Cullen glanced at the scribbles on the parchment in his hand, trying to get a sense of where the noted location was in relation to where he stood. The feeble light of the flickering torches barely penetrated the chill of the London night, and certainly provided little aid to his cause. God Save the Queen and all, but even Good Queen Bess could do nothing for the perpetual haze of soot and ash that hung in the air like a dirty blanket on the best of days.

Fortunately, Cullen was north of the Bridge, in an area of the city where he could only dream of living. For that reason, the paper clutched in his hands was more than an address - it was a chance to touch greatness. In this case, greatness came in the form of an Italian actor in whom Cullen had taken a particular interest. The man was in London with his troupe for a series of limited engagements at the Queen's Court. If Cullen's friend was correct, however, tonight he was not performing and might actually be in residence - alone, if all went well.

He finally saw the sign of the Peacock Palace as its bright blue and green paint reflected the dim torchlight and caught his attention. Breathing a sigh of relief, he hurried towards his destination. God's Blood, if I hadn't slowed to adjust my ruff after that poxy dewberry almost knocked me to the ground, I might have missed it.

As he approached the inn, he shifted into the facade he'd come up with to use for this, the initial encounter: polite, earnest, and interested. And hopefully interesting. An inquiry with the gruff innkeep led him to the door of the Serpent Suite, and he paused to take a deep breath and check his appearance one more time. Only then did he rap upon the door.

"A moment!" called a voice from within, its tones and contours so tight and refined around an Italian accent that it had to be the one whom he sought.

Cullen straightened, masking his nerves with the practice of over a decade of steady pretense. He only got one chance at this, after all, just as when he was on the stage. Each play was a separate duel, never offering second chances, and he knew it. Maintain your calm, knave, he admonished himself. Let not this chance slip you by.

When the door popped open, he managed not to jump, instead lowering his body into an elegant Court bow and respectfully averting his gaze. "I bid you good e'en, Master." Only when the formal greeting was complete did he look up at the man and feel his breath hitch in his throat.

For once, rumor and criers had not exaggerated. In fact, Cullen felt they had underestimated the man before him. Black hair, pale eyes, and a skin you could see your own hand outlined against even in the dark… Add to that an overwhelming, wholly breathtaking presence, and Cullen wondered if he was treading into waters too deep to fathom. Dorian of Thiaso Pavonem was more than simply a striking man, he seemed to be even more than Cullen had dreamed.

Cullen abruptly realized he was staring and, more awkwardly, still bowing. Quickly he straightened, cursing silently as he saw a look of amusement on the man's face, and tried his best to salvage the situation. "My name is Cullen of Rutherford, Master, and I-"

The man held up his hand. "Prithee, that is enough. You are not the first to come to me this e'en, and I daresay you will not be the last." Gray eyes scrutinized Cullen so thoroughly that Cullen was left feeling a bit breathless. "And while I'll admit you're not the most unpleasant of sights for mine eyes, I've a surfeit of offers for those desiring a portion of my leisure time."

Before the disastrous dismissal could reach its inevitable conclusion, Cullen dared to interrupt, "Master, I beg your mercy! I am not some craven knotty-pated puttock intent upon stealing your time simply to later brag of glorious conquest." Swiftly he held up the piece of paper, ensuring that the seal on the paper was facing Dorian. "I bring a missive from a mutual friend, one from whom I have been assured you would be most desirous to receive word. It is from he whom I have come hither, hoping for a moment of your precious time."

Dorian sniffed, then took the paper. "Well, you are a rather more eloquent lout than most who have dared venture to my door," he mused, though his tone was still rather bored with the whole affair even as he opened the letter and began to peruse the contents. "And whom have you pretended to write a letter-" He suddenly stopped, then turned slightly so as to use the better lighting in his suite. "Felix?"

It was remarkable, how Dorian's entire mien shifted from apathy to interest. Cullen breathed an inward sigh of relief as he replied, "Aye, my Lord. He did vouch that you would be most pleased to hear from him."

When Dorian looked up at Cullen, his face had settled into a far warmer smile than the cynical expression he'd worn earlier. "Felix was most correct," he said with a chuckle. "It has been so long, I had forgotten he was in this benighted place. He informs me that he is doing remarkably well, when all matters are taken into consideration." He flicked the paper slightly as he spoke, gaze again sweeping over Cullen in that piercing fashion. "And he gives you praise in part for his improved state."

Cullen demurred with a polite bow. "We've become as brothers these the past few months, my Lord. I would do whate'er he asked of me, without question or hesitation."

"A good man, then." Dorian's lips twitched as he looked Cullen up and down once more, and Cullen wondered what question hovered behind them. He daren't ask after it, and instead waited politely as Dorian again waved the paper at him. "He refers you to me for tutelage in the theatrical arts. A most notable commendation." Now the expression on Dorian's face could best be called speculative.

Cullen had wanted to ask for patronage outright, but Felix had cautioned that this would be a better way. If this is indeed how best to attract his attention, Cullen reminded himself, then needs must I do it. "`Twas his thought, not mine, my Lord," he avowed with all honesty. "Though I confess that I made no secret of my great admiration for your mastery of performance once I learned of his acquaintance with you."

"You mean you blathered your admiration for all to see," Dorian said with a chuckle. "Nor would you be the first. Yet I will allow it in this case, seeing as it was Felix who sent you hither. A pupil will help pass the time whilst I am in this dark and cold country, at the very least." With a nod, Dorian said, "I shall be occupied with practice and performance during sunlit hours for the next few days, but mayhap we could spend time in the evenings for your tutelage. If you've a mind, that is."

Cullen dipped into a Courtly bow, this time making absolutely sure the line of his legs were on excellent display without making it appear as if that were his goal. "'Twould be the greatest honor of my life, Master. I place myself at your pleasure."

Dorian's eyebrow rose, along with one curl of his mustache. "Then we shall begin on the morrow. Come hither no earlier than the second hour of the night, mind. I require some leisure for my supper, after all."

"An it please you, Master," Cullen said, "so shall it be."

"You seem quite an accommodating fellow. I shall strive to keep that in mind." Dorian stepped back. "Until the morrow, then."

"Until anon," Cullen said, even as the door closed. Only then did he allow himself to sag back against the wall behind him and let his head fall back to hit the wall.

God's blood, but the man stirred his own. Absently reaching down to adjust his codpiece, Cullen congratulated himself on a fine performance even as he sent a silent prayer to the skies. Let me touch that greatness.