Archive of Our Own

It was funny how one's life could change in an instant, thanks to some trifling little decision that seemed inconsequential at the time.

Arthur hadn’t actually planned on going to the theatre that dreary late April night. His father paid for a private box for the season so they could attend whenever the mood struck, but usually Arthur begged off a night at the theatre, finding it much too dull for him. He wasn’t sure what made him accept Morgana’s invitation that evening, other than a passing fancy and some expert wheedling.

“I hear there’s a new company performing Shakespeare at the Theatre Royal,” she said. “Care to escort me this evening?” Something of his reluctance must have shown on his face, for in the blink of an eye Morgana sidled up to Arthur and grabbed his hand, giving him her best pleading expression. “They’re doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I know how you love that one.”

Arthur closed his eyes for a brief moment, and heard Morgana make a triumphant noise. “Is father attending with us?” he asked, not bothering to acknowledge her victory over his apathy.

“No, he and mother are to dine at Courtenay House this evening,” she said. Arthur’s reluctance lessened with the news. His father remarrying the Lady Vivienne Le Fay, widow of the late Baron Gorlois Le Fay and Morgana’s mother, had made his previously-unsociable father much more inclined to show off his new wife at the various events around town. Before, he was much more content to spend most of his time at their country estate rather than coming to London for the season, and Arthur missed those days when he wasn’t dragged from Camelot Park to gad about town and be paraded in front of every eligible young woman that was out in society and looking for a rich husband. Vivienne made his father happy, though, and after the thunderous tempers of his mourning period after Ygraine had passed, Arthur could hardly begrudge his father the joy of a new wife, even if the newness was tempered by the fact that she had first been the wife of his dearest friend.

If only Vivienne weren’t so insufferably socially conscious. Something about marrying a duke had turned her into a social climber of the worst sort, as though Uther didn’t already have access to all the most exclusive circles and need not play the sorts of games that lesser aristocracy tended to in their grabs for any scraps of additional status. Luckily, Morgana had much more of a restrained air about her, having inherited her father’s title upon his death and not wishing for more besides. Status was not Morgana’s desire. No, she was much more interested, Arthur knew, in different sorts of excitement.

No, without Uther and Vivienne attending the theatre, Arthur figured his night would be passably dull at the very worst, and might actually be somewhat enjoyable if the company performing were of any talent.

Arthur sighed. “What time shall I have the stablemaster ready the carriage?” he asked, not without a small smile, and Morgana lifted herself onto her toes to peck a kiss onto his cheek, a dark ringlet tickling his jaw as it brushed past.

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down, brother,” she said, a mischievous grin on her lips.

“You realise you are not required to call me that simply because our parents have married,” he said with a fond roll of the eyes. She laughed and waved a dismissive hand.

“Perhaps I simply wish to lend credence to the rumours that Uther is my real father, that he and my mother betrayed my father while he was away fighting on the Continent,” Morgana said, a flip tone covering what Arthur knew to be a very real fear that it was the truth. He laid a hand on her shoulder.

“I know you, Morgana. We have been playmates since before I could walk. If that were true you would be devastated,” Arthur said, gentle in a way he wasn’t with anyone else.

“It hardly matters,” Morgana said, turning away but not dislodging Arthur’s hand. “Uther would never claim me, and there is no proof besides. No matter what anyone else says, I will be Baroness Morgana Le Fay, daughter of Gorlois Le Fay, 4th Baron of Stafford now and forever.” She patted the hand on her shoulder. “But hearing the whispers, the ridiculous things that people conjure from nothing more than the whiff of a scandal, is so very amusing.”

“You find amusement in the strangest things,” Arthur said, taking his hand back and straightening the cuffs of his coat.

“One does what one must to pass the time,” Morgana said airily. “The play is to begin at seven, and I would prefer to find our seats well before then.”

“I will inform the stablemaster to be punctual,” Arthur said, shaking his head. Morgana laughed, a light, teasing sort of thing.

“I was referring to you, dear brother,” she said. “I know you fancy yourself something of a dandy though you would never say it. Just tell your valet not to take his time tonight.”

“It is not dandyism to wish to be well-dressed,” Arthur protested to Morgana’s retreating back. “There is nothing wrong with preferring well-cut clothes!” he added. “A dandy indeed.”

“I heard they’re to be installing gas lights next year,” Morgana said as they found their seats later that evening, well within Morgana’s preferred timetable. Arthur fussed with his cravat pin, a simple thing of gold with a pearl head he had inherited from his mother, and gave her a noncommittal answer. He removed his hat and placed it on the seat next to him, Morgana echoing his action as they settled in for the performance. Arthur was glad of the private nature of their box, he was not in the mood to socialise; if he had been, he would have joined his father and step-mother at Courtenay House.

“I have not heard of this company before,” Morgana went on, seemingly oblivious to Arthur’s lack of interest or attention. As much as he loved his step-sister, if he were being honest with himself he would have admitted to preferring to be back at the townhouse, dabbling with his paints or spending time at the pianoforte his mother had so adored playing when she was alive. She had taught Arthur everything he knew of playing, and he had fallen in love with the artistry of it much to his father’s chagrin. Arthur drummed his gloved fingers over his thigh as he thought of a melody he had been practicing, letting his eyes wander over the crowd below them making their way to their seats.

“And then I thought to myself that if an earl's son can run away and become an actor, then why not me?” Morgana said, and Arthur’s gaze slipped back to her as his attention snapped back.

“Don’t be ridiculous Morgana,” he said, “your loving mother would die of shock.”

“Oh so you are listening to me,” Morgana said, nudging Arthur’s ankle with the pointed toe of her shoe. “You seemed as though you were far, far away just then.”

“I am always paying the utmost attention to your dulcet voice,” Arthur said, allowing the faintest hint of playful sarcasm into his voice. Morgana slapped his upper arm with her folded fan, causing Arthur to grin.

“I shall get you back for such a remark,” she said, and Arthur didn’t doubt it.

“If you put your mind to it, I do believe that you could become a great actress,” Arthur said. “The scandal of it would fuel you for the rest of your days.”

“You aren’t wrong, I suspect,” Morgana said with a laugh. “If only I weren’t so fond of the finer things in life.”

“Heaven forbid you go through life without your maid or collection of clothes and frippery,” Arthur said with a laugh, knowing that he was no better.

“Oh hush,” Morgana said. “It’s about to start, and I’m very keen on seeing this Mr. Ambrose people keep speaking of.”

“What are they saying?” Arthur asked, only half interested.

“Simply that he’s a most entrancing actor. He’s to be playing Robin Goodfellow this evening,” Morgana said as the curtain raised. Arthur didn’t reply, he simply sat back and reserved judgment as actors took the stage.

The production was neither the best nor the worst Arthur had ever seen, and he found his attention wandering for much of the first scenes. The appearance of Puck, however, had him engrossed from the moment he took the stage. He had a presence, and it wasn’t just the costuming and makeup that made him stand out.

“That’s him,” Morgana leaned over to whisper. “That’s Mr. Ambrose.” Arthur wanted to hush her so he wouldn’t miss anything, but he simply leaned forward in interest. Puck was wearing an outfit in different shades of green, a crown of leaves and twigs upon his dark, curling hair. He was tall, and lean, and every inch the forest sprite. As he delivered his lines, he looked to the audience, as if including them in on a joke, and his gaze flitted from person to person. When at last that piercing look landed on Arthur, he felt his heart skip a beat, his hand squeezing into a fist as it rested on his thigh. He knew the actor probably couldn’t see him very well, if at all, from down where he was on stage, but the weight of his gaze held Arthur captive, and he felt in himself a longing that he had scarcely allowed himself to feel before.

Arthur knew he was of an age where he was expected to settle down with a wife and have a family to carry on the Pendragon name and titles, a legacy beyond his father, beyond himself. A lady of breeding, one that would bear him healthy children and elevate his standing in society. But for as long as Arthur could remember, his eye had been drawn not by the soft, delicate curves and lovely face of a beautiful woman, but the strong angles and masculine features of a handsome man. He had even experimented a time or two when he was younger with an apprentice groom whose name he couldn’t remember, but whose chapped lips and calloused hands brought him a pleasure he would never forget.

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat as something twisted in his stomach, a need he knew he absolutely must hide. It was stronger than the last time he had felt it, with the apprentice groom and his kind eyes and skin that smelt of fresh straw and clean horse. But Arthur knew he must not allow himself to indulge. His father would find out, somehow he always found out. Nothing had ever been said to him, but before Arthur knew it, the summer before he was to leave for Cambridge for university, in the blink of an eye that groom he had fancied himself infatuated with had disappeared, and no one in the stables would speak of his departure. None of them wished to cross His Grace Uther Pendragon, 11th Duke of Norfolk, 20th Earl of Arundel and his vast influence. Arthur wanted to talk to his father, to demand what gave him the right to dismiss someone that way when no wrongdoing had been committed, but even then in his reckless youth he knew it would be fruitless. Uther Pendragon was not a man whose judgment was to be questioned, nor was he a man to be trifled with, and while no real tangible consequences of his short dalliance fell upon his head, Arthur had found himself at the short end of his father’s ill temper for weeks afterward.

Imagining how much worse it would be if his father found him dallying with an actor, made Arthur’s stomach turn even as the thought of dragging his fingers through those dark waves of hair and slipping his knee between those two thighs to press his own against an undeniable hardness made it knot in a secret, ardent longing he couldn’t begin to deny to himself. If only it were an actress that had caught his eye, that was something Uther was bound to forgive. Encourage, even, for a bit of uncomplicated fun with little social ramification. After all, if the Prince-regent had done so, then Uther could hardly complain of Arthur doing it.

But no, as the curtain fell for the interval, Arthur brought his gloved fist to his chest, hoping to calm his own heart at the thought of the beautiful and fey Mr. Ambrose.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream may have been Arthur’s favourite of Shakespeare’s plays, but he had never thought himself the type to see it night after night. For nearly an entire week after that first evening, Arthur ordered a carriage to bring him to the Theatre Royal to view the play. Morgana teased him, wondering aloud which actress had unwittingly become the recipient of such special attentions, and Arthur vehemently denied it, stating he had simply found the company’s interpretation of the play to his taste and wished to view it again. The look in Morgana’s eye told him she didn’t believe him, but she let the matter drop much to Arthur’s relief.

The week following, the company put on a production of The Merchant of Venice, apparently the theme for the season was ‘A Season of Shakespeare,’ that Arthur would ordinarily have not been interested in, but found he still wished to attend merely on the recommendation that Mr. Ambrose would be playing Bassanio. What he didn’t count on, however, was his father and step-mother’s interest in attending.

“Arthur,” Uther had said as Arthur was ordering a carriage for the evening, “I hear we are to be attending the theatre tonight together.”

“We are?” Arthur had said, nonplussed. Uther clapped Arthur’s shoulder, startling him out of his stupor. “I was not aware you were interested in Shakespeare, father.”

“I’m not, not really” Uther said, leaning in as if sharing a secret with a co-conspirator. “But Vivienne insists we go. She says we have not been to the theatre in much too long. What she means is that we have not been seen at the theatre in much too long, and who am I to argue with her on such a point, eh wot?”

“Ah, it would not do to displease her,” Arthur said faintly.

“It would be bad form indeed,” Uther agreed. “As you would do well to learn, for when you finally take a wife.”

Arthur braced himself for another lecture about propriety and duty, and doing things in a timely manner, and when none was forthcoming he forced a laugh and excused himself to ready for the evening.

All told, it wasn’t the worst time he’d ever had with his father and step-mother. Mr. Ambrose was as captivating as ever, and Arthur found himself more inclined to let his annoyance with Vivienne roll off his back when he had something much more worthwhile on which to lend his attention, even when she spoke over Bassanio’s lines, depriving Arthur of the clear sound of Mr. Ambrose’s sonorous tenor voice.

In the carriage on the way back to the townhouse after the play, both Uther and Vivienne had nothing but praise for the theatre company, surprising Arthur as Uther was generally much more critical of the arts and Vivienne’s taste ran more toward musical recitals. For some reason it made Arthur swell with pride as if he himself were the cause of the success.

It was mid-May when Arthur was of a mind to wait near the stage door after the evening’s performance, to try and catch Mr. Ambrose as he left for the night. The gas streetlights cast long, flickering shadows in the alleyway where the door stood, and as Arthur paced along the length of it, with each pass he grew more and more conscious of how he must appear. There he was, a gentleman of some distinction, lurking in an alley like some ne’er do well. Anyone who saw him would think him mad. And perhaps he was, in a way. Mad with longing to be in the same space as Merlin Ambrose, to breathe the same air. Even for a moment.

With a shake of his head, Arthur turned to go back to the street, to track down his carriage and take him away from such a fool’s errand he had tasked himself with. For what good would ever come of meeting the object of his misguided affections, after all? He reached up to pull the brim of his hat lower on his brow, moving closer to the light’s embrace of the main street ahead, when a notice at the corner of the building caught his eye.

URGENTLY NEEDED, it declared. BACKSTAGE HELP. STAGEHAND, SET PAINTER, PROP MASTER, ASSISTANT TO THE COSTUMER. ENQUIRE WITHIN.

Arthur paused in front of the poster, handwritten recently if the crispness of the inked lines were to give it away, and lost himself in thought. Arthur knew he was no actor, would never be suited to be on the stage. His status in society alone was enough to deter any inkling of such aspirations from him, had he any. His face was much too recognisable in society; being caught performing on stage would be the ruin of his family. No, the thought of joining the theatre company to be near to Mr. Ambrose was squashed as soon as it had arisen for those reasons.

But a stagehand, or any of the other positions the company was looking to fill, that was something Arthur could conceivably do, with a bit of subterfuge. He reached out to touch the paper gingerly, before the sound of the stage door up the alley slamming open and laughter filling the damp night air caused Arthur’s heart to leap into his throat at the prospect of being discovered in such a manner. He snatched his hand away and strode on, trying as best he could to put the entire idea out of his mind.

It was a mad thought, anyway.

Three days passed in Arthur's indecisiveness. Three days of him failing to put that thought he had proclaimed ‘mad’ out of his recollection, three days of avoiding the theatre and staying in pretending to engross himself in books to stave off questions, before he finally made up his mind. The dawning of the fourth day of Arthur’s inner turmoil brought about a decision that he could not continue living in such a way. He had to get closer to Mr. Ambrose in some fashion, and if he had to be a hired stagehand to do it then so be it. Perhaps then, with some exposure to his heart’s desire, his heart would stop racing when he thought of Mr. Ambrose. Perhaps then, he would cease waking from frantic dreams of the man in desperate need of a wash before anyone saw him in such a state.

Without calling for George, his valet, Arthur dressed himself in the oldest of his clothes he could find, the most threadbare and least fashionable. It wouldn’t do for him to show up looking for a position backstage looking as though he owned the place, after all. When he felt he was suitably attired, leaving off the cravat and gloves for good measure, he made his way to the stablehouse to make use of one of the carriages.

“Drury Lane,” he ordered as he entered. “But there is no need to rush.”

Being much too early, after all, would make him look desperate. And if there was one thing Lord Arthur Pendragon was not, it was desperate.

He had the carriage drop him well away from the theatre, so no gossip would reach Vivienne’s— and therefore Uther’s— ears as to his whereabouts. What his father and step-mother did not know could not hurt them, or Arthur.

When he stepped into the theatre, it was a chaos the likes of which Arthur had scarcely seen before. People were darting back and forth, carrying heavy items and bolts of fabric, yelling back and forth at each other. The din took him aback, though he wasn’t sure what exactly he had expected when he had entered this backstage world.

“Excuse me,” he asked of a passing man with an armful of what looked to be blunted swords. “I am here about the advertisement outside?”

“You’ll be wanting Merlin, then,” the man answered with a harried grunt, thrusting his chin toward a tucked-away room whose door was open. “Ambrose!” the man shouted. “Visitor for yeh!” Arthur resisted his first impulse, to tell the man off for not speaking with the proper respect to someone of his status. Thankfully, he was more interested in keeping up his ruse long enough to see Mr. Ambrose more than he was at nursing any injured pride at being spoken down to by someone of such inferior circumstance. Normally Arthur would never have condescended to speak to any such person who found themselves employed in a theatre. But as he was there to seek employment in a theatre himself, he knew he had no moral or social high ground to speak of. Thus, he held his tongue and minded his civility.

“Can they call back later?” a voice Arthur recognised as Mr. Ambrose’s called from the office. The man Arthur had asked shook his head.

“He’s here about the job posting,” he said, and Arthur felt himself colour for no real reason.

“Oh!” A flurried sound of scattering papers followed, with Mr. Ambrose emerging from the office wearing just a rumpled shirt and waistcoat, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows exposing creamy lengths of skin with a scattering of dark hair that matched the mess upon his head that looked as though he had been running a frustrated hand through it repeatedly. Arthur wanted nothing more than to take him into his arms and bury his own fingers into the wild tresses to see if that hair was as soft as it looked.

He cleared his throat, steeling himself against his desires, and offered his hand to shake. “Mr. Ambrose, I presume?”

“Yes, thank you. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. …?” Mr. Ambrose took Arthur’s hand and shook it, smiling at him. Arthur felt his knees go weak. Mr. Ambrose had the most striking pair of cheekbones that Arthur had originally ascribed to the magic of stage makeup. But he was standing in front of Arthur, his face naked of any paint or powder, every bit as angular and ethereal as he was on stage. Mr. Ambrose's smile only served to enhance the effect, and Arthur found himself staring for a few seconds.

“Ah. De Bois. Arthur de Bois,” he said, withdrawing his hand at an appropriate time and clenching it to try and regain his wits.

“Mr. de Bois,” Mr. Ambrose repeated, and Arthur smiled faintly at him in reply. He longed to have the sound of his real name formed by that bewitching mouth, but he knew it was more prudent to offer a false name. The name he had eventually settled on in the carriage that morning had been his mother’s maiden name. As she had been the daughter of a minor Baron of no repute, Arthur had thought it safe to use.

“How may I be of assistance to you?” Mr. Ambrose said after some seconds of them staring at each other. The man Arthur had spoken with first had wandered off by then, and the two of them were relatively alone. As alone as two could be when standing in the middle of a busy backstage thoroughfare, anyway.

“I was hoping to speak with the company’s manager, to enquire after a job,” he said.

“What sort of job were you looking for?” Mr. Ambrose asked, seeming to skip over Arthur’s wish to speak to the manager. Arthur didn’t mind in the least, as he was at last speaking to the object of his many fantasies after weeks of a sort of pining.

“I’m capable of many things you require, I believe. I am a passable hand at watercolour landscapes, which may be a transferable skill, and am rather adept at the pianoforte should it be required.” Arthur paused, looking over Mr. Ambrose’s shoulder and back toward the office whence he had emerged. “I beg your pardon, but is the manager unavailable?”

“Oh!” Merlin exclaimed, and laughed in a self-conscious manner that Arthur found charming. “I am the manager, I’m sorry. Merlin Ambrose, manager, occasional playwright, and lead actor at your service.” He gave a short bow with the flourish of one hand, and Arthur felt himself growing redder than he thought possible.

“I must admit to not knowing how these sorts of things are run,” he admitted by way of apology, but Mr. Ambrose waved him off.

“If you’ve never worked in a theatre or acting company before then I am not terribly surprised. No matter.” Mr. Ambrose clapped Arthur heartily on his shoulder before leading him back toward the office. “You say you can paint? Fantastic, we are always in need of people to do the setpieces and backdrops. We have been managing thus far, but I must admit that staging a different play each week is tasking us almost beyond our capabilities. Any extra assistance is heartily welcomed.”

“I am here to be used,” Arthur lied, knowing his motives lie definitively elsewhere. Mr. Ambrose laughed, shutting the office door behind them and cutting off a majority of the frenzied din that lay without. When they were alone, Arthur watched Mr. Ambrose look him over, as if assessing him. He self-consciously tugged at the hem of his waistcoat, wondering what he saw when he looked at Arthur. He hoped it was pleasing to Mr. Ambrose, either way.

“The pay is almost insultingly low,” Mr. Ambrose finally said, moving to sit at the desk and motioning Arthur to the shabby seat in front of it. “You’re almost certain to find better pay as the private art tutor of some rich man’s daughter.”

Arthur stared at Mr. Ambrose before offering him a short laugh. “I assure you, Mr. Ambrose, the pay is not why I’m here.”

“Mm, I expect it’s not,” Mr. Ambrose said, with a rather enigmatic smile. Arthur wanted to ask him what he meant by such a remark, but held his tongue to not spoil his chances at spending more time with the lovely Mr. Ambrose.

“If that’s the only barrier to your accepting me?” Arthur asked, folding his hands together in his lap and looking at Mr. Ambrose with a carefully neutral expression he was sure would be seen through immediately.

“Honestly it is. If you’re willing to work for a company still establishing its reputation, for a pittance, and gladly do so, then I will happily count you among my fellows here Mr. de Bois.” Mr. Ambrose rose, and held a hand out to shake and close the deal. Arthur mirrored him, taking the hand once more and gripping firmly as though it were a business deal of more import than Arthur chasing his own desires.

“I shall be more than glad to,” he said. Mr. Ambrose shook his head with a grin.

“You’re clearly mad, but we’re all the better for it,” he said, and Arthur laughed. He agreed with Mr. Ambrose’s assessment of his sanity. Clearly this madness that had taken him since he had laid eyes on Mr. Ambrose that night in April was going to be the end of him. But he couldn’t find it in himself to care as he lingered on the way Mr. Ambrose’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, or how charming his over-large ears were when not covered by his hair properly.

“If you say so,” Arthur said, readying himself to leave.

“We have a production to ready for this evening so I’m afraid you cannot start immediately, but if you come as early as you can in the morning, we shall get you started.” Mr. Ambrose made a motion toward the door, presumably to open it and show Arthur out, but Arthur shook his head.

“I can see myself out, thank you Mr. Ambrose. I shall endeavor to be here as early as I can come morning. Until then,” Arthur offered Mr. Ambrose a short bow and left him in his office. He felt in a daze, amazed the scheme had worked, and elated that he would have an excuse to see Mr. Ambrose daily, until he had got him out of his system.

“Oh,” he said to himself softly when he had reached the street and the brightness of the day greeted him. There was one part of his plan he hadn’t thought through.

What was he to tell his father of his whereabouts each day?

That evening, Arthur paced the library with a book in his hand he had been trying to read for several hours. He was having an issue with thinking of a suitable excuse to explain his disappearances, and his frustration was mounting. The best he had so far was that he was to be visiting friends, which might work to start, but eventually his father would begin to ask questions. Arthur preferred to prepare himself for that eventuality, so he didn’t have to come up with something right then and there.

Improvisation was never his strong point.

“Dearest brother, you’re going to wear a hole in the rug with such pacing,” Morgana said, breaking him forcefully from his thoughts. Arthur snapped the book closed and set it on the table nearest him.

“I wasn’t pacing,” he denied, for lack of anything better to say. Morgana laughed.

“Of course you weren’t,” she said, sitting on a chair near the window and sweeping a stray tendril of dark hair from her forehead. Arthur sighed, and tried to ignore her. Morgana, of course, was not about to allow that to happen. “Now tell me what it is that you are not pacing over.”

“It’s nothing,” Arthur said.

“Now I know that isn’t the truth,” Morgana said, tapping her finger against her chin and narrowing her eyes. “If you prefer not to tell me, I will have to guess.”

Arthur groaned internally. “Morgana,” he warned, but she ignored him.

“Now let me see,” she said thoughtfully. “It must be something to do with my step-father, for only he can put such an expression onto your face.”

At her words, Arthur felt his face relaxing to try and rid himself of the evidence, which was all the more damning to Morgana’s observant eyes.

“La, it seems I had the right of it,” she said, sounding smug.

“That is a guess hardly worth celebrating over,” Arthur groused. “A great deal of my expressions are due to father.”

“What has he done this time, to deserve such a glare?” Morgana asked. Arthur turned to look at her, searching her face to try and assess if he could trust her. How much he could trust her with. He hardly knew if she would take his recent actions seriously or play them off as a joke to be told to all her friends.

“I…” he started, unsure.

“Arthur,” Morgana said as she smoothed her hands over the skirt of her afternoon dress. “Tell me.”

“I am simply trying to think of an excuse to tell father as to why I am going to be away during the day,” he finally said. Morgana made a thoughtful noise, and Arthur didn’t miss the shrewd glint to her eye.

“Well. I won’t bother asking what your intentions are, clearly you are not in a sharing sort of mood,” she said. Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “But perhaps I can provide to you an alibi.”

“You would do that,” Arthur asked, his flat tone turning the question into a statement.

“Don’t be so skeptical of me, dear brother,” Morgana said, playing at being affronted.

“Dare I ask what’s in it for you?” Arthur asked.

“Can’t I simply wish to help you out?” Morgana said.

“Not if you wish me to believe you,” Arthur answered. They both paused, sizing each other up. Finally, Morgana spoke again.

“Let’s say you shall owe me a favour in the future if I do this for you,” she said. Arthur shuddered to think what such a favour would entail, but didn’t say so.

“One favour,” he said firmly.

“Depending on the length of this alibi, it may be a very big favour,” Morgana said. Arthur bit down his urge to negotiate further. Morgana was a lot more cunning that Arthur was, and could talk Uther into most anything. It infuriated Arthur on his worst days, jealousy at not having been indulged in his own life by his father. But at least he could use it to his advantage, now.

“I am not certain how long my need for an alibi will be,” he said, hoping it would not deter Morgana’s generosity.

“Honestly, the length of time doesn’t bother me overmuch. I’ll simply tell Uther you are chaperoning me as I call on my friends each day. He’ll be delighted that you’re keeping company with eligible young women, and start planning your wedding forthwith.” She laughed, as Arthur groaned at the pronouncement.

“God forbid,” he muttered, wishing there were another solution. But as nothing was forthcoming, he was bound to accept her help as it was offered. It was genius in a way, as Morgana was correct about Uther’s wish for him to find someone suitable to marry. She also knew how to make the servants keep anything they might see or hear to contradict the story to themselves.

“Do we have a deal?” Morgana asked, and after a moment’s hesitation, Arthur nodded.

“An aibi for an unspecified length of time during the days, in exchange for an unspecified favour in the future,” he said, holding his hand out to seal the deal with a handshake. “Why do I feel as if I am making a horrible mistake?” Morgana laughed merrily as she shook his hand, and Arthur felt the conflicting emotions of foreboding and excitement well up inside of him. Surely whatever Morgana asked for, it would be worth being able to see Mr. Ambrose every day.

The next morning, Arthur dismissed his valet before getting dressed, ignoring George’s confused spluttering as he tried to change Arthur’s mind. When he was finally alone, he considered wearing the same clothing as he had the day prior, but compared to the rest of the people he had seen working at the theatre, even his own older, threadbare clothing was still much nicer than would be believed to be owned by someone who was willing to work in a theatre for such a pittance. It would invite questions, and ones that Arthur would rather avoid if at all possible.

After throwing on the first shirt and trousers that he came across, he left the mess of clothing for his valet to clean up and headed out to the garden, where even though it was early and a drizzle of rain had been muting the colours of the day, he knew the gardeners would be at work maintaining the extensive lawns of Norfolk House. Several years prior, after he had graduated university, Arthur had befriended one of the under-gardeners by the name of Tobyn. He hoped he could assist him now.

It took longer than Arthur would have liked, but when he finally found Tobyn he was relieved that he was working alone in a secluded corner of the grounds, pruning one of the border hedges. The mixture of the rain soaking into the earth and the green smell of the freshly-cut hedge made Arthur feel like a young lad again, hiding in the secret corners of the gardens at Camelot Park, making believe he was a pirate or other swashbuckling hero, stealing food from the irritable cook and picnicking by himself as he hid from his tutor and governess.

“Lord Pendragon,” Tobyn said when he saw Arthur approach, raising a hand in greeting. “What can I do for you today?”

“Good morning, Tobyn,” Arthur said, holding a hand out to shake. Tobyn wiped his dirty hand on the thigh of his knee-breeches and shook Arthur’s hand. “I was hoping to ask you for a small favour, but I need you to be discreet about it.”

“Mmm,” Tobyn said, raising an eyebrow. “Discreet like ‘everyone knows about Lady Morgana and that militia officer she’s been seeing but nobody talks about it’? Or discreet like that time I caught you with the apprentice groom?”

Arthur flushed at the reminder of his youthful recklessness at having carried on such an affair in a place where he could be caught, then shook his head. “The fewer people that know about this, the better. I would prefer it if it was kept between you and me.” A moment passed, before Arthur’s eyebrows knit together. “What is this about Morgana and a soldier?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, my lord,” Tobyn said. Arthur would have pressed further, but he was more interested in Tobyn’s discretion than in Morgana’s indiscretions so he reluctantly let it go.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, and Tobyn laughed.

“What can I do for you, my lord?” Tobyn asked again, and Arthur shook his head fondly. If it weren’t for the difference in their stations, he would rather have thought he and Tobyn could have been friends. He was of a mind to call him friend regardless, but didn’t want his father to catch wind of it and find them with one less under-gardener. Uther had very strict ideas about societal roles.

“Well I was hoping you would be able to lend me some clothing,” Arthur said. Clearly it caught Tobyn off guard, for he blinked in confusion before bringing a dirt-streaked hand up to rub at his hair.

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but that certainly wasn’t what I was expecting,” Tobyn finally said.

“I’m aware it’s a rather unorthodox request, however I am in somewhat of a hurry…” Arthur said, aware of the time passing. He had promised Mr. Ambrose to be there as early as he could, and had rather expected to have been at the theatre by now. He hoped it wouldn’t reflect poorly on him in Mr. Ambrose’s estimation that he wasn’t.

“Ah, well I suppose I could part with a pair of breeches and a shirt or two,” Tobyn said, sounding apologetic. “Though why you would want a dirty gardener’s clothes is beyond me, when you have all those fine things of your own.” Before Arthur could offer an explanation— one he didn’t have handy— Tobyn shrugged. “No matter, it’s not for me to know I suppose. Should I leave them with George?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, I was hoping I could get them now, if possible.”

“Now is fine, if you don’t mind waiting for me to run back to my room,” Tobyn said.

“I could follow you, perhaps,” Arthur offered. Tobyn laughed.

“You sure know how to make a man curious, my lord,” he said, and Arthur grinned.

“A talent, I suppose,” Arthur said. Tobyn clapped Arthur on his back, and cocked his head toward the main house. Arthur hummed in acknowledgement, and followed him back toward the servant’s entrance. Soon he’d be clothed in a more appropriate manner for someone painting sets in a theatre.

More than an hour later, Arthur entered through the stage door and found a similar sort of chaos as he had when he had gone looking for employment. Mr. Ambrose was nowhere in sight, and Arthur was almost glad that he wasn’t there to witness his tardiness. He had expected to be reprimanded for not adhering to his word about arriving early, but nobody was paying attention to him. He could hear voices coming from the direction of the stage, and wondered if a rehearsal was taking place.

“Pardon me,” he asked a passing man, paint-splattered and seeming harried. The man stopped, but didn’t look happy about it. “I am not sure what I should be doing…?”

“You the new one Merlin hired?” the man asked. Arthur nodded. “Good, we’ve been in sore need of hands for a while now. Here, we need a sunset backdrop for next week’s play. You think you can handle that?” The man shoved a paintbrush into Arthur’s hand and pointed toward the largest piece of canvas Arthur had seen off of a frigate. It was not stretched on a frame the way he would have preferred to have worked, but it was anchored down enough that Arthur figured he could make due. The canvas looked to be primed and ready to be painted, so as Arthur approached it, he cast his gaze around and found a collection of milk paints in pots of varying pigments, along with brushes, drop cloths stained every colour of the rainbow, and a pot of murky water used to clean the tools. Arthur had never used milk paints before, he was primarily versed in the use of watercolours on a smaller scale. With a sigh, he searched the area for a scrap of canvas he could use to experiment with before he ruined the backdrop.

“Hello!” a cheerful voice from behind him said some time later, startling Arthur out of his intense concentration. “You must be Mr. de Bois.”

Arthur looked up, finding a lovely woman with dark skin and wild curls piled atop her head smiling at him. He stood from the stool he was seated upon, wiped his hand on the thigh of his breeches, and gave her a bow, belated realising he was probably being much too formal for such surroundings and circumstances.

“Yes, I am Arthur de Bois. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss…?” he said. The woman laughed, blushing prettily.

“You may call me Gwen, if you would like. Gwen duLac. I’m the head seamstress here, in charge of making sure each costume gets completed in time. Whether they fit correctly or not is another matter.” She laughed again, and Arthur found himself laughing along with her. “My husband, Lance, is one of the actors. He also helps Merlin stage each play, and is his understudy. And Percival is over there,” she pointed across to a tall, muscular, clean-shaven man, “the man with the large arms. He’s the carpenter, and does most of the work building the larger set pieces by himself when we can’t find anyone to assist him. My brother, Elyan, is around here somewhere as well. He helps out wherever needed, and is an actor.” She sounded proud of every person she introduced, and Arthur wondered at it. He had always been taught that working in a theatre was something best left to lowlifes, for them to earn their precarious place in society by putting on a good show for their social betters.

“It certainly sounds as though everyone here is kept quite busy,” Arthur said. Gwen nodded.

“Busy is not the half of it. I also do some acting, when they have need of another woman,” Gwen said, making Arthur blink. She didn’t strike him as the gaudy actress type, who Arthur had thought populated the entirety of the realm of actresses. The kind to seek out attention of all types, whether it be the theatregoers, or individual patrons looking for her favours. It was something he would need to think on, but later.

“I’m sure you have a ravishing stage presence,” he stuttered out, making Gwen double over in mirth.

“There’s a reason I am only in some of the productions, not all of them,” she said at last, straightening up and tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “I make a much better seamstress.”

“I’m sure you’re being modest,” Arthur said, and Gwen shook her head but chose not to refute Arthur further.

“What are you working on?” she asked, gesturing to the scrap of canvas Arthur had found lying around and used to experiment with colour blending and getting a feel for the new paint. “I’m certain the backdrop must be larger than that,” she teased.

“Ah, I was simply warming up,” Arthur said. “Though perhaps you can answer a question for me. I was told I was to be painting a sunset, but was given no further detail. What sort of sunset should I be envisioning? Over water, over mountains, over a city? And what season? A winter sunset and a summer sunset look much different.”

“Ah,” Gwen said. “I believe this is for Troilus and Cressida next week, so perhaps if you could make it feel Greek?” Gwen’s hands fluttered in front of her, as if she were embarrassed and didn’t know what to do with them. “I think Merlin is the best person to ask. He’s indisposed at the moment, though.”

Arthur held a hand up to try and ease Gwen’s fluttering. “I’ll get started, and Mr. Ambrose can tell me any specific details he prefers at his earliest leisure,” he said. Gwen nodded.

“That certainly sounds reasonable. I’ll leave you to your work, then, and return to my own,” she said. Arthur acknowledged her with a tilt of his head, and turned back to the backdrop piece, taking a large brush in hand and dipping it into the paint. He heard Gwen’s retreating footsteps, then shut out the noises surrounding him so he could concentrate. He wanted to impress Mr. Ambrose, starting with this first assignment.

“That looks lovely.”

Once again, Arthur was startled from his own world by a voice. He had been at it for quite some time, judging by the aches in his shoulders and the smears of paint across both hands. He swiped one of those hands absently across his cheek to wipe away a trickle of sweat, before looking down from his perch on the stool he was standing on to reach the higher parts of the backdrop, glaring annoyedly at whoever had interrupted. He saw Mr. Ambrose smiling up at him, and felt himself colouring at what a sight he must have made.

“Mr. Ambrose,” Arthur said as he lowered himself to the floor and set his brush and palette aside. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

“You did seem to be in your own world,” Mr. Ambrose said with a chuckle.

“That tends to happen when I paint,” Arthur said, embarrassed.

“I mean it, though,” Mr. Ambrose said. “It’s lovely. Better than I had envisioned.”

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted specifically,” Arthur said. “A lovely woman named Gwen said this was for Troilus and Cressida and so I should make it feel Greek, but that’s all the direction I have had for it so far.”

“What you have going is perfect,” Mr. Ambrose said, and Arthur took the chance to step back and survey his work from a distance. He had painted the sun setting over the walled city of Troy, and though it was a new medium he was working with, he was rather proud of how it was coming out. “It’s going to be one of our best set pieces, I think.”

Arthur felt himself puffing up with the pride of the compliment, offering Mr. Ambrose a pleased smile. “I am glad to hear it.” Arthur had been praised for his artistic skill before, mostly by tutors and his mother— his father held nothing but disdain for Arthur’s choice of pastime, thinking painting best left to the accomplished young ladies of the world and that Arthur should focus his attentions on more masculine pursuits— but something about hearing it from a man he wanted desperately to kiss made it all the sweeter. “Thank you, Mr. Ambrose.”

“You may call me Merlin, if you please,” Mr. Ambrose said. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony here.”

The offer, though Arthur objectively knew it didn’t mean anything more intimate than the offer of one colleague to another seeing as everyone else he had encountered also called Mr. Ambrose ‘Merlin’, made Arthur’s heart stumble.

“In that case,” Arthur said, trying to stave off the blush he could feel rising to his face, “please call me Arthur.”

Mr. Ambrose— no, Merlin— smiled. “Of course.” The both stood there, looking at each other with the background of an unfinished Trojan sunset, when Merlin stepped closer and lifted his hand to wipe at Arthur’s cheek gently. Arthur’s eyes widened, and he leaned subtly into the touch without thinking about it.

“Merlin?” he asked, looking between Merlin’s eyes and his lips. His heart sped up.

“Sorry,” Merlin said, withdrawing his hand. “You had paint just there.” He made no move to step back, however, and Arthur fancied he could feel the heat of his body warming him they were so close. Merlin’s own gaze seemed just as centred on Arthur’s lips, and Arthur wondered if he leaned in, if Merlin would allow the kiss Arthur wanted desperately to bestow.

Time stretched out between them, heartbeat by heartbeat, until the clatter of carpentry tools on the sawhorse broke the moment. Arthur moved back, searching for a cloth with which to wipe his hands.

“Thank you,” he murmured, looking anywhere but at Merlin. The feeling of being so off-balance while conversing was a new one for him. He was quite used to being in full control of all his faculties when speaking to people, even the young ladies his contemporaries had confessed to stumbling over their words with to him. Arthur had never desired to bed any of those other people the way he did Merlin, though.

“Mm,” Merlin said. Arthur scrubbed at his hands, removing what he could without water, carefully concentrating on the task. “Everyone is heading to the pub around the corner for something to eat before we set up for tonight’s performance. You’re welcome to come with us if you’d like to.”

Arthur chanced a glance at Merlin, finding him looking more alluringly bashful than a man had any right to appear. He wished Merlin had invited him for an outing, just the two of them. He shook his head. It would be better to return back home before he was missed. “I’m afraid I have to pass,” he said.

“Perhaps next time,” Merlin said with a shrug. Arthur nodded.

“Perhaps,” he echoed. Hesitating for a moment, Merlin clapped Arthur’s shoulder before stepping away, leaving Arthur to clean up and make his way back home. He knew he should have been planning how to get back to his room without being seen in such a state, but all he could think about was the feel of Merlin’s hand on his shoulder.

It was in that moment that Arthur became aware, this wasn’t a passing fancy. He barely knew the man, but he was falling in love with Merlin Ambrose.

Two weeks following, Arthur was working on painting a set piece Percival had constructed of the facade of a building for a play they were staging in a few weeks’ time and thinking about how surreal it had been to attend the theatre and see his own work featured on the stage. It was a strange point of pride for him, and it took all of his willpower to not announce to anyone who cared to listen that he had painted the backdrop, and didn’t it look splendid? The gossip, Arthur knew, would catch like fire in town. It was already a point of gossip that the son of His Grace, the Duke of Norfolk was attending the theatre practically every night and quite suddenly— Morgana had gleefully informed him one evening the previous week that she had come across some speculation that Arthur had acquired for himself a mistress in the actress Miss Vivian Olafson, something which had made Arthur choke and Morgana laugh herself silly at the time— Arthur didn’t think his reputation would ever recover if it came to light that he had been working as a set painter in a theatre.

“Percival!” Arthur called out, stepping back from his work. Percival ceased his work and looked up at Arthur, an eyebrow raised in question. “Could I prevail upon you to help me take this out to the stage? I want to see how it will look from the back boxes.”

Percival tipped his head up in acknowledgement, setting his tools down and walking over to where Arthur stood. He was a taciturn man, but Arthur appreciated his silence, as well as his well-sculpted muscles straining through the fabric of his shirtsleeves.

“Last painter we had,” Percival said as the two of them lifted the set piece and began walking toward the stage, “he didn’t care so much about how things looked. ‘S good you do. Makes Merlin happy.”

At the declaration, Arthur almost faltered in his grip and dropped the set piece. “Ah, deuce,” he swore, hefting it back up and trying not to appear as flustered as he felt. “I am glad to be of use,” he said a few moments later. Percival offered him an inscrutable smile, and Arthur was glad when they reached the stage. Merlin and Vivian were rehearsing a scene in costume for the performance that evening, the first performance of The Taming of the Shrew.

Arthur set his side of the set piece down gently, and Percival mirrored him. “Thank you for the assistance,” Arthur said. “I’ll wait for them to finish here and move this onstage, you can go back to what you were doing.” Percival nodded and left Arthur to it, and Arthur settled in to watch the rehearsal. It wasn’t long until things came to a screeching halt, though.

“Merlin Ambrose, stop criticising me!” Vivian screeched, and Arthur heard Merlin heave a sigh.

“Would you like to take a break, Vivian?” he asked. “We can rehearse the next scene while you review your lines.”

“I do NOT need to review my lines. I know them all perfectly. You’re the problem here!” she said, her petite figure cutting quite the contrast between the volume of her voice. It was an asset in an actress, to be able to have one’s voice carry to even the furthest seats, but now it was more of a weapon.

“As you say, Miss Vivian,” Merlin said, and Arthur could hear the undercurrent of annoyance in it. He raised his hand to cover the smile that crossed his face, to stave Vivian seeing him and raining her ire upon him. “Please do take a moment to calm yourself in whatever manner you deem appropriate.”

“You are lucky I don’t quit on the spot,” Vivian declared as she stomped her way offstage, ignoring Arthur’s presence completely as she huffed and puffed and made her displeasure known.

“I wish you would sometimes,” Merlin muttered, not loud enough for Vivian to hear, but loud enough to draw a startled laugh from Arthur. Merlin looked over, surprised. “Arthur, I didn’t see you there.”

“I am not surprised,” Arthur said, grinning. “All your attention was on your lovely leading lady just now.”

Merlin made a face and looked as though he wanted to say something disparaging, but clearly thought better of it when he shook his head. “Did you have a question?”

Arthur shook his head, and gestured to the set piece he was working on. “I wanted to see what this looked like on stage from the audience so far,” he said. Merlin gave him a bright smile.

“You’re much more diligent than I expected,” Merlin observed, and Arthur wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a comment on him appearing to be a layabout. “As much as I appreciate your hard work, and adore how it comes out, you don’t have to worry so much about it. People who attend the theatre, they’re not there to see what’s on stage as much as they are there to be seen themselves.”

Arthur frowned. Morgana had said as much to him before, that going to the theatre was a kind of performance for the audience, who wanted to be seen in their fashionable clothes in fashionable company. But Merlin and the rest of the company worked hard, and they deserved the recognition that came with such work.

“I must disagree with your assessment that it is not necessary,” he said. “Regardless of what certain audience members are there for, I am certain at least a portion of them appreciate the stage performance.”

“I’m certainly not turning your work down,” Merlin said with a chuckle. “And I do hope you are correct about the audience.”

“I am,” Arthur said firmly, knowing that even if nobody else in the audience felt that way, at least he did. And that had to count for something, right?

“Since you’re here,” Merlin said after a stretch of silence, “I recall you said you were adept at playing the pianoforte?” Arthur nodded.

“I am, though nowhere near so proficient as to believe myself worthy of public performance,” he said.

“Great,” Merlin said. “Would you mind playing for rehearsal today? And perhaps for the rest of the week, actually. The girl who regularly does it for us is ill, and I sent her home.”

Arthur thought it over, unsure if he should say yes or not. His working as a set painter had worked out so far because he didn’t have to be there beyond mid-afternoon when they began to get ready for the evening. As long as Arthur had returned in time for tea, Uther hadn’t asked any question as yet and Arthur wanted to keep it that way.

“Would it require actually performing in the evenings?” Arthur asked, and Merlin shook his head.

“No, we have a small chamber orchestra for the performances that require it, or a pianoforte player for the rest. This would simply be for rehearsals.”

“In that case, I would be happy to,” Arthur said, “providing there is sheet music for me to read.”

Merlin pointed over to the pianoforte, and two sheafs of papers. “There is a copy of the script with music cues notated, and the sheet music. It doesn’t have to be perfect, we just need to simulate what the actual performance will be like. It makes things run more smoothly, you see.”

“I shall endeavour to do my best,” Arthur said, moving to the pianoforte to give everything a look. Merlin called out his gratitude, and gathered the actors for the next scene. Arthur sat, and ran his fingers over the keys, silently playing through the simple piece that was to provide emotional ambiance to the scene.

Arthur had seen Merlin on stage a great many times by now, but seeing him up close the way he was as he played for the rehearsal was a completely different experience. Merlin’s stage presence was even more magnetic up close, and Arthur had to fight not to get distracted. He missed his own cue to play several times because he had been too busy watching Merlin deliver his lines, and though Merlin was kind about it, Arthur still burned with embarrassment over the mistakes. He wished he had an excuse to simply watch him, without regard to any task of his own. Merlin was magic; even when he wasn’t in costume he became a completely different person when he took on a character, and Arthur at least could tell them apart simply by the way Merlin spoke.

The company of actors was at any one point working on three different plays at once, and it amazed Arthur that anyone could keep their lines straight. Many of the actors weren’t cast in all of the plays, so it was easier on them, but some of them served as understudies to the other actors and so had to learn the lines and blocking in the event they had to step in. But Merlin, Merlin was in each and every play the company put on. He directed them, decided on sets and costumes and managed the financial aspect of the theatre. He commissioned posters and playbills to be printed. He had his hand in every part of every production, and it made Arthur dizzy to try and imagine the amount of work involved in being Merlin.

The amount of talent contained in him was astounding. Arthur was certainly impressed by him the more and more he saw of him.

“Arthur, you missed the cue again,” Merlin called, and Arthur shook off his reverie with an embarrassed smile.

“It won’t happen again,” he promised, vowing to pay more attention to what he was doing and less attention to Merlin.

He wasn’t sure if that was a vow he could keep.

One night in late June, Uther approached Arthur as he was dressing for a supper he was attending at his good friend Lord Gwaine Greene’s estate. Arthur donned his tailcoat with George’s help, and smoothed down the fabric of the sleeves.

“Father,” he said, looking at Uther through the looking glass he was using. “You may go, George.”

George bowed and left without a word. Uther ignored him.

“Arthur, before you leave tonight I wanted to inform you of a ball Vivienne is insisting on throwing in August,” Uther said. Arthur turned to face him, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m given to understand that balls are a rather large undertaking,” Arthur said. He knew Vivienne preferred to attend them than to throw them, so he was curious what had brought such a decision on.

“Yes, well she is insistent I’m afraid,” Uther said, shrugging one shoulder. Arthur knew it didn’t much matter to him one way or another. He wouldn’t be involved in the planning or execution of the event, he would simply be the deep purse from whence Vivienne drew the funds to finance it. “Apparently the patronesses of Almack’s have barred her and Morgana from purchasing vouchers to their events, and Vivienne is feeling spiteful for being left out of their society.”

“Ah, I do see how that would make Vivienne burn with anger. But I’m certain Morgana could not care less about such a matter,” Arthur said. Uther laughed.

“You are most certainly correct in that assessment. Nevertheless, Vivienne will pull her into the planning of it and there’s little she can do about it,” he said.

“Well then I do believe I shall be dining in the evening with Lord Greene much more often until her temper settles,” Arthur joked. Uther guffawed.

“A fine idea, I’d say,” he said. “But my purpose in telling you this is to inform you of your required presence at the ball. You have been around so little lately, that Vivienne fears you may try to make yourself scarce on the evening.”

“I would never do such a thing,” Arthur lied, as if the thought hadn’t already crossed his mind in the scant minutes since the subject had been broached. “I would be happy to attend Vivienne’s spite ball.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Uther said. “And I do believe it would be a fine time to cast an eye about with the idea of settling down.”

And there was the other shoe dropping. Arthur hid his exasperation by turning back to the looking glass to prod at the styling of his hair. Of course such a large social event would have an ulterior motive for Uther. Arthur wondered how much longer he would be able to put off his duty of marrying before Uther finally put his foot down about it.

“I will certainly keep that in mind,” Arthur said.

“That’s all I ask,” Uther answered. Arthur knew it to be a lie, but neither of them said anything further on the matter.

“Have a good evening, father,” Arthur said.

“Enjoy yours as well, Arthur,” Uther echoed. “Do convey my regards to Lord and Lady Greene, and young Gwaine.” Arthur nodded his agreement, though Gwaine’s parents were still at their country estate rather than in town, and Uther left.

Arthur bent over his dressing table and clutched at the sides, rebelling with every fibre of his being against the path set out ahead of him, when all he wanted was Merlin. But he didn’t know if Merlin wanted him in return. They had that moment on Arthur’s first day, it felt as though a kiss could have happened if not for the interruption. And every time they were near each other, Arthur felt a magnetism between them that he couldn’t deny, pulling him into Merlin’s orbit even if he wanted to resist.

He hoped Merlin felt it too. He hoped his luck was that fortunate.

Later that evening, once supper had been cleared away and Gwaine and Arthur had retired to the sitting room for drinks, Arthur sank back into the chair he was seated upon and sighed deeply.

“Have you ever considered what you have done wrong in a past life to have been gifted with such circumstances in this one?” he asked, breaking the amenable silence. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, taking the chill off of the unusually cool June night. Arthur watched the amber liquid of the brandy cling to the sides of the glass as he swirled it, before chancing a look at Gwaine. Gwaine, whose eyebrows were raised in unspoken inquiry at Arthur’s sudden line of questioning.

“I must admit, I’m not entirely certain if we’re talking about me or you,” Gwaine said. Arthur laughed, crossing one ankle over his knee and draping his arm over the back of the chair in a slovenly show of leisure that he certainly would not have been allowed if his father were around.

“I was speaking of myself, though the question does apply to you as well I suppose,” he chuckled, taking a sip of his drink and enjoying the smoothness of the alcohol and the warm burn of it down his throat.

“What has the illustrious Duke of Norfolk done now?” Gwaine asked, raising his own glass in mock toast to Arthur’s father.

“Besides not-so-subtly urging me toward matrimony?” Arthur said dryly. Gwaine grinned at him.

“You know you would be able to avoid such annoyance if you were more like me,” he said. Arthur shook his head.

“An incorrigible and irredeemable gadabout and libertine bent on the ruin of his family’s good name?” Arthur asked with a roll of his eyes.

“Precisely,” Gwaine said. “Nobody expects anything of you when you’re the family disappointment.” Arthur’s shoulders shook in silent laughter. It seemed no matter how he tried to insult his friend, it was all taken in stride. Arthur wished he were more like Gwaine, that he didn’t care so much what his family thought of him.

“Well to my own great misfortune, I seem to suffer from a rather dire case of caring what my father thinks of me,” he said, carefully making the tone of his words sarcastic to mask the sincere regret and helplessness he felt over not being able to take control of his own fate.

“And what a malady it is,” Gwaine said, downing his own drink and reaching for the crystal decanter to pour himself another.

“No,” Arthur said, attempting to steer the conversation back, “he indulges Lady Vivienne more than I feel is prudent.” When Arthur was young, Uther had indulged his mother just as much as he indulged Vivienne, perhaps even more, but it hadn’t seemed as if it was a problem then. Perhaps it was something to do with his youth and lack of understanding the nuances of adult relationships. But Arthur was more inclined to believe it was because his mother took less advantage of being spoiled than Vivienne seemed to.

“You’ll find that’s an affliction common in men in love,” Gwaine said. Arthur shrugged.

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Arthur drained his own glass and set it aside. “For some reason it just grates on my nerves when he does,” he said.

“Let him,” Gwaine said firmly. “So long as she’s not trying to replace your mother, there’s no harm in it.”

Arthur couldn’t disagree, though he greatly wished to. “You’ll come to her ball, then,” he said.

“A ball?” Gwaine asked.

“She’s throwing a ball in August and I am being forced to attend. It would be appreciated to have some company there with whom I tolerate.” Arthur flicked his gaze over to Gwaine lazily, awaiting his response.

“Tolerate? Such high praise indeed,” Gwaine said with a shake of his head. His hair fell into his eyes, and Gwaine idly tossed it back with a quick movement of his head. Arthur wondered how it didn’t drive him mad to have it loose like that, and not tied neatly back.

“Higher than you deserve,” Arthur said. “So what do you say?”

“Much as I do love a ball,” Gwaine said, “I shall have to regretfully decline your gracious invitation.”

“What?” Arthur asked. “Why?” He hadn’t expected to have been turned down, and the thought of facing Vivienne’s ball without a friend there to help pass the time, and pass off some of the dancing to, made the prospect of it much less palatable.

“I am to leave for Paris at the end of July and spend all of August there,” Gwaine said. Arthur glared at him for daring to have other plans.

“Why the deuce are you going to Paris?” he grumbled, leaning over to take the decanter from the table near Gwaine and pour himself another fortifying glass of brandy. “What’s there that you cannot find here?”

“A great many things, my friend,” Gwaine said with a lascivious wink.

“Trust you to travel to the continent just to find a fresh set of whores,” Arthur muttered darkly, taking a swallow of alcohol and barely managing not to cough when he swallowed too quickly.

“Oh Arthur Pendragon, you know I have never needed to pay for the attentions of anyone,” Gwaine said, smirk never wavering even in the face of such an insult. Arthur wanted to punch it off of him.

“If not for the company then why the trip?” Arthur asked.

“I never said it wasn’t the company,” Gwine answered, “just that I didn’t pay for it.”

“Oh?” Arthur didn’t particularly care who Gwaine’s French paramour was, but asking seemed the polite thing to do.

“I met a lovely artist on my last trip earlier this year, by the name of Elena. Beautiful landscapes. Oh, and her art is nice as well.” Gwaine laughed at his own joke, while Arthur fought not to groan. “Oh, and there’s a milliner on the Rue de Choiseul where I bought Elena a hat as a gift. Darien, I think his name was. He was rather fetching as well.”

That last bit certainly caught Arthur’s attention, and he sat up straighter. “Darien?” he asked, his voice breaking on the last syllable.

“Darien,” Gwaine confirmed, meeting Arthur’s stare in a challenging one of his own, daring him to disapprove. As if Arthur would. “Tall, strong. Lovely hands. I think I shall call on him after I’ve seen Elena.”

Arthur swallowed, breaking away from Gwaine’s stare to look at his fingers curled around his brandy glass and resting in his lap. He had heard rumours of Paris’ ‘perversions’, as his father’s acquaintances tended to call them, but never thought about them for too long. He wasn’t sure why, now. “And such a thing is… acceptable? In Paris?”

“It’s not… unacceptable,” Gwaine said, his voice sounding less tight than it had a moment before. “Certainly it’s not the done thing. But it’s not against the law either, the way it is here.”

“I see,” Arthur said softly, and something deep within him unclenched just the tiniest bit. Paris, where two men could do something like courtship, and wouldn’t be thrown in prison if caught. Where Gwaine felt no hesitance in admitting his attraction to someone of either sex. It held the faintest hint of something Arthur had never dared hope for himself before.

“I daresay you do,” Gwaine said, but Arthur ignored him, his mind alight with possibilities.

Time passed and Arthur fell into a routine, working with Merlin and the rest of the theatre company in the day, and fulfilling any social obligations he had each evening while attending the theatre whenever he could to admire the fruits of his labor and the labor of his new friends. Before he quite realised it, June had marched into July, though the weather still felt more like early April. It was cooler and much rainier than anyone had anticipated for a summer in London rather than the warm sunny days that brought out the ladies and gentlemen of the ton to enjoy the warmth. The lack of such meant most outdoor social gatherings ended up being held inside. Not that it mattered to Arthur one whit. He spent each day indoors of his own will, learning more than he ever thought he would about the inner workings of the theatre.

It was one of those days in July, where the rain had been drumming steadily on the roof of the Theatre Royal all day and lulled Arthur into an easy lethargy as he had worked. There was to be no performance that evening, so everyone had decided to break for the day and enjoy each other’s company at the nearby pub they usually dined at before performances. Arthur had begged off, preferring the solitude of the darkened theatre to the boisterousness of his co-workers that day. He had joined them before on an occasion or two where he would not be missed back at the townhouse and would have on this day if it weren’t for the electric feeling in the air that raised the hairs on the back of one’s arms and heralded the approach of a thunderstorm. Such weather left Arthur uneasy in a way he found it difficult to explain to others, and preferred not to be put in such a position that it required explanation.

Arthur sat at the pianoforte that stood near the stage, the one he had played for those practices the month prior when Freya, their usual girl, had been ill. He was not expected back at Norfolk House, as his father and Vivienne were visiting Vivienne’s family for the week, and Arthur could not bring himself to return home just yet. It was funny, how Arthur felt more at home in the theatre after two months than he did at Norfolk House after a lifetime. He poked gently at the ivory keys and heard the muted sound ring from the body of the pianoforte, settling into a simple tune he made up as he went. It was a feeble attempt to calm himself, to pretend for a moment that the weather was the unimportant background noise to his current activities.

“I never said so, but you play beautifully,” Merlin said from behind Arthur, drawing a discordant slam of hands from him. The sound rang through the empty auditorium, echoing until it finally fell silent.

“You certainly gave me a fright,” Arthur laughed, holding a hand over his heart as he willed it to slow down.

“It wasn’t my intention,” Merlin said, holding his hands up placatingly. Arthur shook his head.

“You do have quite the habit of sneaking up on me,” he chastised teasingly.

“You have quite the habit of living inside your own head,” Merlin said as a rejoinder. Arthur laughed.

“You are not wrong,” he said. “It’s a habit I have endeavored to break, with little success.”

“I don’t think it’s something to be ashamed of,” Merlin said, leaning against the pianoforte and giving Arthur what felt to him as a thorough once-over. “A thoughtful man is one to be commended, I would say.”

“Not at the expense of his sense of his surroundings,” Arthur said, chagrined. Merlin shrugged, grinning. “I thought you were out with the rest?” Arthur asked.

“I decided against it,” Merlin said. Arthur raised his eyebrows.

“Dare I ask why?” he joked. “Don’t tell me you have chosen work over leisure. You do that enough. Take the evening off.”

“Is that an order, Lord de Bois?” Merlin said, and Arthur’s heart seized behind his ribs with the thought that perhaps Merlin had found him out, until he realised he was being teased in return.

“Certainly it is, Mr. Ambrose,” Arthur replied. They both laughed together, Arthur enjoying the way a flush rose to Merlin’s cheeks in his mirth.

“I simply decided,” Merlin said a moment later as they fell back into silence, “that I thought I might prefer your company this afternoon instead.”

Arthur felt his own cheeks colour, and met Merlin’s eyes rather than giving in to the urge to look away. “Yours is very welcome company,” he murmured. Merlin smiled, and Arthur could have sworn that his eyes lingered on his mouth. Arthur licked his lips.

“One must wonder,” Merlin said in a distracted sort of way that made Arthur’s heart flip, “why today you have chosen not to either come to the pub with us, or return home as is usual.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably on the bench he was seated on. “I was hoping to wait out the weather,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the entire truth either.

“You may have quite the wait in front of you,” Merlin said. Arthur shrugged in a carefully careless manner.

“No matter,” he said. He wanted to change the subject, away from the weather and his habits, but the sky chose that moment to light up with a bright flash of lightning, a loud rumble of thunder chasing it and sending trembles along Arthur’s suddenly-stiff spine and to his extremities.

“Oh, that was loud,” Merlin observed, and Arthur forced himself to nod, balling his hands into fists to try and control the tremors. “Arthur? Are you well?” Arthur cursed his rotten luck that Merlin had noticed any of his behaviour, and shut his eyes.

“Quite,” he lied, hating how short he sounded but unable to conjure up the emotional fortitude to be anything but. It was better than sounding like the little boy he felt himself to be with such behaviour.

“Hey,” Merlin said, nudging Arthur’s shoulder. “You clearly are anything but.” He sounded concerned, and Arthur wondered how long it would last when he realised Arthur was terrified of thunder.

“I should be fine,” he said. “Why am I not fine?” he added, in a whisper.

“Who says you aren’t?” Merlin asked, crouching next to Arthur, who opened his eyes to look at him.

My father, Arthur didn’t say. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, when another crash of thunder rattled the windows of the theatre and stole his voice from him.

“Arthur, I’m here,” he heard Merlin say, distant to his ears though he knew Merlin hadn’t moved.

“It’s completely ridiculous,” he said after a few seconds of gathering his wits about him.

“Being afraid of thunder isn’t ridiculous,” Merlin argued, and Arthur shook his head.

“After the age of five it is,” he said, laughing in a self-deprecating, completely un-humourous manner.

“Did something happen?” Merlin asked. Arthur wanted to simultaneously cringe away from and huddle closer to the gentleness in his voice.

“A hunting accident when I was 13,” Arthur explained, figuring the truth was the least humiliating thing to admit. “My uncle misjudged his shot, and hit me in the hip.” He subconsciously brushed his hand over the spot where his long-healed scar lay. It was smooth with age, didn’t hurt him anymore, and yet plagued him every time the weather turned angry. “It was a long, painful process of healing, one my father felt took too long, and he wasn’t shy about telling me. By then, my mother was too ill to scold him as she might have. After that, gunshots, or anything that sound like gunshots, send me straight back to that moment.”

“So that’s why you preferred not to go out in this weather,” Merlin said. Arthur nodded tightly, waiting for any hint of derision from him. It didn’t come. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for not laughing,” he said, and Merlin ran a soothing hand along Arthur’s spine. It spoke to how much the thunder was affecting him, that Arthur only derived comfort and no pleasure from such a touch.

“I would never,” Merlin said, and Arthur knew it to be the truth. He sighed, shutting the lid of the pianoforte before resting his arms on it, then his head. Merlin continued to stroke his back in a steady rhythm that soothed Arthur’s frayed nerves with each roll of thunder.

They stayed like that for hours, the darkness leaving them in deep shadows, neither speaking further. Arthur soaked in the simple comfort of human compassion for as long as it was offered, starved for the unconditional care Merlin showed him, that he didn’t find anywhere else, even in those who claimed to care about him. And when they parted later that night, Arthur felt more himself than he would have expected after such an episode.

Merlin truly was magic in his own way, and Arthur felt deeply fortunate to have met him.

The day of Vivienne’s ball arrived much more quickly than Arthur was prepared for. He avoided going downstairs as much as he could from the moment he woke, taking his meals in his room to keep from somehow getting pulled into the last moment preparations. The servants were in a frenzy getting everything ready, and had been for days. Furniture had been moved, mirrors cleaned to a glossy shine, stacks of candles to last the night ordered, the freshly waxed ballroom floor chalked with intricate pictures to ensure no guest’s shoe would slip as they danced, and flowers cut from the gardens to decorate the entire ground floor of Norfolk House. Arthur was dizzy simply thinking about the preparation that had gone into throwing such an elaborate event. It made him grateful he was not expected to accomplish such a feat, that it was left to the ladies of the house. Morgana had been run ragged by his step-mother, and Arthur half expected her to call in the owed favour to somehow extract her from the preparations.

The thought of the night ahead was already exhausting to Arthur, and he resisted heaving put-upon sighs as his valet dressed him in his finest tailcoat and trousers. George wound the cravat artfully around Arthur’s neck, and Arthur pulled his gloves on. From his window, he could see the twinkling of the torches that led up the drive, and the trickle of guests beginning to arrive in their carriages. He knew he would be expected to join his father and step-mother with Morgana in the entry hall to greet the guests, at least for a time, so as much as he wished to prolong the inevitable, as soon as George moved his hands away from tying his cravat, Arthur made for the door.

Best to get straight to it, then.

The music was tolerable, and the servants had outdone themselves with decorating and polishing every inch of Norfolk house until it shone. Flowers adorned every surface, infusing the atmosphere with a sweet fragrance that was just shy of cloying in the heat of so many bodies pressed together, and so many glittering candles flickering as the rustle of silk gowns passed them. Arthur was sick to death already of the dancing and small talk, but it seemed as though every member of the ton with an eligible daughter had shown up and pushed her at him, so Arthur had to do what was expected of him, and forced a smile as he danced with each of them.

He made sure the servants kept a steady supply of the punch on hand between dances, in order to make things somewhat more tolerable. He was careful to be as charming as he knew how to be to each young lady, without favouring any one of them, lest he give them false hope for any future special regard toward them. The last thing Arthur wanted was for any eager-minded lady or her mother to set their designs upon a marital union with him. Arthur wanted to put such requirements off for as long as he could.

Forever, if at all possible, for there was only one person who had his heart. In a moment of longing, he wondered how Merlin’s performance that evening was faring as the dance he was dancing ended, and he bowed to the lady and excused himself.

Needing to be alone for a moment, Arthur left the dance floor to head out to the garden for some air, but was waylaid as he passed by a cluster of people by Lady Catrina Tregor, one of Vivienne’s best friends, who laid a hand on his arm to forestall him.

“Lord Pendragon, how lovely to see you,” she said. Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the affected surprise. It was a ball in his own home, hosted by his father and step-mother. There should have been no shock in seeing him. She did have one thing to recommend her in Arthur’s eyes, however, and it was the fact that she had no daughter of marriageable age. So instead of making his excuses to move on, he paused to chat with her.

“A pleasure to see you as well, Lady Catrina,” Arthur said, taking her hand to kiss it as he bowed.

“It’s such a lovely party, so much better than the balls thrown by Almack’s,” she said, and Arthur forced a laugh.

“You should tell Lady Vivienne,” he said. “She’ll be delighted to hear it.”

“I shall do so when I see her,” Lady Catrina said. “But tell me, have you met Lord Emrys? He and I have been having a wonderful chat, and I thought to myself, Lord Pendragon and Lord Emrys would get along famously.”

“I don’t believe I have had the pleasure,” Arthur said as he turned his attention to the tall man standing to Lady Catrina’s left, who Arthur hadn’t noticed before in his haste to get away. His heart stopped when he saw the dumbstruck face of Merlin Ambrose— no, apparently it was Lord Emrys— standing before him, dressed in the latest fashions of the day and looking every inch the well-bred gentleman. He would have been almost unrecognisable out of his costumes, or his well-worn muslin shirts and threadbare waistcoats he donned daily at the theatre for the messy, sweaty work of preparing for each performance, but for the fact that Arthur could never forget the shape of his face, the colour of his eyes, or the fullness of his lips.

“I had been so hoping that Lady Emrys would have come this evening,” Lady Catrina said, and the mention of a lady in Lord Emrys’ life made Arthur’s stomach sink, “But after the death of her husband, the Earl of Devon, she has chosen to spend most of her time on their estate. But their son is a good lad, who has come in her place.”

“You’re much too kind, Lady Catrina,” Lord Emrys said, turning to offer her a smile. “I don’t usually come to balls, but my mother insisted I come and apologise for her absence. I suspect she is trying to teach me to be more sociable at the same time.”

“You seem perfectly amiable to me,” Lady Catrina said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Pendragon?”

“Ah, yes,” Arthur said after a moment. He was experiencing the most curious sensation of feeling off-balance. Having confirmed that Lady Emrys was not Lord Emrys’ wife, Arthur had felt a relief so profound wash over him, that it almost felt as though his very skin were tingling with it. “Perfectly amiable.”

“Why thank you, Lord Pendragon,” Lord Emrys murmured, a smile curling at the corners of his lips. Arthur felt colour rise to his cheeks, but before he could get his bearings, Lady Catrina raised her hand in greeting to someone across the room.

“I think I see Lady Vivienne,” she said. “I think I shall go over and tell her what an excellent ball she has thrown. Save a dance for me later, Lord Emrys!” In a swirl of silk and perfume, Lord Emrys and Arthur were left alone. Arthur’s mouth went dry with nervousness.

“De Bois?” Lord Emrys asked softly. Arthur cleared his throat, embarrassed.

“My mother's maiden name,” he explained. Merlin hummed in acknowledgement, and Arthur stepped closer, pulling them both along the wall to stand as the music for the next dance started. “Ambrose?”

“A stage name,” Lord Emrys said.

“The performance tonight?” Arthur asked.

“I figured Lance could handle things,” Lord Emrys said, a low murmur so as not to be overheard. “He’s my understudy, and I trust things will go as they should.”

Arthur nodded. “This has been a most… unorthodox evening,” he said. Lord Emrys laughed.

“Indeed. I have certainly learned a lesson about still waters running deep. Though describing you as a still water seems disingenuous. The proverb stands, however.” Lord Emrys pressed closer until his shoulder was touching Arthur’s. It felt as intimate as each of those moments in the theatre had, even with the crush of people around them.

“Earl Devon,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “Never in my wildest imaginings…”

“Yes, well…” Lord Emrys said, colour rising to his own cheeks. Arthur thought it suited him, the embarrassment. Suddenly, he needed to be alone, to be able to talk to Lord Emrys about their situation without the risk of being overheard by those around them. He wasn’t certain about how secret Merlin’s secret was, but Arthur preferred to take no risks.

“My Lord Emrys, would you do me the honour of accompanying me to somewhere we may speak with more privacy?” Arthur asked. Lord Emrys hesitated a moment, before nodding.

“Of course, Lord Pendragon. Lead on,” Lord Emrys said, making a small gesture with his hand.

“Excellent. I do think you’ll agree that we will find we have much to discuss of mutual interest,” Arthur said in a louder, less secretive voice, drawing a wry smile from Lord Emrys’ otherwise carefully neutral face.

“I daresay we will,” he answered mildly, following Arthur through the halls and throngs of guests toward a sitting room he knew would be unused during the party. It was far enough away from the dining room and the ballroom that they would have all the privacy Arthur craved for the two of them. His heart pounded in his chest, not having been prepared to see the object of all his dearest fantasies of late. And looking so fine, in the rich fabrics and fine cuts afforded to him by the privilege of rank. Arthur was used to seeing him in costume, or in a simple shirt and waistcoat, his arms bared as he flitted to and fro in the theatre. Seeing him dressed up as a gentleman of breeding and rank did something to Arthur’s insides, and it took all of the vast control over himself at his disposal to not reach out and pull Lord Emrys to him, embrace him, feel how the planes of their chests would align.

Arthur cleared his throat. He didn’t know what to say to further the conversation that wouldn’t give either of them away to any prying ears, but it wasn’t long until they reached the door of the drawing room. Arthur opened it, stepping inside and holding the door for Lord Emrys. When the door was safely closed and locked behind them to ensure their privacy, Arthur moved to sit on a settee situated near a window, and gestured for Lord Emrys to join him.

“When my step-sister Morgana had spoken to me some weeks ago of an Earl’s son who had run away to join the theatre, I thought her jesting. Imagine my surprise seeing you here this evening,” Arthur said, slowly removing his gloves to give his hands something to do.

“Ah, I had heard there were rumours of my scandalous actions circulating,” Lord Emrys said with a soft laugh as he sat next to Arthur, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from him.

“I assure you, your name has never come up in any rumours that I have been made aware of,” Arthur said, trying to put Lord Emrys— no, he was Merlin in private— at ease. “Just your rank.”

“It wouldn’t matter much to me if it had, if I am to be honest. Having a stage name does help to preserve my anonymity somewhat, but I only have one at the insistence of my mother. She is adamant that one day I may regret my wild youth and wish to take my place amongst my peers.” Merlin laughed, and reclined against the back of the setee in an easy manner. “And who knows, one day I may. But for now I am doing what I enjoy, and with very little inconvenience to my mother and her own place in society.”

“Did you decide on a whim to become an actor, or?” Arthur asked, brows raised. “Morgana occasionally threatens to run away to become an actress or other such scandalous thing, to amuse herself and keep people guessing as to her motivations. I honestly doubt the conviction on her part to actually take up the craft seriously.”

“I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Lady Morgana, but I daresay I would very much enjoy her company,” Merlin said, chuckling. “No, my motives aren’t rebellion against my circumstances, or ennui. They’re much simpler. I have wanted to be an actor since I was a child, to bring characters to life for others the way they had been for me. My mother and father took me to many plays when I was a boy, and we were in town for the season. I fell in love, and after my father passed and I had nothing else staying my hand the rest is, as they say, history.”

Arthur was quiet for a long moment, marveling at Merlin’s strength of character to go after what he wanted regardless of the consequences, and shook his head with the smallest of smiles.

“What?” Merlin asked, clearly amused.

“You’re a bit of a wonder, aren’t you? That a person gifted upon birth with all the privileges of money and land holdings and social rank would choose to follow his heart in a direction that leads to scorn and ridicule amongst those peers should they find out. It’s unfathomable. And admirable.” he said, heedless of the awe that tinged his voice.

Merlin shook his head, grinning. “I would hardly say that. I am single minded and pigheaded when it comes to my own happiness and satisfaction, my mother would say. I am doing what I love, damn my reputation.”

“I think it’s admirable,” Arthur reiterated. “I wish I had half your courage of conviction.”

“But what of yourself? It seems to me you are doing the same, as you too are going against your station in life by your actions. You think yourself surprised upon seeing me here this evening, but imagine my own reaction upon finding out the man painting my sets and playing my pianoforte is to be the Duke of Norfolk in future.” Merlin leaned forward, and Arthur read the intrigue on his face.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Arthur demurred, feeling his face heat with the embarrassment of being caught out.

“Come now, I thought we were being honest with each other,” Merlin said, a teasing scold. “I told you my story, I believe that I am owed one in return, don’t you think? The tale of how the future Duke of Norfolk, a man with a reputation as fastidious as his sartorial choices, came to be working backstage in the theatre his esteemed father patronises. Here I thought you were simply the son of a down on his luck artisan, or a family taken by gambling debts. You strode into my theatre looking and sounding for all the world as a gentleman in disguise. How right I was. It’s sure to be quite the epic. On par with the Greeks, I’d say.”

“Please,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes to cover his self-consciousness. “There isn’t much to tell.”

“A falsity, and a grave one,” Merlin accused playfully, putting a hand on Arthur’s upper arm. He smiled, and Arthur felt any desire to dissemble further slip away at the intimacy of his actions.

“It’s not a falsity,” he said honestly. “The simple truth of the matter is that I have always been in the business of going after what I want.”

Merlin raised his eyebrows, and shifted himself closer until their knees touched. “That seems consistent with what I know of your character,” he said, voice low with a promise of something that buoyed Arthur’s courage and allowed him to speak his deepest secret aloud.

“Since the moment I clapped eyes on you, I knew what that was.” Taking a chance, Arthur raised his hand to cover Merlin’s gloved one, still resting on his arm. He unconsciously bit his lip in fear that he had misread the situation between the two of them, but a heated gaze met his own when he looked into Merlin’s eyes. Arthur let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Admitting to such thoughts, such desires, was a dangerous thing outside of a molly-house, and Arthur had been so afraid of his father finding out that he had never even ventured into one.

“Arthur,” Merlin started, and at the sound of his name from those lips he so adored Arthur felt his courage leave him in an instant as if his soul had been doused in icy water. It wasn’t the first such occasion he had heard his name on Merlin’s lips, but it was the first in which they were both fully aware of their identities, and felt different somehow. It carried more weight.

“Of course if you do not feel the same then simply tell me and I will speak of it no more,” he rushed to reassure Merlin.

“Arthur,” Merlin repeated, his fingers tightening on Arthur’s arm. “You need not worry about any lack of feeling on my part. From the moment you came into the theatre looking for a job, looking much more the grand gentleman than you had any right to considering the clothing you wore and work you were seeking, I felt as though my heart belonged to you.”

“You… you did?” Arthur asked, feeling himself put off balance by the frankness of Merlin’s declaration. Merlin nodded, allowing his gloved hand to trace a path from Arthur’s arm to the small of his back and beneath the split in his tailcoat, to slip beneath the hem of his waistcoat and touch the fabric of his linen shirt. Arthur shivered at the closeness, the intimacy, and reached out for Merlin’s other hand, slowly peeling the glove off of it and dropping it to the side in order to entwine their bare fingers.

“Merlin, I love you,” Arthur said, breathless. “Most ardently, and with a desperation I scarcely knew myself capable of.”

“You must know I feel the same,” Merlin replied, and Arthur heard the substance of truth in his words. “With my whole heart.”

Arthur sat there, gazing into Merlin’s eyes and feeling the weight of his gaze in return. His thumb grazed over the knuckle of Merlin’s thumb in a gentle caress, and the muted strains of the chamber ensemble Uther had brought in to entertain their guests through the door added to the ambiance of the moment. Almost as one they leaned in, their lips meeting in a hesitant kiss that more of a whisper.

Licking his lips as they parted, Merlin’s eyes darted between Arthur’s mouth and his eyes, the hand resting on his back urging him to lean closer. Arthur did, the tip of his nose nudging against Merlin’s. He felt Merlin’s breath rushing over his lips, and parted them in time to catch the next kiss, much more direct than the first had been. Arthur made a soft noise in his throat, the hand not holding Merlin’s winding desperately around his shoulders to hold him near. The feel of the warm, slick tip of Merlin’s tongue touching his lower lip jolted something deep in Arthur’s belly, and it was with a groan of a need deeply felt that Arthur met Merlin’s with his own.

The chorus of their mingled breathing ruled the otherwise-stillness of the sitting room as their kiss grew deeper, and Arthur very nearly crawled into Merlin’s lap in his fevered desire for more closeness. The taste of him was something Arthur knew he would never forget, something he would always crave. Their mouths came together and parted again and again, their tongues sliding in an intricate dance.

“Merlin,” he sighed between kisses. “Oh, my Merlin.”

“Yours, Arthur,” Merlin agreed, disentangling his hand from Arthur’s to allow himself to caress Arthur’s cheek, his fingers warm and rough from days spent working with his hands on sets and props and nothing like how an Earl’s hands should be. Arthur loved him all the more for it. “Always and forever yours. As you are mine.”

It was several minutes before Arthur could bear to have himself parted from Merlin, long enough that the faint notes of the music playing had changed to a jaunty tune for dancing. On a whim, Arthur stood and offered his hand to Merlin with a half bow.

“My lord,” Merlin asked, a smile gracing his lovely lips, “are you asking me to dance?”

“If it pleases you,” Arthur answered, crooking his fingers to encourage Merlin to take his hand.

“There aren’t enough people here for a proper dance,” Merlin laughed, standing tand accepting the hand. “Nor is the music loud enough.”

“I don’t need a proper dance,” Arthur said, pulling a still-laughing Merlin against him in a half-embrace. “As long as you are in my arms then I should think all is as it should be.”

“My acceptance of your feelings has certainly made you bold, my lord,” Merlin teased, but instead of pulling away as his words suggested he might, he slipped his arms around Arthur’s back and pressed himself closer. “I fear that I, too, am emboldened by your acceptance of my feelings. So we are even.”

“Merlin,” Arthur murmured, holding him tight as he leaned in to kiss him once more, head spinning at the giddiness of fulfillment he felt, the utter rightness of having Merlin there to hold. Merlin made a soft noise as they kissed, and the sound of it sent a fire of want rushing through Arthur’s veins. He lifted his hands to thread his fingers through Merlin’s hair, holding his head steady so he could plunder his plush mouth with his lips and tongue, tasting him as if he were the most delectable wine on offer.

“I thought you wished to dance,” Merlin said, breathless, as they parted once more. Arthur’s hands found a new place on either side of Merlin’s neck, caressing his collar and cravat as though it were the skin he desperately wanted to feel.

“You were complaining of the lack of music and partners,” Arthur said, raising his eyebrows.

“Well other partners I can do without. But if I am not mistaken there is a lovely pianoforte in this room that is crying out to be played.” Arthur turned his head to follow Merlin’s gaze, finding the instrument in question.

“So there is,” he said.

“I thought in such a grand house as this your music room would be much more impressive,” Merlin teased, and Arthur resisted the urge to let it get his hackles up. He knew Merlin was simply jesting, and did not mean offense.

“This house does not have a music room as such,” Arthur said. “Camelot Park has a grand one, where my step-mother continues her exercise in futility to encourage my step-sister Morgana to play.” Letting Merlin go, Arthur walked over to the pianoforte and caressed the polished wood of the keyboard cover gently.

“It really is a beautiful instrument,” Merlin said softly, following behind Arthur and placing a gentle hand on his back. “Surely it belongs in a grand music room rather than a tucked-away sitting room like this?”

Arthur didn’t know how to respond, so he sat at the bench and lifted the lid to touch the smooth ivory keys. After a moment, he softly pressed them and the sounds of a sonata he had been practicing when they had first arrived in town for the season rang through the sitting room.

“My mother loved this pianoforte,” he said, as his fingers moved over the keys. He felt Merlin’s warmth at his back, and leaned back far enough to rest himself against him. “And she loved this house, more than Camelot Park.”

“I see,” Merlin murmured, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“She was the one that taught me to play,” Arthur continued, abandoning the memorised sheet music and playing a tune of his own design. “My father… he did not cope well with her death at first.”

“I can understand that, losing someone you love so young,” Merlin murmured. “How did she die, if I may ask?”

“A wasting disease,” Arthur said, closing his eyes against the onslaught of memories of his beautiful, vibrant mother becoming a shadow of herself as she slowly died. It was a difficult thing to witness, even for a boy of twelve who was unfamiliar with human death in all but the most abstract of ways.

“You have my condolences,” Merlin said, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur wondered how such a lovely mood had turned so sombre.

“Thank you,” he said at last. His hands had stilled on the keys, and he turned to look up at Merlin as he spoke. “My father had never much approved of my playing when I was a boy, but it was something I cherished, time with her that I was unwilling to give up. When she finally passed, he thought to forbid me from playing, but I refused and would not allow him to either cajole or shout me into changing my mind. And so he tucked away this pianoforte in a room where it would be of no bother to him, and eventually his new wife. He purchased a new pianoforte for the music room in Camelot Park for Morgana’s use when she and Lady Vivienne came to live there with us, however the most use it gets is for catching dust these days.”

Merlin didn’t reply, he simply sat on the bench Arthur occupied, facing the opposite direction as if they were on a courting bench. Arthur lifted his hand to touch Merlin’s face.

“Usually when I play, I miss my mother dearly. But playing for you has brought me nothing but bittersweet joy,” he said with a small smile.

“Bittersweet?” Merlin asked, bringing his own hand up to cover Arthur’s. “My dearest, I only wish to bring you the sweetest joy.”

“I think my mother would have liked you very much,” Arthur whispered, leaning his forehead against Merlin’s and closing his eyes.

“I should have liked to have met her,” Merlin answered, and Arthur heard the smile in his voice. It made his spirit lift from the melancholy that had settled over him from such a heavy topic of conversation for him.

“Do you play?” Arthur asked after a moment of silence stretched between them? Merlin’s soft chuckle brought Arthur to open his eyes.

“No, as a boy I was always a terrible student for things that required such diligence and practice,” Merlin said. “My own mother attempted to find me a tutor that would suit my temperament, but she was thwarted at every turn by my headstrong nature.”

“So you admit you have had lessons,” Arthur teased, stealing a quick kiss from Merlin that thrilled him just as much as the previous more intentional kisses before abandoning his place on the bench. “You must show me what you remember.”

“Arthur, no,” Merlin pleaded, even as he turned himself to face the keys of the pianoforte.

“For me?” Arthur asked, bending over to murmur in Merlin’s ear, pressing his chest over Merlin’s back and feeling the answering shiver run through him.

“When you run screaming from the room after hearing my utter lack of talent, do remember that I tried to warn you,” Merlin said, sounding breathless as he laid his long, elegant fingers upon the keys and gently pressed them. A tune Arthur remembered learning as a child sang clumsily from the strings of the pianoforte, and Arthur smiled at the sweet nostalgia of it. He bent over Merlin once more, inhaling the scent of him as he wrapped his arms around him to caress down the length of his arms and nudge at his slim wrists.

“Keep your wrists up,” he urged softly, his fingertips gently tracing circles over the delicate skin of the back of Merlin’s hands.

“Yes, sir,” Merlin said, laughter sounding strangled. As he kept playing, Arthur let his own hands slip further up to cover Merlin’s and play the song in tandem with him. They were so close together, yet Arthur longed to be closer, to feel nothing but bare skin between them, to see what pale, lovely Merlin would look like spread out over the linen of his bedsheets and bathed in moonlight. He felt himself stir, growing hard as he nuzzled his nose against the back of Merlin’s ear. The notes they played grew more discordant as Merlin missed the correct ones, before stopping altogether.

“Arthur, you are testing my restraint to its brink,” Merlin warned. Arthur ignored him, tracing the curve of Merlin’s ear with his lips before allowing his tongue to dart out and taste him.

“God help me but I want you so badly,” he groaned against Merlin’s ear, pressing himself even closer to his back. He knew his hardness had to be unmistakable, that Merlin knew exactly how he was feeling, and what he needed from him. He heard Merlin exhale, shaky. Very deliberately, Merlin closed the lid on the keyboard and turned in Arthur’s half-embrace, capturing his lips in a burning kiss as he wound his arms around Arthur’s neck and pulled him down, until Arthur was nearly falling and had to brace himself against the pianoforte.

“I must touch you,” Merlin whispered between kisses, biting at Arthur’s lower lip in a way that set Arthur’s senses alight. “If I don’t I fear I may die.”

“Please,” Arthur said, the desperate note of his voice sounding foreign to his own ear. Merlin nudged his nose against Arthur’s, drawing back far enough to look between them where Arthur’s hardness was very obviously making itself known in his trousers. Merlin worried his own lip between his teeth as he let Arthur go, his hands making haste to open the buttons of Arthur’s trousers, allowing the front to fall open and pausing just a moment before dipping his hand beneath the folds of fabric to wrap his fingers around the throbbing length of him.

“You’re so hard for me,” Merlin whispered, sounding at once awed and smug. Arthur wanted to argue with him, to tell him that there is nothing for him to be smug about, but it would have been the most egregious of lies. He moaned softly, trying not to make too much noise, but when Merlin said, “May I see?” Arthur thought he may spill himself right then.

Using the pianoforte for leverage, Arthur pushed himself upright and slipped the waist of his trousers and underclothes down to let Merlin see his need for him. He looked down at himself, wondering how Merlin saw him, and the juxtaposition of his unruffled clothing on top with the trousers and underclothes bunched around his thighs in a portrait of debauchment made him shudder in a strange mix of shame and exhilaration.

“You’re so beautiful,” Merlin said as he wrapped his strong fingers around Arthur’s length once more and stroked it slowly. His other hand came up to hold Arthur’s hip, to steady him, and his thumb brushed over an old scar. “Is that…?” Merlin asked.

“My hunting scar,” Arthur answered, his voice sounding tight as he drew on every reserve of willpower he had to remain coherent and upright. In the back of his mind, he recalled the conversation they had that thunderstruck day at the theatre, where they might have kissed if not for Arthur’s fear. Merlin brushed his thumb over the scar tenderly once more, before he leaned in to press an infinitely gentle kiss to it. His breath skated over Arthur’s heated skin, raising gooseflesh and drawing a shiver from Arthur.

“I think I must be the luckiest man in the empire, to be allowed to see such a sight,” Merlin whispered, before laying an openmouthed kiss at the head of Arthur’s cock. The action pulled a strangled gasp from Arthur’s throat, and he placed a hand on Merlin’s shoulder to take a fistful of his tailcoat to steady himself.

“I feel as though I may fly apart,” Arthur said, heat rising to his face as he felt his completion draw closer. The sensations were so much more pronounced, so much more intense, than they were when Arthur took himself in hand, or when he and the stablehand had their tryst when Arthur was a young man. Everything was brighter, clearer, just more. Arthur could have happily drowned in the way he felt when Merlin touched him.

“Arthur, come apart for me, I want to see it. I need you to,” Merlin urged, hand working faster. Arthur cried out, legs shaking with exertion as he felt himself spill over Merlin’s hand without warning. The pulses of it echoed his heartbeat, racing in his chest.

“Ngh, Merlin,” he moaned, half-collapsing upon him and causing the bench on which he sat to groan in protest. “Merlin,” he repeated, threading fingers through the dark curls at the nape of Merlin’s neck to hold him steady for a messy kiss that was utterly perfect in his afterglow. “You are brilliant. Utterly brilliant.”

Merlin laughed. “If I had known touching you to completion would make you so compliant, I would never have let a thunderstorm get in my way,” he said as he extracted a lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket to clean the mess Arthur had made of his hand and cuff. After a few seconds, Arthur plucked it from Merlin’s hand and dropped it to the bench beside them.

“I must touch you. Please allow me to,” he said, nearly begging.

“I want nothing more,” Merlin replied. “But perhaps it would be more comfortable if we moved back to the settee?”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur said, pushing himself back to his feet with a mighty effort. His legs still trembled with the force of his orgasm, his trousers rucked around his thighs and his shirttails dangling enough to afford him the smallest modicum of modesty. Merlin stood, grabbing Arthur’s hand and pulling him back toward the settee, guiding his hand toward the junction between his thighs. Feeling Merlin, and how hard he was in reaction to Arthur, made him nearly vibrate with the need to see him fall apart just as he had. Merlin sat, clearly expecting Arthur to take his seat next to him. Instead, Arthur straddled Merlin’s thighs and sat on his knees, unfastening the buttons of Merlin’s trousers and slowly opening them with breath held in anticipation.

“You seem so proper,” Merlin said breathlessly. “But you have clearly had someone show you some impropriety.”

Arthur shook his head. “Merely a vivid imagination,” he said. “And a drive to get what I want.” As he pushed his hand through the layers of fabric that separated Arthur’s skin from Merlin’s, he kissed him. As their lips moved against each other, Arthur’s fingers wrapped around the hard length of Merlin’s arousal, drawing a moan that Arthur eagerly swallowed as he deepened the kiss. It was messy, it was a little awkward, but it was perfect.

“Merlin, my Merlin,” Arthur whispered as he tugged at Merlin’s cock with both hands, the velvety slide of it in his hands sending an electric tingle over him, like the air after a lightning storm. Merlin’s hands gripped Arthur’s arms, holding him steady as Arthur rocked against him in time with his tugs in an imitation of what his body and heart craved desperately.

Arthur pulled back to look between them, the wet, red tip of Merlin peeking through his shirttails. It was the single most arousing thing Arthur had ever seen. His eyes feasted on Merlin’s face, eyes closed and head thrown back against the wall as he panted softly, and Arthur could see himself doing such things with Merlin for his entire life. A well of absolute want rose in him, and it would not be quelled.

Such a thing would be impossible, though. Arthur was to marry, Uther expected it and soon. Merlin must have had similar expectations put upon him, regardless of his secret life in the theatre. To the world they could be nothing more than good friends, else they risked their very lives with the exposure of their true relationship, despite any titles or money or land or social status. Arthur didn’t know, however, if he could live a life without Merlin now that he had a taste of it.

Merlin’s body beneath him seized, his fingers dug into Arthur’s arms as he let out a low moan and spilled himself over Arthur’s fingers, making a mess of the linen of his shirt.

“Oh,” Merlin said as he caught his breath, groping around for the handkerchief he seemed to have forgotten that Arthur had left on the piano bench.

“Allow me,” Arthur said, extracting his own and carefully tidying the mess. As he did so, he continued to mull the issue over. He thought of the conversation he had some weeks back with Gwaine, of Paris, where the laws regarding such relationships were more forgiving. Arthur was loath to leave his home. Uther was advancing in age, much as he denied it, and would expect Arthur to take over their business dealings in the not so distant future. Much of the business could be conducted via letter, however. And that which could not, which required a visit in-person, well there were boats bound across the channel quite frequently. Arthur would hardly be the first son of nobility to live such a libertine life abroad on the continent.

But would Merlin ever agree to such a thing? He had his theatre, and was quite fond of it. Arthur couldn’t imagine that he would ever leave it on a whim.

Disrupting his thoughts, Merlin plucked the handkerchief from Arthur’s hand and finished cleaning himself up, before leaning in for a kiss. “What are you thinking about? It must be something serious for it to put such an expression on your face,” he said with a whimsical lilt to his voice that Arthur wanted to hold onto, to never let go.

“It’s nothing,” Arthur said, leaning his forehead against Merlin’s.

“Surely it’s something,” Merlin countered, bringing a hand up to cup the side of Arthur’s face. His fingertip caressed the shape of Arthur’s ear, and Arthur felt a pleasurable shiver run the length of his spine at such an intimate touch.

“You’re right, of course,” he said. Arthur looked into Merlin’s eyes, trying to find his answers within them, and Merlin met his gaze unwaveringly. When nothing further was forthcoming from Arthur, Merlin kissed him again.

“I would hope you knew you could tell me anything,” he said. Arthur nodded, and closed his eyes.

“I was simply thinking of ways where we could be more… free with our affections,” he finally said after a long silence.

“That is certainly something I wish for as well,” Merlin said, carefully neutral.

“It’s not something we will be allowed if we were to continue our lives as they are currently,” Arthur continued.

“I daresay you are correct,” Merlin agreed. “Did you have a solution in mind?”

“I did, but I am not certain how feasible you would find it,” Arthur said, his voice dropping just above a whisper.

“There is not much I would not do to be with you,” Merlin said, the heavy honesty in his voice making Arthur’s eyes fly open to assess the truth of the statement. “I speak true,” he added, and Arthur felt his heart skip in his chest. The fact that within months he could feel so strongly for someone, and have those feelings returned, was almost not fathomable to him. To be sure, he knew Merlin better than he was certain to know any woman his father set him up to marry. But the progression of his life in the past weeks was something that almost made him dizzy to think about. Even just in that evening, he had confessed his feelings, and been confessed to. And to have Merlin declare such a thing felt like such an enormous matter as to almost feel unreal. And yet he had to believe, he needed to take control of his own future happiness if there was to be such a chance at it.

“What would you say if I asked you to run away with me to Paris?” Arthur asked, deadly serious and more nervous than he had ever felt in his life.

“Lord Pendragon, are you asking me to elope with you?” Merlin teased.

“Yes,” Arthur said, and something in his expression must have told Merlin exactly how serious he was, for his smile slowly turned into a thoughtful look.

“I would say… that I have many preparations to make before I could possibly do so,” Merlin said. Arthur squeezed Merlin’s wrist gently, not quite able to believe what he was hearing.

“You aren’t declining,” he said, needing the confirmation and unable to contain the hope in his voice.

“I’m not declining,” Merlin agreed, laughing softly. Arthur couldn’t help the bright smile that crossed his lips as he lifted himself from his seat on Merlin’s thighs to allow him to button himself back up, doing the same for himself before sitting next to him.

“I thought you would think this some passing fancy,” Arthur admitted, putting a hand on Merlin’s thigh where the warmth from their heated, frantic coupling lingered.

“You are many things, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin said once he was suitably dressed once more, “but I do not believe you to be so fickle as to suggest elopement on a passing whim.”

Arthur wasn’t sure he would agree with the assessment of his character. He had done many things on a passing whim, and had the reputation to prove it. “Now I believe you are being kind to spare my ego,” he said.

“Arthur, listen to me,” Merlin said, squeezing Arthur’s hand on his thigh. “You are a great many things. Pompous, arrogant, something of a dandy, as the Bard himself would say, a clotpole…”

“Merlin,” Arthur groaned, his pride stinging with each recitation of his failings. Merlin put a finger on Arthur’s lips to quiet him before he could say anything further.

“You are all those things and more. And yet I love you all the better for them. And believe me when I say I trust the sincerity and depth of your feelings. I trust you. I trust your intentions are as noble as they can be, when suggesting such a scandalous thing.” Merlin dropped his hand, and Arthur could do nothing but laugh.

“I don’t know how to repay such faith in me,” he said.

“With patience,” Merlin answered without hesitation. “It will take time to get my affairs into order in such a manner that I would feel comfortable leaving. I’m sure you need time to do the same, though at least you don’t have to decide what to do with an entire theatre company.”

“True,” Arthur said, thinking about what he was going to say to convince his father to allow him to go abroad. There was sure to be a thunderous row about it, one Arthhur was not looking forward to.

“So all I ask from you is patience, and your continued love,” Merlin continued. Arthur nodded, leaning closer to Merlin.

“You have it, you have all of me,” he said fervently.

“As you have all of me,” Merlin promised. Strains of music and muted voices of the guests floated through the door, breaking through their solitude, and Arthur wondered how long they had been gone and if they had been missed. Merlin must have thought the same, for he pulled away from Arthur gently. “We should return to the festivities, supper must be approaching and it wouldn’t do to have two suspiciously empty seats” he said, and Arthur nodded in agreement. “But promise me you’ll meet me at the theatre tomorrow morning?”

Arthur stood, offering his hand to Merlin to help him up. Merlin looked for a moment as if he wanted to protest, that he was no maiden in need of Arthur’s chivalry, but in the end took the hand. “I’ll be there,” he said, pulling Merlin into an embrace for a final kiss before they faced the rest of the world and pretended to be less than what they were.

“I shall hold you to that promise,” Merlin said, reaching up to run his fingers through Arthur’s hair in a manner meant to flatten it down. Arthur smiled, and did the same for Merlin, though his wild curls were not to be tamed. When they could make no further justifications for staying any longer, they both as one turned toward the door. Arthur squared his shoulders, and as he reached for the handle he felt Merlin take his hand and squeeze it. Arthur squeezed back, a last, silent I love you, before they were required to don the masks of indifference that propriety demanded of them once more. Before they once more became Lord Pendragon and Lord Emrys.

The promise of Paris buoyed Arthur’s heart, though, and made him feel as if he could do anything, and accomplish whatever he must in order to make his heart’s desire come to be.

Together, they stepped out.