SONG RECOMMENDATIONS: "Est-ce que tu m'aimes" by GIMS.
Theodore sat on the plush chair by the window, chewing his lips and fiddling with his fingers.
His uncle Connor had looked very angry. He hoped all would be well. He didn't want there to be any fight now that they were all together. They needed to be united to face the real enemies.
A small clinking sounded as Frederick put a teacup in front of him.
Theodore watched as Frederick sat down, crossing his legs, and brought his teacup for a tentative sip after inhaling.
His whole attention was now glued to the man. He was always beside his papa—a friend? The man was dressed in the same unique style as Silas, his single round spectacle balanced on his face and a top hat.
Theodore found himself entranced by the white stroke of his brows and long silver-white lashes. His face was lean and gentle, but something told him otherwise. Someone associated with the evil lord wouldn't be innocent.
Frederick looked sideways at him, and Theodore caught the surreal eye color. It played with the angles of light—he couldn't even place them. He hoped he hadn't gotten ahead of himself by placing his familiarity with the sight of the hooded stranger a few nights ago.
In an effort to busy himself, he took the teacup and rushed to take a sip.
"Careful, it's hot—"
Frederick's warning was lost to the exclamation from Theodore. Frederick took another long sip from his cup, and Theodore stared at him, offended. Was this grown-up mocking him?
He sucked in and puffed out air to cool his tongue. He brought the coaster to his lap and continued to stare at Frederick with narrowed eyes.
Frederick, not being one to like people staring, opened his mouth to protest.
"Where were you seven nights ago?" Frederick raised a brow to see Theodore peering up at him with narrowed eyes, chin jutted.
Frederick turned his tea with his spoon. "And why would I have to recount the activities of seven nights ago? I have much better things to do than scrutinize every activity of my day."
"Then you would make a bad witness to a crime." Theodore mimicked his posture and crossed his legs.
"Perhaps… adult things," he answered, staring at his cup.
Theodore hummed. "Like what? Going to the theater, frolicking around town, or perhaps visiting a mistress?"
"I don't mean that sort of adult things. My word, you have quite a mouth on you." Frederick looked astonished.
Theodore looked proud, propping back on the chair and swinging his leg around the armrest.
"There are things I attend to for Lord Silas."
"Like the dirty work?" Theodore smiled down at his teacup.
"Goodness," Frederick huffed. Watching that mischievous grin reminded Frederick why he didn't enjoy the company of children. They were too observant. Asked too many questions.
Theodore chuckled to himself, having his fun pulling the always-serious man's legs.
"Are you a friend of my papa?" he asked, tilting his head curiously.
Frederick pondered how he should reply. They had both tolerated and gotten away with things other people wouldn't. They had been together an awfully long time. And they both had a goal that bound them.
Finally, he replied.
"You could say so. Considering what you would call a friend."
Theodore perked up to answer. "Seeing one through the bad and ugly."
Well, he had definitely seen Silas ugly and through the worst.
With a fond quirk of his lips, he nodded. "Yes, perhaps you could call us friends." He wondered what Silas would think of this. And it was time to return the books he borrowed from him before Silas came for his.
The dynamic of their relationship had never really been assessed.
Before either of them could say another word, a meow came from the windowsill. A black cat dropped to the sill and hopped down to the table with their tea and snacks. Theodore immediately recognized the cat.
The cat walked lazily to Frederick and hopped on his crossed leg, nuzzling into his hand. Frederick raised the hand from his lap, and the cat passed under it, stretching as his palm rubbed over its fur. It sniffed his hand and curled its tail around his knee.
Theodore stared, mouth agape, as Frederick took a biscuit and the cat snatched it up.
"Unbelievable!" Theodore cried, feeling betrayed.
Frederick and the cat both turned to Theodore at his exclaim. The cat narrowed his eyes at Theodore, looking pissed, before kneading his paw at his trousers and curling up with a purr, ignoring the loud tiny human.
Theodore stared at the cat, then Frederick, and back again. "Is he your pet?"
"No, not mine. As a matter of fact, he belongs to no one. Answers to no one," Frederick spoke as a matter of fact, and the cat's tail came to flick at his hand, pleased with his praise.
Theodore propped his hand on his chin. "How did you find him?"
"Silas was the one to find him," he slipped down memory lane, forgetting the titles. "We found him when we were younger and Silas purchased this estate.. He was putting up a fight with the cleaning staff, refused to be chased. He was feral. Bit me and scratched Silas." He chuckled absentmindedly at the memory, scratching behind the cat's ear, who purred in satisfaction.
Theodore giggled. "He was always feral, I see."
"Yes. Silas decided to leave him be. He had come before us to the mansion and staked his claim. Of course people talked. You must have heard the tales of black cats; they aren't liked and are linked to people as bad omens. my lord didn't mind their words."
Not that he ever had, he mused in his mind. "He put him in charge of overseeing the estate just to spite them."
Lord Silas always loved to irk the nobles.
At the end of the story, Theodore's eyes were sparkling in admiration. "And does he have a name?" he asked, studying the mass of dark fur.
Frederick paused. "He doesn't," he spoke as if just realizing it. "But on the days where he had been especially mischievous, I and Silas liked to call him Meeko."
"What does that mean?" Theodore mused, slumping further in his seat.
"It means 'little mischief.'"
Theodore giggled. "Funny name." Well, Frederick agreed. But it was befitting for such a mischievous creature.
"Meeko…" Theodore tried it on his tongue, and the cat's ear stood.
Frederick watched the sight, wondering how the child made him speak so much—more than he usually would.
Theodore stretched and deflated, twisting in his seat. "I would love to name him. But he doesn't like me very much." He puffed out his cheeks, his shirt riding up and getting rumpled. Frederick swallowed the urge to correct his sitting style.
The cat yawned and slowly opened its eyes. His green irises and narrowed pupils trained on Theodore. Frederick noted the similarities. It seemed his master held a fondness for green eyes.
Theodore spoke slowly and intentionally, staring back at the cat. "One day, I'm going to name you," he declared, and the cat blinked again, stood up, snatched the biscuit Frederick was bringing to his lips, and strutted out of the room, disappearing out the window. Not bothering to cast a fleeting glance at the little human who challenged him.
Theodore stared after the cat, disappointed and determined.
•••
Connor, in the midst of his blind rage, marched out of the mansion and continued walking where his feet took him. His anger blurred his steps, his fists shaking.
He was hurt and disappointed. How easily the infuriating viscount had come into their lives, embedded himself. He was angry at the situation and angry at himself. If only he held more power, his mistress wouldn't have needed the vile man's help. They wouldn't be in this position. Since the day he lost everything, he hadn't felt this hopeless.
Was he really needed? Had he no purpose anymore?
Connor found himself in the midst of a bed of flowers and towering lush trees. He went and leaned weakly against one of its barks, his sword falling limply to his side. He stared bleakly at his muddied shoes. In the haste of it all, he had rushed here, not taking a break from his treacherous journey. He ached everywhere.
All because of the viscount. Nothing would be the same. All because of him.
He screamed his frustration into the forest, his roar straining his hoarse vocal cords, his veins prominent on his neck.
He hit the back of his head repeatedly against the tree.
"Who on Naria is making a ruckus? Cry over your heartbreak somewhere else," a groggy, annoyed voice groaned from up in the tree branches, startling him.
He looked up and winced at the blinding sunlight, so he cupped the top of his brow and peered up again to a sight that seized his lungs of air.
Sleepy topaz-colored eyes, accentuated by subtle winged black kohl, narrowed at him. Connor blinked. A halo of tightly curled dark hair framed her face. Her features were striking against her dark skin, but she frowned at him, plump lips downturned.
"Paint a portrait. It'll last longer. Make it a good one," she mumbled angrily and went back to sleep.
Connor, for the first time, took a look around his surroundings. And noticed he was lost. He spun around and looked at the towering trees, yellow leaves falling like snow.
He pressed between his brows and took his chances with the angry woman. He too was also pissed—how dare she. She could have been on any tree, but this one? He knew how surreal it was as soon as he thought of it.
He kicked at the leaves at his feet.
"Um… excuse me. Do you by chance know the way back to the mansion?"
He got no response. He stewed in his anger and stared down at his shoes.
"Hello… miss?" Still nothing. He huffed, pissed, and raised his sword to make slash marks at the tree before striding off.
For long moments he strolled around the forest, framed by the branches, but couldn't stumble upon any clearing. He was starting to think he was going nowhere.
A rustle sounded above him.
"Even your walking's loud," the annoyed voice sounded again. If he wasn't so pissed himself, he would have enjoyed the melodic tone of her voice.
He huffed out a loud breath, exasperated. "I don't see you helping!"
The next thing he heard was a whoosh past his ears and a thud behind him. He turned to see a dagger sticking out of the tree. He turned wide-eyed back to the tree.
"You're walking in circles. I've heard your grouchy footsteps pass by four times now." He swore he could hear the eye-roll in her voice.
"How'd you know—" A long nail pointed below. He looked and stared blankly at the two slashes he left right on the same tree.
He groaned. He just needed to get to Lucinda and take them back home. Not deal with this. Who was this woman anyway?
"Okay look. You don't want me here, and I don't want to be here either. So you can just show me the path back to the mansion and I'll be out of your hair. Deal?"
The woman who lay with her back to him finally turned.
"If I refuse, you won't leave?" Connor just folded his hands impatiently.
Just when he thought she was going to ignore him again, she spoke up. "Go left till you find the dead tree, then straight down from there." She waved a dismissive hand.
Surprised, he muttered a "thank you." He looked up curiously at the woman again. Her cloak hung, covering her in what he could see were dark pants and a white sleeve.
"What should I call you?" Her silence answered him. Doesn't matter, they wouldn't meet again. So he tucked his sword back in and walked away.
"Good luck finding your princess," she mumbled from the branches above when he was out of earshot. She finally turned her head his way and peeked at him with one eye.
Her lips curled as she stared at him. The man had a nice ass.
She cackled to herself, swinging her leg off the branch and singing a tune only she knew.