He had never understood it. How his friends would speak of love, with longing eyes would languish, brooding and staring listlessly out of windows and writing poetry about lips as red as berries, bright eyes, and a blushing cheek-- how telling that these signs of love were the signs also of illness. It was a kind of illness, after all, something like a plague. It had spread mercilessly through the ranks of his companions, until there was not one of them that was not unwell. Even Terry, his closest confidant, was a victim-- perhaps the most pitiful victim-- and the object of Terry's infatuation was a footman, of all the ridiculous people to choose. Imagine, writing poetry to a footman, sending cryptic love letters to a footman, arranging secret trysts with a footman, and saying all sorts of maddening things about him, such as "Isn't he the loveliest thing you've ever seen, Cyril?" or, "I love him madly, Cyril-- you couldn't possibly understand." What didn't he understand? Clearly his friend was gravely ill, of a disease with no known cure save time and familiarity, and those only in the best of cases.

For his part, Cyril was not impervious to a pretty face or a striking pair of eyes. He had been struck many times by beauty and his own desire for it. But the bolt had never gone in deep. It had never struck home, never pierced the hard shell of his heart. After he had enjoyed himself, he could leave the focus of his erstwhile lust forever behind him without a single pang of regret or doubt. He was, or so he grew to fancy himself, invincible, immune to the malady he had seen so many others fall victim to.

Like all those who believe themselves immune, Cyril was reckless. Instead of hiding himself away in his house like a monk in his monastery, a vow of silence sealing his lips, as one who wished to avoid love should have done, he went out like any other young man his age. He attended balls and parties, saw and was seen, flirted and was flirted with, never realizing that his immunity was an illusion, that Cupid was already standing watch over him, already with his arrow nocked, the point sharp and gleaming with the venom that had been daubed there. Cupid was already waiting for the ruinous misstep that would leave him vulnerable to a strike, would lay his heart bare.

Fittingly, it was Terry who was given the role of immediate catalyst for the chain of events leading to Cyril's fatal error. Fittingly, because Terry had so often been the brunt of Cyril's jests, due to the readiness of his heart to give in to love and all its many splendored pangs. Before the footman who was his current sweetheart, there had been, even worse, a stable boy. And before that, there had been a young lordling of a rather dull disposition. Before that, there had been a soldier, and before that-- Cyril couldn't remember who it had been before that. Undoubtedly, knowing Terry, someone entirely unsuitable and probably largely incapable of returning his affection in any genuine way. Cyril had gleefully mocked every one of these lovers, and he had mocked Terry, perhaps even more gleefully, for mooning over them.

So it was only fitting that it was Terry who asked Cyril, in all casualness as he entered the sitting room of the London flat the two of them shared, "Aren't you going to Ginny's tonight?"

Cyril was napping on the settee. His eyes snapped open at the sound of Terry's voice, though it took him a moment to register what Terry had said. "Tonight?"

"Yes, tonight. Don't you remember? I came home expecting to find you already preening in front of your mirror."

"I can't believe it." Cyril sat up, rubbing at his eyes. "It completely slipped my mind. How unlike myself. It's a good thing you came home to remind me." He yawned. "I'd have slept right through it."

Terry did not think it unlike Cyril at all. To call Cyril's memory a sieve was being generous. At least a sieve had some substance. Though Terry sometimes suspected that it wasn't that he was actually forgetful, but that he liked the attention of being reminded and chided for forgetting. "Cyril, really? How could you forget? You've known about it for weeks. You're fortunate I came home at all. I was planning on leaving from my sister's house, but I thought I'd pop in to make sure you were coming. And also because I realized I needed to change." He laughed. "Who would want to miss an evening with Ginny?"

"Who, indeed?" Cyril rose from the settee, stretching languorously. Evenings at Ginny's house were a thing to look forward to. Not only was Ginny herself devilishly good company, but at her evening gatherings, the usual constraints of etiquette were markedly relaxed, and certain sorts of dalliances that were frowned upon in regular society were permitted-- actively encouraged, even. It was a safe place. Ginny was careful to invite only the right sort of men and women. Invitations were earned rather than given; a particular kind of discretion, paired with a healthy measure of common sense, was demanded of her guests. "I really should start making myself presentable. You'll excuse me, won't you Terry?"

Terry, who had a far less complicated toilette than Cyril, and who needed less than half the time to get ready, nodded, giving Cyril a faint wry smile. "Oh, presentable." Cyril's vanity was as great a source of amusement for him as Terry's lovelorn nature was for Cyril. "And for whom will you be making a present of yourself this evening?"

Cyril laughed. "That remains to be seen. It's doubtful there will be anyone there deserving of such an elegant present as I will be, once I have finished with myself."

"Honestly, Cyril." Terry shook his head. "You'd look a prince dressed in rags." Cyril's eyes widened in mock horror. "No one, Terry darling, not even a prince, looks a prince dressed in rags." He passed Terry on his way out of the sitting room and leaned in to give him a peck on his freckled cheek. "But thank you."

Cyril had elected to wear his dark green coat for the evening. Green made his eyes look more green than the blue they sometimes were. Cyril preferred green eyes, as they were rarer than blue ones, and the hue of his eyes when they were on the greener side was crisper than the somewhat cloudy cast of them when they appeared blue. Besides, green eyes suited his dark brown hair better, made him look, he felt, more refined and more mysterious.

Terry had, as usual, elected to wear a boring shade of brown. It went well enough with his red hair and gold-brown eyes-- in fact, it was nearly the exact same shade of brown as his freckles-- but he could have done far better. Cyril chided him for his choice on the carriage ride to Ginny's, but Terry only laughed good-naturedly. "I don't care how I look. I don't need to impress anyone." He smiled, an interior smile, more himself smiling to himself than smiling at Cyril, and Cyril knew he was thinking of his beloved footman.

Cyril shook his head. "The order of your priorities befuddles me completely."

"I could say the same of you," Terry observed mildly.

"Oh, you could. But your befuddlement is rather a given, isn't it?"

Terry was used to this tender needling. It was Cyril's way of showing affection. "I suppose it is, rather." He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as a master of ceremonies might when introducing the next performer to arrive onstage. "Terry's Befuddlement! As dependable as Cyril's Vanity."

"Maybe not quite so dependable as that . . . Cyril's Vanity is a regular force of nature."

"No, it isn't. It's a force of civilization. Nature is never dependable."

"You're mistaken, Terry. It is civilization which is undependable. Nature, though seemingly capricious, is, when looked at from the proper, broad perspective, perfectly predictable. Civilization, however, is a creature of man's whim. Rising and falling at random, the rules and regulations ever changing, so that he who is a sinner one day may well be a saint the next."

"Oh God, Cyril, please spare me your philosophizing. It's far worse even than your vanity."

"It's not philosophy at all. I can't abide philosophy. I merely make observations."

Terry grinned. "Spare me your observations, then."

"Very well. If you prefer to remain uneducated, what can I do?"

Terry threw his head back and laughed heartily at this. "I know already what you'll do. You will continue in your attempts at educating me, regardless of my wishes in the matter."

Reflecting, resting a finger thoughtfully against one side of his chin, Cyril nodded. "Yes, that does sound like me, doesn't it? You've come to know me far too well, Terry. All the mystery is gone from our love, I fear."

"Mystery? What mystery? You're the most transparent man I've ever met."

Cyril played at being hurt. "You wound me."

"Do I? How fortunate. Perhaps a wound will humble you, at least in some small measure."

"Perhaps, perhaps. But I've no time for humility now," he said as the carriage creaked to a halt. "We have arrived."

Still innocent of the peril he was in, Cyril entered Ginny's house laughing and talking gaily, joking with Terry, giving him a light, playful shove as Terry returned yet another of his loving insults with a barb of his own.

They were, the pair of them, so loud and merry that Ginny, who had been keeping an eye out for them, spied them at once. She breezed over, a vision in her scarlet dress, her skirts rustling with her brisk steps, seeming quite the perfect, proper hostess, so unlike the roguish, boyish figure she cut in the male attire she usually sported when receiving guests informally. "Ah, if it isn't my favorite pair of lads!" She kissed them each in turn, first Cyril. She was nearly of a height with him, although he was by no means a diminutive man, and she only had to tilt her head upwards slightly to bestow him with a kiss. Terry was taller, however, and she needed to rise up onto her toes while he leaned down a little for her lips to reach his cheek. "Not to mention the most handsome ones."

"Oh, don't pretend the two are mutually exclusive." Cyril waved a hand, though secretly pleased by her kiss. "The handsomest ones are always your favorites. Your love, I fear, we owe to our looks alone."

"Really, Cyril. I would love you just as much if you were ugly and bucktoothed and had a peg leg."

"Ugh!" Cyril shuddered. "Why must you speak of the most horrible things? And with such decided relish?"

"I don't know . . . I think bucktoothed, ugly men with peg legs have a certain rakish charm, don't you?"

Cyril drew himself up, indignant. "I most certainly do not! And if I am ever bucktoothed and ugly with a peg leg, whether you love me or not, I swear I will do myself in."

Terry looked from Ginny to Cyril and back to Cyril, chuckling softly to himself. They were as bad with each other as he and Cyril were, if not worse.

"Cyril!" Ginny demanded. "Are you saying my love is not enough to sustain you? How unforgivably rude." She turned to Terry. "Honestly, Terry, how can you stand living with him?"

Terry heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I drink." He sighed again. "A great deal."

"That is a result of your own failings, not mine," Cyril told Terry with a pointed look. "But enough of such nonsense. On to more important matters." He wheeled on Ginny, his greenish eyes shining. "Is there anyone new here tonight? Or is it simply the same old, tiresome celebrants, such as Terry and myself?"

"I say, if you're going to bandy about words like old and tiresome, please apply them to yourself alone, not me," Terry said crisply. "You're older-- and, dare I say it, more tiresome-- than I by a good few years."

"And you're of an age with me, so I absolutely forbid you to call yourself old!" Ginny gave Cyril a swat, striking his arm with the flat of her hand. "As for your question, yes, there are a few fresh dishes on the menu tonight." She fluttered her eyelashes. "But you must find them for yourself. Don't expect me to aid you in the hunt."

"A fine, coursing hound such as myself needs no assistance from a vixen."

Ginny gave Terry a sardonic look. She spoke to him in a hissing stage whisper: "Thinks a lot of himself, doesn't he?"

Terry nodded gravely. "Oh yes. The world."

"I have to, don't I?" Cyril demanded, with a self mocking grin. "If I don't, who else will?" He took Terry firmly by the arm. "Now come along, won't you? I know you're not looking for yourself, but you can bloody well look for my sake."

Ginny made a moue of dismay. "So you won't accept help from a vixen, but you'll take it from a hare? Suit yourself, Cyril!" Her skirts rustled as she moved away, calling after them laughingly, "I have better guests than you to look after."

"She's so disloyal," Cyril lamented. He scanned the drawing room. "And dishonest, besides. A truly awful woman." He didn't mean a word of it, but continued, "I don't see anyone new at all, do you? A shameful lie. How she toys with me. How--"

Terry had been listening idly, scanning the room himself, but with a lack of avidity, as he was sure that if there was someone present Cyril liked, Cyril would know it shortly. Suddenly he realized that Cyril had stopped talking, an uncommon state of affairs. He turned to Cyril and saw that Cyril was staring at something. Before he turned to follow Cyril's gaze, he knew already what the matter must be. He was quite familiar with that look in his friend's eyes.

"Who is that?" breathed Cyril.

Terry did look, then. He saw a young man standing by himself in a corner of the drawing room, a wineglass in his hand and a distracted expression on his face. It was clear from his manner that he was holding himself a little apart from the festivities. He had lowered, wallflower eyes. He had also, Terry saw, as he'd expected from the fixity of Cyril's stare, a delicately lovely face, full lips, and a roseate blush in his cheeks. One of those girlish types, Cyril's preferred prey-- though not Terry's, which was, Terry thought, fortunate, as he wouldn't have wanted to compete with Cyril in games of desire. "I haven't the slightest--" he began, then broke off. Idea, he had been about to say, but, looking at the young man, he saw that he did indeed have an idea, and more than the slightest one.

"Oh, it's Percy!" Terry shook his head as though to shake the disbelief from it, or else to shake the misleading vision from his eyes so that he might see he was mistaken in his recognition. He was not mistaken. Shake his head as he might, the vision remained one of Percy and no one else. Terry was surprised. Of all the people he might have expected to find their way here, Percy was not one of them. The boy he remembered from school had been so quiet, almost neurotically reserved, that the memory Terry had of him could not be reconciled with the fact of his presence here at one of Ginny's gatherings, where people were expected to be either lively or not invited. What, then, was Percy doing here? He did not seem much changed, still hanging back, seeming out of place with his silent stare and his forgotten wineglass while everyone else was chatting and drinking and enjoying themselves.

"You know him?" Cyril asked.

"A little," Terry confessed. He did not know if anyone had known Percy well, but he had known him well enough to exchange greetings with him when they'd passed each other in the hallway, and, if he thought back, he could conjure up a few brief, hazy, half remembered conversations he'd had with the other boy. "We were in the same year at school. Percival Meredith."

"Meredith--? He's not by any chance related to that prat Frances, is he?"

"Oh, yes. That's right, you were in Frances's year. They're brothers."

"Brothers? Impossible. They're nothing alike-- night and day!"

"You have four brothers yourself," said Terry, the words simple, yet rife with meaning.

Cyril paused, considering this statement carefully. "Yes, so I do. Well said." He watched Percy for several long minutes more, drinking the sight of him like wine, his green eyes made greener by thirst. Percy remained where he was, standing idle, apparently unaware of the keen scrutiny he was being subjected to. "Honestly, I can't believe you went to school with that and you never told me."

"Percy, you mean?" Terry squinted at his old acquaintance. Yes, Percy was beautiful, wasn't he? Terry could see it, although it was not the kind of beauty that usually caught his eye. All alabaster and light. All roses and gold. Perhaps that was why he had been invited? A shallow reason, but there was certainly no shortage of shallow people here. "He wasn't-- He didn't quite look like that when I knew him." No, he had not been born a beauty, but had become one. Terry remembered him from their school days together as wan and weedy and frail. Not unpleasant to look upon, but scarcely a sight for someone to feast on.

Cyril did not look away from Percy as he spoke. "You simply must introduce us."

"What-- me? I don't know what to say to him. He probably doesn't even remember me anymore. Why don't you ask Ginny to arrange a meeting?"

"I don't have time to wait for Ginny. Introduce me."

Terry knew that tone, and he should have known better than to argue with it, but he tried, regardless. "Cyril, please . . . ."

Cyril did look at him then, and his look was one of rising anger, his eyes narrowed, his dark eyebrows with a furrow drawn between them. "If you don't indulge me in this, I shall be rather cross. It's hardly a great favor to ask of a friend."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Terry resigned himself to his fate. "It's just that I hate presuming on such a slight acquaintance. It is somewhat embarrassing."

"Presume, man, presume!" Cyril squeezed Terry's arm, the pressure just enough to goad him without actually hurting, and Terry, thus prodded, moved forward, with each step coming nearer to Percy. Cyril followed closely at his heels.

The hand of Cupid trembled on his bow.

"Ah, hello," Terry called out as he drew within a few paces of the boy he had once vaguely known, to catch his attention. "Percy?"

The fair figure turned towards him. Terry found himself facing a pair of wide, pale blue eyes, without a glimmer of recognition in them. He'd been right. Percy didn't remember him, and the entire encounter would be awkward, and why did he let Cyril make him do these things--?

Suddenly the fair young man's face was brightened by a smile, and the pale eyes came alive, like young twin girls awakening from a deep slumber. "Terrence Willoughby!"

Terry drew back a little at the sound of his full name, then, not knowing what else to say, replied in kind. "Percival Meredith?"

"Yes, it's me," Percy said. "It's been ages, hasn't it? I'm so glad to see you." What, Terry wondered, had he ever meant to this person that he could inspire him with such obvious delight? Was he forgetting something important? No, he didn't think so. It hadn't been that long since they were both schoolboys, and he was nowhere near senile yet. "I don't know anyone here," Percy confessed, the blush in his cheeks deepening at this admission, just slightly. "I don't quite know why I even came. Someone invited me, but they haven't bothered to show up themselves-- at least, not yet." He laughed. "I'm surprised you remember me at all, actually. Though pleased, don't mistake my meaning. But I was hardly what you would call social at school."

Terry, watching Percy closely, saw his gaze flicker briefly. He noted the direction of that little indiscretion of eyes, aimed just over his shoulder, towards where Cyril was standing. Percy continued speaking, however, as though he had not looked away for an instant. "Not that I'm what you would precisely call social now, but I'd say I'm somewhat improved, if I may so flatter myself."

"Oh no, you've definitely improved," said Terry quickly, thinking better of it too late. Hastily, he added, "Not that there was anything wrong with you-- before." Terry sensed the vibrations of rather than heard the sound of disapproval Cyril made behind him, the noise was so quiet in the room full of chatter and laughter.

Percy did not seem perturbed by his remark. He continued to smile. "You're very kind, Terrence."

"Please, do call me Terry," Terry said quickly. "Simply everyone calls me that." He sensed the possibility of a plausible segue at this juncture and hurried on before Percy could say anything else. "I wanted to-- That is . . . ." Terry stepped aside so that Percy and Cyril faced each other, with no gangly, redheaded obstacle between them. "Percy, this is my dearest friend, Cyril Atwater. Cyril-- Percy."

Cyril bowed. "A pleasure."

Percy returned the bow with one of his own. Terry watched the young man's reaction. It interested him to see how young men reacted to Cyril. "The pleasure is mine," said Percy, meeting Cyril's gaze, and Terry found he could not read Percy's expression. It was a cipher. The very riddle of it, however, gave Terry an idea or two.

"Is it?" Cyril asked. "All yours? I prefer to share pleasure, myself."

Terry could see that Cyril did not, as usual when meeting someone in the protected milieu of Ginny's abode, plan to bother with the drawn-out niceties of flirtation. Whether Percy was willing to allow himself to be so abruptly plucked, like a fruit from a bough, was another matter. Terry had seen this same, or similar, scenario unfold in a variety of different ways. Percy hesitated only fleetingly before replying. "I apologize. I didn't mean to infer that my pleasure in any way excludes yours." His reply was even. He still held Cyril's gaze.

"Does your pleasure include mine, then?"

"If you like."

"Yes, I do, actually."

"I see," Percy said, putting his wineglass down, and Terry knew that Percy did see. The Percy he had almost known at school would not, he suspected, have seen so much, so quickly. Or if he had, he would not have reacted to it with the cool aplomb that this Percy did. Percy was indeed somewhat improved, where matters of social interaction were concerned, and Terry could not help but wonder what other areas he had managed to improve himself in, over the years. Percy bowed again, this time just the slightest lowering of his head. "In that case, how can I refuse?"

Cyril laughed. "You can't."

"Then I accept."

All at once, Terry felt himself something of an outsider, turning from Percy to Cyril, finding each of them looking at the other, neither sparing a glance for him now that the introduction was out of the way. Terry did not know whether to feel scorned or amazed. "You said you don't know why you came here?" Cyril asked Percy.

"Yes, that's right."

"Then you can, I imagine," said Cyril with easy familiarity and complete confidence, "have no possible reason to stay."

Percy considered, a smile playing on his lips. "No, I suppose I don't."

"Would you care to leave with me?"

There was nothing of coyness in the way Percy spoke. "And where will you take me?"

"Back to my flat." He smiled an inwardly amused smile, and Terry, who knew all Cyril's most terrible jokes, knew he was thinking to himself, Flat on your back.

"That sounds acceptable."

Cyril, you lucky bastard, Terry thought, as Cyril stepped forward to take Percy's arm. "Then shall we go?"

At last, Percy remembered Terry, turning to him with a slightly abashed expression, so unlike the expression he wore when looking at Cyril. "I-- I do apologize for leaving you so soon, after we've only just reacquainted ourselves. And for stealing your friend from you."

"It's all right," said Terry, trying not to laugh but unable to stop himself from grinning widely. Oh God, he couldn't help it, Cyril was just so funny, and the thought of Cyril and Percy together-- well, that was a match he had never in his life thought to envision. "I'm sure we'll meet again. And I'll see him again sooner than I'd like, no doubt." He was pleased to see that Percy was not embarrassed or offended, but returned his grin with a small smile.

"I'm taking the carriage," Cyril informed him in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Go ahead. Good night." He stood and watched as they left together, feeling somewhat dazed, shaking his head, so preoccupied that he did not notice Ginny creep up behind him, not even the wild rustle of her skirts, so like wind in leaves, managing to betray her. He jumped when she put a hand on his shoulder.

"So Cyril Atwater has already won his prize? How ungracious of him, not even saying good bye to me."

"Do forgive him. I suspect he has other things on his mind."

"So he does, so he does. But you would think he'd be more grateful to the woman who went to such trouble for him."

"Such-- trouble?" Terry cocked his head slightly to one side. He knew the expression on Ginny's face, so like Cyril when one of his plots had succeeded. Cyril and Ginny were birds of a feather-- or wolves of a tooth, to be more exact. "Whatever do you mean?"

Ginny nodded in the direction Percy and Cyril had gone. "I happened to spy the boy at some horrid society party, and I knew at once, with my unerring sense of romance, that Cyril had to have him. So, after various machinations--" She waved the trifling details away as though they were beneath her. "--I arranged to have a friend of mine invite him here but not show up. And all evening--" She put a hand to her left temple, as though a headache was threatening there. "--and yes, I mean the entire evening-- I have been discreetly shooing other men away from him so he would be free when Cyril arrived." She narrowed her eyes. "Really, you might have come a little earlier. Nearly every man here was covetous of that little pearl, and I had such a tiring time of it. Now I owe too many people favors. I do wish I'd known you were acquainted with the boy. It would have saved me a great deal of effort."

She gave him the sweetest smile as he gaped at her. "Now, if you'll come with me-- Cyril's not the only one who gets a present tonight. Through a series of well-placed bribes, I have managed to secure myself the services of a certain footman for the evening." She convincingly faked a deeply tragic sigh, like a great stage heroine. "Ah, but unfortunately, I don't have enough work for him, and I need a likely young lad to keep him occupied."

Terry's gape gaped wider. He's here? "Ginny-- you're joking."

Her eyes were bright and sharp. "Oh no, I am quite deadly serious. I never joke about matters of the heart."