Palimpsest Hearts

Rain lashed the Bentley's windows as it navigated Highgate's serpentine roads, wipers fighting a losing battle against the downpour. In the backseat, Lucian Sinclair studied the boy slumped against the leather - Finn Fitzgerald's cheeks flushed with fever, his Eton collar damp with sweat and melted snow. Somewhere beneath the chattering teeth, Lucian detected the ghost of Malcolm's stubborn jawline.

"Nearly home, Master Fitzgerald," Pembroke called from the driver's seat, though home now meant Mayfair House's draughty corridors and surveillance cameras.

Mayfair House - East Wing Bedroom - 21:47 PM

The four-poster bed swallowed Finn's frame, its damask hangings embroidered with Sinclair crests that watched like judgmental ravens. Lucian's signet ring clinked against the thermometer.

"Thirty-nine point two," Ms. Laurent read. "We should—"

"Bath first." Lucian wheeled to the en suite. "His clothes reek of cemetery mold."

The nurse hesitated. "But protocol—"

"Was written for patients who don't bite." The earl began filling the clawfoot tub, steam fogging his spectacles. "Pembroke! The green salts from the Turkish hammam."

As the butler scurried off, Lucian returned to find Finn curled foetal around a pillow, murmuring Mandarin obscenities. The boy's borrowed Savile Row shirt clung to adolescent shoulder blades sharp enough to draw blood.

"Up." Lucian shook his shoulder. "Or I'll have Pembroke hose you in the garden."

Finn's eyes cracked open, glassy with fever. "Piss...off..."

The earl's lips twitched. "Charming." He hooked his arms under Finn's pits, muscles screaming as he hauled deadweight toward the bathroom. Ten years since he'd last lifted anything heavier than a Montblanc pen. Ten years since Malcolm's laugh had warmed these marble walls.

En Suite Bathroom - 22:13 PM

Finn surfaced from the rosemary-scented water, coughing up what felt like a lung. Through steam, he made out Lucian's silhouette - waistcoat discarded, shirtsleeves rolled to reveal forearms mapped with faded scars.

"Drink." A crystal tumbler appeared. "Pembroke's witch brew."

The ginger-honey concoction burned all the way down. "Tastes like piss."

"Fever's addled your palate. That's a 1945 Macallan base." Lucian draped a towel over Finn's head. "Your brother once mistook it for aftershave."

Finn's laugh turned to retching. When the spasms subsided, he found himself swaddled in Egyptian cotton, Lucian's cufflink digging into his ribs.

"Christ, you're bony." The earl adjusted his grip. "What'd they feed you at Saint Michael's? Chalk and sanctimony?"

The bed welcomed them both with a sigh of springs. Finn's teeth chattered a Morse code even Bletchley Park couldn't decipher.

"Still with us?" Lucian's palm pressed to the boy's forehead.

"Y-you're...c-cold..."

"Circulatory issues. Perk of the paralyzed." The earl reached for the laudanum. "Open."

Finn clamped his jaw. "N-not...addict..."

"Prudent." Lucian swapped bottles. "Paracetamol then. Unless you fancy a seizure."

The pills went down bitter. Finn's eyes drifted to the family portrait above the hearth - Malcolm grinning beside a younger Lucian at some regatta, both bronzed and careless. "H-he...l-loved you..."

Lucian's fingers stilled on the thermometer. "We loved the idea of love. Different beast entirely." He tucked the duvet tighter. "Sleep, Finn. Your martyrdom awaits morning."

Witching Hour - Library

Rain blurred the mullioned windows as Lucian sorted through Finn's school records. Saint Michael's reports painted a portrait of controlled rebellion - detention for hacking the chapel organ's playlist, commendation for rebuilding a '67 Mini Cooper in the woodshop.

A yellowed Polaroid fluttered loose: Malcolm at sixteen, arm slung around a sullen Finn at Brooklands racetrack. Lucian's thumb traced the grease smudge on Finn's cheek - same shade as the Mobil oil staining Malcolm's overalls the day they'd met.

The intercom buzzed. "Sir? The headmaster's on line three regarding Master Fitzgerald's transfer."

Lucian eyed the clock. "At this hour?"

"Insisted it's urgent, sir."

Dawn - East Wing Bedroom

Finn surfaced from fever dreams of Alpine switchbacks and brake fluid rain. Something warm and heavy anchored his legs. Moonlight revealed Lucian asleep in the wingback chair, Oxford Dictionary splayed across his lap like a murdered bird.

The earl's glasses sat askew, frost-blue eyes hidden, leaving only the vulnerability of dark lashes against marble skin. Finn's fingers itched to sketch the angles - the prow of a nose too sharp for kindness, lips that mocked even in repose.

As he shifted, Lucian stirred. "Larcenous tendencies and insomnia. Charming combination."

"Y-you stayed?"

"Pembroke blackmailed me with childhood photos." The earl adjusted his cravat. "Your temperature?"

Finn shrugged. "Alive enough."

"Eloquent." Lucian tossed him a folio. "Your new curriculum. I've transferred you to Harrow."

The document swam with Latin phrases and regimental timetables. "Why?"

"Saint Michael's headmaster found your automotive...enthusiasm...problematic." Lucian wheeled to the door. "We'll begin with Cicero after breakfast. Try not to vomit on my first editions."

Breakfast Room - 8:15 AM

Finn picked at his kedgeree, watching Lucian dissect a kipper with surgical precision. "Why Harrow?"

"The fencing master owes me a favor." The earl dabbed his lips. "You'll need to duel competently when ruining my reputation."

Pembroke entered with the post. "A letter from Highgate Cemetery, sir. Regarding the..." He glanced at Finn. "...floral arrangements."

Lucian slit the envelope with a fruit knife. "Ah. The widow's secured her lease. Gardenias by Thursday." He passed the note to Finn. "Your brother's favorite."

The boy stared at the embossed address - same cemetery, different florist. "But yesterday you said—"

"Memory plays queer tricks in grief." Lucian's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Eat up. We've Aristotle to conquer and legs to torture."

Rehabilitation Suite - 10:00 AM

Mirrors multiplied Lucian's humiliation - a dozen earls strapped into harnesses, trembling above parallel bars. Finn's Converse squeaked on the maple floor.

"Ready?"

"To watch you pratfall? Always."

The first attempt ended with Lucian's knees buckling. The second with torn knuckles. On the third collapse, Finn caught him, their reflections merging in the glass.

"You stink of camphor," the boy grunted.

"Your hair reeks of insubordination." Lucian's laugh came out winded. "Again."

By noon, they'd achieved three seconds of upright glory. Finn's Polaroid captured the moment - Lucian's head thrown back in triumph, sweat-darkened hair escaping its queue, the earl's hand crushing Finn's shoulder hard enough to bruise.

Dusk - Stable Yard

Finn found Lucian by the stallion paddocks, feeding sugar cubes to a chestnut mare. The earl's wheelchair tracks carved hieroglyphics in the gravel.

"Pembroke says you haven't ridden since..." He trailed off.

"Since Malcolm's mare threw me into the muck heap." Lucian stroked the horse's blaze. "Arabesque here lacks his flair for betrayal."

The boy studied Lucian's profile - the way twilight softened his edges into something almost approachable. "Why keep them?"

"The stables? Sentiment's a luxury only the rich can afford." The earl wheeled away. "Tomorrow, Virgil. Don't be late."

As hooves thundered past, Finn pocketed a sugar cube. Somewhere beyond the pasture walls, the city lights flickered like false stars. Home, he realized with a start, no longer felt like borrowed skin.