He walked down to breakfast, like he had done everyday of his live. It was cold in the huge house, and vast, like a tomb.
His shoes made no noise on the thick carpets, and his shirt and jacket were warm.
The breakfast was served in silence, his father sitting on the other side of the long table, his head leaned over some papers.
He sat down himself and poked at his trout, why did they always leave the head on them?
It was one thing to eat fish at seven in the morning, an entirely other thing if the poor creature stared him down while he did it.
"I´m sorry.", he murmured.
"Timotheus?", his father had heard him.
"Yes, Sir?"
"Did you apologies to the food?"
Timotheus hung his head. He didn't answer.
"Eat it.", bellowed his father.
Timotheus swallowed compulsive. The trout stared.
"EAT IT!"
Timotheus startled. His hand twitched as he tried to section the fish. The smell was revolting.
He looked up, but his father watched him closely, his eyes narrowed, a hungry grin on his face.
Timotheus lifted his fork, tried not to look at the eyes of his meal and started chewing.
It was foul. He tried chewing faster, but he couldn't force it down his throat.
"Swallow!", roared his father.
Timotheus looked to the man while he chewed. Tears started to prickle in his eyes, he wouldn't let them fall.
His father grew. First Timotheus thought the man had risen from the chair, but with a start he realised only the head of his father lifted.
His neck grew, like a serpent thick and fleshy out of the spotless collar.
It whipped from side to side, creeping nearer to him, and Timotheus opened his mouth, the rotten fish seeping from his lips and screamed.
"Shhhhh, its allright. Nothing to hurt you here. Come on, Dunce, wake up.", a calming voice, barley audible over the beating of his hearth and the rushing in his ears. A hand lay on his chest, applied gentle pressure:" Shhhh, come back to me. It´s safe. You´re safe."
False promises.
He swallowed, tasting the rotten fish again. He gagged.
The gentle hands turned him on his side, never breaking contact:" It´s ok. Get it out.", warm fingers stroke his forehead.
His throat worked, but he didn't throw up. He tried breathing through his nose, and the need subsided completely.
"It´s ok.", the hand wandered to his neck, stayed there, drawing careful circles in his hairline.
He breathed a little more and finally shouldered the enormous task to open his eyes.
A grinning, dark face greeted him:" There you are."
He held her gaze, she smiled:" Nice to have you back."
"What happened?", he croaked it more than he said it.
The warm eyes widened:" Are you really awake?"
He blinked, puzzled:" I… I think so."
The woman beamed:" Welcome. Welcome, welcome.", she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his. It felt nice, it felt… natural. Like he had done that a lot of times.
"How do you feel?"
To be honest, he didn't know.
He listened to himself. His body was heavy, like a force squeezed him in the bed. Fever, he realized. That was strange.
Without warning, his back started screaming at him.
A flood of pictures shot through his mind. The docks, the ship. Something fell, he was trapped. How did he get out?
Fingers snapped in front of his eyes:" Hey."
A glass was brought to his lips. He drank, didn't get it right, chocked, finally got it down.
She gave him a little time to collect himself.
"I´m here.", he rasped, it was a peculiar thing to say, but she seemed happy with him.
"Good. Only a couple of minutes, the pain will ease.", the grounding hand was back on his head.
He closed his eyes.
"Where am I?"
"In the hidden room of a wagon at the Themse fairground."
That was certainly not the answer he expected.
His eyes opened again.
"You sure?", he asked.
She laughed. She laughed like a wind charm. He liked it.
"Gala brought you."
More pictures. More pain. The hand stayed, warm and strong and there.
"It´s ok. It´s safe."
He wanted to say no. Nothing is safe if I´m around. But she sounded so sure that he kept silent.
She stroked his hair, it was a strangely intimate gesture, and he savoured it.
She had been right, the pain lessened, fell off him like a heavy cloak.
He sighed.
"Better?", asked the woman.
He nodded.
"Who are you?"
"They call me Peonie."
"Nice to meet you."
The hand remained stroking:" Certainly nice to finally meet you too."
"How long am I here?"
"Four days I would say.", she thought a little:" Yes, four days."
He furrowed his brow:" Has Gala been here?"
The stroking stopped, then continued:" Yes, several times."
"I thought … the police."
"He is a man full of surprises.", mused Peonie:" He will be delighted for you to finally come around."
Dunce hummed.
"What about some food?", asked Peonie.
Dunce thought about it.
"I´ve got a mean vegetable stew.", said Peonie.
´As long as there is no trout eye in it.´, thought Dunce.