As surprising as it was, Emmanuel allowed Laurence to have dinner with them instead of the servants, almost as though he were a guest, too.

Emmanuel and Blair watched as the tall man wolfed down his dinner, and then suddenly stopped, realizing they were staring at him.

"Oh, pardon my manners," he said and laughed. "I haven't eaten for days, for I got lost coming here. I couldn't afford a brougham, and I've never been to Rue Point, you see."

"I see," Emmanuel said, and continued staring. Blair felt a bit of pity for the man, and nodded in understanding before going back to his meal. It was silent, besides the sound of the men's chewing and occasional clink of silverware.

The next day was the same. Blair ate his breakfast, but the man had two fillings, which was surprising, because although he was tall, he wasn't fat, in fact, he was well-built like an athlete.

"This manor is gorgeous," he said between bites. "The flowers really are as nice as the legend says, and although it is in the countryside, it's quiet enormous for a single man living alone."

"Yes," Emmanuel said and continued reading his newspaper.

"Mister Millais, you must be enjoying this! I know I am. When I get back, I'll tell Morris all about it."

"I'd prefer if you don't," Blair said, feeling uncomfortable.

"If that's what you wish. Anyways, the food is good too. I've always thought the English couldn't cook, but it's better than I thought."

"Are you Irish, Mister O'Sullivan?" Blair asked. He nodded.

"Proud Irish and admirer of Oscar Wilde and William Butler Yeats."

Blair perked up. "I—I love their works! I read Vera, Salome, and The Duchess of Padua many times! Wilde's writing is always so satirical and even the tragedies don't bore me. I've heard he's writing a novel, is that true? As for Yeats, I've read most of his poems. The Second Coming is my favorite."

"My," said the journalist, fork stopped for the first time. He grinned, a boyish and happy smile. "I've never seen such a enthusiast Englishman!"

Even Emmanuel turned to him, an eyebrow raised.

Blair was embarrassed at his sudden excitement, and gave a small chuckle.

"I love reading, you see."

"I can tell," Emmanuel said. "I remember seeing a poetry book on your desk last time."

"Yes, I read it, but I don't write poetry," Blair said.

"Why not?" Laurence asked. "I have read your work, too, and they always make me laugh. The foolish nobles don't even understand you're making a mockery of them!" He paused, then turned to Emmanuel, who pretended to be busy drinking his tea. Laurence gave Blair a smile.

"Anyways, I agree. Write some poems, I think you can do it," Emmanuel said.

"Maybe, someday," Blair said. "Will we draw today?"

"Draw?" Laurence's eyes grew wide and he looked back and forth between the two. Blair suddenly realized how strange it was for him to draw, when he should be writing.

"We're having a break, you see," he sputtered. "Because of the holidays. A lot of the help are still home, and things are a mess."

Emmanuel gave a nod in agreement, and Laurence laughed.

"I see!"

"Anyways, do you not have anywhere to be, Mister O'Sullivan? Wouldn't your family miss you?"

"Call me Laurence," he replied. "We're both writers, and acquaintances of Morris. We are already friends." Blair couldn't help disagreeing inside. "As for your question, my parents are in Ireland. I'm twenty-eight, and still unmarried. They want to be rid of me already." He laughed.

Blair nodded slowly. "Then what about work?"

"Oh, I haven't been successful recently," he explained, between a mouthful of food. "My priority right now is shelter from the snow, and I have your lordship to thank."

Emmanuel didn't reply, and Blair couldn't help wanting to laugh. He though how much Emmanuel was like a cat and Laurence like a dog, getting ignored again and again.

"Either way," he said, "I'm having fun. I have been wondering for a while, but why don't the flowers in your garden die in winter?"

"They are camellias," Blair responded in Emmanuel's place. "The red ones, he told me, bloom even in winter."

"How magnificent!" He smiled.

After breakfast Laurence asked for a tour, and Blair took him around the house. He marveled at everything and was never bored. Blair had been thinking for a while, but Laurence was not as bad as he had thought initially; he was easy to read, and never lied.

"I grew up poor," he said, "and while my brothers all got successful jobs and married and had children, I never did. I didn't want to be tied down, you see, and I love reading and writing, like you. I only didn't have the talent to write stories."

"You can try," Blair suggested. He shrugged.

"Maybe, some day. Either way, my parents found me a girl and was planning for us to get married, and when I heard of it, I ran away as fast as my legs could and bought the earliest ticket to London."

"Did you meet Mister Davis there?"

"Yes, indeed. Some four years ago Morris helped me get into a newspaper department and ever since then, I've been writing for them. I live in a cheap flat, and compared to this mansion, it's quite miserable."

"I once lived a life like that," Blair said in nostalgia. "Back then my sister, Eleanora, was alive, oh, she passed away, you see. Despite being poor, she never complained about it, not once."

"She sounds like a wonderful sister."

"She was, whenever it rained she would stretch her hands out the window, and she would find stray cats to feed, she had a big heart." Blair's chest still aches whenever he talked about her, but it had been so long. Whenever he dared to talk about her, he had to hold back tears that threatened to fall.

"It sounds like you are really fond of her," Laurence said.

"I am," he replied. "She was my only family after my mum died."

"Now that I remember, I recall Morris always visits a grave with flowers, might it be your sister?"

Blair thought of their promise, and was touched he fulfilled it. He hadn't really thought he would bring flowers each time, and therefore was affected by the gesture. He nodded, slowly, feeling awfully guilt for how he treated him last time.

Laurence patted his shoulder.

Blair blinked quickly, and shook his head. "I'm fine, thank you for telling me, Laurence."

"Can I call you Blair?" Blair looked up. Laurence had big eyes, unlike Emmanuel's almond ones. In fact, they were so big his green pupils seemed like marbles. Blair laughed.

"Of course, didn't you say we were both fellow writers? Not to mention you are older than me, too."

"I never caught your age, how old are you?"

"Twenty-six as of this year," he said. "My birthday just passed last week."

"Really? Did you have a celebration?"

"Of course not," Blair laughed. He was a guest at Emmanuel's house, how could be bother him for something as trivial as his birthday?

"You're really a reserved person," Laurence noted. "Now, where's his lordship?"

"Probably in his painting room," Blair answered, hesitatingly. "We shouldn't bother him—"

"Oh, I'm sure he's bored too, always painting by himself! Let's talk, I've got so much I want to know about this mysterious Duke of Camellias!"

Without waiting, he hurried down the hall and Blair gave chase, but before long he tapped at the door. Blair just caught up, and was stunned at how unreserved Laurence was.

"Come in."

When the door opened, Emmanuel made a face. His shock at seeing Laurence, not Blair, was obvious. Then he noticed Blair behind the tall man, mouthing an apology. He sighed, and turned towards them.

"Mister O'Sullivan, and Blair. How may I be of assistance to you?"

"Oh, please don't be so formal, your lordship."

"What do you want?" He didn't even bother to hide his disdain. "Is it food?" Laurence laughed merrily without being offended.

"You are a funny one, your lordship, but I don't always eat. Anyways, would you like to join Blair and I?"

"For what?"

"Anything. Talking, chess, or cards. Touring the house. Aren't you bored?"

"Why would I be bored?" Emmanuel asked, frowning hard by now.

"I'm sorry," Blair quickly spoke and pushed through Laurence to him. "We will leave immediately."

"No, it's fine."

Sighing, Emmanuel stood up from his seat and placed his palette and brushes on the table. He went over to where a jug was and tilted the water and linens smeared with paint, and then scrubbed the red and yellow paint off his wrist and forearms. At the sight of it Blair thought of the night he applied perfume to him, and quickly looked away.

"If you're bored, Mister O'Sullivan, you can simply say so," he said. "If you are so restless, I can show you something that might be of interest."

The interesting thing he spoke of was a room. It was like a little playroom, with a billiard table, a library smaller than the library-room, and chess-table as well as other miscellaneous things.

Blair and Laurence gawked at the room, eyes traveling from one side to another. It was big, and also well furnished, with some framed ink sketches, a sculpture by the corner, and beautiful stone fireplace with a mantel filled with more books bound in leather.

"I don't use this room," Emmanuel said, "Sometimes the guests use it, but I'm not particularly interested in games."

"Not even gambling?" Laurence asked. Emmanuel stared at him flatly. He wasn't sure whether he was jesting or not.

"I never played billiards," Blair said, and it was quite obvious from his eyes that he was interested in it.

"I can teach you, if it strikes your curiosity," Emmanuel said. He walked over to the cue sticks crafted out of wood and then turned to hand him one. Blair held the cue stick and was surprised as how heavy it was, although Emmanuel had lifted it so easily. It was grander than he had thought one would be, with a shaft of lacquered red wood, engraving on the edge, and the tip had a layer of leather.

Emmanuel walked over to him and then leaned close, making Blair jump, but he only held the stick and then rubbed a cube of chalk over the tip.

Blair quickly looked at Laurence, who was already at the table, aligning the balls.

"Don't worry," Emmanuel whispered, "he won't do anything." Blair was surprised to hear him say it, more so be reassuring Blair. Had he noticed how tense he was?

"Are you sure?" Blair replied.

"I'll make sure to scare him away," Emmanuel said, and then looking up at Blair, gave a sly smile. His heart beat, and then he turned down again, pretending to look at the stick.

Why did Emmanuel always know exactly how to make him feel, and always made him feel so unsettled? Each time he drew close, Blair smelled the lavender and was reminded of that night.

Oblivious to his reaction, Emmanuel began chalking his own stick. Did he really not know, or was he just playing with him? Blair wondered, for his feelings were getting out of hand—especially for someone who was shrouded in so much mystery.