“I had no idea you felt that way, Bram,” Abaddon said, leaning pointedly around the several vases of flowers on the table, so he could see Bram’s face. “I shall instruct Marnie to leave your room flower free.”
Bram swallowed the bitter taste his lies had wrought. “Thank you.”
Oliver was not put off by Bram’s attempts to shut down the conversation. Unfortunately, he stumbled on the other subject Bram was loath to talk about. “Do you have family?”
“Not anymore,” Bram said, causing Armando and Abaddon to sport matching frowns. Just what he needed: more pity. “I don’t talk about them.”
“I am sorry,” said Oliver, and he really looked it, which made Bram feel worse. “I was very lucky with my family. Alas, they are all gone now.”
Bram didn’t know this. Oliver had never talked about his family before, and a small wave of guilt tumbled through Bram’s stomach at never having asked him about them. He had spent so long whining to Oliver about his own family that he had never even considered that Oliver might have a family of his own, or indeed a life outside of Bram’s garden. Lord, but he’d been selfish.
“All of them?” he asked.
“Murdered,” Oliver said, his blue eyes far away and wistful.
Bram covered Oliver’s hand with his smaller one, hoping he wouldn’t notice the disparity. His fingers had at least roughened some with Uriel’s help. “I’m sorry, Feltham.”
Oliver merely latched onto their joined hands and offered him a soft, watery sort of smile. “I miss them… every day.” He cleared his throat. “My apologies, Abaddon. This is not the sort of conversation one wishes to engage in at mealtimes.”
“I have heard worse,” Abaddon admitted.
As if Oliver’s flirting were not enough, Owen kept popping up in every corner of the house, trying to engage Bram in conversation. Of all the men to find himself with, he was in a house full of men who were attracted to other men, and now he lived as a man himself. Though Owen was quite out of luck. Handsome as he was, he was a little too rough for Bram’s tastes.
Whatever resentment had initially existed between Abaddon and Oliver was gone now, Abaddon having invited him to stay until Cecilia was back in prime health. And that was how Oliver came to be in the garden, Cecilia torturing his ears with cockney-Latin.
Bram chuckled to himself as he ducked out of sight, heading for the lake. He sat behind a tree with the last gift Oliver had given him, admiring the pressed flowers lying between the pages of the book—every flower Oliver had ever given him… flattened and drained of its vitality, yet each conjuring a beloved memory… a story of its own.
He had barely been outside for ten minutes when a shadow fell to his left. He sighed as he climbed to his feet, hoping Owen would be easily deterred today.
It was not Owen.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you in your favourite spot,” said Oliver.
Bram hid the book behind his back. “How… how did you know this is my favourite spot?”
Oliver offered a dazzling smile. “I’ve been watching you.”
Bram blushed. “You should perhaps not tell young men you’ve been watching them, Feltham.” He winced internally at the sound of Oliver’s surname coming out of his mouth once again, convinced as he was that if he said Oliver out loud, his feelings would pour out with it.
“Does it bother you?” Oliver walked around the tree. “To be watched by me?”
“Yes,” Bram said, turning as Oliver walked, so he was always facing him. “No.”
Oliver laughed. “Yes or no, Bram?”
Bram’s mouth fell open as Oliver approached. He staggered backwards a little.
“You are very beautiful,” Oliver told him.
“Am I?” he asked, his voice coming out harder than he meant it to.
“Like Hyacinthus.”
Bram rolled his eyes. “Do you know any stories that are not about flowers?”
“Of course, but so many of them are forged from older stories… mythologies. Even Shakespeare plundered the classics.”
“Some would say Shakespeare qualifies as classic in his own right.”
“Some would.”
“But not you?”
“I didn’t say that, Bram.”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s something precious.”
“Are you not something precious?”
Bram stared. Who would ever think him precious? Perhaps, Armando… Certainly Cecilia considered him to be vital to her life, but… not Oliver, surely. Oliver who had lied about loving him and was now off chasing him again, flirting with him, trying to woo him into bed. Well, he wouldn’t have it. He wasn’t a silly maiden in one of Oliver’s stories, waiting around for a prince or a hero to worship him for five minutes, only to be cast aside when someone prettier came along. To be cursed for all time, ending up as a miserable bloom because of cursed gods with a bizarre sense of justice and too much time on their hands.
“You’re dropping something behind you,” Oliver told him.
Oh no. He turned to pick up the fallen flowers, tucking them hurriedly between the pages of his book.
