How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

Chapter Eight: Bonding

Shopping with Flavio was, unsurprisingly, nothing like the shopping that I was used to; the two of us were able to locate a dressmaker's, a small but successful business run by a middle-aged couple assisted by various maids and spinsters, the premises hovering longingly close to the bustling marketplace. Flavio explained, in his newfound French accent, that his mistress was " a great French lady," and that she was also the niece of the governor's wife, who was "a greater French lady." The husband had exchanged a glance with his wife, eyes sweeping over my adopted aunt's simple day gown of simple calico in polite contempt, and then he turned back to his wife and said to her,

"How shameful! I haven't seen that pattern used in eleven years! Lady Hale should be ashamed of herself, allowing her niece to wander in such despicable attire. Mademoiselle," he turned to me, a smile on his face, and gestured that I follow his wife. With a nervous glance at Flavio, I obeyed, and soon found myself in a darkened room near the back of the shop. Mrs. Houghton politely asked me to strip to my shift, which I did, and then spent several minutes taking my measurements with careful precision. When I was dressed, she led me back to the front, where Flavio and Mr. Houghton were heatedly debating the various qualities of different stitches, clearing her throat and placing a hand on her spouse's shoulder.

"The fabrics, darling."

With a final lingering glare at the fuming Flavio, Houghton left the counter, going to gather various rolls of brightly-coloured cloths and unravelling them for my inspection.

"I like this," I said in a false accent, my fingers tracing a blue silk with a brocade of ivory flowers. "And this," to a jade green with a hand painted pattern of vines and leaves. Pastel colours were apparently very fashionable, as were floral designs; with this in mind, I chose a soft linen in a gentle shade of blushing rose, a soothing, 'watermarked' lilac, a plain sky blue. Feeling dramatic, my hand also grazed over cloths of striking scarlet and deep gold, fingers lingering on a virginal cotton.

"They are all so, so beautiful…" I sighed, and the Houghtons proceeded to look very pleased; Flavio merely scowled and asked if there was any fuchsia anywhere; Mr. Houghton denied this with great pleasure.

"Only the finest," Mrs. Houghton told me eagerly, her hand catching my wrist as she pulled me forward. She was a proud, maternal sort of woman; short, plump, with a kind, beautiful face and laughing eyes. I had liked her immediately. "We've all manners of silks, mademoiselle, from all parts of the world; China, Venice, Paris (you'll be pleased to know), Spitalfields…"

"Spitalfields?" I asked, and she smiled.

"London; oh, don't look so worried," she assured me, mistaking my surprise for shock, "Spitalfields is a haven of French Huguenots…"

"I am sorry," I said to her slowly, and she shook her head. "I just thought… avec la soie chinoise… why London?" I was hoping that mixing French and English up every now and again would add realism to my role.

"Well I'll have you know," she rebuked teasingly, "that us English are capable of producing very fine fabrics, mademoiselle; silk, lawn, linen, cotton, lace… 'Course," she admitted, her fingers adjusting a folded silk of pale yellow sparsely decorated with the smallest flowers imaginable, "no matter how beautiful a cloth is, it's not fashionable unless it's imported from the farthest reaches of the world, is it? That's the beauty of the Caribbean," she continued with a fond glance back at her long-suffering husband, whose dressmaking abilities were now being undermined by Flavio. "Here, English cloths are just as fashionable as French, or Italian, or Chinese…"

"It must be… ah… very dear a fortune to… to bring into Kingston such goods," I said to her sympathetically, hoping my linguistic inconsistencies weren't over the top.

"Très cher," Mrs. Houghton agreed. "But Mister Houghton, he is a born barterer; you'll never meet a better, nor more persistent haggler than he."

I thought of Jack, but kept my mouth shut, a smile tugging at my lips as I wondered what his reaction would be if he found out that I had been reminded of him by a dressmaker.

"You are law-obedient citizens then," I continued innocently. "You do not… snuggle?"

"It's smuggle, mademoiselle," Mrs. Houghton corrected kindly. "And no, of course not; my husband is above smuggling."

Mr. Houghton suddenly whimpered, and the two of us turned to see him with his head on the table, ears covered, whilst Flavio merely blinked and looked sideways at him.

"Madame," he said to me in a stage whisper, "perhaps it is best that we leave now; these people are strange."

"Hmm," I said, reaching into my reticule and pulling out a folded slip of paper; it was an officiated note Flavio had convinced Paul to give to me, stamped with the family seal; 'a promise to pay.' I had several of these written out for me, on the understanding that his father, my brother, and eventually, either my parents or future husband, would recompense him for his financial kindness. Mrs. Houghton and I talked for several minutes more; she pointed me to a perfumer, a milliner, a glover, a jeweller and a shoemaker, and promised that as soon as they were done, either she or her husband would call at my home to present me with the preliminary sketches. I smiled, thanked her, and followed my maid out of the door; as I stepped over the threshold, I heard Mrs. Houghton remark to her husband, "What a charming creature!" Mr. Houghton then proceeded to curse the day Flavio had been born.

Flavio hopped excitedly into the carriage, whining that I join him. I smiled, laughing, and was about to enter, when something stopped me in my tracks. In the distance, deep in the busy crowds of the marketplace, I thought I saw a dark-haired girl accompanied by a dirtier boy surreptitiously picking apples off of a stall.

"Sedano!" Flavio whinged at me, ignorant of the look the footman shot him at this, and stamped his foot petulantly. I was silent, watching as Pearl and her little friend start at a yell from the stall's vendor. Clutching tightly to their ill-gained food, they turned and ran in the opposite direction, disappearing completely. It all happened so fast that it actually took me a moment to register the vendor's cry of "Catch that boy!" and then I realised that it had all been an illusion.

"…I'm going to cry now," Flavio sniffled as I shook my head; my hand trembling, I clutched tightly to the footman's fingers, and climbed to sit beside my maid, looking silently out of the window.

We visited the glover first, and I commissioned genteel evening gloves in glowing ivory, a thick pair of leather in the case of possible equestrianism, and a pair of delicate fingerless mittens in lace-trimmed white lawn. The glover was a tall, lean gentleman with a delicately powdered periwig and expressionless grey eyes, and I did not feel immediately at ease with him as I had with the Houghtons. Like his dressmaking counterparts, he promised to deliver the accessories personally once they were done, although he inspected Paul's note with more suspicion than they had.

The perfumer was second, a flamboyant Italian who squealed in delight at the arrival of Flavio, hugging and caressing his 'friend' with great affection. Flavio's response was to whimper and cower behind me; he got slapped for such rudeness, and then we began discussing fragrances. It seemed that there were perfumes for everything I could desire; gloves, hats, handkerchiefs, wigs… and of course, least importantly, people. I chose a lingering citrus scent for Flavio, whose nose was almost endearingly attracted to the fruity smell, and a floral scent of rose and subtle jasmine for myself. Sebastiano was willing to waive the fee on account of the fact that I was a friend of Flavio's, but my maid insisted that we pay it. As he carried the delicate bottles away, I saw him turn to give the perfumer a lingering look. He was oddly silent for the rest of our trip, sighing like a lovelorn schoolgirl, perking up only when I bought him a sturdy straw bonnet from the milliner, the third trader we visited. The two sisters were rather friendly, although they did treat us with great formality, and when we left for the shoemaker's, we had a grand total of fifteen different hats literally between us.

The shoemaker was a sadist, or so I thought; Flavio had disagreed with me, saying that it was normal, fashionable even, to wear shoes several inches too small, thus giving the appearance of tiny, delicate feet. Thank God the Europeans weren't followers of the Chinese trend of foot binding, or I would really have stood out. But no matter; the point was that I was limping afterwards, and had sharply instructed the shoemaker to create shoes that were the same size as my feet, and had informed him of the dressmaker; it was normal to have shoes that matched dresses completely, down to the fabric used, or so Flavio said.

The jeweller we visited last, in the afternoon, when the sun was still high, and the streets had cleared slightly because of the overpowering heat. It was a small, dark little building, and we had discovered that it was locked, bolted tightly shut. Flavio studied the door intently, peering carefully through the small, barred window, whilst I kept myself cool with a fan I had purchased from the milliner.

"I don't really need jewellery, Flavio," I said to him tiredly, blowing a brown curl out of my face as I spoke. Come to think of it, I didn't need nine hats, five perfumes, and three gloves either, but…

"Nonsense!" Flavio exclaimed, rounding on me, a finger pointing threateningly at my nose. "All great French ladies need jewels! They are the very epitome of feminine beauty, breeding, and wealth! A diamond can say a thousand things; a word, three or four at the most."

We were eventually granted entry by an unctuous, stooping fellow with darting black eyes; I disliked him immediately, and stepped closer to Flavio, whispering in French that we wouldn't be staying here long. Flavio's eyes had fallen upon a diamond tiara, and he effectively ignored me, darting forward to paw at it through the glass top; the sides were fashioned from wood.

Silly little maid, I thought fondly, following to make certain that he didn't break through the glass. The greasy gentleman followed us, and there was something in his eyes that made me swallow nervously, grabbing onto Flavio's arm for reassurance.

"And how may I be of service, Miss…?"

"Mademoiselle," I corrected forcefully, my accent wavering annoyingly. "Mademoiselle d'Évignon, s'il vous plaît." The sound of shattering glass could be heard from behind the counter, and Flavio started, leaping back with his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

"My apologies," the jeweller (I assumed) replied in a voice that was almost monotonous. "That would be the cat. If you would be so gracious as to excuse me…"

He walked, sort of drifted, really, towards the curtain, pulling it aside. I noticed how his head would turn, eyes darting between the two of us, before returning to look at whoever was beyond the curtain. Flavio didn't notice—there were pink sapphires in the tiara—but I watched the owner with great intensity. Eventually, the man decided to pin back the curtain so that he could simultaneously talk to his unseen acquaintance and keep an eye on his new customers. My heart leapt as the swish of the curtain revealed—momentarily—a pair of familiar brown boots, one crossed over the other in what appeared to be a relaxed pose. I averted my eyes and busied myself with looking at a pendant.

"Flavio," I murmured quietly, studying the diamonds intently. "Why are there so many… 'fashionable' shops here? Kingston isn't Paris."

Flavio made a throaty noise I can't really describe, and looked at me disbelievingly.

"Which part of society do you think the governor is from?" he asked of me disbelievingly. "And the merchants, and the plantation owners, and the higher-ranking officers?"

He had effectively punctured my attempts at conversation; I thought I heard suppressed whispering, footsteps, rustling of clothes…

My eyes snapped up of their own accord; the boots were gone, but now I was aware of the fractured shards of a shattered vase… There was a part of a chest of drawers behind the broken china, from which the vase must have fallen from; on it, where the container must have once stood, I thought I could see a weather-beaten tricorne, faded brown leather.

A sudden feeling of light-headedness overcame me, and I clung to Flavio's arm once more, this time for support, shaking my head in an attempt to clear it.

When I looked back at the curtain, the hat was gone; that, coupled with my unexpected dizziness—not to mention I had thought I'd seen Pearl earlier that day—made me certain that I was hallucinating.

"What's wrong?" Flavio questioned me, eyes wide. "Is Sedano dying?"

He sounded almost hopeful; I glared at him, and he looked away, eyes falling on the jeweller, who, during my abrupt vertigo, had reappeared, and was looking at me with impersonal concern.

"Mademoiselle?"

"I'm sorry," I replied, just as politely, shaking my head, the French having all but disappeared from my voice, "I felt faint…"

The man nodded, but didn't say anything in response; instead, he walked towards us, studying his collection intently, as though we may have pocketed something in the minute or so he had been away. He asked me the usual questions; was I looking for something in particular, did I have a particular preference…

"Silver," I was able to reply, detachedly, and Flavio shot me a worried look. "I prefer silver… Or white gold." I didn't add platinum; I doubted he had any in stock.

After fifteen minutes, we left; I didn't want anything in particular, but Flavio had fallen in love with a pair of diamond earrings, and why not? At least one of us was enjoying ourselves.

"Do you not like shopping?" he asked me timidly as we sat in the carriage, returning to the governor's home.

"I do," I reassured him.

"You didn't like it today, though."

"Now what makes you say that?"

Flavio hesitated.

"You look sad," he murmured softly to me. "And it breaks my heart."

My head jerked up at this, and I shot him a look; his violet eyes held mine for a second or two, and then he turned away, gazing wordlessly out of the window.

Neither of us spoke to the other for the rest of the journey.


It was dusk when Flavio, in his quiet and submissive role of Jeanne-Louise-Françoise, as he had taken to addressing himself, knocked on my bedroom door to inform me that my brother had arrived, had been informed of my return, and had requested my presence at dinner that evening. Paul will, of course, be joining us, and though my stomach still twisted at the idea, the thought of a brother to watch over me calmed me immensely.

I wore a beautiful gown of deep red and subtle, purple-pink, trimmed with gold; one of the dresses Flavio had brought with him from the ship, but had been reluctant to give to me for fear of it splitting. I was, of course, insulted when he told me this, but with a few adjustments so that it'll accommodate my bust, which, I might needlessly add, was considerably larger than Flavio's, it fit snugly onto my body. My hair was of course curled, but considering how this was a private, almost-informal, family-oriented meal, I left it loose about my shoulders. I had no jewellery of my own, so I borrowed a golden necklace of flowers and leaves, and the accompanying earrings, from Lady Hale's abandoned collection whilst wondering how wise it truly was for the lady to leave her jewels in an unlocked drawer of her defenceless dresser.

The meal took place in the dining room, and was served at eight; I arrived as the grandfather clock chimed the hour to find Paul with his back towards me, studying a large family portrait that I assumed dated from the late seventeenth or early eighteenth century, judging by the costumes worn by the participants. He turned to find me standing nervously behind him, and nodded that I enter fully; his hand beckoned me closer, and I obeyed, standing beside him. Flavio, as my lady's maid, was nowhere to be seen; I assumed he was taking his meal either in the kitchen or in my room.

"Mother was given this on the day she left for England," he said to me in what he assumed was my native tongue, hand hovering decidedly close to my waist; I moved away under the pretext of examining those on the edge of the portrait; their clothing was well-made, but not as elegant or fine as those near the centre. I soon realised that the people on the edges were the distant, forgotten relations; nobility may have been in their blood, but there was clearly nothing in their bank balance.

"Do you know what the purpose of this is?" he said to me, his voice low as he stalked closer, like a lion towards a gazelle. I resisted the urge to lift my head from the grass and run.

"Non," I answered.

"It's to remind her of her family," he said, his voice now a whisper. "To remind her of her true allegiance; to remind her of her blood. Everyone is dressed in the French fashion, don't you see?"

"Alors?"

"Ever since your mother married into the family, there's been a decidedly Italian vogue; however, our family was willing to transform themselves into undeniable patriots for this portrait; all of the fabrics, materials and patterns used in the clothing here are French."

I jerked away at this, staring at him.

"My mother is Italian?"

"Demi-italienne, oui; pourquoi?"

I shook my head, and stepped carefully about him. So Nicolette's mother was half-Italian, like my own. Coincidence, surely.

"Am I in this painting?"

Paul reached out and pointed to a beautiful woman with fine black eyes and a regal smile; she was seated near the centre, a handsome man with brown hair standing beside her, a hand placed protectively on her bare shoulder. There was a young boy peeking mischievously out from behind her voluminous skirts; in her lap was a young girl, about a year old, possibly less, and already decked out in fine linen and lace. Her blue eyes were wide with innocence, and her face wasn't as detailed as the other, older members; I smiled as I imagined her looking around and wriggling. Her hair was black, like her mother's, peeking shyly out from beneath her white cap. This was Nicolette, and she looked so much like I would imagine Pearl would have looked at that age that I had, for a moment, lost my breath.

She didn't look like me though; at that age, I was blonde, and I had darkened with age, just like my uncle had done.

The boy looking over her head, I realised, was Christophe; his hair was brown, like his father's, though his eyes were identical to his sister's. As I looked at the rest of the family, it soon dawned upon me that the Évignons near the middle were not like their relatives; they remained grouped closely together, and excluding Nicolette, who looked simply bewildered, they all shared a pleasant, knowing smile. They were clearly the happiest of the models there; their body language, the way they had positioned themselves, spoke of domestic harmony.

Five minutes passed, and still Christophe had not appeared; Paul and I took our seats; maids and footmen alike brought in several covered dishes; a tall, hulking slave, black as night, poured me a glass of red wine; my stomach twisted as I realised he was the footman who had accompanied my carriage the night that I… Jack… and Pearl…

I accepted the drink with a cold nod; his eyes twinkled as he looked at me, no doubt amused that I was playing the role of prim aristocrat when he knew for a fact I was anything but. Taking a careful sip of the drink, I watched as he began to clear away an empty place—

When the door burst open, and in swaggered a tall, handsome gentleman with eyes I immediately recognised from the portrait.

"Cousin," Paul greeted politely, rising to greet him; uncertain of protocol, I also rose. "We thought you'd abandoned us."

"How presumptuous," Christophe responded, eyes locking on his cousin, as though he had not yet noticed me. "I've left my family, my friends, I've resigned my commission, and all to find my darling sister; and now that I have succeeded, did you honestly believe that I would leave her in your company unchaperoned?"

"Forgive my presumptions, cousin," Paul replied smoothly, turning to face me and adding, "But she's here now."

Christope's smile remained in place, but his body seemed to tense at his cousin's words. Slowly, he turned, and his eyes… they seemed pained and desolate and hopeful and fearful all at once.

Seconds passed as we simply stared at one another; he was studying me intently, to ensure that I matched his own memory of Nicolette; I was simply studying him.

The simplest description I could think of to describe him was that he looked like me, more so than my own siblings did; if I had been born a man, chances are I'd have been born as Christophe. His hair was brown, the same dark shade as mine, straight, although there was a slight curl at the edges, and pulled away from his face with a blue ribbon, ending near his shoulders. His eyes greatly resembled mine, although there was a more upward tilt; his nose just as straight, his lips just as full, but his chin was stronger, well-defined, more masculine. His shoulders were broad; his waistcoat seemed to hang almost carelessly off of him, unbuttoned, revealing a white silk shirt, also unbuttoned; I caught a glimpse of muscle, perhaps not as well-defined as Jack's, but still… For an aristocrat…

To be perfectly honest, his swaggering confidence, coupled with the blatant nonchalance of his attire, the drips of water that escaped from his hair, reminded me uncompromisingly, almost disquietingly, of Jack; if Jack had been French, and had moved in aristocratic circles, that is. I found myself charmed immediately, and had to pretend that the blush that erupted was due to the humid heat of the Caribbean. Thankfully, in the glowing candlelight, my cheeks went by unnoticed, or so I hoped.

"Belle," he said at last, walking towards me slowly, as though I were a fawn. "Très belle… Oh, Nicolette…" He was standing before me now, taking in my gown before his eyes lifted to my face, and I felt oddly faint. When he took me in his arms in a brotherly embrace… I don't think I'd ever been so affected by a hug before, and was surprised at the unconsciously seductive influence he had.

He was definitely me, had I been born a man.

Christophe had buried his face into my hair, and was clutching me tightly to him; and though I knew that it wasn't exactly for me, though I knew it was because he had mistaken me for Nicolette… I had never felt so loved, so wanted, in my entire life. Nicolette had been incredibly lucky.

When we eventually parted, Christophe was ever the gentleman; he escorted me to my seat and pulled out my chair, glancing at my red wine in brotherly concern.

"You should really be drinking champagne, Nicolette," he said to me, half-admonishingly. "Or white wine, at the most; red is far too strong."

I quirked an eyebrow at him; he was handsome, but when a man attempted to mollycoddle me, he became less attractive in my eyes.

"Would you prefer it if I were drinking rum?" I asked sweetly. "Or ale, or indeed any one of those disgusting 'masculine' concoctions?"

I prayed to God that my portrayal of her was accurate; I honestly couldn't afford for him to become suspicious.

"Nicolette…" he said warningly, and I sighed, turning to a footman, although secretly I felt my stomach unclench in relief.

"Champagne, please," I asked obediently, and saw him nod in approval. I then spent the rest of the meal attempting not to flirt with him; once or twice, I may have said something that caused him to look at me in confusion, but overall, I think I kept admirable control of myself.

…But I just couldn't help being reminded of Jack by him! I would have had far more incentive to remain sweet and submissive if he hadn't reminded me of that… man. To be sure, if I hadn't been looking, I would most certainly not have been able to discover any similarities between them, besides the fact that they were both Caucasian, dark-haired, and male. As it was, I was able to spot several similar traits; his wit, for example; a little more biting, more cutting, than Jack's playful humour, perhaps, but his insults were just as cunningly disguised. How his eyes would drift, indicating impending boredom.

…And there was a way in which he drank his own red wine, how he held it to his lips and sipped as he studied me… True, I'd only ever seen Jack use a tankard, but there was something in the way that he had swallowed and stared that made men uncomfortable, and women embarrassed. With a fine goblet of glass and gold, it looked downright flirtatious; an item Christophe was using, that had me turn away and take a sip of my own champagne.

"Are you well, Nicolette?" he asked suddenly, interrupting Paul's droll chatter.

"Très bien; why do you ask?"

"You seem quiet," he began lazily, "and faint, and distracted… Your cheeks seem redder than before—although that could be to do with the wine—and you've barely touched your food."

"And a good thing too," Paul muttered in English. "That bodice doesn't look like it'll hold much longer."

I wanted desperately to tell him that I wasn't fat, just busty, but let it slide, looking pointedly at Christophe.

"Like I said, I'm very well, thank you. Don't coddle me."

Christophe raised his eyebrows, surprised and hurt at my cold tone. I closed my eyes, and winced.

"I'm sorry," I said softly. "I don't know what came over me; perhaps I am feeling unwell…" My voice was faint and wavering, but that was because I was suddenly scared; if Nicolette was submissive, as she apparently appears to be, what I'd just said must have been completely out of character. The rest of the dinner was a long, slow chore in which I took a slightly more active role in conversation, though silently I was squirming and wriggling inside. Christophe noticed my discomfort, and it was he that suggested that I go up to bed; relieved at the prospect of escape, I bade them both goodnight and exited, climbing up the stairs, a small smile on my lips.

Flavio was already stretched out on the mattress, reading a book by candlelight. He was still wearing his lady's maid's attire, a dress of blue-grey and a long white apron, although I could see his bodice was unbuttoned, and his hair was loose, falling about his shoulders in waves of gold. He looked so serene, so feminine, so normal, that I didn't really want to disturb him.

He saw me standing by the door, screamed, darted under the covers to preserve his modesty, and the spell was shattered. Smiling, I shook my head as I closed the door, and walked to where his wide violet eyes and golden hair peaked out from beneath the blanket, sitting beside him.

"Bonsoir, Jeanne-Louise."

Flavio whimpered, and disappeared completely. Slipping off my shoes, I followed, covering his mouth as he attempted to scream and giggling.

"How was your evening, hmm?"

Flavio shrugged, eyes wide with horror. I sighed, pulling my low bodice up and arranging my hair so that my bosom was mostly covered. He was considerably relaxed afterwards, telling me in pants that it was fine, that nothing significant had happened, that he hadn't fallen in love with the stable boy, and had proceeded to ramble on about a thousand other insignificant little things.

"Et vous?"

I shrugged, my face serious. "I think I've done rather well—for now," I said slowly, looking at him intently. "But I think that we're both going to have to be very careful from now on if we're going to actually pull this charade off."

Flavio nodded in understanding, and promised to be good. I smiled, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and we eventually resurfaced, slipping off of the mattress so that I might slip out of my gown and corset. I didn't use a changing screen this time; Flavio had forgotten to set it up, which was why, when I was changing from my shift to my nightdress, he dived under the covers once more, and stayed there until he was certain that I was done.

"I honestly wouldn't care if you saw me naked, Flavio," I sighed, climbing into bed next to him; Flavio made a strangled noise and leapt immediately out, busying himself with putting away my gown and corset and stockings and petticoats and shoes and jewellery. When he was done, he hurried away to fetch the changing screen, blowing out the candles behind it so that I couldn't even see his silhouette. I raised an eyebrow and shook my head, watched detachedly as first his apron, dress, petticoat and stockings were draped over it; he then shuffled slowly, uncertainly out, dressed in his shift, a nightshirt over it; I realised that his hands were trembling as he folded and put his own clothing to the side, ready for use the next morning.

"Why are you so restless?" I asked as he stood at the foot of the bed, wringing his hands nervously. "You've slept with me before."

"Well, yes…" Flavio began, uncomfortable, "but then you were sick and ill and unconscious… And now you're not."

I sighed in irritation, recalling what that Flavio had attempted to tell me before, about Paul and pageboys and counts, but which I had, in my sickened and vaguely selfish state, showed no interest in hearing.

"I swear on my honour that I shan't take advantage of your vulnerability," I promised; he nodded and came to the bed, although I noticed he was trembling all the while.

I looked at his turned back sympathetically, reaching out to pat his arm; growing bolder, I drew closer to him, and gave him another kiss on the cheek.

"Relax," I said to him encouragingly. "Other fully-healthy people may have taken advantage of you, but I won't, alright? I promise."

Flavio nodded, slipping out of my embrace to extinguish the lone candle beside him.

-x!x-