At the Year's End

The Strings of Fate

1

Alistair Hume and his good friend James Walker had managed to make it back to the latter's townhouse after a night of cards and spirits. It was a wonder that the two had not wound up stumbling through the streets of London at the indecent hour of the night that they were out, knee-deep in their cups. Thankfully for them, James' groom was a dutiful man, and saw the two into the landau and back to the house.

Alistair watched the murky streets blur by in a mix of shadows dancing away from gas lamps and moonshine. James was slumped in the seat opposite him, and sleep was not a faraway notion for Alistair, but he at least wanted to be awake to find himself to a room. He patted the empty space besides him. Usually, there would been a trollop's excited rump there, her perfume clinging to his skin as he ravished her body. But this night was a tad different.

He had not been in the mode as of late to play with his mistresses; he had been quite fed up of them, in fact. He couldn't tell if it was his aunt's chiding words that had finally wormed their way into his skull and taken root there, or that he had simply grown bored of the women he saw almost every night. Whatever it was, he couldn't be sure of it. But, at least now, with the Season at its end, he could escape from his clingy bedfellows and continue strengthening his business with his partner.

The trap rolled to a stop, jerking Alistair out of his musings, and apparently rousing James as he rose with a start.

"Welcome home, friend," Alistair said under his breath as he reached for the door. James grumbled back a reply, rubbing his neck sorely.

As Alistair walked up to the front door, he had to look back to the trap to make sure that his friend was ever coming out. Slowly, a leg protruded from the dark interior, and the rest of James's body followed, sluggishly. The groom offered him some support as the two cut a zig-zag path towards the door.

"You really are no good at holding your liquor, Walker," Alistair commented, amusement snaking its way onto his features. But James was too foxed to care. He simply scoffed as the door opened, trying to find his own footing.

"I'll have you know," he finally tried to say, but slurred terribly, "I'm an excellent drinker."

Alistair stifled a laugh and clapped his friend on the shoulder. James nearly went sprawling once more. "I'll believe you when you're the one who takes me home."

James hadn't even the chance to be properly inside the foyer, and a maid had passed him an envelope. Her face was solemn, eyes dark and remorseful. Alistair looked at her askance.

"I don't think Mr Walker is in any condition to digest any missives," Alistair admonished, although he hadn't meant to sound so severe. He saw as the girl shook in her kirtle at his voice. "I'll relay the message to him. You are dismissed."

Slipping him the letter, the girl scurried back to wherever she had come from. Alistair turned to the groom.

"Take him to the parlour, Goef," he said, walking ahead.

The groom hobbled behind him with a fussy Mr Walker, and the boy only stopped when he was settled into a settee.

"I could have walked myself," he huffed, pouting like the young boy Alistair knew him to be at heart. "And, I can read perfectly fine,"

Alistair crossed his legs. Frankly, he wasn't in any mood to read, either. But the look on that maid's face had him wondering what had been sent and who had sent it – and at so late an hour for it to have arrived.

"Fine, then. Take your chances with words tonight," Alistair said flippantly. He tossed the envelope to James. He was too slow to catch it, and the paper smacked his chest.