Jacques arrived that very same night under the heavy cloak of darkness, not wanting to be seen by any of the town’s people. What he and Joséphine were doing must be done in secret, he did not want Rion to find out what had become of his love, and so he and Tristan came on foot after being dropped by the carriage near the end of the road.

The heavy cloud cover from earlier in the day had turned in to a rare but light snow, which dusted the ground and clung to their clothing as they stepped into the house, greeted happily by the Countess. Jacques was the last piece of the puzzle that was her grand plan, and to see that he had actually arrived was more then enough to bring a smile to her beautiful but cruel face.

( Taken away. )

The Countess Joséphine Laurent was a woman who did not, and whom would never, take no for an answer. She had heard tell from a friend that Rion was planning to break their arrangement, to destroy the alliances her father had struggled so hard to build and to keep. It had been whispered in her ear that her betrothed was having an illustrious affair, and not with any woman, but with a boy, who was far younger then either of them, and she simply would not have it. She had never received the letter that would formally renounce their engagement, already on her way to Ermont to correct the problem that was tearing apart her future and all of her plans, and she arrived the day after her wayward fiancé had left to care for family affairs that she had yet to hear tell of.

She swept up to the front doors of Propriété Interdite with the air of a woman of great importance. Her skirts and scarves blew in the vicious wind that was whipping in from the north, ignoring it at as she hurried inside, likewise ignoring the cries of the maid who had been told not to, under any circumstances, to let this woman into the house. When Joséphine Laurent had her heart set on a matter, there was no one who might stop her, let alone someone as lowly as a maid.

( Enter the evil. )

Soon it would be Christmas, and for once Macon was looking forward to celebrating the holiday. Never before had he been in a home that was as grandly decorated as Propriété Interdite, and he had not, in all seventeen years of his life, ever had a Christmas tree. They were a fanciful thing that only those who were well off could afford, but now he had one in nearly every room of the house; each one decorated differently then the last.

The best tree, really, was in the main sitting room, which he and Rion had picked out themselves. It was a large tree, nearly as tall as the room itself, and they had draped it with golden yards of fine silk ribbon. Between the ribbons, placed carefully on the branches, were dozens of candles, a hand carved star made by a local wood smith perched on the very top.

( Not the best Christmas gift ever... )

Rion’s heart was thundering in his chest so hard he thought that it might burst, instantly killing him, as he ran up the stairs and into Macon’s room. He ignored the destruction of those priceless heirlooms, the vase, the portrait of his grandfather as a young man… They meant nothing to him, really.

He pushed his way into his lover’s room without knocking, immediately moving to the sobbing form on the bed. “Macon… darling… my love… what’s happened? What did my bastard brother say to you?”

( Where is your boy tonight? I hope he is a gentleman. )

After a big dose of Real Worldness, the writing has once again commenced. Progress, progress, and the story should definitely be done on time, so hurray for that.

The days that followed the masque were a blur, everything bleeding together around the edges and one moment giving way unceremoniously to the next. There were no more grand party’s to attend as the warm weather collapsed into the beginnings of fall, and Macon was taken by Rion into Ermont where he was once again outfitted with a new wardrobe, this one suited for the winter months that lay ahead. They rarely, if ever, left the house now except for the occasional call to an old friend or to have a nice dinner in a fine Parisian restaurant, and they were both content to stay alone with one another, hidden away at Propriété Interdite.

As fall begin to loom over the French countryside, the leaves turning from brilliant greens to vibrant oranges and yellows, Rion began to travel away for extended periods of time, doing business before the snow fell and travel was far too much of a risk even for the most important of matters.

( The bitter and the downright cynical. )

On the eve of the masque, Macon locked himself up in his bed chamber and didn’t come out even to eat a bite of supper. He was hungry, his stomach growling in protest and demand, but he was far too nervous to even consider the prospect of food. He had never, before meeting Rion, been associated with royalty or nobility, of any standing, but tonight would change everything, his entire world, and it was causing him no slight amount of panic.

They had gone to the tailor after Rion had received the news of the ball, and they had purchased a lovely coat of the deepest blood red, adorned with heavy brass buttons for Macon to wear. Beneath the coat was a golden colored silk lawn shirt, and new breeches with clean new boots. He had a mask, the same color as his coat, to wear over his face, but all of these things lay untouched on the chair near the window.

Instead of dressing, Macon sat on the edge of his large bed, completely nude and looking like the world was caving in around him. How was he to act tonight, around such people with such fine breeding? He had never been to anything even close to a masque before, and he was supposed to act proper, to behave in a refined manner that reflected well on both himself, and Rion. He was no one, not anybody of any sort of importance at all, why he was attending such a fine affair? He was a boy from the streets, taken into the kind and loving arms of a very important man.

( Finely cut glass flutes and floors of striking gold... )

Rion was concerned. Not terribly so, not to the point where he was losing sleep… Not yet at any rate, but he was still concerned. His father…

( Uh oh... )

The light in the drawing room was minimal at best, the dreariness of the day outside reflected in the mood of the people inside of the house. It had been raining off and on for the better part of the day, and now, in the late afternoon, it was absolutely pouring and showed little to no sign of stopping.

The poppy fields that lay in the valley were flooded with water, now inhabiting small rivers and lakes in addition to flowers, and the help had run back and forth to the main house and the stable with large umbrellas or coats over their heads. It was very much the sort of day in which one stayed inside and found entertainment in books or card games, and there was little to no travel back and forth into town. It was dull, and dismal, and absolutely dreadful on all counts.

The day found Macon curled up on a settee next to a large floor to ceiling window, watching the rain slide down the panes of glass, disappearing over the ledge and dropping from sight. On his lap sat his new puppy, a Bolognese that he had named Marionnette, sleeping with her head resting on his knee, a bowl of untouched grapes beside them on the window sill. Marionnette had been a gift from Rion, the first present that was not of necessity that he had given to the boy, and while Macon loved her very much, she was a poor companion on this particularly gloomy day.

( Sunday, gloomy Sunday. )

Macon Binet was quite sure that he had never seen anything as lovely as Propriété Interdite as he slipped out of the house and into the early morning air, buttoning up the front of his new coat, the brass buttons cool beneath his fingers. It had been a long night, hidden away in the solitude of Rion’s private quarters, basking in the afterglow of their act together, his small body held close against the other man’s, protected and warm but so very worn out.

Now, however, it was an entirely new day, and Rion had business to tend to before he could entertain his new kept boy, and he had sent Macon out on his own to explore. So with wide eyes and kiss swollen lips, the boy did just that, exiting through the gallery and skipping down the steps.

( Of whores and stable boys. )

Progress.

Morning had melted into afternoon, which had smoothed over into evening, and the pair of them were once again at Rion’s grand home, hiding from the house guests and maids in the man’s private sitting room. They were reclined in a large curved back chair lined with smooth horsehair, Rion sitting firmly in the seat with Macon stretched across his lap with his legs draped over the chairs arm.

They had finished the tedious task of shopping earlier in the day, and they had purchased so many fine things that Macon felt like an entirely new boy. As it was, he was wearing a new pair of crisp white breeches, a fresh new linen shirt, and a coat that was a magnificent shade of vibrant blue with the grandest solid silver buttons that he had ever seen. He curled his toes and relaxed against Rion, resting his head on the man’s broad shoulder, one finger furling and unfurling a solitary golden curl that escaped from Rion’s hair ribbon.

( Interesting developement. )

It was just past dawn when Macon stirred from his deep and undisturbed slumber, the first time in many years that he had been able to rest without being wakened countless times. It was a pleasant feeling, the one of having gotten enough sleep to be satisfactory, and he almost scrambled back into bed as he put his feet onto the cold floor, letting out a shrill, but quiet, noise.

Everything around him was relatively silent, and he could only make out the faintest hints of activity somewhere in the floor below, but it didn’t concern him in the slightest as he stood and stretched. The sun was creeping in through the windows, leaving fat, warm stripes of sunlight across the floor, and Macon smiled as he stepped into the light, enjoying the way it felt against his skin.

( The beginning of something very, very, good. )

Macon fell asleep as the carriage traversed the bumpy, rutted roads. Rion simply sat there and watched him, gently running his fingers through the boy’s hair. He was beautiful. Had Vioget held out for his two hundred francs, Rion would have paid it. He would have paid double that for one as exquisite as this one.

( Two Hundred francs? That's like... US$20. )

5,419 / 50,000 (10.8%)

And now we rest.

It was early evening when Rion pulled up to the estate on the outskirt of Paris known as Grands Chênes. The sun had yet to completely set, but it was well on it’s way as his carriage stopped at the gate and he stepped out. A imaginary speck of dust was flicked from his shoulder, and he turned, striding up the path to the front door.

Amaury had been watching through the parlor windows, anxiously awaiting Rion's arrival. He had gotten word that the marquess would be paying them a visit tonight, his first since the year prior, and he had told the boy's to make themselves presentable. It wasn't often that someone of such a high social ranking came to see them at Grands Chênes, and he wanted only the best of the lot to be presented.

( Well, at least we've found SOMETHING that Wal-Mart doesn't sell... )

There are three things everyone in Parisian society knew about Jean-Rion Desperaux that season.

( And no. His drag queen status isn't one of them. )

Grands Chênes Estate sat on the outskirts of Paris, not quite inside the limits of the city, but far removed from the vastness of the countryside. The lane that ran past the main house was well worn with carriage wheel tracks and trodden down from the hoofs of horses, people passing by on various travels to and from the city, but few of them ever stopped at Grands Chênes. Those who did stop came at night, when the lane was dark and empty of passerby, and when they came it was with purpose.

( Read more of chapter two. )