanging back as if he were a servant. It was a cold, wet day, and the mood of the street was oddly uneasy. Bryar paused a couple of times, once for steaming hot chicken pasties, again for a bag of sewing trifles and a couple of lengths of linen. They were on their way back to the inn and their waiting coach when Bryar's face hardened abruptly and he veered towards the well at the center of the market, where a crowd of rough men had gathered.
Mikey noted several loathsomely familiar faces before the crowd shifted, and he saw what must have unsettled the market and caught Bryar's eye: a sale circle behind a hunched figure. Even from a distance Mikey could see that the men on display were the scarred and probably scrofulous dregs of someone's breaking yard, and would probably as soon commit murder as spit. Most of them were slumped in their chains, but one was standing as rigidly straight as his shackles and bridle would allow.
Bryar went directly to the one with the bridle, while Mikey skirted around the edges of the circle, looking more carefully at the other men.
"Who'll give me five," the tout called out, yanking on the lead so that the bridled man - boy, really, and a skinny, filthy, injured boy, at that - stumbled forward.
"He has articles?" Bryar asked, silencing the hoots and catcalls of the others.
"Of course," the tout said, his eyes widening with mock outrage. "They all do, I'm a law-abiding businessman."
Bryar's face didn't move. The tout pulled a grubby sheaf of paper out of his jacket and handed it to Bryar, who glanced at it briefly before he tucked it under his arm. He glanced briefly at Mikey, one eyebrow raised. When Mikey shook his head, Bryar carefully extracted just five gold pieces from his purse.
The tout was good, Mikey had to give him that much; when Bryar dropped the coins in his hand, shock flickered only briefly across his face, and was soon replaced with the solicitous pleasure of someone who has found a fool eager to part with money.
Mikey kept his eyes on the boy while Bryar and the tout fussed around getting the chains off him. He was sunburned under his crust of filth, and his eyes were blank and empty. At least one of his shoulders was out of its socket.
"You'll want to leave the bridle on," the tout murmured, grabbing Bryar's sleeve with filthy bandaged hand as Bryar reached for the buckles. "He bites."
Bryar didn't reply, just tugged his arm loose and carefully eased the bridle off the boy. That, finally, got a reaction: the boy blinked a couple of times, then turned his head and spit on the ground, only narrowly missing the tout's shoes.
The tout squawked his outrage, but subsided rapidly under the weight of Bryar's glare. Mikey waited until they were a few steps away before he offered the boy a sip from his flask. The boy took it, wincing a little when the whisky burned his throat.
"Thank you, Master," he said, so softly it was almost a whisper, and Mikey flinched.
"That is Mr. Way," Bryar said, equally as quietly, and Mikey saw Smith's eyes widen in recognition. "And I am Mr. Bryar. Your papers say your name is Spencer Smith, is that right?"
"Yes, Ma - Mr. Bryar," Spencer said.
"We're going to fix your shoulder now, Mr. Smith," Bryar said, leading them into the lee of a building, away from the main throng. "Mr. Way, hold him, please."
Mikey did as he was bid, and a few moments later Smith slumped against him breathing raggedly. Mikey patted his back awkwardly and the boy jerked away then went still, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Mikey handed him the flask again and he took another, longer drink.
"Thank you very much, sir, " Smith said, as he handed it back.
Meanwhile, Bryar had unwound his scarf from his neck, and fashioned it into a rough sling for Smith's arm. Mikey stepped back to allow him room to work, and took the chance to study the boy more closely. Despite the sunburn and layer of grime, he didn't have the look of a street urchin, and there was a certain amount of wary intelligence in his eyes.
Mikey opened his mouth to ask What did you do to be put in with those men?, but before he could get the words out, Bryar produced both another apple and a pasty from his pocket and handed them to Smith. The boy ate them quickly, neatly and with ill-disguised hunger. A few passers-by stopped to murmur and stare. Mikey tilted his head towards the inn and set off at a brisk pace. Bob and the boy followed him in silence.
The carriage was waiting for them when they arrived. Bryar climbed up into his usual place next to the Conrad, the driver, and Mikey helped Smith into the inner compartment. Smith succumbed to sleep before they were even through the town gates, and between the whisky and the horses' easy gait, Mikey soon followed him.
They arrived home just as the sun was setting. Bryar took charge of Smith, and directing the unloading of the carriage. Mikey left him to it, and climbed the stairs to his brother's study. He found Gerard at his desk, surrounded by balled up pieces of foolscap and covered in ink.
Mikey cleared his throat softly. Gerard raised his head, and Mikey watched as irritation at being interrupted was rapidly replaced by pleasure.
"What's the manifest?" Gerard asked, sprinkling sand over his drawing.
"One," Mikey said, settling down in a chair and extracting a cheroot from his pocket. "A boy."
Gerard frowned and set down his quill.
"He was in with the breakers," Mikey explained, lighting the cheroot. "And injured."
Gerard's face darkened some more, but not, Mikey knew, because of any anger at him.
"Bryar has done what he can, but I'll have McCoy check him over tomorrow. And I'll send a note to Armstrong to let him know the Revenge can still sail on the first tide." Mikey said, filling his lungs with sweet smoke. Gerard settled back in his chair.
"The boy has no family?" Gerard asked, a tinge of puzzlement in his voice.
Mikey shrugged one shoulder. "Bryar has his papers."
Gerard made a thoughtful noise, and Mikey took another deep drag on his cheroot.
Eventually Gerard bent his head to his work once more. Mikey finished his cheroot and quietly showed himself out.
**
Spencer woke up slowly, tugged towards consciousness by the twin puzzlements of the soft bed he was lying in and the smell of frying bacon. He inventoried his hurts before he opened his eyes. His shoulder was still sore and throbbing, but not as awfully as it had been, which was puzzling until he remembered Ma - Mr. Bryar had put it back in joint the night before.
That, in turn, reminded him his contract had been sold, again, and he was in a new household. And not just any new household: one of the mad Way brothers had bought him and he was at Wolfhame. He was almost sorry that so far it was not nearly as scary as all of the stories had promised it would be.
Spencer had been expecting a dark, dingy castle with massive spider webs and bats and perhaps a flinty-eyed butler, and had instead been presented with a shambling but still stately manor home, and greeted by two men, one tall and quiet, the other short, excitable and heavily tattooed. Their names had slipped past him in the general tumult, but he could remember he had thought their faces seemed kind. And while Spencer had not spent very much time in Mr. Way's presence, even he had not seemed as fearsome as kitchen scuttlebut implied he should be.
A bell rang somewhere in the house and Spencer sat up slowly, clutching the bed linens until the room stopped spinning. He vaguely remembered Mr. Bryar helping him to get out of his filthy clothes the night before, but when he looked for them, they were gone, replaced by clean things.
He struggled into them, somewhat hampered by the sling, though he felt he was mostly presentable at the end. The shirt was miles too big for him, and the trousers a little short; nonetheless he was grateful to be decently covered. Whoever had taken his clothes had left his boots; he slipped them on and followed his nose to the kitchen.
**
"The new boy is at the door, sir," Iero said, his voice pitched low, and Ray turned from his baking tray to consider the newcomer.
It had been too dark, and the scene too chaotic, for Ray to get a good look at him the night before. In daylight the boy was tall, fair though ruddy with sunburn, and well formed, if a little thin and hollow around the eyes. And as Mr. Bryar had warned them earlier, he had one arm in a sling. He was studying the kitchen intently, but when he felt Ray's eyes on him he dropped his gaze to the floor and seemed to try and make himself smaller.
"Good morning, Mr. Smith," Ray said, wiping his hands on his breeches.
"Good morning, sir," the new boy said, tugging anxiously at his shirt with his free hand. Ray made a mental note to see if better-fitting clothes could be found for him.
"I'm Mr. Toro," Ray reminded him. They had already been introduced, but the boy had been half dead with exhaustion and Ray doubted he remembered. "And the scoundrel making off with my scones is Mr. Iero. Would you like some tea?"
"Yes, please," Smith said. Ray noticed that he hung back a moment longer before sitting down at the table, and wondered what his previous house had been like.
"You've met with the governor?" Ray asked as he put the kettle on.
"Not yet, sir," Smith said, and shifted as if he might get up.
"Be at ease, the Captain will send someone for you when you're wanted," Iero said, grabbing another scone.
Smith settled, accepting a scone when Iero offered him one. Ray occupied himself with the tea things, and stole only the occasional glance out of the corner of his eye. He noted that the boy ate quickly and efficiently, and had - perhaps unknowingly - sheltered his breakfast in the crook of his free arm between bites, as if he feared it might be taken from him. Ray met Iero's eyes over the top of Smith's bent head, and they exchanged a grim look.
Smith was on his fourth scone - it had been a long time since they had taken in anyone new, and Ray had almost forgotten how much the young ones could eat - when Bryar stuck his head around the door and informed them that Mr. Way would be pleased to receive Mr. Smith in his study at his earliest convenience.
"Mr. Way?" Iero repeated, lowering his paring knife and looking up from his potatoes with a frown.
"Aye, and then the gov'nor will see him afterwards," Bryar said.
Meanwhile, Smith looked like he might soon choke on his last bite of scone; Ray nudged his tea cup towards him and watched while he took a drink. Then both he and Iero stayed quiet as Smith untangled himself from the table and followed Bryar out of the room.
**
Gerard was composing a sonnet when Mikey arrived with his latest acquisition. The boy looked to be in the middle of his growth spurt, and gawky with it.
"Captain Way, may I present Spencer Smith," Mikey said as he handed over the boy's papers.
"You may sit down, Mr. Smith," Gerard said, unfolding the documents in order to study them.
"Thank you, sir," Smith said, his voice soft but clear.
Gerard read the papers carefully - it seemed as if Mr. Smith had at one time been apprenticed to a blacksmith; the original signatory's name had been crossed out and changed so often it was nothing but inky blur, but the terms were, as usual, ruinous and cruel - then looked up. The boy was perched on the edge of Gerard's second best chair in an attitude of submission, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
"Do you have any family, Mr. Smith?" He tried to make his tone gentle; he suspected he already knew the answer. No-one with resources, any resources at all, would have submitted themselves to the terms of the agreement.
"My parents and sisters emigrated to the colonies several years back," Smith said, raising his head. "Some day I hope to join them."
Gerard met Mikey's eyes briefly, then looked back at the boy. "You preferred to stay here, rather than travel with them?"
"I was well settled at the forge at the time, and my parents thought the girls might have better prospects abroad," Smith said, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. "By the time the smith died, they were well away, and I took whatever work I could to get by."
Gerard winced in understanding, picked up his quill, and attended to the document.
"There," he said, when he was finished. "Your debt is cancelled. I can offer you passage to the colonies on the Black Parade, whenever she next sails, or a place can be found for you here. Or if you have other friends, I should be pleased to contact them on your behalf."
"Passage," Smith repeated, the blankness of his expression replaced by pure bafflement.
"That was the original consideration, was it not?" Gerard asked, flipping the documents over.
"Yes, sir," Smith said, his voice still sounding like it was coming from a long ways away.
"I would warn you against seeking your fortune on the public roads," Gerard said. "The bailiffs are sharp-eyed and the press is quite active in these parts, and you may find yourself imprisoned for vagrancy or at sea and subject to His Majesty's will."
The boy blinked at him some more, and Gerard attempted a reassuring smile. When the boy still did not speak, Gerard decided to take his silence as an indication that he would be remaining at Wolfhame for the forseeable future.
"I shall presume you recognize my name?" Gerard said glancing briefly at his brother.
"Yes, sir," Smith said, coughing a little bit. "I have only read a small part of your book, but - I have heard stories."
Mikey made an undignified noise and Gerard glared at him briefly. "Really? What kind of tales go before me?"
Smith's face went blank, and Gerard could see he was struggling for tact. Behind him, Mikey's eyebrows were ascending towards his hairline. Gerard scowled at his brother and then softened his expression for Smith's benefit.
"Wild ones," the boy said, slowly. "Of burning ships and demons and -"
"We did fire several ships to the waterline," Gerard agreed, his grin broadening at the memory. "Though no demons were in attendance. In any case, we are reformed characters now, are we not, Mr. Way?"
"We are," Mikey agreed, his lips twitching at the corners. "Respectable businessmen, with philanthropic and artistic interests."
Smith's face smoothed over again as he digested that information. Gerard set his quill down and waited.
"What would you have me do here, Master?" Smith asked.
"Captain," Gerard repeated, sharpening his tone for emphasis but smiling to ease the sting. "First you should recover your strength. I shall conference with Mr. Way and Mr. Toro regarding the needs of the household. Where did you work, after the smithy?"
"I was a laborer - a stagehand," Smith said. His voice was steady, but Gerard could see his hands clenching into anxious fists.
"A stagehand, you say?" Gerard looked up in time to see the boy nod. "What theater were you at?
"I've been at several, sir," the boy said. "The Freya most recently."
"The Freya," Gerard repeated, noting the way the boy flinched. The name was familiar; he vaguely remembered it being the papers. "Well, if my brother and I are successful in our next endeavor it may be you could pursue that line of work again. In the meantime, you are on light duty, and can report to Mr. Toro. You have the liberty of the house and grounds. Good afternoon, Mr. Smith."
"Thank you, Captain," Smith said, then rose - perhaps a hair unsteadily - and left the room.
**
"Do you think you could use a paring knife?" Toro asked, his eyebrows knit into a thoughtful frown.
"Yes, sir," Spencer said, easing his arm out of the sling, oddly comforted by the familiar prospect of work.
His shoulder ached, but bearably; meanwhile, his debt had only been cancelled for half an hour and his head was still spinning.
"Well, then you can see to these," Toro decided, and shifted a basket of apples onto the table.
"Thank you, sir," Spencer murmured, taking the knife when Iero held it out to him.
"And don't let Mr. Iero steal more than a quarter of what you peel," Toro said, mock-sternly.
"I get hungry," Iero protested, playing at indignance and stealing an apple off the top of the pile at the same time. "And I have a wooden leg to keep it all in!"
"Only half," Toro reminded him, and stole an apple of his own. "Now come and help me spit the hens."
"You're a cruel one and no mistake," Iero said, but he was laughing as he followed Toro over to the fireplace.
Spencer waited until they were well away to sit down. The captain's words echoed in his ears. Your debt is cancelled. It seemed impossible. The warm kitchen and Iero's laughter seemed impossible too, though the periodic scrape of the sharp blade of the paring knife against his fingers suggested it was real.
At one point he put extra pressure on the knife, enough to draw break the skin, just to see if he would wake up back in the breaker yard, or perhaps in a cage somewhere. All he got for his trouble was a sore knuckle. He sucked on it briefly, the bright copper taste of the blood convincing him he was awake, and tried to wrap his head around his new reality.
When the basket of apples was finished, Toro gave him a basket of potatoes and carrots to work on. Later, Iero flopped down across from him and joined in the peeling. Spencer kept his head down and listened to Iero and Toro trade bawdy stories. He could plan his next move later. For now it would be useful to find out more about the household.
**
"Eight of clubs?" Bryar asked, squinting at his cards.
"Fish for it," Mikey replied, and took a sip of his grog.
"Sea devil," Bryar murmured, though without any heat, and took a card off the top of the deck.
Bryar sighed heavily when he looked at his prize, and Mikey fanned his cards out in his hand to study them. He was considering his strategy when Bryar tapped his wrist with his fingers.
Mikey glanced up, startled and a little annoyed, and Bryar put one finger to his lips then looked at the ceiling. Mikey arched an eyebrow at him, but looked up. After a moment he heard it: the creak of footsteps, too heavy to be his brother, too light to be Toro, and definitely two footed, which excluded Iero, and, most damning, headed the wrong way for the bathroom.
Mikey grabbed his mug and stood up as silently as possible, then ducked into the corridor. Smith was quiet on the stairs - Mikey's eyes widened, impressed; he had only been among them for three days, but clearly the boy had been paying enough attention to identify the creaky steps - and when he didn't turn towards the kitchen, Mikey's theory blossomed into certainty.
"Mr. Smith," he called out. "If you are seeking a snack, you have strayed off course, the kitchen is this way."
The boy froze, then turned to look at him. Even in the dim light Mikey could see he was pale with terror.
"The kettle is still warm," Mikey continued, making his tone as friendly as possible. "Mr. Bryar and I would be pleased if you would join us."
Smith managed a nod and followed him. Mikey waved him into a seat next to Bryar, and made them all fresh cups of tea. Bryar took his black, as he always did; Smith did the same, though Mikey suspected that was born of fear and not preference.
"Thank you, sir," Smith whispered, and Mikey tilted his head in acknowledgement.
"Do the dogs disturb your rest?" Mikey asked, clearing away the cards.
Smith raised his head, and met Mikey's eyes. His gaze was startling direct, and Mikey met it. He could see alarm there, but also a glimmer of calculating intelligence.
"No, sir," Smith said after a moment. "I was wakeful on my own account."
Mikey made a sympathetic noise, and shuffled the deck. "Perhaps you would care to join Mr. Bryar and I at cards? I find that sometimes the exercise attracts Morpheus."
Smith hid his face in his teacup for a moment before nodding his assent.
"If we had a fourth we could play bridge, but, since the household is at rest, could I interest you in a game of Faro, gentlemen?" Mikey asked, already shuffling the deck.
Bryar hummed his agreement, and when Smith made no argument, Mikey dealt the cards. For now he was content that the boy was safe in the house; he could investigate the reason Smith had tried to run away at another time.
**
The next evening, Spencer waited for the others to get sunk in their card game before he slipped away to the barn to wash, the cold water rattling his bones but steeling his resolve. Then he grabbed a candle and a brush, as if he were going to tend to coats, and boldly walked into Captain Way's room. He did actually brush the coats, since it needed to be done; then he stripped quickly, piled his folded clothes neatly by the bed, and knelt down to wait.
The room was warm, and Spencer had been working in the kitchen all day; later Spencer would convince himself that that was why he failed to notice the second set of footsteps on the stairs. But at the point Captain Way walked through the door with his brother at his heels, Spencer was both surprised and mortified.
Captain Way stared at him for a minute, his mouth forming a round, shocked O. Before Spencer could even stammer out an apology, Mr. Way dodged around his brother, pulled a blanket from the bed, wrapped it around Spencer, and stepped back.
Spencer wasn't sure what to do. Mr. Way wasn't part of the plan. Spencer had heard the tales of the Captain's depravity, but even still he doubted the man's disdain for common customs extended to swiving a servant in front of his brother.
Captain Way started talking, but his voice was shrill, and Spencer's head was too sore from hours of anxiety and uncertainty to absorb anything he was saying.
"Mr. Smith, what are you doing here?" Mr. Way asked, quieting his brother with a hand
on his arm.
Spencer raised his head slowly, painfully aware that his eyes and face are both burning with embarrassment. He could not bring himself to say the words, but he could see from their faces that he did not need to.
"But why, why would you come here, like this?" the Captain stammered. There were two spots of color high on his cheeks.
"To beg forgiveness," Spencer said, and swallowed carefully. "And a favor."
Captain Way made a baffled noise, but Mr. Way sighed heavily, and Spencer looked to him.
"We will leave you to dress," Mr. Way said. "If you will excuse us, Mr. Smith, we'll discuss this when we return."
And then they were gone, though Spencer could hear the Captain's voice rising and falling as they went down the stairs. He scrambled into his clothes and knelt down on the floor. Mainly, he hoped he would survive whatever punishment they chose to mete out.
**
"Forgiveness for what?" Gerard asked, as soon as Mikey closed the door behind them. "He's barely been here a week and I have not seen him more than twice, and his conduct has not been offensive on either occasion."
"He tried to desert last night," Mikey explained, moving quickly down the stairs and into the kitchen. "I encountered him on the stairs and foiled him."
Gerard's narrowed his eyes at his brother's back and sat down at the table. "Why was I not informed?"
"I wished to make my own enquiries," Mikey said, his expression deceptively mild. "I intended to do it this morning, and was myself foiled by Mr. Gokey's uncanny ability to demand complicated printing jobs at the very last moment."
"Christ's bones," Gerard muttered into his elbows, then sat up and scrubbed at his face, stretching his fingers out to try to shake off the adrenaline.
Mikey offered him a glass of water and he took it, then drank slowly while Mikey put the kettle on.
"Where did you find him again?" Gerard asked.
"Hangman's Hill," Mikey said, decanting milk into a small pitcher. "Oxblood and Fife's stall."
"Fuck," Gerard said, barely audible over the whistle of the kettle. "I thought we shut them down."
"We did," Mikey said, lifting the tray. "Oxblood got out of prison and they're back."
Gerard stood up and straightened his clothes, steeling himself for the coming interview.
Mikey led the way up the stairs and nudged the door open with his knee. Spencer was dressed, but still kneeling on the floor. Somehow he looked even younger with clothes on, drowning as he was in Bryar's castoffs. He raised his head when they came in the room, but only briefly. Gerard could see he had a white-knuckle grip on his knees.
"Get up, please, Mr. Smith. You may sit on my sea trunk, if you like," Gerard said, gesturing towards the end of the bed, and the boy hastened to obey.
Mikey set the tray down on the table and poured out three cups of tea. Gerard settled himself in the massive armchair he inherited from his grandfather and tried to look a dignified as possible.
"I ran away six times," Mikey said, softly, moving the tea things to the table, and both Gerard and Spencer turned to look at him, wide-eyed with surprise.
Mikey handed Spencer a cup of tea and he took it, pure bafflement in his face.
"You seem confused, Mr. Smith," Mikey said. "Did the tale-tellers not mention my sordid past? They certainly are keen to remind me of it at every opportunity."
Spencer's bafflement turned to a mixture of alarm and shame. Gerard racked his brains for some way to defuse the situation, and then Mikey took pity on him.
"As you may remember, when my brother was captured, the Dey of Algiers demanded a ransom, which of course His Majesty refused to pay," Mikey explained, lowering himself into another nearby chair. "The family was able to scrape together about half the sum needed, but could not get the rest. So I sold myself into service for a year to - a gentleman."
Mikey paused, and Gerard took a mouthful of tea. He did not like to think how he had repaid his brothers' sacrifice. Rather than coming home upon his release, he had fallen into drunken debauchery in all of the ports of the Caribbean. It had taken a hurricane destroying the hovel he was living in to finally wash him home to England.
"It was done quietly at the time, of course," Mikey continued. "It was advantageous to both of our families to keep the arrangement out of public knowledge. But at the end of the year he refused to release me. Publicizing my plight would reveal the whole scheme and shame us all, so I ran away."
Gerard drank more tea.
"The first five times Master caught me," Mikey said, Spencer's eyes grew impossibly wider. "The sixth time I made it all the way to town before I caught the eye of a lady."
"But -" Gerard began, because this was not a story he had heard before. Or at least, not told quite this way. Mikey didn't lie. He did sometimes leave things out.
"She and I had a meeting of the minds," Mikey continued. "She had need of a bodyguard, I had need of passage over the mountains."
Gerard sagged back into his chair, shaky all over again. Over the mountains, across the moors, to the edge of the sea, where Gerard had been drowning in alcohol and his own filth.
"Eventually the other party shared our secret - that was part of why my brother and I turned to privateering, to make the appearance of earning money he falsely claimed he was owed while still being out of his reach. But enough of my misspent youth. Where is it you need to go, Mr. Smith?" Mikey asked, balancing his tea cup on his knee.
There was a long silence. Gerard could see the boy was considering all of his options.
"Salem's Pocket," Spencer finally said. "Please, I need to get to Salem's Pocket. I - I have to - please -"
Gerard leaned forward; he knew that name, and not for any good reasons. Mikey made a thoughtful noise and drank some of his tea.
"That's miles from here. What -" Mikey paused, considering, "- or should I say, who, is in Salem's Pocket?"
Spencer inhaled sharply and Mikey arched an inquisitive eyebrow.
"My - friend Ryan, my particular friend," Spencer said. "We - that's where I was last, at the theater -"
"The Freya," Gerard cut in. "I think I remember that it failed quite spectacularly last fall."
"Yes," Spencer murmured, taking a deep breath. "Mr. Hill - he was the owner - he had invested poorly, and then a ship sank, and - well, we thought we might salvage what we could after the bailiffs were done and make a go of being a traveling troupe, all of us."
Clearly not finished, Spencer paused to fortify himself with more tea. Gerard took another drink himself and poked at his memory for more details. He had a vague feeling it had been quite a tragic story - a consumptive daughter in the mix somewhere, perhaps. He knew he had followed it quite avidly in the papers until more pressing matters had demanded his attention.
"We were just starting to get organized when Mr. Hill sent a note that a charitable gentleman, a Mr. Korse, was wanting to start a private company," Spencer continued. "In fact he'd asked about taking all of us on. He was wanting to put on plays to raise funds for his charitable work."
"Korse," Mikey repeated, setting his teacup down on the table with a faint clink, and Gerard settled his own cup next to it. Suddenly a few things from last fall made more sense. Clearly he had not been reading the papers closely enough, if he had missed Korse's name in the proceedings.
"You know the name, sir?" Spencer asked, his eyes widening a fraction.
"Yes," Mikey, his voice flat and grim. "And to call his nature charitable is a grotesque lie. And then what happened?"
"Well, Ryan and I didn't have anywhere else to go, most of the lads didn't, so we all signed on, and -" Spencer paused again. "Korse was - he had - rare taste. Very - old fashioned. He liked a lot of blood and thunder."
"He was cruel," Mikey said, more a statement than a question, and Spencer nodded jerkily.
"It wasn't so bad, for me, I mean, I - I was mainly in the wings - but Ryan had been our best Ophelia, and Korse liked him as the Duchess of Malfi as well," Spencer said, fixing his gaze on his knees. "And for his own more private entertainments."
Gerared swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat. "You escaped?"
Spencer made a noise that was almost amused. "Korse was enthusiastic about punishing stagehands for mistakes, and Ryan and a few of the other actors tried to strike, to protect us. Korse ordered us used as cannon fodder. I was at the back, and so was knocked out rather than killed. He dumped the bodies and sold the rest of us on. After that - " Spencer shrugged one shoulder, then fell silent.
Mikey nodded, a tense, tight movement, then stood up. "I'll only trouble you for a full description of your friend before you find your own bed."
Gerard could see relief in the boy's eyes as he obeyed, as well as the protest, and the questions, forming and faltering his expression.
"We've had dealings with Mr. Korse before," Gerard said, when Spencer fell silent. "We didn't realize he'd become a patron of the arts."
"In fact we thought we'd left him to rot in a Nassau jail," Mikey said.
"He's a pirate too?" Spencer said, his expression suggesting that perhaps this news explained much of his experience.
"We were privateers," Gerard corrected him, gently but firmly. "But no, he was not a pirate. We would have just hung him from the yardarm of the Revenge if that were the case. He is - or at least was - a Navy man, so we had to turn him over to the governor."
"What - what was his offense?" Spencer asked, now as wide-eyed as a child being told an adventure story.
"Uncommon cruelty," Mikey murmured. "He was quick with the cat and stingy with provisions, except when it came to his own table, and - well, he was no gentleman. His crew endured until he shot both of the cabin boys in cold blood, and could not account for their crime."
Spencer inhaled sharply. Gerard exchanged a brief glance with Mikey, who nodded at him to finish the story.
"We were resident in his brig at the time," Gerard explained. "It came to a fight - one of the sailors freed us, in order to borrow our strength - and, well, it concluded with him in irons and myself bringing the ship into port."
"That's not in the book," Spencer said, then blushed furiously.
"The governor demanded our discretion - our silence - on the subject as a condition of our release," Mikey said, smiling grimly. "We were given to understand that his wife had a family connection with Korse, which may have affected his thinking."
"But -wouldn't the sailors carry the tale?" Spencer asked, his brows knitting into a frown.
"Perhaps, but likely only as far as the waterfront bars," Mikey said, shaking his arms out. "So far none have committed pen to paper. At any rate, we'll start making inquiries in the morning. Good night, Mr. Smith."
"Good night, sir - Captain," Spencer murmured, standing up slowly and executing a rough bow before seeing himself out.
**
Spencer made his way back to his room slowly, dizzy with relief and sick with worry in about the same measure, the Ways' words swirling in his head. He crawled into bed and curled around the pillow - he didn't miss the chaos of the breakers yard, but he still felt strange, all alone in the room, and the bed - and slept in spite of himself.
The next day he was sure it was a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, but then Mr. Way came to the kitchen during breakfast and asked him a few mild questions about Korse's social habits, his expression darkening as Spencer answered. Afterwards Bryar and Toro vanished for most of the day, leaving Spencer and Iero alone to peel a small mountain of carrots and potatoes. Spencer stabbed his own fingers several times in his distraction, but Iero was polite enough not to comment.
**
Three days later, a grubby, crumpled and heavily folded note appeared next to Gerard's plate at breakfast. Captain Shit-for-Brains was scrawled messily on the back flap. Gerard stabbed it with his fork and glanced at Mikey for an explanation.
"McCracken," Mikey said, buttering his toast. "I think. I cannot say for certain, since I found it pinned to Snake Child's bridle this morning."
Gerard suppressed a sigh, freed the note, and unfolded it carefully. Our Lady of Sorrows Hospital, Bell Town, was scrawled on the inside in distinctive and familiar handwriting.
"McCracken," Gerard confirmed, refolding the note. "He suggests an almshouse that is, I think, within a few hours ride."
Mikey made a thoughtful noise, and took a deep drink from his teacup, and then the only sounds were those of hasty eating. One of Iero's terriers - Gerard couldn't tell if it was Scylla or Charbydis - stuck a cold nose against Gerard's ankle and he dropped a crust for her.
"Mr. Toro and Mr. Bryar, you'll come with us," Gerard said when they were finished, pushing himself out of his chair. "Mr. Iero, you have the ship."
"House," Mikey said, mildly, and Gerard dismissed him with a wave.
**
Ryan heard the lock clinking against the bars of the cage, and did not move. Partially because he couldn't, and partially because he didn't care what happened to him any more. The iron bars of the cage, once hated, had become almost pleasant, keeping the world away the way they did. The straw he was lying on was filthy and prickly, but still mostly dry, and his pervasive aches distracted him from frivolous concerns like temperature. He was, all things considered, perfectly content to die here.
Then someone or some thing jostled the cage, setting off a cascade of agony and provoking him into a token protest. He was vaguely surprised when he felt rough, unfamiliar fingers moving over his arms in slow, soothing motions. Perhaps Korse had given him away again. He was startled again when the cage creaked open, and bitter liquid passed over his lips, stinging at the cracks and tears.
It didn't taste like the other drugs, but Ryan still tried to spit it out. He also tried to convey, to the extent that he was able, that he would be good. But he couldn't remember exactly how to say anything. The next thing he tasted was cold, sweet water, which was so strange he spat it out as well; when they tried again, he managed to swallow it.
Ryan wondered for the first time if he had died and not noticed. Heaven was a lot louder than he had thought it would be. He could hear people (angels?) talking, and they had oddly familiar accents. At least he hoped they were angels. He assumed they were good angels. He didn't think bad angels would have given him water. The cage rattled some more, and there were more hands on him, but they were still gentle hands. After that there was more water, and more bitter, somebody draped something heavy and cool over him, and he let oblivion pull him under.
**
Gerard kept a slow pace over well-traveled paths as they went home, hoping to ease the strain of travel on the boy. They arrived at Wolfhame just as dawn was breaking. Iero and Smith came spilling out of the front door almost as soon as the horses' noses passed through the main gate; Gerard assumed Iero must have been watching for them. He let Mikey and Toro and their precious cargo get ahead, and paused to watch the hubbub only briefly before nudging his mount towards the stables.
When his horse was settled, Gerard retreated to his study to rinse off the worst of the road dust and see if any urgent correspondence had arrived in the night. Some time later, Iero appeared with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. He was much quieter than usual, and leaning more heavily on his peg-leg; Gerard assumed the scene downstairs must be grim, and didn't keep him.
A couple of hours later Gerard was awakened from an accidental nap by the creaking of floorboards. He opened his eyes just as someone began tapping on his door. When he bade them enter, it was Travis McCoy, former ship's surgeon, who crossed the threshold, his shoulders hunched in order to fit his lanky frame under the ancient lintel.
"Mr. McCoy," Gerard said, stifling a yawn. "What's the butcher's bill?"
"I don't expect Mr. Ross will last the night," McCoy said, lowering himself into a nearby chair. "I have given Mr. Smith a calming tonic."
"Thank you, Mr. McCoy," Gerard murmured, shifting forward to press his fingers against his eyes.
Perhaps rescuing the boy had been foolishness, but Gerard could not find it in his heart to regret it. If Ross did die, at least he would not do so friendless and alone in the filthy pit in which they had found him.
"Our old adversary has resurfaced," McCoy commented, clasping his heavily tattooed hands in his lap.
"Yes," Gerard grimaced, shaking himself into further wakefulness. "He's styled himself as a charitable gentlemen and a friend of the theater this time."
McCoy made a wry face, and then the bell above Gerard's desk began clanging noisily, and he rose in one rapid, graceful movement, excused himself, and departed.
**
**
Ryan woke up because Spencer was talking nearby. Spencer was dead, so maybe Ryan had died. He tried to call out, or make some sort of move to get Spencer's attention, but his body still wouldn't cooperate. He still couldn't get his mouth to open.
Then somehow Spencer was there, next to him, heavy and warm. Part of Ryan's brain filled in alive, but the rest of him glided past it. Maybe bodies were warm in heaven too. Ryan grabbed hold of one of Spencer's fingers and slept until the angels woke him to give him more water and rich, salty chicken broth.
Ryan thought eating and drinking ought to be unnecessary in Heaven, but he was too tired to argue the point. He was also too tired to manage more than a couple of mouthfuls at a time, but the angels didn't seem put out, so he tried not to worry.
Once Ryan woke because an angel was humming - the tune was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it - and then he discovered he could open his eyes. It turned out heaven was really dark and blurry. Spencer was asleep next to him, which was kind of awful and kind of a relief. Ryan squeezed Spencer's finger gently and lay quiet, listening to the angel, not sure if he should make a noise or not. He could see things moving in the shadows, but he wasn't scared. He thought they might be tiny angels. Korse had had a book on the subject; Ryan could remember the pictures.
He was starting to drift off again when the angel stopped humming and came over to the bed to straighten their covers and give Ryan more of the bitter liquid. He opened his mouth obediently and swallowed without protest. The medicine tasted vile, but it muted the throbbing in his knee and hands. He was a bit disappointed, actually, that everything still hurt, even in Heaven.
Though Ryan had started to wonder if maybe he (they) weren't in Heaven yet, but rather trapped in Purgatory. That maybe the angels were just waiting for him to beg Spencer's forgiveness, so they could both move on. He hoped that Spencer could forgive him, so that they could go together. He couldn't stand to have Spencer caged anymore, even here, in this dark, quiet place.
He fell asleep composing his speech to Spencer.
**
"Will you be joining us for dinner tonight, Mr. Smith?" Mr. Iero asked, not looking up from where he was studying Ryan's chest, and the outlines of the doctors' careful stitches. "Toro's clootie dumpling is a rare treat."
Spencer hesitated - he didn't like to leave Ryan for long - but on the other hand he knew when an invitation was not an invitation. Iero was friendly enough, but it would not do to annoy him, or to offend the others by rejecting their company.
"I will, thank you," he murmured, and was rewarded with a bright, quick smile.
"Six o'clock or face the consequences," Mr. Iero said as he left, the amused twist of his mouth easing the sting of the warning.
The kitchen was almost full when Spencer came down, and the table was all but covered in dishes. Spencer nodded his hellos and took the only empty seat left, which was next to Mr. Iero.
That night, and the next several that followed, he kept quiet, content to stuff himself with hot food and wash it down with cold foamy beer. He was careful to save some of what he was given -small things, like chunks of bread and cheese, and pasties - which he wrapped up in an old but clean rag and secured under his bed. Spencer dipped into his reserves only occasionally; mostly he just liked knowing the food was there if he needed it.
Then one afternoon he heard the terriers barking in the hallway outside of Ryan's room. When he went to investigate, he found his tidy bundle in shreds, and Scylla making a meal of a lamb pasty while Charbydis gnawed on a hunk of stale bread.
"No," he yelled, not caring if he woke Ryan up. "Stop it. Bad dogs."
The dogs ignored him. Spencer shouted at them until they vanished down the corridor in a hail of clicking toenails, then knelt down to try and clean up the worst of the mess.
He was almost done when he heard the familiar muffled thud of a wooden leg on carpet. Spencer staggered upwards just as Mr. Iero came around the corner, and forced himself to stand up straight and breathe normally.
"Am I right in suspecting that my ladies have behaved disgracefully?" Iero asked.
Spencer shook his head, because truly the dogs were blameless. He should have found a more secure hiding place for his reserves. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he could feel his face heating as Mr. Iero studied him and the remains of the mess on the floor. Part of him wondered if this indiscretion might finally provoke them into punishing him.
"The kitchen is always open to you, Mr. Smith," Iero said. "And I would be pleased to show you where Mr. Toro keeps the leftovers. Perhaps you can assist Mr. Bryar with reducing the frequency of the appearance of Potted Meat Surprise."
Spencer raised his head, to stunned to be embarrassed by any indiscretion that might be revealed by his face. Iero's grin broadened a fraction, revealing the edge of his gold tooth.
"Though when we are finished here, Mr. Toro requires our assistance with disposing of some extra pie," Iero said. "The top is apparently a shameful disgrace and not fit for the Captain's table."
With that he dropped down into a loose crouch and started to gather up the remains the food the dogs had destroyed. Spencer stared at the crown of his head for a while, then joined in the effort. When they finished Spencer looked in on Ryan; finding him still asleep, Spencer followed Iero to the kitchen.
**
Spencer took over Ryan's nursing as soon as Mr. McCoy and Mr. Way would let him, and carefully did not let his gaze linger long on Mr. Toro and Mr. Iero's worried, sympathetic expressions as they bustled in and out of the sickroom. Instead he brought his mending to Ryan's bedside - he would not repay the generosity of the household by shirking his duty - and spent his time alternating between tidying hems, repatriating all of Mr. Way's truant buttons, coaxing Ryan into swallowing water and thin chicken broth at regular intervals, and changing Ryan's multitudes of bandages. When Ryan wasn't thrashing and mumbling in his sleep, he was still as death and Spencer checked often to make sure he was still breathing.
Eventually Mr. McCoy came to check Ryan himself; he sounded both pleased and surprised to report that Ryan was improving. Not long after the doctor went upstairs to talk with Captain Way, Ryan opened his eyes for a few moments, and seemed to see Spencer.
"I'm sorry for killing you," Ryan murmured, squeezing Spencer's fingers for emphasis.
"You didn't," Spencer whispered. "I'm alive. You're alive, Ryan."
"No," Ryan murmured, frowning the way he did when Spencer didn't understand a bit of stage business. "The cannon - you all fell. And died."
"No," Spencer countered, letting a little bit of steel slip into his voice. "I am not dead, and neither are you." He swallowed the yet that was threatening to append itself to that statement.
"Cannon," Ryan muttered, his tone turning pettish. "Saw you fall. Don't be difficult, Spencer."
Spencer glared at him, irritation well-mixed with a few cautious tendrils of hope - he never thought he'd be so happy to hear Ryan being cranky with him - then picked up
Ryan's good hand and pressed it to the pulse-point at his throat.
Ryan frowned, irritated at first but it gradually shifted into puzzlement, and Spencer released his hand.
"We're alive," Spencer repeated, allowing himself a smile for the first time since he arrived at Wolfhame, and lay down next to Ryan.
"Cannon," Ryan muttered to himself, then rolled towards Spencer and fell back to sleep.
**
The village girls will only speak in whispers, but they tell me he's (still) a bastard, and several of them have the bruises to prove it. Suarez reports the town fathers seem to be quite taken in - pleased to have a place for their prodigals to roost.
Mikey sighed and rubbed his eyes; Saporta's handwriting had only gotten worse with time, and he would insist on writing on tiny pieces of paper.
And for all Korse's bleating about his tenderhearted weakness for the downtrodden, Mr. Ripley has made two unannounced calls on the matron, in search of haven for a relative, and been frostily turned away both times.
She seems to be unmoved by his plaintive wailing about his most wayward and beloved sister. (Miss Victoria grows restive, and plans a bravura performance, should he ever melt the icy heart.) I suspect a quantity of gold may be needed to start the warming trend.
"No," Smith murmured, pulling Mikey back to the present, and Mikey heard the bed creak as he shifted. "Stop it, I said -"
He paused, a frown darkening his features, and shifted again, drawing his legs up as if prepared to kick.
"No," he said, louder; Mikey saw his fists clench in the bedclothes and stood up, setting Saporta's letter aside.
Ross was quiet, next to him, as he had been for almost all of his ordeal, pale and clammy and breathing raspily. McCoy had tried separating them when it became apparent Smith had developed a sympathetic fever, but they had both seemed to weaken and suffer, and so had been reunited.
Mikey cleared his throat and clanked around a bit, as sometimes that was enough to jar Smith loose of whatever nightmare gripped him. Mikey had tried shaking him awake once, and gotten a sharp left hook for his trouble. He had passed off the resulting black eye with a shrug, but he didn't make that mistake again.
It seemed to work; Smith relaxed and settled, coughing a little bit as he moved around. Mikey was about to return to Saporta's missive when the door creaked open and McCoy stepped in the room.
"Any change?" He asked, unwinding his scarf and peeling himself out of his greatcoat.
"Mr. Ross' breathing seems a fraction easier today," Mikey reported. "And they were both awake and able to take some soup this morning."
McCoy made a thoughtful noise, and moved closer to the bed. Mr. Smith's eyes opened as soon as McCoy's hands came near him, and it was only McCoy's reflexes that saved him from a black eye of his own.
"Feisty," he murmured, gently releasing Smith's wrist. "Perhaps too much hot blood."
"Your helpers must be stunned by this sudden season of feasting," Mikey said, fighting not to bolt from the room as McCoy pulled the jar of leeches out of his bag.
McCoy grinned briefly in response, then addressed himself to his patients. Mikey repressed a shudder and went back to his letter, where Saporta's account of the various and sundry quirks of the pub landlords of Salem's Pocket proved most diverting.
PART II