Victorian Boy || l.s. ✔︎

CHAPTER XXV

"All partings foreshadow the great final one."

― Charles Dickens, Bleak House

In the afterlife hate has no color. All that remains is the mere impression of hate, like the dent of a pen stroke on a pad of paper. Much like their bodies, his family's feelings toward their killer were spectral.

The killer came toward Louis, his outline taking on a crisper appearance than the others since he had only just passed.

Somewhere far away lay Louis' body, alive, and as blood pumped to his heart, so did hate, vivid and in full color.

"Come, I know you long to be at peace," the killer said with eerie confidence.

"I will never know peace in your presence."

"That's a lie. We've always been quite cordial. If you truly hated me, why did you never tell anyone of my crime?"

Louis did not answer.

"Perhaps it was because I made you Duke," the killer said. "Perhaps you were secretly grateful."

He would be grateful to see this man tortured and killed but, of course, he was already dead.

♘

Blood seeped through the fabric of Louis' makeshift bandages onto Harry's hands as he held the Duke's waist. Time was running out. They had successfully eluded the hounds but not death.

He heaved Louis' body with all his might onto the stallion's back and rode to the manor as fast as he could. Not only did Achilles obey Harry, Harry obeyed Achilles. His strength and speed forced Harry to become a better rider. The young Duke's slender thighs hugged the beast's flank as they weaved through the trees and over rocks and fallen branches.

From the hilltop, Harry could see club members scattered about the property in uniform like toy soldiers. None seemed to understand what was happening. The kennel was empty, the hounds gone, but they did not, could not, comprehend what that meant. They must have thought it a prank of some kind.

The two dukes arrived over the grassy knoll, Louis' head swaying with the rhythm of the stallion's cantor. Harry called out for help. They thought it was in jest.

"Please help us!" Harry cried.

Beardsley cursed the Duke with his riding crop in the air.

The others howled with laughter.

Beth stepped forward and narrowed her eyes. She noticed at once that Louis was not wearing his scarlet hunting jacket but a white shirt soaked with blood.

She screamed.

The men dashed toward them and crowded 'round. They quickly lifted the Duke's body down from the saddle. Roy carried him in his arms to the manor while Teddy, ashen-faced, sent a pageboy to the village to fetch the surgeon.

Harry chased after them and stammered, "Clarence... the hounds... Sir Clarence took the hounds." He tried to make himself clear but he was frantic and out of breath.

An accident they assumed.

"No!" His voice cracked in the air like a horsewhip. "Clarence meant to murder his cousin!"

This was a call to arms.

The men, along with Beth, took to their horses and galloped into the forest embarking on a mission far nobler than the symbolic victory of the hunt.