Chapter 6
Six
FRIEDRICH
The door snaps shut, and I immediately reach for my phone. Miles picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, man. Everything okay?”
I run a hand down my face. “Yeah, it’s fine. Fine.”
“You called. You never call.”
“Miles, I think I’m about to do something really fucking stupid,” I say, going back to the minibar and picking out a scotch old enough to order its own scotch.
“Wait, am I talking to Friedrich or Claus here? You sound so similar on the phone.”
I groan. Why does everyone keep bringing my brother into this? Oh, right, cause he’s usually the one on the verge of a major fuck up, not me.
He laughs. “Sorry, man. What’s up?”
“You remember the girl from the party last weekend?”
“Don’t tell me you’re still on about her,” my friend sighs.
I choose to ignore the hint of bitterness in his tone and press on. I’ve got to talk this out with someone, and if not my best friend, then who? “She’s here.”
“She’s where?”
“On the tour. Now. With me.” The smokiness of the scotch hits just right as I stare out of the train window and try to rein in the ideas running rampant through my mind.
“I thought you said she was a nanny.”
“Yeah, to Dietrich Maier’s kids,” I explain. “She’s here with them.”
“Okay, and?”
“And we’ve seen each other around a little.” And I can’t stop staring at her when she’s not looking.
“Mm-hm.”
“And we’ve talked some.” And my mind won’t stop wandering to thoughts of her.
“Fritz, can you get on with it? I stepped out of rehearsals ‘cause I thought something was wrong since I can count on two hands the number of times you’ve actually called me in sixteen years.”
Shit. Miles has been trying for months to break into the main band at the jazz club where he works when not stuck in the office at his stepfather’s business. Answering calls in the middle of rehearsal probably isn’t a good look.
“Okay, okay. She just came to my cabin, and I think she asked to be fuck buddies?” My voice goes up at the end as I’m still mulling over what the hell just happened.
“W-what?” Miles sputters.
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t fuck women.”
“I don’t fuck anyone, but that’s not the point.” My cock stirs to make it known that it’s definitely the point. My own little code of ethics may allow for getting off in other ways, but actual fucking is out of the question.
“Look, man. Don’t go toying with this poor girl’s heart. You have a big role to fill, and you are basically all but spoken for.”
“Since when did you become the voice of reason?”
“Since you started thinking with your dick.” Miles huffs, and I can picture his fingers rhythmically tapping on an imaginary piano. “Just give Cyril a ring when you get into Ardsbend and let him get you off tonight so you can get your head on straight.”
Baron Dewhurst’s youngest son was a year behind Miles and me at university. He joined our little band of sexual deviants after a particularly skillful blowjob at a Halloween party that had one of our mates almost unconscious by the end. He’s always good for a quick hookup to let off steam.
“Fine, I’ll text him,” I agree.
“And stay away from the nanny,” Miles commands.
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t try, Fritz. Do.” He hangs up.
I shot Cyril a quick hello text, but he still hasn’t gotten back to me by the time we pull into the station at Ardsbend.
By far the largest city in the interior, Ardsbend sits straddling the Ardsmure River, which runs southwest through the country, emptying into the bay around which the capital is situated.
The hilly city is a beast to navigate on foot, but it’s one of my favorite places in the country for a quick getaway.
Its proximity to the mountains makes the landscape all the more idyllic.
A huge cathedral to Saint Bernard, affectionately called Saint Bernie’s, dominates the view on the north side of the river, framed majestically by the range of wooded foothills leading into the country’s largest group of mountains.
Father and I have served at that church many times in the past, always visiting when the family comes through on the way to Whitewood Estate in the mountains.
As the ceremonial head of the Church, Father would normally be called upon to participate in midweek Mass tonight.
However, as I’ve been sent on tour in his stead, the duty falls to me.
I don’t need much preparation; we go to Mass as a family every week, and I was expected to go even when I was at university.
I had watched Father perform the Rites many times before and had participated in several services myself, being the future head of the Church.
At the train station, there is a quick photo call with some handshaking and metaphorical baby kissing before I’m whisked away to Saint Bernie’s.
There isn’t time to search out Aurelia in all the hubbub, but I’m sure to see her at the church later.
Not that I’m supposed to be looking for her in the first place.
I check my phone again and finally have a reply from Cyril.
Cyril:
Fritz! So great to hear from you. Of course I’d love to catch up
Great. I’m on my way to St Bernie’s but perhaps we can meet up later tonight
Or I could come find you in the sacristy and help you prepare
Blood rushes south at the thought. His little winky face emoji is enough to have me picturing all kinds of trouble we can get into at the back of the cathedral. Christ, I’m going straight to hell, I think as I type out my reply.
The Emarvian brand of religion tips to the pagan side a bit, a holdover from our Norse ancestors, but with a heavy dose of Catholicism for good measure. We still manage a cordial relationship with Rome even after our English colonizers forced the split in the sixteenth century.
The cross I carry down the aisle of the cathedral is cast in iron, details of twining ivy crisscrossing the front and two circles around the intersection made to represent twisted crowns of ash branches, not the crown of thorns as commonly believed.
I’ve played this part so many times before; it’s too easy for my mind to wander. And my brain is stuck on a singular—rather inappropriate for Mass—moment as I pass by Cyril with his slightly mussed hair and wrinkles on the knees of his trousers.
My hands wrapped around strands of black silk, weaving myself with him.
I stand before the altar in my billowing gold robes, facing out at the congregation as the priests, one dressed in white and the other in red, creep up the aisle, swinging twin golden incense burners billowing fragrant grey smoke.
They kneel before me, before the cross and the altar, mumbling a brief prayer in rhythmic Latin.
A beautiful boy on his knees at my feet. My own words a senseless mess at his act of worship.
I place the cross in its stand behind the altar, below the larger hanging crucifix on the back wall.
As the choir harmonizes in ancient languages, I take a long, thin taper from the altar, reaching up to light it from the eternal flame hanging suspended above the holy table.
I move carefully to each candle adorning the sanctuary, bringing them to life with the sacred fire.
His eyes, amber as the setting sun, flickered shades of gold under long, curling eyelashes as his gaze met mine. Searching. Imploring.
I find Aurelia in the crowd. She’s near the back with the Maier children, still in her nanny uniform. She shifts a few times, and I wonder if her expression of discomfort has to do with the wooden pew she is sitting on or something else.
A noise startled him, but there was no time to hide. Alarm crossed his soft features, and I ran a soothing hand along his delicate cheek. He leaned into my touch, tender and trusting. He knew I’d keep him safe.
We sing more hymns, sacred passages are recited, and I perform my part as I’ve been trained for years, my mind still flitting back to the parallel images of pre-Mass activities.
He continued his act, paying respect to the sheer need of my body while I praised his devotion and good works.
The priest in red steps up to the altar to bless the Eucharist, singing again in Latin as he holds up in turn the chalice and the bread, a sacrifice from the Lord, an offering to his people.
I stuttered out a warning, but he held me tight as bliss flowed through me, and he joyfully took all of my gift to him.
I stand at the head of the center aisle, bestowing blessings and smudging ashes from the incense burners on the foreheads of the children and those who approach with arms crossed.
I’m not yet permitted to bless the Hosts or to administer them until I’m the official head of the Church.
I’m always thankful not to be tasked with administering the Body; the open-mouthers and tongue-out folks gross me out.
He released me and showed me his open mouth, proving he didn’t waste a bit.
Darcy approaches me, but falters a moment, unsure whether to kneel at the altar or curtsy before the prince. I crouch to her instead.
“I’m not the prince here, little lamb. We kneel before God alone in this place.”
She smiles the sweetest little girl grin and drops a knee to the floor. I place a hand on her head and mutter a quick blessing before tracing a bit of ash on her forehead. She draws her eyebrows together in perfect toddler consternation.
“For purification, dearest,” says the voice that has been ringing in my head for days, more so after our last talk.
Contrary to Miles’s hope, my quick tryst with Cyril has done nothing to tamp down my desire for this woman.
In fact, I’m more convinced than ever that I can pursue her simply for the fun that could be had while compartmentalizing whatever feelings might try to creep in.
As I place my hand on her head, I imagine twisting my fingers up in the auburn hair in the same way I had Cyril’s dark locks an hour before.
She hisses a barely audible whisper. “This is strictly for appearances for the children. I’m not asking for a blessing.”
“Meet Brenton at the hotel bar at nine,” I murmur back. “He’ll bring you upstairs.”
She closes her eyes and gives an almost imperceptible nod.
I give little Liam a quick pat on the head, and they move off as the line continues behind them.
For the final blessing, Lord Bertram is called to the front of the sanctuary.
He kneels in the center before the crucifix and myself and the two priests surround him, gold for the Father, red for the Son, and white for the Holy Ghost. His head is anointed with holy oil, and the three of us place hands on his head as I pray aloud.
“May his heart be pure, his days be peaceful, and his deeds guided by the lamp of Your Word, almighty God. And may You bless the works of his hands in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
Bertram makes the sign of the cross as I speak the last line.
I gaze out at the congregation, arms outstretched, and confer a blessing on them as well.
They chorus an ‘Amen’ and then the din of hundreds fills the cathedral as they gather themselves to leave.
I catch a glimpse of Aurelia, still holding baby Liam and pulling young Darcy along as she all but flees the church.
Cyril finds me in the sacristy after the other priests had divested themselves of their robes and left.
I’m not ready to rush out yet. The ritual of the night had felt comfortable and safe, even if I was a bit distracted.
But the haze of lust I’ve been wallowing in since first laying eyes on Aurelia Tuesday morning has abated enough that I can mostly think straight.
I feel a bit boorish sending Cyril off without returning any sort of favor, but he had served his purpose, and my post-nut clarity can’t be disturbed.