The next few days Blair got better, and by the first week of March they moved to Laurence's place, by a carriage.

His place was full of bric-a-bracs, a vase from a pawnshop filled with feathers he had collected, a painting by some third-degree artist, a Tanagra statuette, and a cigarette case with chipped turquoise paint. The windows had tasseled olive curtains, there were chairs, but no couches, and the rug was worn and once patterned. At the dining table, less than a third the size of the one at the Duke's, he presented a bottle filled halfway with water and a few daisies rested in.

"Just bloomed this morning," he said proudly. "Isn't that something? There's a coffee place at this piazza under linden trees, are are very fragrant during spring. We must go by April." Blair nodded as the man passed him bread and butter. Although he wasn't rich by any means, Laurence knew how to enjoy the pleasures of life.

"You buy many interesting things," he remarked slowly to his host, hoping not to offend him. Laurence looked proud.

"I adore used things. They have life to them. Everything has life once they are loved."

Blair gave a small smile. Laurence grinned, noting the life that had returned to Blair's cheeks.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked. "Sightseeing around London? There's a pub I recommend—"

"No!" Blair realized the sharpness in his tone and recoiled. Laurence understood, and didn't press on. Blair was thankful.

"What about Duckmoor Park? They have this beautiful lake, and since it's spring, some flowers should've bloomed. Either way, it's nice for viewing."

"Sounds good." Blair was appeased by the name he didn't recognize, and didn't remind him of Charles, or Christopher. They decided on that. Daphne had made them cucumber sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper that morning when they left, and they decided to have it for luncheon at the park.

They hailed another brougham, and as guilty as Blair felt, he didn't have any shillings to help pay. 

"Is it far?" Blair asked. Laurence shook his head.

"No, but you're a sick person. I can't have you catching a chill again, now." Blair felt awful. Laurence and Morris were always watching out for him, sending him letters, meeting him during Christmas, and even going to the Duke's house themselves just to warn him. And he had forwent their time, again and again.

They rode the carriage without talking, and when it finally arrived at their destination, Laurence offered a hand and gently led Blair down. They were at a park, a large one, but only small plants had bloomed, and there was only green and brown.

Laurence noticed, too, and laughed sheepishly.

"Well, there's beautiful statues here, too. Made by some famous sculpture, can't seem to recall his name, though."

"It's a fine park," Blair said, trying to comfort him. "I have never seen statues up close."

He wandered about to a large statue of a women, holding flowers in her hand, and a basket looped around the crook of her arm. She had a soft, but melancholic smile, and Blair was reminded of the Duke. Beautiful, and unhappy Charles. He bit his lips. No, he couldn't ruin the evening by thinking of him.

Laurence led him to some benches through a cobblestone path. There were several green bushes, not one with flowers, and Laurence wiped down the morning dew on a black bench before they sat down. It was cold, but Blair pretended it was fine. They took out their wrapped sandwiches and began to eat. It was cold, but this time Blair enjoyed it.

The two didn't talk, but a bell nearby rand out, loud and clear, and some people walked by, men swinging their canes, women taking small steps, their bustled skirts bobbing about.

It was a beautiful evening, and Blair thought of how different it was from the night two days ago. It had seemed so hopeless, then, but now he felt silly. So what if Charles had cast him away? They were bound to live their separate lives, and even so, they would live on.

Blair would write, and even if his stories never became widely acclaimed, he would be happy. He would get a nice wife like Daphne, live a life like Morris, or Laurence, if he wasn't as fortunate, but even so, what was wrong with it? He looked at Laurence, wolfing down his sandwich eagerly.

There was no hint of unhappiness on his face. He beamed unlike the Duke, and he seemed to always find something to be smile for. Food, snow, friends, and even just this, being in a park, having cucumber sandwiches.

Blair stared at his sandwich, but had lost his appetite. He felt cold, although he knew it wasn't the cold.

Laurence peered over, and sighed.

"Have a cigar, Blair." Blair looked over, and without a say, Laurence stuffed a cigar to his lips. "These are expensive, so finish them."

He struck a match, then leaned over to lit the cigar in Blair's mouth. He steadied it with his fingers, and inhaled, softly. Then he started hacking. Laurence laughed heartily.

"You've never smoked! I can tell."

Blair was reminded of Charles making fun of him for not drinking, and remembered how it irked him.

"Everyone has to learn," he said, and lifted the cigar out of Blair's fingers and stuck it into his mouth before blowing out stream of white.

The smell was nice, sweet, with a bit of bitter tobacco, but also like parchment. Laurence noticed him sniffing and smiled.

"They can't compare to the Spanish cigars, though. English cigars are lacking. Partagàs is a good brand, but I've only had it once. Punch isn't bad, either."

He leaned back, and Blair tried another huff.

"Isn't life nice?" he suddenly asked. Blair turned to him. He smiled. "I live alone, and people sometimes say I'm a lonely person, but I'm not all that—how should I put it, I'm not unsatisfied. I go to the pub and talk with strangers. I meet people who write, like me. Anywhere, somehow, even without trying to, I find people like me and I don't feel alone. I read Walt Whitman, and he's the Virgil and Homer of America. Have you ever read him?" He turned to Blair. He shook his head.

"I've heard of him, but that's all."

"You ought to read him." Laurence brushed back his hair. "He has one poem named 'I Sing the Body Electric'. When I first read it, I felt shivers. It was that majestic."

"I'm sorry, my mind keeps wandering about," Blair whispered. "And I—I feel strange."

"That's love for you," Laurence replied. "And spring. When the skies start changing, and plants blooming, everyone feels strange. They regret not doing things, wasting away winter, and realize a year has passed again. It always passes so quick, doesn't it?"

"It's does." Blair tried his best to keep the tears in. He ate his sandwich as the tears fell, and tasted salt. It didn't taste good, but he continued, crunchy cucumber one after another. He thought of the chocolate he ate back at Rue Point, and of everything. He bent over, sobbing, and Laurence rubbed his back.

"It's fine, cry."

"I'm so weak," Blair murmured. "I can't be strong for the Duke at all. I couldn't love him. I was—I was scared of him. I couldn't trust him at all, and when he admitted all those things, I was scared. He looked so much like a stranger, Laurence. And he was!"

The two sat there for some time. When Blair finally felt better, he finished his sandwich, still crying, then they stood up and wandered around the park, Blair rubbing his eyes and cheeks.

"Look," Laurence said, when they were at the heart of the park. "That's the most famous statue. It's a girl."

Blair looked up and was surprised. The girl had an eerie likeness to Eleanora, with long straight hair, a ribbon in the back, wearing a plain peasant dress. Her body was turned, a bit, like she was looking behind her, and a hand was clutching her skirt. It looked awfully life-life, from the deep folds of the fabric to the stray locks that floated in the air.

And he wanted to be alive, and remember Eleanora. Tell his children and grandchildren about her.

Then the thought struck him. Wasn't Charles just like him? Mourning over his brother, but unable to tell anyone? Wasn't that why he was so unhappy?

They walked, and as they did, Laurence watched the boy. His eyes were always looking far away, with a dreamy look about it. Laurence gritted his teeth and looked up at the sky.

He had known Emmanuel would hurt Blair, but he hadn't expected Blair to be so—so affected. A month had passed, and yet he still couldn't get over him. Laurence wished he hadn't listened and forcefully tore Blair away from the Duke when he visited. That was his only regret.

But why? He knew the Duke loved Blair. Was it true that the man was a murderer, a demon?

Yes, that had to be true. That was the only way he could've hurt Blair—he never truly loved him.