Removed from their son, Desmond and Lindi Voirel appeared to be like any other set of aristocrats. More than a little vain, with a purportedly poor opinion of the lower classes, they fit Galley's expected stereotypes perfectly. Yet it can never be said that a person is two-dimensional in design; in fact, both held strong sympathies for Lower Valuans. Desmond, a high-ranking governmental inspector by trade, knew all too well the squalor the peasants were forced to live in, and unlike many Valuans did not hold their lowly position as something they inherently deserved. Lindi held this same conviction, though not as strongly.
Conveying such thoughts was unthinkable, of course, for their status as aristocrats forbade it. To speak richly of those below was tantamount to societal heresy. Their offspring, Tomas and Lucy, had inherited the views of the time, and considered any thought of Lower Valuans with appropriate contempt. Their parents knew all too well that to do otherwise would jeopardize their place in the Valuan schema of things.
Jelice was different. Hidden away from the world, not subjected to any societal pressures or class proddings, he could be properly moulded by his parents. In him they had engendered a truly selfless little boy, a task that had been surprisingly easy: his innate sense of good made working upon the clay of his psyche incredibly easy. Well educated, bright, and almost wholly trusting – naiveté is difficult to dispel when one is not learned in the ways of the world – Jelice was their true son. Though both knew he would not live much longer, they clung to him, as though he were an emotional life raft. His existence as a fine, moralistic young man proved they could be parents in the true sense of the word, rather than mere extensions of the world they lived in.
At this moment, these two surprisingly unselfish nobles were engaged in conversation with a constant visitor to their house, one Samson King. They lounged about in the parlour, Lindi sipping tea, Desmond nibbling on a biscuit. Neither seemed particularly enamoured with their chosen pursuits, but focused instead on their guest, who sat opposite them on a well-embroidered love seat.
Samson King was a stout man, of short build and little muscle. His had been a charmed life: a close associate of Desmond in the royal inspection agency, he also handled a great deal of the clerical duties as required by the court. This dual role kept him very busy most of the time, simultaneously lining his pockets with gold. He'd been born into the role, and only providence provided the squinty-eyed old man with a sense for his duties. A pronounced facial tic since birth marred his already plain face, leaving Samson no woman willing to become his consort. Prostitutes were necessary to fill the void, and he took advantage of their presence on many occasions – when he had the time, that is.
Indeed, considering how much work he had to do in a day, Samson managed to devote a large chunk of his time to other pursuits. A gourmet at heart – this trait ran throughout his family, carrying into one cousin that, in several years, would turn into an infamous black pirate – he dined out often, inviting the Voirel's on many an excursion to fancy restaurants. Being proper nobles, they seldom rejected his offers.
More importantly, however, he was the only person outside the Voirel family that met with Jelice on a regular basis. They'd developed a close relationship, though on Samson's side it was entirely selfish: he had plans of turning Jelice into a sort of heir to his riches, since no woman would become his wife and bear Samson a child of his own. He'd made many generous contributions to medical associations in an attempt to find a cure for Jelice's ailment. All in vain, of course – they'd made no progress in almost three years, and Samson was becoming suspicious that, perhaps, they were simply taking his money and doing nothing with it. Yet he pressed on, confident that something would eventually come of it all.
The matter of Jelice's parents still occupying the mortal coil meant little to Samson. They would die in time, at which point Jelice would be Samson's alone.
It was upon the subject of Jelice that they spoke now.
"Really, ye can't plan on having the boy cooped up in there forever, can ye?" Samson bore a slight accent, rather resembling the talk of a pirate yet far more sophisticated in design. His family came from the western tip of the continent, where such voices held purchase.
"What else can we do? He's dreadfully ill, after all." Desmond wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The room was surprisingly hot. Or, perhaps, it was a manifestation of the pressure Samson always managed to place upon the Voirel's to get Jelice out of the house, despite the sickness. Lindi nodded assent but remained silent, a sipping fixture upon the couch.
"Aye, but ye have te let 'im out one o' these days. It won't do to tress him up in his bed 'til he's eighty-two."
Desmond considered this, but only superficially; he knew Jelice could not be moved from his room. His fragile form would not allow any excursions. The motion was made only to appease Samson.
Samson continued. "Just move 'im out a little. To my place in the country, perhaps. I've a lovely garden estate – ye know, ye've both seen it – that 'e would just adore." Indeed, he did own a rather large chunk of land out upon the fringes of society, one of the few places on the continent that boasted trees.
Desmond resumed nibbling on his biscuit. They'd gone over this subject so many times that Samson could already predict what came next, and as such, the saying wasn't even necessary.
Realising defeat, Samson sighed. Yet another waste of his time. "Well, think it over, ye two. I have ta be on me way." He rose, knees cracking.
Lindi blinked. "But you only just arrived! Do stay for some more tea-"
Samson waved her off. "No, no, I have appointments to keep. The country'd nary be able te run without me standin' close to the helm." Naturally, they all knew that this was a cultured form of snubbing over their less than favourable answer to his proposal – however, part of the process involved not mentioning it. At nine in the evening, Samson would surely not have any more appointments.
"Well, don't be a stranger, of course. Jelice does so enjoy your visits." Desmond rose to shake hands.
"O'course. Give the lad my blessin's. Too bad I couldn't speak to 'im."
"Next time, next time. Allow me to see you out." Leading Samson by the elbow – he had to stoop a bit to do so – Desmond drew his friend away from the living room. Lindi offered a cordial farewell and then departed to the library for some reading.
The conversation had been cut woefully short, Galley noted. He'd been hiding in a closet the whole time, one eye peering out upon the assemblage. In his sorrowful state, he'd felt compelled to observe the parents more, to see what was required for one to rear children. They seemed of high moral character, and yet it was a noble character: and he despised nobles. All their gentleness turned to prim gentility outside of Jelice's room, and Galley had no way of knowing they continued to retain their more decent sides inwardly.
The room vacated, Galley pushed his way out of the closet. It was time to head home. Time to plan, to scheme. . . and to work another factor into the problem of taking Jelice's identity: Samson King.
