His beauty was crafted with the blood and sweat of people of lower births—Jean reminded himself in a stern tone. Across from him, Maximillian was slicing meat. His hands moved with elegance, and his small mouth moved as gracefully as one could. Where his knife touched, the essence of the meat flowed forth akin to blood. Jean felt repulsed. He wet his lips with the champagne in his glass.
“Jean.”
Jean couldn’t dine in this atmosphere. I’ll eat when I get home, Jean thought to himself. Maximillian looked at Jean. The prince began speaking, wiping his lips with a napkin.
“You are doing it again.”
He clicked his tongue. His gaze was fixed on Jean’s dish. Jean looked down without much thought. His food wasn’t touched. It remained whole and well on his dish. Jean looked back up. Maximillian was frowning. They locked eyes. The prince lay his fork and knife down. He then laced his fingers together, resting his chin above them.
“I must say, it is quite a talent. Not a lot of men possess the gift to show their distaste as well as you do... Indeed, it is a gift,” the prince said.
Jean was quick to react to the words. He flinched. Maximillian tilted his head to the side, tutting. Jean blinked several times.
“It’s a misunderstanding, Your Grace,” he responded. Maximillian scoffed.
“I asked you to dine with me, but you do not. I asked you for a garment, and you just sent a tailor. Would you like me to continue? I asked you to climb into the bed, and you didn’t even—”
“Your Grace.”
Jean needed to stop him. He quickly intervened in the man’s outburst. It was a modest lunch for a crown prince, but servants were still around.
“...You jest much, Your Grace.”
“Jest?”
“How could there be displeasure in serving you, my Lord Prince? I simply—”
“Simply?”
“—have a small appetite today. That is all.”
Jean quickly ended his response. What he said was true. That brief awe he felt earlier, staring at Maximillian. That passing sensation continued to torment him. Maximillian cocked his head in question and asked with malice.
“Did you also have small virility, then?”
Jean had no answer to the comment. Maximillian stared at Jean with an unmoving gaze. Jean smiled awkwardly. He felt like he could smell the bitter seed again. Jean reached for the champagne. The scent helped him.
Maximillian continued to bore a hole with his gaze. Jean pretended not to have noticed what was happening. He forced the food into his mouth. He felt like he was chewing a piece of dry leather. After swallowing a piece, Jean wiped his mouth calmly with his napkin.
“Hearing a jest has summoned my appetite back, Your Grace.”
When Jean put down the fabric, Maximillian was tracing his own lips with his forefinger. Jean was unaffected. He chewed his second piece of meat. It still felt as if he were chewing leather. Maximillian smirked across from Jean.
“It is a sad affair. My catamite will never make a living out of acting.”
The prince mumbled his assessment before continuing.
“Nevertheless, stop avoiding me. I am quite fond of you. In fact, so fond that the more you shun me, the more I wish to chase you.”
That was the last the prince’s voice Jean heard at the luncheon, for the Crown Prince of the empire withdrew to his chamber without a word, after keeping his place at the table with a tedious expression.
“I have heard the rumors, sir. Have you indeed sought out the most esteemed tailor shop in the capital to commission a justacorps crafted from the finest available materials, even having the entire garment embroidered?”
Cornell asked Jean when he visited the pub that night. Jean took off his own coat with a sigh. Jean was aware that it was not advisable to frequently associate with his brethren. However, his heart and soul were far too turbulent today. Jean took his seat. As always, only the members of their cause were in the pub. Jean could feel the stares on him.
“In less than three days, you require it, and all the city’s eminent tailors have convened to undertake the task, or so the rumors have it.”
Cornell handed Jean a pint of beer. Jean nodded his head, and Cornell leaned on the bar. Cornell whispered discreetly, but enough for the audience to hear.
“The potion I gave you must have been effective.”
Jean need not say that he had not been able to use it yet, for Cornell’s words were enough to have the entire pub roar with laughter. All kinds of jeering and mocking rang in the place, from how was the taste of royal flesh to the Crown Mare in heat. They even began singing a tune which only had the words “Maximillian, the Whore of Joachim.” Jean laughed. But it did not make him feel better.
“If the men here already know about it, then surely, the Grand Duke Robert must know it too.”
Jean tried to change the subject. Cornell nodded.
“Yes, and I was told that the Grand Duke had issued an order to conduct an investigation into the heir to the Duke of Erhardt. Perhaps, you will receive a message by the time the justacorps finds its owner.”
“We may see each other at the banquet of the Marquess of Rubin, then.”
“Yes, most probably.”
Everything was happening according to the plan. There had been some faults in the way, but the bait had been tossed well. Maybe it was worth receiving a man’s cock in the mouth for the first time in living, thought Jean to himself. At that moment, he was reminded of Maximillian’s face, the prince’s one eyebrow slightly creased. Jean gulped down his beer.
“Is there something that bothers you?”
Cornell asked, wiping the surface of the bar. Jean shook his head. Jean could not define the floating and sinking sensation himself. He had no words to define it for others as well. Particularly for a feeling so trivial, so murky in its color, that it was more of an odd murmur of the heart.
“Hey, Jean!”
That was when someone dragged a chair next to him and sat down. Jean did not find the voice familiar. And the man had a hat on his head. Jean narrowed his eyes.
“Who is this?”
Jean asked, slowly grabbing his walking stick by his side. He directed his question not at the stranger but at Cornell. Jean was well aware that Cornell did not let in strangers in the pub at this time of the night. Still, constant vigilance against unknown men was second nature to those dreaming of a revolution.
“Whoa, whoa. Calm down. It’s me.”
The stranger waved his hands, taking off his hat and revealing short, brown hair. It was a woman whose eyebrows were unusually bold. The fair face was sprinkled with freckles, starting from the nose. Jean squirmed his eyebrows and mumbled.
“Chantelle Francis?”
The stranger clapped hands. It was a gesture of affirmation. Jean sighed.
“Did Nathan bring you here?”
“Bring me? He dare? I merely came back to the city, for I have finished my studies. And as soon as I stepped down, I heard the rumor of the town about Lord Jean Erhardt. Cornell, a pint of beer for me too, please.”
Nathan Wickham and Chantelle Francis. They were inseparable from each other, yet she still feigned denial. Jean stared at Chantelle, who was tilting her beer mug. Chantelle was the second eldest daughter of the Count of Francis—and the daughter of a mistress. She had been a member of the brethren since she was in the academy. Chantelle had always been ignored in salons, unable to seamlessly integrate into the social milieu. This circumstance led to her fascination and proficiency in the art of swordsmanship. She and Wickham, a knight, made a good pair.
“So, Lord Jean Erhardt, the treasury of the wayward Crown Prince. How is the prince? Is he as vile as he is rumored to be?”
Chantelle asked with enthusiasm while drinking her beer. Jean merely huffed out a laugh and responded briefly. Nay.
“Much worse, I say.”
Chantelle burst into laughter. Then, tales and stories were exchanged. They were mostly about affairs in and out of the realm, mixed with hearsays of importance. Chantelle and Jean were slow with the gossip of the aristocrats. Cornell would chime in every now and then to correct wrong pieces of information or add more true ones. Ah, said Chantelle as she took her second pint of beer.
“I have news that you will be delighted of. I have come to know a gemologist not long ago. He knows everything there is to know when it comes to gems and precious stones. The more precious it is, the more he knows.”
“Hmm.”
“I sent him some of my own as a test. When and where they were crafted, where they were from, every piece of truth about it, he recited by heart.”
Chantelle shared her news with a cheeky grin. Her face said she couldn’t wait to jest Jean. She poked Jean with her elbow.
“Do you not think it might be of help in the quest for your fiancée?”
Chantelle always referred to the Little Pearl as Jean’s fiancée. Jean was a dry and boring man. But whenever he talked about his Little Pearl, his eyes would sparkle with life. Chantelle found it amusing. Jean himself was also entertaining the prospect of being bound to the Little Pearl; hence, he did not deny the notion. Nevertheless, he found himself unable to prevent his face from reddening and his lips from becoming parched. All Jean could do was lick his lips. That was when it happened.
“Why, that is indeed a piece of news, Lady Chantelle. I should very much like to make the acquaintance of the gemologist, if you would be so kind.”
Cornell suddenly joined in their conversation. His voice bore a graver tone than usual. Oh, dear. Jean covered his mouth with his hand. He realized that he had assigned the task of seeking the Little Pearl to Cornell early on. If Jean were to request Chantelle that he be introduced to the gemologist, it would be a denial of the manners owed to Cornell.
“My apologies, Cornell. I momentarily—”
“I welcome the prospect of having someone new to join my quest, Lord Jean. However, I believe we must first ensure the validity of his credentials.”
Cornell cut Jean off. He then proceeded to wipe the bar cups and glasses. It was a clean summary with no hostility present. Chantelle shrugged, writing down the address of the gemologist. She cocked her head a few times before she called out, “Jean.” Jean had just emptied his pint. He glanced at Chantelle in response.
“After hearing about your tales from Wickham... I have come to arrive at a peculiar idea.”
Chantelle began hesitantly, which was unlike her. Jean waited for what would come next. Chantelle deliberated, scratching her nose, before continuing.
“Might there be a chance that Maximillian Joachim is the individual you are in pursuit of?”