"Are you?" Cyril raised an eyebrow as he brought his teacup to his lips. Though his hair was shot through with noble silver, his eyebrows were as wickedly dark as they had ever been, well suited to the most ironical gestures. "And what will you pay him with? You haven't any money." His niece had come to spend the day at his house, as she so frequently did. They had been having one of their literary afternoons, but now it was tea time and their books had been set aside in favor of china and spoons and finest Darjeeling.

"I'll pay him in kisses, of course," Kingsley announced imperiously, with a shake of her golden hair-- which had willfully worked its way free of its coif and was spilling over her shoulders in a cavalcade of ringlets.

"Don't be ridiculous. You can't pay Patrick in kisses."

Kingsley nibbled on a biscuit. "Whyever not?" Patrick was content to allow himself to be discussed. He did not enter the conversation himself, but remained silent, his eyes lowered. His face wore a mild, slightly amused expression.

"He won't accept them."

"But why?"

"Because my dear, as apparently you fail to understand, Patrick, unlike you or I, is a completely sexless being."

Kingsley laughed, pleased as she ever was when her uncle let her in on a joke most adults would have considered inappropriate for someone of her age and sex. "Is he really?"

"Of course he is. Just look at him."

Kingsley wrinkled her nose, peering carefully at Patrick. "I don't believe it. He looks like a perfectly ordinary man to me." Dressed all in black save for the white which showed at his throat, Patrick did present a picture of the word ordinary. Though by no means difficult on the eye, the man was in no way striking or handsome, but had rather regular features, marred by a smattering of freckles. His brown hair held only a trace of red, and the most that could be said of his rather muddy green eyes was that they were set neither too close together nor too far apart. Few who saw him came away with any impression other than that of having just encountered an unexceptional gentlemen's valet, one among many, another raven in the flock. Patrick was perhaps somewhat younger than most men in his position, but youth was a problem time always solved.

Cyril shook his head with a knowing grin. "You've only to ask him. Patrick, aren't you a completely sexless being?"

Patrick's Irish accent, although heavy, did not come between him and his listeners. "Yes, sir," he amiably yet respectfully agreed, "I am."

Cyril Atwater had always had trouble keeping a valet, owing to his curious moral character, and those few valets who had not objected to his morals had, in the end, objected to his personality. Cyril made for a difficult master: erratic, eccentric, and temperamental. But he was not, Patrick thought, a bad man. In many ways, he was a very good man: intelligent, generous, high-spirited, and loyal in friendship. After having entered Cyril Atwater's service, Patrick had expected to remain there for a long time. What he had not expected was to be promoted to the position of Cyril's valet as unexpectedly as he had been when Cyril's previous valet had absconded in the middle of one fine April night.

As soon as the loss was made apparent, Cyril had assembled all of his remaining male staff, looked them over, and with less than a minute's contemplation, had pointed at Patrick and said, "You. You're a likely young man. What's your name?" Though startled, he had replied without hesitation, "Patrick Bishop, sir."

"Would you like to be a valet, Patrick Bishop?"

"Would I-- Why yes, I would, sir. Very much, sir."

"It isn't an easy job," Cyril went on, severely. "I won't suffer a fool as a valet. I expect a great deal more from my valet than most men. In many ways, I will depend upon you completely. Are you certain you're up to the responsibility?"

Patrick had no doubts as to the amount of personal responsibility he could take on. It was as a plain fact that he stated, "Yes, sir. I am certain."

"Excellent! Your confidence assures me. Your predecessor was rather a spineless creature. Come along."

Patrick had been rather startled then as Cyril's hand gripped his arm, but he had gone with him that morning, and he had remained with him throughout all these years. Though their pairing as master and man had been without forethought, it had been a lucky one, much as occasionally, through sheer good fortune, arranged marriages are happy. If Cyril had, over time, come to depend upon Patrick's forthrightness, level-headedness and common sense, Patrick, for his part, had come to depend upon Cyril's irony, sense of mischief, and ardor for life. Patrick had never been happier at his work, and he did not intend to leave Cyril's service until one or the other of them died. Which, God willing, would not be for another score of years or more. Patrick suspected that Cyril was the type of man who would live to a great age, out of sheer perversity if nothing else.

"Is it true, what my uncle said?"

Patrick looked up from the linens he was folding, surprised to have been caught unawares by young Kingsley Meredith. She was staring at him boldly with her blue eyes, her manner entirely unladylike, something boyish and rather rough about her, like a young tough off to join the Navy-- although her face was as fair and bright as a rose, and even someone with a fig for a brain could have seen that she was growing into a great beauty. "I'm sorry, Miss Meredith?" he asked. "What was it your uncle said?" Cyril was not, strictly speaking, her uncle, but since her father, Percival Meredith, was on close terms with Cyril, she referred to him as her "Uncle Cyril". Patrick could not have denied that this girl brought out something decidedly avuncular in his master.

"About you being sexless. I don't believe it. You aren't, are you?"

"I apologize, but it's hardly a fitting subject for a man of my station to discuss with you, Miss Meredith."

"Oh, come now, I don't care about your station."

Patrick tried not to smile at this. "Mr. Atwater and I were only joking, Miss Meredith."

"Ah! Then I can pay you in kisses!"

Patrick shook his head. "That is not the proper currency for a lady to use to pay her servant, Miss. People cannot dine on kisses."

"I can." Kingsley looked very like her father, but with a robustness, both physical and mental, that neither of her parents possessed. It was as though somehow she was the child of a union between her father Percival and her Uncle Cyril, although of course such a thing was impossible.

Patrick could find no proper reply to her remark. He returned to folding Cyril's linen's. "Where has your uncle gotten to, then, Miss?"

Kingsley's gaze was sharp. "I can't quite figure you out. Are you like Uncle Cyril, then?"

"Excuse me, Miss?"

"Do you prefer boys to girls?"

Patrick was not precisely surprised, as he was used to Kingsley's insolence, but he was taken aback, so much so that he stared at her in silence for several long moments. When he spoke at last, however, his tone was as polite and unperturbed as it ever was. "I'm afraid I don't have time for any such excitement in my life, Miss." Patrick wondered if Kingsley had any real idea of what she was asking him, what it meant. He wondered if she had finally managed to break into the locked cases in Cyril's library. He hoped not.

"Oh, not even a little?"

"Not even a little. Your uncle keeps me very busy, Miss." In any other household but Cyril Atwater's, such a conversation could very well have meant his termination.

"That's cruel of him. He ought to give you some time off, at least."

"Your uncle is very generous. I do indeed receive time off, but I use my free time for relaxation rather than recreation, Miss."

"Stop calling me Miss! I hate it!" Kingsley stamped her foot. "I really can't abide it at all."

"What would you prefer I call you?" asked Patrick genially.

Kingsley thought this over with a pensive frown before deciding, "Sir. Like Uncle Cyril. It sounds ever so much better. Miss is for little girls."

Suspecting Cyril would encourage him to obey her, Patrick nodded. "Of course, sir. I apologize for addressing you in such an untoward manner."

"Oh right, I almost forgot!" Kingsley announced suddenly, in such a loud voice that Patrick started and dropped the delicate piece of cloth he was holding. "Uncle Cyril said to tell you we're going to the park. But we won't be gone very long. Good-bye, Patrick!" She dashed off, her skirts flaring behind her.

Patrick shook his head, smiling, and returned his attention to the linens. The unfortunate thing about folding pieces of cloth, however, was that it required no great concentration, and left one's mind free to consider all sorts of things one would rather not consider. He kept remembering what Cyril had said about him. Sexless. Was that what Cyril thought of him, or had it been, as Patrick had told Kingsley, just a joke? It was quite possible that Cyril, who could be rather self-absorbed, really did not think of him as a sexual person. But Cyril, he suspected, was more observant than that, and it was never wise to take anything he said too seriously.

It was true that Patrick had never actually-- but surely there was more to being sexual than the physicality of the sex act. He was, despite his own better judgment, gradually growing to become offended by the remark. Sexless. As though he were an automaton rather than a person. As though he were a pair of shoes or an andiron. Then, adding insult to injury, Kingsley had asked him whether he preferred boys to girls. The girl's thoughtless tongue was going to get her in trouble someday. What if she'd said that to someone who wasn't her uncle's valet? Patrick believed her quite capable of saying any ridiculous thing to any person she had a notion to say it to. He shuddered to think what would become of her if she didn't learn to mind herself. Preferred boys to girls. What a ridiculous question. He didn't prefer anyone to anyone, of course-- He didn't have time . . . .

Patrick collided with someone as he turned a corner. Linens flew from his basket, flew everywhere, woefully unfolding as they tumbled to earth. Patrick, taken completely by surprise, drew in a sharp breath of dismay. He had not heard anyone coming. Another moment, and in the confusion of collision and linens, Patrick realized who it was he'd bumped into, and his eyes widened. "I'm so sorry. So very sorry, sir. I didn't mean to--"

"Oh no, please!" The other man put up a hand, palm facing Patrick. "It's my fault. I sometimes forget I walk so softly."

Patrick found himself facing Percival Meredith, Kingsley's father. Some of the delicates Patrick had been so carefully folding minutes before were resting now on Mr. Meredith's head and shoulders. Patrick quickly plucked the offending items from their mischievous perch, and as he did this, something it was his job to do, his assured manner returned to him-- an old acquaintance, if not precisely a friend. "That is kind of you to say, Mr. Meredith, but I should have been watching more closely. After all, I know as well as you do how softly you walk, sir."

Mr. Meredith laughed. "Well, I suppose you do, don't you? There is no one at fault, then. Let us call it an act of God. Here, let me help you with that." The slight man bent to retrieve the fallen items.

"Ah, no, please don't trouble yourself," Patrick protested, but it was no use, of course. When Mr. Meredith was bent on helping someone, he always helped. Patrick resigned himself to the gentleman's aid, stooping with him so he would not to all the work.

"You'll have to fold these all again, won't you?" Mr. Meredith asked. "I'm dreadfully sorry."

"I don't mind the folding, sir," said Patrick lightly. "But if you're looking for Mr. Atwater, he's taken Miss Meredith to the park. They've only just left, and I'm not sure when they'll be back."

"That's no great matter." Mr. Meredith industriously continued to pick up linens. "I'm happy to wait for them here. Yes, with those two, there's no telling how long it might be. I wouldn't be surprised if they staggered in three weeks later, dressed in rags." He smiled. Between the two of them, they had returned all the linens to Patrick's basket. "Would you like me to keep you company while you refold these?"

Mr. Meredith and his own Mr. Atwater, Patrick was well aware, had a special sort of understanding which many-- or even most-- people would have considered reprehensible. That was part of the reason Cyril had found it so difficult to keep a valet, before Patrick. There were things it was difficult to keep from a valet, especially for someone so indiscreet as Cyril Atwater. Patrick, however, had no objections, moral or otherwise, to the gentlemen's romantic liaison. He had been shocked at first, of course, shocked not so much by the behavior itself, but by how the two seemed to feel no shame for what they did. They behaved like any two ardent lovers, throwing each other longing glances, laughing, kissing-- As long as they kept to the confines of the house and each other, they were safe enough, Patrick assumed. Patrick sometimes wondered what Cyril must think of him, what conclusions he must have drawn from the fact that Patrick had not left his employment, even knowing what he knew.

In the years he had served Cyril, Patrick had gotten to know Percival Meredith-- Percy, as he was commonly called-- rather well. As well, that is, as a servant could know his master's lover. "Oh no, Mr. Meredith, please don't trouble yourself--"

"I wouldn't dream of interfering in your work. I'm sure I'd only get in your way. But if you wouldn't mind, could I sit and talk with you while you fold? I do so enjoy your conversation, and I'd hate to just sit twiddling my thumbs by myself, waiting for Cyril and Kingsley to return."

The request pleased Patrick, although he strove not to show it too much. He kept his voice level as he said, "Yes, sir, I would be delighted to have some company. Folding is an easy task, but rather dull."

"I imagine so!"

Percy sat chatting amiably with him as he worked. When they'd first met, Percy had been quiet in his presence, and Patrick had thought him standoffish, but he saw now that the man was only shy. He was, in many respects, like the girl his daughter was not. Slight, delicate, and reserved around strangers. And he did look so very much like his daughter, only a gentler, older, more silvery version of her. Patrick was rather glad that he was no longer a stranger to this man; he liked the sound of Percy's laughter. He liked the way Percy asked him questions about his family, the way his eyes lit when he listened to Patrick's measured replies. Surely few gentlemen took such an interest in the life of a mere valet.

"Is anything bothering you, Patrick?" Percy-- really, he shouldn't think of him as Percy, but as Mr. Meredith, yet it was hard not to look at this man and think Percy-- asked suddenly.

Patrick blinked, glancing up from his folding, which was almost done a second time. The second bout of folding had seemed to fly by much faster than the first. "Bothering me, sir? I can't say that anything is," he replied with a slight smile.

"I'm sorry. You just seem--" A puzzled frown left its trace on Percy's lips for the merest instant. "Out of sorts. By which I mean no offense-- you're as pleasant as always. But Kingsley hasn't-- said anything she oughtn't, has she? Or Cyril, for that matter? How they must run roughshod over you-- I know they do over me." He gave Patrick a conspiratorial smile.

Patrick blinked again. He hadn't realized he was letting any of what he felt show.

"I see by your face that I've hit my mark," said Percy. "But I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. It isn't any of my business. But I do apologize for whatever my daughter might have said to offend you."

"She didn't offend me," Patrick hastened to assure him. "It's simply that I was concerned for her. What she said-- Well, sir, if she said it to someone else, she might cause grave offense, or even do her uncle an injury."

"Ah!" Percy put a hand to his lips. "That bad? What was it she said?"

Patrick regretted having spoken. He should have denied the matter rather than admitting to it. He couldn't see a polite way of refusing to tell Percy now. He flushed red. "Perhaps I shouldn't relate this, sir, but she asked me whether-- whether I preferred boys to girls, like her Uncle Cyril."

Percy said nothing for a moment. Patrick could feel the man watching him, and his flush deepened, but he continued to fold. "Did she. She certainly shouldn't have asked you that. Thank you for telling me. I know it's rather an indelicate subject, but I'm glad to know what kind of ridiculousness Kingsley gets up to. I will have a talk to her about that, and about being more polite to you."

"I don't mean to complain, sir. She may say whatever she likes to me. It's just that I was concerned."

"As well you should be," Percy said gravely. "The child must learn to control her tongue." He frowned, clearly thinking of her and of words to say to her, but as he watched Patrick industriously continuing to fold, the frown softened into a smile. "You're very good to us, Patrick. I'm afraid you must think us all quite hopeless."

Patrick shook his head decisively. "No, sir. Not at all, sir."

Percy laughed at his earnestness. "Cyril was fortunate to have chosen you, I think."

"That's kind of you to say, sir."

Percy tilted his head to one side, eyes suddenly thoughtful. "Patrick, perhaps I shouldn't ask you this, but in some ways I feel as though we know each other quite well. I don't know if you feel the same, however so please do tell me if I'm being as rude and thoughtless as my daughter."

Patrick stopped folding, looking towards Percy, feeling himself a deer caught in the hunter's sights. "Yes, sir?"

"Cyril and I-- you don't-- we don't offend you, do we? Through our actions."

Patrick hoped he did not look as relieved as he felt. He was able to answer the question in all earnestness. "No, sir," he said. "You don't offend me in any way."

Percy smiled. "I'm thankful for that. I'd hate to think we did."

Patrick wondered if Percy thought of him as sexless. The remark still rankled a little, but Patrick tried to push it out of his head. "Of course not. You've both been very good to me. I count myself the fortunate one for having been given this place of employment."

Percy smiled. "You're very kind, Patrick."

Patrick realized he had nothing more to fold, but had been refolding already folded items for the past few minutes. He stopped. "I'm finished," he admitted, although part of him hated to end their conversation. "Thank you for keeping me company. It was good of you, sir."

That evening, Patrick stood outside the door and waited. Cyril and Kingsley had returned from the park long before. Percy had taken Kingsley home, then had come back later. Cyril and Percy had retired to the bedroom, and Patrick stood outside the bedroom door, waiting. It was not that he wanted to eavesdrop. It was just that a good valet should always be ready for his master's call. He couldn't help it if he heard Cyril tell Percy in a rough whisper what he was going to do to him, or if he heard Percy beg for it, in a voice very unlike the one he usually used for speaking. He had heard it all before. It must be strange, he thought, the sex act, to make people behave in a way so very different from their usual manner. So very different from themselves. But which selves, he wondered, were the true selves?

And if the selves revealed in sex were the true ones, what did that mean for people who were sexless?

Time passed, and the noises in the bedroom fell away into silence. Eventually Patrick realized Percy and Cyril had fallen asleep. It must be very late, he realized. He could not hear a single noise from any part of the house, and even the streets outside were quiet. He felt suddenly exhausted, and he wondered how he could have been standing there for so long without comprehending how late it had grown. He must have been in a kind of daze.

As tired as Patrick was, however, he did not find sleep waiting for him in his bedchamber. He disrobed in a hurry, only casually folding his clothes, hanging them over the back of his chair. The night air was cold on his bare skin, so he struggled quickly into his nightclothes, then climbed into bed. But he found he could not close his eyes. He found himself staring up into the darkness, his mind and body drained, but somehow, inexplicably, wide awake.

Patrick could not stop thinking about the events of the day. Little events, scarcely worth speaking of, which had somehow left an impression on him. Cyril's remark. Kingsley's question. Percy's conversation. Most of all, though, it was Percy he thought of. He saw in his mind's eye the pale blue eyes, the pale silver hair which must have been golden once, the pretty face that seemed still too young to wear such silver hair. He heard again the kindness in Percy's voice, and watched the quick, casual movements of his hands, like two bright birds. This was not the first time Patrick had had such thoughts, but he tried to stop himself this time, to go no further.

It was no good. He heard again the sound of Percy's voice, coming from behind the locked bedroom door. The soft moans, the wet, broken songs of desire. He remembered the times when he had, all unwitting, opened the door to find it carelessly unlocked, to find the two of them there in bed together, asleep. Their bodies a tangle. He was the valet. It was his job to gather the clothes strewn about the room, to straighten, to tidy. Was it his fault if, in the course of his work, his eyes should happen to linger on a bare chest, a smooth leg?

Oh God. He shouldn't, he knew he shouldn't think these things. It was disloyal to his employer, disloyal to Mr. Meredith as well. If only he could stop himself. But he could not, and he felt his body begin to respond to the thoughts of his mind. His hand somehow found itself between his legs, and then he was stroking himself, breathing fast, allowing himself, for this quick, urgent juncture, to imagine Percy's lips pressed against his own, to imagine himself in bed with Percy, to imagine Percy begging him--

It took only a few moments, and then Patrick's shame was on his sheets, which he knew he would have to wake up early to wash. Perhaps he simply would not sleep at all. He did not see how he could possibly sleep now, wet and unclean as he was. His face was wet as well, although he did not understand why. He wiped his hand off on the already soiled sheet and reached up to find that his cheeks were wet with tears.

"What is it, darling?" Cyril asked, sitting up and stretching.

Percy sat neatly folded in the bed, his knees at his chest, his white shift wrinkled, his silver curls floating about his head like a crown of light. "I was just thinking."

"About what?" Cyril crawled across the bed towards him and unfolded him, pulling him down so his head fell against the pillow. He put his face in Percy's own, his gaze meeting the other man's intently.

Laughing, Percy kissed him. "About Patrick."

"Patrick?" Cyril raised a dark eyebrow. "What are you thinking about him for? Shouldn't your every thought be of me? I thought that was our agreement."

After rolling his eyes, Percy went on. "Do you think he's lonely, Cyril? I was talking to him yesterday, and he seemed sad somehow."

"Don't be ridiculous. Patrick's as happy as-- as a pig in slops, isn't that the saying?" He paused. "Really, though, I don't understand that expression. I think a pig would be happier dining at a King's table. Just because they will eat slops doesn't mean they're happy about it, does it? It's simply that they don't have a choice."

"I wasn't talking about pigs, I was talking about Patrick."

Cyril nodded. "Yes, I know. But I was getting at something."

"Oh, were you?" Percy shook his head.

"Yes. As usual." Cyril cleared his throat. "Much like the pig who eats slops because he must is contented with his slops, so the valet who must be a valet is contented with his lot-- because he has no choice."

"That's a rather gloomy way of looking at it."

"It's very true, however. No sense sugar-coating it. No one chooses to be a valet rather than, say, a lord. I know this, and Patrick does too. So there's no sense feeling sorry for him. Besides, for a valet, he's done quite well for himself."

"But don't you think it would be nice if he could have something else in his life? Like a romance, or-- or a family?" Percy noticed that Cyril had begun to stare at him in a singularly pointed fashion. "What? What is it? Why are you looking at me like that? Cyril, stop it this instant. I can't bear it when you look at me like that."

"Can it be," said Cyril slowly, not altering the fashion of his gaze in the least, "that you actually don't know?"

"Don't know what?"

"About Patrick."

"Don't I know what about Patrick?" Percy asked, his voice broken by a laugh of frustration.

"Why, that he's in love with you, of course."

Percy began to laugh again, but stopped when he realized Cyril was in earnest. "No, you're wrong," he protested quickly. "He isn't." But he knew Cyril well enough to know when Cyril was telling the truth. More than that, now that the words had been said, it was as though so many small, slightly puzzling things he had not previously understood suddenly made sense to him.

Cyril frowned. "Do you think I'm such an idiot that I wouldn't notice when my valet was in love?"

"But-- I didn't notice."

"He's not your valet."

"Oh." Percy fell silent.

"You don't have to worry about it," Cyril said softly, taking Percy's hand in his. "He understands the natural order of things. He knows that he hasn't any hope, and he doesn't expect anything of you. It's only that people can't help it, can they, when they're in love?"

"No," said Percy. There was a sadness in his voice. A soft and subtle sadness, like a veiled glance or a word whispered into the stillness of a dark room. "No, I suppose they can't."