“It matters how you feel,” Torsten said, squeezing Felix’s hand before continuing their stroll. “As for me, I feel . . . apprehensive. And a little itchy,” he lamented, tugging at his collar. “I hope I’m not expected to wear this every day.”
“You certainly don’t have to be so formal now,” Felix said, stopping to undo the buttons at Torsten’s throat so the collar would no longer irritate his neck. The dark hair of his chest was just visible, and he resisted the urge to strip the shirt from him completely and lay with him within the shrubs. That would be less than comfortable, especially when they had Audrey’s bedchamber waiting. “When she pulled that scroll out for your signature,” he said, stepping back, “I didn’t know if you’d sign, but you barely hesitated.”
“Did that surprise you?” asked Torsten.
“A little,” Felix admitted. “Only because you’ve been cursing nobles since the moment I met you.”
Torsten threaded their fingers together and continued their walk, the sun illuminating their way. “For five years, I could do more for people outside the Quarter’s walls. But to be on the Royal Council, it’s something I never considered a possibility. There’s so much more I can accomplish from the inside.” He shook his head. “It feels like a dream.”
Felix glanced at the man beside him and couldn’t help but agree. Nothing about the past week with him had been ordinary. He’d been walking through a dream since being stolen from the carriage. But despite the strangeness, it all felt right. Despite the persistent uneasiness in his gut, he felt like he was precisely where he needed to be.
“I couldn’t have done any of this without you,” Torsten said, his tone casual as he led them around a paw-paw bush and began walking back towards the estate. “You put your life on the line for me with Gethrin. And then today—”
“My life was hardly on the line today,” Felix insisted.
“No, but I know it wasn’t easy.” Torsten stopped, taking Felix’s hands in his. He stared down at them, smoothing his thumbs over Felix’s skin. “Why didn’t you let me take you home? Why did you insist on returning with me to camp?”
Felix looked up at him, and his heart swelled with an undiscovered melody. “It felt wrong to leave you,” he answered. “I didn’t want to.”
Torsten’s head angled curiously. “And now?” He swallowed hard, and his fingers twitched against Felix’s hands. “You’ve helped me. Thoroughly. And more, you’ve learned the truth about your Guardians’ Guild.” When he continued, his eyes were guarded and his voice was low. “Will you be leaving? After the celebration?”
Felix felt his eyebrows furrow, an unusual occurrence, but he was just that surprised. “I’ve not even thought of it,” he replied honestly. The idea of leaving Torsten now that the dramatics had ended had not even crossed his mind. “Is that what you want?” An uncomfortable thought occurred to him, that he had overstayed his welcome. No one liked a flautist who didn’t know when to end a song. “Do you want me to leave?”
Torsten shook his head so fast and hard he might have hurt himself. “No,” he said adamantly. “I just want to know how much space I need to request, when the queen appoints me quarters in the palace.” At Felix’s blank expression, he pressed. “I want to know if you’ll help me fill that space.”
Felix paused, and then, “You want me to—”
“Live with me,” Torsten finished. “And not as my flautist.” At Felix’s shocked silence, he continued on. “I know we haven’t known one another very long, and I know you have a life outside of this, and me, and I don’t want you to feel pressured to say yes, but—”
“Yes!” Felix squealed.
Torsten’s eyes widened. “Yes?”
When Merric had requested he join him at the guild, Felix had agreed, but only because his other options had been bleak. What better had he to do than become a guardian’s companion, and live in a place where he had no real purpose other than to play his flute and be companionable? But Torsten’s invitation was different. He didn’t want Felix to merely exist in his world, he wanted to share his world and make Felix an integral part of it.
“Do you know,” Felix began, attempting to school the excited tremor in his voice, “how many quality inns and taverns there are in the Royal Quarter? There are so many places I want to perform!”
Torsten eyed him cautiously. “It’s the greatest place in Viridor to be a musician.”
“Then how could I possibly refuse?” Felix asked, smiling happily as he put his hands on Torsten’s hips. “Tell the queen, when she asks, that you’ll be needing plenty of space, as I’m used to having an entire barn loft to myself.” He closed his eyes and sought Torsten’s lips in a kiss. The unsettled sensations in his gut temporarily faded, replaced with warmth as Torsten joyfully kissed him back.
There were still things to worry about, still tragedies to be mourned, and deaths to be grieved. Malcolm would need to be sentenced and the guildmaster would need to be confronted. But for now, in a quiet, in-between moment, Felix was happy to be in a garden with Torsten, sharing a kiss in the sunshine.
21 - Erne Bluehawke’s Illumination
When the carriage arrived to take them to the tailor the next morning, Felix was still red in the face from an impromptu, post-breakfast rumpy-pumpy, which began when Felix reached for an errant sock, and ended with him bent over Audrey’s high bed, clutching the covers on either side of the tray that held the remnants of their tea and toast. They’d been first to leave the feast the previous evening, though they’d stayed plenty late, eating, dancing, and rejoicing with their bandit compatriots amidst much discussion of exactly what was to happen next. Torsten had claimed weariness when he’d begged their leave, but Felix saw no sign of it over the next few hours as Torsten reached for him repeatedly, their passions not sated until long after the moon had set. It had been a blissful, languid night and a wickedly joyful morning, with the unease troubling his gut yesterday all but forgotten.
The carriage driver gave him a knowing—and, honestly, judgmental—onceover when he spied Felix, who smiled at him happily in return as he finished the lacing-up of his shirt. He was both satisfied and guilt-free, and if their driver, or anyone else, had a problem with it, they could take it up with Councilman Torsten.
Said councilman took his hand and helped him into the carriage. He’d shaved again this morning, after his bath and prior to his ravishing, so he was smooth-cheeked and sharp-jawed, and his damp hair was combed back. He smelled of peppermint, but also of rosewater and flautist. Felix leaned into him, nosing into the crook of his neck and smiling against his skin. Today, all of the Royal Quarter would celebrate the queen’s new councilmember, but first, they had to visit the tailor for proper celebration attire. Felix imagined a lot of lace would be involved, and he was looking forward to Torsten trussed up in measuring tape and fabric swatches all morning. For now, Felix was back in the plain villager clothes, and Torsten wore his nobleman garments from the day before. He hadn’t been thrilled about putting the high collar back on, but it was either that or the tight black leather. Felix did his best to hide his disappointment at his choice.
The morning was lovely, almost suspiciously perfect, with a cloudless blue sky and the warmest temperature they’d experienced in months. Spring had arrived, and, as if to make it official, the gardeners had been at work since sunrise, tilling the soil and planting fresh shrubs, herbs, and flowers. Felix suspected the hand of an Earth would be part of helping these gardens flourish, whether it belonged to Queen Bellamy or one of the new students. Either way, Felix looked forward to seeing the floral spectacle that would result, and to receiving more kisses while strolling with Torsten amongst the blooms.
As they entered the city gates, the good spirits affecting him appeared to be widespread, with even the guards on watch happy to greet Torsten and be introduced to Felix. “My companion,” Torsten called him, his hand on Felix’s knee.
As their carriage moved into the crowded streets of the Quarter, F
elix turned to him. “I think I prefer flautist,” he said, pleased by the predictable rise of Torsten’s eyebrows in response.
“Instead of companion?” Torsten asked. “But why? You’re not my flautist anymore.”
“Of course I am,” Felix insisted. “Every important man needs a flautist, and I’m your flautist. And it sounds better than ‘companion’. That’s too stodgy for us.”
“Very well,” Torsten agreed, and then he smirked the smirk that made Felix bite his lip and wish he were bent back over the tea tray. “Having you as such makes me a very fortunate man, indeed. I’ve heard talk you’re the best flautist this side of the Heartlands.”
“Just this side?”
Their teasing banter continued until the carriage stopped on a side street in front of a small, nondescript shop. “This seems odd,” Torsten said, looking perplexed as he gazed out at the modest building, its simple sign bearing the image of an unspooling ball of yarn. There was no name affixed, and the shops on either side were shuttered. “Why would the royal tailor be here? When I lived in the palace, they had a large suite of workrooms in the servant’s quarters.”
Felix opened the carriage door and jumped to the cobbled street. “Considering a good deal of the palace was recently destroyed, I’m guessing this is a temporary set-up,” he said, shooting Torsten an amused glance. “Already too fancy to be seen in such a shop?” he teased. “It’s not good enough for King?”
Torsten exited the carriage with an amused snort. He waved off the driver and took Felix’s elbow. “Now that you mention it, I think it best no one refer to me as ‘King’ anymore. Some might see it as treasonous, and it will be less funny than ever if it gets someone thrown in a cell next to my father because of it. Remind me to warn the others.”
A bell rang upon their entrance, but there was no need; an older woman with snow-white hair and gold-rimmed spectacles was already in the front room, cradling several bolts of fabric in her arms. “Finally,” she sighed, setting aside the cloth as Felix closed the door behind them. “I’ve been waiting for you all morning.” She clapped her hands, and as two additional women emerged from the back, each appearing to be near her in age, she took Torsten’s arm, leading him to stand before a full-length looking glass. “You are the new councilman, I presume,” she said to his reflection as she was handed the measuring tape. “My name is Christine. Let’s get to work.”
Older they may have been, but there was nothing about Christine or her workers that lacked in energy or finesse. The women worked together smoothly and efficiently, measuring tapes winding around biceps and calves and down inseams and arms, pins pinning, marks marking, materials being cut by one and stitched by another. So deft were their fingers, it seemed to Felix that there was something magical about the three.
As Torsten was fitted and his clothing sewn, Felix’s eyes wandered the shop. Amid all the luxurious bolts of fancy fabrics, fine laces, and wicker baskets filled with beautiful notions, he saw a plethora of black leather surely meant to clothe Audrey and her students. And in the back room, on a dressmaker’s dummy, which he could just see through the partially open door, was what had to be a slave outfit. And it was so outrageously immodest—a series of narrow, body-circling straps attached to a glittery red codpiece—he blushed at the thought of these women having to see it, much less make it, before sending a silent thank you to the Gods that he’d not been asked to wear it.
But mostly, he kept his eyes on Torsten as his old garments were swiftly—almost preternaturally—replaced with new. Thankfully, he was not being outfitted in lacy high collars that itched his neck. Instead, there was a black vest with a rich, silver-grey fur trimming the neck, worn over a black shirt of only vaguely ornate cloth with a scant amount of billowing in the sleeves. There was no lace in sight. The trousers were black as well, made of a rich, soft looking fabric, certain not to squeak. These fit him with a pleasant snugness and paired well with the knee-high black leather boots produced from beneath the counter, which were piped with the same silver-grey fur as that on the vest. The final touch was a gold pin placed above his heart bearing the queen’s sigil, and in less than an hour, Torsten was done.
Felix admired him in the new clothes. Audrey must have had a word with Christine as to what Torsten was keen on wearing, and the women had excelled at making it happen. He still looked like his Torsten, only more elegant, elevated, and refined. And Torsten appeared pleased, too, smiling broadly as he turned from the looking glass for Felix’s appraisal.
“What do you think, Flautist?” he asked.
“Perfect,” Felix replied, stepping forward with the intention of whispering how much more perfect he would look once out of the new garments. But then Christine grabbed his arm.
“Now you,” she said, pulling Felix past Torsten to position him for measuring. “Mistress Audrey had no opinions about your clothes and said to let you decide. What do you want?”
“Me?” Felix asked, his thoughts thrown into confusion. He’d assumed he’d be dressed in whatever clothes the queen or Audrey wanted him to wear. He hadn’t imagined for a moment he’d be allowed to choose, and now that he was, he had no idea what he wanted. He’d always worn clothes either given to him or cast off by others. Among his earliest memories was that of the inn owner back home gifting him a bundle of garments left by a forgetful traveler, which of course, didn’t fit. He’d had to make do. And as an adult, he’d never had enough coin to spare to afford having anything new made. “I don’t know,” he said in answer to Christine’s unwavering gaze. And to his shame, he felt the threat of tears in his eyes.
“You spoke of fondness for wearing a hat, one with a feather,” Torsten prompted, meeting Felix’s eyes.
“Yes,” Felix said, letting out a long breath. “I often wore it when I performed. It had a wide brim in the back, a bit of point in the front, and a lovely feather here," he said, pointing to the area just above his right ear. “Not a large, tacky feather, like Captain Quinn wore. Just a simple one.”
“There’s a start,” Christine said, smiling up at him kindly. “Girls, get the block and bring the feathers. We’ll start by fashioning a bycocket sturdy enough to hold its own atop these curls and proceed from there.”
“Thank you,” Felix mouthed to Torsten’s reflection as the threat of tears evaporated and the women set to work.
In a short time, he had a new hat—a deep, indigo-blue velvet with a slender peacock feather—and within the hour, his clothes. A soft, white shirt with multi-colored flowers embroidered along the collar and cuffs, and a black velvet vest with indigo-blue flowers along the front edge. The trousers were also black, made much like Torsten’s, but his had a circle of lace around the waist, and he opted for black velvet slippers rather than boots.
All told, the outfit was nearly perfect. The fit was certainly perfect, and it was by far the nicest thing he’d ever worn. But what completed his outfit, the thing that made it absolutely perfect—and also made Christine tut unhappily and Torsten plant a kiss on his head—was the well-worn, peppermint and pine scented bandana Felix tied around his neck.
***
They were back in the carriage, their old clothes secured in a bundle, and on their way to meet Audrey at the queen’s temporary residence in the city, when Felix suddenly gripped Torsten’s arm. “I have to go to the library,” he declared anxiously, “now!”
Torsten’s first response, reasonably enough, was to laugh, but when he met Felix’s eyes, he realized he hadn’t meant it as a joke. “Now?” he asked, looking bewildered.
“Yes,” Felix replied, nodding almost violently. With everything else that had happened, he’d nearly forgotten the tale he’d been told by the stranger in the woods, but the memory struck him abruptly upon seeing a group of scribes, one with his arms filled with scrolls, passing along the street. “I have to go to the library, Torsten. Right now. It’s important.”
Torsten tapped to get the driver’s attention, and then ordered they be driven immediately
to the Royal Quarter Library. The carriage soon changed directions, the turn north replacing the sunny street they’d been traveling with one cast primarily in shadow.
“Alright,” Torsten said, sitting back with a gentle smile. “Are you going to tell me why we’re going to the library, or is it to be a surprise?”
“It may be nothing,” Felix said, his breath harried as he replayed the eerie encounter over in his head. “It’s just that I met a stranger in the woods the night I went to Gethrin,” he explained. “She appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the night—waylaid me, really—and she was odd. Very odd. I didn’t like her.”
“You met a stranger in the woods that night?” Torsten asked in alarm. “A woman? Did she hurt you?”
“No,” Felix assured, touching his hand. “She took me home for tea.”
Torsten not only looked unassured, he looked worried. “There was a woman in the woods, in the middle of the night, inviting strangers home for tea? Home where? There aren’t any proper dwellings within ten miles of where we camped.”
“Believe me, I found the entire episode just as disconcerting,” Felix replied, thinking back to her burned face, her burned hands, and the glow of her clever eyes in the torchlight. “She lived in a cave, a big cave. A lot of people lived there. It was all very weird, and if she hadn’t given me those petals, I might have thought the whole thing was a dream.” He sat back, noting the baffled look on Torsten’s face, and gave a heavy sigh. His stomach was beginning to feel strange again. “There hasn’t been time to tell you any of this before, and even now I’d soon save the details for another day. But the crux of it is this. That woman said a lot of weird things, but the weirdest was when I told her about the flute Queen Bellamy gifted me, and how it had worked like magic. She seemed to believe there was more to it than that, that I should seek out an old song kept in the Royal Library, that it would explain things. And I know I don’t have the flute anymore, but I still have a feeling, like finding out about it is important. A strong feeling,” he said, moving his hand to his stomach.
The King's Whisper Page 33
