Someone once told Blair his stories were copies.

"They have potential, but you don't have a writing style," the man had said. "They read like Dickens, other times like the Brontë sisters, and even like Stoker or Le Fanu."

"Then what do you suggest I do?"

"That's not my job. You have to find your own style yourself." The man had tossed Blair's manuscript on his desk. Quietly, Blair had stood up and left the room, but he wasn't mad. No, there had been a different, distinct, feeling. He felt something thudding horribly in his chest. Like something was pressing against his chest.

It had hurt, so terribly bad.

Blair went into room, and sat down before his old typewriter; the keys were a bit too loose and made a certain noise, and the lettering were chipped. He had forgot about the novel about Eleanora. For some reason, he couldn't concentrate, and therefore he clacked at the keys about a different story before he could realize.

Once upon a time, in a kingdom of camellias, there lived a prince. The prince was handsome, no, beautiful, beautiful in the way Snow White or a princess was, with unscarred porcelain skin, thin red lips, and dark, brooding eyes.

However, this beautiful prince, as rich and powerful and beloved he was, was lonely. He was terribly lonely, because he could not find it in his heart to trust anyone, for he always believed they would leave him one day, like his parents, brother, and past lovers. Therefore, the prince lived in a castle adorned with camellias all by himself.

Men and women, the rich and the poor, the loved and unloved, raced to the kingdom of camellias hoping to save the prince, but none was able to cross even the threshold of the gate or turn the eyes of the prince away from his beloved camellias.

One day, a poor peasant and a prince from another kingdom came. The prince was handsome, and gently strummed his mandolin to Scarborough Fair and Greensleeves. His music enchanted the birds and they sang about with him. Flowers grew about his side and animals gathered, and thus people said he was like the sun.

The poor peasant, however, only told stories about faraway kingdoms and greedy kings and tragic princesses. He wept as he told the stories and the soil beneath him grew so sour the plants around withered and died. The land looked no different from a cemetery, and people said he was like death.

For the first time in years, the prince stepped to the window of his castle and peered upon the two visitors. However, no one knew who had captured the prince's attention.

Both the Musician and the Storyteller looked up at the prince. At that moment, both fell in love with him.

The question was, who did the prince of camellias fall in love with?

Suddenly, Blair's fingers stopped. What had he written?

He didn't want to write it. He pulled the paper out of the typewriter and gathered them into a pile and shoved it in the drawer of his nightstand. His heart beat wildly. He had imagined the prince with long dark hair, and a face too similar to someone he knew.

That night at dinner the duke brought out wine.

"To celebrate our last night alone," he said, a wry smile on his lips. Blair's heart thumped at the way he smiled so seductively, as though they were sharing a secret or doing something much more than simply sharing a drink. Were they?

The truth was, Blair couldn't read him, wondering if he was truly so unhappy about Christopher coming over. After all, if he really was upset, he wouldn't have allowed him over, would he? And Christopher, he was sure, had feelings for this man.

This man who didn't even realize what he did to others.

He was eating his steak, dripping with blood, garnished with herbs, sage, or was it parsley? Under the light the meat seemed so much more raw, and he focused on slipping a sliced portion into his mouth, chewing sensually, when he turned to Blair.

"You seem vexed, my dear."

Blair's fork nearly fell from his hands. He straightened himself and tried to smile, failing miserably.

"Christopher Collins is coming tomorrow, isn't him?" Blair wondered why he was even saying that, then followed it up with, "Shall I address him by 'sir'?" He knew Emmanuel had given him a tremendous amount of leeway, but truth to be told, he was no different from Flemings. No, at least Flemings had a stable job.

Emmanuel put a crooked finger against his chin, then smiled. "You can call him Collins, Blair. Your stories make you an equal to us, and I believe you are no less beneath, despite what society dictates. You are far richer, with your words and stories."

"But Mister Collins might find it disrespectful or even overly haughty of me—"

"Oh, that reminds me, the clothing came," Emmanuel continued. "Let's have you try one of them tomorrow. Flemings will dress you up tomorrow morning, and comb your hair into a different hairstyle."

"What?"

"You do look quite impoverished, after all." He went back to slicing his meat, fingers on the silver knife, lazily and yet poised.

Blair felt strange. Did Emmanuel care about how he looked to Collins so much? Why? Was it because he was embarrassing like this? Blair only nodded somberly, and that night, he drank more than he ever had in his life.

"You're drinking too much," Emmanuel remarked with his eyebrows arched. Blair only looked at him strangely.

"Would you—would you tell me more about your past with Christopher?"

"The story will come, either way, that's not for now," he said. He had never heard Blair ask for his story, a specific part, at that. He must be curious about Christopher. He hesitated, before he spoke again. "What did you think of Collins, when you saw him at the tailor?"

"Rich," he said without thinking for long.

Emmanuel stared at him, and then sputtered out a laugh.

"You're—you're too adorable, Blair."

Blair grew red, and then Emmanuel noticed.

"You've had too much to drink, you can even speak clearly. Flemings, take away his glass." Flemings proceeded to take it away, uttering an apology to the boy, who began to argue.

"I'm not drunk! You drink, too, don't you? There's nothing wrong with drinking. I've never had such wine, too. It's much better than bitter beer."

"Enough."

"And Emmanuel, I haven't finished!" He leaned down in his arms, eyes flitting down. "I thought he was quite a handsome man. Very well-dressed and confident. Very well-mannered, too, but imprudent, too. His eyes never left yours, despite what his sister did, and yours—yours was on his, too."

Emmanuel gripped his knife and his jaw twitched, but he couldn't retort back. It was embarrassing to hear it out loud, and know Blair noticed more than he always seemed to. He wasn't a foolish boy; he was an observant writer. He had underestimated him, and now the tables have flipped, as Blair was drunk and couldn't contain his own thoughts.

He continued to eat, without replying, and before long, Blair had completely buried his face in his arms, and the plate of half-finished was pushed to the side. 

After he fell asleep on the table, Emmanuel ordered Flemings to bring him to his bed. As Flemings brought him upstairs, Blair's arm over his neck, he stirred slightly and muttered,

"Emmanuel."

For the first time, Emmanuel remembered it.

He had a task to do, and a task to fulfill. And after that, he wouldn't see Blair anymore. He was just using him to enjoy his life for a short period of time: his only time to act selfishly and use up the money from his cursed dukedom.

Blair couldn't have feelings for him.

Tomorrow, Emmanuel decided, I'll have him realize it. Suddenly, Christopher Collin's arrival didn't seem so deplorable.

The next morning, Blair woke up to rustling and Flemings with a jug of hot water, linens, and a set of new clothes. Blair sat up, and stared at the clothes in shock. He had never seen such fine clothes, thick with brocade, pants made of such good quality, not to mention tapered perfectly to his body.

"Good morning, Mister Millais. I came here to help you prepare." Flemings poured hot water from the jug into the basin, and then dipped the linens into the water.

"What?" Blair said, forgetting his morning greetings. He stared at the water. He had always washed by himself, and at the thought of getting washed by Flemings made him feel like a child.

"Since you fell asleep yesterday after dinner, you didn't have time for a bath, which isn't very proper when greeting a guest, sir. I readied some hot water to quickly wipe you down with, and some perfume—"

"I will do it by myself."

"I will help."

"No," Blair said, and although he knew he was throwing a tantrum, he didn't care. "Please."

"You don't have a choice, sir." And without waiting for his response, Flemings cornered him. Blair quickly receded, and then took off his nightshirt before Flemings wiped him down. Blair felt strange cleaned by another, but Flemings had a fatherly air to him, and he felt guilty for treating him that why.

"Flemings, did Emmanuel tell you to do this?" Flemings peered at him, then continued to scrub his arm.

"Please raise your arm, sir."

Turning red, Blair raised his arms and Flemings scrubbed his armpits.

"Your arrival has helped my master a lot," Flemings said instead, voice soft. "Since I've worked with him some decade ago, I've rarely seen him left the house, especially for such a superfluous reason as shopping. Never had he bought me anything other than books or diaries—the chocolates were a tad too sweet, but to know he thought of me while in London made me sentimental."

Blair understood what he was feeling, for he felt equally loved when Emmanuel remembered his comment about chocolates.

"My master seemed to only care about camellias, but now I suppose he does care for something else."

Blair didn't know what to respond with. Then softly said, "Does he—does he care for Christopher Collins?"

Flemings froze, and Blair couldn't regret asking it more. He burned and then put his arm down. Flemings dipped the cloth in the basin again, and then wrung it.

"Sir, I don't like saying much about my master."

"Yes, I understand. I apologize for asking such a thing."

Flemings turned, and then looked at Blair.

"No, you're the only one I don't mind telling." Blair wondered what that meant. "I know his lordship and Mister Collins were once close, but now my lord doesn't trust anyone."

"Yes, somehow I can sense that," Blair whispered. He thought about the occasional vulnerability he showed, but mostly of the secrets he hid from everyone.

"If I have to be honest, sir, I have a premonition that something bad will happen."

Blair turned to look at Flemings, who had placed the wrung towel on the desk and picked up the new clothing Emmanuel chose for Blair. Flemings put the shirt over Blair, Blair lifting his arms at the correct times, and then Fleming buttoned his shirt.

"I feel like Mister Emmanuel is planning something. Something terrible."

Blair thought about the book. It would certainly cause an uproar when it is published. Still, can he really be planning something bad? He seemed to hav changed in the last few days: he had promised so many adventure with him, hadn't he? He had to fulfill them.

Blair shook his head as he slipped on the green waistcoat.

"I will not allow anything bad to happen, Flemings. Trust me, if you can't trust him."

Smiling, Flemings nodded.

"Then I will, Mister Millais. Thank you for all you've done for his lordship."