Scarred heart

6

The stranger backed away into the corner, whimpering in fear the moment Hound growled at him again and lowered his head, but Scar wasn’t having any of it and grabbed the boy’s arm. “Is the blood yours then? Someone attacked you? Where?” he asked, not hesitating to pat the intruder down, to make sure there were no weapons hiding under the fancy coat.

The boy tried to weasel out of his grip, but he didn’t seem adept at using force. “N-no. I don’t think it’s mine. I don’t know. Is this hell?”

Scar groaned, staring at the silly-looking young man, whose white shirt was completely drenched in red. Someone must have died to produce this much blood.

“You will explain yourself to Dean.”

Vine

Bear Valley, April 1820

With a tin lantern in hand, Vine was braving the April chill with his heart in his throat. Tonight would be the first time he’d be alone with Mr. Fane, without the danger of someone intruding on their private conversation.

So far, they’ve only ever met at Mr. Barnave’s bookshop, but Vine was sure they shared a special connection. So many times had Mr. Fane spent hours choosing books that it felt as if what he’d really been after was conversation.

Or, if Vine was a capable judge of those things, possibly something much more than conversation. The way their eyes would meet sometimes and linger without a word, or the way Mr. Fane stood closer than was strictly necessary or proper, and made Vine recall the book Mr. Barnave had explicitly forbidden Vine from touching.

Which, of course, made Vine even more interested in its contents. Always too curious for his own good, he’d read the book from start to finish, earning himself a caning when Mr. Barnave noticed the volume had been misplaced.

Still, Vine took the strokes with a sense of contentment, because days later the book ended up sold and taken from the store under some gentleman’s coat. The prints included inside the story still lingered in the corners of Vine’s mind, and that, Mr. Barnave could not get away from him.

It had been an illicit publication made up of prints depicting the life of a man who had engaged lovers from all walks of life, sometimes even men. And the illustrations did not hesitate in showing those unions either. Naked men, entangled like husband and wife, touching each other in forbidden ways, kissing and mating like Scars, without a care about morality or the laws of God.

Vine wasn’t sure if he was destined for a life of sin or if the book irreversibly colored him thus, but never in his later years did he look at a lady and wonder what it would be like to share her bed.

Instead, he would sometimes marvel at the strength of the men working in the harbor, secretly admire the thick forearms revealed by rolled-up sleeves, and wonder what it would be like to lay in bed naked with one of them. How it would feel to have male hands touch him in intimate ways, for a man to lay on top of him, and press his—

In all fairness, Vine wasn’t entirely certain how the two men were to connect this way, as the book wasn’t about detailed explanations, and it hardly provided much reading material, but nothing had been the same since he’d held it in his hands for the first time.

He was aware of the social consequences of his cravings, of course, but fear of discovery had never been enough of a deterrent, and as Vine grew older, he became convinced he would sacrifice a lot to lie with a man. Possibly. Maybe. Most likely.

How was he to know if no man ever approached him this way, and he never approached another man, unsure how to go about it? He was a grown man of almost twenty years, and yet his life had been spent on assisting Mr. Barnave at the bookshop from early morning until nightfall. At least making deliveries all around Brecon kept him from developing a hunched back or ending up thin as a reed.

So if only the sparks of interest that he was sure he felt from Mr. Fane was real, Vine was about to take matters into his own hands and experience them against his skin.

He tried not to harbor too much hope, but the delivery of books to Mr. Fane was yet another opportunity to develop a more intimate, personal connection. He was certain Mr. Fane liked him. Not only did he visit the bookstore frequently to share his thoughts with Vine, but he also once bought Vine a whole basket of the sweetest apples upon a chance meeting at the market. To remind Mr. Fane of that time, Vine brought two apples to share with him.

He hoped he was not overstepping by offering such meager food to someone who likely enjoyed sugar and marzipan every day, but deep down Vine knew Mr. Fane would appreciate and understand the gesture. Eating them together would feel like sharing a secret.