The days passed without Emmanuel leaving his room, for breakfast or dinner. Flemings had to always bring it upstairs for him, and Blair watched that he did not drink again, but he could not bring himself to go and see Emmanuel again. Instead Blair ate alone and amused himself the rest of the day by writing or reading, occasionally visiting Ethan or the maids, but usually they had their own chores to do.

Five days passed since the incident, and it was Christmas Eve. When Flemings said he had an important matter to talk to him about, face grim, he knew something bad was happening.

"What's wrong?"

"There's a telegram for you, from a man named Morris Davis."

Blair knew it couldn't be good news nor a simple Merry Christmas message from Flemings's face, so he quickly stood up from the dining table.

Flemings protruded the telegram from his hand and Blair quickly took it. The message was not what he had expected.

Come to Graystone Inn now. I have news about the Duke of Thornton, hurry. Davis.

He looked at Flemings, feeling sick.

"Will you be going, sir?"

"I'm sorry, I have to." Blair swallowed.

"Don't let Master Emmanuel be alone this Christmas—please." Blair was bewildered.

"Don't let him be alone?"

Flemings's furrowed his brow, and then looked down. He cared a lot for his master, who had never spoke of it, but always carried so much pain.

"His least favorite holiday is Christmas, he would refuse meals and sleep in all day, and be in a terrible temperament. Even his camellias wouldn't ease him, either, and he has nightmares." He looked up at Blair and swallowed.

"I will be back, Flemings. I promise."

Flemings smiled. "I will believe in you, sir."

"I'll leave as soon as possible, do you know where is Graystone Inn?"

"It's the only inn in Rue Point, I'll ready the carriage for you."

"Thank you. Let me grab my coat and hat."

The two hurried their opposite ways, Flemings out the door and Blair running up the stairs. He grabbed the new coat Emmanuel chose for him and the hat. He thought of Morris's letter and felt sick. What could've been so important that Morris had to come on Christmas Eve? Morris usually spent holidays with his wife. How could something be more important than that?

He went into the carriage and waved to Flemings, who nodded in reply. The carriage started off and Blair clutched the telegram in his hands tightly.

A short while later the carriage slowed, horse hooves pattering softly until they finally stopped, and then Blair threw the door open bf jumped down.

In front of him was a wide and well built inn as gray as its name, looking like a worn-out castle. He hurried to pay the carriage driver, told him to keep the change, and then then opened the door. A human looked up from the counter.

"Merry Christmas and welcome to Graystone Inn. There's still some rooms available—"

"No, I'm here for Morris Davis."

The man nodded. "I'll bring you to him."

They went up the stairs, and Blair was in disbelief, hoping the whole ordeal was a scam, that Morris would be there with wine, or even beer, and maybe a meat pie, laughing. Maybe he had gotten kicked out of the house for drinking, or maybe they had a small argument.

But he knew, no, there was something terrible about the Duke of Thornton, and it wasn't a rumor about his sexuality. Morris wasn't the man who'd rush over, forgoing his wife and Christmas, for such a thing.

The door opened, and Blair's hopes were shattered.

There was Morris, only tea before him, shaking his leg, and when he saw Blair, he jumped up, eyes wide and face aghast.

"Blair!"

The man from the inn closed the door behind him. Blair walked up to Davis, not taking a seat.

"Morris, what's the matter?"

"It's horrible, I can't believe what I've put you up to!"

"What is it?" Blair narrowed his eyes. "What was the news you spoke of in the telegram?"

"Don't go back, forgo the job." Blair watched him without moving, and then, as though struck with understanding all of a sudden, shook his head furiously.

"You're insane! I can't, I've already written two-thirds of it! There's nearly seventy pages, and I know Emmanuel—I mean, the Duke, and all his secrets. I can't abandon the work like that!"

"You don't know the Duke of Thornton!" Morris shouted, and Blair raised his shoulders. He had never saw the placid editor so ardent.

"Is it about what happened between him and Christopher Collins? If so, it's all a vulgar misunderstanding."

"It's not—well, I've heard of that, too, but it's not my main concern. I highly doubt you'll believe me, but I've heard it directly from the previous Duchess of Thornton, Emmanuel's mother. She told me everything, and I—"

"You can't believe her!" Blair hissed, and slammed his hand on the table between them. "I've heard the story! She's not her real mother, Davis! She's his step-mother, and she's abused him, as well her real son!"

"No, you're wrong! You're the one who doesn't know a thing!" Davis had the same stormy expression. "You've been tricked. You've been led to believe he's the victim, but he's the—he's the downfall of the family! Have you heard about the incident with the Headmaster of Saint Francis's Academy?"

"I have!"

"Then what about the matter concerning Miss Cynthia, the Duke's sister, and his brothers, Mister Jeremy and Mister Gregory?"

Blair recognized the names.

"What matters?" he asked.

"Listen to me, I've visited the duchess because I sensed something wasn't right. I had to know more about the Duke's background, and she told me of the reason he moved away, and stopped appearing in society, why they allowed Emmanuel to be heir."

"It's because Charles died, isn't it?"

"Blair," the older man whispered, "you don't understand a thing. Leave the Duke at once."

"Then tell me!"

Davis frowned, and then closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

"Then I will. Take a seat, Blair. It's a long story."

Blair hesitated, and glanced outside the window of the inn. The sky was a muted grey, and the trees were black against it, crooked branches that sent shivers up Blair's spine. They were so bare and looked as through they had died, like they had no life.

Blair thought of the story he written. At the moment, he truly felt like a bringer of death, of betrayals and unhappiness. It was Christmas Eve, but there was no hint of holiday cheer. No, instead, there was something solemn and ominous.

He turned back to the editor. For the few years he had known Morris Davis, he had always watched out for him, like a father, bringing him and Eleanora food when he was tight on money, and even allowing him to borrow money, and always 'forgetting' about it. Yes, even when he had to leave, he promised to look over Eleanora's grave.

But there was also Emmanuel, and Flemings, back in the house of camellias, waiting for him. The sad and empty house, now that Christopher had left.

But then Eleanora's face flashed into view, and then he looked at Morris again. He had left his wife for him. This was no casual matter.

Slowly, Blair sat, the chair beneath him cold to the touch.

Morris grimaced, and opened his mouth, and told the Duke's secret.

***

When he had finished, the skies had darkened, and it had began to snow. The wind howled, and Blair's eyes could not focus on Morris. He looked down at the table, and the lacquered wood reflected his ashen face.

"Do you see," Morris whispered, "what a monster the Duke of Thornton is?"

Blair did not answer. Instead, a tear landed on his reflection. Then another, and another.

"You are wrong. The Duchess cannot be believed."

"Then you might as well visit Miss Cynthia, and her other brothers."

"I won't." Blair stood up, shakily, and then Morris grabbed onto his wrist.

"You are not going back!"

Blair looked at the older man, the wrinkles that lined his friendly face, and the mess his hair was. He must've hurried over as soon as he could, even abandoning his wife in the rush.

"I have to," Blair said weakly. "I've promised.

"I will not let you!" Morris stood up with vigor, and then pulled on Blair. "I've always thought of you as family! There's nothing to do anymore, I will absolve you of this job! I will officially reject him for you, so come back!"

"I cannot." Blair sobbed, and writhed out of Morris's grasp, but did not leave.

"Do you not believe me?"

"No—I do."

And it was true. Blair believed everything he said, but there was still something that was keeping him from leaving.

"You're a fool! Think of what Eleanora will say! You're walking right into a spider's web!"

"I am," Blair said. "But I'm choosing to, of my own free will. It's not—it's not the Duke forcing me."

"You're insane!"

"I am!" Blair wiped his eyes furiously. "He reads all my stories, Davis! He loves them, and he wants to read more!"

"And I do too, as well as hundreds and thousands over England!"

"No, you don't! You all only want to read the stories you want to!" Blair glared at him through the tears, and sniffed. "All those unloved stories, all those stories that couldn't sell, they were thrown into the rubbish! There are so many stories that no one read, but Emmanuel read them all!"

"You—" Morris stared at him. "You call him by his name?"

"Yes, and he does, too. I'm not a writer to him. I'm Blair."

Blair smiled, and at the moment, he was sure of it. There must've been another mistake, some lie, something hidden, some reason! Something!

"I'm going back, Morris; I'm sorry. Please, go back to your wife, and spend your Christmas with her. No one should spend Christmas alone."

And with that, he turned and left the inn. He saw the man from before, and asked him to hail a carriage. Then he stood outside the inn.

The snow had grown heavy, and he could feel the flakes on his face, and even down his collar. Somewhere, he heard faint carols, and laughter of merry people returning home from pubs, and even saw children still outside, gathering snow into their hands, laughing, noses and cheeks ruddy.

He thought of the Duke's camellias, red like mistletoes, but so much sadder, so much redder, like blood. He thought of the day he went to London with Emmanuel, and he chose all those clothes for him. He thought of the chocolate store, and how Emmanuel watched him choose chocolates with that soft, fatherly smile. He thought of that evening in the opera house, watching the ballet, and when they came back.

He regretted never holding his hand, never hugging him to him, and—and not staying by his side today.