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The Portrait

Part 10

Tapping his fingers to the beat of the song coming from his headphones, Milliardo turned another page in his history book with the other hand. His mother did never understand how he could listen to music and read at the same time, but for some reason it worked for him.

It was typical for a new teacher to give their students some kind of 'assessment' test to evaluate what they had learned from his predecessor. Milliardo expected Treize to do just that on Friday. And considering how little attention he had been paying in Professor Bonaparte's class, some brushing up was definitely in order.

Absorbed in his music and reading, the young man didn't even notice that the soft piano music coming from that attic had stopped. A sudden noise, something akin to ceramic breaking followed a loud thump or thud, coming from the entry, ripped the blond from his studies. Startled he jumped up, pulling the headphones from his ears and his iPod from the table in the process.

As he dashed out of the kitchen he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and his yaw dropped. Sprawled out on the little faded rug near the front door, covered with dirt, pieces of ivy and the scattered remains of what used to be a flower pot, lay a man, middle-aged, lanky and with slightly graying hair.

What the… A burglar; in the middle of the afternoon in a busy neighborhood? I don't think so. Milliardo frowned as he cautiously prodded the lifeless figure with the tip of his shoe. He could feel the, by now almost familiar, presence of his ghostly housemate by his side, which somehow was reassuring at the moment.

"Alexander, what in the world happened?" he asked as he slowly went down on his knees next to the stranger. It was of course a rhetorical question, since the ghost couldn't reply. And besides, it didn't take too much imagination to come up with the answer on his own.

Quite obviously, for one reason or another, the strange man had walked into the house and Alexander had stopped him by dropping a flower pot onto his head.

He isn't dead, is he? Milliardo reached out and touched the man's neck, letting out a sigh of relieve as he felt a slow but steady pulse beneath his fingertips. Only unconscious, good.

There was no blood on the back of his head, only a big lump where the pot had struck him. As he turned the man carefully over Milliardo was in for yet another surprise. Beneath the figure, hidden by his body until now, was a key, a small golden key just like the one on his keychain. Only this one had a blue plastic tag attached to it. And on the tag, in a very familiar handwriting, it read: 26 Kensington. It's the spare key we always keep at home in the cabinet by the door. His frown deepened. That would mean either mom or dad must have given it to him.

Milliardo slipped his hand into the front of the stranger's grey jacket and pulled a folded leather wallet from the inside pocket. It was the kind that opens up to reveal an id and badge, like cops carry around. But in this case, the little silver badge identified the man as a safety inspector working for the city, and the corresponding id said that his name was Hubert, Walter Hubert.

Damn it! The young man swore silently. It's the inspector my father sent. I wish he'd given me some kind of warning.

After a few seconds of contemplating Milliardo started picking up the broken pieces of clay scattered around the man's body. Alexander was still around, he could feel it. "A little help here," he said as he rose to his feet. "I know you were only trying to protect me, and I really appreciate that. But this man is here on my father's request and I'd prefer that he didn't find out that either of us is living here." He gestured toward the kitchen. "I'm going to throw these away. See if you can do something about that soil and dirt on the floor."

After dumping the broken pot into the trash can and hiding the dishes and food containers sitting around openly, the blond soaked a dish towel in cold water and headed back into the entry, which was now clean like it had just been swept. For a moment Milliardo wasn't sure how Alexander had done it, but then he noticed a few small but suspicious lumps beneath the little area carpet. A soft grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. I'd call that a literal interpretation of sweeping ones problem under the rug.

Once again he knelt down next to the unconscious inspector and laid the wet, cold towel across his forehead. Very much to his relieve, the man started to stir. He moaned quietly then his eyelids fluttered.

"Mister Hubert?!"

His eyes opened completely and after a moment focused on Milliardo, a confused expression on his face. "Who…are you?" he asked with a slight but distinctive British accent.

"My name is Milliardo Peacecraft; my father hired you I believe to check out this house that used to belong to our grandmother."

The inspector frowned slightly, pushed himself up and raised his hand, gently probing the bump on his head. "I was told nobody would be in the house."

"Well, normally that's the case. But I come here every once in a while to make sure everything is alright, and to do my homework. It's quieter than the place where I live," Milliardo lied without even blinking.

Very cautiously Hubert nodded. "What… what happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"Only unlocking the door and stepping into the house, then everything goes black."

Excellent! Milliardo breathed a sigh of relieve. "That's great! ...Umm…I mean it's great you do remember that much. I'm not quite sure what happened either; I came running when I heard the noise. But I assume you tripped over the rug…stumbled backward and… and hit your head on the ground. Yeah, that's exactly what must have happened." I'm WAY too good at this. "I guess that means you will have to label that rug as a safety hazard in your report," he added with a wry grin.

Mister Hubert seemed to be a man of humor. "I suppose I do." He chuckled at the little joke as, with Milliardo's help, he finally got up on his feed. "Well, I'd better get started then. They don't pay me to lay down on the job…hahahaha."

Eying the other man skeptically the blond asked. "Are you sure? You got a pretty nasty bump on your head. Maybe I should call paramedics so they can check you out."

"No no, that's really not necessary. I'm perfectly fine." The inspector replied with a dismissive gesture. "I used to play Rugby in my youth. What do you think how many times we got knocked on the head back then? You just got up and walk it off."

I ALWAYS wondered why those crazy Brits don't wear helmets. Milliardo put on his best smile. "Well then, I won't keep you from doing your job. Is there anything I should do?"

"Only point me toward the basement, I'll start there and make my way up. Oh yes, and make sure there aren't any other 'slippery rugs' around for me to trip over…hahaha."

#

A good hour later Milliardo had finished a large portion of his studies and decided that it might be better to accompany the inspector as he was getting ready to check out the attic.

"So," he asked innocently as he followed the man up the creaky wooden stairs. "Did you find anything wrong or unsafe with this place, if I may ask?"

"Only a few minor problems that can easily be fixed. I would suggest replacing the water heater in the basement, though. Perhaps you will find a museum willing to buy it."

The young man managed a chuckle. I never understood British humor. "Yeah, I guess it is a little old, isn't it. My grandmother was very attached to anything and everything in this house and had a hard time getting rid of things."

"Oh yes, I can tell." Hubert let his gaze wander over the piles of boxes and trunks and old furnishings. "Although I'm not sure why the old lady felt like hanging on to this god-awful furniture."

The words had barely left the man's lips when Milliardo noticed one of the table lamps in the corner suspiciously move. Quickly he jumped in and managed to get his hands on it before Alexander could turn it into a projectile. "Alexander, kitchen…now!" he hissed quietly before turning back toward the inspector. "Well, I'd better let you get back to your work then."

He dashed down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, and closed the kitchen door behind himself as he entered. The last thing he needed was for the inspector come downstairs and see him 'talk to himself.'
Alexander was already in the room, he could feel it. "What in the world do you think you are doing?" he snapped. "You can't go around throwing stuff at people just because they don't like you sense of style." He paused briefly. "Maybe you don't realize it, but if this guy writes a bad report about this place, my father will sell the house. And I don't think either of us wants that to happen. Now, stay here and don't move until I tell you otherwise!"

Milliardo sighed as he opened the kitchen door again. You'd expect someone who is more than a hundred years old to act a little less childish, wouldn't you? "And just for your information…" He turned his head. "By today's standards, some of that furniture IS god-awful."

Moments later he could hear the inspector come walking down the stairs. "Unless there are any other rooms in this house that I haven't seen yet, I recon my work here is done," he said. "I'll email my detailed report to your father tomorrow."

"And what's the final verdict?"

"Like I said, I can't find anything wrong with the place. Say what you want, but at least they knew how to build things back then."

"Thanks; if you want you can leave the key with me. I'll drop it off at home the next time I'm there."

"Really? That would be very helpful, thank you."

As the man plugged the spare key from his coat pocket he suddenly pulled up his shoulders. "Oh my, it's a little chilly down here, isn't it?"

"Yeah well, this place is been staying empty for a couple years now with no heating. So what else can one expect?"

"I suppose so. Well then, good bye."

"Good bye." Milliardo closed the door behind the man with a sigh of relieve. I guess we dodged that bullet.
"My Father should get the report tomorrow; which means soon enough I'll be able to move in officially. We will defiantly have to have a little house warming party. And Alexander…no throwing things at the guests," he grinned. "But for now I need to go back to my history books."

The young man had barely set foot into the kitchen when the phone in his pocket rang. Frowning slightly when he recognized the number the call was coming from, he pushed the talk button. "Hello?!"

"Milliardo, its Tony. I'm in kind of a bind. Could you come in tonight? I know you usually don't work under the week, but we are short staffed already, and Ronny just called in sick…"

"Sick? His illness wouldn't by any chance be related to a little red-head with a French accent, would it?"

He could hear his boss chuckle on the other end of the line. "Yeah that's pretty much what I was thinking too. But what can I do? So, can I count on you?"

"Well actually I still have to study…. Tell you what, I'll come in but I'll stay in the backroom doing my homework. If a client asks for me or the place gets crowded you can get me."

"Thanks, you saved my ass."

"Try to remember it next time you are handing out bonuses."

###

As he walked through the heavy velvet curtain at the entrance Treize let his gaze wander through the room, surprised and quite definitely impressed. An associate of his had told him about the Dragonfly, but he didn't really know what to expect. From the outside the place didn't look like much, and he had prepared himself for more of a cheap bar than a classy nightclub. For a moment there in the parking lot, he had even considered turning his car around and leaving, now he was glad he didn't.

The room, including the walls, floors and furnishings were held in a mixture of white leather and red crushed velvet; dim lighting, candles on every table and subtle music from well placed, hidden speakers gave the place a very intimate atmosphere. A round bar was the centerpiece of the room, and Treize pretended not to notice that he had turned the heads of several young men sitting there, when he walked in.

"Welcome to the Dragonfly." A man in his late twenties with deep brown eyes and hair to match their color approached him with a smile. "I'm Antonio, Tony for most people, the club's manager."

"Thank you," Treize returned the smile. "Do you greet all of your costumers personally?"

"I try to."

"Oh really?" he tried to sound disappointed, but his smile turned into a ghost of a smirk. "And for a moment there I thought I was special."

"But you are, because here at the Dragonfly all our customers are special."

"Is that so?!"

"Absolutely. Would you like me to show you to a table, or do you prefer the bar?"

"I think a table would be great."

"Of course. This way, please." As the manager led him to a small table in the back of the room he turned his head to Treize. "I don't think I remember seeing your face here before."

"It's my first visit," the tawny-haired man confirmed. "A friend referred the place to me."

"Oh really? Well then, I hope you enjoy yourself."

Treize nodded as he slipped into the leather covered seat. "Thank you."

"Can I get you started with something to drink?"

"Um… could I take a look at your wine card?"

"Absolutely," Tony nodded. "I'll send someone over with it right away. And, would you like some company tonight or would you rather enjoy some privacy?"

Treize's smiled ever so softly as he looked up. "I think I'd love some company."

"Any preferences, if I may ask?"

His smile turned a little wider, a sparkle of mirth in his eyes. "Why don't you try to surprise me?"

"I'll see what I can do." With another nod and a polite smile the manager retreated.

A few minutes later a young man brought Treize the promised wine card, and he was studying it, trying to decide what he was in the mood for. The soft carpeting swallowed any sound of footsteps and so he never realized that someone had approached his table until that person cleared his throat.

"Professor?!"

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T.B.C.

Author's Note: