l'epistoliere

This time the steady hum of normal life woke him — what time is it? eleven? of which day?! — the hum, and the sun, blinding him through the small window. Red wines stinged the tongue like rosemary leaves, whites caressed it before vanishing, leaving behind only a faint smell of green pepper and basil. Even that was gone now, replaced with sharp piercing pain in the temples. How much did he drink? 

"Do not forget your purpose there, Montefiori, the count said, follow His Excellence and listen to his every word." 

"It might be the only important thing I ask of you, and you... the hell are you wearing?" said the count later. 

"The hell, Adrian smiled, is where Dante once found himself. This is proper masquerade attire. Isn't it so very becoming on me?" 

Adrian didn't feel as confident though when the count brought him to the ballroom, but what was he to do?

That wasn't the reason why he drank so much, why he didn't want to face the next day. It couldn't have been — after all, Adrian didn't forget his purpose. No, not at all, and his disguise proved itself perfect — with a glass in one hand, and a pretty little thing in another, His Excellence couldn't close his mouth. 

It all came back to him when he scraped himself off the bed this morning and scrubbed his face as if makeup still was clinging to the skin.

The count waited at the balcony like some gargoyle, still wearing the blacks and purples — though today slightly shinier. In his hand — a barely touched glass of wine that didn't sparkle anymore, ready to drop to its doom at any moment. 

"So?", he said. 

"I believe, greetings are in order, Your Gloominess." 

"This joke was tired before you exerted it." Still, the corner of his lips raised a little — involuntarily, perhaps.

Though aren't courtiers famous for controlling their faces? Their bodies, too. The tiniest of movements and the most fleeting of emotions... How tiring that must be! and at the night of supposed rest!

This. Adrian was just tired. The stays were too tight and the petticoats one too many. He could barely stand after so many dances — the count had to hold him in place, while Adrian whispered everything he heard that night.

The gown lay now in the corner, waiting to be claimed by its rightful owner. Adrian could only hope that generous madame Sophie would forgive some wine stains — those are not his fault, after all. 

Nothing is.

Certainly not him hearing someone coming, and not him losing the mask — if anyone, the count misplaced it. He just couldn't risk being recognized and did what he had to. 

Which was pulling the count even closer and kissing that stubborn corner of his lips. He replied — almost immediately — certainly understanding the gravity of the situation. 

"Her parents would be very disappointed," someone behind them said, his voice distorted by the mask. "His Excellence, too." 

The count put his hand on Adrian's head, urging him to rest on his shoulder, and replied, his voice low and steady as if nothing was happening.

"I told your mistress you were at the rose arch. A beautiful place. A beautiful young woman with a terrible old husband. A beautiful, yet short night. Don't leave her waiting."

It's the first rule of any masquerade — until the night is over, everything goes.

The intruder scoffed and left. The count absentmindedly caressed the back of Adrian's head, until he saw the dark figure leaving the palace. 

"Is there anybody at the rose arch?"asked Adrian just to fill the silence. 

"Unless she got bored, yes." His smile became just a bit sharper. "And if she did, that's his fault."

All of this ended so quickly — a minute or two from the count embracing him to letting go — but Adrian felt his gentle touch even after undressing, and putting his own clothes back, and running away to the seashore, and leaping in its pitch black waters, cold as the dreadful Styx. 

This was why Adrian went back and snatched a few bottles right from the valet. The scoundrel just stole them for himself anyway.

Now those wines became the worst headache he ever had, making the walk to the count's quarters as long as... almost too long to handle, that is. 

"Come in", the answer was, just as always. 

The count was wearing his black suit and gold-rimmed glasses, a black velvet ribbon tied on top of pristine white cravat — same as always. 

"You? Didn't Lucille tell you to rest?" 

The calm expression, the books, the papers — everything was the same. No, slight concern in the eyes — that was new. Still, with the way Adrian looked today, anybody would be concerned for him.

Courtiers are famous for self-control, and only cardsharps surpass them. This must have been nothing, just like perpetual "You look wonderful today, my dear" are nothings. 

"I jus— erm, I... want my knife back, that's all." Adrian steadied himself. Among many other things, he was a cardsharp, too, though not as skilled as some. "The knife you took when we met. Your Gloominess." 

The style didn't sound right anymore. Maybe he was right, and the joke was tired.

The count reached into his pocket. Did he always keep it there? 

"Well, why won't you come in properly then? Today is not my good day, don't make me stand up for no reason." 

The silver handle was as warm as his fingers, even though Adrian barely touched them. 

"Thank you. Your Highness." 

The concern in his eyes became deeper, and Adrian asked, as he thought, carelessly. 

"Did I say something incorrect?"

He expected something along the lines of ”at first, no respect, Montefiori, and now — too much?” together with sarcastically arched brow, but instead got: