"Oh, nothing. I'm fine, Terry. Why do you ask?"

Terry recognized that too-merry tone. Cyril was lying. He could not, however, fathom what reason Cyril had to lie. Terry's brow furrowed. What could have happened? "Has Percy gone home?"

"He has, yes."

"Everything-- everything went well between you, did it?"

"Quite well, yes."

"You're quite certain? Percy's all right?"

"Yes, he's-- he's lovely."

Terry heard a catch of emotion in Cyril's voice, completely unlike anything he had heard in Cyril's voice before, and he had known Cyril since they were both very small boys. He peered intently at Cyril, examining him with the thorough scrutiny of a physician, though with his eyes alone. Eyes were all he needed for this examination. No, it couldn't be true. He didn't believe it. Cyril couldn't have. Not Cyril. Cyril wouldn't ever-- not so quickly-- But the signs were there. It was undeniable. Terry put his hands in his pockets, shaking his head with a growing sense of wonder overcoming him. Whether believable or not, Terry knew the symptoms well enough from his own experience to identify them in another. At last, at longest last, Cyril Atwater had been lovestruck.

Terry knew the wisest course for the moment would be to disguise the growing joy and smugness he felt, so he did so. There would be time enough for joy and smugness later. He sat down on the arm of the settee, a practice he knew Cyril hated, as he thought it ruined the arms, but Cyril was so lost, he did not even think to protest. "It's Percy, isn't it?"

"Yes," Cyril confessed, too weak to deny. "I suppose so."

"Why did you let him go?"

"I didn't have any choice in the matter. He had to go. Really, I didn't know what to do at all." Cyril turned his eyes to Terry, eyes full of incredulity at his own behavior. "Can you believe it? Me, not knowing what to do."

Terry laughed. "I believe it."

Cyril rolled his eyes. "Well, you would."

"All right." Terry reached over to give Cyril's head a friendly pat. "Tell me what happened. And spare no detail, I insist." He was quite pleased to fall into this role for Cyril, despite the fact that Cyril had been so bad about sympathizing with him and helping him where his own romantic woes were concerned. That was because, Terry knew, this was a role he relished, whereas it was one Cyril was spectacularly ill-suited for.

Later, when Cyril had finished his story, Terry found himself staring at his friend in open-mouthed disbelief. "He promised you that and you didn't know what to do?"

"How could I? No one's ever said anything like that to me before. I was shocked."

"Yes," Terry admitted, "I can see how you would be. Rather sudden of him. Really, who'd have thought wan little Percy disguised such romantic depths?" A roguish smile teased his lips. "Ah, I should have gotten to know him better at school."

"No, you shouldn't have," said Cyril, slitting his eyes.

"There's no need to be jealous over me, of all people. Especially not years after the fact-- especially not when there was no fact to begin with!"

Cyril unnarrowed his eyes, smiling at the truth in Terry's words, at his own foolishness. "I can't help it. Suddenly I'm jealous of everyone."

Terry laughed. "Ah, the mighty-- they're always the ones who fall the farthest, I find."

"Very amusing, I'm sure." Cyril waved a hand in the air like a white flag. "But what am I to do now?"

Terry gave a sigh. It was pleasant, on some level, to see Cyril at last so helpless, but at the same time, he selfishly wished Cyril had been given a harder time of it. Terry had never had such a clear path presented to him, so free of any obstacles-- all that Terry ever had, it seemed, were obstacles, whereas Percy had practically drawn Cyril a map. He should be glad for Cyril, he knew. He should be a good friend. He was glad, of course, just a little envious of the ease of it. "Cyril," Terry said firmly. "It is quite obvious to me what you must do. And soon. Actually, tomorrow would be best, I think. It would be cruel of you to keep Percy waiting any longer."

"And what's that? That I must do?"

"Why, you must pay him a visit. Isn't that what suitors always do?"

Cyril sat in the drawing room with his legs crossed, one over the other, his hands folded over his uppermost knee. When someone entered the room behind him, he turned, looking up sharply, but it was only Frances, Percy's brother. Cyril remembered the boy from school. A dreadful creature, dull in every way imaginable. Brothers. Bloodlines were a funny thing. Completely unpredictable, at least where humans were concerned; one could be a little more certain with horses and hounds. Cyril smiled.

It was hardly unexpected that Frances would be surprised to see him here. After all, just two days ago, he would have been incapable of even dreaming that he would pay a visit to the Meredith household anytime soon. Certainly, two days ago he had not yet met all the Merediths. "What are you doing here, Atwater?" Frances asked him in that stuffy way Cyril remembered so well from school, although it had been years. Ah, the passing years. It was still hard for him to believe he was an adult, especially hearing that old familiar, irritating voice in his ears. His first impulse was to say something cutting, as he might have done in their school days together, but he could not behave in such a manner any longer, sadly, especially not as a guest in Frances's own home.

"Good day, Meredith," he replied politely instead. "How perfectly wonderful to see you again." He hoped he at least sounded as ironical as he felt. "I'm here to see your brother, as a matter of fact."

Frances did not return his civilities with any of his own, but it was his home, Cyril supposed, and English people were not obligated to be civil in their own homes, only other people's. "My brother? What do you want with him?"

"It's a business matter, actually."

"Business? And just what sort of business are you involved in, Atwater?"

"Very important business," said Cyril meaningfully. Although he ordinarily tried to keep himself as far from anything that could be truthfully construed as business as was humanly possible, he supposed this was business of a type, after all.

"And I suppose you're going to tell me it's none of my concern."

Cyril nodded. "I would, if you asked." He gave a sunnily false smile.

Frances stared at him while Cyril, staring back, reflected happily to himself that he had aged so much better than this young man who was of an age with him, even though neither of them were old yet in any sense of the word, save perhaps when it floated on the lips of the very young. Frances already looked far older than he was, was already growing to a comfortable weight, as it was called.

"Yes. Well-- very well," said Frances at last. He looked as though he might want to say something more. Cyril remembered this from school too, Frances's famous unfinished conversations. He had always wondered, just a little, about the things Frances wanted to say but didn't. Were they more interesting than the things he actually said? They had to be, didn't they? It would be impossible for anything to be less interesting. "I will leave you to it, then." Thankfully, he exited the room.

Cyril sighed a little in relief. He was nervous, waiting here, and Frances had threatened to grate on his nerves more than ever in his current excited state. The relieved sigh had only just left his lips when he heard a sound like someone else entering the room. He turned again, and this time Percy was standing in the doorway. Cyril rose at once. He bowed. "Please do excuse the short notice of my visit-- the decided lack of notice, in fact."

"That's quite all right, Mr. Atwater," said Percy, beginning to walk towards him. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" He stopped a few paces from Cyril, watching him through half-lowered eyes. Percy seemed faded today. Perhaps it was only the morning light. Yet however faded, he was still lovely, and Cyril's feelings were unchanged from the night before. Whatever poison had found its way inside the chambers of his heart, it was still operating there. He still suffered from it, could practically feel it moving within him, like a serpent, or something similarly whip-thin and quiet and secret. Agitated by Percy's presence, the venom moved to sting him, and he ached. He wanted to reach out for the boy, but he dared not.

"My intent has little to do with pleasure, but more with business, I fear," said Cyril, loud enough that Frances could hear if he happened to be listening. Cyril, a devoted eavesdropper himself, was not about to fall prey to anyone else fond of listening at doors.

"I see."

"I owe you this." With a gloved hand, Cyril withdrew from his coat pocket a number of banknotes and presented it to Percy. "Feel free to count it, if you like."

Percy looked at the money in Cyril's hand. "What--?"

"Five hundred pounds," said Cyril crisply. "For services rendered."

Percy colored, which subtracted from his morning faded quality somewhat. He held out a hand as though to ward off the banknotes. "Oh no-- I can't. I'm sorry, I can't take your money, Mr. Atwater."

"But that was the agreed upon fee, was it not?"

"No, I don't want it."

"Oh, but I insist. I insist that you take it." Cyril pushed it into Percy's hand in such a manner that he had no choice but to take it. "And I am quite willing," Cyril went on, "to pay you the same fee every night running, for as long as your services are required. Although I cannot, at the present moment, say how long they will be required. Tragically, I fear your price will bankrupt me in the end. Ah well. What does a piddling bankruptcy or two matter in the grand scheme of things?"

Percy clutched the money in his hands, his gaze moving from it slowly up to Cyril's eyes. "You--"

Cyril interrupted him. "Unless, of course, you are adverse to my proposal? Or perhaps a better offer has surfaced?"

Percy was still staring. It took him a few long, quiet moments to respond. "I think I might be convinced to waive my fee. In such a special case."

"Could you really? That would be a great boon. I assure you, I would never forget it. I would rather not squander the family fortune-- or, at least, the portion of it that is allotted to me."

Percy swallowed. The sound of his swallow was made prominent by the quiet of the room. There was no other sound save their breathing and the creaking of the house. Cyril tried to commit this moment to memory, although outwardly it had no memorable features, other than the shape of Percy's face, the washed-out gold of him in the pale light. "Yes. I'd be quite happy to oblige you in that. You see, I was planning to leave the business anyway. It will be pleasant to settle into a comfortable retirement."

"Not too comfortable, I hope?"

Percy shook his head, eyeing Cyril significantly. "No, not too comfortable, I don't think." He tucked the banknotes Cyril had given him decisively into his pocket. "But I think I will keep these after all. After all, they're the closest to an honest living I've ever made."

Cyril laughed at this, but the laughter dissolved in his throat as Percy pitched forward, letting his head come to rest against Cyril's chest, leaning his weight against him as though unable to stand on his own. Not knowing what else to do, Cyril put an arm around him, holding him up, glancing with mild concern at the doorway. No one, fortunately, was standing there. They were alone. He was not too worried, regardless. The present tableau, he knew, could easily be explained away. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I thought--" Percy's voice was broken. This was the first time Cyril had heard such emotion in it. Last night, speaking to him, the boy had been so collected and calm, and from his soft, almost detached tone, he had not seemed to feel any great emotion, in spite of the things he had said which had indicated feeling. But Cyril had been mistaken in his estimation of Percy. "I thought I would never see you again." Cyril realized now why Percy seemed so faded this morning. It was because of him.

"Don't be silly," Cyril chided him, reaching a hand up to stroke the boy's hair. Percy felt so good against him. He couldn't help smiling, even if Percy was upset, because of the feel of Percy's warmth, the fine hair between his fingers. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"You," said Percy in reply, turning his head, pressing his face against Cyril's coat, his voice somewhat muffled by this movement. Cyril felt the boy tremble against him, and he was not sure whether Percy was laughing or crying. He was not sure of anything at the moment, save the poison. The poison that had tainted him, that was claiming him. There was too much of it, surely. He wouldn't survive.

But somehow, though dying of it, he was still capable of standing and speaking. He stood, and he held Percy, and he spoke to him. "The first thing you must learn," Cyril said slowly, "is that you cannot-- absolutely must not, under any circumstances-- listen to a word I say." He paused, adding almost as an afterthought, "Unless I say otherwise."