The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Ninety-Three

John knew he was in the home of a practised seducer when he found the immaculately pressed shirt, folded and waiting for him on a chair. There was also a fresh pair of breeches, a fine set of stockings, and most appealing of all, a steaming ewer of perfumed hot water on the dressing table.

He made use of all of these things, wondering vaguely what had happened to his own clothes as he pulled on the shirt. Everything fit perfectly, and he decided not to worry about which servant's job it had been to size him up while he had been sleeping.

He was also grateful to find, that while each item of clothing was of a far better quality than the ones they replaced, the shirt was nothing more than a good white linen, and the breeches a thick dark fabric which a couldn't identify, but he was willing to bet was wool from some fancy goat or other.

That Lord Vanatis might like to play at being an excellent host, but he clearly had no interest in dressing his acquisitions up like a peacock. Still, the stockings were silk, and John spent a few minutes wriggling his toes against the luxurious knit before cramming them back into his shoes and buttoning down the sides of his breeches so that they sat tight against his legs.

John didn't need to look in the mirror to know that the fit was perfect, but he gave himself a once over all the same, turning from one side to the other to admire the effect from all angles. He clicked his fingers and winked at himself. Gaol-bird to toy-boy in five easy steps. He looked damn good, even if he did say so himself.

Like any reasonable house-guest left alone in someone else's bedroom, he looked around, opening drawers and poking around to find out what kind of bloke Vanatis was.

He didn't find anything weird, or at least, not creepy-weird, he thought when he came across a stack of several hundred pale-pink boxes in the adjoining dressing room, each one containing an unworn silken cravat in a uniform shade of milk-white.

Other than the clothes, there wasn't a single item which hinted at his host's personality. No paintings, playing cards, books, or even debauched images tucked under the mattress, away from the prying eyes of the servants (he checked).

Whoever Vanatis was, he certainly liked to keep the different areas of his life separate.

Although, supposed John as he opened the door and peered out into the long corridor beyond, if he had a house as big as this, he would keep each room dedicated to its own individual task too.

Figuring that the new clothes meant that he wasn't meant to hang around in the bedchamber until Vanatis saw fit to return, he decided to go exploring.

John had been in houses like this before. Back at home, when he was a kid, they'd sometimes go out out out on school-trips to these big stately-houses in the countryside. It was probably their teacher's idea of getting some culture into their inner-city charges, but he'd always thought it felt like they were being taught about their proper place in the world. Those big fancy people, with hyphens in their names, and estates as large as a county, lived in homes with a square-footage equivalent to a decent sized village, and the rest of them were expected to pay due reverence - feet behind the red rope, eyes dutifully following whatever direction they were pointed towards, and a constant feeling of terror that one might accidently brush their poverty coated fingers against one of the priceless artifacts.

Though, he'd never seen one of these places actually lived in. There were no red ropes looping off delicate pieces of furniture, and no navy-jacketed tour-guides eyeing him with a mixed expression of disgust and mistrust, least he pocket a miniature of some big-noses grand-duchess.

This was not a tomb to a forgotten era of starched servants and noblesse oblige. It was all actually happening.

Footman who looked like they were kept stored on hangers overnight so that they didn't get wrinkled, floated around as if there were rollers hidden under their shoes.