He spent the next week immersed in his work, his violin, his RSVPs, a book or two. He set errands for me, took his meals and his tea with some semblance of gratitude, and that was that. Mey-Rin travelled to the town house and the other servants kept a respectable distance. Even though the sun was rising earlier with each morning, the night ticked away with unbearable slowness and the day's agenda plodded with flat indifference.

Every moment of that tedium I had to remind myself that this was what he wanted. He commanded order, seemliness, rectitude, and discipline. He would not admit it, but he needed a controlled space to maintain his own emotional equilibrium. It allowed him to focus his life one day, one hour, one moment at a time. After the effort to hold back the anguish, sometimes all he had was enough focus to get through another minute of the day.

He would not request of me late at night. He would not stop me in the hall. He would not engage me in conversation. After counting all the things he would not do for me any longer... I realized one of those things was his look he reserved just for me. At one point I had convinced myself that I thought it unnerving. He did not consider this punishment, but rather the way things needed to be. It felt like I was being punished.

There was to be no complaining on my end. With every service I bowed my head, inquired of some additional need, and if not, requested permission to leave. If being his butler was all he expected, I intended to be damned perfect at it.

A few days before he was to leave for LeHavre, one might say I lost my placid comportment. He had ordered three return tickets, two first class and one third class, from London to Portsmouth, and from there we would board the passenger ship across the Channel. He was in his study organising papers when I entered to confirm that travel arrangements were secured.

"Young master, I have the travel tickets you requested. All that is required now is packing. We will leave Monday morning for the station, meet Elizabeth there, and if there are no delays, we should be in LeHavre by the evening."

"Hang on, who is this 'we?'"

I blinked. "Well, you requested transit for three: you, me, and Elizabeth."

He laughed. "Oh, yes, I failed to mention it. I apologise, I have been so caught up in my work. The third set of boarding passes is for Paula. Elizabeth cannot be without her lady."

There was a curious sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. "Did you plan this, young master? Do you honestly think I will let you travel without me?"

"Originally I did intend to bring you with me, but I think... I need to be away from this place, without your company. Yes, as a matter of fact, I think I will enjoy it more, and it will be more productive without you as a distraction." I was a distraction to him. A hindrance. A nuisance. I clenched my fists. "So yes, I am taking this trip without you."

"Who will see to your effects?"

"I can hire a temporary assistant for the week I am there. I speak French well enough, you know."

"What if you should encounter trouble?"

"You know I would not travel without a revolver."

"You have a terrible fear of boats."

"I'll have Lizzie with me."

He swivelled in his chair as an uncomfortable silence swept over the room. I had the urge to reach for him across the desk and shake some sense into him, but I reasoned this would not help my case.

"I get the impression that you do not agree with my decision, Sebastian."

"You are correct. You never travel without me."

"Well this time I am. It's not as if I'm going on a case for the Queen, nothing as dangerous as that. I am travelling solely on business. As far as this embezzlement issue is concerned, I am entirely capable of scoping the situation when I investigate the factory. I plan to take this issue to court, all I need is the proper evidence. Mr. Hameldon is anticipating my arrival and has made arrangements for lodging for one. Lizzie has made her own arrangements in a separate hotel, so she does not have to adhere entirely to my schedule. In short, I have no need of you there. I need you here, overseeing my manor, since Mey-Rin has gone to the town house."

I turned on my heel.

"I have yet to dismiss you, Sebastian."

"I apologise. Your decision is absolute, and I thought you were finished talking." My face was burning, and surely he would have seen it.

"You are genuinely upset about this, aren't you?" He rose from his chair.

I stared at the sooty carpet. "I think it matters little how I feel on the matter." Perhaps I should give the master's study a good cleaning, since he will be away for over a week, I thought.

He sighed. "So you're angry."

"Oh, I am furious, young master." I wheeled around, hands on the desk. "I have had to endure your little charade for a week, pretend as if all is well, when I know you are not well in the slightest. And now you want to pretend like I am not needed at all?"

"I told you, I need you here!"

"Do not hand me that pitiful lie!"

"You will not speak to me that way!" He seemed ready to fly into one of his tirades but he took a deep breath to stay himself and held a hand to his forehead. "I don't want you angry with me. Please see that this is what I need, and just accept it, all right?" He dropped back in his chair. "I will arrive in London on the twenty-first. There are final preparations for this damn charity ball, and surely by the time I am back the town house will be ready for my arrival. It's only a week, Sebastian."

Only a week. Years could pass for me in the blink of an eye but the thought of not being in the shadow of my master for a week...

"May I be dismissed, young master?"

"Yes, you're dismissed." I rushed to the exit. "Sebastian."

"Yes?" My turning to him was probably rushed as well.

"Will you miss me?"

"Do not flatter yourself." I slammed the door.

When he entered his coach that Monday morning to embark on his journey, all I had to say was, "I wish you safe travels, my lord." Standing with my head bowed and staring at my feet, I waited for some reply. He held to the door of the coach, foot resting on the folding step, and I was certain he stayed for a moment to stare at me with no words.

I did not lift my head.

"Um… all right. Until London."

I did not rise until I heard the coach door close. Tanaka smiled and sent me a pert nod before signalling the horses to trot. He did not glance back at me out the window but I could sense a sadness, an uneasiness. Perhaps there was more he wanted to say to me.

Tanaka had assured me that he had the young master was prepared for his trip. He could not follow the couple to Portsmouth, but had arranged for them to meet an associate at the train station who would see to their luggage. Their ship out of Portsmouth was scheduled to undock at 4 o'clock, so they would be arriving in LeHavre early the next morning.

It seemed the most sensible thing to do was to distract myself with spring cleaning. Cleaning an entire manor in the span of a week was no difficult task—I could perform such in an afternoon if I chose, and if I had been left alone I would have. Then again, finishing the task in one day would have left me with nothing to do for the remainder of his absence.

Visiting each room became something of a game: find traces of his presence and erase them. Some rooms had very little indication that he frequented those spaces at all. There were about half a dozen in the entire manor that bore more than traces of his past occupancy.

The music room was one such place where he had been spending much of his free time that past week. He had been locking himself in that room to practice a piece Elizabeth had sent him, that they may perform it for the charity ball. He had left the score open on the music stand and his violin couched in its case on the table. It was a contemporary piece by some Czech composer I was none too familiar with. Reading the music I heard the melody with a mind's ear and could sense a particular romance of the age in the composition. If played with skill, and well-placed ritenuto, a musician could deliver a stunning performance. It was not an easy piece, for it was played six beats per measure and many passages of the song were scrawling with sixteenth and thirty-second notes, requiring some very quick fingering to pack four notes into one beat.

I searched the cabinet for my violin, his violin. It had been placed on the top shelf as if it were a relic too heinous to see daylight. I tested the strings on the neck to gauge that the instrument needed no tuning. The composition started with a simple melody on the piano, an introduction of minor key and continued for several meters, bracing for the beginning of the solo violin.

The first movement was written with the instruction moldo espressivo. There was the desire to feel every note, to linger and grasp at these vibratos, for there was a hidden sullenness in such a sweet song. Then the tone would turn to an urgent, gripping pain before rising to easing relief. The song wavered back and forth between such sentiments and the piano was meant to cradle under such a gripping narrative. My violin screeched from the tension of the melody as if producing such beauty caused it true agony.

My devious little violin reflected my inner conflict more than I cared to admit. Elizabeth's selection reflected my master's feelings more than she could have conceived. Hearing these notes reverberate in the air conjured in my mind the vision of him over me, head tilted back, chest heaving and all the strength he could collect to impart within me some gift I did not deserve to receive.

The violin wept for me. I wished he were in that music room to play this piece, to shed light on the mystery this infernal instrument was screaming at me. If he were there to demonstrate, then I would not be feeling the agony first hand. My fingers would not have to reveal that there was some capacity within myself to know. By the end of the composition it was apparent I could, because he had willed it. He would have me know this feeling not because of some command or vocal order, but because it was his offering.

When he had given me such, I had said that I could not reciprocate. In that moment I could not, but since he had fled my room this new sensation had sprouted and it quaked in my chest, up to my throat, prickled my scalp and I considered that this could very well be madness I was experiencing.

Would such a condition unravel me? I feared that such knowledge had the potential to blast apart any sense of my identity as me, and if that were the case, I would cease to be the very thing my master needed me to be for him. It could scythe me more thoroughly than some Dread Lord of Death ever could.

This was not the distraction I was in need of, and so I turned my attention to plans for the ball. Most of the RSVP had arrived, along with their respective pledges, and any wealthy nobles who had pledged over ten guinea were meant to receive special accommodations for this event. It was a customary practice, to reward such lavish good deeds. In my mind, it only served to boost the egos of the nobility who probably could afford to extend their blessings quite a bit more.

Among the stack of RSVPs was one from Joanne Harcourt. So the Earl had decided to extend an invitation to him after all. What made the young master change his mind, I had little idea, probably something said at the dinner party and the he felt pressured to invite that meek little blonde out of politeness. It was unlikely he remembered that Joanne saw him in a rather wretched state that evening. Joanne seemed to take it all in stride, probably because he had seen his fair share of unpleasantness, living in a dormitory full of boys. The return address was from Weston. The boy would be in his fourth year.

It was then I had a very brilliant idea. I wrote a letter.

Monday, 13 April 1891

Dear Joanne Harcourt,

I would like to extend to you my master's gratitude for your RSVP and your kind donation. He is out of town on business so I am writing you this letter in his stead.

I have thought of your situation, Joanne, and I would like to extend further invitation to visit my Earl's town house in London prior to the charity ball. I am not certain when your semester is over, but he should be arriving in the city by the twenty-first.

The reason for my invitation is that during our last encounter you gave me quite a bit of insight, and I never did thank you for it. I must request your presence once more, for I have a desire to extend to you a small offering, if you have the courage to accept it.

How would you care to attend the Phantomhive ball as a lady?

It would be easy to arrange, and know that your secrecy is assured. Besides, I have experience in this matter. Let me just say that my young master has had to go under cover in many different guises and a student was one of the easier ones.

I know a terrific seamstress, and her card is enclosed. Please send her your measurements, and I will correspond with her on terms of payment. She would be quite enthusiastic for your commission.

I do hope that you will agree to this, and I await your eager reply.

Sincerely,

Sebastian Michaelis

Phantomhive Butler

Perhaps the plan was impulsive. Perhaps this was how I was inclined to spend my idle hours with a master to not keep me in check. There was also the recollection of our conversation, the manner in which he kissed me. There was sweetness in that gesture, timid curiosity and naïve openness. Joanne was an individual discovering himself, and I daresay someone other than him could benefit from that.

I received a short letter two days later (because those Weston students do have the privilege of quick post):

Tuesday, 14 April 1891

To Mr. Michaelis,

Thank you for your kind letter. Your offer is extremely tempting, for it is a dream come true and I could never imagine that there could be such kindness in the world towards my troubles.

I cannot help but feel some trepidation. I trust you when you say my secret is secure. My uncertainty lies in the fact that despite your graciousness, no one ever extends such without wishing for something in return.

So I have to ask, what is it that you want from me? Surely you can fit it in a letter.

Ever grateful,

Joanne Harcourt

Of course he would be sceptical. Here I was offering him some experience when I probably had no business offering such in the first place. But this was an individual who was betrothed and felt he could not be what his fiancée would need. Joanne carried such terrible guilt for not being able to change how he felt. I had a sneaking suspicion that Joanne was inclined to seek boys and had little interest in girls at all.

How convenient, to know someone who possessed a set of circumstances quite like my master's. One does not receive a chance such as this every day so I needed to be direct, honest, and open in order to win his favour.

Wednesday, 15 April 1891

Dear Joanne,

I have always considered you highly intelligent, and this is reaffirmed by your inquiry. You are correct, nothing is ever given for free, is it?

When we last spoke, you made mention that you had wondered about my young master. Have you wondered about him in the same way that you have wondered about me? Well, since our conversation, we have had something of a falling out. Call it my inadequacy to meet his emotional needs. I believe you have the capacity to give him what he craves, and I dare say there is a part of you that is curious to explore those possibilities.

When we shared a kiss, I felt in you such openness, the desire to show tenderness in your affections. My young master possesses similar qualities, and he expresses that same affection to a fierce degree. Come to the town house for a time and give him the opportunity to explore these feelings. Provide for him a distraction, for the guilt I feel for failing him would not be so terrible if I see that he is not focused on his disappointment with me.

You may be wondering how I can even express such a strange request so candidly, so let me give you a reminder. Everything I do is in service to my young master. If I cannot provide what he is seeking, then it is my responsibility to find someone who can.

Sincerely,

Sebastian Michaelis

What I did not tell him in that letter was what I needed. If the master was distracted enough for a time, even a few weeks, to not give me any notice, then perhaps I would be in a better position to serve him. Joanne would be on the rebound for the master while I would try and forget that such sentiments were not meant for me in the first place.

Since the music room, I had only concerned myself with cleaning the rooms he used infrequently. I knew that sooner or later I would run out of parlours and guest rooms and servant spaces. The master's quarters were the last place to address in that wing of the manor, so Thursday afternoon I reasoned it would be a good place to end my cleaning for the day.

To walk into a room where his presence was on everything was a bit of a shock. For a moment it was as though he had not left at all. A travelling cloak was slung over the couch. The door to the armoire was unlatched. A book was on the bedside table. Stockings lay crumpled on the floor. Everywhere I turned was a reminder that he had been there only the day prior. His scent permeated everything and having not been in close proximity to it had made me sensitive to it once more.

I checked under his pillow. He had taken his revolver with him. When I surveyed the top drawer of the armoire and saw that he had indeed taken additional rounds with him, I felt a little more at ease. His writing desk was open, and on it a book I had never seen before. In the bottom left corner the leather was embossed with "1891."

It was a journal. I did not know my young master kept a journal.

This was beyond intrusive, but I could not resist. I flipped to a random page.

Saturday, 21 February

I kissed him, and I couldn't stop myself. I also smashed my good violin, so that was two stupid things I managed to do yesterday.

At first I was angry because he was playing me for a fool again. But there's a part of me that wants to play along. He goads me, I know he does, just to see if I will back down or not. There's a thrill to it, and I confess, I want him to keep doing it.

Just what is wrong with me? Ever since last week I can't stop staring at him. He knows it too. He'll turn around from whatever he's doing and give me that irritating grin of his, the kind I really want to smack off him.

How does that even make sense? One moment I want to punch him in his shit-smug face and the next moment I want to kiss him.

It seemed reasonable that if I was going to peek into his privacy while he was away and had so nonsensically entrusted the manor to me, I would make myself comfortable on his bed and read his journal at my leisure. Kicking off my shoes, I plunged over the coverlet, propping up a pillow to make myself more comfortable. It smelled of vetivert from the wash he used in the bath.

I turned to another page.

Tuesday, 10 March

It feels good to be wanted by him. I wonder what he likes. Maybe the things he does to me are an indication of what he would like to receive. He seems content to keep the focus on me, but the idea of touching him in those ways I could burst just thinking about it.

I want his bare skin. I dreamt of it last night and the whole thing felt strangely familiar. I recall very few moments where I've seen him in a less than professional state of dress. At those times he was more concerned about my comfort regarding his appearance than anything else.

I realized last night that I never think of Lizzie like this. I tried to, but that felt strange and I lost any desire to finish myself off. But then he came in, or maybe he just appeared from the shadows… either way, I've gotten used to him just showing up in the night.

Some of the situations I find myself in with him are… deplorable. Last night I was practically sitting on his face, sprawled over top of him, and the wool was so uncomfortable but I gripped at his legs all the same while he did these unspeakable things to me. And I liked it.

But I dismissed him after I was done, and thought there could have been more. What really sent me over the edge was that my face was so close to his crotch and I could have done it. He was right there and I could tell that what he was doing to me was exciting for him. Yes, next time I think I should. I should reciprocate, because I want to. Because I want to know how he would react to my touches, if he moans and trembles like I do.

Wednesday, 18 March

I slept in his arms last night. There are things that we have shared that feel so nasty (and yet it's never enough), but this was different. This felt necessary.

At some point I grew accustomed to the constant unease, and it became a normal part of living. Like none of this was ever meant for me, that this entire existence is a lie. But last night, I was content, for the first time truly content with myself and… what does that even say about me?

He was hard against my backside, and when I pushed against him he pushed back and it was like this rod. He wants to bugger me, I can tell. Does that make us serious?

I want to tell him how I feel. This is all so crazy because he's Sebastian. Shouldn't I find him deplorable? That's just it, he's no more deplorable than so many others I've encountered, and the fact is he's been more honest with me than anyone else has.

Besides, I like the lengths he goes to make sure I'm comfortable. I've always liked that about him. At the same time, he's never coddling. He's always challenged me to strive further, push back and not give up. Weakness was never an option, and he doesn't want to see me weak and helpless.

When I was a child, I was always considered weak and helpless. It's never been that way with him. So what if the reason he is so invested in me is because…

Am I mad for believing this?

I knew he was referring to the contract. Yes, he was correct; I had always pushed him because mediocrity was not an option with him. He was my project, and I had forged him into something hard, sharp, wilful, ambitious, driven, knowledgeable, and courageous. He appreciated all of it. He felt privileged that I had gone to such lengths to make him into more than he ever thought he could be.

I had never considered I could affect his opinion of himself.

Saturday, 21 March

He hates me. I should have kept my damn mouth shut because he won't so much as look at me, and why have I been feeling this pain in my chest on and off because of it? I'm so embarrassed, but I refuse to cry about it, as much as it hurts not to.

I just want to forget about everything we did. It didn't mean anything anyway. He's just a sick bastard that's using me and I'm sick for wanting it. There's nothing to be gained from that, and if he wants to ignore me, then fine.

I'll just have to convince myself of that.

Wednesday, 25 March

I'm travelling to the Midford manor tomorrow and I won't be taking this with me. I don't want Sebastian to find it in my luggage.

I have to write this out before I retire. Maybe if I see it on paper I'll think it's idiotic. And if that's the case I'm going to toss this rubbish in the fire right now and not concern myself with it anymore.

All right, I've stared at this page for five whole minutes and I can't bring myself to write it. But I just keep chanting it in my head but the idea of writing it will just make it all real.

But I can always burn it and it won't be real anymore. Yes. Very well. Here it is.

I am in love with Sebastian and I'm afraid if he finds out he'll leave. Or kill me. But I'm mostly afraid he'll leave.

Yes, I do love him.

Holy shit, I am in love with my demon. And he's a servant. And he intends to eat me. And this is the worst position to be in. I really don't think it could be worse.

I love that bastard so goddamn much why?

I just wish

No don't wish that.

Well, this did not help me at all.

I'm going to bed.

I turned to the last entry, which was the day before his departure.

Sunday, 12 April

I dreamt last night that Sebastian and I ran away to France together. Then he ripped my heart out and ate it in front of me while Elizabeth watched. She seemed rather happy about it.

I don't think I'm in a very happy place right now.

I'm actually a little fearful of doing this without him. But I need to get this notion out of my head that I need to share everything with him, that he has to do everything for me. I need space, and maybe if I get far away for a while where he's not present every waking moment I can stop thinking about him.

It hurts to think of him. It hurts when he's not around. I don't think I'm ever going to get rid of this hurt.

I'm not taking the shirt with me.

Setting the journal on the bedside table, I sunk my face into his pillows. They smelled of his hair… and his weeping. The last time I had been there was when he was over top of me. Gloves were thrown to the floor and I clutched the pillow to me, smothering myself in a softness that was a poor substitute.

Pulling back the coverlet and sheets, I was greeted with the musk of a boy who serviced himself alone every night. He thinking of me in those lonesome moments was now a solid fact. I stretched over the sheets to wallow in them. My hands sprawled under a pillow and I felt starched cotton. Grasping it, I pulled up a button down shirt... one of mine.

This was the shirt he did not take with him. I knew I was not imagining that I had misplaced one of them. He must have stolen it from the laundry room when I was not paying attention. I saw a spot of varnish on the cuff. It was the shirt I wore the day I polished the banisters, that last Tuesday. He had been sleeping with it for a week and it was redolent of us.

The coverlet was pulled over my head, pillows piled around me, and being immersed in this cocoon felt like his presence. It was pathetic, to gulp up the suffocating air, moaning into his linens. The buttons of my trousers were undone, and I bucked against a pillow between my legs. I cared not if I made a mess, for I had every intention of cleaning these sheets in the first place.

Ciel had not been in my embrace for over a week and I faulted myself for not treating him better. If it had not been for my own essential fault, Ciel would not have pushed me away. Ciel never wanted to push me away. Ciel only did it because he was hurting, and I could smell such hurt on the sheets, a lovely bitterness and I rocked against the pillows harder. It only took a minute to reach a trembling release and I whispered into the pillow. "Young master, you were right, you were not flattering yourself, you were so right..."

The next day, this letter came for me.

Thursday, 16 April 1891

Mr. Michaelis,

You have given me much to consider. I have several concerns.

Ciel may be of that persuasion, but is there any possibility he would even wish to engage in anything with me? We were never close during his short time at Weston.

Does he know that I will be arriving? I would hate to show up unexpected. Also, does he even know about me? Would he concede to letting you help me, to letting me attend his charity ball in a dress, as a woman?

What if he says no to all of this?

I need some time to think this over, because I do not know if I can provide what it is you're requesting. You will have my answer in a few days' time.

Sincerely,

Joanne

I forgot that humans are apt to self-doubt and convince themselves that possibilities are too far-fetched. So Joanne needed further coaxing.

Friday, 17 April 1891

Dear Joanne,

After such a gracious donation to the Earl's philanthropic cause, surely the request to attend his event in a manner that pleases you is a small one. Better he to know of it so he may be a more accommodating host.

If there is a concern about your uninvited visit, know that the town house is open to any and all who would consider themselves friends of Phantomhive. We have people drop in quite often during the season. He is used to it. I am sure a certain Prince in your house has spoken volumes about his visits with the young master.

So please understand you would not be considered a burden or nuisance. All I ask is that you come as your genuine self. I will handle the remainder of your concerns.

Most humble,

Sebastian

By Saturday afternoon, the entire manor had gone through a most complete spring cleaning. Windows had been washed inside and out. Chandeliers had been dusted. The wine cellar had been reorganised. Crown moulding had been repainted. No corner was left untouched, no surface unaddressed, no detail overlooked. Since cleaning every room in this house, I really had no desire to be in it.

I took a stroll through the garden, something I had not allowed myself for a time. Out of the bushes my feline friend bounded toward me with a look of, "where have you been, servant?"

"If I am wanted by you and no other, that is more than enough for me, my darling."

She granted me permission to be held, and rewarded me with a nudge on the cheek. "I suppose I forgive you."

I think I had always preferred cats because while they were as spirited as humans, they held none of the complications. She was silky black and as wilful as ever, happy to make demands and show her approval when I met them.

As I walked with her cradled against my chest, her purring was a welcome relief when I had spent most of the week looking for a perfect distraction. The sound was as white noise that dulled the feeling of hunger… the loneliness. We eventually came to the rose garden located behind the greenhouse, the rose garden with no roses.

It had since been cleared out, but all that remained was a walkway and empty trellis. All the rose bushes had been hacked to oblivion from Ciel's episode, and all Finnian could do was clean up the mess and hope the bushes would survive to bloom again. It was a sad sight for April.

"Kitty... I think I will plant a new rose garden." I set her down and she cut me a look that read, "If it involves not giving me attention I want no part of it." Regardless, she sat to watch.

I reflected on those tea roses, those self-contained blooms as reserved as Victorian sentiment. How they would continue to sprout as pearl buds throughout an English season with a monotonous rhythm. Ciel had dashed them to the ground, his indignation toward himself, his refusal to submit to docility, for he was not tempered by these well-bred forces.

My master was so much greater, vibrant, and riotous.

I desired a garden to burst for one stupendous show, brilliance in colour and texture, unbridled cascades of bloom to perfume the landscape. A rose garden should not smell as a dull powder, but a prism of scent and memory, a sensual intoxication.

Along the path the Cramoisi Superiur would gleam with her sister Hermosa, two damask lovelies to remind him of simple origins and how he had tread so far beyond the path that Fate had set for him. Proserpine would shoot from the black soil and give suggestive greeting. York and Lancaster would forever startle, to never share the same tale twice. Madame Hardy, on the other hand, better reflected the dignified grace of my master than any standard English bloom. Yet tear away the trappings his wild nature burgeoned, and Great Maiden's Blush would thrill the senses. Apothecary would bear an untamed romance, and La Belle Sultane would contrast with velvet beauty. Roi de Siam would climb the trellis with fervour.

Such breeds would bloom, wild and robust. Hybrid tea roses were too apt to succumb to plagues, but my master was resistant to such malignity.

The walkway led through a newly-erected pergola into an alcove guarded by sweet briar. Within its centre I raised stone from the earth to build a different fabrication, not a tower, nor a manor. As rock was hewn it revealed some form that could bear no substance in my mind, but rather the idea could only be realized through such effort. It was the same sensation when I had played the violin days before: to know through an experiential process.

This was not a foundation, but a pedestal. These were not columns, but legs, a torso. These were not lintels, but arms, and they were made to bear weight all the same. My figure braced himself over the plinth, feet made to grip his foundation in wide stance as if carrying some impossible burden. The back arched and arms jutted to hold a separate mass. For all the weight such stone could possess, this lithe figure gave no impression of gravity, but rather appeared that the wind could very well lift him from the grasp that bound him. What ecstasy I delivered to that stone face as hands clung to the figure that held him.

Such was an expression of contrasts: density and weightlessness, pressure and relief, hard edges and languid posture. While this bantam character gazed to the sunset over the tree line, my burdened model looked to his charge with quiet anguish.

This was my secret. I wanted so much to collapse under all he would give, but could not, for surely that would lead him to fall. I had said, "I will not let you fall."

There was one last rose needed in that garden, and I had only ever seen it some bygone era, some distant, mountainous land. It was such a haunting shrub with pointed leaves and twiggy stalks. Its barbs stung like a kitten's claws, foliage an inky green. Would this bush bloom roses of claret, carmine, or garnet? It surrounded the foundation of this sculpture, apart from the Maiden's Blush and the gallicas. Would the vines eventually climb these figures and obscure them?

My cat companion nudged at my ankle to let me know she was still there. She did not seem very interested in what I had created, and I could not expect her to. The sun was low on the horizon, cool wind playing at my hair and a cat insisting that now would be a very good time to eat.

My brief moment of peace was interrupted as a gripping panic tore through me, the shock of horror as fierce as a blade to the chest. My breath left me, cacophonous scream heard by me alone, his scream. There was a whimpering that spanned miles across land and sea and he could have been sitting next to me to whisper in my ear, "Sebastian... save us!"