“You are late.”
Wednesday, when Jean had arrived in the palace, Maximillian was awake ahead for some reason. The prince had even donned the court attire smartly, which slightly flummoxed Jean. He had just arrived at the palace ten minutes tardy, thinking how the prince was usually sprawled across the bed at the time of his call.
“Forgive me, Your Grace.”
Jean lightly bowed, and Maximillian shrugged. Everything was ready and in place—the easel, the canvas, and other tools. When Jean approached the bed, someone from the outside closed the chamber door. Jean slowly undid his cravat while Maximillian made no remark. He was simply sitting before the easel, his legs crossed. The prince seemed to be of no mind to command Jean to engage in the same debauchery he had previously enforced, which served to put Jean more at ease.
When his body was finally bare, he lightly shivered from the chill. Jean slowly laid his body on the bed, and the furniture welcomed him, embracing him in its softness. Jean lay down on his side, letting one arm carry some of his weight. Maximillian’s pencil began moving. Soon, the rustling and scratching sound of the sketch tickled the ear. The noise was so delicate that it presented a challenge to believe it to be a sound made by Maximillian, who was moving his hand with an expression of apathy. Jean listened to the sound as he looked at Maximillian. The light was drawing lines on the prince’s face.
“...Pray, where have you been, Your Grace?”
It took Jean a long while before he brought up the inquiry. Strangely, he felt nauseous. Maximillian cast a glance at Jean. The gaze differed from when he beheld Jean with the aim of capturing his appearance. It was a bit sharper, a bit smarter. It was the look of a man looking at another man.
“I have made a call upon His Majesty.”
Maximillian responded plainly. His Majesty. Jean barely stopped himself from groaning. Maximillian laughed.
“Why do you ask? Did you find it peculiar that I was awake?”
His milky white teeth revealed themselves before hiding. The canvas only showed half of the prince’s face, and his smile was halved just the same. Before he knew it, Jean was pulling his neck out to get a better sight. Maximillian’s face kept appearing and disappearing.
“I have heard, my Lord Prince, that His Royal Highness has been unwell.”
“Aye, he has been, for several years now.”
A shadow was cast upon his face, and Jean held his breath, observing it. Soon, Maximillian’s lips curved just as they always did.
“And owing to the malady, I had to summon Montespan. She just arrived this morning, and it required some time to escort her to His Majesty’s chamber.”
Montespan was the sickly king’s former mistress, a courtesan. After a long-standing struggle for power with the queen, she had been bestowed a castle in the north and left the palace. She must have returned. After all, it had been many years since the queen had passed away. The palace must have needed someone to be by the emperor’s side and look after him.
However, it was no simple matter at the same time. It was certainly the emperor’s will to have summoned the banished courtesan, and kings did such a thing when they sensed their impending demise. Therefore, Montespan’s arrival foretold the conclusion of the empror’s prolonged illness. Hence, it meant that—
“Why do you look at me with such eyes?”
—the moment was impending.
“...Nothing, Your Grace.”
Jean lowered his gaze. He felt pity toward the fool who had just declared his own impending doom without feeling any sense of threat. Jean smiled slightly, relieved for the first time for laying in this bed. If he were privy to the occurrences within the palace, it would serve as assistance for their endeavor. And Maximillian, who did not dream of such a thing, was absorbed in his sketch, creasing his brows and relaxing them repeatedly. He was so absorbed as though his whole world was inside the canvas.
A fool.
Jean thought to himself, staring at the face. It was a time of disorder, and one of starvation. It was no time for the Crown Prince of the empire to sketch and paint. In the event that Jean had found himself in the prince’s position, he would have either been engaged in a struggle with the Grand Duke for the throne or entirely preoccupied, vigilant against adversaries beyond the Grand Duke. Yet, here was the prince, occupied with drawing a naked Jean.
He was a fool. It also meant that he would be just as easy to manipulate.
The thought calmed Jean down. He recalled his initial motive upon approach. Jean was Maximillian’s captive, and while he was one, he would pretend to be infatuated with the prince while impressing the Grand Duke. This was Jean’s motive. After his call with the prince, Jean would be having dinner at the castle of the Grand Duke Robert. He was already one step closer to his aim.
“You seem to be glancing my way frequently.”
Jean, while pondering to himself, had stared as if the prince were his prey. Maximillian smirked and put down his pencil, pulling his body away from the easel.
“What thought do you have?”
Maximillian asked, still seated on his chair. Jean feigned hesitation, choosing his words before speaking. The prince had ruined the path of Jean’s plans, and Jean was planning to swerve it back to its course.
“In your final hour...”
Jean deliberately paused between his words. With one arm placed beneath his head, he assumed the most hesitant expression he could summon.
“I was contemplating whether I might have the honor of being your Montespan in your final hour.”
Your Montespan. It referred to the mistress of His Royal Highness. To ask whether Jean could be his Montespan was to ask if he could be the most beloved courtesan, the one who keeps his side on his deathbed. Jean glanced at the prince, trying to read his mood. Maximillian had one of his eyebrows raised, his smile lopsided.
“My Montespan?”
His tone was closer to curiosity than mockery. Jean quickly sealed his lips to feign confusion.
“Since when have you desired to be my Montespan?”
“...Forgive me for my mistake, my Lord Prince.”
Jean spoke in a hurried manner, as if he really were a man who had committed the mistake of voicing out his thoughts aloud. Then, he pulled his chin down slightly. He saw the carpet covering the floor, and he heard the sound of dress shoes clicking against the floor. Jean could see the head of the shoes.
“No,” the prince spoke.
Jean’s chin was lifted up. He was used to him now. Jean blinked a few times.
“How could I render a word of such adoration as a mistake?”
Look at me, the prince whispered. Jean bit his lips down hard once before lifting his gaze, poignant as if he were staring into a matter he couldn’t ever possess.
Maximillian smiled before their eyes met. He did not say anything anymore. Jean attempted to read his mood. He was aware that too sudden a mention of affection would bring on suspicion. Jean moved his eyes around and spoke.
“I, I have fallen into a misfit, Your Grace. Forgive me. I... I simply found myself somewhat confounded from the prior affair...”
Then, Jean paused. Maximillian waited for him to continue, his ease etched over his face. His gaze seemed as though he were staring at a bird caught in a cage, and it was the very gaze Jean had cast upon the prince earlier.
“Somewhat... confounded...” Jean trailed.
How could it be that those eyes belonged to the same man who had stood in the garden? Jean could still vividly recall the prince’s intellectual manner of speech and his tone, his particularly intense gaze. I must have been fooled, bewitched momentarily, Jean thought, consoling himself. He felt that it was utterly foolish of him to have thought that his Petite Perle could be Maximillian.
“From the prior affair?”
The prince cocked his head in question. Jean had propped his torso up, and he was now being pushed back by Maximillian, who ah-ed audibly as if he had recalled something.
“Are you referring to the kiss at the banquet of the Marquess of Rubin?”
Maximillian asked, his one eyebrow slightly lifting. He burst into laughter while scratching under Jean’s chin as if the man was a dog.
“Jean, in light of your age and yourself, it ought not to astound you,” the voice cooed.
“...”
“What is it that you conspire, hmm?”
The prince was shrewd in his observation. However, the delight in his tone betrayed his message. Jean took notice of it and decided that he needed not defend himself, for Maximillian had begun whispering.
“It matters not.”
The prince tilted his head to the before continuing.
“It is not in my nature to decline what is offered to me.”
Then, their lips touched briefly, as light and quick as a bird’s peck. Jean parted his lips more, receiving the kiss, while pulling the prince closer to him with his hand. Maximillian let himself be pulled onto the bed. Their tongues intertwined effortlessly, and Jean smelled the cool scent of mint. He had to grit his teeth to remind himself yet again that his man was not his Pearl.
Indeed, he was not.
This man, cupping Jean’s face so tenderly as if he were the most prized possession, was not the person Jean had wished for so dearly. This man, whose fingers were black from the pencil, whose body was climbing onto the bed, whose tongue was gliding along the teeth, was not Jean’s savior. Jean reminded himself again and again as he laid his hand above the prince’s, for should he fail to recall this piece of knowledge, Jean felt as though he would be siphoned into an unknown realm. His reasons knew that it couldn’t be, yet he couldn’t rid himself of the idea.
“Your Grace...”
Why was that?
“You may address me by name, Jean, for you have been utterly delightful today.”
He knew it, yet why was it that—
“...Maximillian.”
—the name tasted so sweet on his tongue?
Jean looked up to the man who was on his knees, towering over Jean. The prince’s eyes were beautiful, akin to carefully and skillfully set precious stones. He gazed at Jean as if he were precious. His kisses landed on Jean’s forehead like tender rose petals. His hand caressed Jean’s neck and ear like feathers. His breath tickled Jean’s heart. Jean could only stare at the prince, who grinned and asked.
“Why, do you require the élixir d’amour?”
His words resembled mockery, but they did not vex Jean. What vexed Jean was, rather, himself, for he already knew the answer. Jean reached out his hand. He grasped the back of Maximillian’s head, which had been facing down. Jean slowly pulled the man toward him, just like the prince had done to him in the garden.
Then, Jean shook his head, telling himself that this was all to sever the prince’s neck in the future.
✦ ✦ ✦
(Continues in Book 2)