Alchemy 2 Gen version

By Calista Echo

As Blair grew stronger, his determination to make James understand the impossibility of their friendship was grew stronger as well. James, for his part, seemed unfazed by all of Blair’s revelations. Blair took to detailing each crime, waiting for James to comprehend the enormity of his transgressions. James seemed incapable of comprehension and Blair wondered whether the deprivations of wandering a desert had fundamentally altered his friend’s moral code. For James had believed in things, things this cynical time scoffed at, but that James had held dear and unassailable. And now he listened to Blair’s crimes without so much as a raised eyebrow.

"Look, O’Malley, what do you want me to do? Turn you in? Turn you away? Call the authorities on you? It ain’t happening, not in this lifetime." James walked over to the mantelpiece and idly rearranged the candlesticks. Then he moved to the chair closest to him and began to straighten the journals

Blair watched from his well-worn chair, where he spent a good deal of his day now that he had been released from bed. There was something mesmerizing about watching James as he moved around the room with inborn animal grace.

A cough wracked Blair, breaking his concentration on Jim’s lithe form. When his lungs cleared, he left his hand on his heart, telling it to calm down. It felt heavy in his chest, full of the love he felt for the man who stood before him causally handing him his tea.

Blair looked up at James as he took the offering. He had thought he'd never see that face again and the pain of that old memory made him press his chest a little harder.

A tall pile of books were stacked haphazardly next to his chair, on top of which sat a plate with a wedge of yellow cheddar and a warm loaf of bread. Blair had been too distracted to eat, all his attention going toward doing what he thought was the honorable thing, getting James to disavow their friendship.

When James realized that Blair had yet to take a bite, he took the plate and started to cut up the cheese. He tore off a piece of bread and added the cheese to it, placing it in Blair’s gesturing hand. Blair didn’t even pause, simply continued his argument.

"Jamie, consider the ramifications should my true identity be discovered. No, wait, perhaps that would be for the best. I shall go back to being Blair O’Malley." Blair took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. "I could become your man. No one ever looks at a valet." And he would be able to stay by James' side, night and day.

"Hmm, somehow I doubt you’d be overlooked." James put up a hand before Blair could protest. "And it doesn’t matter, because you are not going to be my servant. Put it out of your mind."

Blair sighed. It was inevitable that they part. James would return to his regiment and Blair would enter Cambridge. Right now, Blair would gladly give up his chance to study if it meant seeing James every day.

"Were you always this stubborn and I, in my hero worship, never noticed before?" Blair finished the last bite and James collected the plate.

"I'm your hero?" James quirked an eyebrow, grinning with the news.

Realizing he'd revealed more than he meant to, Blair blushed.

"Well, you’re older, so it’s only natural." Antagonize him and perhaps he wouldn't look at that too closely.

"First I’m your hero and now I’m merely old?" James frowned as Blair squirmed.

"We were speaking of your stubbornness, Jamie, do try to keep your ancient mind from wandering."

"Now I'm ancient? How did I go from hero to decrepitly obstinate? And just what do you call your refusal to gracefully accept my authority on this, if not mulish to the extreme?"

"I call it preternatural wisdom." Blair yelped when James' hand delivered a playful blow to the back of his head.

"Well, save your energy, bantling. You’re up against an older AND wiser member of the gentry."

Blair slumped against the back of his chair, smiling. James noticed that the morning of study and conversation had sapped what little energy Blair had. When Blair put his book down, James saw that his hand was trembling with fatigue.

"Come on, you’re past due to be back in bed." James put his hand; Blair ignored it.

"James, I’m fine. All I’ve done is sit. I can do that for a bit longer." Blair reached over and picked up the tome he had just put back. Opening it, he resumed his study.

James backed off and continued to move through the room, gathering errant papers and journals. Every once in awhile he would glance at Blair, who kept his face buried in the book. Eventually he was rewarded for his patience with the thud of the book dropping. Fast asleep, Blair listed to one side, head down on his chest.

Reaching down, James took Blair’s hand this time, pulling him up. Hand under his elbow, he steered Blair to the stairs.

Blair attempted to dislodge the hand and regain his chair. "I just shut my eyes for a moment. I don’t need to take to my bed."

"Egads, who’s the stubborn one now? Indulge me." James enjoyed the resistance, but had no intention of losing this round.

"I suppose I must, you being my ancient elder and all."

James gently nudged Blair along, keeping the momentum going until they reached Blair’s room. It had changed in the last few weeks. The cot that had served as Blair’s bed had been replaced by a four-poster bed, heaped with blankets and pillows. The windows were swathed in a rich green velvet. Bookcases now held Blair’s stash of reading material. Grumbling all the way into bed, Blair maintained his protests, but once his head hit the pillow, all sound ceased.

It had been much too close. Jim shuddered involuntarily as he relived the awful moments of wondering if Blair would make it through the night. And once through that first night, the next day, and then the night again. James had slept in snatches, unwilling to leave Blair’s side, hoping his presence gave his friend strength. Afraid that these might be the last moments he’d get with Blair.

Staring down at Blair sleeping, James was touched once again by the changes that had occurred in his young friend. There was still something of the boy there, particularly when he talked about the things that fascinated him. But for the most part, the boy had been absorbed into the man.

Blair had a lean, dark beauty and even asleep, projected a surprising aura of danger. There was new strength, a hard edge that hadn’t been there before. What had transpired in the years that James had been gone, to bring about such a transformation?

James left the bed to look out the window. Smiling, he marveled that he hadn’t left this house in over two weeks and yet hadn’t felt so free in two years. His headache was gone, his senses, manageable. The hallucinations had all but disappeared, with only the occasional awareness that he was tuning into things impossible for him to note. Conversations three floors down, Blair quietly mumbling in his sleep, the cat purring in the kitchen. He knew it was past time for him to leave and resume life in his own household, but instead he’d slowly had what he needed moved here.

As soon as he’d entered the narrow house, he’d known it was decidedly odd. The servants, all two of them, seemed to make up their duties and then perform them with haphazard enthusiasm. The house was so sparsely furnished it would have suited a religious order. There was no understanding of the underpinnings of running a house this size, no sense of order. That alone should have driven James insane, his need for order at Saybrooke had been legendary.

Instead, James had found the disarray comforting. Each pile of clothes discarded without thought, the pages of notes that were scattered liberally throughout the house, the random placement of vases with flowers, mostly dead… spoke to the way Blair’s mind worked and what he valued.

Mrs. Duncan had been stationed in the front of the house, taking Alice in hand. Her natural disdain for the slovenly and ill-trained girl had changed to grudging admiration as she realized Alice had never had any proper instruction. Once taught the ropes of housekeeping, Alice had shown a natural zeal for the domestic arts.

Danyon shadowed Baines. Being a natural mimic, he picked up every nuance and inflection. Blair had taught Danyon the few phrases he might need for the random personage at the door, never expecting to actually have anyone enter. Subsequently, Danyon had never gone beyond, "May I help you?" with arched eyebrow and icy tone and "Master James is unavailable," accompanied by the door swinging shut. Now Danyon was learning the seemingly endless variations on just how one said, "May I help you?" depending entirely on whom one was addressing. He was learning the fine art of the aggressive denial masquerading as subservience and enjoyed it very much.

James had had Baines order new beds, fine linens, plush rugs, snug draperies, and a roomful of bookcases. Alice and Danyon were outfitted in a wardrobe of understated elegance. Throwing open Blair’s wardrobe, James had shaken his head at the scantiness of its contents.

Blair had spent money only on what he needed to project the image necessary to gain him the entry to the gaming tables. James removed a white shirt made of fine lawn and studied it. Next, he studied the coat and recognized the tailor by the way it was cut. Knowing that he would have all Blair’s measurement’s on hand, he had Baines send a footman to Tolbert’s. The tailor arrived the next day in a carriage loaded with fabric samples, leaving with an order for a complete new wardrobe, from riding apparel to formal attire. Blair would have all he needed to move through English society with panache. James had delighted in choosing a wide range of fabrics and colors, mostly gray, with hints of blues and greens, aware of how they would suit Blair.

For the first time in two years he had an appetite. Even Alice’s underdone potatoes had tasted delicious and so James hired a chef, much to everyone’s delight. All in all he had shaped Blair’s house into one he had no intention of leaving. He paused in his self-congratulations.

The truth was, that even if Blair had lived in a hovel, he would have stayed. He didn’t understand it, but as soon as he’d come in contact with Blair again, he’d felt whole. The sensation of being shattered into a hundred pieces had ebbed. The agonized pain he’d endured had left. He could draw breath without gasping at the horrifying smells, could eat without the sensation of his mouth being on fire.

James didn’t understand it, but he knew it, knew it as well as he knew his own name. Blair made him sane. Blair’s presence kept the demons at bay. Within Blair’s enclave, James was safe. Safety had never been a high value for James. He had been a man of reckless courage, and when he was hurt, and that was often, took the pain in stride. He had faith in his body, it would heal. He had confidence in his abilities, he could handle any horse, any pistol, any threat that came his way.

But the madness, oh God, the madness terrified him. It was like a whirlpool with malicious energy, ready to suck his soul into the maelstrom. He had no defense against it, and nothing he'd tried controlled it. It was beyond all reason, beyond all effort to contain it, suppress it, eradicate it. And yet… and yet, here in this eccentric house, James had found relief.

Blair woke a few hours later. He hated the weakness that still plagued him. He knew he’d been very sick and that it took time to get entirely well, but still, it irked him. // It’s not being as weak as a newborn cat that’s bothering you, it’s being weak as a newborn cat in front of James. Aye. There it was.// James had left him when he was on the cusp of becoming a man and now he was a man, full-grown, yet still a boy in James’ eyes.

He pushed the heavy quilt aside and got to his feet. At least James had stopped making him undress for these impromptu naps. Blair took a deep breath. The pain still stabbed through his lungs, but not quite as fiercely. He took a few more, forcing his lungs to accept a volume of air they wanted no part of. He folded gracefully to a sitting position on the floor and went through the exercises he’d learned in one of the first books he’d ever read. It had been called The Life of A Yogi and Blair had read it when he was seven years old.

Oh, much of it had been incomprehensible to a child, but Blair had intuitively understood that he’d found something important, something he could use. So he had studied the words about meditation and breathing, about positions and stretching and he’d begun to use them.

Recently having funds for the very first time, he'd scoured the booksellers and stalls until he found The Life of a Yogi. Holding the closed book in his hands for a long time, he'd traced the words embossed in the leather cover with his fingers. He was afraid he’d made it all up; that the world of the yogi would not hold the magic it had for him as a child. As soon as he saw the first illustration, he was drawn back in, back into the mysterious world of India and its holy men who could control the uncontrollable.

The little he had understood as a child had served him well, enabling him to contain his fear in the dark, high places he’d been forced to go as a climbing boy. It had made pain endurable. It had even been able to put a small dent in his loneliness, for he found when he mediated that he had a hidden place inside him, protected from all that happened outside.

Now he sat, cross-legged, breathing, centering, trying to find the place where understanding lay. The confusion he felt threatened to overwhelm him. James had moved in and showed no signs of leaving. Blair simply could not understand it. He had been a servant. He was a bastard. He was Irish. He had picked pockets. Fine clothes and a house on Belgrave Square did not make him a gentleman. It only added fraud to the long list of things that made him quite unsuitable as a companion to James. And yet…James would not go. Wouldn’t even discuss going.

He was stuck with him. The center spoke. It said, learn to cope with it.. Blair smiled. Fine, he’d cope with it. He was delighted to cope with it. He was astonished that he was going to be allowed to cope with it. Blair rose, ready to cope with it.

"Jamie, you’ve been in this house for a month. I have it on very good authority that you have not so much as stepped one foot outside the front door."

"Have you set spies on me now?" James scowled, crossing his arms.

Blair looked at James more closely. The tone had not been not playful.

"Well, no, of course not, you know what servants are like, this is just common knowledge."

James looked slightly mollified and Blair decided to continue.

"Come on, walk with me. I want to see the sky and feel the sun on my face."

"You go, cub. It’ll do you good. I have some… some correspondence I need to catch up on. Perhaps tomorrow."

Blair knew it to be a lie, but James’ rigid posture communicated his resolve.

"Just come outside with me for a short walk. I promise not to take up too much of your time." Blair placed his hand on James' arm and looked at him, willing James to capitulate. James held firm for two more heartbeats and then the tension ebbed away.

Shaking his head at his persistent friend, he said, "You win. We'll go for a short walk."

As he went to get his jacket, James wondered about his reluctance to step outside. When Blair had been sick, he'd told himself it was because he didn't want to leave him, but that didn't explain his disinclination now. The world outside seemed impossibly large and loud, and James dreaded the assault on his ears and mind. So far, he had managed to keep this…change in him from Blair. The thought of simply telling Blair crossed his mind and was rejected. Some part of him knew that was wrong, but he didn't try to push past it. He just knew he was deeply unwilling to have Blair look at him differently.

Watching James' retreating back, Blair pondered James stubborn resistance to going outside. It was so very unlike him, but then, there were many things that were so unlike him, so many ways he'd changed since his ordeal in India.

It wasn't enough that James' regiment had been betrayed and sacrificed in some unfathomable game of military strategy. James, the only man to live through the massacre had been stranded in the Himalayas. He had spent a year there, , until finally he'd found someone willing to guide him though the treacherous mountain pass.

From what Blair could piece together, James had been found by the mountain tribe of Van Gujars. He was sick with the infection from the saber wound he'd taken in his side. The tribe had thought him holy, as he had been the only one of ninety-seven men to live. It was a marginal territory, barely sustaining the people who dwelled there and James had spent a great deal of time foraging for food to contribute. His hunting had taken him deep into the mountain wilderness where he had often spent weeks on his own.

Had he simply grown used to so much silence, that the bustle of London overwhelmed him? That was possible. They'd walk to Kensington Park. It wasn't as fashionable as some of the other parks and would be peaceful this early in the day.

The walk to the park started out well enough, the sun having finally burned away the clouds that had stubbornly settled in for a week's stay. It was unfashionably early and the only people out were nannies with their charges, merchants sweeping the night's debris from their doorways, and clerks hurrying by with stacks of important papers clutched in their hands. Wagons delivering goods clogged the streets and everywhere there was a sense of purpose and industry.

There had not been a day like this for James since India and he soaked it up, wondering if perhaps whatever had been wrong, had now gone away.

Kensington Park was quiet and they wandered the walking paths for over an hour. As they came out of the green enclave, they were intercepted by Cordelia and her cousin Richard.

"James!" Cordelia's voice cut through the companionable haze James had been in with Blair.

Latching onto James' sleeve, Cordelia pulled him towards Richard. "You must meet my dear friend, James Ellison. James, my cousin, Richard Treebly."

Blair hung back, watching the beautiful woman claim James as her own.

"Of course I remember James, Cordelia. It wasn't that long ago we met."

"Oh, yes, how stupid of me to forget." Cordelia's little laugh at herself was an octave too high for James' comfort and he winced. Cordelia noticed and pouting said, "James are you still in a foul mood? I expected to hear from you much sooner than this. Just where have your manners gone?"

"Forgive me, Cordelia," James began, then stopped, as a sharp pain shot through his head. Involuntarily, he put his hand to his temple, trying to press the pain back. Cordelia leaned in, asking, "What's wrong, James? Is it one of your headaches?"

Her scent, perfume mixed with lax hygiene, hit him hard and James reeled back, gasping, "Yes, headache."

"Oh, you poor dear. Richard, have the carriage brought around. We need to get James home." Richard lifted his hand, signaling his desires to the driver that followed them.

James looked at Blair, panic in his eyes and Blair stepped forward, saying, "That won't be necessary. The walk home in the fresh air will help, I'm sure."

Cordelia looked at him, irritation evident on her lovely face. "And who are you? I don't believe we've been introduced."

James moved to Blair's side. "My manners are remiss. May I introduce Mr. Blair James of Belgrave Square? Blair, this is Miss Cordelia….. and her cousin, Richard Treebly."

"How do you do?" Blair made a small bow over her hand and then turned to Richard, saying, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Mr. James," Cordelia said, speculation in her tone, "I don't believe I'm familiar with that name."

Before Cordelia could begin her inquisition, James interrupted.

"I'm sorry to beg off like this, but I'm afraid I must get home and…"

"Of course, you must. Here's the carriage. " Cordelia gently pushed him forward. The pain in his head had grown worse and James had a difficult time finding the words to refuse.

"Blair—" James tried to turn aside, but Richard had the carriage door open and was guiding him in.

"It's okay, James, I'll meet you back at the house." Blair kept his distance from the trio entering the coach. A look came across James' face, and Blair started forward. James had that peculiar look of concentration and distraction that he'd worn the morning Blair had informed him of his past. James seemed suddenly very far away and Blair felt an urgent need to make contact. Before he could make it to James' side, Richard had maneuvered him into the coach.

In short order, the carriage was on its way. Blair watched until he could no longer see it, and then turned back to take the shortcut through the park. Racing along the paths he and James had so peacefully meandered a short time ago, he was oblivious to the outrage he caused by his unseemly haste.

Bursting through the front doors, Blair looked around for any sign of James. It was quiet in a way that made it clear James had not yet made it home. He should have. Where could he be?

For the next hour, Blair paced the house, unable to stop worrying, but having no way to track down where Cordelia and Richard might have taken James. He berated himself for not going along and trusting those two with James' safety.

At last there was the sound of a carriage pulling up and Blair raced to the door ahead of Danyon. Yanking it open, he watched as James was supported by a footman and escorted to the door.

"James!" Blair grabbed hold as the servant released him and James leaned into Blair, his eyes unfocused.

"Blair?" James inhaled sharply and Blair put his shoulder under his arm, taking on more of James' weight and moved to get him inside. Surprised by how easily James accepted his help, Blair urged him towards the stairs.

"How's your head?" Their progress was halting, watched by the entire household.

"God, it hurt. Better now." James sighed and closed his eyes, letting himself be guided up the last of the stairs.

"Where in the blazes did those people take you?" Blair's sharp tone made James stiffen.

Blair ran his hand up and down his arm in silent contrition.

"They took me to a doctor they think highly of. Thank God he was in surgery and I was spared another examination."

"Another? James? What is it, what's wrong?" Blair had been strung tight as a top ever since James had been put in the carriage and now all his fears took flight.

"Not now, Blair, too tired to talk." James mumbled and indeed, his eyes were still closed as he shuffled to his bed.

Blair sat him on the edge and Danyon hurried in, kneeling to take James' boots off. Blair shook his head, saying, "I'll do it." He was oblivious to the shock on Danyon's face.

Removing each boot with practiced ease, Blair then helped James' undress the rest of the way, both falling back into accustomed roles they thought they'd left behind.

James had just gotten settled in bed when Alice came in with tea, Mrs. Duncan right behind her with a tray of pastries.

"You're hungry, I'm sure and perhaps this will put a dent in that growling beast I can hear from here." And it was true, James stomach was making it clear that it needed food.

James cracked open an eye and almost laughed, but didn't, knowing they would never understand and not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings. The room was crowded with George, Baines and Danyon hovering at the door, Alice and Mrs. Duncan at the foot of his bed and Blair, perched on the side of it. He'd seen men less well attended on their death bed and here, he'd merely suffered one of his blasted headaches.

"I'm fine, or I will be, once I devour one of Cook's glorious confections." Blair handed one to him and James bit in, his mouth exploding with the sweetness of cream and sugar, the tang of lemon and the dense moistness of the cake.

There was a collective sigh in the room as James looked up and smiled, the pain lines almost banished.

The staff left, murmuring to themselves and heading to the kitchen for their own tea.

"All right, now I want some answers. What is going on?"

"It's nothing. Sometimes, I get headaches."

Blair stood up and began to pace. "This was more than a simple headache, James. There was the way you looked just before you entered the carriage. Like your mind was far away."

James swung his legs off the bed, and sat at the edge of it.

"I—sometimes—there's too much...too much of everything, sound, taste-- oh, it was the stench of Cordelia that nearly undid me."

"The stench? She smelled like Madame Nanciose's best perfume. Granted, she wore a bit much, but stench?"

Putting his head in his hands, James leaned forward and tried to think how to explain. Blair sat down next to him and waited.

"I could smell beyond her perfume, to…the point of gagging. I am glad you believe in regular bathing."

"So she smelled bad. I know there is more to this."

James could see that Blair was determined to unravel the protective cloak he had so carefully worn for this last month. There was no telling how Blair would accept what he had to say, but James prayed Blair did not immediately begin to treat him like a cracked invalid.

"The doctors don't know what it is. No one's said it out loud yet, but they all think I'm going insane. I hear voices when no one is near, conversations that I can't possibly be hearing…I see things that I can't possibly see…sometimes the most innocuous food tastes vile and sharp…and…" James hesitated and looked to see how Blair was receiving the information. Blair was hunched over, mimicking James posture, a small frown on his face.

"Yes? Go on, tell me all of it, James."

James stifled a groan, wishing he'd never allowed himself to be coaxed outside.

"Sometimes I lose myself. Time goes by and I…I'm just not here. And then something "wakes" me up."

"How long?"

"They last anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours."

"No, I mean, how long have you been experiencing these things?"

James sat back. "Since I was in India."

"So it is connected to India. You were on the ………Mountain, yes?"

James nodded.

"India is a most mysterious land. There's no telling what brought this on. I need to study, I'm sure someone has written about this."

"About what, Blair? Men going loony after being in India?"

Blair looked at James, shocked. He stood up.

"Loony? No, James, not loony. Coming back from India with heightened senses. There are many people with acute eyesight or hearing, it's just that they usually possess these abilities from birth. We just need to find out about the sudden onset of your acuity."

"What, you believe I actually can hear voices, blocks away, see things a mile distant?"

"Yes."

That simple declaration made James weak with surprise and relief. He didn't believe it himself and yet Blair would prefer some farfetched theory rather than entertain the idea of madness was further testimony to the kind of friend he had in Blair O'Malley.

"You do that, Blair. If anyone can find the answers you can." James swung back into the bed and laid his head back.

"You look positively done in, James. Rest." Blair pulled the covers up, glad to be the one on this side of the bed for a change.

*****************

The next few months, Blair hunted for information. He tried to coax James into doing some tests, but he refused, saying he didn't want to be an experiment. In truth, he feared Blair learning that he was closer to a madman than a savant. James stayed close to home, venturing out on rare occasions and having no more incidents.

On a clear, cold, beautiful fall day, Blair set out for his daily walk. All morning there had been an electricity in the air, and James had struggled to keep his mind on the bookwork. It was one of those days when his madness crept around the edges of his mind, darting forward and then retreating. James said nothing to Blair about these days. He said nothing to anyone, trying desperately to keep it all contained and invisible.

James looked from the entry he'd just made and watched as Blair descended the stairs. Blair looked back at the house, and seeing James in the window, waved. He could Blair humming a tune. Smiling, James was inordinately pleased to see Blair in the sunshine, the wind ruffling the curls into a riot about his face.

He listened to the humming for a long time and as he listened, a frown replaced the smile. Blair had to be a good two blocks away now and yet he swore he could hear the humming. The madness that dwelled within him wanted out. James turned away from the window and got up, determined to find a place in which he could hear only silence.

Going to the third floor, James surveyed the rooms up under the eaves. They were small and tidy and oddly comforting with their irregular corners and nooks. He found a room that served as storage and in there, an old rocking chair, banished from a nursery long ago. Sitting down gingerly, he was unsure it could still bear weight and surprised to find it sturdy and comfortable. He rocked, the only sound, the soothing rhythm of the chair gliding back and forth on the well-worn floor. When he felt sure he had a measure of control he got up and took in the view from the tiny window set in the alcove. The window faced the park, which was lightly green from the smattering of tender shoots braving the unpredictable March weather. He could see all the way to the clearing by the pond.

What? Was that Blair? His distinctive red scarf made him stand out and James leaned in closer. He could see Blair speaking with a tiny woman. Flowers exchanged hands and as Blair inhaled the bouquet, he turned back toward the house. James could see him smiling, saying something to the tiny woman and the next thing he knew, he could hear Blair. Oh God. He stumbled away from the window, Blair’s voice following him, saying, "All women love roses. It’s one of the few things in life you can count on."

He couldn’t be hearing that, my God, he couldn’t be seeing it either. His first instinct was to flee to the cellar, but he stopped himself. He had to face this, quell it, or he would never be able to leave this house again.

He turned back just in time to see two ruffians came up behind Blair. Each one seized an arm. At this point James was halfway down the stairs. As he reached the first floor, he yelled for Danyon and Baines, but didn’t stop to see if they’d heard him, but left the house at a dead run. It wasn’t far to the park, but James knew what damage could be done in a very short amount of time. And Blair had barely recovered from the last beating. James ran at a speed that had the world around him a blur. His eyes were focused ahead, searching for the red scarf, the dark curls, his friend.

There, by the pond, a coach had pulled up and the two hooligans were trying to force Blair into the dark interior. Blair was fighting like a man possessed. As James ran up he saw Blair slip out of his jacket, eluding once again the men bent on capture. One of them realized that Blair was getting away and he latched onto Blair’s hair with brutal efficiency, pulling him to his chest. James came to an abrupt halt as the man who had Blair, showed his knife, flashing it at the throat already red with wool.

"Hold up, guv, not a step closer or I’ll have to slice ‘im. Jeb, keep an eye on the fancy man there." The rogue showed his teeth in a feral grin. They were black and rotted, making the man look like he had a hole instead of a mouth.

"Don’t worry, Harry, I’m watchin’."

Blair stood very still, his chest heaving as he tried to get oxygen into lungs compromised

by his illness. He was white and drenched in sweat, the effort to win his freedom taxing

every muscle and all his stamina.

James stood very still, knowing how quickly the man could end Blair’s life, how quickly Blair’s blood could soak through the red scarf. Blair looked at him, his blue eyes dazed, unafraid. The frozen tableau lasted for seven heartbeats and then Harry began to shuffle backward, dragging Blair toward the carriage. Jim hesitated, unwilling to risk Blair’s life.

When Blair realized he was going to be forced into the carriage, his eyes finally showed fear. His hands came up to the arm at his throat, which tightened, cutting off Blair’s air and galvanizing him into action. He threw himself backwards with enough force to take the thug down, Blair on top of him. The knife sawed across his throat and James cried out, already moving. Jeb was also moving, attempting to get his friend up and Blair into the carriage. James kicked Jeb’s knee, dropping him, allowing him to turn his attention back to Blair. The knife had fallen to the side, just out of reach. Blair and Harry were wrestling on the ground, arms flailing as they each sought to gain the knife.

A crowd had gathered, watching with interest, the women giving out little cries, the men talking to each other, discrete bets being placed. James waited until Harry was on top and then grabbed him by his neck and pulled him up. As he did that, he punched Harry in the face and gut, enjoying the sound of ribs breaking.

As soon as Harry was down, he moved to where Blair still lay, who blinked up at him, dazed.

"Is it gone?"

James looked around.

"Is what gone, Blair?"

"The carriage?"

"Yes, as soon as you toppled Harry, it left." When Blair showed no signs of getting to

his feet, James knelt down.

"Where are you hurt?"

Blair absently patted himself. "Just bruised."

Blair looked up, noticing the gawkers for the first time. "I want to go home." With

James help, he made it to his feet and stood for a moment, trying to keep his balance.

Danyon ran up, cudgel in hand, looking for someone to bash. As his fierce gaze swept the

onlookers, they backed up and began to disperse.

"You al’right, m’lord?" Danyon stooped to retrieve Blair’s coat from the ground.

"I’m fine, Danyon. I just want to go home." Blair’s voice was shaking along with the hand he extended to James, who captured it in his bigger one, pulling Blair in close to his body. They walked slowly, each lost in their own private hells.

Danyon walked behind, his eyes alert for any new threat to the man he had come to love as a brother. The thought that he might have lost the quirky gent who had changed his life, scared him. The fear surprised him. It had been a long time since he had felt attached to another human being. Not since Mick…he clamped down on the wash of loss that engulfed him.

James held tight to Blair. He pushed his fear to the side to try and sort with the two problems that were clamoring for attention. One was the confirmation that the original attack had not been random and that someone was out to kill Blair. This attack had seemed to have kidnapping as its goal, it was hard to say if that had been the intent in the first attack. His initial instinct had been right and as he realized that, he tightened his hold on Blair.

"Ow." Blair protested the new bruise.

"Sorry." James eased his grip. He thought back to that night he’d found Blair shivering on the floor. The nausea and vomiting had seemed wrong, inconsistent with the inflammation of the lungs. James had feared poisoning and now he was sure. He looked down at the man at his side. Blair walked with his head lowered, hands tucked in his pockets. He needed this man, needed this friendship. It made him feel….human, grounded, sane.

Which brought him to the other problem. His sanity. It would seem he had some. He had seen Blair, had indeed been able to hear Blair. They were not hallucinations. He didn’t understand how that could be, but he was grateful. The madness had proved good for something.

They’d almost succeeded. They’d almost gotten him into that carriage. Blair’s mind was unable to go further than that. Why they might want to and what the purpose they might have were mysteries he’d think about later. Right now his mind tried to cope with the terror that was still coursing through his body.

He’d been a climbing boy, placed in Saybrooke’s dark, filthy chimneys to scrub at the soot. He spent hours alone, in the dark, battling the feeling of being squeezed to death by the four walls, shivering in the cold damp of the unlit chimneys. At times he felt sure he would suffocate from the soot particles in the air, which choked him and left him gasping for breath.

Finally one day, his lungs had been so congested he’d been unable to stop coughing. The harness he wore was old and uncared for and the continual jerking on it when Blair coughed had caused a strap to break. He’d fallen two stories to the ground, breaking his leg. It had healed and Blair had finally grown too large to fit in the cramped spaces. He’d been released from that job. Released into the light, into spacious rooms with plenty of air to breathe, where he could see the birds soar through the windows and feel the sun on his face.

Warbeck had learned of Blair’s original position in the house. He’d learned that beatings and whippings could hurt O’Malley, but not break him. Being placed in the dark, and especially small, dark places, caused the boy to beg to be released, crying out with hysterical fear. It took a lot to find a reason to punish the boy. He was smart and conscientious. But he had his weaknesses and Warbeck learned to exploit those weaknesses. He made sure to punish the younger staff when O’Malley was near, knowing it would cause the kind of insubordination that justified serious reprisals. Any who tried to intercede soon found themselves without a position or reference.

Blair’s isolation had increased, the remaining staff somehow blaming him for Warbeck’s ruthless actions. Only Mrs. had remained his ally, though she took great care to hide it. Not out of fear for herself, though she was afraid, but out of concern for what would happen to Blair if she were forced out. As it was, she made sure he got enough to eat and patched him up. She looked after him as best she could and perhaps most importantly to Blair; she kept his books safe in her room.

Nothing Warbeck did made Blair leave, which secretly pleased Warbeck to no end. Only the certainty of James never coming back again had made Blair abandon the only home he’d ever known.

Blair looked up at James, drawing strength from his presence. He took in a deep breath, and as he exhaled, he tried to push the fear away. The stubborn fear held tight, refusing to budge. Blair tried to reason with it. All the old arguments were trotted out….the dark can’t hurt you, there will be enough air, the walls don’t really move. As true as he knew all of that to be, it had no effect on his mind, which persisted in it’s belief that dark, cramped spaces would squeeze his soul out.

Blair shut his eyes and allowed himself to be guided home by James.

At the door, Ms. Duncan and Alice waited, holding hands. When they saw their men through the trees, Alice said, "Bloody ‘ell, Blair looks right knackered."

Mrs. Duncan gave her a sharp look and nudge, saying, "Thank the good Lord they’re all safe."

Alice failed to look contrite. "Aye, thank the good Lord and Master Ellison’s swift feet they’re safe."

"Yes, child, that’s how the Lord works."

James heard this conversation as they drew near and it gave him pause. Was this madness God’s gift? Did it have purpose? These thoughts gave James some hope while the cynical part of his brain dismissed it out of hand. He could neither contain ‘this gift’ nor control it. Perhaps it was God’s gift, but he was simply a poor vessel for it.

His father and Manning had gone to great lengths to make him aware of his faults and failings. They would share a hearty laugh if they knew James had entertained the idea that he’d been gifted. No, his mind was not the instrument to deal with this. Now if he had Blair’s brain…He could feel that Blair had used up the last of his energy. As they entered the house, Blair stumbled and James swung Blair into his arms. It was ridiculously easy, he couldn’t weigh more than eight stone. That would have to change.

The mood was somber that night. James had gathered the staff together in the cozy room Blair used as his study. The fire in the grate cast warm shadows, but did little to chase away the chill that had descended on the group. Blair was upstairs, asleep. It was time to pool their resources and information and develop a plan to keep the man they all felt keen loyalty to, safe.

"Danyon, can you think of anyone who might wish harm to Master Blair? Did he ever say anything to you about the men he gambled with?"

"Ah, well now, Master Blair wasn’t one to say much ‘bout people. Not ‘bout individual people, anyways. ‘e liked to talk an awful lot ‘bout peoples if you know wot I mean. Like them pygmies over there on the Dark Continent. We ‘eard a lot about those people, wot they ate, ugh, and wot they wore. Nothing much! And how good they were to their children…." Danyon’s voice trailed off in a wistful sigh.

"Aye, ‘e loved to tell us ‘is tales. But I don’t think I ever ‘eard ‘im say a mean word ‘bout nobody." Alice twisted the apron in her hands. Her face was scrunched in concentration as she tried to remember anything that would help Master Blair.

"Were there any letters delivered to the house, any messages?"

Danyon shook his head. "No," he said slowly, "no one came ‘ere ‘til you."

James sighed. He hadn’t expected this to be easy and Blair would be the real source of information when he woke. The group strategized ways to protect Blair, but no one was able to shed light on what a possible motive could be.

James closed down the house, checking each door and window. He made his way up the stairs, needing to check on Blair, needing to reassure himself that Blair was safe and asleep. The room was lit by one candle, as always. James pulled a chair close and sat down, not ready to face sleep just yet.

The bruises were not quite as spectacular as the first time, still ugly reminders of someone’s deadly vendetta against his friend. There was a cut on Blair’s neck, where Harry’s knife had managed to connect, despite the scarf. It wasn’t all that deep and perhaps would heal without a scar. James traced it lightly with his finger.

He leaned back in the chair and stretched his feet out in front of him. Tomorrow he would contact Rafe, the Bow Street Runner who’d been in charge of the search for Blair. He could be counted on to be discreet. The first order of business when confronted with a puzzle was information. Rafe would be able to gather it.

It was hard to believe the man lying in bed had made an enemy. James was well aware that there was much about Blair he didn’t know and years of Blair’s life he had missed. He needed to fill in those blanks and would, starting tomorrow.

Watching Blair sleep relaxed James and he felt his eyes starting to close, nudging him to his own warm, soft bed. He got up, whispering, "Goodnight, cub," and trudged down the hall.

Waking in the middle of the dark night, James kept his eyes shut and held himself still. Something had awakened him. He heard it again and this time recognized it. It was Blair and he was—moaning? No, crying. James didn’t know what to make of that. He was deuced uncomfortable when a woman cried, let alone a man.

What did one do when a man cried?

One left them alone, allowed them their moment of weakness. If he went in, Blair might feel embarrassed. No, he’d let Blair work it out. Out of consideration, James tried to tune the sound out, burying his head under his pillows. It didn’t work; Blair’s soft sobs still reached his ears.

"pleease…" Blair was pleading. His voice cracking with need. Who could he be talking to? "pleeaasse." It was said quietly, but was desperate for all of that. James got up, leaving his dressing gown and slippers and hurried down the chilly hall to Blair’s room. There was no other voice. Just Blair’s mumblings.

"i’m sorry, i’m sorry…i won’t…not ever… please-- just let me out." The sobbing resumed and it was heartbreaking in its quiet intensity.

The room was black, the candle snuffed, curtains drawn, no moonlight penetrating the darkness. James found that his eyes adjusted quickly and he could see that Blair was in bed, the covers wrapped around him in such a way as to bind his arms to his sides. James approached the bed.

"Shh, shhh. It’s James." He whispered it, afraid to startle Blair. He pulled Blair up and unwrapped the sweat-drenched sheet from Blair’s body. Holding Blair to his chest, he pushed the damp hair away from Blair’s brow. "Shhh….it’s all right." James continued to free Blair from the confines of the bedclothes.

Once Blair’s arms were free, the sobbing slowly came to a halt, leaving only an occasional hiccup.

It was a quandary. On the one hand, James wanted to wake Blair and learn what had caused such night terrors. On the other, he didn’t want to disturb Blair’s peace. When he was sure that Blair was well and truly asleep, James settled him back down on his bed.

Blair had gone to sleep so early his candle had burned out and James went in search of a replacement as well as fresh linen. He didn’t want to wake Alice, but he really wasn’t sure where such things were kept. After a few false starts he found the cupboard he was looking for. Blair still slept, but now on his stomach, arms out flung, as if to ensure the sheets could not imprison him.

Once James set the room to rights, he paused. Blair looked peaceful enough now. James considered the old, worn chair with a baleful eye. It was not a chair to induce sleep and James should know, he’d spent a many night in it when Blair was so sick.

Why hadn’t I thought to have that replaced when I was busy installing new furniture? Because once Blair recovered, you never thought another night would be spend bedside, James silently argued with himself.

James moved toward the door. Blair was fast asleep. He was fine. James flopped down in the chair and put his head in his hands.

He’d been begging. Someone had been hurting him and Blair had been asking for mercy, for a mercy that never came. Rage swept through James. He wanted to know who that someone was. He wanted to know what that someone had done to Blair, Blair who was so self-contained, so strong. Whatever the someone had done, James wanted to do it to him and make him beg. He got up and went to the window, pulling back the heavy drape. The fog was deep, wrapping the house in its humid embrace. No stars could penetrate this atmosphere. Inside, the one candle did an admirable job of warming the darkness.

Blair moved restlessly, kicking at the covering. He made inarticulate sounds, his legs pushing at the mattress. James returned to the bed and laid his hand on Blair’s back. It was once again damp with sweat. James rolled Blair over and felt his forehead, but could detect no elevation of temperature. What was going on here?

Blair’s eyes opened and immediately looked at the candle and then up at

James.

"James, is everything all right?" Blair threw off the blanket and started to get

up.

"Are you all right?"

James stepped closer and stopped Blair from getting out of bed.

"I’m fine. You were having a nightmare and I just came in." James decided to leave out the details.

"A nightmare?" Blair looked confused and then his eyes shut. Just before they closed, James caught a flash of pain that instinctively brought his hand to his heart. He put his hand on Blair’s forehead.

"Yes, a nightmare, a bad one. Care to tell me about it?"

Blair opened his eyes. In the candlelight, they were blue as the sea and utterly shuttered, revealing nothing.

"I don’t remember. Something about an animal." Blair sat up, dislodging James’ hand. "I need to, you know…and some water…" Blair stood up, his damp sleep shirt sticking to him, the hair on his chest peeking through the unbuttoned front.

"I’ll fetch you a glass." James retreated, unsure of how to handle Blair’s obfuscating. It was clear Blair did not want to talk about it. Well, want to or not, he would. James would make him. Eventually.

Morning came; the fog departed with the sun’s arrival, and Blair awoke in a mood no one had ever seen. He yanked his clothes out of Danyon’s hands, snarling that he was perfectly capable. He ate his breakfast in silence and without his appreciation, a first. He closed the door to his study emphatically and stated he wanted no interruptions. After breakfast, the entire staff sat in the kitchen. They didn’t look at each other and each sat his own little misery of Blair’s making.

James entered into the usually sunny room and recognized the gloom immediately.

"You all look like kicked dogs this morning." He paused in his tease, the

color draining from his face. "Has something happened to Blair?"

Danyon shook himself and answered. "No m’lord. Master Blair’s in ‘is

study." Danyon returned to sitting with his head propped in both hands.

"Then what? Honestly, I’ve never seen such glumness."

James took the cup of chocolate from Mrs. Duncan’s hand. She sighed and said, "He blames us, he does, for not protecting him."

"Nonsense. I’m sure he doesn’t." James inhaled the heavenly scent of cocoa. Blair certainly had a nose for business. Hot chocolate was the rage in London and Blair was part owner of one of the most bustling shops in all of London.

"Then explain this mornin’. ‘E refuses me help with ‘is dressin’, comes down ta breakfast with nary a word ta dear Alice or Mrs. Duncan, eats wit’ a frown on ‘is face and locks ‘imself in ‘is study without so much as a Bob’s your uncle, ‘e does." Danyon nodded and looked around the room. They all confirmed his recollection of the mornings doings.

James frowned. The damn nightmare must have set something off. If there was one thing he knew it was that Blair would never blame his staff for the attack.

"You're not the cause of his foul mood. He had a nightmare last night, a bad one, and I think it’s got him shook."

Alice and Danyon exchanged quick looks which James couldn't help but see.

"He’s had them before, then?"

"Yes, it’s one o’ the reasons ‘is room is far from anyone else’s. ‘E ‘ated to disturb anyone’s sleep."

"So is he regularly such a bear the morning after?"

Alice shook her head. "Maybe more quiet-like. But then if ‘e was in the middle of writin’ something, ‘e got all quiet, so you never really knew. ‘E never was all growly like this."

"Hmmm, well, I think it’s best if we allow him time to himself today." James moved to the stove, but before he could help himself, he was intercepted by Mrs. Duncan.

"Here now, sit down and eat a proper breakfast." She relented when he used the look he’d learned from Blair, and served him another half cup of the warm chocolate.

*********

Blair sat in his chair, books scattered at his feet, the journal open on his lap and stared at nothing. The dream had been more vivid than ever before. It had brought back details that he’d fought so hard to forget. Now he was awash in memories. He tried to shut them out, they ate away at the walls he’d thrown up.

Blair remained sequestered until mid-afternoon, when he finally wandered out of his study. James had just come in from the blustery spring day and looked the picture of health, his cheeks red and wind-chapped, his eyes bright with morning energy. Blair felt the contrast keenly. Catching sight of himself in the mirror in the hallway, he looked more than pale and the bruises used the white of his face to good effect. One eye was black, the other, nearly so with the deep shadows underneath it. The cut on his neck added a macabre touch.

Of all his injuries, the one that bothered him was his hand. He’d punched the one called Harry in the fray and the impact had bruised and bloodied his right hand, the one he wrote with. It was most inconvenient.

James saw Blair flexing it as he walked in.

"Blair, let me take a look at your hand." James took in his and studied it, then looked up and studied Blair’s face.

"It’s banged up right proper and I think one of your fingers is jammed." James took hold of the index finger and slowly pulled. Blair bit his lip

"James," Blair hissed, "I don’t think this is helping." Just then James jerked

it and a popping sound was audible.

"There. Better?" Blair looked down at his hand. It still hurt, but it was better.

"Yes, thank you, although I think the cure was probably worse than the

bite."

James shrugged, "Hey, it got the job done. Hungry? You missed mid-day.

I'm sure it would please Mrs. Duncan to make up for it."

"No, I had a big breakfast. I’m looking for that journal on the excavation

going on in Egypt. You haven’t seen it, have you?"

"It’s in the breakfast room where you were reading it this morning."

"Oh."

James decided to plunge ahead and he asked, "About last night…"

Blair’s head jerked up, a mix of shame and fear written on his face. "I really must get

my hands on that journal." He abruptly turned away from James and went

toward the sunny room they broke bread in.

James shook his head. Getting Blair to confide in him was going to be a harder task than he'd thought, but it was going to happen. James stalked after Blair, determined to get to the bottom of all this. Blair was standing at the window looking out as he entered, but whirled when he heard James approach.

"James..." He held his hand out, silently begging James to give him some peace.

"Blair…"

Each mirrored the other's stubborn stance. James had the advantage of his military training and he ruthlessly used it, invading Blair's space.

"You will tell me about what went on last night." James wanted answers, his fear demanded answers, and it hardly mattered to him that he was using the tone one would use with a servant, a servant far beneath him.

Blair blanched, backing up. Shaking his head in denial, Blair said, "No, James, this doesn't concern you."

James felt unexpected anger that Blair was going to keep something so vital from him. "Not concern me?" He bellowed. "You're my friend, of course it concerns me."

Blair was sliding along the wall, trying to get by James. "Drop it, please. I don't wish to discuss it."

James cut off Blair's retreat, grabbing Blair's arm. "Oh, no you don't. You aren't leaving this room until you tell me what's going on."

Blair's face paled and he looked at James in shock. "Let me go!" Twisting in James' hold, Blair tried to win his freedom.

Blair's shout was unexpectedly loud and James instinctively let go and covered his ears. Blair used that opportunity to bolt from the room. James stood there, shaking his head, recognizing that he'd handled that very badly and waiting for the ringing in his ears to stop.

There had to be a way to get Blair to confide in him, but trying to force him had to rank right up there as one of the stupidest ideas he'd ever had.

"Blair!" James called, as he entered the study, but he wasn't there.

"Blair!" James yelled, charging up the stairs. He was afraid. Afraid because he realized, as mad as it seemed, that he couldn't "hear" Blair. He could always hear Blair. He heard Blair muttering as he argued with the books he read. Heard Blair's pen scratching across the paper as he wrote, and for a long time he'd been able to discern Blair's breathing because of the distinctive wheeze in his lungs, leftover from his illness. He could distinguish Blair's footsteps from any others, and sometimes imagined he could recognize Blair's heartbeat.

Until yesterday, despite Blair's belief in him, he'd known it for madness. Now there wasn't a doubt in his mind that Blair was no longer in the house. Not a doubt that he knew this because he could not hear Blair's footstep, his breathing nor his heartbeat. There was no time to ponder what that meant. He had to find Blair.

Without thought, driven by fear and need, Blair ran from the house. There was no reason operating, as he dashed down the street, heedless of the stares directed his way. Just the need to be in the open, to see the sky, to breathe the air. Just the fear of being held against his will, held down, put in a small space, left in a small space without enough air, without light or sound, alone…

He ran until he couldn't any longer. Sinking down on a bench, he tried to get on top of his spinning emotions. He would go back. James would be even angrier and demand to know what the nightmare had been about. That was never going to happen. The idea of making the memories real by speaking them out loud left the taste of bile in his throat.

Once he caught his breath, he looked around and saw he was at Charing Cross Road. He knew he was a sight, no jacket or cravat, hair wild, but he ignored the people muttering around him and kept moving, unsure of what to do or where to go.

It wasn’t long before he wished he hadn’t missed the mid-day meal, as his stomach protested the meager breakfast he’d consumed. He had no money with him. It would have been child’s play to lift enough for a fat sausage, the crowd being ripe for the picking. Blair frowned at that thought, dismayed it had entered his mind. Those days were way past him; he was no longer fighting to survive, he merely had an empty belly. Had he gotten so soft that one missed meal would compel him to rob?

Leaning against a wall, he tried to breathe and control the panic that was coming back. A different kind of panic-- the fear that he everything he was, everything he had attained, was a sham. He looked down at his rumpled clothes and felt revulsion for the fine dandy he had been playing at.

He was a bastard, left by his father before he was born, left by a mother who had sworn she’d come back for him.

Had sworn she would write…but she hadn’t, not after the first year, and had only come to see him a few times in all the years they’d been apart. The first few years had been the hardest as each week he had been so sure she would come. So sure she would take him away and he would never have to go up another dark chimney. But she didn’t come and the only thing that put a stop to his imprisonment was the breaking of his leg. Then the delayed growth spurt that finally made it impossible for him to do that job.

Imagination had been a wonderful thing then. He’d imagined all sorts of reasons why she couldn’t come. He knew she was working hard, trying to make a life for them. He imagined she had put all her money away for the house they would rent, and that was why she had no money for postage, no money for travel. They would have a cat and he would wake to her sweet voice saying "Good morning, sleepyhead," the way she always had. He imagined his father had come back and found her. He’d been shanghaied by pirates, but had never stopped loving Naomi and had finally won his freedom by saving a Prince’s life. He was ecstatic at the news he had a son, and soon they’d come for him.

He had never imagined that she hadn’t wanted to come for him, that she had fallen in love and chosen to stay away from him. Finding that out shattered every dream that had sustained him through his childhood.

Who did he think he was? He was a servant who aped his betters. A thief and a gambler, he had no business living in a house on Belgrave Square, attended to by servants. He had no business crying friends with a man like James Ellison. It was time to go back and take his place at Saybrooke, it was time he accepted who he was, who he'd always been. He would tell James, and not be weak. He would put an end to James' protests and do what was right for both of them. Starting back to his house, * his house,* as if such a thing were possible, his head was down. He never saw the men who took him down, his head hitting the pavement with enough force to knock him out.

Danyon shook his head. "Pure folly, after yesterday, but Blair of’en got caught by restless feet, ‘specially after one of ‘em dreams. Fact, after one of ‘em he never could abide the house, always took off."

He shoulda remembered that, shoulda warned Master Ellison that Blair was flighty after a night of dreams.

"Do you know where he’d go?" James needed a starting place. He’d already sent George after Rafe with a message to search for Blair. London was a huge city, filled with an unending supply of places to find trouble in.

Alice came from the kitchen, straightening her hat and tugging her cloak about her.

" ‘E’ might go to the booksellers. I’ll check Marsten’s."

"Aye, that’s where ‘e’d be. I’ll go ‘round to Hatchard’s in Picadilly." Danyon sighed in relief. At least Alice had kept ‘er wits about her and figured out where Blair could be. He felt paralyzed and unable to put two thoughts together.

"What other shops are likely?" The three emerged from the house. The day had started out full of sun, but as the afternoon wore on the bright light had dimmed. Rain hovered above, waiting for some unknown signal to begin its descension.

"There are the ones in ......." Once again Alice supplied the information. She had been trained since she was a small child to pay attention to men and what they wanted and needed. Her ability to predict and please had served her well in her life before.

"Then that’s where I’ll start." James patted the pocket that held the small pistol. He hoped he’d have no need to use it, but where Blair’s safety was concerned, he would do whatever was necessary.

Mrs. Duncan stood in the doorway, "I’ll check the streets around here and make some inquiries with Mrs. McMerty, she always has one eye on the street, she does."

Charing Cross Road teemed with all manner of people, sounds and smells. James’ focus was so narrow that none of it had impact. His height helped him to look for Blair, but he saw no one even vaguely resembling his small friend. His inquiries brought no satisfaction, until he chanced upon one of the smaller booksellers who remembered such a man as Blair. Encouraged, James searched every shop and stall. When the last store locked its door, James had to admit defeat and return home.

The rain that had started as a fine drizzle, had grown into a full-blown drenching. James prayed with each step that brought him closer to the house on Belgrave Square, that he would find Blair safe inside, fussed over by the women, cozy by the fire.

He was condemned to more disappointment. The group he encountered was as wet and as discouraged as he was, and trying desperately to think the next thing to do.

James could see they’d all come to the end of their endurance, it was late, and there was little hope of discovering Blair’s whereabouts in the dark.

"To bed with all of you, come morning we’ll resume the search."

James gave it his best air of command and was glad to see he still had it. The goodnights

were subdued and James shared their glum expression.

When the kitchen was empty, James snuffed the lamps, banked the fire and sat down at the long table where so much unlikely camaraderie had passed. Camaraderie and learning, skills shared, meals consumed, books read, torches passed. The wind rattled the windows and the sound of gravel being swept up and thrown against the house made even this haven seem vulnerable.

So far in his searching, James had been able to keep the madness contained. Perhaps it was the intensity of his focus, he couldn’t say. The old headache, the one that gripped his skull like two hands trying to squeeze his brains out, was creeping back on him.

He would rather be back in the barren mountains of India, unknowing of his fate, than to be in this warm kitchen unknowing of Blair’s.

Everything in him called for walking the streets all night. He knew that for folly; nothing could be found in the dark unless you knew where to look.

Sense dictated he sleep, but something else ruled this night. James put his coat on and left the house.

Oh God, it was dark, altogether dark without a crack of light or hint of air. Blair curled himself into a tighter ball and clamped his lips together. He wanted to yell questions, Where am I? Why am I here? Can I come out?

But knew as soon as he opened his mouth that it would be babble that would pour forth. And whimpering and then the begging.

No, better to hold on tight and wait. Wait until they decided to come and get him from this dark place. They would come. They would, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t just leave him here.

At that thought, the air seemed to thin and Blair gasped. He knew what was coming, the fight to get oxygen into his body, his heart beating at triple speed, his body, wet with sweat. Trying to contain all this before it was too late, Blair breathed the first deep breath, in through his nose, releasing slowly through his mouth.

Again.

It tamped his heart rate down by a bit. Keeping his eyes closed so as not to see the dark, he told himself if he opened his eyes there would be light. And birds singing and breezes fresh from the sea. It was only because his eyes were closed that the dark was wrapped so tightly around him.

Tentatively, he reached out with his hand along the wall. When he didn’t immediately feel another wall, he relaxed a fraction. Not an impossibly small space then. He could hear his breathing, a faint rasp, in and out, and nothing else. It was the nothing else that had haunted him through all the small, dark spaces.

Hugging himself tighter he started talking to himself. ‘Not alone, not alone…James is in my life now and Danyon and Alice…even Mrs. Duncan counts…they all count…not here, but they’re here…’ Blair hated what the darkness did to him, the way it sucked him back to being a motherless child. His intellect seemed poorly suited to doing battle with the dark. The dark knew all his weaknesses, all his faults, every fear, and used them with ruthless precision against each defense he tried to put in place.

But this defense, this chant, held some power, worked some magic, gave him some measure of peace. He was not alone. He was able to sleep.

**************

James trudged through the near deserted streets. It was getting close to dawn. The buildings were silhouetted in a pink hazy light as the fog began to drift off. James had found he had no trouble seeing London in the night. His eyes were able to pick out a thousand details, the footpads that lurked in corners, the children asleep in heaps to stay warm, the rats that scurried everywhere. Christ, at one point he thought he could see the fleas that rode on the rats. But in all the many things he saw during the endless night, what he didn’t see was any sight of Blair.

The house, Blair’s house, was only a few blocks away. James planned to get some food and maybe wash off the night grime that clung to him with an oily residue. Then, back out.

The kitchen was ablaze with light, heat and voices. Everyone was ready to get back out and search. Baines had a map and was assigning districts. When James walked in, all talk stopped as they looked to James with hope on their faces.

James shook his head and shoulders slumped. Baines gestured to the map. "Perhaps you’d like a look see. Tell us if there’s some better way to go about looking." His hand was shaking as he handed the map over.

James took the map as Mrs. Duncan put a cup of chocolate in his hand. Baines had done a thorough job of marking the likeliest areas to search and matching it with the right servant. James looked up from the map and really looked at the man who had served him for close to two years.

The previous butler had quit, declaring, "He didn’t work for loobys, even if they were gentry." Baines had never seemed in the least perturbed by James’ odd behavior or being relocated to another’s house. He was the soul of disinterest. Until now. The man was clearly distraught. Leave it to Blair to pull something from the stoic Baines.

His headache was worse, the pressure behind his eyes fierce and unrelenting, Still, it was up to him to think of something, to lead this band in a plan. He set the map down, smoothing the wrinkles out. Before he could begin, there was a knock at the door and

Alice hurried to open it. Rafe filled the frame, looking apologetic.

"Sorry to come by so early, sir, but I got news on Harry and Jeb and thought you might want it right away.

It was if the room brightened with this news. Alice hurried to set another plate for the handsome detective. Danyon scowled, "So whatcher find aht abaht them ‘olligans wot set upon Master Blair?"

"I tracked them down to a hovel near Newgate. They were half-bosky, so it wasn’t too hard to scare the name out of them. Hired by Charles Wettig." Rafe held his hand up as they all started to speak.

"Yes, I know who he is. For small time crime, he’s big, the hub you might say, of a lot the nastier bits of business that go on round here. I have one of my men in his circle. Henri runs for him and keeps me informed. Should be hearing something from H soon. I told him to hightail it here when he knew anything."

James slumped back in his chair. Finally they had a thread to tug on, a thread to begin to unravel the conspiracy against Blair. There was no more point in running the streets.

"That’s a marvelous piece of work, Rafe."

"At least we believe he’s been taken, so this news couldn’t have come at a better time. Stay. Eat. Perhaps you’ll be of some more use when we have the name." James tried to convey confidence to his misbegotten troop. Confidence he didn’t feel himself. All he felt right now was exhaustion, pain and fear.

Mrs. Duncan must have been aware of all that, because she took James by the arm, until he was facing the door and then gave him a little push.

"There now, go on up to room and have a nice lay down. Even a few minutes will do you good and we’ll fetch you as soon as we have word from this Henri." When he didn’t move right away she gave him a little shove that seemed to break his inertia.

"Right. A little lay down. All right. But you’ll call as soon as Henri shows up?"

"We’ll call." It was said in unison, from everyone but Rafe, who looked stunned at the volume.

When Blair woke, the darkness still held. He stood up, bumping his head hard against the low ceiling. Shuffling forward, he hit a wall, turned, took three steps and hit another wall. A small space, but he’d been in smaller and he held onto that thought to keep the panic at bay. The night had slowly leeched the warmth out his body and he sat back down in the corner. Pulling his knees up, he wrapped his arms around them and rocked a little, hoping to calm the shivering that was building. How long would he be made to stay here?

Why? Why do this? He tried to think how much time had passed. Hunger made him lightheaded even sitting down and his stomach ached with emptiness, but it was how very thirsty he was, and how much he needed to use the water closet that told him he’d been in this place twelve hours or more.

For a short while he was able to breathe and mediate, keeping the old demons at bay. But the nightmare had eroded much of his center and in the dark he couldn’t find what was left. He thought about James and hugged the thought of him tight to his chest. Thinking about James had always given him some measure of peace.

With his mother gone and making only sporadic appearances in his life, Blair had not only been a lonely little boy, but a boy without any sense of belonging. For all that Mrs. Duncan liked fussing over Blair when she could and Perkins treated him with a gentleness not usually shown boys in service, he was no one’s and no one was his. Until James. He breathed the word, playing it out like the fishing line James had taught him to use.

He spent some time remembering that day and James calling him a guppy. His guppy. Blair smiled, he’d been inordinately pleased by that, but had somehow managed the outraged reaction called for.

He let his hands slide along the wall. Finding some stones only loosely embedded, he started to pry them out. It gave him something to do as he waited in the dark and the cold for what came next.

It took Henri half a day to learn anything and to find his way to Belgrave Square. As soon as he knocked at the back entrance, Alice headed upstairs to wake Master Ellison. James came awake slowly, testimony to his deep exhaustion. As soon as he realized Henri had come with news, he was in motion. They had all waited to hear what Rafe’s man had to say, knowing James would not want to miss a bit of it.

James strode into the kitchen and Henri stepped back. The force of Ellison’s determination to find Blair filled the room and made the hair on Henri’s neck stand up. He knew he was in the presence of a dangerous predator and was damn glad they were both on the same side.

James wasted no time. "So what do you know about the people who took Blair?"

Henri swallowed. "It was a fellow by the name of Warbeck wot hired Wettig."

"Warbeck!"

"That'd be ‘im."

"Do you know the man, Master Ellison?" Rafe was taking out pounds to pay Henri.

"Warbeck is my father’s butler at Saybrooke and has always had something against Blair, but how he found him and why he’d want him…" James sat down and tried to think through the ramifications of what he’d learned.

Ever since he’d come home from the Himalayas and his madness had become obvious, his father had kept his distance, deeply embarrassed that one of his own should be so afflicted. Could his father have learned that he was living at Blair’s and objected? If he had, James couldn’t imagine that this is the way he’s deal with it. Strong-arm tactics just weren’t his forte, as well as the fact it would be James he’d want to see put away.

Could Warbeck be so obsessed with Blair that he would go to the trouble to track him down and take him? The only recourse was to go home and confront Warbeck and demand answers.

"Rafe, can you accompany me to Saybrooke?" He needed a good man at his back and while Danyon qualified, he needed someone who could blend in. That would be Rafe.

"Happy to." Rafe had never met O'Malley, still in some ways, he felt as if he had, having spent so many hours on his track. Blair’s ability to elude him had frustrated him to no end. He’d cursed the man in three languages after coming to one blind alley after another, yet had come to admire the intelligence that fueled his quarry.

"Danyon, see to the horses." Nodding, Danyon set off at a trot to the stables.

James turned to address the concerned faces looking to him. " We won’t be more than a night away, Saybrooke is just a few hours ride, and I don’t mean to take my time with Warbeck. If need be, I’ll send word. In the meantime, keep your ears close to the ground, you know the servants know everything first."

Curled up against the wall, Blair thought he could hear voices. One of the voices he recognized. Warbeck. The cold that had him shivering, now deepened. The nightmare was real and it had a name. It took a moment for Blair to refocus on the voices.

"The key here is the dark. That and it being a small space. Doesn’t hurt that it’s cold but hot works, too. He’s been in there close to twenty-four hours now, which ought to make him ripe for you." Warbeck seemed to tune into his pun and started to laugh. "Ripe, ha! That’ll describe the bastard."

Another voice, cultured, impatient. "He’ll do what I say?"

"You can count on it, Lord Ebury. And if he doesn’t, well, just have him whipped and put back. Never takes long after that."

"Bring him out, I want to see the love of Naomi O’Malley’s life."

The door opened, spilling pale light into Blair’s prison. Hands reached in, grabbing hold and pulling him out into a room that was obviously used as a wine cellar. The light came from several oil lamps attached along the walls. Before him stood a handsome man who looked to be near sixty. He was dressed impeccably and it was easy to see he was an aristocrat, born and breed. He looked down on Blair from his imposing height and reached into his pocket for his linen, bringing it to his nose.

"Told you he’d be ripe." Warbeck’s voice dripped contempt.

Blair tried to stand on his own feet, but the night and day inside the cramped, cold space

caused his muscles to spasm, making him depenDanyont on the arms holding him to keep

him up.

"So this is precious Blair. Dear, sweet Blair." Ebury stepped forward, and using his

handkerchief, tilted Blair’s head up.

"He looks like the Irish bastard he is. No wonder Naomi never allowed him to come for a visit. I would have known just how well she lied, had I set eyes on him."

Blair tried to pull his head away, but Ebury tightened his grip in his chin. "Wha-what does my mother have to do with this?" His voice barely registered above a whisper. His throat was raw with the need for water.

"Your mother is the whole point of this." Ebury’s painful hold on Blair’s chin eased up and he stepped back. He began to pace the small room.

"I loved your mother the moment I set eyes on her. Well, perhaps love isn’t quite the right word. I wanted her. Does that shock you? The idea that a man would look at your mother that way?"

Ebury laughed. "You’re blushing. You have no idea what a magnificent woman you have as a mother. She’s beautiful, passionate, sensual. Her time being ordinary just made her all that much more extraordinary. Every luxury delighted her, no matter how small. Every courtesy pleased her. She was, she is, intoxicating." The look in his eyes scared Blair. The were the eyes of a man obsessed.

Ebury came back to where Blair hung in Warbeck's tight grip.

"However, her attachment to you was a bit much. I knew if you were brought here her affection would be divided, and I wasn’t about to compete with a bloody child for her attentions. She threatened to leave my employ, fetch you, and start over."

Ebury voice was flat. He shook his head ruefully. "Well, at first, I’ll admit I didn’t think anything of it. I’ve had my share of mistresses and it doesn’t take long to tire of them. But when it seemed certain that Naomi was going to leave, I found I couldn’t bear to let her go."

Warbeck shifted his hold and Blair, who tried to stand up straighter, and face head on the angry lord.

"She stayed, but only because I put Warbeck in place, and told her what would happen to her darling should she ever leave the estate. And that worked. Until you showed up at my door. Once Naomi realized you were free of Warbeck she became determined once again to leave me."

Ebury took Blair’s face in his hand once more and turned him, first to the right and then to the left. "You look nothing like her; you have none of her beauty." Ebury seemed to be affronted by that and backhanded Blair.

"It pains me to do this." Another blow. Blair’s head snapped back and then dropped down.

"Don’t imagine marking you up pains me. It pains me that this is what it takes to keep Naomi at my side. Marking you is merely necessary. Naomi must come to realize what her continued denial of me will mean for you."

Blair lifted his head and tried to follow what the man was saying. It was difficult.. Ebury’s ring had cut his lip and added to the buzzing in his head, making it all the more arduous to decipher what the man in front of him was saying.

His mother, the man was talking about his mother. He loved her, and wanted to keep her and somehow Blair was part of the plan to keep her. He wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t make his mother do something she didn’t want to do. She had always been a free spirit. It had cost her, but it was who she was. Blair tried to struggle out of Warbeck’s hold, but a night and day without water or food, had taken its toll. Warbeck had no trouble keeping his grip on Blair.

"I won’t…" Blair whispered, unable to shout it in the lord’s face the way he wanted to.

"Oh, but you will…Warbeck has assured me that he knows exactly how to make you pliable."

Lord Ebury nodded at Warbeck, who pulled Blair up until he barely had his feet on the ground. Ebury pulled his fist back and sank his it into Blair’s stomach. Blair’s body tried to double up, but Warbeck held him and Ebury landed several more blows.

When Ebury was done, Warbeck released his hold and Blair fell to the dirt floor, his chest heaving as he tried to get air back into his lungs. He knelt there, on his hands and knees, and saw one impossibly shiny boot tip coming at him. It reached his chin and gently lifted Blair’s head.

"Look at me boy. I’m your master now and you’ll do exactly as I tell you, say exactly what I tell you to say. Do you understand?"

Blair had no intention of agreeing to any of it, but he couldn’t find his voice to argue the point. Ebury lifted his head up and down in a parody of affirmation.

"I want you to tell your mother that you’ve decided to work here and you want her to stay."

Blair started to shake his head no, but Ebury stopped him, grabbing his hair.

"Think carefully O’Malley. You say yes, and I’ll have you cleaned up, given food and water and a bed. You’ll get to see your mother on occasion and if you prove useful, I may even allow you some privileges. Say no, and I’ll have Warbeck throw your worthless carcass in that hole to rot."

Ebury removed his boot and Blair’s head dropped back down to the cold floor. Blair was torn by his fear of that space and his fear for his mother. He couldn't let himself be used against her.

"No one wants you, O'Malley, no one will look for you, no one has any use for you, except me. I want you. I have a use for you. You know how important that is, don't you? To be of some use? To have a place where you are wanted? Your place is here."

"No." The whisper galvanized Warbeck. He hauled Blair back up and threw him into the cellar. Blair hit the far wall and scrambled to get to the door, only to watch it close in his face. He screamed and pounded at the door, but it didn't so much as rattle and Blair finally stopped. Shivering, he brought his knees to his chest and hugged them, trying to contain his despair.

The darkness pressed in, assaulting him. It smelled of death and decay and bone deep loneliness. As the hours passed it seeped into him, taking away all the things that made him who he was. For in the dark there was both nothingness and infinity. And neither could be touched, or measured or held. The nothingness was bad enough, it was horrible to share space with it, to breathe it into his lungs. But worse, it had gravity. It pulled and pulled, seeking to suck him in, to bury him in the nothingness. Bury him and then the nothingness would set about breaking him down, reducing his flesh to ashes, just like the ashes he had scrubbed and swept all those years before. He would be ashes and the wind would come and blow him away, erase him.

Before it could erase all of him, Blair fought back. He found a ledge, overlooking the vast emptiness. With painstaking patience, he pulled himself up to it and rested on it. Here was light, instead of darkness; life, instead of decay. In this small space, he had friends and he was loved. Someone wanted him. James?

Pressing himself to the wall behind him, he fought to stay put. It would be so easy to fall. The ledge was narrow and it took all his concentration to keep his footing. Chanting, breathing, he held steady.

There was no telling how much time had passed. Hunger had settled in and made his stomach cramp, but it was the thirst that truly tortured him. He could hear himself sobbing and his voice pleading with them to let him out. It was a pathetic sound, harsh and ragged, words barely discernable. The begging sickened him, but he couldn't stop it. The air was hot and thick with dust. It was hard to it get past his swollen and dry throat. His lungs labored to draw enough in. Finally the begging stopped and there was only the whimpering left.

When Warbeck pulled him from the tight quarters the second time, it was a very different man he saw. Blair hung in his hands, all resistance gone.

"Will you tell your mother you want to stay and work here?" He asked.

Blair didn't raise his head, but tried to say yes. He couldn't get the words past his swollen throat and scabbed lips, so he nodded.

"Good. I'm sure you'll be very happy here." Warbeck handed him to the two men who had accompanied him.

"Get him washed up and do a thorough job of it, he reeks."

The men grinned at each other and said a civil, "Yes, sir."

***********

Blair lay in a cot in Warbeck’s closet. The man was taking no chances with him. As ordered, he’d had Blair fed and bathed and issued serviceable work clothes. The feeling of stranger’s hands undressing him had caused a panic and he couldn't stop himself from fighting them, until they had done the expedient thing. Tied to the beam in the wash house, his feet an inch above the floor, he was rendered harmless.

The pain to his bruised ribs nearly caused Blair to pass out, and he endured the rest of it without protest. It had been humiliating to hang there, helpless, as one of Warbeck’s men ran the sponge over his body, all the while making lewd comments. Seeing the pain Blair was in as he hung there, the man took his time. When at last Blair was cut down, he’d fallen to the floor, and lay there, shivering, while clothes were fetched.

Finally shown to the broken down cot that he was to sleep in, he'd crawled in gratefully, immediately falling asleep.

The next morning Ebury had found his plans sidetracked, as Blair had developed a fever during the night and was barely coherent.

"I don’t want him and his sickness in my room." Warbeck had a great fear of illness and wanted Blair put as far away from him as possible. That was difficult, as Ebury didn’t want Blair’s presence announced to Naomi until the boy could state convincingly that he had voluntarily made the decision to stay at the castle and work

Announcing he’d take care of it, Warbeck dragged Blair back to the cellar. This time, Blair was given blankets and light, but at the sound of the door clanging closed and a bolt being shoved in place, Blair had had to stifle a scream.

He looked up at the lamp, trying to see how much oil was left and how soon the room would be plunged into darkness. The shadows on the walls flickered and in Blair's fevered state, took on demonic dimensions. He feared the lamp running out more and so tried desperately to stay awake. Fending off the darkness by reciting sonnets, then switching to math problems, he couldn’t manage to hold sleep back. When he awoke, his nightmare had returned. It was dark.

***************

"What do you mean Warbeck's no longer employed here?" James stared down at his stepmother. The tiny woman wasn’t in the least intimidated by her husband’s son, she knew he was mad, and probably a simpleton by William’s account.

"I mean he no longer holds a position here, James. How many ways do you want me to convey the same simple information?"

"I understood you perfectly well the first time. What I’m asking is why did he leave and how long ago and where did he go?"

"I’m sure I have no idea where he went. He quit quite suddenly."

She studied him from head to toe. Icy blue eyes stared down at her. His face had the definite lines of command etched into it and he stood a good foot and a half taller than she. His jacket hung with causal elegance upon his graceful frame and his breeches clung to his long, muscled legs. The body was spectacular; too bad the mind was so spotty. She wondered once again from what part of the family James had sprung.

"….expect from you." She pulled herself back from her contemplation. Shaking her curls, she gave him one of her winsome smiles.

"I'm sorry, you were saying?" He didn't seem to appreciate the bestowment, his face set in a scowl.

"I said, madam, that I was going to question the staff and I hoped you would not interfere."

"La, if it amuses you, go right ahead, James." She placed her dainty hand in James larger one. James glanced down, the look on his face conveying his surprise and then as swiftly, his distaste.

"Then I will take my leave of you." James plucked the pink thing out of his palm and turned, moving quickly to the back of the house and the kitchen, leaving Geogianna feeling like the scullery maid.

In the pantry, James cornered Gilbert. The footman, was known as 'The Font' due to his uncanny ability to know every last scrap of information that passed through the house, the stables and the countryside in a two mile radius.

"What do you know about Warbeck and whose service has he entered?"

Gilbert looked at James. Known in the house as the looby one, he didn't take the question too seriously.

"Don't know nothing, sir."

James' eyes narrowed and he took a step closer. Gilbert belatedly remembered that no one had ever said he was a harmless looby. He quickly changed his stance.

"They say he went back to Saybrooke. They say he never really left Lord Ebury's service."

"What do you mean by that, never left his employ?"

"Well, I'm just telling you what I hear. That he had been in service to Lord Ebury, came here, but— not that I ever knew what they meant by this-- was still working for that other lord. And now he's done gone back there. Real sudden like."

"Wentworth is familiar, but I know nothing of this Ebury."

Rafe had been one step behind James all the way and now stepped forward. "Wentworth is where Naomi O'Malley works as governess. Of course O'Malley's not her real name and the Ebury heirs have all quite outgrown the need for a governess." Rafe managed the effect of a wink without the wink.

Gilbert nodded in agreement. "That be the word, she's his fancy piece all right."

Ellison took that in and turned it over in his mind. It couldn't possibly be coincidence, which left Ebury at the center, pulling the strings.

"Rafe, what do you know about Ebury?"

"Didn't look into him when I was hunting down O'Malley, but I'll put my ear to the ground and see what I can come up with."

"Wot you need to know?"

Both Rafe and Ellison turned in surprise to their reluctant informant.

James wasn't about to turn down the 'Font' if he had suddenly decided to contribute all he knew. "What kind of man is Ebury?"

Gilbert paused, clearly running through the relevance of what he knew.

"Besotted." Seemed to sum it up as far as Gilbert was concerned.

"Besotted? By what? Drink? Women? Gambling?"

"By the O'Malley woman. Word is he fell for her hard as soon as she came to look after the children. That be more'n ten years ago and he's still caught in her skirts." Gilbert's face showed his amazement. He thought a little more. "He likes his cattle, he does, known for spending a fortune on a stud."

"And?"

Gilbert made a show of scratching his chin and looking contemplative.

James motioned to Rafe, who understood and immediately drew out money, handing it to the footman.

"He belongs to one of them hells, the kind that likes their doings rough."

"Their doings?" There were all types of hells.

"Their naked doings." Gilbert winked, licking his lips.

James grimaced in distaste. Those "hells" were well known for their debauchery and craven inclinations. Everything he had learned about Ebury made his stomach twist with fear and loathing. There were only a few reasons a man like that would want Blair. James turned away from that thought, unwilling to let his imagination work.

Mrs. Duncan came through the kitchen and catching sight of James exclaimed, "Dear boy! You’re back! How are you feeling?" She moved with uncommon speed for a woman so large, patting James’ arm and urging him to sit.

"Why James, you look much better. How is that London air agrees with you?" As always, she left very little room for replies and James just smiled, knowing he’d never actually get a sentence out.

She surprised him, pausing and then stated, "You’ve found Blair." Beaming, she took his face in both hands. "You clever boy, I knew you would."

Nodding, James looked into the warm brown eyes that had watched him grow up. The hands on his face were more familiar to him than his father’s and certainly more comforting.

"Yes, I found him." James looked sharply at Gilbert, warning him with a scowl to say nothing.

"And? How is he, where is he, has he come home with you?" Mrs. Duncan barely waited a beat until she launched into another soliloquy.

"Wait until he hears the good news! That evil beast Warbeck is finally gone. There’s no reason Blair can’t come back; the new man is a lamb. Tell him, won’t you? Oh, it’ll be good to have the boyo back, reading the papers in the evening. Och, I must go tell the cook, we’ve all been so worried." Mrs. Duncan steamed back out of the kitchen in full gossip regalia.

James shook his head with fondness at Mrs. Duncan’ single-mindedness. He hated to disappoint her, but there was no way Blair would ever set foot in Saybrooke again as a servant.

"C’mon Rafe, I want to get to Wentworth as soon as possible. It’s only a few hours ride from here."

It was already mid-afternoon and Wentworth, a good four-hour ride from Saybrooke, but Rafe made no protest to the brutal pace.

Nothingness. No light leaked into the cellar, it was deep with darkness. Blair clutched the blanket, grateful for the warmth, ducking his head under it. He tried to pretend that the darkness merely came from being under the cover and if he stuck his head out there would be light. For a time that fiction held. Too soon, Blair realized he needed to relieve his bladder and would have to pull the blanket down and face the dark. Shakily, he got to his feet. With his hands in front of him, he shuffled forward until he connected to a wall. He followed it to the furthest corner where Warbeck had indicated he would leave a chamber pot.

The number of steps it took to get to it reassured Blair that he wasn't in some small space, but still in the cellar. Thirst was his next concern and he backtracked to where he thought he'd started. He moved towards the center, but his feet failed to connect to the blankets he'd left there. Blair shuffled around, at first randomly, until the panic started to swell uncomfortably. He forced himself to breathe again and begin his search in a more systematic way. No matter how he covered the room, he couldn't seem to find the place he'd started from, the place that had the blankets and the water. He'd lost his place, he'd lost everything, and no one would find him here in this darkness. No one would try. He paused in his panicked scramblings, leaning his head against the wall. The fever had yet to run its course, and the coughing fits hit him with a savagery that left him limp, his chest aching from the effort to clear his lungs. Putting his back to the cold wall, Blair sank to the floor. He'd rest and then start again.

Rafe and James pushed through the evening gloom. The rain had started just after they stopped to eat and rest the horses, making the last hour miserable. Neither man said anything, concentrating on making progress. The cold and the wet barely registered with James, all his concern focused on Blair. He refused to think Blair might already be dead. The intent in both assaults seemed to be acquisition, not assassination. The two men at the center of this web seemed capable of anything.

James had lived among men his whole life, lived among battle-hardened men and men who had no mercy. He knew what men could do, the kind of games that were played out as men vied for dominance and survival. He’d experienced most of it, seen all of it. Some of it had come close to killing him, but none had come close to breaking him.

James was, at heart, a warrior. Faced with an opponent bent on his destruction, he fought, feinted, dodged or retreated. He understood how to protect the center, how to take a beating that left scars, but no marks. Manning and his father had started that lesson at an early age. Instinctively he had seen their intent, their need to reduce him. Where they failed, the madness nearly succeeded. And it was Blair who somehow kept the madness at bay.

From the moment he actually saw Blair, he’d been drawn to him. At first it had been curiosity. Then surprisingly, respect and finally, alarmingly, James had felt things he had fought against his whole life. Affection, attachment…for the warrior in James knew the danger in those things, instinctively knew that those things left the center unprotected. James shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts as well as the rain that was dripping down his hat and under his collar. He didn’t like to examine the feelings he had for Blair too closely. He knew the word affection was a mere shadow of the feelings he had for Blair. But to give those feelings articulation was to acknowledge the power Blair held over him.

James had been successful at denying the power until the madness. If not for that, James would have skirted his feelings for Blair. He would have served his country, found a ladylove, settled into a life of gentility and children, hunts, and old age with grandchildren at his knees.

The madness had put an end to that possible future and replaced it with Blair. James had been surprised there was no bitterness with that knowledge. No great pangs of regret for what he could no longer have.

Blair was enough. Blair would do.

James accepted that, was even grateful for it, but did not want to name it. But as James contemplated what men did to one another…out of power, fear, boredom, need…he couldn’t fight, dodge, feint or even retreat.

And two men held Blair. Their purpose was unknown, but their capacity for pain and depravity had been established. For most of this time, James had refused to imagine what might be happening. He didn’t have the strength to look at the possibilities.

As they drew closer to Wentworth, James realized he needed to prepare himself for what he might find. Blair was not a warrior, couldn’t be counted on to know how to protect himself. The nightmare had already revealed how someone had tried to destroy him. They had not succeeded, but they had eroded the core. James vowed that if he found Blair alive James would make sure he survived whole.

Rafe interrupted his dark silence. "Almost there, just another mile and we’ll be in view."

If they were in view of Wentworth, then Wentworth would be in view of them. That would not do.

"Know of a back way in?"

"Aye. Grew up in these parts. We’ll have to walk the last half-mile."

Blair woke to a hand in his hair, pulling him upright. A moan escaped him before he was fully awake.

"O’Malley, only you could manage to get lost in two rooms. Cox, show O’Malley to his bed."

Blair opened his eyes. The lamps had been re-lit and Warbeck stood by the door, keeping his distance from the shivering heap of sickness. The man who had administered the washing to Blair, knelt beside him, his hand still painfully entwined in Blair’s hair.

Struggling to sit upright and move away from Cox, Blair used the wall to gain his feet. Although the room had light, grayness edged Blair’s sight and he knew once he left the support of the wall, he would fall. Cox put his hand under Blair’s elbow, and pulled him forward. Blair stumbled, but kept his feet, allowing the man to lead him to the mound of blankets. Cox removed his support and Blair crumpled, fighting to remain conscious. He tried to pull the blankets around him.

"Give him the water, he seems unable to accomplish even that small task."

Cox took the earthen jar and supported Blair’s shoulders, as Blair drank as fast as he could, afraid it would be taken away. Cox waited until Blair had enough, then lowered him back to the ground.

"If it were up to me, I’d let you fend for yourself, but Lord Ebury has need of you and that requires you regain your health. I’ll send someone down with soup, make sure you eat every drop."

Blair watched Warbeck and Cox leave, wincing at the sound of the door closing. There was no accompanying sound of a lock clicking into place. He would wait until Warbeck was truly gone and then he’d try the door. Perhaps he could find his mother and they would be able to leave. Blair waited, but before the footsteps had faded away, he was asleep.

Blair came awake to gentle hands on his face, urging him to consciousness. "’Ere, now, can’t be feeding you soup when yer fast asleep."

There was a girl, maybe twelve, sitting next to him, a bowl of soup in her lap. With a great deal of effort, Blair sat up. The soup smelled divine and he took it from Daisy with shaking hands. The warmth of the bowl helped to steady him and he finished it all too quickly, wishing there was more.

"I’m Daisy. You were a right hungry one. Want me to fetch you another?" Blair nodded and Daisy took the bowl. "Be back in a flash." Blair pushed the blankets off. He was hot and sweaty and the blankets itched. Crawling over to the wall, he put his back up against it, welcoming the coolness. Daisy was as good as her word, returning quickly with a second bowl.

Blair took a spoonful. The hot liquid soothed the rawness of his throat.

"Daisy?’ His voice sounded rusty and he wondered how long he’d been here.

"Yeah?" She waited, warily, for what he might ask.

Blair almost stopped himself; almost held back the question, but he had to ask. "Do you know Naomi O’Malley?"

She looked surprised at the question. "Course I know Miss Naomi. Do you?" The inflection in her voice indicated she found the idea of a man like him knowing Miss Naomi one of the most ludicrous things she’d ever heard, and Blair bit back the information that he was her son.

"Yes. Is she…all right?" Blair waited, his fear for what he might hear making him hold his breath.

"Is she all right? Of course she’s all right. She..." Daisy paused, seemingly trying to decide what to say. "She's a favorite here, and what she wants, she gets. My goodness, just last month she up and decided she was bored and she demanded Lord Ebury provide some amusement. He had the Billings' Players brought in and they played their show here, just for the Lord and his lady."

Blair blinked at that. Tried to understand what that meant.

"But she has no freedom, she’s his prisoner." The protest elicited a laugh from Daisy.

"Miss Naomi, a prisoner? Ah, pull the other one, why doncha. She goes to London for the Season and the little Season. She just came back from Bath. It’s true, she don’t ever stay away long ‘less the lord is with ‘er. They don’t like being apart."

Well, he was talking to a child, what kind of information could you get from a chit of twelve. He put the bowl down carefully.

"Thank you for all your kindness." Blair tried to swallow the tears that were threatening, knowing it was just exhaustion and pain.

Daisy collected the bowl and spoon and moved the jar of water and blankets next to Blair.

"You gonna be all right?" Daisy round face looked concerned and Blair nodded his reassurances.

"I’ll be fine."

"Well, okay then, I’ll be back later. They says I’m to bring you more food later."

Blair was relieved to know that someone would be coming back.

James and Rafe crept the final yards to the great castle. It was full night now and that, combined with the rain, meant there was little fear of being seen. Nevertheless, the training they’d each gotten did not allow them to be careless. Now that he was close to Blair, James found himself trying to hear Blair, the way he’d heard him in the park. The first thing he heard was the clang of the pots being washed and marked the location of the kitchen in his head. There was conversation, but no mention of Blair.

Moving past the guttural speech of the servants, James listened for the rounded vowels of the upper-crust. There was a trill, the kind of laugh only a woman of leisure could have, light…airy…musical and it made him think of Blair. Listening to him speak was so often like following notes rather than words.

"Oh pish posh, Edward, you can’t deny me a trip to Paris. It’s been an age since I was there last--" She was interrupted.

"Less than a year, Madame." It was a tenor voice and held amusement, exasperation and affection in equal parts.

"That’s an age, Edward. You know how fast fashion changes."

"But I want you to stay here for at least a week, love. I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise?" A delighted squeal that made James wince.

"Yes, love, but I need a week."

"Why? Why is it taking so long? Are you waiting for it to be brought here?" The pout was done with just the right child-like inflection mixed with impatience.

"I’m not telling you anything, except you will love it and you must wait a week."

"You’re not making this up are you? Just to keep me here?"

"No, my dear, this has been in the works for quite awhile and it’s only now coming together."

"Very well, darling. I will be a font of patience, for one week. Then I’m going whether this surprise is here or not."

"Thank you, love. Every week, every day, every hour, with you is treasured."

It was a shock that the bastard that had taken Blair was capable of such a pretty speech. It followed logic to assume that he was speaking to Blair’s mother, who seemed to find it all to her liking. If Ebury was speaking of Blair as the surprise, why would it take a week? Where was Blair?

He moved on, not expecting to learn anything more in that room, but marking the voices to memory. The housekeeper was discussing household details, "I've decided to send word to Lenox and see if they have any people we can hire. Blast Warbeck! We can barely keep the scullery maids, let alone anyone with skill. The man manages to run them all off eventually..." James moved on, searching, listening for the one voice that mattered... a young voice, one that should have been in bed was saying, "’Er now, you ‘avta at least drink somthin’." A grunt and then finally, the beloved voice, low, raw…"Th-thank you, Daisy."

More sounds of movement, the echoes telling James it was a small room, stone….

"I need to, uh….get up and…" Blair’s embarrassment was obvious.

"You need to take a piss? ‘Ere, I’ll ‘elp ya up. Just grab--" grunts and gasps and then the sound of Blair shuffling, each breath labored, rasping in and out of weakened lungs….

"James! James! Hell, James if you don’t--" Rafe was in his face as James became aware of the dark, moist night.

"Yeah, I’m back, I hear you."

"My God, what was that? What the hell is wrong with you?"

James ignored him. "How long was I like that?"

"About ten minutes."

Ten minutes…James immediately went back to search for Blair’s voice, afraid he wouldn’t find it. Nothing, there was nothing….and then he heard Daisy.

"Och, why they have him in that cold, damp cellar if they want him well, is beyond me. He’s sick as a dog and not gettin’ any better in that place."

"Warbeck was clear, lass, and you don’t cross Warbeck. That poor fella down there is proof of that. You get any of that soup into him?"

"No, didn't seem to have no interest in nothing, not hardly the water, even."

"Yes, well, given his suddenly changed circumstances, one can understand."

"He really gonna be one of us, Mrs. Clancy? He speaks like an upper and--" her voice dropped to a whisper, but James had no trouble hearing, "he asked about Miss Naomi."

"Did he now? Maybe the master caught him flirting with her and this is his punishment. Wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. Master Ebury will make sure Warbeck has him well in hand and then probably make the lad haul in the water for her bath."

James pulled himself away, knowing he’d learned all he was likely to. James turned to Rafe, who hovered next to him, a familiar look of concern mixed with impatience on his face.

"He’s in a cellar."

Rafe snorted. "And you know that by how? Divination?"

Now this posed a problem. James hadn't realized just when he’d made the transition from thinking he was mad to thinking madness or not, it worked. Now he’d blurted out what he knew to be true with no way to explain it.

"Well, it just makes sense, that’s all." Hedging weakly, James started moving, hoping that Rafe would lose interest in the question.

"I suppose it’s as good a starting place as any." Rafe grumbled and followed.

Getting in was difficult. Ebury ran his estate like a military operation, complete with patrols. James used his uncanny ability to stop and find them a hiding place, often in the darkest, most obscure corners, long before one of many servants wandered by. James thought the cellar would be one off the kitchen, but didn't give Rafe the reasoning behind that deduction and Rafe had worked for the aristocracy often enough not to bother asking.

At one point, they waited, nose-to-nose in a small alcove made by a stairway. James took the time to catalog Rafe's smell, acknowledging to himself the usefulness of each part of his fractured madness. If he and Rafe were separated, he'd have no trouble tracking him by his scent. Having had that thought, he sniffed, checking the air, seeing if there was a hint of Blair. He could not have named what Blair smelled like, but he knew he would recognize it without any doubt.

The castle was rife with the smell of unwashed bodies, vegetables rotting in the kitchen, dank air saturated with water, cloying perfume that was used to mask the obnoxious odors.

James started to gag and tried desperately to quash the heightened sense. It was utter folly to think he could make use of it and James castigated himself for his arrogance, as a footman rounded the corner into their hiding space. Rafe hit him, while James bent over; unable to control the gagging that had accelerated to retching.

They fought, the tight corner and James on his knees, making the combat awkward. The noise of the fight echoed along the walls. James pulled himself up and snaked an arm around the servant, and twisted, breaking his neck and ending the commotion.

"What's the matter with you?" Rafe hissed, irritation and concern in equal parts communicated.

"The smell…" James gasped out. His stomach, not full before, had emptied on the first volley and still, his body spasmed violently with the need to purge itself.

"Smell? What bloody smell? It smells exactly as it's always smelled." Rafe's assertion did nothing to calm James. Seeing that James showed no signs of getting over his peculiar reaction, Rafe grabbed James by the arm and supported him, quickly leading them back the way they had come.

Bursting out the side door, James collapsed on the ground, trying to get fresh air in his lungs and clear the stench from his nose. Rafe tugged and pulled and got James into the shadowed trees, where he lay, limp and defeated.

"It must have been something that you ate. Bad timing that, we almost got to him." James remained silent. Many minutes passed until finally he was able to get to his knees and then his feet.

"We go back in."

"Don't be insane, man. Did you see the patrols are set? He’s got his own private army here, loyal to him and prepared to defend this place from the likes of you and me. They'll have found the servant dead by now and alerted the household. We'll have to come back."

"No, I don't want Blair to spend another night here." James would go after him alone if necessary.

Rafe planted himself in front of the large, imposing body of his employer. "I can't let you do that. Think. If we get caught there'll be no hope for O'Malley. We must retreat and find another way in tomorrow."

James' brain heard the wisdom, but his body fought Rafe all the same. He looked down at the dark-haired man.

"Please, we have to get him out." It took effort to make it a plea and not a command, but James knew, after that fiasco, he could no longer expect Rafe to put aside his judgement and simply accept whatever decision he made.

Rafe's face reflected shock that James had used the word please. It was a powerful inducement, but Rafe stood firm. His job here was to get O'Malley out of there, but he was pretty sure alive was also part of the job and to go in now was to bring the odds down on that outcome. Something was going on, something was going on with Ellison, and until Rafe understood it a little better, he wasn't about to risk all three of their lives.

So he shook his head and took Ellison by the elbow and guided him back the way they had come. Ellison hesitated, but allowed himself to be steered and when they were far enough away from the castle to be safe, they stopped.

"Look, " Rafe ran his hand through his hair, wondering how one countermanded one's boss and still stayed on the job, "this is going to take some finesse. We've alerted them now and there's no telling how they'll react to intruders in the house. I say we get Alice to come and get herself employed. A place like this is always understaffed. We get her in, she finds out what 's going on and then we get O'Malley out, quick as a tick and no one hurt."

Ellison listened with his head down. Whatever had been bothering him, was bothering him still.

Rafe took a chance. "And," he stopped, sure that this was a bad idea, "you have to tell me what was going on back there."

At that, Ellison's head came up and the look in his eyes chilled Rafe to the core. He was sorry he'd asked and sure he was about to become even sorrier.

Ellison shifted on his feet and Rafe instinctively took hold of his elbow once again, to make sure he didn't suddenly bolt back to the hulking pile of stones that held his friend.

"I came back from India changed." Ellison said it flatly and then paused. Rafe jumped in.

"Everyone comes back from India changed."

A tight, grim smile flitted across James' face. "Yes, well, not quite in such tangible ways." Ellison shuddered. "Suddenly I could hear what should have been impossible to hear, see, what was much too far away to be seen. My skin hurt all the time, food was poison and smells…" his voice trailed off and Rafe got a glimmer of what had just gone on back there.

Ellison continued. "I thought it was madness, the doctors thought it madness. And then…something happened. I saw and heard something from much too far away and yet it was real. It was at the park, when Blair was attacked for the second time. I saw it from the third floor window. It was real. Do you understand?" Ellison stood, tilted aggressively forward, daring Rafe to draw conclusions.

Rafe nodded, he understood. He performed the sign of the cross. Because he had seen the truth of these words today, and while he wasn't as superstitious as some, he knew that this was unnatural, this was…what? He knew the devil gave his favors…stood to reason Ellison had performed some deed, or maybe sold his soul, or more likely, sold some poor sod down the river…and this was his reward. Except it wasn't much of a reward if it made you puke your guts out and think yourself insane.

At Rafe's sign of the cross, James had sighed and clenched his fists. He really didn't want to hurt Rafe, he needed him and besides, he'd come to like him. He was on guard, waiting to see what Rafe's reaction would be and whether Rafe would decide he was Satan himself. He didn't want to die because of this blasted curse. Once he had, but no longer. And he didn't want to die with Blair caught in Ebury's machinations. He would kill Rafe before he'd let the man's religious beliefs get in the way of freeing Blair and that was all there was to it.

He watched as Rafe thought it all through. His stomach ached with a dull fire and his skin was clammy. If Rafe made a move, James would have to go for his throat. He didn't have the stamina to fight fair and he would win this fight.

Rafe nodded again and said, "I understand. Double-edged sword, eh? And a damned nuisance when it's not an asset."

Rafe was going to treat this like it made sense then. James shoulders eased back down and he tottered a little as he settled back on his heels, relaxing his stance.

"You got that right." James was glad to let it drop.

"We don't have time to wait for Alice to come and get herself hired on. But I have an idea…"

Blair woke to the total blankness of his personal hell. His breathing started to come in quick, hard pants as he tried to pull himself back from the hysteria that was edging ever closer. He bit his lip to keep the scream in and flung his arms out, reassuring himself that he had space around him. Hiccuping the cry back, he took in a deep breath and held it, held it and then slowly released it.

His ability to contain the fear was eroding and the only thing that gave him the resolve was his knowledge that Warbeck was purposefully taking the light away. The lamps held more than enough oil to stay lit and yet Blair always awoke to pitchy darkness.

The fever hampered Blair's ability to keep his head clear. The darkness of his mind was almost as frightening as the darkness of the room. He held on to the little piece of himself that still had light. James. But the fever continually tried to wrest that small piece away. It beat him down with the confusion, the dreams, the vertigo that came out of nowhere, spinning him hard to the ground.

Soon, Daisy would come in. "Bloody hell," she would exclaim, and the rough words would sound ridiculously sweet in her clear, young voice, "what in blue blazes is wrong with that lamp?"

She would re-light it, her small stature belying her sturdy strength and ability. Then in her childish voice that still held a lisp, she would tell him to "eat, all of it, and now drink". She would bring the cup to his lips and hold it there until she was satisfied that he had taken in enough. Later, her thin shoulder would be under his hand, and she would guide him to the chamber pot. Finally, her little hands would tuck the covers around him in a mimicry of maternal fussing.

She would come, she would and Blair held on to that thought, held on to it tightly, as he waited in the infinite darkness.

Rafe looked over the man in front of him. The clothes were a bit snug, making it clear he was a man who had missed too many meals. The jacket was shabby and patched, the breeches loose and threadbare. The man's head was bowed, his hands twisting his cap all out of shape, as he awaited judgement. "Will I do?" He asked, his voice tentative and pleading.

Walking around him, Rafe pondered the question. The man was built for hard work, the muscles in his back and calves, speaking to a life of hard labor. He had spoken with a rough country accent, a little Yorkshire around the edges of his vowels. His shoulders hunched forward in the classic stance of the common man hoping for favor. He kept his eyes down, which was just as well. The sharp intelligence there would give it all away.

Rafe finished his survey, coming back to stand in front of the supplicant. The head lifted and the eyes that met his were dull, a little crossed, and lacking in wit.

"By God, James, this could work. You are the very picture of a serf."

"Glad you're pleased, gov'ner. Got a lot of little mouths to feed at home and would be real grateful for the position."

Rafe nodded enthusiastically. "Get on with you now. The sooner you get hired on, the sooner we can get done with this rescue."

"Aye, aye. I'll meet you in two days, hopefully, I'll have Blair. If I fail to make that meeting, wait three hours and then ride back to BelgraveSquare for help."

"Understood. Do this the old-fashioned way. you got that? You should have no trouble gathering information on O'Malley, the servants will be more than happy to tell you everything you need to know. Do—not—risk---it." Rafe looked Ellison in the eye and was happy to see a nod of acquiescence as Ellison adjusted the cap on his head and headed down the winding road.

'Alfie' straightened from the task of placing the logs he'd chopped in neat rows and eyed his woodpile. It was symmetrical to an extreme and twice as large as Pete's, who had labored all morning alongside James. He felt the strain of the repeated movement, but he was well used to physical labor, even if he'd been less active in the last year and a half. The problem was Pete. He'd only been working for Ebury for three days and so had no information to divulge. James hoped the evening meal would bring him into contact with some talkative soul.

Ebury studied the man who lay at his feet. Nudging the heap with his toe, he turned him over. Grimacing at the sight, he sighed. This had seemed like such a good idea when Warbeck had suggested it, but now it was all falling apart. The heap was probably dying and even if it lived, wouldn't be presentable to Naomi in four days time. O'Malley looked like a discarded scarecrow, his hair, wild and matted, his face, pale under the growth of beard. O'Malley opened his eyes and Ebury could see the sickness in the watery pale blue his eyes had become, looking nothing like the vibrant blue that he had first seen.

"Wha--?" The heap spoke and tried to sit up, but failed and subsided.

"If Naomi could see you now, what would she think of her darling boy, her brilliant, boy, her oh so intelligent, clever and adorable Blair. She wouldn't even recognize you, I wager."

"Sh-she would." Blair said through teeth clenched to ke