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  He wished he’d bought the newspaper after all, or maybe a used book. He ran his palm lightly over the bulge in his undershorts and felt it twitch in response. His fingers continued down and curled around his balls, squeezing them once before descending lower. Robin opened his legs and petted his tiny opening through the soft cotton. He groaned and squeezed his muscles, feeling the contraction against his fingertip. If only he had something to distract his body from how much it craved a man’s attention. Then he remembered that he did: the case he’d taken at the station. Ignoring his erection, he sat up and lifted it into his lap. The fine leather felt cool against his thighs.

  He rooted through his pouches, found a hairpin, and went to work on the lock. Since he didn’t really know what he was doing, it took a quarter of an hour of fumbling before he got lucky and the mechanisms clicked. It took only a few minutes before he became disappointed with what he found inside the case: long reports, inches thick and held together with brass brats. The language of these confused Robin so much he could not have said whether they described medical or mechanical research of some kind. After struggling through a page and a half, he determined them to be worthless and put them aside. Below them he found a few recent newspapers. The case’s owner had circled certain articles with black ink, mostly the ones mentioning fey sightings or human deaths and disappearances. He’d saved an invoice from a mason who’d been doing some work around his house, and from this Robin learned the man’s name: Maxwell Bunge. Giggling a little at the unfortunate cadence, Robin took note of the address in Kilfallow-Over-Roefields, an affluent and idyllic town two hours or so to the southwest.

  Robin doubted he’d be able to do anything more useful with these papers than to use them when nature called, so he set them on the floor beside the bed. At least he had a new case for the Bump and Switch. This one was finely crafted of buttery leather and lined with brown silk. As Robin examined it, he saw the lining had come loose in one corner. Closer inspection revealed not a tear, but a pocket. Robin felt something beneath the cloth and smiled. People didn’t bother to hide worthless things.

  Fantasizing about stacks of bills, Robin reached inside and withdrew a brown paper envelope. He opened the clasp and emptied the contents onto the bed. His heart sank yet again as he looked at about a dozen well-worn, sepia photographs. Creases like forks of lightning marred many of them, and most of their edges curled from wear. What might a businessman like old Max Bunge need to hide? Lewd pictures of Aurential girls or topless prostitutes? Maybe Max had a mistress, or even a second, secret family. Robin had never considered earning his living through blackmail, but if the photographs were incriminating enough, by all evidence, Max could afford to pay handsomely to keep his dirty laundry off of the line.

  He retrieved the candle, picked up one of the pictures, and held it to the light. He didn’t know what he thought he’d see, but he didn’t expect a nude male body stretched taut beneath a pair of manacles hanging from the ceiling. And what a body it was: gracefully muscled and lean, with an elongated, willowy waist and limbs, fair-skinned and hairless save for a sparse patch above the impressive, semi-hard cock. Low light accentuated the dips and divots of the young man’s (he had to be young, with that body) prominent abdominal sinew. Even the muscles of his underarms popped to the surface as he clearly twisted within and struggled against his bonds. Robin’s body reacted to what he saw, and before he realized he’d done it, he ran his thumb up the lithe waist, over the black hood that obscured the man’s face and across the long, light hair that poured out from beneath it.

  Certainly such a display was scandalous at least, but Robin counted too many prostitutes as friends to be shocked by it. He knew from their accounts that some men enjoyed this type of play, both aspects of it. Unless he could find a picture that showed good Mr. Bunge participating in the fun, he wouldn’t be able to tie him to the photographs nor benefit from their discovery. He moved on to the next, holding it close to the flame. He saw the same young man in the hood, but this time on his knees and elbows with his hands bound and some sort of metal bars holding his legs apart at the knees and ankles. Welts and gashes crisscrossed his shapely ass and long, lean thighs. Robin saw the ends of the cat-o'-nine-tails at the corner of the picture, but if Max Bunge held it, he’d never be able to prove it. Similar pictures followed, but Robin quickly discerned that they bore witness not to consensual fun but to actual abuse. His initial arousal turned to disgust as he viewed savage beatings and rapes. One close-up shot of the young man’s face, a face as perfect as that gorgeous body, showed a horse’s bit pinching his tongue and tearing at the sides of his mouth. Bruises covered his neck. A tear fell from beneath the blindfold he wore. What if he was a prisoner? Robin decided to turn the pictures over to the authorities anonymously. He no longer wanted to make money from this atrocity. He could only hope the police might be a little more sympathetic to the plight of a queer boy-whore than usual. Normally they laughed off his friends’ complaints of beatings or worse. Whores knew the chances they took, but—

  My god, no one deserved this.

  One picture remained facedown on the bed. Though he feared to do so, Robin picked it up and brought it close to his face. He saw the victim in profile, a defiant look on his fine features. A thumb and finger pinched his pointed chin and angled his head up. Blood trickled over his full, shapely lips. His nose was slender and delicate and his ears—

  My god, Robin thought. He’d been wrong to feel sympathy for this, this thing. It wasn’t human and probably deserved everything it got. No court would censure Mr. Bunge for abusing a faerie; they’d probably give him some sort of a medal. Robin wadded up the pictures and stuffed them back in the envelope, ashamed of himself for feeling compassion and, worse yet, attraction, for a cursed fey.

  Yet as he lay tossing on his thin mattress, the horrible images returned to plague his conscience and steal his rest. He tried to revel in the suffering of the faerie. His people had suffered for decades at their hands. When he couldn’t enjoy the thing’s pain, he attempted to dismiss it. Certainly they didn’t have feelings akin to humans. The vision of the tear escaping the blindfold surfaced again and again. Probably some sort of a trick, a glamour.

  No matter what he told himself, the photographs haunted Robin’s thoughts as he lay awake and his dreams when he finally managed to sleep.

  Chapter 2

  AS HE sat on an iron bench watching the trains in the yard, Robin couldn’t believe what he was thinking of doing. He assured himself that only the possibility of profit interested him, despite the fact that he’d been unusually successful over the last few days. After the four pounds ran out, he’d been able to make them back threefold. He snacked on a delicious steak pie as ladies in voluminous, pastel dresses flitted from shop to shop, taking shelter from the noonday sun beneath lace parasols and inspecting goods with tiny, white hands.

  Robin looked at the ticket he’d purchased that morning, the one from Enline to Kilfallow O’Roe. The train would depart at four thirty, leaving Robin several hours to request a refund and come to his senses. He told himself he needed the money that certainly waited within the Bunge household. Unconvinced, he told himself he was curious. After all, how under heaven did a mortal man exert control over one of them? What about the magic? And why? Why not just kill it? Many theorized a set number of fey existed and that they couldn’t produce more as humans did. This gave Robin’s kind their only advantage over the Other.

  He finished his food and wadded up the paper wrapper. Midsummer sun warmed his shoulders and the top of his hair. He let his head rest back against the bench, his face toward the clear sky.

  He dozed for a few minutes, full and content, before a hand on his shoulder disturbed him. He opened his eyes to a handsome older man with combed-back silver hair and a thin moustache. He wore a gray waistcoat with a dull sheen, a charcoal coat, black gloves, and a blue and silver striped tie. Even when Robin sat up and tried to shrug it off, the man, Titus Lambert, owner of a paper f
actory and printing house in Enline, didn’t remove his hand.

  “And how does the day find you, my dear Mr. Pastorius?” he asked, flashing his perfect, white teeth at Robin.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Lambert?” Robin ignored the cordial greeting and slid down the bench until the older man’s hand slipped from his shoulder.

  “Why, can’t a man greet an old friend?” Lambert asked, mock-injured but still grinning.

  “Remind me when we became friends.” Watching the other man look down his aquiline nose at him made Robin feel uncertain, so he got to his feet.

  “You’re looking well, Robin. My wife is away visiting her sister, and I do find it uncivilized for a gentleman to enjoy his afternoon tea all alone. I would be honored if you would join me, at the establishment of your choice. Then perhaps you might appreciate a tour of my gardens. They’re lovely this time of year. I could offer you a few pounds. A gift to a friend.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not a whore?”

  “Dear boy, I know exactly what you are. But it’s not something one can be forever, is it? That beauty of yours will fade, and you’ll find begging much more difficult, or you’ll be caught cutting purses and tossed over the wall.”

  “Thanks for your concern.”

  “I am concerned,” Lambert simpered. “My offer of employment still stands. Join my household, and I will provide for you quite well.”

  “I’ve told you no.”

  “Why?” Lambert asked, smacking his thigh with frustration. “Am I not appealing? Have you received a kinder proposition?”

  Why indeed? Robin wondered. Any whore in town would saw off her right foot to receive such an offer. Lambert was rich, elegant, and frankly, sexy as hell. He was just the sort of authoritative gentleman Robin enjoyed. So why couldn’t he bring himself to accept?

  “Because I’m not a whore. I have no desire to be your personal whore, either.”

  “A mutually beneficial friendship, then?”

  Robin shook his head. “It’s the same thing.”

  Lambert took Robin’s hand and stroked his knuckles with gentle reverence. “Let me show you that it isn’t,” he said. “Just tea.”

  “I can’t,” Robin said, slightly disappointed in spite of himself. “I’m going out of town this afternoon.”

  “Where?”

  “To visit a friend.”

  “I see.” Lambert dropped his hand, curled his lip and looked away.

  “It’s not that sort of friend,” Robin quickly explained.

  Lambert smoothed the frocks of his coat and smiled mildly. “Perhaps another time, then.”

  “Perhaps,” Robin allowed. The other man tipped his hat to the young pickpocket and began whistling and twirling his walking stick as he strolled toward the shops. Robin sat down and toyed with the corners of the photographs that he kept in his coat pocket.

  Before he departed the station, Robin bought a new razor, a brush for his teeth, and an expensive cake of Belvaisian-milled soap, scented lime and juniper. He placed them next to the rest of his worldly goods in the pouches of his belt. He considered purchasing a battered book entitled, A Treatise on the Culture and Habits of the Fair Folk by Sir Abraham Billingsworth-Montaigne, but decided to conserve his funds in case he had to spend a night in Kilfallow—in case he didn’t find anything of worth in the Bunge house.

  THE train arrived right on schedule. Men smeared with coal and oil hurried to check the boilers, engines, and other parts as Robin passed through the turnstile and presented his ticket to the porter. The stout, balding man in the red suit inspected it and said, “You’ll be traveling in the third car.” He tore the ticket in half and handed Robin the stub. “Keep hold of this bit.”

  Robin had never traveled on one of the N-Line locomotives, and he tried not to look too amazed as he entered the fancy, first car. Tables draped in white linen sat on either side of the aisle, piled with fresh gardenias and fine china waiting to be filled with good food. He smelled the tea steaming in the silver kettles and saw several waiters placing folded napkins next to the plates. The next car held private sleeping compartments for the first-class passengers: booths with sliding doors and heavy, velvet curtains. The electric lights burned low for their comfort. One door stood open, allowing Robin a glimpse of large bunks covered in sumptuous down pillows and blankets that smelled of detergent and soft lilac. Did Max Bunge rest his bulbous, bald head on those cushions while his prisoner languished in chains?

  “This way, sir,” a porter urged, pointing Robin toward the door before he could unnerve any of the more cultured passengers. Robin nodded and made his way to the third car, which held only a dozen rows of metal benches bolted to the floor. Not many took the N-Line this early in the day, and Robin easily found a bench to himself. He sat and pulled the canvas blind down half way to stop the sun shining in his eyes. Before long, the train lurched forward and began its journey. The steady rhythm of the engine and the regular click-clack of the wheels on the rails soon lulled Robin to sleep.

  He woke two hours later, to the bustle of passengers retrieving luggage, questioning porters, and checking transfer papers. Robin rubbed the haze from his eyes, stood up, and stretched. He followed the crowd through the other cars and out to the Kilfallow station. The summer sun washed the simple but elegant stone building in orange light. Kilfallow Station, while nowhere near as large as Enline, possessed a quaint, country charm that the newer station lacked. The stone tower and its rectangular branches must have been a military post of some kind before being procured by the railroad. Only a few slit-like windows disturbed the surface. No sprawling market flanked the station house, just a newsstand and a few food carts. Further up the tracks, some hansoms, carriages, and even a few steam-powered cars offered their services. Robin opted to walk, since the evening was fair, his funds low, and the houses of Kilfallow visible just up the hill.

  As he ascended the wide, cobblestone road, Robin noticed at once how much more relaxed the town felt, only a few hours further from the fey. Traveling merchants, men passing handbills, and women carrying laundry passed him on the road. Some of them even smiled before confirming his humanity through their special spectacles. Boys and girls ran and played in the high grass beside the road, and sheep, goats, and ponies frolicked in the fields beyond. No gate protected Kilfallow from the wilds. Robin found himself one minute on the path, and the next standing beside gray, stone houses with pansies in their window boxes. He followed the streets to the town square, where a variety of merchants’ booths and shops surrounded a simple fountain and pool. Discreetly, he checked the address on the envelope he’d found in Bunge’s briefcase: 114 Glenrose Way.

  Robin wondered how he’d locate the street, when a young woman with a basket of flowers called out to him. “Snapdragon, sir? Wild rose? Tulip? Gladiolus or geranium? Something for a lady friend?”

  “No, thank you,” he told the plain young woman in the light-blue bonnet.

  “Nonsense,” she teased, brushing his forearm with her fingers. “Handsome lad like you?”

  Robin hung his head, grinned, and looked up at her through his dark red lashes. “Am I so obvious?”

  “A bit, sir.”

  “Well then Miss—”

  “Miss Sullivan,” she said, extending her fingers. Robin brought them to his lips without breaking eye contact. The young woman blushed to match the sheep laurel she sold.

  “Can I trust you, Miss Sullivan?” Robin asked as he rubbed her fingertips with his own.

  “With anything, sir!”

  “I’m trying to visit a lady, but her father doesn’t approve. She lives around Glenrose Way. If you could tell me how to get there, and swear to tell none I’d asked, I would be in your debt.”

  “’Course, sir. It’s just three streets up there,” she pointed, “and then a left, past the church.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Won’t you take your lady friend a flower?”

  “I think I will,” Ro
bin said, looking at the blooms lying in her flat basket. “How about this one?”

  “Ah, the snowdrop,” she said with an approving nod. “Ain’t never seen one bloom so late in the season. That’s special, that is.”

  “How much?”

  “Two pence, and if I might be so bold, sir, your lady is quite lucky indeed.”

  “I cannot thank you enough for your help, Miss Sullivan,” Robin said as he pressed the coins into her warm, rosy palm. She slipped them into her apron pocket and pressed her fingers to her lips to suppress a giggle.

  Robin followed the directions she’d given him, and soon stood outside the Bunge house: a three-story, stone building with a sunroom at the eastern corner. A matching wall surrounded the property, though Robin found the wooden gate unlocked. He crept inside and made his way toward the back of the house, hoping to locate a servants’ entrance. He found one beneath a small awning and surrounded by pink azalea bushes. Before entering, Robin tossed the snowdrop he held to the ground and crushed it with his boot heel. Everyone knew they were bad luck.

  Opening the door quietly, Robin found himself in a tiny foyer. A stair led down to the kitchens, and a hall toward the Bunge family’s living quarters. Noise and aroma from below told him the staff busied themselves with preparation of the evening meal. Robin opted to take the hall. He hoped he wouldn’t encounter anyone, but he had a story planned in case he did. He’d say a maid let him in, and that he had a message for the master of the house. When he met Max Bunge, he’d feign confusion and “realize” he’d come to the wrong residence. Even so, sweat trickled down the back of Robin’s neck as he stalked past an empty parlor and study. In the sitting room, he saw the lady of the house at her embroidery, wearing so many petticoats and shawls that she looked upholstered rather than dressed. Two chubby boys, bearing an unfortunate resemblance to their father, sat arguing over a game of cards. Robin passed by the three of them without notice and ascended the central staircase.