It was a week later that Jean Erhardt met the Crown Prince Maximillian Joachim again. They were at the banquet the Grand Duke Robert Joachim hosted.
Maximillian was at a corner of the castle of the Grand Duke, his attire messy and ruffled. Jean stared at the man’s red hair. There was a leaf stuck on it. Jean couldn’t say anything. He was at a loss for words. There was a man on top of the prince. His trousers hung on his thigh. He seemed unaware of Jean’s presence.
“Oh, my.”
Maximillian muttered, watching the back of the man who ran away while hastening to put his clothes on. The prince’s vest was on the ground, and his collars were wrinkled. Still, he appeared more presentable than the man he was indulging with.
“...Pardon me,” said Jean after having stood and stared blankly.
Maximillian narrowed his eyes. He studied Jean. He did not bother rising himself. Jean lowered his gaze. He wondered if he should leave or not. He was likely to have left had he not heard Maximillian exhale a syllable of recognition, ah, just when Jean turned his head, hiding his face under his hat.
“The catamite of the House of Erhardt.”
Maximillian spoke. Jean stopped and stood still as if his feet were planted to the ground. He slowly turned. Maximillian was lying down, his upper body propped up halfway. His one arm was carrying his weight against the floor. He looked like a painting.
“Am I right?”
He asked for a confirmation. The leaves were his sheets, and the earth was his bed. He acted so very naturally. There was a light trace of a love bite on his neck. Jean did not respond. He realized that the prince’s rudeness before was neither of innocence nor ignorance.
“...You jest much, Your Grace.”
Jean had to try hard to stop himself from telling the man that it was rude. Maximillian grinned, standing up and dusting his clothes. He took a step forward and approached Jean.
“Jest? And who said it was a jest?”
Jean closed his mouth.
Maximillian put his hand on Jean’s vest as he spoke. He placed it right on the deep neckline of the vest, where it plunged into the chest. Soon, the tip of his finger slowly crept inside the shirt. He slid his finger in. Jean stopped the hand. He was about to slowly remove it from his body.
“Oh, my.”
But Maximillian hooked his finger on the vest, unwilling to let it go.
“A man would have to brace death before laying a finger on a royal person.”
Jean blinked. Indeed, such a law existed. However, it was not a custom strictly adhered to. Yet, should Maximillian bring it to test, there was nothing Jean could do. The Royal House of Joachim was falling, and as proof, its members were easy to kill a person. Jean closed his mouth. He heard a chuckling.
“’Tis a jest, my friend. A jest,” said Maximillian as he took his finger away from Jean’s vest.
The man’s finger tapped on Jean’s chin. He could smell a faint scent of tobacco. Jean stood still without uttering a word. He ought to ask for forgiveness for his rudeness. He did not want to, however.
Did Maximillian desire to read his thoughts? The prince suddenly thrust his face in front of Jean’s. Their eyes locked before Jean could even react. They were the same gray eyes he had seen a week ago. The eyes stared straight into him. They were searching.
Jean didn’t avoid the gaze. Rather, he followed the man and studied every inch of the face before him. His features were stunning. He deserved to be elaborated as picturesque. The proportion of his face and his features were graceful, like someone had painted them. His impression was not strong, but the softness of his lines resembled an art piece. Jean remembered what Wickham had told him last night. Intoxicants, debauchery, and—
‘He claims to do art and have his bedfellow sit naked before him and draw a painting of the naked body.’
The royal who lived drunk in vanity called art.
Precisely the type Jean loathed. That was when Jean lowered his gaze.
“Was it ten years ago,” started Maximillian.
He had his hands gathered behind him. He straightened his posture as he spoke. The man at full height was only slightly shorter than Jean.
“The Duchess of Erhardt had a catamite in her company.”
The only sources of light were the moon, the brightness of the chandelier through the windows, and the diamonds beaded on Maximillian’s clothes. It was of no challenge for Jean to hide his expression. He wasn’t quick to deny or stop the speaker.
“I heard the boy was worth quite the sum. His hair was as lustrous as golden silk, his eyes as blue as sapphires. He was so beautiful that the late heir to the Duke of Erhardt brought the boy to the academy to brag. The boy was dressed extravagantly, scented with oil, and positioned to stand in balls. Although, very rarely.”
“...”
“I wonder how many are there who would remember a boy from a decade ago. I wonder who would remember a boy who wasn’t even in their own household, or recognize the man he had grown to become...”
Maximillian trailed off. He took a step back. The light coming from the castle of the Grand Duke repeatedly appeared and disappeared on his face. Jean couldn’t dare follow him, so he stood still. He felt dizzy from the unforeseen attack. He couldn’t figure out Maximillian’s intention. In the meantime, Maximillian was slowly getting far from Jean. His hand gathered behind him, his steps light and playful.
“Your Highness.”
Maximillian’s face was now as small as a lady’s hand mirror. Jean got to his senses and quickly followed after the prince. He hastened. He walked on dry leaves. The crisp sound they made rang like his own scream.
“Your Highness, please, a moment...”
When Jean reached him, Maximillian was walking, looking straight ahead nonchalantly. Jean called him repeatedly, Your Grace, but the prince did not heed the words. Those who seemed to be his servants surrounded him.
“Hmm.”
While Jean hesitated, Maximillian suddenly turned.
“Lord Jean.”
Jean stopped. He was slightly panting, for he had hastened his steps to chase the prince. Maximillian opened his lips.
“I wish you to join me for a cup of tea.”
It was an offer out of the blue. Neither was the timing great. However, Maximillian continued as if he had forgotten their earlier exchange.
“Tomorrow at noon, in the Royal Palace. What do you say?”
Jean was unable to respond. He couldn’t respond even when he knew that the prince was waiting for him to speak. The man was so abrupt in shifting the conversation. He was so effortless at bringing up a new subject. The man was waiting for Jean, his chin slightly raised.
“...It will be my honor, Your Grace.”
Jean was barely able to give an answer. The end of Maximillian’s lips curved upward, sly like a cat’s. He gestured ever so slightly. And just like that, Jean was dismissed.