A World So Small: Part Two

[wordslinging]

I.

II.

How long he lay insensible, Frank had no way of knowing. What brought him back to consciousness--or semi-consciousness, at least--was the sensation of being lifted by someone, one arm around his shoulders and another under his knees. The world spun alarmingly for a moment, and then he was pressed against something reassuringly solid, which he realized after another moment was someone's chest.

He tried to open his eyes, to see who it was, but at that moment the person holding him stood, causing everything to lurch dizzily once more. Frank let out a little moan and squeezed his eyes shut tight, reaching up to cling to his rescuer's neck even as he abandoned any attempt at seeing his face.

"Shh," said a voice, presumably that of the person holding him. "It's all right."

The voice was male and unfamiliar, higher than Michael's, or any of the servants Frank could remember speaking to, and oddly rough, as if from disuse.

Frank wanted to ask who he was, or try again to look at him, but the man was moving again, carrying Frank as he walked, and every step made Frank's head spin. It seemed much easier, on the whole, to turn his face into the man's chest (Frank could hear his heart beat, quick and strong, as though he were startled or afraid) and let the swimming darkness claim him once more.

When Frank woke again, he was in bed, blankets tucked around him and a cold compress laid across his brow. There were voices coming from somewhere close by, and Frank instinctively held himself still and kept his eyes closed, listening.

"--exactly the sort of thing I feared would happen." That was Schechter, speaking in a characteristically humorless tone. "If you recall, sir, I expressed my doubts about this from the beginning."

"You don't need to remind me of that, Brian," Michael replied softly.

"Very well, now that it has happened, what are we going to do about it?"

"You're going to go upstairs and make certain all the doors that should be locked are," Michael informed him. "And I'm going to talk to Frank when he wakes up. Why, did you have something else in mind?"

"Sir--" Schechter began in a lecturing tone, only to have Michael cut him off.

"What would you have me do, Brian? Put him in a coach back to London?"

"If you want my honest opinion, sir, that's exactly what I'd have you do," Schechter replied flatly.

"We've talked about this," Michael said. "He came to me for help, and I'm going to give it to him as long as I can feasibly do so."

"And what will it take for you to admit it's no longer feasible?" Schechter pressed. "What if his curiosity doesn't stop here?"

Still lying with his eyes closed, Frank wondered briefly at those words. What was Schechter so concerned that curiosity might uncover?

"I'll do what I must, as always." Michael's voice was so low Frank had to strain to hear it, and his tone had a note of finality that Frank had heard before. "And as always, if I require your counsel on the matter, I'll seek it out."

There was a brief pause, and then Schechter replied, stiffly, "Very good, sir."

Footsteps, then, and the sound of a door shutting, and, after a moment, Michael let out a sigh. More footsteps, and the sound of a chair creaking as he sat down, and Frank squinted one eye open to see Michael sitting in a chair near the bedside, turned away from Frank and gazing out of the window with an unreadable expression on his face.

Feeling suddenly guilty for pretending to be still asleep, Frank stirred now, shifting on the mattress and blinking his eyes open. Michael turned to look down at him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Foolish, mainly," Frank replied, pushing himself into a sitting position. "I, er--I went up to the fourth floor."

"I know," Michael said dourly. "And then you fainted."

"I walked into a spiderweb," Frank went on, chagrined. "It startled me, and then I started coughing, and then...I suppose I did faint, didn't I."

Michael shook his head, smiling very faintly. "I told you not to go up there. You're just lucky someone found you before the spiders dragged you off."

Frank was perfectly aware that something like spiders dragging him off into the dark and devouring his entire body was in all likelihood impossible, and thus did not go pale at the thought.

"Who was it who found me, by the way?" he asked instead.

"One of the servants," Michael replied. "Henry, I believe."

Frank couldn't remember for certain if there was a Henry or not, though he supposed there must be. "I thought you said the servants don't go up there often," he said, puzzled. “But someone must have, to find me-and there were footprints up there, as well.”

"They don't go up often," Michael agreed. "But you were up there past suppertime, and no one could find you anywhere else. As for the footprints, Schechter sent someone up a few days ago, to check for damage from the storm, remember?"

He was looking away again as he spoke, not meeting Frank's eyes, and if it were anyone else Frank might have wondered if they were being entirely honest. But the explanation made sense, and what reason could Michael have to not be honest with him?

Michael looked back at him after a moment, offering another small smile. "Anyway. Seeing as you missed supper, I think I'll go see if Betsy's willing to fix you something."

After he left, Frank let himself sink back against the pillows, brow furrowed. Now that he thought about it, he was certain there was a Henry among the servants. But he could have sworn--of course, his memory of being found up there was more than a little hazy--but he could have sworn that Henry had a much deeper voice than the one he had heard.

Whether or not Michael was upset with Frank for going upstairs, he didn't say anything further on the matter, at least not to Frank himself. He seemed to regard the fright Frank had received as both sufficient penalty for snooping about and a more powerful deterrent against further exploration than anything he could have said or done, and within a few days, it was very much as if the incident had never occurred.

As the days passed, Frank's stay at the manor settled into a routine that was comfortable, if not terribly exciting. He and Michael usually spent several hours of each day together; besides meals and tea, they took many walks on the grounds together when it was fair, and had also gone riding a few times. Growing up in the city as he had, Frank had never ridden much before; now, with constant access to horses and open country for the first time, he found the activity tiring, but enjoyable. If the weather precluded walking or riding, they found ways to amuse themselves inside the house, reading together or playing duets on the piano in the music room (they made interesting musical partners; Michael had been extensively tutored growing up but had less natural aptitude, whereas Frank had little formal training, but a talent for learning songs by ear). And when Michael was busy, sequestered in his study or seeing to various things about the house, Frank entertained himself, something he was well used to doing from all the times he had been too sick to go out.

There was an early cold snap in the last week of August, and Frank woke one morning with an aching head and a dry, scratchy throat. Being familiar with these warning signs, he dressed warmly, and spent the afternoon in the library rather than taking his usual walk in the garden. Preventative measures came too late, however, and by evening he was coughing and sniffling.

He was worse the next day, which he spent most of curled in a chair by the fireplace in his room, and on the third day he simply stayed in bed, alternately kicking the covers away went he felt too warm and huddling back into them when he felt chilled. Michael had his meals brought to him, but Frank managed to eat little besides a bit of porridge in the morning and some broth at suppertime.

Michael kept him company for several hours, reading aloud for a while. When Frank was seized with a particularly nasty coughing fit, Michael lowered the book to his lap, looking at his friend in concern.

"There's a good doctor in Thornton," he said. "If you're no better by tomorrow, I'll go and fetch him."

Frank was no better the next day-in fact, he was worse. Michael left for Thornton shortly after breakfast, insisting on going himself, and Frank stayed in bed again and slept a great deal, tossing and turning from fitful dreams.

He had no idea what time it was or how long Michael had been gone when he woke and groped for the water glass on his bedside table, only to find it empty. Frank tried to call out, hoping Schechter or one of the other servants might be close enough to hear, but only managed a weak croak and another short coughing fit.

He was groggy and nearly delirious, barely able his eyes keep his eyes open, but he pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed--or tried to, at least. His knees buckled the moment he stood up, and he pitched forward, flailing about for something to catch hold of.

He wasn't expecting the shoulder his hand landed on, or the arm that went around his waist, holding him up. Confused and a bit alarmed, he nonetheless clutched at the support gratefully.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," a voice said in his ear. Under the circumstances, it was difficult to be certain, but Frank thought he had heard that voice before.

"Who--?" he began, tilting his head up and trying to make his eyes open further. The room was dimly lit, and through the fringe of his lashes all Frank could make out was a blur of dark hair and pale skin.

Still holding Frank with one arm, the man put his other hand on his brow, pushing Frank's head down against his shoulder. Frank opened his mouth to protest, but his head was spinning, the hand on his brow was blessedly cool against his own feverish skin, and instead of protesting he closed his eyes and tried to breathe as deeply as he could without setting off another coughing fit.

The man moved after another moment, pushing Frank forward until his knees hit the bed, and Frank collapsed back onto the mattress with no resistance. He was dimly aware of the coverlet being drawn up to his shoulders, and then the hand was on his forehead again, smoothing sweat-damp hair away from his face.

"Michael will be back soon," the dry, scratchy voice said. "Just rest."

"Who are you?" Frank asked. His own voice was rough and weak, but at least he managed the complete sentence this time.

"Shh," was the only response, low and soothing. The hand was still against his hair, stroking gently. "Go back to sleep."

When Frank woke again, it was to find an elderly man he had never seen before bending over him; he blinked a few times, startled, before he noticed the stethoscope the man held and realized he must be the doctor from Thornton.

The doctor made Frank breathe deeply while he listened to his lungs, questioned him about how long fevers such as this had lasted in the past, and spoke with Michael about what had been done for Frank already. He left a tincture of laudenum to ease Frank’s cough and help him sleep, and instructions for Michael to keep Frank warm, see that he took some more broth when he felt able, and send word if the fever hadn’t broken in another day or so.

The laudenum helped, though it gave Frank strange dreams of hurrying through long, dark hallways and empty rooms, trying to glimpse the face of a man who was always ahead of him, back turned, just far enough away that Frank was unable to overtake him. But strange dreams were preferable to waking himself with wracking coughs over and over, and the fever must have broken some time that night, for he woke feeling much cooler and clearer-headed.

"Feeling better, I hope?" Michael asked, when he stopped by Frank's room to find him sitting up in bed with a tray on his lap.

"Yes, much," Frank replied. He still had little appetite, but had done well enough with the broth and toast Hannah had brought him. He finished the last of his meal and lifted the tray to set it aside, but it wobbled in his grip and might have crashed to the floor if Michael hadn't stepped forward quickly to take it. Frank let go with a contrite look and settled back against his pillows, mentally admonishing himself to not tax his strength while he was still recovering.

"Something strange happened while you were gone," he said as Michael was setting the tray down on a table by the window. "I would think it must have been a dream, only it seems too real for that."

Michael paused where he stood for a moment, then let go of the tray and turned, his face smooth and blank. "Oh? What sort of something?"

Frank watched his friend's expression carefully, considering his next words. Privately, he was quite certain the experience had not been a dream, certain that there had been someone in his room who had not been any of the servants he had seen or spoken to in his several weeks at the manor. But if he confronted Michael with that certainty, put him in the position of confirming or denying it outright...he wasn't sure what that would mean. It seemed better to be delicate.

"Well, as I said, it seems like a dream now--but I could have sworn that I woke up, and there was someone in my room. Not you or the doctor or any of the servants, I mean, someone else."

Someone who knew Michael less well, who was less experienced at trying to decipher his thoughts and emotions with minimal clues, might have missed the way his shoulders tightened. Frank did not.

"Are you quite sure it wasn't Brian?" Michael asked. "I asked him to look in on you while I was gone, see if you needed anything--"

Frank shook his head. "He spoke to me, and it wasn't Sch--wasn't Brian's voice. It didn't sound like any of the servants."

Michael raised one eyebrow slightly. Beyond that, his face was smooth and blank, revealing nothing. "It must have been a dream after all, then."

"I suppose," Frank replied. "It did seem very real, but if it wasn't one of the servants, there's no one else it could have been, is there?"

"No," Michael replied smoothly, his expression unchanging. "There isn't." He turned back to the table, lifting the tray again and stepping toward the door. "You should rest."

Frank did lie down again after Michael left, but rest was far from his mind. If this had been an isolated incident, he might have convinced himself that it had been a dream--he was no stranger to vivid fever dreams, after all--but it was far from isolated.

The man in his room, the footprints in the dust and being found and carried downstairs when he had swooned, the conversation he had overheard between Michael and Schechter after that, the strange noises on the night of the storm and the feeling of being watched...even thinking that he'd seen something in the attic window the night of his arrival. Any one of them might have been explained away, two or three of them together may have been coincidence, but together they pointed towards a conclusion that was inescapable even as it strained belief.

There was someone else in the house, someone whose presence had been concealed from him. And, short of confronting Michael directly, it seemed there was only one way for Frank to discover who, and why.

His course of action was resolved, but Frank found it necessary to wait several days before enacting his plan. His health continued to improve, but a midnight excursion into the attic, possibly facing danger (or at the very least, surprise), seemed unwise to attempt until the fever was well and truly behind him.

During this waiting period, he consulted his conscience, and found it largely untroubled by what he was planning to do. Certainly, it was snooping. Certainly, Michael had the right to be private and keep things to himself. But a stranger had been in his room while he was delirious and defenseless, and as far as Frank was concerned, he had a right to know who that person was.

A few days later, he felt well enough for what he meant to do. He went to bed at his usual hour that night, but lay awake, listening as the rest of the household settled down for the night. He could hear Michael moving about in his study down the hall, and he seemed to stay there a long while. When Frank finally heard his friend cross the hall and shut the door to his bedroom, he glanced at the clock on his mantle and saw that of course it hadn't been nearly so long as it seemed. But Frank hated to wait for anything, and right now, eager to be off on his late-night expedition, every minute seemed like an hour.

In spite of his impatience, Frank allowed a good amount of time for Michael to fall asleep before he rose. He donned his warmest dressing gown and slippers, and took the lamp from his bedside table, but did not light it yet.

His bedroom door opened with no creak, thankfully, and he crept out into the hallway as quietly as he could. Michael's bedroom door was shut securely, no light showing in the gap by the floor, and Frank stole across to the staircase quickly, avoiding a board he knew creaked when trodden on. He climbed the stairs in the dark, gripping the banister and feeling cautiously ahead with his feet, and only lit his lamp once he was on the fourth floor.

The door at the end of the hallway was shut, and Frank held his breath as he approached and grasped the handle--but it turned easily in his grip, unlocked. He stepped back into the room where he had walked into the spiderweb last time, holding his lamp up carefully to make sure he wouldn't repeat the experience now. The room looked much the same as it had last time, with the exception that the door at the other end was also closed now. It also proved unlocked, however, and Frank opened it to find himself confronted with a narrow wooden staircase.

The staircase was long, and Frank climbed until, looking over his shoulder, he could barely see the door at the bottom. Finally, he emerged into a wide room with a low ceiling. It was very dark--there were a few windows, but they were shuttered, admitting only a few scant moonbeams--but by holding his lamp high, Frank was able to make out at least some of the room's contents, and his heart began to beat faster as he looked at them.

There was a bed tucked against the wall beneath one of the windows, brass frame gleaming dully in the light of the lamp, covers a careless tangle. There was a desk, its surface barely visible under a mound of clutter, a threadbare antique loveseat, a chest of drawers and a few other pieces of furniture, scattered throughout the space at random. In one corner, there was a canvas set up on an easel, covered with a sheet, a table with paints and brushes laid out on it, and other canvases leaning against the wall. The rest of the room was in disarray, books and papers and articles of clothing strewn across the floor, but that corner was clean and neat, a wide, comfortable space for an artist to work in.

Frank walked forward to the desk, looking down at the mess that covered it. Among books left carelessly open and face-down and papers covered in an untidy scrawl, there were several drawings in a hand that seemed familiar. Frank picked one up; it was of a young man sitting in an arbor, a book held in one hand. The subject's face was hidden from view, but Frank remembered the odd feeling he'd had of being watched as he sat in the garden and felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Another drawing, partially covered by other papers, caught his eye, and as he drew it out to look at it, Frank's heart gave a sudden lurch--it was undoubtedly a study of his own sleeping face.

While he was still staring at the drawing, there was a noise behind him, and he whirled around. There was someone standing by a door at one end of the room, and Frank jumped, startled, but as soon as the light from Frank's lamp touched him, the man flinched back, one hand thrown up to shield his face. His other hand groped for the door he'd just come through, and it only took Frank a moment to realize that he was panicked, on the verge of flight.

"Wait," he said aloud, putting one hand in front of his lamp to make its light less harsh. "Wait, please. I didn't mean to startle you."

The man stayed as he was for a moment, pressed against the wall and breathing heavily, and then, slowly, he lowered the hand from his face and looked at Frank. His pale green eyes were huge, set in his round, white face, and his dark hair hung in stringy, untidy waves to his shoulders.

Frank recognized him. He hadn't been expecting to, hadn't thought to connect the one mystery to the other, but as he looked at the man standing across the room and realized where he'd seen that face before, the pieces fell into place.

I suppose he told you that Gerard just disappeared? Ran off in the night?...That’s one way to explain a man vanishing without a trace, but if you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, there are others.

"You--you're Gerard, aren't you?" Frank breathed. "Michael's brother."

The man stared at Frank as though he were a ghost, or some sort of animal that was likely to attack if provoked. "Yes," he said finally, in a rusty croak of a voice that Frank knew he had heard before.

"I'm Frank," he said after a moment, not sure what else to say.

Gerard nodded. "I know who you are."

They stood there, facing each other across a short distance. Frank's heart was pounding in his chest, but with adrenaline, not fear. It was difficult to be afraid of someone who was so plainly terrified of him.

"Michael told me you were gone," Frank said at length. "What are you doing up here?"

"I live up here," Gerard replied. "I have since our grandmother died." He paused, then added, in a lower voice, "Michael doesn't tell anyone I'm here."

"Why not?" Frank asked, brow furrowed.

"I don't like people," Gerard told him matter-of-factly. "I don't like talking to them, or the way they look at me. I like staying here, where I can read and paint and no one bothers me. But if they knew I was here, they'd ask all sorts of questions and want to know why, or try to come up here or make me come down. It's better if they don't know."

Frank bit his lip in consternation at those words--he had asked too many questions and been too curious, he had come snooping up here and invaded Gerard's sanctuary--and he asked, "Do...do you want me to go away? I won't trouble you again, if--"

"No," Gerard said quickly. He took a few steps forward, staring at Frank in a manner that was a bit disquieting. "No, it's all right. You're Michael's friend."

He said it as though it were the highest character reference Frank could produce, and Frank smiled for a moment, until he remembered the drawings he'd seen on the desk. "You've been watching me since I came here, haven't you? You carried me downstairs when I fainted, and you were in my room when I was sick."

"Yes," Gerard answered softly. "Michael told me I should leave you alone, but it was so different, having someone new in the house."

It had been, and still was, unsettling to think of being watched by someone unknown, even in the privacy of his bedroom, even as he slept. Gerard himself was unsettling, skin too pale, eyes too large and intent and unblinking, still looking as though he wasn't quite sure what manner of creature Frank was. And yet for all that, there was a kind of awkward sweetness to him that impressed Frank immediately. It was in his tone when he mentioned Michael, as if his younger brother had hung the moon and stars. It was in the way he spoke so frankly and candidly in spite of his strange appearance. It was in the way that, for someone who the gossips of Thornton had described as a potentially dangerous madman, he seemed timid and unprepossessing, unlikely to strike out except perhaps in self-defense.

"Well," Frank said at last, "if you don't mind my coming up here to find you, I don't mind you watching me. There was no harm done in either case, was there?"

He offered another smile, and this time, Gerard answered with a smile of his own. The expression transformed his face, making it almost cherubic--that is, if one could imagine a cherub with unhealthy pallor and slouched shoulders and hair that looked as though it hadn't been washed in at least a week.

"And in any case," Frank went on, "now that I know you're here, there's no need for all the secrecy any longer. I suppose Michael will be relieved at that, even if he's cross with me for--"

The smile dropped from Gerard's face in an instant, and in another he was right beside Frank, reaching out to grasp his arm urgently.

"You can't tell him," he said, low and fierce. He was so close Frank could feel Gerard's breath on his face, and his hold on Frank's arm was so tight it was painful. "Michael didn't want you to know about me--he'd be angry--he might forbid me to see you, or even send you away. You can't--"

"All right," Frank broke in gently. Slowly, and a bit cautiously, he laid one hand over Gerard's, trying to loosen his grip. "It's all right, I won't tell him."

He would have said it regardless, to calm Gerard, but he too felt a surge of panic at the thought of being sent away. The conversation he'd overheard echoed through his mind--Schechter would have seen him sent away already, and perhaps this would be what it took to make Michael agree with him.

In some ways, it might have been a relief--the idea of leaving this gloomy house full of shadows and secrets, turning his back on everything that had caused him to doubt Michael's honesty or engage in dishonesty himself. But as strange as the manor was, and as strange as Frank's stay there had been, he had grown attached to it. And the thought of never seeing Gerard again when they had just met properly, when Frank wanted to know so much more about him...

"Do you promise?" Gerard asked almost suspiciously, eyes locked on Frank's.

"I promise," Frank said, meeting Gerard's eyes and committing himself without any further hesitation. As he did, Gerard's fingers loosened. All the sudden fierceness seemed to slip away as quickly as it had appeared, and he seemed to recall himself rather suddenly, taking a step back and putting his hands behind his back.

"If I startled you just now, I apologize," he said, eyes downcast. "Sometimes I forget myself."

"It's all right," Frank said again. He had been startled, but there was no harm done, and Gerard's apology seemed sincere.

Gerard darted a look at Frank through the lank hair that fell across his eyes, but said nothing, and once again they were facing one another in heavy silence.

"I should go," Frank said at last. "If Michael isn't to know about this, then I'll have to be careful."

"Yes," Gerard agreed, still looking down. "Yes, of course."

"...But if I am careful, may I come up here and speak to you again?" Frank finished, and Gerard looked up quickly, first with a look of faint surprise, and then another sweet smile.

"If you wish," he said. "I--I'd like that, I think."

"Then it's settled," Frank said, and held out a hand, which Gerard took. He was far more gentle than when he had grabbed Frank's arm earlier, seeming almost afraid to touch him now. They shook hands, and then it was Frank's turn to move back, heading for the stairs.

"I'll see you soon, then," he said before he started down, glancing over his shoulder. "Goodnight, Gerard."

Gerard nodded, traces of a smile still lingering on his face. "Goodnight, Frank."

Frank slept later than usual the next day, and was quiet and subdued when he finally emerged from his room, but no one questioned his behavior. Michael merely asked if he felt well, seeming concerned that Frank's health might have relapsed. Frank reassured him with an easy smile and then lapsed back into silence, bent over a book but paying little attention to the words on the page, darting occasional furtive glances at his friend.

Pretending he hadn't found out about Gerard, engaging in outright deceit, troubled Frank more than sneaking up to the attic had. It seemed as though the knowledge that Michael had been deceiving him for months ought to make him feel less guilty, but that, too, was troubling. Had Michael thought that Frank wouldn't understand Gerard's reclusive nature, or feared he might reveal Gerard's presence to others? Did he really trust Frank so little? Frank wished that he could simply bring everything out into the open--confess his own actions and question Michael about his--but the potential threat of being sent away still weighed heavily on his mind, and he held his tongue.

"Oh, I meant to tell you," Michael said after a few minutes, jolting Frank out of his guilty thoughts. "I have to go to London on business at the end of the month, and I thought if you liked, we could make a trip of it and stay a day or two."

"That would be nice." Still distracted, Frank gave the response automatically, but it would be nice, he decided after a moment, to be back where everything was familiar and comfortable for a while.

Michael nodded, eyes already turned back to the book he'd been reading. "Very well. I'll make the arrangements."

Frank took a nap in the afternoon, having gotten little sleep the night before and not expecting to get much more that night, and awoke feeling a little more resolved, a little more prepared to smile and pretend that nothing was wrong. He and Michael had a very pleasant dinner together, and retired to the music room for a while afterward. Seated at the piano, Frank found himself wondering if Gerard could hear them, if the music would carry as far as the attic or if he might be down on the third floor, listening.

After retiring, Frank waited as he had the night before. All was quiet in the house when he finally opened his door, but he immediately saw that there was a light still on in Michael's room. Frank froze for a moment, then drew back. He pushed his door closed until it was just slightly ajar, and waited, trying not to make a sound.

Minutes passed by with agonizing slowness, and the light still shone through the edges of the door frame. Frank leaned against the wall when his legs grew stiff from standing still, looking anxiously between Michael's door and the staircase.

The light went out at last, and Frank waited a few minutes longer before stealing across to the staircase. He had his lamp in one hand, but, as before, kept it unlit for the moment. He was rounding the third floor landing, preparing to light his lamp, when he crashed headlong into Gerard.

Frank stumbled backwards, toward the stairs, and Gerard grabbed his shoulders to steady him. At almost the same moment, Gerard opened his mouth, as if to let out a surprised exclamation, and Frank reached up to cover his mouth with one hand, and they stood like that, pressed against each other. Frank was still holding the lamp, his hand wedged uncomfortably between his and Gerard's chests, and he could feel Gerard's heart pounding against the back of his arm.

After a moment, Frank took his hand away from Gerard's mouth, and Gerard released Frank a bit more slowly.

"I was afraid you might not be coming," Gerard said in a low voice. "I came down to see if anything was wrong."

"Michael's light was still on," Frank replied. "I had to wait for him to go to sleep."

Gerard nodded. "He's asleep now. I checked."

"--Checked?" Frank echoed in puzzlement as he lit the lamp. "How?"

For a moment, Gerard looked uncertain. Then he beckoned. "I'll show you."

Frank followed him down the hall to a closed door, waiting while Gerard produced a key from his pocket and then led him through. The room they entered was empty but for a small Persian run on the floor, once-bold colors faded with age and dust.

Gerard knelt on the floor and beckoned Frank to do the same, flipping back the rug to reveal a dust-free rectangle on the floor. Within the space was a spot that looked like a knothole in the floorboards, but when Frank looked closer, he saw that the original hole had been widened with some sharp instrument.

He glanced at Gerard, who nodded, telling him, "Look."

Frank bent forward until his face was almost against the floor, peering through the small hole. He could just barely make out a few shapes in the room below--a desk, a dresser, a bed--but it was enough for him to realize what room they were above.

"Is that--Michael's bedroom?" he asked.

"Yes," Gerard replied. "I have a few places like this in the house."

It explained how he was able to watch what went on inside the house without leaving the upper stories, Frank thought. A moment later, he straightened up, looking uncertainly at Gerard. "Where else do you have them?"

"Above the library, the parlor, the kitchen, and Michael's study," Gerard said. "No other bedrooms besides his."

Frank relaxed at hearing that. The idea of Gerard watching him in his bedroom gave him a feeling in his gut that was strange, but not entirely unpleasant, and it was easier to push the thought aside than consider what it meant.

Gerard rolled the rug back into place and stood. "Come on. Let's go upstairs."

Instead of going up the main stair, Gerard led Frank through a door at the end of the hall, which he opened with the same key, to a cramped, narrow staircase. Frank was able to see the way with his lamp, but if Gerard had come down this way, he must have been in total darkness. But then, having spent his entire life in the house, Frank supposed he might not need a light to find his way around.

There were lights in Gerard's bedroom, when they reached it, but they were candles placed randomly around the room with no holders, which unsettled Frank more than the darkness of the staircase had.

"It's been a long time since anyone else came up here, except for Michael," Gerard told him, sounding shy.

"Don't you get tired of being up here all by yourself?" Frank asked.

"It's not that bad," Gerard said. "Michael visits often, so I'm not alone so very much."

"Yes, I suppose this is where he disappears to so often," Frank mused, then added, brow furrowed, "I've never noticed him going up farther than the second floor, though."

"He doesn't use the main stair," Gerard explained. "There's one in his study, behind the bookcase, and he usually just comes up that way."

"Michael has a hidden staircase in his study?" Frank asked, and then shook his head with a faint smile. "Of course he does, this is exactly the sort of house where one finds hidden stairs behind bookcases. But--don't you ever wish for more company than just him?"

Gerard shrugged lightly. "He has visitors so rarely that for the most part it's just him and the servants, and I've always liked watching them better than talking to them. And I don't mind the lack of other company much--I have my paintings, and my books."

"Books," Frank echoed, as a thought occurred to him. "You said you have a spot where you watch the library? And Michael's study?"

"Yes," Gerard replied.

"It was you who left those books out for me to find, wasn't it?" Frank went on. That was why Michael had seemed surprised when he found Frank with them.

Gerard nodded, with a slight smile. "Yes. Did you like them?"

"Very much," Frank said. "But I shouldn't like to keep them too long, if you'd like any of them back. I've finished The Monk and Udolpho."

"What are you reading right now?" Gerard asked.

"The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne," Frank said, and Gerard's smile grew.

"That's one of my favorites," he said. "How far along are you?"

"Osbert's still imprisoned at Dunbayne," Frank told him. "And Malcolm demanded Mary's hand as his ransom."

"Oh, that part's horrible," Gerard said in a delighted tone. "So Osbert hasn't learned who the ladies in the castle are yet, has he?"

Frank shook his head. "No. But I have an idea who they might be."

He looked over at Gerard, hoping he might give some hint, but Gerard only smiled. "Keep reading."

Frank smiled. "All right, I will. But I'll bring you back the ones I've finished."

As he glanced around the room, his eyes landing on the easel and the canvases stacked in the corner, and he remembered something else.

"There was a drawing tucked inside in one of the books," he said. "Did you leave it there for me to find?"

Gerard nodded. "Michael brought it back to me after you showed it to him," he said, adding, shyly, "You can have it back if you like. I drew it for you."

"Really?" Frank felt a bit flustered, though pleased; he hadn't thought that Gerard might have drawn something specifically for him, rather than simply choosing an existing picture to give him. "I've never had an artist draw something for me before."

Gerard gave a nervous laugh, color tinging his pale cheeks. "Oh, it's not as though I'm a real artist."

"Why not?" Frank asked. "You paint, don't you?"

"Well, yes, but I've never really shown my paintings to anyone, or anything like that. It's just...what I like to do."

Frank hesitated, then asked, "...Would you show them to me? You needn't if you don't want to, of course, but I've been curious about them since Michael told me you painted."

Gerard looked at Frank uncertainly, biting his lip, and said nothing for a long moment. Frank was certain that when he did speak, it would be a refusal, but then Gerard simply nodded and moved toward the corner where the easel stood, beckoning for Frank to follow. Instead of showing Frank any of the canvases stacked against the wall there, he opened a small door Frank hadn't noticed before, so low that they both had to stoop to go through it.

The room they entered was small, and seemed even more cramped and tiny because of how full it was. There were canvases stacked on every side, piled nearly to the ceiling in some places. Frank couldn't help but gape, while Gerard started sifting through some of the smaller piles, muttering to himself as he pulled some canvases out and left others where they were.

"Would you like any help?" Frank asked after a moment, watching Gerard try to lift too many canvases at one time and nearly lose his grip on them.

"No," Gerard answered quickly, and a little sharply. A moment later, he cast an apologetic glance over his shoulder, and said in a gentler tone, "I don't like for anyone else to touch them, you understand. I can manage."

Frank couldn't see what damage he might do to any of the paintings that wasn't just as likely to be done by Gerard trying to handle them all on his own, but he merely nodded, and placed his hands behind his back, as if to show that he wasn't going to try and touch anything while Gerard wasn't looking. Eventually, Gerard managed to select four canvases and line them up against the stacks, keeping them turned around so that Frank couldn't see them.

"All right," he said, and beckoned to Frank, who moved forward to stand beside Gerard as he turned the canvases around, one by one.

There was a landscape, seemingly the same view as the drawing he had given Frank, a closer study of a group of trees that Frank thought might be one of the orchards on the grounds, and two portraits. Frank instantly recognized Michael in one, his face in profile as he sat looking out a window, and thought the elderly woman in the other might be Helena, based on the other pictures he had seen of her.

The paintings were all impressive--even knowing as little as he did about art, Frank could tell that both talent and dedication had gone into their creation--but there was an oddness to them as well, the angles slightly askew, the play of light and shadow strange in a way Frank had difficulty finding words for. They looked, he decided after a moment, a bit like something out of a fever dream; so vivid they seemed almost alive, but with a subtle sense of wrongness that gave the lie to their illusion of reality.

They may not have appealed to all tastes, may not have brought Gerard any success or acclaim as a painter if he had sought it. But Frank had a fondness for strange things, and the paintings intrigued him, made him think that if he studied them long enough, he could understand how Gerard saw the world.

Absorbed as he was in looking at the paintings, it took Frank a few moments to realize that Gerard was looking at him just as intently, watching him with an air of nervous expectation.

"Gerard, these are wonderful," Frank said, and Gerard flushed again, smiling.

"Do you like them?" he asked. "Truly?"

"Truly," Frank told him sincerely. "Thank you for showing them to me."

As Gerard replaced the paintings, Frank looked around at all the other canvases stacked about the room. Years and years of work, paintings perhaps even better than the four Gerard had shown him, crowded into a tiny attic room where no one could see them. It was no one's concern but Gerard's what he did with his own works, of course, but Frank couldn't help thinking that it was a shame for them to be hidden so.

Over the course of the next month, Frank visited Gerard in the attic on an almost nightly basis, and their friendship deepened quickly. Unused to any company besides Michael, Gerard latched onto Frank eagerly, and entirely aside from his fascination with Gerard, Frank continued to be touched by his earnestness and friendliness. And as he grew more used to sneaking back and forth through the house at night, he grew more comfortable continuing the deception that had originally troubled him. It even added excitement to the time he spent with Gerard, giving it the feeling of an illicit pleasure.

Most of their time together was spent in conversation. Gerard seemed to find the idea of life in a city like London both exciting and somewhat frightening--so many people packed so close together--and he pressed Frank for information about it, asking if he'd seen this play or been to that historic building Gerard had read about. In exchange, he talked about his and Michael's youth, though there were things that Gerard was as reluctant to discuss as his brother, his parents' and grandmother's death chief among them.

Gerard was an interesting study in contrasts, Frank was learning. He had a thoughtful nature, and his conversation hinted at an intelligence that was considerable. And yet it seemed that he had never applied himself to anything other than his extensive reading and painting. As the older brother, he was the rightful heir to his father's title (Frank knew now why Michael had always been so reluctant to name himself as Lord Way), but he had gladly left the running of the household to his grandmother, before her death, and to Michael afterward. Avoiding the responsibilities of adulthood, he seemed to interact with the world on a level that was more like that of a boy than a man; what was pleasant was to be sought after and indulged in, and what was unpleasant or painful was to be put aside, hidden from, or simply ignored.

One thing Frank learned quickly was that Gerard had little concern for normal social boundaries, and the way he behaved around Frank seemed to have little to do with anything besides his own whims. At times, he would withdraw into himself, keeping his distance, while at others he had no compunctions about standing very close to Frank, touching his shoulder to get his attention or grabbing his hand for emphasis in a conversation.

One night found them particularly close together, side by side on Gerard's threadbare loveseat. Rather than wait until he had finished The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne to return it to Gerard, Frank had brought the book to the attic with him and proposed that they read together. Gerard had read the novel many times before, but was fond enough of it to do so again gladly, and Frank found it very pleasant to listen to him read aloud, his dry, scratchy voice capturing all the passion and drama of the story.

They were nearing the end of the novel by now; the villainous Baron had been defeated, his crimes punished and his prisoners freed. But no resolution had yet been reached for Mary and Alleyn, the Earl's beautiful sister and the heroic young man who had won her heart in spite of his low birth. Each had acknowledged their own feelings and discovered proof of the other's, and yet the fact that Alleyn was a commoner was still viewed as an insurmountable obstacle to their love.

"It's so frustrating," Frank broke in when Gerard finished a chapter. "I don't see why they're still letting it hold them back."

Gerard glanced at him. "You don't think their difference in station should matter?"

Frank shrugged. "I can see how it would give them pause, at first. But if they truly love one another, and they know that, then they should act on their feelings, no matter what's in the way."

"I think you're right," Gerard replied softly.

Their eyes met, and Frank only realized then how close they had gotten, leaning over the book as they sat next to one another. He shifted awkwardly, putting a bit more distance between them and dropping his eyes back to the page. "Well. I'm sorry for interrupting; would you like to read a little more?"

"We're at a fairly good place to stop for the night, actually," Gerard told him. "If I read much more I doubt you'll want to stop before the end, trust me. And it's getting late."

"It is," Frank agreed. Absorbed in the story, he hadn't realized how tired he was getting. "Shall we read the rest tomorrow night, then?"

Gerard nodded and set the book aside, and Frank stood, pacing away from the loveseat a little. The main room of the attic was spacious enough, but the ceiling was low and the floor was cluttered with objects, and it suddenly seemed crowded and stifling.

"Don't you ever want to go outside?" he asked suddenly. "I know you don't like being around people, but it seems like you could go out at night without anyone noticing, if you wanted."

"I suppose," Gerard said, a bit dubiously. "But...I don't know, I've never felt much of an urge to."

"I just can't imagine spending all my time indoors," Frank said. "Especially out in the country like this--I feel as though I could go run about on the moors all day, if I had the energy."

Gerard smiled, rising from the loveseat and walking over towards his bed and the wide casement window above it. "You're more adventurous than I. All I need is to see the moors, and I can do that just as well from here."

He clambered up onto the bed like a boy, kneeling on the mattress and reaching up to fling back the shutters, then turned and held out a hand to Frank, beckoning.

"There's a full moon tonight," he said, his smile widening. "Come and see."

Frank hesitated at the idea of climbing onto Gerard's bed, but Gerard beckoned again, insistently, and Frank shrugged and went to join him. Gerard grabbed his hand eagerly, pulling him close.

"See?" he whispered, lips almost touching Frank's ear.

The moon was not only full, but enormous, starkly white against the inky blackness of the clear night sky around it. It glowed brightly, setting the countryside below awash in pale light.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Gerard whispered, and his breath tickled Frank's ear and made him shiver even as Frank breathed a "Yes," in reply.

Gerard looked over at him, brow furrowing. "You're cold."

"I'm all right," Frank murmured, looking down.

Gerard shook his head. "No, you'll get sick again if you aren't careful--here--"

Ignoring Frank's weak protests, Gerard reached down and retrieved a blanket from the tangled mass of bedclothes at the foot of the bed, shook it out a bit, and then tossed it about Frank's shoulders, wrapping it around him securely.

"There," he said with an air of satisfaction. "That's better, isn't it?"

Frank couldn't help but laugh. He fumbled around until he found the blanket's edges, and, before Gerard could protest, threw it around him as well. Gerard was caught off guard and Frank lost his balance, and they ended up tumbling down onto the bed together, both of them laughing now.

"There," Frank said. "Now you won't get cold, either. It's your blanket, after all."

Frank realized that their current position was somewhere between absurd and completely improper--two grown men huddling under a blanket together, both of them giggling like children. But he was too caught up in the moment to worry about propriety, and he didn't feel absurd--he felt good, being close to Gerard, making him laugh.

"Michael and I used to do this," Gerard whispered. "Whenever one of us had bad dreams, we'd climb into the other's bed and talk until we could go back to sleep."

"It sounds nice," Frank replied, a bit wistfully. He'd never had a brother; once he'd grown too big to crawl into bed with his parents, he'd only had himself to turn to for comfort from bad dreams.

"I had them more often, but Michael never minded," Gerard told him. "It was worse after our parents died--I would dream about the accident, even though I didn't see it, or about someone else dying--"

He broke off suddenly, looking stricken. And Frank could imagine why. If Gerard had suffered nightmares about another loved one dying, it could only have been Michael or Helena, the latter of whom he had lost in reality, and not just his dreams.

Frank reached out, putting his hand on Gerard's where it rested on the bed between them. Gerard turned his hand over instantly, gripping Frank's tightly, and looked across at him, his eyes wide and pale in the moonlight.

"Frank," he said softly, barely more than his lips shaping the name. "What do you think dying feels like?"

Frank wasn't as taken aback by the question as he might have been--Gerard had been talking about death already, after all. He thought for a moment, then asked, "Have you ever swooned?"

Gerard nodded, and Frank went on. "I think it feels like that. Only...deeper, and blacker. More."

"Perhaps," Gerard said. "...Have you ever swooned and wondered if you were dying?"

Frank nodded. "Only when I was very young."

Gerard looked at their joined hands, tracing his thumb lightly across Frank's wrist. "I feel...something, right now. Not like dying, I don't think, except it's big in the same way dying might be. And I can feel it in places you don't usually feel what's inside you, like my toes and my fingertips."

Gerard said things like that sometimes, things about what he was thinking or feeling but having difficulty putting into words. Sometimes he ended up making little sense to Frank, who would simply listen and nod sympathetically now and then, sensing that Gerard was talking more to himself than to Frank.

Frank wasn't sure what Gerard was talking about now, wasn't sure what the feeling he was describing might be. He wasn't sure how he himself felt, lying across from Gerard like this. He wished Gerard would stop touching his wrist that way, because it was distracting, and yet he didn't want him to stop. He wanted to pull away and go back to his own bedroom and pretend that nothing awkward or improper had happened tonight, and he wanted to move in closer and roll them both up in the soft, musty-smelling blanket and fall asleep with his head on Gerard's shoulder. All the confusion he felt when he was near Gerard was twisting in his belly, but he was tired and the bed was soft and there was a sense of languor sweeping through him, tempting him to simply push everything aside for now.

"I feel warm," Frank mumbled at length, sleepily. "And tired. I should go back down and go to bed, I suppose, but I don't want to get up."

"Then don't," Gerard replied softly, his eyes already slipping closed. "Stay with me."

Frank woke to watery gray light and Gerard shaking his shoulder, saying his name urgently. They'd shifted closer together as the night had gotten colder, and Frank was chilled all along one side and warm all along the other, his arm wedged uncomfortably between their torsos and his thigh pressed against Gerard's hip.

Frank's first impulse was to snuggle even closer to Gerard and go back to sleep. His second and far more sensible impulse was to move away at once. His third impulse, and the wisest yet, was to wonder why the room had gotten brighter, because surely the moon couldn't still be out.

"Oh!" he exclaimed as the obvious explanation hit him, sitting up and flinging off the blanket. "What time is it?"

"I don't know," Gerard hissed in reply, rubbing his eyes blearily. "The sun isn't up yet."

Cursing under his breath, Frank scrambled out of bed. "I need to go."

"Yes," Gerard agreed. Then, "Frank--"

Frank turned to see Gerard kneeling on the bed, hair sticking up in all directions, lower lip caught between his teeth. He looked as though he'd been about to say something further, and then stopped himself.

"What is it?" Frank asked gently.

Gerard shook his head. "Never mind. Go."

Frank hurried back down the stairs with his heart pounding in his ears, certain that he would make too much noise and be caught, or reach his room only to find that Michael or Schechter had come to look in on him in the night and discovered his absence already. He made it there safely undiscovered, however, and flung himself into bed, burrowing under the covers and curling onto his side. Anyone who came into the room now would think him still asleep, and have no reason to suppose he hadn't been there all night, but he was miles from sleep now, adrenaline still surging through him.

Adrenaline, and other things. Frank lay there, trying to catch his breath, and thought back to the night before. He had slept in Gerard's bed, as deeply and comfortably as if it had been his own, and it had seemed the easiest and most natural thing in the world to fall asleep there. Gerard hadn't seemed to find it at all strange--there had only been concern for Frank's not being found there in the attic, no surprise or offense at his having presumed to fall asleep there in the first place. He had mentioned sharing a bed with Michael as a child; perhaps he had come to view Frank in the same light as his brother.

Frank thought of waking pressed against Gerard, of lying across from him as they’d talked, holding his hand and looking into his eyes, and felt a sudden flush race over his entire body. Gerard's feelings toward him may be brotherly, but Frank could no longer say the same of his feelings for Gerard. And then, he thought, there had been the moment just before he left, when Gerard had seemed as though he wanted to say something...and there was what he had said last night, about feeling something overwhelming but difficult to put a name to. Was it possible...?

Frank turned his burning face into his pillow, drawing in a deep breath, and wondered what he should do.

III.