▌│█║▌║▌║ ғelιcιυм ║▌║▌║█│▌
Nov. 10th, 2015 02:09 am (UTC)
Carrick had decided to pay a call to the salon that evening. He was eager to see Alcuin's response to his gift. Although Carrick was a patient man, and never more so than when devising a new stratagem to win the favour of a boy who had caught his ever-desirous eye, he felt this was an occasion where there was nothing to be gained from holding back.
He dressed for the evening with particular care, with a sharply tailored dark riding coat and boots polished to a mirror shine. A garnet glimmered like a drop of blood in the stock pin at his neck. He rode at a leisurely pace to Alcuin's salon, enjoying the lingering warmth of the evening as the sky turned violet. Trotting into the stableyard of the salon, he swiftly dismounted and handed the reins to a stablehand. There, at least, was a boy who was always glad to see him. The stableboy doffed his hat as Carrick approached, a faint flush rising on his suntanned cheeks as Carrick's leather-gloved fingers lingered on his while handing over the reins. The boy was sweet and keen to please, and on the nights Carrick left the salon after yet another cool rebuff from Alcuin, he could always be sure that the stableboy, at least, would eagerly submit to his hungry kisses.
"Will you be long in the Salon tonight, my lord?" The boy questioned almost wistfully. Carrick glanced at him as he stripped off his riding gloves and tidied his hair. "I do hope so." He gave a brief flash of a shark-like smile. "But you'll still be awake when I return." The stableboy's answering smile had the doomed sweetness of a prey animal fascinated by the lissome sway of a snake. "Aye, my lord. I'll wait for you."
Carrick had forgotten the stableboy by the time he crossed the courtyard. As he stepped into the pool of light from the lanterns hanging in the trees nearest the salon’s door, there was an unearthly screech. A flurry of black wings beat the air as the rooster, recognising the man who had shut him in a crate the previous evening, flew at Carrick’s face like one of the Furies. Swearing in Greek, Carrick's arm flew up in front of his face to block the whirlwind of pecks and claws. Mercifully, the rooster retreated after a few moments, strutting across the path in front of him with puffed up feathers and a challenging glint in its tiny black eye.
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