He’d let his filthy ragged clothing fall to the floor as he disrobed. He took his time washing himself. His skin was too tender to hurry. Even as he dreamed of a tub full of hot, sudsy water, he was grateful for this small mercy. The water had cooled and turned a nasty shade of brown by the time he was finished. He found a clean nightshirt and donned it. It was an incredible pleasure to have something soft next to his abused skin. Washing had shown him that the large bruise on his face was merely the most obvious of the injuries that Jess had dealt him. There were bruises on his back and on his legs that he scarcely remembered getting.
After he was as clean as he could get with such limited water, he smoothed scented oil on the worst of his scalds, frowning over how little he had left. Someone had laundered some of his clothing. He dressed himself, looked at his discarded clothing, and realized it was little more than rags now. With his foot, he pushed it toward the door.
That was when he heard the faint jingle of metal against the floor. He lifted his candle and peered closer, wondering what he could have dropped. There, on the floor, was his locket. Habit made him open it. And there, in the candle’s dim light, Hest looked out at him.
He’d commissioned the tiny portrait from one of the best painters of miniatures in Bingtown. The man had to be good; Hest had sat for him only twice and was very ungracious about both appointments, acceding to the request only because Sedric had pleaded for it as a birthday gift. Hest had thought it overly sentimental, as well as dangerous. “I warn you, if anyone catches a glimpse of you wearing it, I shall deny all knowledge and leave you to their mockery.”
“As I expect,” Sedric had replied. Even then, he now saw, he had begun to accept that perhaps his feelings for Hest were deeper than any Hest had for him. Now he looked down into the supercilious smile and recognized the slight curl of his lip that the artist had caught so accurately. Not even for a portrait could Hest think of him with respect, let alone love.
“Did I make you up?” he asked the tiny picture. “Did you ever exist as the person I longed for you to be?” He snapped the locket shut, coiled the chain into his palm and closed his hand around it, then sat on the edge of his flat, hard bunk, his loosely clenched hands to his temples. He closed his eyes and commanded his memories. One kiss that Hest had initiated in gentleness rather than as demand. One openhanded touch that was pure affection and nothing else. One word of praise or affection, unhinged by sarcasm. He was certain there had been such moments, but he could not call one to the forefront of his mind.