Peach Blossom

Aubrey had reached his limit on foul tempers.

Well, Milla he could not blame. She was tired, and her illness had taken a turn, so she was permitted to be a bit off. Father was as sour as he always was when the weather was foul. Aubrey had not expected cheerful conversation from that corner in any case.

Gilles was even nastier than Aubrey could ever remember him being. Even Stregoni, upon whom he'd been counting for happy companionship, was in a foul mood.

He could not escape outside; the weather was a breath away from being a proper blizzard. Feeling very much sour himself, now, Aubrey wandered the house looking for either a way to soothe his ill-temper, or something on which he could vent it.

When his hunt proved in vain, he retreated at last to the small room he had taken over as his private study.

He startled upon entering when he realized someone else was in the room.

Since returning home a week ago, Aubrey had done his best to avoid Ruthven for all but the necessary feedings. Of course, Ruthven slept in his bed. Much to his dismay, Aubrey had seen no way out of that particular problem. Elisabeth and François both slept with their respective owners. It would be humiliating in the extreme for Ruthven if Aubrey were to make him sleep in the servant quarters. Neither would he banish Ruthven to one of the empty rooms as though he were a visitor.

Currently, Ruthven was ensconced in the study's window seat, the main reason Aubrey had stolen this room away to be his own. It was wide and long, and gave a beautiful view of the west side of the house, the lush lawn and the forest beyond it.

At the edge of that forest were the faded remains of a path which led straight to the house of his Uncle George.

There were other paths, even more faded than the one made by brothers who had once been close, but fear had always gotten the better of him whenever he set out to explore.

Ruthven had made himself quite comfortable, propped on pillows that also served to separate him from the cold glass. He was wrapped in a blanket, and had a book set in his lap. Some heavy tome that looked familiar but which Aubrey could not at the moment place. There was very little light coming from the window, all of it blocked by piles upon piles of snow, the wind whipping up even more flakes and tossing them about.

All the reading light came instead from the various lamps Ruthven had lit, one pulled near the window so he could better see to read. It made his beeswax hair a rich gold, warmed the sun-kissed skin.

He turned the pages with his left hand, the faintest of smiles curving his pale pink lips. Aubrey noted this only because in his right hand, Ruthven held a teacup—one from the winter set, pale green porcelain decorated with mistletoe.

"Pets drink tea?"

Ruthven looked up, then smiled and closed his book, setting his teacup aside. "It doesn't help us, but it doesn't hurt, either. I like tea."

Aubrey frowned. He did not know much about Pets because he hated the whole idea and so avoided the matter…but he was fairly certain the breeding grounds and the Pet houses did not feed the Pets anything but blood. "Where did you drink tea?"

"Here and there," Ruthven said, head dipping, eyelids falling so long lashes just brushed his cheeks. Then he brought his gaze up to meet Aubrey's directly. "Mostly during interviews. It is rude to refuse, is it not?"

Drat it, he still could not tell the color of Ruthven's eyes. Why did it bother him so much?

Something else suddenly occurred to him. "You can read."

Ruthven's mouth quirked. "Yes, Master."

Aubrey scowled. "My name is Aubrey."

"Yes, Master," Ruthven said again, doing that thing with his lashes. A demure move, submissive. Yet something prickled along Aubrey's skin that said submissive and Ruthven did not belong in the same breath.

He was a Pet, though. A blood drinker bound to Aubrey for the rest of his life. If there was any life more submissive than that, Aubrey did not want to know about it.

Why was he even thinking about such things?

"How is it you are able to read? That is expressly forbidden to Pets."

Ruthven smiled. "I was…I guess you could say, my upbringing was a bit more loose than it should have been. The woman who raised me in the nursery, until I was sent off for lessons, indulged me overmuch." He dipped his head and looked up through his lashes, the very pictures of subservient and eager to oblige. "If it bothers my master, then of course I shall cease at once."

Aubrey frowned. It was one of the top rules regarding Pets. They were taught all the basics of moving in polite society, but nothing that might encourage them to be dissatisfied with their lot. Keeping Pets that drank blood was much like playing with fire, even if controlling them had long ago been turned into a fine art.

They were not allowed to read or write. Before being sold, Pets were rendered unable to procreate. They did not converse with Pets outside their own household unless given permission and strictly supervised, and even within the household, the Pets did not spend overmuch time together. Scores of rules existed, for the good of everyone involved, or so the supporters said.

"What are you reading?" he asked finally. If he was going to be saddled with a Pet, why not one who broke a few rules? At least Ruthven seemed to be in a good mood.

Ruthven lifted the book so he could see the cover.

"What do you think of it?" Aubrey asked, almost smacking himself for not recognizing it—a popular philosophy book. Not one of his favorites, but a compelling one. He stepped closer despite himself, already eager for the chance at conversation and debate.

This close to Ruthven, however, he noticed what Ruthven was wearing: deep blue breeches and a simple white shirt. Nothing else, save for a collar around his throat.

Aubrey scowled. "Why do you wear those collars? Where did you get them?"

He had noticed Ruthven wearing them, but only distantly, far more interested in avoiding him altogether. This was the first time he'd paid real notice since the night Ruthven had become his Pet. That collar had been supple black leather.

This one was deep blue velvet, with a small burst of wisteria stitched on the left side.

Ruthven reached up to touch it. "I like them. Do they bother you, Master?"

"I'm not going to tell you what you may or may not wear. You really do not need to address me so," Aubrey said irritably. "Most everyone calls me Brey. You may do the same."

"I like 'Master'," Ruthven replied, and leaned forward until he was close enough Aubrey could smell the tea he was drinking, a hint of flowers and velvet and cologne that smelled of peach blossom and apple. "Unless, of course, my master finds it displeasing that I regard him so."

"Do as you wish," Aubrey said hastily, taking a step back, retreating to his desk.

He thought he heard Ruthven laugh, but dismissed it. "Is there more of that tea?"

"I will ring for it," Ruthven replied, and shoved back the blankets in which he'd wrapped himself.

Aubrey saw he had no shoes, only stockings.

Shaking his head, he pulled out his own book, one he had been reading before all the moving and settling had interfered.

"As to the book," Ruthven said, returning to his nest of blankets. It looked cozy, but Aubrey turned from that thought immediately. "I think his reasoning carries serious flaws."

"Oh?" Aubrey said, shutting his book again and leaning back in his seat, crossing his arms across his chest. He'd never argued philosophy with a Pet before; perhaps it would prove interesting.

A couple of hours later, he surrendered. "You are remarkably well-schooled," he said.

Ruthven shrugged. "I pay attention."

"Indeed," Aubrey said. "You are lucky you were never caught and killed for being too troublesome to keep."

"Yes, Master," Ruthven said, a hint of slyness in his voice.

Aubrey frowned, feeling as though he were missing some joke, and hating it. "What other secrets did you keep from your trainers?"

"Only a few," Ruthven said, definitely smirking now. "They are of no interest to you, Master, I promise." He slid from the window seat and strode to the desk, bracing his hands on it and leaning slightly forward.

The view put his throat, the collar wrapped around it, directly in Aubrey's vision. Ruthven really did have beautiful skin, which the blue velvet only enhanced, though it annoyed him to admit it. "Yes?" he asked, the question coming out snappishly.

Ruthven lowered his long lashes, looking up through them. "It is well past lunch, Master."

"Oh," Aubrey said, and saw from the clock on the wall opposite the desk that he was correct. Stifling a sigh, refusing to acknowledge the anxiety that always fluttered in his stomach, he held out his wrist.

It was scarred, now. He really would need to read up on Pets because he had never really known that they could close up the wounds they opened. It did not completely heal, for there was the scar, but after each…meal…the scar was there.

Aubrey winced as Ruthven bit down, shivering at the odd sensation of his blood being drained away. He wondered if it was a feeling to which he would eventually grow accustomed. Doubtful, given he could not even adjust to the idea that Ruthven would be with him the rest of his life.

No one ever stayed long with him. Eventually, they all had somewhere else to be. One by one his friends had drifted away, and the knowledge that he would invariably have to return to his family had kept Aubrey from chasing after them, from asking that they stay just a little longer.

He wondered where they all were now, and if they would write. Most of them had continued traveling, to further studies or simply play another year or two before settling into their own responsibilities. Others had scampered off to the city in pursuit of sport or a wife.

He shivered again as Ruthven ceased feeding, attempting to pull away, but was unable to as Ruthven kept firm hold of his wrist. His fingers were warm, a few shades darker than Aubrey's own, completely unmarked, where Aubrey's always seemed perpetually covered in scratches and paper cuts, and smeared with ink stains.

Ruthven lapped at his wrist, tongue wet and warm, and Aubrey tore his eyes away with a silent curse. What was his problem? Was he really so crass and hypocritical to be so affected? Ruthven was beautiful, there was no denying it. Of course he was beautiful; Gilles would never have picked out a Pet who was less than perfect.

At last Ruthven released his wrist, and Aubrey withdrew it. Ignoring the way it seemed to tingle, he reached for quill and ink, and penned a request to his book merchant in the city, jotting down the sorts of books he would like, along with payment for that month's bill.

Setting it aside to dry, he looked around his study, noting the empty shelves that would soon be filled, assuming the weather did not prevent the arrival of his crates.

"Is that your mother?" Ruthven asked suddenly, gazing at the wall opposite the shelves, the same wall in which was built the window seat.

Aubrey did not need to look at the portrait, but he did anyway. "Yes," he said, smiling sadly, ignoring the cold knot of fear that always coiled in his gut. He could not entirely remember that night, but he remembered enough of it, at least in dreams and the fear that lingered.

The portrait was actually of two women—his mother Lucy and her Pet Wilhemina. His mother was beautiful—dark blonde hair and gray eyes, petite and delicate, vibrant even in paint. She wore a pale blue gown to match the pale green worn by Wilhemina, who was a bolder beauty next to his daintier mother. They sat side by side on a stone bench, surrounded by the garden his mother had so loved. Together, the two women held a bouquet of vivid red chrysanthemums.

They looked happy, proud, and so very alive.

Once, the portrait had hung in his father's salon. After his mother's death, he had apparently ordered it destroyed. Aubrey had found it buried away in the attic while searching desperately for a place to hide from his infuriating cousin when he was young.

The portrait was unsigned, something which had always puzzled him, but Aubrey was grateful simply to have it.

"She's beautiful," Ruthven said. "The other woman was your father's Pet, back then?'

"What?" Aubrey said, brow furrowing. "No, Mina belonged to my mother. My father did not acquire a Pet until a few years after they died."

"But—" Ruthven stopped and shook his head. "A mistake. I should know better than to make assumptions. My apologies, Master."

Aubrey stared at him a moment, but at last shrugged it off. "I do not believe my father ever had a Pet before Elisabeth. But from what little people have told me about him, my father and his brother used to be quite the men about town. He did not settle down until he met my mother."

"I am sorry he lost her, that all of you lost her. Lost them," Ruthven said quietly.

The solemnity of his tone drew Aubrey up short, and he found he was staring again, but Ruthven's eyes were fastened on the portrait.

Finally he just nodded. "I am told he was quite different when she was around. I wish they were both still alive."

Ruthven finally pulled his eyes away from the portrait. "They live on in memories, in the way they are still loved and always will be. You look much like your father, but you have her smile and grace."

Aubrey rolled his eyes. "Grace? Perhaps you should consult a dictionary and confirm you know the proper meaning of that word. I assure you, I do not possess grace."

"Yes, Master," Ruthven said, but his tone didn't match his words. Instead, it was as though Ruthven was not trying very hard to hide his amusement. He looked at Aubrey directly, dark eyes holding some deep spark.

It made Aubrey's cheeks hot, that spark, and he jerked his gaze away, eyes falling upon the letter to his book merchant.

Ruthven abruptly snatched it up and stepped away from the desk.

"Give that back," Aubrey snapped. He stood up and moved around the desk to take it back, furious that Ruthven would just invade his privacy so—even if it was just a list of books he wanted.

He was just reaching out for the letter when Ruthven lowered it and stepped forward, and Aubrey found himself hastily taking a step back—and another, and another, until he collided with the desk, grunting in surprise.

Ruthven set the letter down, hands falling on either side of Aubrey, a playful smile curving his too-pretty mouth. "If you want to know about Pets, I am more than happy to answer all your questions."

Aubrey scowled. Ruthven was standing entirely too close, and he did not like the fact Ruthven had pinned him so neatly. That strange, unwanted feeling prickled along his skin again, the sense that for all he was a Pet, Ruthven was not the submissive type. "What are you? Are you really a Pet?"

"Of course, Master," Ruthven said. He opened his mouth, displaying the unmistakable fangs.

He still smelled like peach blossom and apple, overlaid with hints of velvet and silk, a touch of sweat and the lingering traces of tea. Aubrey breathed in the tangle of scents, heady and distracting. He tried to glare, but instead found himself captive.

So dark. Ruthven's eyes were so dark, and even when they were a mere breath apart, he could not tell their true color. They looked like night, like the sun had finally set and nothing but shadow remained. Not truly black, but too dark for any one color to shine through.

They stood that way for a minute or an eternity, he could not tell which. It was only the chiming of his clock, striking the second hour of the afternoon, that finally broke the strange spell. Jerking, Aubrey turned his head away. "Get away from me," he said curtly.

Ruthven promptly pushed off the desk, stepped back, and dipped his head and shoulders in an elegant half bow.

"What in the hell are you?" he asked again.

"Yours," Ruthven replied.

"Ridiculous," Aubrey said. "You drink tea, you read, you act like no Pet I've ever met."

"How would you know? With all due respect, you do not like Pets, and avoid them. How, then, do you know the way they behave?"

"You are impertinent," Aubrey replied, moving to sit behind his desk once more, feeling slightly dizzy from the loss of blood but stubbornly ignoring it.

He did not look up when he heard Ruthven return to the window seat, but continued to sort through the paraphernalia he had unpacked but not sorted and put away.

"Do you really dislike me so, Master?" Ruthven asked.

Aubrey paused in the process of sorting through his book lists. "What?" He frowned at Ruthven, who stared implacably back.

It was more than a little disconcerting, but Aubrey refused to give in to the foolish emotion. "I neither like nor dislike. I do not know you well enough to make such a decision. I know only that you do not act like any other Pet I have ever encountered. Friends of mine, from school, had them. I have never known François and Elisabeth to act like you." He shrugged. "It's not that I dislike Pets. It's simply that I detest they are slaves. It brings me no joy to see anyone enslaved."

Ruthven smiled, then lowered his lashes to look through them in that way that drove Aubrey crazy. "I am your willing Pet."

"There's no such thing," Aubrey snapped. "No one wants to live such a life."

"If you say so, Master."

Aubrey ignored him and went back to poring over his lists.

Willing Pet. Ridiculous.

They remained that way, Aubrey working, Ruthven silent in the window seat, until Carmilla knocked softly upon the door and peaked her head in to announce that dinner would be ready in an hour and he should go freshen up.