I. Then.

"Might I have a word with you?"

Percy turned, poised in the hallway, his pose deerlike, his eyes bluely wide, his lips parted. One hand he raised, its pale white fingers outstretched; the other hand hung limp and delicate at his side. For a moment the boy was off guard, startled, a kind of wildness in him despite the rarified lace and velvet he wore. Then his wide blue eyes narrowed and his lips widened in a smile, transforming his face as his smiles always did-- from something beautiful and alien into something human and warm. "Oh-- yes, Fran, what is it?"

Francis tried to suppress a surge of anger at the sight of his brother's beauty. Such a useless thing beauty was. Francis couldn't see why so many put such stock in it. He knew, with the rational part of his brain, that he should not be angry with his brother. Percival could not help the way he looked. The irrational part of Francis, however, the part of him that became heated and wrathful whenever he looked upon his brother's lovely face, seemed to grow stronger by the day. His ability to control his temper, meanwhile, lessened. Yet Francis kept his tone level. "You are in a hurry, I take it?"

"Not in the least. I'm dining with the Atwaters this evening, but I needn't be there for, oh-- hours and hours. I was leaving early so that I might have some time to play cards with Cyril before we dine."

"I see. Then if I might take a moment of your time?"

Percy nodded. The white wig he wore moved with him as he moved his head, creamy curls like seafoam framing his face. "Of course."

"It is fitting that you should mention Cyril Atwater, for he is, in part, what I wished to speak with you about."

"Cyril?" Percy gave a slight frown. "And what do you have to say concerning my dearest friend?"

Francis opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. "If we might retire to my room? It is somewhat more private. One never knows who might be listening in a hallway."

Percy's face wore a puzzled expression, but with a graceful shrug, he acquiesced to his elder brother's request. "Very well. If you think that would be better." When Francis turned and strode away down the corridor, Percy followed. As he walked, Francis listened to the lightness of the footfalls behind him. The house was quiet save for a distant clatter from the kitchen as a great number of cups or perhaps plates were dropped. This faint noise was quickly silenced, and Francis, with grim satisfaction, imagined that the scullery maid must be getting a severe tongue lashing. The boys' parents were presently elsewhere, and the servants who constantly flitted about the house flitted for the most part in silence, as they were bidden. Percy and Francis were their parents' only surviving children. Two sisters and another brother lay in tiny coffins deep in the soil of the family cemetery.

"Now, what is it you wished to talk to me about, Fran? Cyril, you said?" asked Percy once they reached Francis's bedchamber.

"Please. Do not address me as Fran," Francis requested, not for the first time, letting a trace of irritation creep into his voice. "I do not appreciate it, as I've told you before."

"You never minded it when we were children."

"We are children no longer."

"I do try to remember," said Percy, smiling. "But it's so hard not to think of you as Little Fran, my playmate. In our short pants, with bows around our necks--"

Francis winced. "Do try harder to remember, Percival."

Percy nodded, his smile subsiding as his memories did. "I will. But that is not what you wanted to talk to me about, I suspect?" Percy hovered next to Francis's bed. "Might I sit?"

Francis made a gesture of acquiescence. "Please."

Percy seated himself on the edge of the bed, folding his hands in his lap, gazing up at Francis, his eyes asking a wordless question. Francis remained standing.

Now that Percival was here, Francis found it hard to remember the speech he had planned. His brother's face was without guile. Perhaps Francis had been mistaken when he'd said they were children no longer; something of the child Percy patently still existed in the young man seated before him. Almost, Francis considered calling off this conversation, or at the very least, waiting a few months to broach the subjects he had in mind. But he would appear foolish were he suddenly to say, Never mind, it was nothing. "I mentioned Cyril Atwater already," he began.

"So you did."

"Atwater, however, is only a part of the matter." Francis paused, reflected, began again. "I feel rather queer having this conversation with you, as it is our parents' place to do so. But our parents remain oblivious to your behavior, so it seems to be up to me. I, as your elder brother, will have to take the mantle of responsibility onto my own shoulders." "I would thank you not to patronize me, Percival."

Percy bowed his head. "I did not mean to patronize. I am sorry if I gave offense. Continue."

"I might as well cut straight to the heart of the matter," Francis said decisively. He paused, then spoke his next sentence in a heated rush: "I think you are behaving disgracefully." He paused again, looking to Percy as though he expected Percy to say something in reply, but Percy did not, only sat motionless, meeting his gaze, waiting for him to continue. This emboldened Francis. "You are, quite frankly, a disgrace to this family. You are wasting your life entirely. Gadding about, playing cards, drinking, reading poetry, talking about art and flowers and God knows what else you talk about with those people you call friends-- it is positively shameful. Mother and Father don't seem to realize what you get up to, but I do."

"Do you?" asked Percy mildly. His expression had not altered: patient, calm.

"Yes, I do. You get up to a lot of absolute nothing."

"So I do," Percy admitted.

"Precisely! How can you be so nonchalant about it? Politics, business, finances-- these are the things you should concern yourself with. Practical things. After all, what do you plan to do with your life?"

The question, asked flat out, seemed to take Percy by surprise. "Why, nothing in particular."

"You say that so calmly! I can't understand it. Do you even know what you're saying?"

"Of course. I am in full command of my faculties and am quite aware of what both you and I are saying." Francis's temper was rising, and he didn't bother to push it down, continuing to talk, his voice only marginally lower than a shout. "Then you must be mad. I don't know what you are expecting to happen which will allow you to continue living your life in idleness eternal, but you will not be coming into any great fortune. I am the eldest. And our family may be well off, but we are by no means extraordinarily wealthy. You need to give some thought to your future. Yet you fritter away all your time! You make no effort at anything. You were a failure at your studies, and you continue to be a failure in every way imaginable."

Percy did not react with anger, but when he spoke, there was sorrow in his voice. "Is that what my brother thinks of me, then?"

"It is," said Francis curtly, folding his arms over his chest.

Percy nodded, slowly. "I see. I didn't realize you thought so little of me. How very educational." He rose from his seat at the edge of Francis's bed. "If you are finished, I'll be going now."

"No, I'm not finished." Francis stood in Percy's path. Percy blinked at him. Now that Francis had begun, he would not be silent until he had said everything he meant to. "There is still the matter of Cyril Atwater. And the rest of those reprehensible creatures you call your friends."

"Oh?" Percy's voice remained soft, but there was something new in his tone, a touch of frost. His hands were down at his side, but his fingers twitched as if they might be itching to coil into fists.

"Don't fool yourself that I haven't realized what kind of men they are. Men of the lowest sort." He was standing very close to his brother, still blocking his way, since Percy looked as though he was longing to leave the room. "It's scarcely correct to even call them men, if you catch my meaning."

"I'm afraid I don't," said Percy, the chill in his voice definite now. "If I may go?"

Francis did not move, did not let him pass. "If you continue to spend your time with such men, I shudder to think what will become of you. I hate to see you made a fool of. It makes the entire family look ill. Cyril and the rest of that coterie claim to be your friends, but I assure you they are not."

"Thank you for your concern, dear brother, but I can take care of myself quite well. I don't need a nursemaid to tell me who I should and should not spend my time with. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must be going--" He made to step around Francis.

Francis grabbed Percy's wrist and held him fast. He was breathing hard. Why wouldn't Percival listen to him? He was the eldest; he knew best. Furthermore, his advice was prudent, and he was speaking with the noblest intent; he simply didn't want to see his younger brother destroyed. "Don't you see? They only keep you around them because of the way you look. As an ornament. They don't care about you in the least. They are base, unnatural men."

"You don't know them," Percy protested. He tried to pull away from Franceis, but Francis held fast. Percy's face flushed bright red and his eyes flashed. It seemed his anger was beginning to rise to match Frances' own.

This was a novel and rather fascinating sight for Francis. He could not remember ever having seen Percy angry. He had, he saw, touched upon a nerve. Where he had touched, he determined to strike deeper. "I know enough." As he spoke, he tightened his grip on Percy's wrist.

Percy gasped. "Fran, you're hurting me. Let me go."

"I will-- when you can assure me of something."

"Assure you of what? What do you want me to say?" Percy struggled, but Francis was the stronger. He seized Percy's other wrist. Their faces were very close together, although Percy had turned his face away. Strong in Francis's nose was the smell of whatever sweet concoction it was Percy had dosed himself with that morning, and beneath the perfume was a bitter undertone, the faint sourness of Percy's sweat. There was something about that mixed scent, perfume and sweat, that maddened Francis further.

"Tell me that they haven't praised your beauty," he hissed. "Tell me they haven't written poems about you. Tell me they haven't whispered in your ears, words no man should say to another. Tell me they haven't gotten you drunk and covered you with kisses. Tell me they haven't used you like you were a woman. If you swear to me that nothing like that has happened, I'll let you go."

"You're being horrible," whispered Percy. "Horrible."

"Swear it to me. On your life, swear."

"I will do nothing of the sort!"

"Swear, or I will consider you no better than a whore." But Francis did not need Percy to say anything. He had already seen the answer in his brother's eyes. Percival had always been transparent. So easy to read. So easy to predict.

Percy did not swear to anything. "You don't understand," he said: an admission.

"Whore," spat Francis. "Worse than a whore. At least the women of the street lie down with men as God intended. You are both a whore and an abomination. Is that how you plan to support yourself? Giving your body to those disgusting libertines?" He found himself, against his will, imagining the scene: his brother in that ponce Cyril's arms, the two of them kissing. He felt a stab of agonizing pain and almost let Percy go in order to clutch at his chest. What was wrong with him? Was this an attack of apoplexy? Or was it just that he hated Cyril Atwater so much that his heart ached with his loathing?

"I--" Percy tried to say something, but whatever it was would not come. He sagged. The anger he had shown earlier passed out of him, and he seemed all at once as feeble as someone who has just recovered from a long wasting illness. "You don't understand," he said again.

"I understand that you are both absolutely useless and absolutely vile." Percy said nothing to this, but Francis saw Percy's eyes grow moist, saw tears roll down Percy's face, leaving shining trails in their wake. "You do well to weep. It shows you feel some remorse, at least."

"That is not why I am weeping." Percy's voice was so low that if there had been any other noise in the room, or if he had been standing but a few paces away, Francis would not have been able to hear it. "I weep to hear my only brother speak such words to me."

"I say what I say for your own good. You would do well to heed my words, not merely to weep at them."

Percy, to Francis's disbelief, shook his head. He had not listened, Frances realized, not to a single word Francis had said. "I fear we will never understand each other, and that saddens me."

Francis released his brother, so suddenly that Percy stumbled back, almost fell. "I see now that talking to you was a waste of time. Go. Go and let him use you like a whore. But don't expect me to feel sorry for you years from now, when the blush of your pretty face has faded, when you have nothing left."

Percy steadied himself, rubbing at his newly released wrists. He looked at Francis, and his blue eyes were wounded, wide with hurt, his pretty lips twisted, his face still wet with tears, his nose an unsightly shade of scarlet. "I will always feel sorry for you," he said.

Francis laughed. He liked the sound of his laughter, liked how it seemed to wound Percy further. "You, feel sorry for me? How comical. How truly absurd. Now go. I cannot even stand to look at you anymore, now that I know for certain what you are."

Without another word, without even a look, Percy left. Francis remained alone in his bedchamber. He stood staring at the walls for a long time. The curtains were open; the sun shone in through the windows. He watched the shadows in the room shift with the passage of time. He made no motion, no sound. His expression was unreadable, not that there was anyone else present to read it; there was only the mute gaze of the mirror hanging in its gilded frame. Francis stood and stared until the strange chaos of feelings churning within him had calmed to perfect stillness. He stood there until he felt nothing, absolutely nothing at all.

II. Now.

"How much do you need this time?" asked Francis, glancing up from his writing desk as his brother entered his study.

"I have not come here to ask you for money."

"Really?" Francis raised an eyebrow. "How singular. What is it that you want, then? For I suspect you would not have come all this way merely to pay your respects."

"That is true," Percy admitted slowly.

Percival no longer wore the white wigs he had sported in his youth; the fashion had changed, and they had changed with it-- or perhaps it was the fashion which had changed because they'd changed. That depended on whether one thought that men ruled fashion, or that fashion ruled men. The only hair Percy wore now was his own, and it too had changed, prematurely, from the gold of its youth into white. He had never suffered the darkening into brown that so many golden haired youths experience. So in a way, nothing had changed at all. Percy's hair was still white. It had not begun to fall out, had not even thinned, but was as lush and full as his wigs had been, tied back with a black ribbon. His eyes, of course, were still blue, and time had not clouded them. But his face bore some lines, and he was no longer as pretty as he had been. Yes, it could easily be said that his beauty had faded. But it was not gone yet. It was only beginning to die. Francis, for his part, had put on weight. His hairline had receded a little, but he considered himself, for the most part, uncommonly well preserved-- not that he put any great stock in his appearance. One who did not put stock in his appearance had no loss to fear as time passed, save the loss of his health. Not that the two of them had grown truly old yet, not by any means. No, they were only older.

"No sense chit-chatting," said Francis wearily, wanting to spend no more time talking to his brother than was entirely necessary. "Get to the point."

Percy nodded. "As you know, my wife has fallen gravely ill," he said in his customary soft, unassuming tone.

"Gone mad, you mean?" Although he did not want to lengthen their conversation, Francis could not resist any opportunity to sink in a claw or two, not where Percy was concerned.

"It's true, her illness is psychological in nature," agreed Percy without rancor. He was, no doubt, used to the nature of their conversations.

"Does someone like that even have a psychology?"

Percy let a moment pass before replying, "I'd thank you not to speak of my wife in such a manner."

"To be fair, she's hardly a wife by most people's standards. Why someone like you would take a wife is something I've never been able to understand. I pity the creature. Being married to you, it's no wonder the poor thing went mad."

"I mean no offense, but as you do not know my wife, it's rather baseless for you to speculate on the reasons behind her affliction." Percy kept his tone free of censure. He stood before his brother with his head slightly lowered, his hands behind his back.

"Honestly, no woman wants to share her bed with a pansy."

Percy did not raise his head to look at his brother. He stared at the floor, his expression veiled. "As you know," he began again, "my wife is ill." This time Francis said nothing in reply, and Percy continued. "I must leave home. I have to stay by her side until she is well. Unfortunately, I cannot bring the children with me. Our Aunt Adelaide has been kind enough to take Vera and Kingsley in, but she will only have girls living with her. She cannot take Vivian."

"I see. So you want me to take care of your brat, is that it?"

"Your guess is correct."

"That is asking a great deal of me."

"There was no one else I could ask."

"Of course not. Who else would even consent to see you?"

"Your Francis is around Vivian's age. Perhaps they would make good companions," Percy went on, as though his brother had not spoken those last two sentences.

Francis frowned at the mention of his own son's name in the same breath as that of Percy's son. He studied Percy's faded face again, and he remembered that the declining beauty he saw there was not truly dying. No, it had been reborn in the form of Francis's own son, the one he had named after himself. His own youngest son, who was so very like Percival had once been. Who had the same blue eyes, the same golden curls, the same skin as pale and smooth as fine bone china, save for the blush in his cheeks and the scarlet of his lips.

Young Francis was so very like Percival, the resemblance disturbed Francis at times. When he came upon his son unexpectedly in a lonely corner of the house, he sometimes thought it was Percy standing there, young again. At such times he felt the years slip away from him, and his heart, stirring, would claw at his chest like a wild animal. But the delusion passed in an instant, his heartbeat slowed, and he told his son not to slouch or asked him why he wasn't studying. It must have been his memory of the great anger he'd had towards Percy in those days that unsettled him so during those brief moments. That hot anger had faded over time, or rather, it had transformed itself into a kind of cold contempt.

Yes, the younger Francis looked very like Percival. But the elder Francis prayed the two would not prove themselves too alike in temperament. His son had already shown himself a failure at his studies, had already shown himself to have a head full of little more than fluff. But hopefully the similarity would end there, would not deepen into the flaw that he most feared. Hopefully hope was not yet lost.

Percy could not have guessed what his brother was thinking, especially as he was not looking at him. "I know-- of course I know-- that this is a great favor to ask of you, Francis. I would be willing to recompense you--"

"Recompense me?" Francis banished thoughts of his younger son from his mind. It was better to think of the elder boy, the one more like himself, the one he should have named after himself-- and would have, had not his wife been so overly fond of her father's name: Alistair. "Recompense me with what?"

"With--" Percy faltered, flushed. "With anything I can give you. I realize I don't have a great deal to offer. I would not ask this of you if it were for myself. But it is for Vivian, and he has done you no wrong. He is a good boy, I assure you."

"What about your good friend Atwater? Can't he take the brat in?"

Percy did look up then, meeting Francis's gaze for the first time during this interview. The curtains were open, and the light filtering through the trees outside painted strange patterns on Percy's face. Was it merely the play of sunlight and shadow, or was there defiance in his eyes? "Cyril is coming with me," he said.

Francis might have said many things then, but he only laughed. "Of course. Of course he is. How foolish of me to even ask. Then I will prove myself a better uncle to the lad than his 'Uncle' Cyril. And perhaps he has a spark of promise in him which might be nurtured away from the bad influence of his own household."

"Perhaps," said Percy carefully, the word infused with more meaning than its two syllables could hold.

"As for repayment, we'll speak of that when you have something worth giving me-- in the unlikely event that that should ever come to pass."

"Thank you, Francis. I'm very grateful." Percy bowed his head again.

"You should be."

Percy smiled at him, but his eyes did not change shape as he smiled; the gesture was a false one. For a flicker of an instant, Francis remembered a long ago time, before the day when he had seized Percy's wrists so tightly and held him so close-- the only time he had dared draw so near to the creature. In their youth, Percy had smiled at him with eyes and lips both. They had once been Percy and Fran, fast friends in the nursery, giving their nannies many a headache, as hard as that was to believe now. And what was it that had changed the ever earnest Percy he had once known into someone capable of false smiles?

Francis pushed the question from his mind, disgusted at his own lapse into sentimentality. Of course they had been friends as children. Children were different. That had been before Percy had been taught perversion, before he had become the flawed thing, the cracked vessel he was now. This hypocrite who stood before him, a man who had married and even fathered children when he was the thing he was. It would be a saintly act on Francis's part, providing a decent home for Percy's son. Perhaps Percy would never return for the boy-- after all, it did not seem likely that the mother would recover; she was said to be a raving lunatic. The boy should not be censured for his parentage. After all, Francis knew only too well how one's relatives were no measure of one's own character. Perhaps this Vivian would have loftier principles than Francis's own younger son, would be more like himself, just as his son was like Percy. Perhaps the boy could be trained to work for him in some fashion. Perhaps this would be for the best. He made the necessary arrangements with his brother wearing a faint, self-satisfied smile.

"Goodbye, Francis," said Percy as he turned to go.

Without a word, Francis returned to the letter he'd been in the process of writing when Percy's arrival had interrupted him. He was pleased to find that Percy's departure did not affect him in the least.