And just as a reminder — you can’t even fucking swim.
In the event I do not return, all of my worldly possessions, most of which can be found on Dragonfly Island, are bequeathed to you, Lord Silas Stride, Marquis of Basingstone. Please do split the plunder with Maris accordingly.
Yours most affectionately,
Cadmus
Silas let out a hard breath. He wondered how Maris would fare being the recipient of Cadmus’s last will and testament as a signoff in every correspondence their brother sent.She’ll get used to it eventually.
The parcel that accompanied the letter contained a goblet carved from shell, the intricately designed seascape on its side breathtaking to behold. Within the goblet was a sack of coins. Silas tugged the cord, tipping the sack, letting them spill out on the desk. They were larger than the common gold Griffin in circulation, and upon his examination, he discovered they were brothel tokens, each one showing a number on one side, evidently the denomination, and a topless mermaid on the other, her voluptuous curves nearly overshadowed by the brightness of her smile. Laughing, he wondered if he would have the chance to make good use of these eventually.
Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back for a long moment, willing the pain in his head away before opening the top drawer of the desk, retrieving his quill and a clean sheet of foolscap. Dipping the nib into the pot of ink on the leather desk cover, he began to write.
Dearest brother,
Despite your wretched instance in closing each letter in a way that makes it sound as if you’re planning on putting your cock in the mouth of the nearest shark, I’m always relieved to receive correspondence from you. I wonder if the regular updates to your will are meant to make you feel better, or if you’re trying to entice me to Dragonfly Island to plunder your possessions in your absence.
There is indeed a letter waiting for you at Port Perico, you’ll be pleased to know. I believe, at the time of its posting, I had recently spent the day on a foreign rooftop after a rather infelicitous greeting by the Duke of Shoretham. The hospitality of his house was lacking, regrettably, but I had no such complaints over the hospitality of his wife.
Your assumption that I would find the conditions you outlined in your letter enjoyable is correct. I do hope the young woman wasn’t unduly injured in her accident, but the loss of the gag reflex is a seldom-found attribute in the London, and I am wickedly jealous of your luck.
I have returned to Basingstone for the week to settle some accounts and ensure Maris has everything she needs to be comfortable. Her pregnancy is progressing without issue, and she seems to be in good spirits, aside from haranguing me the instant my feet cross the threshold of the house. She has asked me, as she always does, to demand you to return home, but I don’t think she’s considering the state of her wardrobe if I were to do so.
It will come as no surprise to you that she is quite intent on finding me a wife. The Monster’s Ball is the final festivity on the calendar for the season, and she has already given me the ultimatum that I return home from that soirée affianced or else she will take matters into her own hands, finding me a wife as I found Luenn for her.
Since you have no issue signing off your correspondence with me in the most morbid way possible, I shall remind you of what I sent in my last letter — I have no intentions of marrying. My plan may seem foolhardy to you, but you have been at sea for far too long, and I read that ingesting sea water can turn a man’s mind. I beg you, bother — stop drinking the sea water. And what need have I for swimming? Isn’t that the whole bloody point of the ship?
Iwillbe paying close attention to the Monster’s Ball this year, only not for the reason Maris hopes. I received correspondence from Efraim Ellingboe seeking my assistance in finding a husband for a young woman he has sponsored. You were such close friends with his eldest son, I felt compelled to meet with the girl, just to see what it was all about. I recognized her the instant I stepped into the room, although I am still unable to place from where. It has been itching at my mind for the past three days. I suppose this is the result of saying hello with my cock first for so many years, but Iknowthat I know her somehow.
As it is, I have agreed to offer the girl tutelage in the fairer arts of seduction so that she may find herself a husband at the Monster’s Ball. I would not normally offer the gift of my time in such a way, but it is evident the family has fallen on hard times, and she is quite lovely to look upon. Who knows, perhaps I shall have the opportunity to sample her charms before handing her off to her husband.
I’m going to be visiting the Lady of Derrybrook this evening, as I know for a fact that her husband is not in residence. Although I suspect she will not possess the same sort of gag reflex deficit as your friend from the pleasure house, I can speak from experience that she is commendable in both her grip and enthusiasm.
Please see to it that your reprobate captain is expecting me eventually. I won’t demand to have the largest cabin on his ship, only that I have a servant of my own and that I’m free from any seafaring chores he might seek to give me. I do hope those brothel tokens are accepted without expiration.
Yours lovingly,
Silas
By the time he returned to Basingstone from visiting with Lady Derrybrook, dawn was nearly about to break. He felt ready to sleep for a hundred years, trudging up the staircase in the chapel, a twisting spiral of white marble veined in black, the reverse of what he was about to become.
He was eager to return to London, the desire to do so itching at the back of his neck the same way the thought of Miss Eastwick had itched in the back of his mind for half the week. He’d had Lady Derrybrook on her knees, pumping into her from behind, his knot kissing the mouth of her sex insistently when the realization came to him. The lady of the manor was vocalizing her pleasure in a way that brought to mind the ululation of a group of yodelers he’d seen perform at a theater in Paris, the same night he’d taken in a cello concert and performance of a heartrendingly lovely song cycle, sung by a soprano with delicate features and wide brown eyes.
His back arched as the memory coalesced — a vision of Eleanor Eastwick in a long, beaded gown, a spray of feathers in her hair as she sang — and a spray of his seed over the back of Lady Derrybrook, the memory coming to him as he came across her skin, his knot throbbing as his cock jerked, spurting white ropes of his release as he remembered the way Miss Eastwick had kept him and every other attendee of the concert at rapt attention until the last note wavered from her golden throat and applause split the air. Lady Derrybrook wasn’t nearly as elegant as she howled at her peak, and Silas slumped, his cock spent and his head heavy.
It was a small miracle he made it back to Basingstone on his feet, and now he wanted to do nothing more than sleep and restore himself, eager to set his affairs in order for the spring season, ensuring Maris had everything she needed as she prepared to deliver her egg.
“Traveling abroad, she said,” he mumbled to himself, dropping into his stone throne unceremoniously. The top of the moon chapel was secluded and safe, always a spot of respite, and that night was no exception as the sky lightened. Tomorrow needed to be an extremely productive night, for he had much to do to ensure the manor and his sister were cared for, leaving him free to return to London and the intriguing Eleanor Eastwick.
Eleanor
“Isamarquessahigher rank than an earl, Eleanor?”
The twisted edge of her latticed pie was not crimping particularly evenly. Eleanor wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing wrong, but after undoing and re-doing the braided dough several times, she still found it to resemble a lumpy sack of boots and gave up. The girls were particular when it came to the parts of a bird they were willing to have on a plate before them, she had learned. If the meat was too dark and oily, Coraline would push it around her plate, building elaborate sculptures in hopes that Eleanor would be satisfied with her architectural ingenuity and not insist she eat. If the shape of the poor fowl was still discernible, Lucy would pretend to swoon, insisting she couldn’t possibly bear to eat an innocent little pigeon.
Eleanor wasn’t willing to let a single scrap of good meat go to waste, and she had discovered that with the addition of peas and pearl onions and a gravy made from the pan drippings and handful of flour, the girls were far less picky with their pigeon pie the following night. Her pies might not be pretty, but they were obviously palatable, and Lucy and Coraline would both clean their plates without complaint.
Sighing, her eyes rolled up to the ceiling at the question. Lucy had been thoroughly consumed with thoughts of the nobility and their obnoxious visitor since the night he had come for tea. She asked questions about the different titles and stations the nobles held, how lands and titles were passed from son to son, occasionally breaking her educational learnings to sigh over how handsome the Marquis of Basingstone had been. Eleanor had not heard from Silas Stride since that evening he’d come to call, and with each day that passed, she reminded herself and Lucy alike that he had mentioned returning to Basingstone that same week, and besides, the assistance of noblemen was not assured. He was more likely to forget they even existed during his out-of-town absence as he was to come back prepared to assist.
