Chapter 8: Peach Blossom, Part 2

This close to Ruthven, however, he noticed what Ruthven was wearing: deep blue breeches and a simple white shirt. Nothing else, save for a collar around his throat.

Aubrey scowled. "Why do you wear those collars? Where did you get them?"

He had noticed Ruthven wearing them, but only distantly, far more interested in avoiding him altogether. This was the first time he'd paid real notice since the night Ruthven had become his Pet. That collar had been supple black leather.

This one was deep blue velvet, with a small burst of wisteria stitched on the left side.

Ruthven reached up to touch it. "I like them. Do they bother you, Master?"

"I'm not going to tell you what you may or may not wear. You really do not need to address me so," Aubrey said irritably. "Most everyone calls me Brey. You may do the same."

"I like 'Master'," Ruthven replied, and leaned forward until he was close enough Aubrey could smell the tea he was drinking, a hint of flowers and velvet and cologne that smelled of peach blossom and apple. "Unless, of course, my master finds it displeasing that I regard him so."

"Do as you wish," Aubrey said hastily, taking a step back, retreating to his desk.

He thought he heard Ruthven laugh, but dismissed it. "Is there more of that tea?"

"I will ring for it," Ruthven replied, and shoved back the blankets in which he'd wrapped himself.

Aubrey saw he had no shoes, only stockings.

Shaking his head, he pulled out his own book, one he had been reading before all the moving and settling had interfered.

"As to the book," Ruthven said, returning to his nest of blankets. It looked cozy, but Aubrey turned from that thought immediately. "I think his reasoning carries serious flaws."

"Oh?" Aubrey said, shutting his book again and leaning back in his seat, crossing his arms across his chest. He'd never argued philosophy with a Pet before; perhaps it would prove interesting.

A couple of hours later, he surrendered. "You are remarkably well-schooled," he said.

Ruthven shrugged. "I pay attention."

"Indeed," Aubrey said. "You are lucky you were never caught and killed for being too troublesome to keep."

"Yes, Master," Ruthven said, a hint of slyness in his voice.

Aubrey frowned, feeling as though he were missing some joke, and hating it. "What other secrets did you keep from your trainers?"

"Only a few," Ruthven said, definitely smirking now. "They are of no interest to you, Master, I promise." He slid from the window seat and strode to the desk, bracing his hands on it and leaning slightly forward.

The view put his throat, the collar wrapped around it, directly in Aubrey's vision. Ruthven really did have beautiful skin, which the blue velvet only enhanced, though it annoyed him to admit it. "Yes?" he asked, the question coming out snappishly.

Ruthven lowered his long lashes, looking up through them. "It is well past lunch, Master."

"Oh," Aubrey said, and saw from the clock on the wall opposite the desk that he was correct. Stifling a sigh, refusing to acknowledge the anxiety that always fluttered in his stomach, he held out his wrist.

It was scarred, now. He really would need to read up on Pets because he had never really known that they could close up the wounds they opened. It did not completely heal, for there was the scar, but after each...meal...the scar was there.

Aubrey winced as Ruthven bit down, shivering at the odd sensation of his blood being drained away. He wondered if it was a feeling to which he would eventually grow accustomed. Doubtful, given he could not even adjust to the idea that Ruthven would be with him the rest of his life.

No one ever stayed long with him. Eventually, they all had somewhere else to be. One by one his friends had drifted away, and the knowledge that he would invariably have to return to his family had kept Aubrey from chasing after them, from asking that they stay just a little longer.

He wondered where they all were now, and if they would write. Most of them had continued traveling, to further studies or simply play another year or two before settling into their own responsibilities. Others had scampered off to the city in pursuit of sport or a wife.

He shivered again as Ruthven ceased feeding, attempting to pull away, but was unable to as Ruthven kept firm hold of his wrist. His fingers were warm, a few shades darker than Aubrey's own, completely unmarked, where Aubrey's always seemed perpetually covered in scratches and paper cuts, and smeared with ink stains.

Ruthven lapped at his wrist, tongue wet and warm, and Aubrey tore his eyes away with a silent curse. What was his problem? Was he really so crass and hypocritical to be so affected? Ruthven was beautiful, there was no denying it. Of course he was beautiful; Gilles would never have picked out a Pet who was less than perfect.

At last Ruthven released his wrist, and Aubrey withdrew it. Ignoring the way it seemed to tingle, he reached for quill and ink, and penned a request to his book merchant in the city, jotting down the sorts of books he would like, along with payment for that month's bill.

Setting it aside to dry, he looked around his study, noting the empty shelves that would soon be filled, assuming the weather did not prevent the arrival of his crates.

"Is that your mother?" Ruthven asked suddenly, gazing at the wall opposite the shelves, the same wall in which was built the window seat.

Aubrey did not need to look at the portrait, but he did anyway. "Yes," he said, smiling sadly, ignoring the cold knot of fear that always coiled in his gut. He could not entirely remember that night, but he remembered enough of it, at least in dreams and the fear that lingered.

The portrait was actually of two women - his mother Lucy and her Pet Wilhemina. His mother was beautiful - dark blonde hair and gray eyes, petite and delicate, vibrant even in paint. She wore a pale blue gown to match the pale green worn by Wilhemina, who was a bolder beauty next to his daintier mother. They sat side by side on a stone bench, surrounded by the garden his mother had so loved. Together, the two women held a bouquet of vivid red chrysanthemums.

They looked happy, proud, and so very alive.