A few minutes later, I am presented with a mug full of what smells like plain peppermint tea.
“And this is for the Young Master,” Barfred adds, sliding me another mug that is very clearly murky with milk and what looked to be three full spoonfuls of sugar.
“Thank you.” I grab both of the steaming beverages. “Do you happen to know where he is?”
“He said he’d be in the back courtyard,” Barfred informs me, his cat-like, honey-brown eyes watching with intent.
I turn and head toward the exit, with Abigail in tow.
“Hold that with two hands, my friend,” I instruct, peering at her from over my shoulder.
“Okay! I’ll be in the music room waiting for you, Julie.” Then she turns and heads toward the main staircase, leaving me to stare after her in shock.
I guess shewon’tbe with me while I present tea to Atlas.
Nervously, I tread out the back door, the cold December air assaulting my senses once again as I exit the estate.
The dead garden, which I can tell is lavish and bright in the spring months, is brown and dead as I pass through, keeping my eyes on the outline of Atlas.
He stands at the ledge, just as I’ve seen him do from the window on the second-floor landing at least twenty times by now.
“Waiting,” Abigail had said once, when I asked her what he was doing out here.
As I approach him now, seeing only his white slacks and a puffy black jacket, a knitted white cap pulled over his curls, I am bombarded once again with the knowledge that he is sosmallcompared to me.
As my black Converse crunch against the dead leaves coating the dirt, Atlas stiffens. Once I’m only a few feet behind him, I speak.
“Your tea, Young Master Atlas.”
He turns, aiming those glacier-blue eyes at me as he bats his lashes. The cold has bitten his cheeks dark red, his nose bright. Even from here, I can see that his full lips are chapped.
And as he moves to take the mug extended to him, and his jacket shifts from where it’s wrapped around his torso, I noticethe entirely too sheer blouse he’s wearing. It’s black, sure, but it reveals far too much.
“Are you cold?” I ask him, tearing my eyes from his hardened nipples to take in his expression.
Atlas looks… amused.
“Yes,” he simply states. “Thank you for the tea.”
I find it quite fitting that he takes it sweet and with milk. It fits what I know of his soft, calm demeanor.
“You’re welcome.” And after a moment of silence, the two of us staring at one another, I add, “Shouldn’t you come in? You’ll freeze to death.”
Atlas considers this for a moment before he shakes his head gently, a few curls poking out from under his cap. It’s here that I notice the red mark on the skin where his neck and shoulder meet.
It almost appears to be the shape and length of a finger pressed too tightly against soft, impressionable flesh.
“I’m waiting,” he says as if it’s obvious, as if it’s important, and it pulls me away from staring at his skin.
“I’m sure whatever you’ve been waiting on can be seen from inside, no?” When he raises a brow, I continue. “What will your mother do if you get sick? She’ll lose her mind.”
“That is true.” Atlas grins. “But I like the cold. It cools me off.”
Without a second thought, my hand raises, my bare fingertips grazing his cheek. What Iwantto do is trace the pad of my thumb over that red mark and to ask him about it, but I do not. It’s not my place.
“I think you’re cool enough.” But even as I say it, I realize it’s a lie.
Sure, he appears to be a boy freezing—he’s even shivering against the cold breeze—but his skin is still feverishly hot. His lashes flutter when my skin makes contact with his, a soft hum leaving his lips.
