Chapter 4: The Witching Hour
I slumped onto the corner of the pavement, the spot where no house loomed overhead to witness my disgrace. The liquor haze had lifted, leaving only a dull ache in its wake. The sting of my father’s handprint on my cheek was a fading throb, but the cold gnawed at me deeper than any bruise. I was sober, and felt worse than I had when drunk.
I traced the crust of dried blood on my cheek, the remnants of my father's rage. Hunger twisted in my gut, and the chill seeped into my bones. The manor felt miles away, and the thought of returning brought no warmth.
So I sat, legs sprawled before me, the expensive white linen of my shirt already stained with grime. I laughed, a brittle sound quickly stifled. Night was falling, and a runaway youth sat exposed on the roadside, clad in rags and clutching a meager pouch.
A cough wracked my chest. I needed shelter, warmth. Perhaps I could charm a baker into letting me sleep near their furnace. I’d hoped for lodging when the carriage dropped me at the edge of town, but the first woman I dared ask simply laughed in my face.
“Ain’t nobody wantin’ to lodge in The Valley, lad. Get yur wits aboot you.” Her accent was thick, the words slurred, yet I strained to understand. It seemed the further south one travelled, the more literacy eroded, and with it, the ability to articulate even simple thoughts. Still, she hadn’t robbed me, recognizing the cut of my cloth and the quality of my linen. Instead, she pointed me towards a pub on the fringe of Baneberry Lane. She had a boy near my age, she said, and she knew he’d avoid The Valley like the plague.
I wondered why they called it The Valley. The bartender, when I inquired, stared at me as if I’d violated his wife in front of him. I paid for four pints of ale and stepped back out into the darkness.
Here I was, on the corner of Baneberry Lane. Dark enough to avoid notice, yet in a place where the shadows felt… comfortable.
“Excuse me, can I help you?” The voice was a whisper, soft as falling snow.
I thought I was still drunk. The liquor must have finally caught up with me. No voice that gentle belonged in a place like this.
“Sir?”
I turned, looked down. A boy, no older than myself, stood on the steps of a doorway, a lantern casting a warm glow. I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. I stared at his features.
Moonlight and lamplight combined to reveal choppy, dark brown hair that fell across his forehead. Youth was etched in the smooth lines of his face. I couldn’t look away. A scattering of freckles dusted his nose, and his eyes, as far as I could make out, were hazel.
“I… I’m sorry,” I stammered, attempting to rise. The sudden movement sent a rush of dizziness, and I stumbled, nearly tripping over my own feet. The boy darted forward, scrambling up the steps to where I lay sprawled on the cold pavement.
I raised a hand, signaling I was alright, and cursed my clumsiness. I got to my feet, brushing dirt from my coat. The boy was standing too close now, and I took a breath.
I saw the curve of his jaw, the hollows beneath his eyes. He shifted under my gaze, looking down at the stones beneath our feet. It was a trick of the light, perhaps, but his features seemed too delicate for this place, for this world.
“I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just—” I trailed off.
What *was* I doing?
“I was already awake.” He murmured, his voice barely audible. I saw him shivering, and realized I hadn't noticed how much the cold had settled into my own bones. His voice was different from the others I’d met today, a subtle inflection I hadn’t heard before. He sounded like he was forcing his voice to be deeper than it was.
Thinking to avoid hovering or asking, I left the topic. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to turn and walk away from him.
Before I could formulate a question, before I could mask my desire to hear him speak, the boy spoke first. “What are you doing in Baneberry, sir?”
“Finn,” I said, my voice rough. “My name’s Finn. Don’t—please don’t call me Sir. I’m probably not much older than you.” I said, my voice distant. Frankly, I hated conversations. I always stood back and observed whilst my brothers and sister did all the charming and pleasantries. There was only so much false plastic I could wrap around myself before it began to eat into my flesh.
The boy nodded, and I saw his cheeks flush. I wanted to believe it wasn’t from the cold, but I knew it was.
“I just needed… needed some space to think.”
“Have you come here to die?” The voice was a bare whisper, lost in the enveloping dark. It sounded stark, cold, offering nothing but a shadow of safety. Yet, it brought me a strange comfort.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the way his lips moved, shaping each word. I felt a warmth bloom in my chest, a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in years. I imagined his mouth pressed against other places.
As if sensing my gaze, the boy shifted on his feet, licking his lips, his body letting me know he was uncomfortable. I forced my eyes away, focusing on a patch of cobblestones.
My father’s voice echoed in my ears: *Faggot*.
I was never a violent man. I never believed violence was justified. Had every regent, general, and commanding officer sat down and forged a new path to peace, decades of bloodshed, warfare, and persecution could have been halted. Yet, the only time I could envision myself hurting someone was punching whoever had uttered that word.
“I think you ought to go home… Finn.”
I lifted my head at the sound of my name. I wanted to hear him say it again, I wanted to hear more.
“I don’t actually know where that is today.” I shrugged, shifting my weight. If enduring the cold, starvation, and a possible assassination meant avoiding the manor for as long as possible, so be it.
I heard him sigh, frustrated, and move around in his feet. I saw him turn back before hearing all footsteps halt. I heard them retreat and come closer to me.
“How much money do you 'ave on you?”