A/N: 'hp' ~ Thank you very much for taking the time to read and review. I hope you continue to like the story.

And the same to the rest of my lovely reviewers. I really couldn't wish for a more awesome bunch of fellows. :) Enjoy.

Chapter the Tenth

Henry Beckett was furious.

He clutched the letter Cutler had bought back with him from Battiscrombe's with shaking hands, his face flushing red, then blanching white, then flushing red again.

"Did my old friend Battiscrombe have a particular message to go with this letter?" he asked, voice dangerously calm.

Cutler stood frozen in front of his father in the centre of the small study. He kept his head down, staring resolutely at the dark carpet and avoiding his father's gaze. He shook his head, omitting to tell his father about the accompanying laugh Battiscrombe had indulged in when he had handed over the letter.

"Speak up, boy!" Beckett snapped, eyes flashing.

"None, father," Cutler hurriedly replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

Beckett pursed his lips, thinking for a moment, and then he crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it at the far wall.

"Do not trust anyone in this world!" he bellowed, accentuating his words with a sharp jab of his finger. "No one! Do you hear me, boy?"

Cutler nodded violently, stumbling back a step. Beckett gave a shout of fury, turning and kicking over a chair. Cutler winced as the chair smashed into a table, and he backed away a few more frightened steps.

"That man's greed has cost me a whole shipment of spices," Beckett spat, his eyes two burning coals in his ice-cold face. "I thought he was on my side!"

He marched to his desk, throwing himself down in his seat, panting. There was a long pause; Cutler was too terrified to move, but his muscles screamed at him to run. Beckett seemed to have forgotten he was there. He pulled out a pen and a piece of parchment, starting to scribble a note.

"He always thought he was better than me," Beckett snarled, "but I'll show him who is the master of whom!"

He fell into brooding silence, staring a hole into the polished wood of his mahogany desk, his pale eyes dark.

Cutler finally shook off whatever had been holding him in place. With a hasty bow that his father didn't even acknowledge, he staggered out of the room, forcing the door closed on the tangible spectre of his father's unfocused fury.

///

The sun had been locked in a dense prison of cloud. The air was cold, the ground hard and brittle from frost, and a sharp wind kept all but the most adventurous spirits indoors.

Cutler blew on his hands to warm them, wrapping his coat tighter around his cold arms and stamping his feet to shake off the chill. His steps were hurried as he made his way towards the river, his eyes darting from side to side and his breathing shallow.

When he slid down the hill to the water he found the banks deserted, a few lonely trees lolling sadly over the sluggish river. Cutler padded along the bank, pacing the clearing where he had met Marianne Mercer a few days ago. He stopped, listening intently for some sign of life, but the only sound that greeted his listening ears was the running water. It sounded in his mind rather like a person laughing.

With a defeated sigh, he slumped down onto the cold ground, too worn out to stand tall as his father always wanted him to, and placed his head in his hands.

"What is the matter, Cutler?" a soft voice asked.

Cutler rocketed to his feet, almost head butting Marianne, and grinned explosively. "I was just looking for you," he said before he could stop himself.

Marianne dimpled, biting her lip and playing with a strand of her hair in that way Cutler found so irresistibly endearing. "So was I," she confessed, the tips of her ears going red.

Cutler's smile got, if possible, even brighter. They stared at each other, the cold forgotten, as Cutler struggled to put into words some of what his mind and heart were screaming at him. He opened his mouth, but Marianne shook her head and put her hand over his lips.

"Cutler – " she began, her intense eyes serious.

Cutler shook his head and put his hand over her mouth. She laughed, throwing her head back and sending her light hair dancing. The constant worried knot in Cutler's stomach unravelled at the sound of her laugh, and he reached across, tucking one of the escaped locks of Marianne's hair back behind her ear. Before he could pull away, Marianne's hand brushed his own and she entwined her small fingers with his.

She came towards him and Cutler felt like he was drowning in Marianne's liquid blue eyes. Haltingly, he leant in and their lips met for a hesitant kiss. An embarrassed laugh bubbled between them as their noses got in the way and they almost missed.

"Try again?" Marianne asked, eyes wide and innocent.

Cutler's face crinkled into a smile and he put his hand on her cheek, pulling her close. A moment before they could touch, they were snatched apart.

"Get away from my sister!" a voice hissed.

Cutler cried out in indignation as he was forced around, and stared into the furious face of Mercer. His own face twisted with confusion and anger.

"It is hardly a concern of yours," he snapped, reaching out for Marianne again.

Mercer growled and pushed Cutler roughly backwards. Marianne sprang around her brother, hurrying after the stumbling Cutler, but Mercer grabbed her by the arm.

"Marianne, go home," Mercer ordered, his cold eyes riveted on Cutler.

Marianne wriggled in Mercer's hold, shaking her head and clawing at his strong arms. "Let go of me!" she squealed.

Cutler ran forward, trying to pull Marianne away from her brother, but Mercer sent him staggering backwards and Marianne remained locked in his stifling embrace.

"You don't understand – " Mercer tried to tell the struggling Marianne.

"Of course I do," she snapped, her face red and eyes blazing. "I love Cutler," she told Mercer simply.

Mercer gave a bark of laugher. "You're barely twelve years old," he bit back.

Marianne pouted, curling her small hands into fists and beating them against her brother's broad chest. "What has my age got to do with anything? Victoria married the miller's son at thirteen."

Mercer's eyes boggled and he went pale. "Marriage?" he repeated. He shot Cutler a filthy glare. "You think he will marry you?"

Marianne paused, and stopped struggling, her pretty forehead creasing with a frown. She nodded, but her expression was not as sure as it had been.

Mercer groaned. "Your mother is a beggar and your father is dead, Marianne, do you really think someone like Mr. Beckett's son would marry you?" he spat.

Marianne's eyes filled with tears. Cutler started to speak, but she wouldn't let him and turned her face away.

"Marianne, please – " he stuttered.

She let out a loud sob. Wriggling out of her brother's arms, she ran away from them, ignoring Cutler's desperate shouts for her to stop.

Cutler turned his furious gaze back on Mercer. "What do you think you are doing?" he demanded, hardly able to find the words.

Mercer's face was bleak and he said nothing. He turned away, shoulders set and expression blank.

Cutler snarled and ran at him, but Mercer deflected his angry blows with insulting ease. He knocked his legs out from under him, putting a foot on his chest to prevent him getting back up.

"Stay away from Marianne," Mercer hissed, glaring down at the struggling Cutler.

Cutler bit his tongue to keep from screaming, unable to break out of the older boy's hold. Then Mercer released him, booting him in the stomach as he scrambled to his feet.

"Now get out of my sight," he spat, piercing eyes scratching at Cutler like shards of glass.

Cutler stumbled away from Mercer, flinging a useless curse back at his onetime mentor. He didn't wait to see his reaction; chest burning and breath coming in short gasps, he forced his legs into a run.

"I thought he was my friend," he muttered between breaths. Then his father's words came back to him and he dug his nails into the soft skin of his palms. It seemed friends were only there to betray you in the end.

"He always thought he was better than me," he snarled, his father's words rolling easily off his tongue, "but I'll show him who is the master of whom!"

"Master of whom," he repeated, breath short and scratchy. "Master of whom. Master of whom."

And he chanted it, like a mantra, the words a poison that crept into his heart and rooted there.

He stopped running when he reached the main street, panting and scowling. Drawing in a shaking breath, he wiped away his angry tears with a trailing sleeve and doubled up, resting his hands on his knees.

The sound of a baby crying cut through the haze of his anger, and he glanced towards the noise. He saw a woman, about the same age as Marianne's mother, with blonde hair and grey eyes, holding a squirming baby in her arms. She was crouched on the steps of the church, the hand not gripping the baby held out imploringly.

Cutler straightened and stared at the woman. He narrowed his eyes, his lips twisting at the similarity between this beggar and Marianne's mother. It struck him that they were all the same and he gave a short laugh, causing the woman's head to turn in his direction.

She looked at Cutler forlornly; the baby mewed pitifully in her arms.

Cutler smiled briefly, pulling a gold coin out of his pocket and holding it up. The woman's eyes shone with gratitude and she started to thank him but he held up a hand to stop her. Very deliberately he placed the coin back in his pocket and stalked past her without another glance.

The woman gave an indignant cry and Cutler paused. He slowly pivoted back around to look at her, tilting his head onto one side and turning his nose up. He leant down, until his head was at the same level as hers.

"I could have you arrested, you know," he breathed.

He felt the woman stiffen. "For what?" she whispered.

Cutler smiled. "Anything that I wanted."

She pulled away, holding her baby close to her chest and glared at Cutler. She opened her mouth, as if to ask something else, then closed it. With her head held high and eyes blazing, she walked away from him but cast occasional glanced over her shoulder at him, as if somehow worried.

Cutler drank in all her stolen stares, crossing his arms as he watched her go. "Good riddance," he murmured.

Then he turned, a euphoric feeling of power replacing the furious helplessness of earlier, and started the short walk home, striding down the narrow streets as if he owned them.

///