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She padded out of the room and gently closed the door. “Alert the footman that we’ll need his help escorting the constable to his carriage. Then make yourselves scarce.”
Tense minutes passed as they followed her instructions, and then they retreated to their sleeping quarters to wait. They did not stray far, in case she needed their help.
Eventually, they heard the constable fussing in the hall with the madam and the footman as they listened through a sliver in the door.
“I don’t understand what transpired,” the constable said groggily.
“By the looks of it, you enjoyed yourself with two young lads before you became quite knackered.” Madam Langley clucked her tongue at him. “And now it’s time for you to take your leave.”
“Is this some sort of trickery?”
Galen stiffened, but Madam Langley was already dismissing the constable’s suggestion. “Of course not. Perhaps you’ve caught some sickness if you cannot remember. Hopefully not violet fever.”
The constable fell silent after that as they assisted him toward the exit, and Galen and Azriel sagged against each other in relief.
Chapter 25
Thankfully, the constable had not set foot in Moon Flower since he’d been escorted out three nights ago. Not that Galen thought he was through with them or his threats to the establishment. Quite honestly, it felt like there was a disaster looming, and everyone around them felt it as well. He could tell by the tense conversations taking place, sometimes within earshot of him. But Galen didn’t blame them. He’d been worrying and wondering himself about all kinds of things.
“Do you think it’s true?” Percy asked one afternoon during their free time as they played a game of draughts on the floor in the dormitory.
It seemed the lads hadn’t heard Galen return from helping Miss Celestine in the kitchens. He had a slight headache, probably from not sleeping well, and had lain down to rest his eyes, not that he would be successful with their voices carrying.
“Of course it’s true,” Sparrow replied. “Don’t you see how they’re drawn to each other?”
Galen and Azriel had not discussed that evening with the constable, not in any detail; it still felt overwhelming. Just sitting near each other in the evenings provided the comfort Galen needed, even if he wished they could hold each other again. Instead, they sometimes tangled their fingers together, especially late at night when the others were sleeping.
“That doesn’t mean they’re fated,” Oscar said. “Madam Langley was only embellishing for the constable’s sake.”
“She obviously learned a trick or two from you, then,” Bellamy teased.
“Well, it obviously worked.”
“As did the tea,” Percy added, and the lads murmured their agreement.
“If it’s true, they’re lucky,” Edward said, surprising everyone, including Galen. He kept his reaction in check so as not to alert them of his presence, and kept his eyes shut so they would think him asleep if they did notice him.
“Lucky?” Oscar scoffed. “I wouldn’t choose to be betrothed to anyone.”
“Except maybe Mr. Walters’s cock,” Bellamy said.
“I certainly wouldn’t object,” Oscar replied, amusement in his tone. “It’s better than constantly pining over the butcher’s son.”
The entire room fell silent, and then Edward pounced, playfully wrestling Oscar—and making a mess of their playing board, to the consternation of the others. Galen wondered if there wasn’t a roguish quality to it too, given how much Oscar goaded Edward, but he was also honestly surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Bellamy intervened, breaking them up and reminding them that bruises would not be a good look to Madam Langley, nor the gentlemen.
“Eh, some of the gentlemen would like it,” Oscar said, standing up and brushing himself off. “Just ask Francis.”
That set them off discussing what Francis had gotten up to with some of the gentlemen, one who enjoyed being spanked like a naughty child, another tormented with a feather. The conversations lightened their moods and shifted their focus away from their constant worry about the threatening sickness and their paranoia about its rumored effects.
All of Lunar’s Reach seemed abuzz with talk of violet fever, townsfolk on the street steering clear of anyone who coughed, after hearing that an entire family had succumbed to death in another town. Customers in the apothecary were requesting liniments for imaginary itches, but he supposed they’d be prepared if their fears came to fruition.
Madam Langley certainly seemed to be preparing for the worst, and the more they heard of the sickness’s devastating effects, the ghastlier it sounded. He wouldn’t wish the rash or the sores it could produce on his most vile enemy—except perhaps the constable and the man from the alleyway. With his luck, they’d probably recover in record time. There was no rhyme or reason to the outcome of the sickness, as far as he could tell; it seemed it was all up to chance—and grace. According to Madam Fairborn, not even dark magic or the most gifted healers had had much luck, otherwise people would be lining up demanding relief.
