‘The pleasure club. Swift—damn.’ He muttered the words, wincing as if he’d forgotten. ‘The party. I am expected.’
The pleasure club—the party. Of course he was expected. Of course he would go. Violet sprang away, frantically rearranging her clothes, trying to ignore the lance of pure agony that had shot through her at the word expected.
He would go, and he should go, because this was only an experiment to him. If it weren’t an experiment, he would have already made his excuses to Swift. He was still Atuk, her fellow scholar—not a cruel, heartless wretch abandoning her in a moment of great vulnerability.
Yes. If she repeated that enough to herself, she could almost believe it.
‘I…’ Atuk looked at her, his eyes full of an emotion that Violet couldn’t define. ‘I do not have to attend.’
‘Of course you do.’ Violet stood, turning her face away. ‘The boy is at the door. You are expected, and must meet that expectation.’
‘Violet.’ Atuk’s patient tone enraged her without quite knowing why. ‘If… if you are no longer perfectly at ease with the arrangement, given the—the—’
‘The course of study.’ The words sounded hollow to Violet as she said them. ‘Why would I not be perfectly at ease with the arrangement? I’ve been perfectly at ease with it before. I’ve seen you stumbling back over the quads at all hours, reeking of spirits and strange perfume, and barely raised an eyebrow.’ She paused, realising she was close to raising her voice. ‘Missing classes, lying to professors, squandering the gifts you have—it’s your natural state. I am loathe to interfere with it.’
‘Excuse me?’ Atuk frowned, his words hovering perilously close to a snarl. ‘I wasn’t aware you kept such an attentive eye on my conduct, Violet. Our friendship does not impede you marrying a lord you barely know, does it? Why should it impede me from acting exactly as I like?’
The gall of the man. Violet paused for a moment, trying to breathe, before replying with as much frigid gravity as she could muster.
‘Perhaps I am not being clear, frater.’ She had never used their nickname with such venom before; she almost winced as the word left her lips. ‘I don’t care a straw for what you do. Whether this affects the experiment or not, I am entirely indifferent. I simply do not care.’
‘It doesn’t seem like you don’t care.’ Atuk’s voice was full of an anger Violet had never heard before. ‘You seem quite violently angry about it.’
‘The only thing that moved me to violence is the uselessness of this conversation.’ Violet kept her face turned away, suddenly sure that she was on the verge of weeping. ‘Go to your pleasure club—who knows, perhaps I’ll find one of my own. I’ve been so very adequately prepared, after all.’
Atuk’s voice trembled. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Oh, excuse me. You are correct.’ Violet folded her arms. ‘I am, after all, a mathematical formula. A sexless being.’
For a moment, she almost wanted Atuk to shake her. To touch her, at least; to tell her that it wasn’t true, that he wouldn’t go. But as she turned, ready to take it all back, she saw him shaking his head with an angry sigh.
‘Fine.’ He bowed curtly. ‘Goodnight.’
Speechless, shaking, Violet watched him go. A long, formless stretch of time passed as she stood at the door, watching the carriage pull away, tears freely falling down her cheeks.
She jumped, perilously close to cursing, as a small head nuzzled against her ankle. Hercules looked at her accusingly, his leathery gaze softening to one of sympathy as Violet picked him up.
‘Oh, creature.’ She sat down on the worn fireside chair, cradling the tortoise as her tears dampened its shell. The warm breeze from the open window carried the sounds of the Oxford evening, still full of carousing despite the intermittent rain. People were forming friendships, forging intimacy... falling in love...
‘And some are ruining everything.’ She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, all of her bitter words flooding over her again. ‘Oh, Hercules. I ruined everything.’
She looked dully at the fire, realising she lacked the energy to keep it alight. No fire meant no tea, and no tea meant no books, and no books meant no work, and if there was no work, well... why was she even awake? Nothing was worth doing, if Atuk was angry with her. Nothing at all.
She stared into the middle distance, allowing her tears to fall. Soon, her body finally obeying the demands of her exhausted mind, she sank into a numb, dark sleep.
After a reasonable amount of time had passed, Hercules cautiously poked his head out of his shell. He regarded his sleeping mistress with as much kindness as a tortoise could reasonably show, before beginning his long, painstaking journey from Violet's lap to the floor. It was graceless, clumsy, and more than once he was in serious danger of waking her up with an ill-placed kick to the thigh - but, after twenty minutes or so, he fell safely onto the rug.
He looked at the open window with an expression of deep displeasure. No self-respecting tortoise voluntarily chose a strange, wet environment when a warm fire and a lettuce leaf were mere metres away. But if he didn’t do something, his mistress would probably stop associating with the only nice young gentleman that knew how to pronounce his name correctly.
With a profound chelonian sigh, he began making his way to the window. Grimly climbing up the unstable pile of books his mistress had left in a pile by the wall, he bit the hem of the curtain as he painstakingly scrabbled onto the windowsill. The mulberry bush lay below him, unpleasantly dark in the evening shadows.
Hercules sighed again. Rapturous hugs and a bowl of strawberries would be too much to expect for this small act of heroism. He was sure of it. He hoped, at least, that his mistress would notice he was gone before the night had passed.
He sighed a final time, wishing he’d stayed in hibernation a few weeks longer. Then, with stoic determination, he jumped—or, rather, fell.
The tall, burly lad smoking outside the Richardson residence smiled knowingly at Atuk as he headed for the servant's entrance. ‘Here for the party, are we?’
‘Yes.’ Atuk spoke more shortly than usual. He normally enjoyed laughing with the house staff, sharing a smoke if at all possible, but the last words exchanged between him and Violet had soured his mood to an exaggerated degree. He nodded all the same, noting the man's white-blond hair with a glance, before entering the cluttered servants’ hall.
The two men standing in their undergarments regarded him thoughtfully. Atuk nodded as graciously as he could, before beginning to take off his jacket.
Why was he so damned angry? Wasn’t Violet’s attitude the dream of every red-blooded male; a woman who didn’t mind which beds he jumped in and out of, as long as he ended up in hers at least some of the time? Half of the society marriages he knew of made no pretensions as to faithfulness - the man kept a mistress, sometimes two, while the woman kept as many lovers as she wished...
... Violet, with lovers. Men who weren't him. He paused, his fingers trembling, a visceral burst of jealousy rooting him to the spot.
No. That would kill him; Violet kissing another man, being intimate with someone else. The thought of it was killing him now. It was killing him because he’d broken the barrier; the wall that stood between Violet, and all the women he had ever been with. A stupid thing to do, an absolutely idiotic act, and he would never have done it if it hadn't been for that damned letter she’d received, and his damned foolish words, and the damned way her face looked in the evening light, beautiful, the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen. A face he knew better than his own.
But she didn't care a straw that he was here. She’d said it—almost shouted it, in fact. Shouted it as if he’d been impossibly stupid to think otherwise. He felt sickened by what lay before him, instead of his usual amused arousal—and she didn’t care a straw.
He cared. He cared dreadfully. Which was why he was going to strip down, go into a room full of titled pleasure-seekers, and give them all they wanted and more. All the rage, all
the hurt, all the feeling... all of it would fade, if he abandoned himself completely.
He knew. He hoped.
As he threw his shirt to the ground, Jack Swift walked into the room. Nodding to Atuk with more familiarity than usual, he gestured to the waiting men with a half-lit cigar with his fingers.
‘Evening. I’d tell you the names of these ones, but they’ll probably be gone by the next party. The talent’s getting more and more unpredictable.’ His face darkened. ‘With Nikau and that bloody conman Prince out of the picture, I’m doing more improvisation than I’d like. At least I know I’ve got one safe pair of hands.’
‘Hands aren’t usually the most crucial part of this exercise, are they?’ Atuk tried to smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. ‘I’m surprised to see you in Oxford, Swift, I must say. I thought your heart stopped beating if you went north of Holborn.’
‘Yes.’ Swift’s face was unusually guarded. ‘More money here, this weekend. Always good to branch out.’
Atuk nodded, not believing a word of it. Jack Swift was a London creature, as fixed in the heart of its underworld as the ravens in the Tower, and he wouldn’t be stepping a foot outside of its confines if there wasn’t a damned good reason.
Trouble? No. Swift caused trouble; he didn’t attract it. Men who tried to challenge him ended up running, screaming or hanging, often all three. No, he wasn’t running away from any trouble... ordinary trouble, at least.
To his shock, Atuk found himself considering Swift’s emotional side. Did the man even have one? It certainly wasn’t evident to anyone who knew him; his empire of pleasure-based blackmail seemed to render impossible any affairs of the heart. Swift had enjoyed the favours of practically every rich, well-connected woman in London; his dark, inscrutable charisma practically guaranteed a warm reception...
... But he did look sad. Sad in the grey, worn way a man looks when the light of his life, the joy of his days, walks through the world largely unaware of his existence.
Atuk took off his boots, kicking them away, hoping that his theory was incorrect. His own ridiculous entanglements caused pain only to himself. Jack Swift caught up in romance… well. There could be no survivors.
His musings were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door of the servants’ hall. Swift, with a curse of profound irritation, opened it before Atuk could reach it.
‘Message for—oh, bollocks.’ The small, pale messenger boy quailed before Swift’s face. ‘Sorry, mister.’ He looked at the half-dressed men with eyes as large as dinner plates. ‘I - oh, dear.’
‘They’re human sacrifices. I’m preparing them.’ Swift leaned down, his dark eyes level with the boy’s terrified ones. ‘Unless you want to be eaten by a bunch of hungry ladies and gentlemen, lad, I’d speak.’
‘Message for Mister Morothwaite.’ The boy’s hands shook as he held his waistcoat. ‘From a Miss Belgrave.’
‘What?’ Atuk turned, his heart leaping in his chest. ‘What’s the message? What did she say?’
‘I dunno what it means, sir. Almost sounds like a cipher.’ The boy shrugged. ‘She said Hercules has escaped.’
For a long moment, Atuk was simply still. He stood, his face impassive, a tide of conflicting emotions coursing through his body with a strength he knew he could never match. All he could do was feel all of them; annoyance, incredulity, absurdity. Rage.
Then, without a word, he reached for his discarded clothes. He began to dress as quickly as possible, ignoring the surprised looks of the two other men, until Swift’s hand on his shoulder interrupted him.
‘Atuk, what are you doing?’ His voice was low, uniquely menacing. ‘And think extremely carefully before answering.’
‘You heard the boy. Hercules has escaped. I have to go and find him.’ Atuk impatiently shook away Swift's hand, buttoning his trousers. ‘I’m the only one that can call him.’
Swift’s incandescent look could have melted steel. ‘Atuk, you are not saying what I think you’re saying. The fact that I have no bloody idea what you’re saying makes no difference. You are shutting up, going out into that ballroom, and doing what I damn well pay you to do.'
‘I’ll pay you for your time and trouble.’ Atuk was already pulling on his trousers, throwing on his shirt without buttoning it. The other two men looked on in astonishment. ‘And you’ll think of something to placate them with. You’re very good at making elegant apologies.’
‘Elegant apologies? I’m going to cut you into elegant pieces, you damned ingrate.’ Swift gripped his shoulder with a strength that made Atuk wince. ‘There are people of real quality out there. They pay more than you can give me. And if you leave now, you'll be paying with your—’
He stopped, astonished, as Atuk pulled away. Atuk pointed a finger at his chest, his hand steady, his voice low and menacing as he spoke.
‘No, Swift. I am going to leave this house, hop into the nearest available carriage, and go back to the college as fast as the horse can run. Then I am going to look for Violet Belgrave’s damned tortoise for as long as it takes to find it.’ The tip of his finger rested against Swift’s shirt, as pointed as a sabre. ‘I will search all night. I will search for weeks, if I have to. So stop making threats that you don't want to carry out, Jack. I ask you most sincerely.’
He continued dressing as Swift looked on, his pupils dagger-points. Heading for the door, one boot half-buttoned, Atuk turned with one finger held aloft.
‘Thinking about it, you don’t even have to lose money. There’s a kitchen lad outside smoking who could easily pass for Russian. Make him put on an accent, say he’s a disgraced prince.’ He winked, ducking the shoe Swift flung at his head. ‘Just a thought.’
As he ran out into the street, shirt-cuffs flapping in the wind, the two remaining men looked at one another carefully.
‘Forgive me.’ The taller one spoke quietly, aware of Swift’s face. ‘But was that gentleman talking about a tortoise?’
Swift took a long, slow breath, his eye twitching. Moving his head from side to side, cracking his neck, he eyed the two men with suspicion.
‘Do you two have any female friendships? Paramours? Associates? Women who annoy you for no particular reason?’ He stared at both of them, pausing for an uncomfortable length of time. ‘Well?’
‘No.’ The taller man shifted under Swift’s gaze; the shorter one shook his head. ‘No-one in particular.’
‘Good. Then stay there.’ Swift headed out of the door, his face darkening. ‘I have to teach a kitchen lad conversational Russian.’
By the time the carriage made its way back to Violet’s lodgings, the rain was beginning to fall in earnest. Atuk shoved the necessary coins into the driver’s hand without so much as a thank-you, squelching over the quad in grim misery as lightning split the sky.
Pain lanced through him as he saw Violet’s slim, trembling figure standing by the open Tudor door. He wanted to shake her, hold her, curse her, kiss her—all of it, everything, and he could do none of it. Not if he cared at all for the friendship they shared, which currently hung by the finest of threads.
He approached in silence. Violet folded her arms, chin defiantly stuck out, her hair unpinned and growing more sodden by the minute.
‘I didn’t want to call on you. I would have called on anyone else—anyone.’ She paused; Atuk saw what could have been a tear run down her cheek, or perhaps it was only a raindrop. ‘But you’re the only one he comes to.’
Never call on anyone else, when you can call on me. Atuk nodded curtly, not trusting himself to say the words. ‘We’ll find him.’
Creeping through the Tudor door, careful to alert no-one, they began to search the wild ground outside the lodgings in wet, miserable silence. The rain increased by the minute; the dim gas light from the far-off library case a sick, pallid gloom over the battered shrubs and grasses.
Atuk kept his head determinedly turned away from Violet, not knowing if he could bear the sight of her upset. Of course the damned tortoise would do this to
night; of course he’d sneak away, forcing them to find him. He’d never met an animal with such a talent for timing—and oh, Lord, he hoped he was alright. He had to be alright.
‘Please be alright, Hercules.’ He muttered it under his breath, leaning closer to ground-level. ‘Come on, Hercules... come on, you horrible animal. Please come here. Please don't be hurt.’
Minutes passed, full of rain and silence. Everything seemed to be wet leaves, damp grass, and the odd trampled flower. Atuk kneeled, scowling grimly at the mud seeping through his trousers, beginning to feel his way over the ground as Violet searched in the other direction.
Why were there so many tortoise-shaped rocks? Innumerable pebbles tricked his fingers; damp, slimy, clattering against one another as Atuk impatiently threw them over his shoulder. What a ridiculous situation to be in—what a foolish position, scrabbling in the dirt, searching for a wily, horrible creature who seemed to delight in torturing those who cared for him—
He stopped, swearing as the rock in his hand bit him. Holding it up, Atuk stared straight into Hercules’s beady eyes.
‘Oh, thank God.’ Atuk sighed with relief, cradling the tortoise in his hands. Hercules stared balefully up at him, his shell damp, his nails digging into Atuk's shirt. ‘Thank God for that.’
He straightened up, cradling Hercules. ‘I’ve found him.’ He watched Violet's head turn, her eyes full of tears in the dim light, and felt his heart splintering into shards. ‘He’s alright. Quite alright.’
For a moment she simply looked at him. Atuk stared, lost in the sheer fact of her presence, overwhelmed with a strange, dark mixture of pain and peace. He had betrayed her, she hated him, she would never want to see her again... but for now, she was here. She was here, Hercules was found, and everything was alright. She was his other half, and she was close.
Violet began to walk towards him. Atuk almost flinched, expecting her to pull Hercules away—and then suddenly, shockingly, she was in his arms.
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