After handling some more questions and compliments, Jean left the group of men. But Maximillian was nowhere to be found. Jean placed his empty glass on a table in the middle of the banquet hall. Had the prince gone on a rendezvous with the man, perhaps? After all, they did seem quite particular to each other. Maximillian was colder than usual, and Grisham seemed beyond hot. He was boiling and steaming all by himself.
What was the nature of their acquaintance? The question tore its way out of Jean’s consciousness. It was one that Jean had had the moment he met Matt Grisham, but also the one he had shot down, reminding himself that it was no matter of significance to him.
“His Grace has gone on a walk in the garden with the Count of Grisham, my lord.”
The servant by the door responded when Jean inquired. After hesitating, Jean headed outside. Inside the venue, it had been warm and cozy, owing to the fireplaces in the hall. However, out of the shelter of their warmth, winds were tempestuous, likely the reason behind the deserted way to the garden. Going on a stroll, amid inclement weather such as this, just the two of them. Would I be interrupting a gathering just as I have done before? Jean asked himself, but the question did not stop his steps.
He was engulfed in a strange flurry of emotions. Firstly, there was the rash curiosity, which stirred up a desire in Jean to see what the prince was doing when he could simply choose to disregard the matter altogether. Then, there was the fragment of memory, of that look Maximillian had when Jean opened the door for him earlier. It was urging Jean’s footsteps faster. Ever since Jean had ridden on the coach with Maximillian, he had been tormented by this fear and anxiety that he was missing something, which grew bigger inside him with every rustle of fallen leaves crinkling under his feet. Two scenes took turns repeatedly appearing in Jean’s head—Maximillian smiling without any hesitation, and his profile that gazed at the banquet, keeping silent and seemingly lonely. Before he knew it, Jean was walking briskly. The garden was well-organized, but the sheer size and its intricacy were hindering Jean in his quest for the face he sought.
“Maximin!”
Jean frowned at the thick darkness that had swallowed the garden, and that was when he heard the hoarse voice. It was followed by the sound of footsteps. Someone was running.
“Answer me. Did you allow him into your chamber? Did you spread your legs before that man?”
It was Matt Grisham. Jean quickly surmised the owner of the voice. The other person was making his way back to the center of the garden, all but running, with his back to Jean.
“Matt.”
A tranquil voice followed. Contrary to Matt’s vexed and agitated voice, Maximillian’s voice was calm and serene.
“Have I not adored your impudence enough? Learn to treasure your life.”
The prince laughed softly before continuing.
He had every right to say it as a royal, as a crown prince. It was also his way of warning the man not to cross the line any more than he already had. At least, that was how Jean interpreted it. However, Matt Grisham did not retreat but growled.
“Answer me, Maximin. Did you carry yourself like a mare in heat?”
Calling the Imperial Crown Prince a mare in heat to his face—it was beyond insolence. He could be put under the guillotine for blasphemy, and no one would be able to deny the sin. Jean swept the inside of his mouth slowly with his tongue, spectating the scene unfurling before him. Maximillian began speaking.
“The matter had come to my attention for a while now, but you seem to be under the illusion that being called a mare in heat is a great insult.”
Then, the prince smirked before continuing.
“Or perhaps you wanted me to feel insulted at the expression?”
Jean stood still where he was, feeling guilty himself. Maximillian’s words were clearly directed at Matt Grisham, but Jean felt like they were stabbing him.
“I simply cannot see what is so shameful in being treated like a mare, but—”
Maximillian’s voice was lazy and dreamy. He was not bound by the tempestuous whirlwind of emotions that had swept Grisham away. The prince continued, pulling Grisham’s chin and meeting him squarely in the eye.
“—if you find it so full of shame, do not forget that I can and shall treat you such whenever I please, the Count of Grisham.”
The hand of the Crown Prince quickly descended. It had been holding the chin, but now, it was holding the neck. And then, Jean heard a gasp. Maximillian had kicked the man’s groin. Matt Grisham collapsed onto the floor, groaning. He covered his nether region with his hands, twisting and rolling on the ground. Even as he did, he kept repeating, “Maximin, Maximin.” Soon enough, the pain seemed to have faded away, and Grisham staggered but managed to stand up. Maximillian watched the man with cold eyes. Grisham’s eyes were ablaze with such anger that Jean could see it from where he was. However, the prince didn’t seem to care.
Jean swatted the thick greens of the garden out of his way. It caused a rustling sound. He found Grisham startled, flinching and lowering his hand. Jean called out in a low tone.
“Your Grace?”
He raised the end of his voice, seemingly appearing to have just found Maximillian. That was when Maximillian started blinking after looking at Jean’s way. Suddenly, Jean remembered what the prince had told him when they were dining together, mumbling as if he were making an observation.
‘It is a sad affair. My catamite will never make a living out of acting.’
He might already know that I have seen it all, reading my face. Jean feigned surprise as he took a step forward, and Matt Grisham staggered, stepping backward. He had half a grimace. He seemed to be still in pain. Yet, he was making an effort to stand upright. Jean lowered his head in an attempt to conceal his laughter. Jean, Maximillian called him, then proceeded to inquire.
“What has brought you here?”
Jean responded, his head still facing the ground.
“I was informed of your departure and have arrived to escort you back, Your Grace.”
Ah, Maximillian reacted with ease. Yet, his piercing gaze toward Jean was so unmistakable that it was almost palpable. It seemed that he was in search of something. That was when Jean realized he had not brought the ermine with him. He had left it in the care of a servant in the banquet hall. Oh, dear, Jean thought to himself while removing his own coat. The cold engulfed him as soon as he took the garment off, but it wasn’t severe enough for him to be shaken. He approached Maximillian and draped his coat over the man’s shoulders. It was an act of kindness Jean would not have extended had it not been for Matt Grisham’s presence.
“You’ll have to wait, for I intend to continue my walk.”
And as if he had seen through Jean, Maximillian mumbled with a subtle grin on his face. Then, he turned his body entirely and began walking. Never the one to come along without a fight. Jean had to make an effort to stop from grimacing. And then, he heard the voice.
“I was told you will be the new muse, my lord.”
Matt Grisham started mumbling, his voice gloomy, feet planted on the ground. He was staring at Maximillian’s back, which was already several steps away from him. Jean looked at the young count. They locked eyes.
There seemed nothing out of the usual in his tone. However, it was not hard to hear the animosity behind it. A muse. Jean gave a slight nod in affirmation. Grisham’s eyes were kindled with fire. Jean could almost hear the man gnashing his teeth. He did not let it affect him, however, but stared at the path Maximillian had taken. He could still see the prince’s back.
“I also did the task once, my lord.”
Grisham spat the words through his clenched jaw. The man seemed to be eager to let Jean know that he knew what it meant to be the prince’s muse, and what the task entailed. Jean stayed still, smiling. Then, he returned the favor.
“You could still have been the muse, perchance, had you known when to hold your tongue.”
Matt Grisham made a fist at Jean’s words. The House of Grisham had acquired the meager title of a count in exchange for offering extravagant riches to the royal family. For someone of that lesser lineage, the man seemed oddly brave. Jean smirked, patting the man on the shoulder. “Till next time,” said Jean, and Grisham’s fists trembled. He found the sight satisfactory.
“...His Grace paints with quick hands.”
Jean was about to leave the man behind to follow the prince when he heard the words. Grisham’s tone sounded like the devil himself was speaking, full of despise and resentment, yet, at the same time, it sounded as though he was doing his best to suppress his anger. Was it the ambiguity of the words? Jean felt amused, failing to stop himself from laughing. Grisham added, grinding his teeth.
“I wonder when your... portrait will be finished, my lord.”
Jean did not turn back or respond. He simply walked ahead, in search of the back that had disappeared out of his sight.