The Golden Duke’s Forbidden Lover

The Curfew and the Hidden Map

Dong, dong, dong—

Suddenly, a sequence of resonant chimes echoed through the galleries. Ares realized it was the great-grandfather clock in the vestibule. Ares observed that the retainers, who had been stationed along the corridors awaiting their masters' bidding, unanimously began descending the stairs upon hearing the toll.

"By decree of the citadel, all inhabitants must repair to their quarters by the eighth hour of the evening," Harley explained with mechanical precision. "Save for the personal retainers of His Grace and the young masters, who may traverse the galleries upon direct command, none are permitted to leave their chambers. Professor Norcross, pray follow. We shall now proceed to the quarters assigned for your tenure within the castle."

Ordinarily, a guest's primary destination upon arrival would be his designated lodgings. Yet within the unconventional parameters of the House of Valerius, this custom was inverted; only after surviving a gauntlet of trials was Ares finally conducted to his sanctuary.

The guest chamber was far from confined, boasting a commodious bed dressed in soft, heavy eiderdowns. His leather trunk and satchel had been neatly arrayed upon the hearth-carpet. To his surprise, a fire was already blazing within the hearth—not a meager arrangement of coals, but a grate packed with fuel sufficient to maintain a warm, luxurious temperature until the morrow. The heat was so palpable that, were it not for the flurries visible beyond the leaded panes, Ares might have forgotten the merciless winter outside.

A sinful extravagance, Ares mused, recalling the phrases employed by the gazettes when decrying the uncharitable merchant princes.

"The chamber is exemplary, Harley. There is naught that requires adjustment; I am entirely content."

Harley nodded, yet he remained stationary. "On the morrow, you shall conduct a trial lesson. Discern where the young masters' erudition is deficient, and prescribe targeted compositions and lectures accordingly. Furthermore, Professor Norcross, it is of paramount importance that you maintain the utmost discretion and decorum. Though the young masters are of tender years, it does not follow that you may treat them casually. They inherit the illustrious blood of Valerius and shall mature into the pillars that sustain the Crown and the Empire. If," his gaze sharpened like a hunting raptor, locking onto Ares, "if I discover you counseling them toward vice, or performing any malicious act against them, rest assured you shall face a retribution far more severe than mere incarceration. A very good evening to you."

With that parting volley, Harley executed a haughty bow and departed, indifferent to whatever reaction the scholar might harbor. This half-veiled menace left Ares between amusement and exasperation. He now understood why, despite the Duke's severe governance, the nephews remained such indifferent scholars. With an old retainer so thoroughly indulgent and protective, it was inevitable that the boys would transform into imps who found their mirth in tormenting their preceptors.

Yet neither the Duke's condescension nor the majordomo's threats weighed upon Ares's mind. He unclasped his trunk, removing his effects and arranging them with care. Having departed in considerable haste, his luggage contained little beyond a few winter vestments, his familiar writing implements, and instructional texts.

Seating himself at the escritoire, he began to reconstruct his journey from the iron gates, tracing a rudimentary cartography of the citadel with a lead pencil, marking those secluded sectors capable of concealing a maiden without drawing scrutiny. This was the opening gambit of his design: locate Catherine, then devise her deliverance.

As the details of his map grew more refined, the tempest outside intensified, the sleet striking the masonry with a soft, rhythmic patter like the rustle of birds' wings. Sleep was a necessity; otherwise, his faculties would fail him during tomorrow's lecture. Ares rolled the incomplete map with care, concealing it within the hollow spine of a thick volume entitled A Critical History of Imperial Literature, before devoting his remaining energy to composing tomorrow's lecture notes. He extinguished the gas jet and retired to his bed.

The silence of the chamber was absolute, and despite the rich tapestries and hangings that insulated the space, it felt profoundly hollow. He closed his eyes, attempting to summon sleep, yet his thoughts reverted inexorably to the heterochromatic gaze of Garrick Valerius. He had never imagined a combination of sapphire and gold could appear so devastatingly beautiful. Those eyes possessed a fatal gravity, seeming to pierce his flesh to scrutinize his very soul, leaving his spirit trembling.

"Garrick Valerius..." Ares murmured the foreign syllables, a heavy dread tightening around his chest. That inhuman golden eye was undoubtedly the manifestation of the Valerius Curse. If the malady possessed such potency as to alter one's physical lineaments, a dying man would surely cling to Catherine with desperate ferocity. He had witnessed the terminally ill; he knew they would commit any atrocity to prolong their existence, even sacrificing an innocent maiden. This was a campaign of survival, and Ares vowed he would claim the victory.

At the precise moment Ares extinguished his lamp, the chambers of the Duke remained bathed in a brilliant glow. The master of the citadel, his skin as pale as carved statuary, cupped a handful of water and dashed it against his countenance. The rivulets trickled down his strong jawline as he accepted a linen towel from the outstretched hands of his majordomo. "Has the new preceptor encountered Vincent and Victor?"

Harley replied respectfully, "He has, Your Grace. Master Vincent saw fit to anoint his palms with machine oil, while Master Victor very nearly delivered a thrust through his breast."

"Indeed? And how did our scholar acquit himself?" Garrick cast the towel aside, observing his reflection in the glass. The golden iris had dilated, resembling an independent creature scrutinizing him with cold detachment.

Harley paused before rendering his judgment. "In truth, he conducted himself with considerable credit. I credit him with more resilience than his predecessors."

Garrick offered neither approval nor censure. He turned his gaze upon Harley, his voice flat. "He is a Red-Blood, Harley. A creature naturally desirous of warmth, yet he journeys to this frozen wasteland. What do you deduce is his true purpose?"

The muscles in Harley's jaw tightened; he was intimately familiar with the cold suspicion that dwelled within his master's heart. "... Your Grace suspects he may be an agent operating against the House of Valerius?"

"We shall judge him by his actions. Before you perform your night-watch, deliver his dossier to my studies."

"At once, Your Grace." Harley bowed, gathering the discarded linen before turning toward the portal.

"Furthermore," Garrick's voice arrested his departure, "commission the tailors to fashion several winter vestments for him. His current wardrobe is entirely inadequate for our climate. And see to it that he breaks his fast with us in the dining hall on the morrow."

Harley hesitated, turning back to scan the inscrutable, shadow-draped features of his lord. Maintaining his impeccable composure, he murmured, "It shall be done, Your Grace."

As the majordomo departed, the gaslights dimmed, and a profound obscurity reclaimed the chamber. Within the deep shadows, only the uncanny sapphire and gold of Garrick's heterochromatic gaze burned with an intense, predatory brilliance.

Ares's inaugural day within Castle Pig Iron commenced at the sixth hour with a sharp rap upon his door. A footman, Richard Bryan, entered bearing a copper basin filled with steaming water, proceeding to set the room in order with practiced efficiency. "Professor Norcross, the majodomo has charged me with your attendance. Pray allow me to attend to your shave, sir."

Before Ares could fully master his senses, his jaw was enveloped in a thick lather of soap. Once the blade had performed its office, Richard produced a silk measuring tape from his pocket.

"Hold a moment—to what purpose is this?"

Richard replied deferentially, "To ascertain your stature and girth, sir, so that the tailors may construct new garments for your tenure."

The casual extravagance of the Valerius clan caused Ares to arch a brow in astonishment. "Does the majordomo routinely authorize custom vestments for the retinue?" Such a commission, incorporating both artisan labor and fine textiles, represented a princely expenditure.

"No," Richard shook his head. "This is by express command of His Grace."

Ares glanced toward his current frock coat, noting the frayed stitching along the cuffs. It was far from immaculate. It appeared the high aristocracy possessed such an ingrained obsession with superficial decorum that they could brook no unseemly attire within their establishment, even among the servants. He pressed the matter no further, compliantly allowing Richard to record his proportions.

"I shall now conduct you to the dining hall, sir, where you are expected to break your fast alongside His Grace and the young masters."

Ares froze, utterly incredulous. "I beg your pardon?"