Hemlock Bxb

Prologue    “Deep in the woods near Trelawney falls, Within a tomb from times of old Lay a couple of dead lovers, Between them was a blue flower.” -A Nimiani poem. “Hello.”   Emerson Bone’s head whipped up as a melodious voice cut through the mundane clutter of the Court brothel’s kitchen, nearly hitting the shelf he was ducking under, snipping the stalks of the blue-colored flower cones he harvested that morning. The voice had a hint of deepness, like that of a boy on the verge of adulthood, and warmth, like a maple leaf in the autumn. It was so unexpected, that it took Emerson’s eyes seconds more to focus on its owner.  He stood smiling, just next to Emerson, long blonde hair flowing down his shoulders like a waterfall of dark gold. There was the slightest brush of freckles on his nose, which was a tad too long for his somewhat chubby face, still filled with baby fat. His lips were rosy like he just bit on them, his frame slender, dressed in a loose shirt of ochre yellow, and matching pants, with brown shoes looking much worn.   What struck Emerson’s fifteen-year-old mind was not how pretty this boy was, although that left quite an impression, it was his mismatched eyes. One was green as the sea, the other a violet blue, much like the flowers in his fist. They blinked at him, long eyelashes brushing the star-marked cheeks, and a smile graced those lips. Emerson’s mouth went dry.  “Hello.” He commanded his tongue to move immediately. His father had just left to meet the Lady of the Pleasure house to collect his payment for the flowers, tasking him with cutting the stalks so he could arrange them beautifully in the ornate vases that would later decorate every hallway of the pleasure house.   The boy’s mismatched eyes brightened. “May I ask what those flowers are?” He asked, pointing at the blue flowers.  “Oh,” Emerson took a moment to glance at them, “Hyacinths. These are grape hyacinths actually. The others,” He pointed at an already arranged vase full of blue, pink, and purple flowers, “are the normal kind.”  The boy’s mouth was agape at the moment, like he discovered something miraculous, “My name is Hyacinth,” He grinned, “I never thought I was named after a flower.”   Emerson just stared at Hyacinth like a simpleton, trying to find words. “Do you want one?” He asked finally, taking a small one from the basket. The bottom of the flower was damaged, so it had to be thrown away. He wished he could give Hyacinth a flower that was as perfect as he was, but his father wouldn’t be so happy with him.   But then again...  He looked around to see if anyone was watching him. Hyacinth couldn’t see him crouching over the flowers, and everyone else was busy with whatever they were doing.  “Can I?” Hopeful eyes met his own, and Emerson’s heart skipped a beat.  “Of course, it’s a gift.”  The boy took the flower, holding it as if it was a precious stone.   As he inspected it, Emerson wondered why this boy was in a pleasure house. Every worker here was older by at least five years, and Court’s house did not sell children. Perhaps he was the child of a staff worker...  The boy raised the flower to smell it, and the sleeve of his shirt fell back, revealing a familiar brand of two eagle wings, crossed with swords.  Oh.  Shock enveloped Emerson, along with a wave of low boiling anger. He heard tales of how the palace children were forced into s*****y when Rolaine fell to Aldion, and how their parents were beheaded in front of them, but he never thought he would see a survivor of the torture. He certainly did not believe they would sell those children for the pleasure trade. How many children were they grooming for that here? Was Hyacinth the only one? The brand winked at him before Hyacinth lowered his arm, unaware of the storm boiling within Emerson.   “It smells strange.” Hyacinth said, bringing Emerson out of his thoughts, “It’s not like other flowers.”  “Yes,” Emerson said, his mouth feeling clammy, “Father says that it smells like springtime, of green. It’s quite poisonous too.”  “It is?”  “It looks innocent and beautiful, but its sap is bad for the skin. We use it to scrub away rust too.”  Hyacinth looked at his namesake with a newfound reverence.   “Are you finished with those flowers, boy?” A deep voice brought Emerson back into reality, and Hyacinth flinched, dropping the flower. Without missing a second, the boy turned and ran into the pleasure house, like a rabbit who had seen a wolf. Emerson groaned. It all happened so quickly. He picked the discarded flower and turned to his father. Lloyd Bones looked at his son curiously. “Who was that?” “His name’s Hyacinth.” Emerson stared at the flower in his hand and raised his eyes to his father. “I think he is a slave.” Lloyd’s mouth set into a grim line, and his voice was regretful when he said, “Emerson, you know you cannot talk with them like that. Thank goodness no one saw him, or that boy would have gotten a beating.” Anger cut through the sorrow that was fogging Emerson’s mind like a red-hot iron rod. “Why? He is just a child.” “It’s the law, boy. None of us are above it.” His father turned to the table and made quick work of the remaining flowers. Emerson’s hand involuntarily fisted around the flower, and his teeth hurt from gritting so much. This wasn’t the first time those words were uttered. The priest at the temple said it all the time, his schoolmaster said it all the time, and it was written in every place of importance. It was the law, they said. Written down by great men who were far more read in such matters than a peasant boy of fifteen, and blessed by the gods before they left.  “Perhaps those laws should be revisited,” Emerson muttered, keeping the flower on the table, hoping the beautiful boy would come back for it again. “Boy,” his father frowned at him, “Those kinds of thoughts are dangerous. Gods know, even the walls have ears.” He hissed, his eyes roaming around the empty kitchen. Emerson peered at his father, curiously. “What now?” The man growled. “You said ‘dangerous’.” He pointed out, “Not wrong.” His father cursed under his breath and sighed. “Just don’t talk with the slaves. I don’t want the poor boy beaten for your insolence. Now get on the wagon. We’re done for today.” “Yes, father,” Emerson replied and bent to collect the empty baskets. He peered into the passage that led into the pleasure house from the kitchen one last time, hoping to catch one glimpse of the blonde hair. No such luck. Emerson Bones sighed and trudged outside, his head brimming with many a dangerous thought.