_____________________________the carnival: part one - by adire___

I hated Brazil.

Salvador, to be precise, on the shore of the Todos on Santos Bay.

Not that I ever saw the Bay, save for that one time when I was allowed out with the tourist group and the few glimpses that I had from my bedroom window. We came in on the Rio Grande and then traveled overland to Salvador, rather than arriving on the coast by ship. They felt that the sea would be bad for me, despite the fact that they brought me there in the hopes that the fabled "sea air" would be good for my health.

Who are "they"? My bloody parents, that's who. Sir Devon Greyson III and his darling wife the Lady Cordelia, two of the most admired people in London's social circle. And I am their pale, infirm son, the heir to the estate that no one ever sees but everyone in the thrice-damned city talks about. "He's a sickly chap, " they'd say. "I've never seen the lad, but I've heard that he's a wee bit on the fragile side. He doesn't go out much." "I say, will he be all right?" I don't have much of a choice, do I? I have to be "all right." As the only heir to the family's fortune in lumber mills, I have to survive to carry on the legacy.

Sir Devon Greyson IV. I hated that name, almost as much as I hated that infernal place, with its healthy people who were free to roam about at will while I stayed caged within that blasted villa. Even on the afternoon that "it" happened, the closest that I could get to some fresh air was the open window whose sill I leaned against. I couldn't help but sigh as I watched the locals below, on the sandy white strip of beach a few yards distant and visible through the foliage. I wished that I could be out with them, sorting through the day's catch and living the simple life--but instead I was trapped within my summer home, restrained like a captive animal.

The place really wasn't as horrid as I may be implying. Actually, it was rather beautiful. The city itself was large, but our villa was isolated in a rather undeveloped area on the beach, not far distant from a cluster of huts straight out of a tribal village--almost as though the city of Salvador didn't exist and we were surviving in the wilds of the Brazilian jungle. I could see the beach from my window, through the large leaves, greenery, and brilliant blossoms that surrounded the house, and day in and day out I watched those that I had dubbed "the villagers" leave in the morning, casting out to sea in their small fishing sloops, while their women remained behind to go about their daily business of washing, cleaning, and making the various odd items that kept the village on the outskirts of the city alive.

Another sigh escaped my lips as I thought of how different they were from myself. They had none of the education that I possessed, none of the frills and privileges of the rich, and yet they seemed...so much happier. Without the burdens of responsibility and wealth...without the restrictions of stature. They appeared so wildly different, as well--short, stocky, leanly muscled and bronzed compared to my thin, almost wasted height and deathly pale skin. It was almost as though I was a corpse and only they were truly alive, with their gleaming white teeth that flashed whenever they smiled and their snapping, merry dark eyes. I looked in the mirror, and my eyes seemed to hold nothing; empty, the stark, dark blue surfaces completely depthless. Soulless.

I longed to be there with them. I'd never even met one of the natives, save for our city-born house servants; the villagers didn't come to the house, and as I've said before, I wasn't allowed to leave unless chaperoned--and even those events were few and far between. "They" worried that I might come to some harm.

My eyes flicked to the beach again, and idly I nibbled on a strand of my longer-than-fashionable dark brown hair as I watched the women and children work to clean a dugout canoe that had been buried in the sand by one of the infrequent coastal storms. Sometimes I wondered if my rather flimsy muscles could even handle that sort of labor, or if I would simply collapse under the weight of the buckets of water that they lifted to pour over the wooden surface.

A flicker of motion caught my attention as someone broke away from the group, heading towards the line of gently lapping waves that tickled the shoreline and toting an empty bucket: a boy, surely no older than my own seventeen years, perhaps even a year or so younger, but seeming to border on the edge of manhood. He moved like a cat--lithe, the taut muscles of his bare chest and half-exposed legs shifting smoothly under golden brown skin, gleaming in the bright tropical sunlight and his glossy black hair falling artfully in his face. I felt a sudden upsurgence of envy, even as my attention became completely and utterly captivated.

I watched him as he bent to fill the bucket, wading out until the small, frothy whitecaps dampened the edges of the loose, ragged pants that were rudely sawed off just below his knees, exposing perfectly muscled calves; if only I could be what he was! Perhaps if I had grown up with him, rather than in London's stale, murky atmosphere, I might very well have been healthy and hale rather than a wasted, sickly shell of a man. He was....a paragon, an ideal, a dream that I could never touch. Beautiful.

It was then that "it" happened. Yes, I know "it" sounds like something from a poorly written novel, perhaps one of those terrible Hungarian epic romances, but forgive me--I am only a lowly British boy, and not well-versed in the arts of authorship. As such, I do not believe that I can hope to capture the stunning impact of the event with mere words, but I shall try.

He looked at me. Such a simple action, and yet so shocking that it left me gaping speechlessly. Surely he could not see me across such distance, shielded as I was by the foliage before my window perch, but there was no doubting it--he was looking at me. And in an instant, my world contracted, folded on itself, and narrowed down to the singularity of twin orbs of warm brown, liquid, that seemed to enfold me in their molten darkness and draw me forth from my very body to drown in that languid stare. It had to have been a fever dream, no doubt induced by the heat and my ailing health; so distant were we that I could not possibly discern even the boy's eye color, let alone experience the world-shattering hypnotism of his gaze....and yet there I was, trapped like a stunned animal, breathless and unable to tear my eyes away.

A voice from behind broke the spell--English harshly colored by a Portugese accent, and I turned to face my wrinkled, wizened nurse and maid, whom we all called "Nana" out of a sheer inability to pronounce her true name. "Mer Grayson, " she snapped in her oddly clipped voice, "You are needing to be away from that window, no? You'll catch the chill, and your mum will be sore angry, sure she will!"

Catch a chill? In that thick, stifling heat? I would almost have been grateful for such a thing--anything to cool the sweat beading my brow. Still, my only answer was a half-hearted murmur of "Yes, Nana." One did not defy that small woman--for despite her diminutive stature, she seemed to tower in her anger, and was truly rather terrifying. And so, with one last, lingering glance out the window, I shifted away from the padded seat reluctantly and paced towards the divan on the opposite side of the room, stretching lazily across it with another sigh and reaching listlessly for the glass of chilled lemonade resting on the stand nearby.

My hand fell instead on the smooth leather cover of my sketchbook, as yet empty save for a few careless scribblings of various architectural structures. Sudden inspiration struck me: I would draw the boy that I had seen, capture him on paper so that I might keep a part of him with me forever--something to aspire towards, and perhaps the only pleasant memory that I would carry away from this place.

I barely even noticed Nana leaving the room as I pulled the leather-bound book across my lap and reached for my pencil; my mind was wild, afire with images of the boy smiling, laughing, stretching languidly across the beach. He truly was a muse--my muse, and in my longing to be like him, to capture his image, I found myself burning with an energy that surprisingly overrode my usual lethargic torpor. I felt enthusiastic, nearly alive, for the first time since I had entered that horrid country--for the first time in years, perhaps.

He seemed to blossom on the page, within moments it seemed, as though he had only been waiting for me to touch pencil to paper before he sprang to life in carefully sketched outlines before my eyes. He smiled brightly at me from the creamy white surface, his merry eyes seeming to beckon me, mock me from beneath the fall of roughly cut black hair, short in the back, shaggy in the front--it amazed me the details that I remembered after only those brief few moments of scrutiny. Almost longingly, I traced my fingertips down the line of a meticulously penciled cheekbone, marveling at his perfectly sculpted features, wondering if perhaps I had imagined the smoothness of his boyish face, recreated what I could not have seen from such a distance.

I could not stop there. Fevered, almost desperate, I turned to a fresh page and began to sketch in a frenzy, my fingers flying over the page as though driven by some outside force--and within minutes, there he was again, lying on the pristine white sand of the beach, stretched out like a lazy cat, sleek, sinuous, seeming to beckon once more. Always he seemed to call to me, entice me, promising me something if only I had the courage to reach for it--but what could this simple boy give me that I did not already have? I was beginning to think that I was truly growing delusional. My obsession with a boy that I had seen for only a few fleeting moments was unnatural, and unhealthy--and yet still I drew, touching each pencil sketch oh-so-lightly with colored chalks, just barely hinting at the deep brown of exotically slanted eyes, the golden hue of sun-bronzed skin.

Nearly a dozen sketches sprang forth from my mind over the next few fleeting hours, and I barely noticed as the room darkened to indigo twilight and Nana entered to light the lamps, casting me a strange look before she left. No, I was too busy, hunched over the creamy white pages and struggling to bring forth the life hidden within, struggling to capture the boy that seemed to dance just out of reach even as I pinned him to the page with carefully drawn lines. He smiled for me, sighed, slept, ran, once more toted a bucket amidst the waves--but it was my very last sketch that shocked me from my trance-like state and sent me scurrying off to bed.

To this day I barely remember drawing that particular image of the golden-skinned boy, and yet I still have it, hidden away amongst my secret treasures. He did not smile or sigh in that picture, nor did he laugh or seem to mock me--he simply called to me, pleading with me to come to him, to touch him, anything as he lay sprawled in resplendent glory across the sheets of my bed, the bronze of his bare skin sharply contrasting the white silk beneath him. It was with something akin to horror that I stared at the finished product before me, at the nude youth twisted artfully in the very sheets that I had to sleep beneath that night, at the unmistakable expression of passionate longing on his beautiful face.

I could feel the rising flush of crimson blossoming across my cheeks as I abruptly slammed the sketchbook shut, appalled at my own actions. If Mother or Father should see this.... I thought, clutching the book to my narrow chest in a panic, eyeing the doorway and terrified that either of them or even Nana might step through the door at any moment and ask oh-so-casually to see what I had been about in the evening hours. What had I been thinking? Ashamed of myself, I determined to take my rest, fully intending to soothe my obviously afflicted mind in the depths of slumber; the sketchbook was hidden beneath my pillow, for that was the only place where I could be sure that it would not be discovered while I slept.

Even as I changed from my trousers and linen tunic into my bedgown, my thoughts lingered on that last sketch, and the heat of the blush tinted my face again as I wondered just what had prompted me to draw such a thing. Certainly it was improper, and my boys' school art instructor would have been most scandalized should he have seen it. Perhaps the heat was affecting me after all, despite the fact that I felt no worse than usual and perhaps even a mite better.

It took me only a few hasty moments to extinguish the lamps, and liquid amber light was drowned by the cool violet of night. Climbing into bed and pulling the thin coverlet over my body, I abandoned any train of thought as I released my hair from its severely bound tail at the nape of my neck and let the chocolate locks have free reign across the pristine whiteness of the pillowslip. Were it not for the fact that young English gentlemen of good stature did not run wild with their hair loose like some Bohemian, I would wear it thus at all times; keeping it bound gives me such a headache--but that is neither here nor there.

Sighing in the dark stillness, I let my fingers creep beneath the pillow to touch the cool leather covering the book; I could not help myself. At that contact the image of the boy flooded my mind again, and once more I saw him sprawled across the sheets, this time next to me, moving, reaching for me beneath the flimsy coverlet. Aghast, I withdrew from my tentative contact with the sketchbook as though burned by hot coals, and like magic the visualization vanished, only so much mist upon the air.

Nearly trembling now, wide-eyed, it was then that I literally forced myself to go to sleep. It was a talent that I had acquired many years back, when my parents would fight rather vocally and I, a frightened young boy, could not stand the sounds of their dissent and so learned to subvert my wakefulness to the need for oblivion. And so it was with relief that I sank into the darkness behind my eyelids, welcoming the sweet peace of slumber.

It was a peace that I was to be denied on that night. Even in my sleep I could not escape thoughts of the beautiful Brazilian boy; he haunted my dreams mercilessly, his eyes seeming to beg me for something, taunt me, tempt me, beckon me--consume me. I was burning, drowning in a sea of torrid brown, trying desperately to escape before the waters swallowed me whole, and yet I only sank deeper--and suddenly my terror, the terrible ocean, resolved itself into a familiar pair of chocolate-brown eyes that smiled at me reassuringly from beneath a fringe of heavy, sooty lashes, reached out to touch me without ever truly making contact, made me ache with some strange yearning....I was possessed, utterly bereft of any free will where this boy was concerned. He held my thoughts, both waking and sleeping; there was no way that I could escape him, or the lure that he presented, and even as my dreams melted back into darkness I felt a formless desperation that perhaps even bordered on fear.

It seemed that only a few seconds had passed before I was starting awake, clutching the coverlet to my sweat-slicked body in a white-knuckled grip and eyes wide as I gasped for breath in the heavy morning air. Golden sunlight streamed through my open window to pool upon the wooden floorboards, and of their own volition my eyes fixed on that window--the portal to my damnation, it seemed, for it was through that very window that I had caught my first glimpse of the demon--or perhaps angel--that I could not banish from my thoughts.

That was the moment that I realized something shocking and terrible as I rose to my feet, drawn to the open window like a moth to a flame, padding across the floor in my bedgown and bare feet like some child until I sat poised expectantly on the window seat. Even as I leaned outwards, craning my neck to acquire a better view of the beach and watching for him, hoping and yet dreading to see him, nearly obsessed, I realized that I did not simply want to be him. I wanted him, wanted to possess him, touch him, hold his beauty as my own even if only for a few fragile moments.

I would have pondered the earth-shaking connotations of that realization longer had I not been abruptly and almost forcefully distracted as the object of my hopeful scrutiny at last came into view. Once more a blush stained my cheeks as I watched him hefting heavy nets of cord with ease, his slick muscles straining only slightly as he loaded them into a boat and then handed something that I could not see to an older man--presumably his father. Breathless, I stared in fascinated silence as the older man cast off, leaving the youth on the shore, waving to the departing "fleet" for many long moments before he turned and disappeared among the scattering of huts amidst a gaggle of women and children.

Disappointed, I abandoned my window seat in search of proper clothing, before Nana should enter to find me wandering about in my bedclothes and scold me soundly. Sighing, I procured a pair of loose trousers of beige linen, pulling them about my angular hips and tying their drawstrings at my waist, frowning down at the cuffs as they brushed against the floor with every step. I would rather have gone shirtless in the humid heat, but of course Nana would have made some comment of "Mer Grayson, it just ain't proper, no?" and so I reluctantly pulled a flowing white blouse over my head, only bothering to lace it halfway and not caring that it fell to the side, exposing one of my pale shoulders. The blouse had been one of my best and was worn only when attending courtly affairs--but that was long ago; it was old that morning, and perfectly suited for lounging about in my supposed "illness."

And yet I felt not the slightest bit ill as I paced towards the window seat again; rather, I felt rejuvenated, and somewhat restless within my gilded cage. Flopping down onto the padded seat, I leaned against the wall next to the edge of the pane, resting one shoulder against the wooden slats while my eyes drifted to the pillow on my bed and my thoughts drifted to the sketchbook hidden beneath. I stared sightlessly at the mound of white that concealed the proof of my transgressions even as I took a few moments to bind my hair. Fleeting thoughts passed through my mind of destroying it; perhaps then this unhealthy obsession would cease, and I would be able to cast the boy from my mind.

My ruminations were interrupted by a faint hissing sound from below; at first it only teased at the edges of my consciousness, a nagging sound that I ignored--but it grew persistently louder, and at last resolved itself clearly into a human voice calling out "Pssssstt!!" in an attempt to catch my attention. Startled, I glanced downwards--and nearly fell from the window in shock.

It was the boy. Standing nearly a dozen feet below me, his lovely face tilted upwards towards mine, a smile curving his lips as he waved almost shyly; he wore the same cut-off pants as the day before, but today it was topped by a ragged white t-shirt that concealed his sleek musculature. "Hello, " he called once he saw that he had my attention, his eyes twinkling brightly in the shadows cast by the palm fronds around him. The very sound of his voice captivated me; he spoke the English word smoothly, with familiarity, and although he possessed the same accent that colored Nana's speech rather harshly his voice seemed to flow, melodic, mellow, lilting.

Stunned, dismayed, I could only gape at him for a moment, wide-eyed, before I choked out an answering "Hullo." His smile seemed to widen as I spoke, and he cocked his head to the side, studying me with an unnerving gaze, and for a moment I feared that his eyes might swallow me again--but I remained mercifully grounded for the time being.

"Why do you always hide here?" he asked me, his accented voice passing easily over my native tongue as though he had spoken it his entire life, and a brief thought entered my mind that perhaps he had. "I see you from the beach, always looking out, but you never leave. Why?"

Rather startled by the bluntness of the question, it took me a few moments to gather myself and answer. "I...I am not allowed to leave, " I stammered, mentally kicking myself for being a bloody fool, unable to think clearly, let alone speak coherently in the face of the very one who had haunted me so. He seemed not to notice my hesitation, however, and only cocked his head in the opposite direction as he continued to study me, slightly puzzled.

"Are you a prisoner?"

"No...no, not really." The question startled me, for in essence I was a prisoner; should I attempt to leave, I would be rather forcefully detained. "I...well, I'm rather ill, you see, and my parents are afraid that should I leave the house, I might take sick."

A derisive snort was his initial reply, and then he turned that brilliant smile upon me again and I felt my knees weaken. "You're sick because you stay locked inside that stuffy house, " he asserted. "Come outside with me and you'll be fine, no?"

I could have died. Surely this was some devil sent to torment me; how else could he have known to arrive to plague me just as I had begun to banish him from my thoughts? I had to make some excuse before I became trapped in his spell once more. "I can't leave, " I protested, repeating, "Someone will stop me; it's not allowed."

"Pfft. Climb out the window, " was his next mocking reply, followed by a mischievous smile. "I'll catch you."

Panic overwhelmed me; this situation was growing worse by the moment. "I can't!" I called frantically.

"Why not?"

"I...I...." Why couldn't I? What was I afraid of? Him, that's what. I was afraid of a mere boy who could shatter my world simply by looking at me. "I just....can't."

"Come on." He was so reckless, so carefree, a wild thing without concern. "Where's the harm in it? I won't let anything happen to you."

"I....well...." I looked down at him from my height, pondering the drop that awaited; it was rather daunting. Perhaps I should take a moment to explain the architecture of the villa; the house itself was only a single story, but it was elevated several feet from the ground by supporting posts and therefore the window of my bedroom was a goodly distance from the golden-skinned youth that awaited me, confident that he would catch me easily. If only I shared his confidence....

Almost before I realized it, the words, "Very well, " were tumbling from my mouth, and it was as though I was watching another person as I shifted to sit on the windowsill, swinging my linen-clad legs over the edge and letting them sway for a few moments. Distantly I wondered if I had lost my mind as I stared at the fall before me with some trepidation, eyeing my awaiting "savior" dubiously--and then I simply grasped my fingers around the sill and let myself drop, dangling for a moment by my rather long arms before I took a deep breath and released.

In that moment I knew that I was going to die, and they would find my thin, broken body in a crumpled heap beneath the window. I seemed to fall forever, and it was only with ultimate control that I choked back on a terrified scream as I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for that terribly painful impact--and then, suddenly, I was no longer moving, and a pair of strong arms closed around me, clasping my body to a warm, solid chest and stopping me from striking the ground. Overwhelmed by relief, I wrapped my arms around my savior's neck and clung to him tightly, trembling with the remnants of the fear that had rushed through my body during the fall.

A low chuckle rumbled in my ear and seemed to vibrate against the skin of my cheek as it remained pressed against the fabric encasing the boy's chest. "You are very light for someone so tall, " he said softly, his arms remaining firmly locked around me, wielding my slight weight effortlessly despite his shorter stature. I had never been carried by another in such a manner before, save for when I was too ill to walk on my own--and then I had been too delirious to note the strangeness of it, perhaps even unconscious. I felt weak within the stronger boy's arms, but pleasantly so, and took comfort from his warmth and nearness; as though he sensed my thoughts, he chuckled softly once more and held me closer, and the beating of his heart thudded softly into my ear. I smelled salt and leather--warm, earthy scents that seemed to pervade his skin.

Suddenly I felt utterly humiliated, as though he were laughing at me; I had behaved like some flighty female, clutching at him in terror, and I felt myself blushing hotly as I struggled to be released from his grasp. "Let me go, " I snapped irritably; his only answer was another laugh as he set me gently on my feet, leaving a strong, long-fingered hand pressed against the small of my back until he was sure that I had steadied myself.

Still flushing a deep red, I took a step away, brushing fussily at my clothing and suddenly reminded of the fact that I was barefooted by the coolness of the grass pressing against my bare skin. There was no help for it, though; it was a little too late to venture into the house for niceties such as shoes, and I would simply have to do without. If he could wander the sands in his bare feet, so could I.

When I looked up at him again, he was smiling warmly at me, apparently amused by my rather flustered state but not maliciously so. "You are so pale, " he murmured softly, but before I had time to react with any surprise he stepped forward, offering his hand. "My name is Rico, " he said, and the liquid brown depths of his eyes reached out to compel me again, sultry in the shadows cast by the sparse trees overhead.

"Devon, " I managed to answer, jerking my gaze away from his lest I be hypnotized once more and staring down at his browned hand as I reached out to clasp it in my own starkly pale fingers in a friendly handshake. "Devon Greyson, but everyone calls me Dev." Dev. It sounded so ordinary, so boring, next to the simple and yet exotic "Rico." Even his name was perfect, enthralling, as mesmerizing as he was.

Bah. As you can see, he had me quite ensorcelled with his simple charm, and I listened to him speak in utter fascination as we moved away from the side wall of the house, picking through the few sparse feet of jungle surrounding it before it blended into the white sands of the beach. As we approached the gathering of rudely constructed huts several yards distant, he told me of his village, of how they were not really a part of the main city of Salvador, and of how they survived. On market days they took the salted and preserved remnants of their fishing excursions that were not eaten or stored into the city and sold them, using the money to buy whatever else they needed and could not make. They were truly primitive in my eyes, but he seemed to be happy with his life, and so I did not comment.

He also asked me questions, about London, about the horse-drawn carriages that he had heard of and even seen once in the streets of Salvador. He was curious about everything, even minute details that seemed not to matter to me, from the frills of ladies' court dresses to the constabulary. The questioning was silenced only as we entered the village proper, and he was abruptly interrupted as a tangle of children poured forth as though from nowhere to mill and seethe around me like a miniature sea of flesh, tiny limbs reaching out to tug at my clothing and shrill voices demanding my attention in the unintelligible language that was native to Brazil. Unsure of myself, I could only stand there, staring helplessly over their diminutive heads at Rico as they pulled and tugged at me with the enthusiastic curiosity of a litter of brown-skinned puppies--and Rico, blast his hide, could only stand there and laugh at me.

Suddenly a woman emerged from the nearest hut; for some reason she reminded me of Nana in her friendly sternness, despite the fact that she was much younger. She smiled and nodded to me, greeting me in the same language that the children babbled--or I should hope that it was a greeting, for I had learned not a single speck of their speech in my time there and was hopelessly lost. Even as she gathered the tiny pests away from me, she turned and spoke to Rico, the distantly polite tone that she had taken with me sharpening slightly as she asked him some question. He answered in kind, and I could only listen in quiet, reserved confusion as they conversed; once I thought that I heard my name in the rapid, fluid pattering of syllables, but I could not be sure.

Only a few moments passed before the woman smiled at me again and then turned and ushered the gaggle of children away without another word; Rico watched her leave, and then sighed as he turned to me once more. "Devon, " he said in his accented English, and I secretly thrilled to hear him speak my name before blushing once more, annoyed with myself. "I have to help scale yesterday's catch, and Mother is rather insistent that if you wish to stay, you must help as well. I'm sorry; I was going to take you into the city to get you away from that house, but she's a little angry with me. I'll take you back now and help you sneak back inside."

"It's all right, " I surprised myself by saying. "I truly do appreciate the thought; it's very kind of you to befriend a total stranger--but if you do not mind, I...I would like to stay." Suddenly shy, I lowered my eyes to stare at my toes and the warm sand scattered across my pale skin. "I can help....if I wouldn't be in the way." The thought of returning to that horrid villa disgusted me; Rico had won my freedom for me, even if only for a short time, and I was not willing to relinquish it just yet--even if I had to scale fish to keep it.

Silence followed for a moment, and I raised my eyes to his in some trepidation; he blinked at me in mild surprise, and then a slow, pleased smile spread across his lips. "All right, " he said, and then suddenly his hand snaked out to close around mine. "Come on!" was his next enthusiastic cry, and then I barely had time to catch my feet underneath me before he was away and running, practically dragging me behind him before I managed to untangle my legs and break into a ground-covering lope.

He led me to the opposite end of the gathering of constructions; once more I surprised myself by keeping pace with him easily and being not even the slightest bit winded as we skidded to a stop in the sand a short distance away from a group of women and older children that knelt around an impossibly large mound of dead fish. Blanching, I stared at the daunting task before me in some dismay; were we truly expected to finish all of that in one day? Still, I did not protest as I was given a rather old and much-used jackknife, and followed obediently as Rico knelt in an empty place among the circle of women, beckoning for me to take a seat at his side.

At first I could only watch Rico blankly, rather hesitant; he set to work with crisp, efficient movements, and almost within moments he had denuded a tuna of its silver scales before my very eyes, his strong brown fingers grasping the slippery aquatic creature firmly and holding it in place with ease as he seemed to shave the scales away before hacking the head off rather unceremoniously and tossing it into the slowly growing pile of pink flesh a few feet away. Rather nervous, I reached for one of the many blank-eyed, lifeless finned creatures staring at me from the pile, nearly dropping it; I had not expected it to feel quite so cold and....slimy. I wrinkled my nose in distaste, and then grasped the fish's slick body as firmly as I had seen Rico do, and made my first attempt to scrape the scales away, little realizing how foolish I looked until I heard the Brazilian's soft laughter.

"No, " he said quietly, reaching out to cover my hand with his own strong one as he angled the knife in the opposite direction. "You scale it in the opposite direction, towards the head, " he instructed quietly, guiding my hand in a few demonstrative swipes, his fingers warm and his skin pleasantly coarse over my own; I blushed hotly again, truly embarrassed, but he only smiled at me reassuringly and returned to his own task.

I must say that I botched my first attempt at scaling fish terribly. I managed not to cut myself, but the poor tuna was badly hacked by the time that I divested it of its silvery covering and removed its head. In the time that it had taken me to scale one fish, Rico had finished at least five--but as I added my sad effort to the pile, the women around me nodded and commented in their indecipherable language, smiling at me as though to congratulate me for some great feat, and it was beneath the warmth of another of Rico's dazzling smiles that I reached for another fish and set to with a new enthusiasm.

We returned to talking as we spoke, and Rico told me more of himself; he was sixteen, a year younger than myself as I had guessed, and had attended school in the city when he was younger--which explained his nearly impeccable command of the English language. His melodious voice was like music, providing a rhythm to punctuate the methodic actions of scaling, and the time seemed to fly by as we spoke. He asked me more questions of London, of the life of the courtier, his words tinged with a childlike curiosity that was quite charming; occasionally our low conversation was interrupted by a fluidly spoken question from one of the women--still incomprehensible to my poor ears, but quickly translated by Rico. Apparently they understood English quite well, even if they could not speak it, and I was only all too willing to answer their queries in return for their quiet, cheerful acceptance.

Strangely enough, I was enjoying my simple, if smelly labor; for the first time in quite a while I was at ease in my surroundings, rather than feeling as though I was on parade. These uncomplicated villagers had already accepted me despite my obvious difference, and asked questions only out of curiosity rather than to judge; they did not care that I was "sickly"--in fact, they did not seem to even notice, and as the pile of tuna dwindled beneath our industrious hands I myself forgot that particular fact and simply laughed with them under the warmth of the tropical sun.

As the morning passed into noon, and then afternoon, the hours flew beneath the work at our fingertips, and I must admit that I grew rather adept at my appointed task, although I have not had occasion to demonstrate my acquired skill since. Still, I was no longer even looking as my fingers deftly manipulated the blade, and instead I watched Rico as we spoke, my eyes tracing over his features almost worshipfully. He was taller than I had first thought, his height distorted by the distance that I had viewed him from at first, and was only one, perhaps two inches shorter than my own height of nearly six feet. His face was less angular than I had originally imagined as well, still bearing the smoothness of boyhood but holding the promise of the man that he would become.

I was utterly fascinated by him, by his large, dark eyes, their wide depths framed in lush blackness that seemed to make the soft brown orbs glitter even more brightly, by his curving, sensual mouth that seemed created for the express purpose of smiling. So, with my attention thus diverted, I was quite surprised when I reached for another tuna and found that my hand met empty air; blinking in blank surprise, I turned to look at the pile of fish only to find that it had disappeared to be replaced by a mound of pink, flaky flesh that the women were already gathering into baskets and toting away.

"That's it, " Rico said, turning the whiteness of his smile upon me again--before the smile turned impish, broadening into a grin as he looked at me. "You stink, " he said simply, and then poked me in the arm with a fingertip coated in fishy green ichor.

Surprised, I...well, I squeaked and then poked him back, my finger jabbing lightly at his side, just below his ribs, and he replied with an answering, almost startling squeal as I grinned at him. "You smell rather foul yourself, Sir Rico, " I teased, and he cast me a mischievous, daring look, his chocolate-brown gaze glittering with challenge.

"Come on, " he said, levering himself to his feet smoothly and reaching out to grasp my slime-coated fingers in his own. "We're going swimming."

I had not even the slightest moment to protest as he pulled me easily to my feet, his wiry strength making little of my slim weight as he tossed me another rakish grin and then led me in a light jog towards the waterline. Tearing his shirt off, he tossed it to the sand and then bounded gleefully into the lazily lapping ocean waters, his smooth, hairless chest gleaming a coppery brown in the sunlight; I eyed the crystalline aquamarine depths with some dismay, wrinkling my nose as I pondered entering the freezing liquid--but Rico would not be daunted.

"Devon!" he called. "It's just water; come on!!"

Piqued, feeling as though my dignity was in severe danger of following the path of my long-abandoned manliness, I ripped my shirt off in a fit of petulance and cast it to the sand next to his, baring my own sadly lean, pale, poorly defined chest in contrast to his lithe, tanned musculature--but I did not care as I ran into the waves, my linen pants clinging to my legs as they were assaulted by the water. God but it was cold...but I was only allowed to focus on my shivering for a few seconds before I found myself quite unceremoniously dunked. Choking, thrashing about wildly, I spluttered with indignation(and a mouth full of salty water) as I was allowed to surface, my eyes squeezed shut and my hair, loosed from its haphazard binding, plastered artlessly to my face in dripping waves of dark brown and obscuring my vision hopelessly. Above the sound of my coughs I heard Rico's merry laughter, and I scowled at him as I shoved my hair out of my eyes. "I fail to see what is so amusing, " I snapped.

"You, " he chortled, pointing a finger at my thin, sodden form. "You look like a drowned rat!"

"I'll show you a drowned rat, " I growled, feeling suddenly and quite uncharacteristically savage as I launched myself at him, plowing through the waist-deep water to push him beneath the waves, flattening my body against the hardness of his wet, gleaming frame and forced to use all of my feeble strength to dunk him. He spluttered once before he went under--and then, to my consternation, he wrapped his arms around my waist, dragging me down with him and into the chilly depths; in my surprise I ended up swallowing a rather large mouthful of water.

Panicking, I thought for a moment that I might drown beneath the gently frothing waves, but only seconds passed before I found myself dragged rather roughly to the surface by a pair of coarse, callused hands clasped firmly about my waist and felt myself pressed solidly against a warm, slick body. Still choking slightly, I could only remain there for the time that it took to gather myself, leaning on my captor and once again savior as I coughed up the last of the water.

"Are you okay?" Rico asked, and once more I felt his voice rumble against my skin as I rested with my face pressed against his shoulder. Slightly concerned, he tightened his grip on my waist, and I had a fleeting thought that he was about to wrap his arms around me before I banished it as his hands remained resting firmly where they were.

"I'm fine, " I rasped, rather weakly, still leaning on him for support and somewhat dazed; in the moment that I had thought that I was drowning, I had been truly frightened. It was a strange experience, and I needed the comfort of Rico's warmth right then--and because he seemed only too willing to provide it, I took solace from his nearness yet again, leaning into the strength of his unmoving, rock-solid form and resting one loosely clenched fist on his chest.

This time he did slide his arms around my waist, and although the gesture should have felt strange it did not. What felt strange was my own realization that I had wanted him to--had been hoping that he would, in fact. I had long given up on sorting out just why he elicited such reactions in me, such odd longings and desires, and so I simply relaxed within his embrace, warm and still even amidst the cold washings of the waves. "I'm sorry, " he murmured softly as he held me. "I forgot...that you're not used to things like that."

My peace was suddenly shattered and, angry, I pulled away from him, turning aside. "Do not patronize me, " I snapped, folding my arms over my chest and hunching into myself as I waded out of his reach. How dare he treat me like some ailing, whining child?

"Patronize....?" He repeated the word slowly, carefully as he stared at my sullen expression, puzzled by both my sudden mood shift and the meaning of the unfamiliar word. "Devon, " he continued, and the pleading tone in his voice made me melt even before I lifted my gaze to look at his wide-eyed, pathetically beseeching expression. "I only meant....I....I'm sorry."

Twisting my lips together, I sighed, uncertain of what to do or say next. Blast his hide if I hadn't forgiven him already, and silently I cursed the advantage that my near-obsession gave him over me; how could I deny anything to that sweet face, to those warm, compelling eyes? Still, I never had been particularly adroit at accepting apologies in a gracious manner, and so rather than speak I only unfolded my arms from my chest and swept them lightly along the surface of the water, smiling at Rico half-heartedly as I splashed him.

Startled, he only blinked at me rather comically, and I suppressed a giggle as I looked at him with his soaked ebon tresses plastered across his browned face and water dripping from the round tip of his pert little nose. A sly smirk curved his lips, and "Devil, " he called me--right before he favored me with an answering wave of water that splashed distressingly in my eyes.

Squealing with a child's abandon and laughing gleefully, I splashed him in return and a somewhat rowdy water-fight ensued that resulted in myself wrestling his gleaming body beneath the waves yet again--two boys roughhousing beneath the summer sun, bodies entwined, completely carefree. The strangeness of it was beautiful in my eyes....such freedom, that I had never before been allowed, that only Rico had dared to give me, was only too precious to me.

He surfaced with a mighty inhalation, water streaming and shunting from his wiry frame, droplets clinging to his slick skin and trickling over the sharply defined contours of his chest. I was given only a brief breath in which to stare in mesmerized awe before I suddenly found myself lifted quite roughly from the water and trapped against the sleek chest that I had been admiring only moments before.

"Eep!!" I squeaked in surprise, grappling at Rico's slippery arms in an instant of panic.

"Now, " he said, grasping my wriggling, squirming body firmly as he grinned darkly down into my terrified eyes, "give me one good reason why I shouldn't dump you right here."

"No!!" I screeched, flailing wildly; never mind the fact that I was already thoroughly drenched and one more dousing would not make the slightest difference. Desperate, I clutched my arms around his neck---but I was unable to maintain my hold on the oil-slick bronzed surface as he quite unceremoniously released me and let me fall crashing into the gently rolling whitecaps.

I struck the waves with a resounding crash, followed by the sound of his laughter as I thrashed about violently in a futile attempt to stay above the surface--but even as I sank, I grabbed hold of Rico's knees, determined not to surrender without a fight. I heard the sound of his yelp even through the layer of water separating us, and then he came splashing down--directly atop of my own body. What followed next was a mad attempt to surface amidst a tangle of limbs, and I found myself quite hopelessly intertwined with Rico even as we broke from the depths, coughing and sputtering and laughing all at once as we clung to each other in the waist-deep water.

"You, " he gasped, leaning on me as he struggled to catch his breath, "are going to kill me....and I am supposed to be keeping you out of trouble!!"

"Sorry...." Gasping as well, I could only laugh at him as he grinned at me through the strands of hair that were stuck to his face by a sheen of water, bright eyes promising further punishment should I even dare to move.

Suddenly, thus entwined, I felt distinctly uncomfortable, and I flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the warmth of the tropical sun. Lowering my eyes, I disentangled myself with some haste and drifted away, seeming to feel the coolness of the water even more in stark contrast to the burning beneath my skin. Shy once more, I lifted a hand to brush my hair out of my eyes and flip the sodden lengths over my shoulder as I looked towards the shore, feeling an odd restlessness and a need to get as far away from Rico as I possibly could.

"I...I'm cold, " I stammered hesitantly, wrapping my arms around my pale, water-slicked torso once more.

I could feel Rico eyeing me strangely despite the fact that I refused to look at him, and then he only sighed, sloshing past me slowly. "Let's head on in, " he said quietly. "It's starting to get dark anyway."

And indeed it was; sunset was beginning to touch the sky's bright blue with a hint of rose and dusky orange, staining the canopy overhead with a multitude of soft blends that was truly beautiful to look upon, as though the rainbow had released her colors to flow like water across the heavens. Time had flown even faster than I had imagined, and as I followed Rico from the waves I felt the slightest stirring of trepidation at my long absence. And yet, as we retrieved our shirts and donned the sandy garments, for a moment I wondered if my presence would truly be missed.

Laughter and shouting greeted us as we approached the village once more, and upon lifting my eyes from their determined scrutiny of my sand-covered feet I saw that the menfolk had returned from their hard day out at sea, and had already unloaded their catch whilst we had been sporting among the waves. "Rico, " I said quietly, feeling a slight twinge of guilt. "You won't get in trouble because you were with me, will you? Weren't you supposed to be....?" Rather than finish the sentence, I only nodded towards the throng that now milled around a collection of several small fire-pits whose depths gleamed a dull, flickering red in the twilight's deepening darkness.

White teeth flashed in a smile. "Only my father expected me, and he will understand. It is all right--but now it is time to eat. Will you stay for dinner with us?"

"I...don't know...." Hesitation caused me to glance in the direction of the villa house, invisible through the shrouding palm fronds and plant life.

"Devon...." Rico obviously understood my trepidation only too well as his gaze followed the path of mine, and at the soft tone in his voice I turned to look at his evening-shadowed features. "They've caged you for long enough. You are....like a bird, yes? Pretty and delicate and white as the sand. You can stand to be released from your cage for one night, no? It is only dinner, and then I will take you home."

They would be frantic by now, I knew it. Nana would have alerted my parents and the household servants that I was nowhere to be found, and they would be combing the house in a panicked search. I knew that they must be terribly worried.

I simply did not care.

Sudden irritation at my life of confinement flashed through me once more, and with a dark smile I nodded. "I will stay. I would be glad to." Let them worry, I thought. After tormenting me for so long, they deserved nothing better.

Energized by my new resolve, I trailed behind Rico with firm, almost bouncing steps as he wove his way through the tangle of huts and little brown people. How he knew where he was going, I did not know, but suddenly he paused before one fire-pit, nearly indistinguishable from those surrounding it but obviously familiar to him. Crouched next to it and poking the embers within was the woman that I had seen earlier, that he had called Mother; she looked up to me and flashed me a smile as brilliant as her son's, and then chittered something at me in that damnably unintelligible language.

I looked to Rico desperately for aid; he burbled something back at the woman, and then nodded reassuringly to me. "She only wishes to know if we will have company tonight. I am pleased to tell her yes."

Rather nervous in the company of my newfound friend's family, I smiled hesitantly at the woman and nodded. Despite my edginess, I still felt....inexplicably warmed by their acceptance, and could practically feel myself glowing with pleasure as a stocky figure emerged from the hut just behind Rico's mother.

"Papa!" Rico called, and then I recognized the man as the one that I had seen Rico bidding farewell to on the morn. He truly did seem like an older version of Rico himself, his skin more weathered and lined, his features slightly more craggy, but with the same bright, merry eyes and elusive, masculine beauty. The man turned a curious glance towards me, and then Rico burst into a patter of effusive speech--and the only word that I understood amidst the whole mess was my own name. I imagined that he was saying something along the lines of, "Hello, this is Devon, the sickly English boy that I stole from the big house along the way, " but I will never be sure--for even as I pondered Rico's rapid flurry of words, his father broke away from him and reached out to take my hand from my side, clasping it in a firm handshake and smiling warmly at me as he spoke what I could only hope were words of greeting.

"H-hullo, " I stammered as my hand was shaken and then released; Rico's father only smiled at me, and then he and his son exchanged an expressive glance, the meaning of which still eludes me. I could only stand there, bewildered and lost and my confidence rapidly draining away, until Rico stepped forward and took my arm firmly in one strong brown hand, guiding me towards a place at the fire-pit.

"Come on, " he said quietly. "It's all right, they're just pleased to see you out of that house--I told them about you, and they were a bit worried."

My confusion increased as I numbly, dazedly, folded myself into a cross-legged position next to Rico. Why had these people taken such an interest in me? Surely it could not be simple kindness--but then, I doubted that these villagers were well-versed in the ways of London duplicity.

My thoughts were diverted from that particular less-than-constructive line of speculation as I watched Rico's mother deftly extract a multitude of small, charred objects from within the pit's murky depths, cleverly using two sticks as tongs and laying the smoking little objects in neat rows on a piece of rough cloth laid on the ground next to the pit. A small knife was nimbly employed in slicing away and peeling back an outer layer of what I realized was leafy wrappings, revealing the fishy flesh beneath, steamed white and succulent by the heat of the coals.

Moments later, a young girl of no more than twelve stepped from the hut. She was small and pretty in her bare feet and simple shift, dark curls tumbling down her back and bright eyes studying me with the unabashed curiosity of a child as she distributed crudely carved wooden plates to her family and myself. I smiled to her as I closed my fingers over the plate, and she giggled in a most charming, girlish manner before casting Rico a furtive glance and darting shyly back into the hut.

Around us, other families were settling in for dinner at their respective firepits, and as the girl returned from the hut holding a bowl of sliced fruit, Rico's family did the same, ringing the pit as though it were a table and settling into silence as the food was passed around. Quietude fell, soft and comfortable, over the small village, and as I took my first taste of the remarkably delicious fish, I relaxed and simply enjoyed the beauty of my surroundings. The sky stretched overhead in a wash of violet, paint that bled and thinned around the edges to blend into the deeper indigo line of the sea that stretched across the horizon as though dashed there by some careless artist's brush. I stood on the threshold of another world, and in that moment beneath the wan crescent of the tropical moon London seemed to be only a fleeting thought, dull and grey and nonexistent.

And next to me, more beautiful than even the tropical night, was my young Brazilian companion. I never ceased to be amazed by his tranquil loveliness, how he seemed to turn even the simplest action into a work of art--even the mundane task of eating. I was hardly aware of my own meal as I watched him in discreet fascination, my vision locked on him from the corner of my eye. Soft, curving lips parted, and strong, deft fingers lifted to place tidbits of his dinner upon a pink tongue, performing the act as delicately as one might handle fine crystal.

I am rather sure that he was aware of my "covert" scrutiny, but for whatever reasons he chose not to make it known and only continued to eat in companionable silence. I felt dizzy, for some reason--like a weightless feather caught in a wafting breeze, drifting aimlessly across the sky and pushed in every direction at once. For a moment I thought that I might be taking sick, but none of the usual ill-feeling accompanied this strange light-headedness; I was simply....floating. Content.

The feeling lasted well until the end of dinner, that quiet peacefulness, and I felt quite relaxed by the time that the girl--Rico's younger sister--gathered up our plates and took them back into the hut. The young Brazilian's parents both favored me with a warm smile before departing as well, husband slipping his arm around his wife's waist and drawing her close as they disappeared into their small home as well....leaving us alone.

"I guess...I'd better take you back now." Rico's voice was low and reluctant as he stared distantly at the glimmer of the firepit, and I echoed the wordless sentiment.

"I do not wish to go."

Slight surprise colored my companion's dark gaze as he lifted his head to look at me. "Devon?"

I sighed. I could not help but wish to stay, but...."I do not wish to go, but I must. My family must be worried to distraction by now."

"Devil take your family!" The sudden vehemence in his tone startled me, and the fierceness in his gaze almost frightened me as he leaned towards me. "That place is not good for you. Stay the night here. Santo Filipe, stay your life here--run away if you have to, but don't stay locked up in that place forever!"

Stunned, I fell back onto my hands, eyes wide as I stared at him. "R-Rico, I...." I could not think of anything to say, so shocked was I by his sudden fire; my heart hammered thunderously in my chest, and I suddenly found myself quite nearly incapacitated.

As he noted my reaction, he was quick to soften his gaze and his voice, instantly contrite. "I'm sorry, Dev. I'll take you home now."

Still somewhat dazed, I could only nod mutely as he stood, dusting the sand from his cutoff trousers and offering a hand to help me up. I placed my thin, frail fingers within his strong ones, and with smooth ease he tugged me gently to my feet, taking long moments to relinquish my hand from his warm grasp.

It was in rather uneasy, discontented silence that we padded across the cooling sand on our bare feet, back towards the foliage surrounding my summer home. Neither of us were happy with my return, unwilling to discard our newfound friendship so soon after discovering it--for we both knew that there was little chance of another escape, and my family would certainly not approve of a native friend.

A soft breeze stirred my unbound hair as we walked side-by-side, sending it drifting to the side to brush and drift over Rico's tanned arm, the chocolate tresses nearly black in the darkness and reflecting the wan moonlight in glints of deep red. I started to shift away to remove the irritation, but he surprised me by lifting his gaze from his morose scrutiny of the sand passing beneath his feet to smile wistfully at me, capturing one slightly wavy lock and twirling it gently around his fingers. And so I subsided, and some of the tension between us ebbed as we meandered slowly along, shoulder-to-shoulder, Rico's fingers still toying idly with my hair.

And yet even that small peace was not to last for long. We arrived at the villa only too quickly, and I could not help but sigh mournfully as I stared up at the black rectangle that was my window.

"Psst. Up here." I turned to see where Rico had disappeared to, and saw the bright glints of his eyes peering at me out of the darkness of the foliage overhead; a brown hand emerged from the darkness, and once more his hissing whisper sounded. "Brace your foot against the trunk and take my hand."

I did as I was told, and barely had time to bite down on a squeal as I found myself quite unceremoniously lifted, drawn upwards to clutch at the branch that was Rico's perch as he hauled me into a sitting position--miraculously, just below my window.

"I'll hold the branch steady, " he said gently, his steadying grip firm on my arm as I crouched there, trembling and forcing myself not to look down as I eyed what seemed to be an impossible distance from my roost to the windowsill. "Go on, " was his next soft encouragement, and I could only nod, creeping carefully forth on the branch and trying desperately not to think of the fall that awaited me should I stumble. He crept behind me, his hand remaining strong on my arm until we reached the point where the thinness of the branch would not support our combined weight--but still he rested his palm reassuringly against my back as I continued to edge forward.

Taking a deep breath, I nerved myself--and then, in a tiny leap, thumped onto my windowsill and tumbled into the room, striking the floor with a soft and almost painful thud. I would have looked out of the window at Rico, but at that moment I heard footsteps and so it was in a mad flurry of motion that I darted towards my bed, ripping my shirt off and slipping beneath the covers to sprawl out on my stomach with my eyes closed, feigning sleep.

My counterfeit came not a moment too soon, for I heard the door open and seconds later Nana's harsh accent colored the air. "Mer Greyson, where you done been, no? We's all been worried sick looking for you!"

Wait. I made myself wait before I answered, as though just barely waking at the sound of her voice, slowly opening my eyes and peering at her groggily and mumbling, "Nana...? What is it?"

"Mer Greyson sir, I been looking for you all day!" She was furious, that much I could tell, as she stalked towards my bed, her craggy face harshly lit by the candle in her hand. "Where have you been?"

Strangely enough, I felt not the slightest bit cowed by the stern woman--not a normal circumstance at all. "Asleep in here, as always, " I grumbled, burying my face in my folded arms--but she would have none of it.

"None you haven't been; I looked for y'in here and tweren't no sight of you to be found!"

"God be bloody well damned, Nana, " I snapped, lifting my head and suddenly nearly as furious as she herself. "I was in the blasted loo; would you follow me there too?"

Shocked silence followed, in which an inevitable feeling of smugness settled over me as I continued to glare at her wide-eyed, open-mouthed visage--and then she turned her back on me with an offended squeak of "hmph!" before storming out of the room, leaving me in darkness and satisfied solitude. I would catch hell for that later, of that I was sure, but the feeling of immediate gratification was well worth the eventual punishment.

Resting my cheek against my forearms again, I closed my eyes, already beginning to drift off into soft, soothing slumber after a long, pleasantly wearying day--when a by-now-familiar hiss caught my attention, drawing me back into wakefulness and sudden awareness of Rico.

Tumbling out of bed and rushing to the windowseat, I knelt there and leaned forward on the sill, leaning out and eyes searching the darkness rapidly for the source of that hiss.

"Down here!" came another whisper, and then I once more saw bright eyes among the palm fronds and balsam leaves, and the whiteness of a flashing smile. "Tomorrow is the Carnival, " he called softly. "My Father is taking me into the city for the festival; come with us!"

For a moment the meaning of his words eluded me, and then I remembered something that I had read once about a celebration held yearly on this continent--the Carnival, held four days before the Christian observation of Lent and, from what I had gathered from hearsay, quite a rowdy gathering. I would surely be caught if I stole away for yet another day, and to such an event!! I most certainly could not, and quite firmly told him so--or as firmly as one can when whispering in furtive tones. "My family will never permit it!"

"The Devil take your family!" he hissed, once more startling me by his fervor. "They'll never know you're gone; jus tell your nurse that you're sick and to leave you alone, lock your door, and sneak out the window!" Oh, but he was a devious thing--these villagers were not nearly as simple as I had been led to believe. Still, in the face of his logic, what else could I do but acquiesce?

"All right, " I murmured weakly, and another bright smile shone like a beacon from the darkness. I smiled slightly in return, and then heard him shift among the foliage.

"I'll come get you tomorrow afternoon, " he called out--and then he was gone, darting away like some wild animal, untamed and untamable. I could not help but smile after him, and then the lure of my bed came to be too much and I collapsed against the sheets with an exhausted sigh--but the smile remained upon my face even as I drifted into a deep, dreamless slumber, content with the anticipation of the next day's events.

I was going to the Carnival.

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