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The fire crackled merrily, and the Honourable Qrow Branwen stretched his legs out towards the hearth with a contented sigh. He savoured the bouquet of the wine in the goblet before taking an appreciative sip and setting it down on the polished walnut side table beside his chair. England might be tolerable, after all. If only the weather were less unpredictable.

The wind and rain were not his concern, however. The heavy curtains and solid stone walls muffled the sound of the storm, and Qrow could relax in the comfort of his father's study.

My study.

Qrow still thought of himself as the Honourable, even though that title had slipped from his shoulders even as the unwelcome communication—the letter informing him of his father's death—slipped from his fingers.

So he was now Lord Branwen, having assumed the title upon the passing of the elderly viscount, who had resided at Branwen Hall for almost seventy years.

Qrow had not lived there himself for the past decade. Apart from the occasional brief visit, it was scarcely home to him at all.

Yet it will not do to become too comfortable here. There was no place for me before, and my circumstances have not altered.

Qrow had been on reasonable terms with his father; as reasonable as might be expected, given his— proclivities, as the former viscount termed them.

"I can't pretend to understand you, my boy. But perhaps a tour of the continent will cure you of this strangeness." His father had regarded him sorrowfully. "But do not tarry there too long. You know, we would still like to see some grandchildren at the Hall before we are too infirm to enjoy their company."

Qrow's brow furrowed at the memory. He had not asked for this. His life would certainly be easier if he'd been interested in women, as his friends were. Unsurprisingly, his sojourn in Europe had not 'cured' him, and the old viscount dropped his leaf with no prospect of grandchildren to enliven the corridors and grounds of Branwen Hall.

He stared at the leaping flames in the fireplace. A log settled, and a flurry of sparks spiralled up the wide chimney. The room was quiet, save for the ponderous tick of the grandfather clock.

I'll settle my father's accounts and look for someone to rent the Hall... or perhaps cousin Peregrine and his family may be interested. There is nothing to keep me here, and if I don't return to Venice soon, Vittorio may find someone else to share his bed.

He took another slow sip of wine, mouth curving into a smile at the memory of Venice and what he had found there. Perhaps it was love; perhaps not. Men like him were rarely so fortunate. But in the more relaxed environs, he was able to be himself, and his companion helped him to spend his time most pleasantly.

For now, however, all thoughts of that nature must be set aside. He was here on business, and his only wish was to enact the requirements of his father's will as speedily as possible, so he could return to Venice.

After a sound sleep and a hearty breakfast the following morning, Qrow sent a servant to request the estate manager's presence. While he waited, he fidgeted with the ornaments arranged along the mantelpiece. He recognised none of them; the hall had never felt like home to him. He experienced a flash of regret at the thought of his father lingering here alone, waiting to end his days with no hope of his family line continuing.

Qrow frowned at the fire. He could have married, of course. There were young ladies enough who set their caps at him in his youth, all to be disappointed when their interest was not returned. He knew of several men who had married for convenience, providing heirs to their name as was their duty. Whether they also turned away from their former way of life, he didn't know.

He poked at a protruding log with the toe of his boot. His father, to his credit, never berated Qrow for his unwillingness to go against his nature and make a marriage of convenience.

Qrow sighed. Part of him wished dearly he could have done as his father hoped, and he had searched his heart repeatedly in his younger years, attempting to rationalise the situation. Yet the prospect of marriage to one he had no regard for, and the necessity of having to play the part of an attentive husband and doting father— it was unthinkable.

With a heavy heart, he had said as much to his one remaining parent when he returned to England for his mother's funeral. The former viscount, after his initial dismay at Qrow's confession, was unexpectedly philosophical at the prospect.

"I have always known you to be different, my boy. Your dear mother—God rest her soul—intimated as much to me. I had hoped it would pass, but— she begged me to show you sympathy, and she was a woman of sense. As long as you bring no shame to this house, you may live the life you choose." He paused, adjusting his necktie with a trembling hand. "I wish— but there, never mind. Just be careful, sir. There are many in this world who would not hesitate to— to do you harm, if they should come to know—"

Qrow caught his father's hand with both of his and gripped it firmly. He was too moved to speak, and though he had seen his father little in the intervening years, he had never forgotten the love he felt for him at that moment.

A sharp rap on the panelled door interrupted his memories, and it opened to admit a man Qrow assumed to be the estate manager. He set his back to the fireplace and motioned the man forward.

"You are Mr Clover Ebi, I presume? I am pleased to make your acquaintance." He nodded, and the manager made a fuller bow.

"I am pleased to see you return to your ancestral home, my Lord. Please instruct me in whatever duties you require me to perform."

Qrow waved a slim hand. "Please, my Lord is unnecessary. Mr Branwen will suffice."

Clover raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. There had been much gossip amongst the staff regarding the new master's return—most of which he ignored—yet the remarks about his unorthodox manner seemed to be accurate.

"Very well, my— Mr Branwen." He smiled faintly. "It may take a little time for me to become accustomed to addressing you in such a way."

"I've been absent from this country for so long, I fear my manners may seem somewhat— unusual. You must know, things go on very differently on the continent." He brushed a minute speck of fluff from his sleeve. "However, I do not plan to make an extended stay. I intend to oversee the winding-up of my father's estate before returning to Venice."

"You will not be staying at Branwen Hall?"

Qrow shook his head. "No... it is not suited to my— to how I wish to spend my time. So," he continued smoothly, "if you can help facilitate matters, it will be much appreciated."

"Of course. Although—" Clover stopped, eyeing Qrow uncertainly. "What is to happen to the Hall? To the servants?"

"Do not worry; no-one will be dismissed. Whatever the future holds for the Hall, I will ensure the staff are a part of it. Yourself included." Qrow gave a slight smile.

Clover's shoulders relaxed. "That is a relief, I have to say. So many of them have been here for such a long time. They were all saddened when your father passed away."

Qrow's lips pinched. "As was I. So I would like to expedite this process, as you can imagine."

"As you wish. Would you like to tour the estate, or look at the books first?"

Qrow glanced out of the window. The expanse of parkland beyond was hazy, and the sky a leaden grey.

"I think the weather has decided we should peruse the books today. Is that acceptable to you?"

"Of course... I am here to do your bidding, Mr Branwen."

Qrow gave a small shake of the head.

I'll never become accustomed to giving orders like this.

"Then let us proceed."

As the time for luncheon approached, Qrow stood up and moved away from the desk, which was covered in open tomes and miscellaneous documents. He rolled his shoulders and groaned, before stifling a chuckle.

"My apologies, Mr Ebi. I am unused to spending half a day poring over estate records and suchlike."

Clover rose also and stepped back from the desk. "I am sorry for keeping you here so long, Mr Branwen. It was thoughtless; forgive me."

"No, no," said Qrow. "It must be done, and I was quite engrossed. You have kept meticulous records, I can see. It is pleasing to see the estate is thriving... and those who depend upon it for their livelihoods, too."

"Your father impressed on me the importance of accurate and thorough detailing of all that goes on here. And you seem to have acquired an excellent grasp of how things are, despite your time away."

Qrow walked to the window and gazed out. "I feel I know my home better now than I ever have." He turned to face the room. "Thank you, Mr Ebi."

Clover's cheeks flushed. "I am only doing my job. But I am glad."

"As am I." After a moment, Qrow added, "The weather has cleared, so I think I will take a turn in the gardens before I eat."

"Of course." Clover gathered some of the papers into a neat stack. "Do you wish to continue this afternoon?"

"No... I have a letter to write. But perhaps you would join me for dinner, if you are not otherwise occupied?"

Qrow's invitation took Clover by surprise. The old viscount was not accustomed to sharing his dining table with him.

"I am not, so I would be honoured. Thank you."

"Pfft. Honour be damned," chuckled Qrow. "I prefer to dine in company, so no standing on ceremony, if you please."

"As you wish." Clover made a small bow. "I will see you later, Mr Branwen."

Clover closed the door behind him and walked slowly away. He reached the hall and stopped, frowning. The new master was a very different man from his father, and he was finding it difficult to adjust.

Not that he's unfriendly or unaccommodating... the very opposite. It is almost as though he sees me as an equal.

This made little sense to Clover, yet if that was how his employer wished to proceed, he was obligated to comply.

With a small shake of his head, he crossed the hall and took the corridor which led to the kitchen. The bustle and chatter within distracted him for some while, and he reflected no more on his new master's unorthodox ways.

Qrow summoned Clover late in the afternoon, holding a sealed letter in one hand.

"Can you arrange for this to be sent to Venice? I imagine that will be possible?"

"I am sure it will be. I will make enquiries, Mr Branwen." Clover held out his hand, and it seemed to him Qrow surrendered the letter almost reluctantly, before nodding and turning on his heel. As Clover hesitated, Qrow looked back.

"I expect your company at dinner, remember."

"Of course." Clover watched him depart, then looked at the letter. It was addressed to Vittorio Palmiro, and the impression on the wax seal was of two outstretched bird's wings.

A crow... of course.

It seemed the new viscount felt he did not need his family crest to seal his letters.

Tapping the folded document against his hand, Clover decided he would deal with it straight away. He tucked it carefully in an inner pocket and went to fetch his riding coat, for a trip into the nearest town.

"Your missive is on its way. I do not know when it will arrive, however." Clover paused beside the table, not wishing to take his seat before Qrow.

"Not too long, I hope. Sit down, Mr Ebi. Let us see what the kitchen has prepared for us." He poured two glasses of claret, and within a short time, the first course was brought in.

After partaking of the many dishes on offer, including a salt pork and cabbage soup, sole fillets with button onions and mushrooms, and cabinet pudding with wine sauce, Qrow pronounced himself replete.

Clover pushed his plate away with a satisfied sigh. "That was excellent; thank you for allowing me to dine with you. We eat well enough in the kitchen, but—"

"This was finer fare, I imagine. Some dishes were unfamiliar to me... it has been so long since I lived in England." He replenished their glasses. "But it was very well prepared and presented. I must pass on to the cook how much we enjoyed it."

Clover dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He felt pleasantly mellow, and more relaxed in his employer's presence than before.

"The house is agog with curiosity, you should know. Regarding your long absence, and your plans for the future. And whether you have left a Viscountess Branwen behind in Venice."

Qrow raised an eyebrow. "And are you also curious, Mr Ebi?"

"I, uh..." Clover realised with horror he had been too informal. "I meant no disrespect, I'm sorry if—"

Qrow laughed. "It is no matter... their interest is unsurprising. I am afraid I must disappoint you, however." He took a sip of port. "There is no devoted wife waiting patiently for my return."

Clover swirled the ruby liquid in his glass. "You have no desire to marry?" He looked at Qrow with a small smile. "Some of the maids are very fulsome in their praise— I have heard much admiration of your slim physique, and your hair, and the way you dress."

"Is that so?" Qrow smiled. "Perhaps I should visit the kitchen and surprise them."

"It would be in an uproar the moment you left," smiled Clover. Then his expression became serious. "No, I jest. They may have made a few remarks, but nothing improper. I am afraid the good food and wine have put me in a teasing sort of mood."

"It is a pleasant way to pass the time, do not worry." Qrow drained his glass. "But I think I must retire now. I am still tired from the journey from Italy."

Clover scrambled to his feet. "I am sorry if my nonsense has wearied you, Mr Branwen."

Qrow dropped his napkin on the table. "Do not concern yourself, Mr Ebi. As you have doubtless realised, I dislike an excess of formality."

Clover's smile was relieved. "I believe I am beginning to appreciate that."

Life went on at the Hall much as it always had.

Except for Clover, whose time spent with Lord Branwen differed greatly from the hours in his former master's company.

Like Qrow, Clover had never married. There had been an engagement many years ago. It was not of his choosing, but rather his parents' desire. The young lady in question quickly realised Clover's heart was not set on their match, and after a painful conversation, the engagement was terminated. Since then, he had kept his own company, meeting no one to whom he felt any partiality at all.

Clover suspected that his master's interests were of a similar nature. He recalled the man's name on the letter Qrow had sent, and wondered.

Qrow was kept busy with his father's estate. He visited his cousin, and they agreed the Hall should pass to his family; as a consequence, there were numerous meetings with lawyers and many documents to sign.

Dining with his estate manager was now a regular occurrence, and Qrow relished it as a way to put the onerous business tasks to one side. He found Clover to be pleasant company, and the time spent with him passed quickly.

In his solitary moments, however, Qrow was less cheerful.

There had been no reply to his letter.

He told himself loved Vittorio, although when he dwelt more thoughtfully on the matter, he wondered if perhaps he was deluding himself. Could a man such as him really know true love? Yet Vittorio insisted he loved Qrow.

So why does he not write?

He consoled himself with all the reasons there might be. But it always came back to the worrying thought he could be unwell, and unable to write.

When the letter did arrive, and Qrow had read it through three times, he wished he had remained ignorant of the facts.

I love you, Qrow. You must believe this. But I want to travel, and my plans are almost in place. I do not know how long I will be away, but now you are settled in your family home I do not worry for you. I will think of you often, and when I return, perhaps—

Qrow did not care about perhaps. He had assumed Vittorio was the person with whom he might grow old.

It appears my former lover has other ideas.

He crumpled the single sheet of paper and tossed it onto his desk with a muttered oath. Then he snatched the decanter of brandy from the sideboard and pushed open the doors which led onto the terrace, striding out into the fading afternoon light with a scowl on his face.

Clover had expected a request to dine with Qrow, yet no invitation was forthcoming. Their interactions had become less formal with every passing day, so he had no qualms in going in search of his master, to ascertain his plans.

The viscount was not in his study, or the library, or any of the other rooms he generally frequented. Clover returned to the study and stood by the desk, frowning. His gaze fell upon the ball of crumpled paper and after a moment of hesitation he picked it up, smoothing it out carefully.

The handwriting was difficult to decipher, but he understood enough. Biting his lip, he crushed the letter into a ball and replaced it. As he turned to leave, he noticed the partially open doors leading outside.

The twilight was deep beyond the house, with only a muted light offered by the waxing moon. Clover trod across the grass, straining his ears for any sound which might indicate Qrow's whereabouts. An owl hooted dolefully.

He reached the rose garden, the dozens of bushes pruned and leafless at this time of year. In the middle of the garden was a circular pool, with an arrangement of stone cherubs in the centre, all pouring water from their stone jugs. Several benches were set around the outer edge of the pool.

Slumped on one of these was Qrow.

Clover's footsteps slowed, his boots crunching on the gravel. He was only a pace away when Qrow finally raised his head.

Despite the shadows which deepened across the rose garden, Clover could see his red-rimmed eyes and the marks of dried tears on his cheeks. He took a half step forward, his toe catching the discarded decanter, its contents consumed.

"What— what do you want?" Qrow enunciated each word with exaggerated care as he squinted up at Clover.

In silence, Clover sat beside him, reaching for the glass decanter and standing it upright to one side. He drew in a deep breath.

"I saw the letter."

The silence deepened between them. Qrow hung his head, his hands covering his face.

"Did you— you understand what it means? Who I—" he hiccuped. "What I am?" he finished, his voice a whisper.

"I do. And I am extremely sorry you have been used in this way. It is contemptible behaviour to inform you of such a thing by letter. I apologise for my forthright words, Mr Branwen. But no-one should be treated in such a manner, especially— no-one." He paused, before adding, "I do not think less of you, if that is your concern. But I believe—" He caught Qrow's arm as he slid sideways, almost slipping to the ground. "I believe you should seek your chambers, and sleep. The situation may seem more tolerable in the morning."

Qrow shook his hand off in a half-hearted manner. "Can't go back. Don't want them to see me like this."

Clover glanced round at the deserted grounds and reached for the empty decanter as he got to his feet. He caught Qrow's wrist and pulled him to standing.

"Perhaps I can escort you to your room unobserved."

Qrow shook his head vehemently, and Clover frowned, pursing his lips.

"Very well; come with me."

Qrow looked into his face, his mouth twisted into a wistful smile.

"I can do that."

It was a slow walk to Clover's cottage, set some way from the main house. At times, he regretted the distance from one to the other, when the weather was inclement or he was in a hurry. On this occasion, he appreciated the privacy of his own abode.

As they walked, Qrow stumbling over his own feet occasionally, Clover thought of the unknown Italian man whose letter had caused him such distress. Qrow mumbled under his breath, indistinct words Clover could not discern. By the time they reached the cottage, he was almost asleep on his feet.

With some difficulty, Clover led him up the stairs to his small bedroom. Qrow collapsed onto the bed, apparently unaware of his circumstances. With a little trepidation, Clover removed his boots and loosened his neckcloth, before arranging the slumbering man more tidily. He drew the coverlet over his snoring master with a faint smile, and procured a blanket from the chest before returning downstairs.

He dragged a side chair against the sofa and tried to make himself comfortable, with little success. Finally, he fell asleep pondering how to return Qrow to the main house the next day without arousing the suspicions of the servants.

Clover, accustomed to waking early, was up well before Qrow. He ate a hasty breakfast of bread and butter spread with honey, then made coffee. He swallowed his quickly before taking a cup upstairs and tapping tentatively on the door of his bedroom. A gruff groan sounded from within, and he opened the door and peered inside.

Qrow sat up in the bed, rubbing his face. He squinted at Clover with bleary eyes.

"What— I am a little confused." He shook his head as though to clear it. "Where am I?"

"In my bed." Clover entered the room, unable to mask his smile completely. "You were well and truly in your cups last night, and did not wish to return to the main house. So I brought you here."

He watched a succession of expressions chase across Qrow's face. Finally, the remembrance of what prompted his drinking returned to him, and he swallowed hard.

"I am mortified. What must you think of me, imposing on you in this way?" He tried to scramble from the bed, his legs tangled in the sheets. Clover crossed the room and set the coffee on a small table.

"I think you are someone who received extremely upsetting news. Do not feel badly about what happened; I do not."

Qrow gave up the unequal struggle and sank back. "Is that coffee for me? My head is in a sorry state, as you may imagine."

"I am not surprised. That was a copious quantity of brandy you consumed." He handed the cup to Qrow, who took a greedy sip.

"Some of it spilt on the ground," he confessed. "But I still took far more than was wise."

Clover watched as he swallowed another mouthful. "I can make you a simple breakfast and then—if you are in agreement—I will assist you in getting dressed. We can walk to the house and if anyone asks, you may say you went for an early walk with me because you wanted to listen to the dawn chorus."

Qrow looked up at him, bemused.

"It is the season for the birds' morning rituals. They sing in a chorus, starting even before the sun rises. It is a most pleasurable experience," he insisted, as Qrow stared at him in disbelief.

"And you think that explanation will allay any suspicions anyone may have, that their master was drunk as a wheelbarrow and behaving shamefully?"

Clover's brows drew together. "To my knowledge only one person has behaved shamefully. The person who sent you that letter."

Qrow looked at him in alarm. "You saw—?"

"I did." Clover realised Qrow had forgotten their conversation of the previous evening. "I do not judge you, Mr Branwen. You may live your life as you choose, and I will add one more thing." He drew a deep breath as Qrow regarded him with a puzzled frown. "I am not— without experience myself of these matters. I do not judge you, because I do not judge myself."

There was silence in the bedroom, other than the rattle of the coffee cup in its saucer as Qrow set it down. The two men gazed at each other, then Clover's eyes shifted and he stared at the wall beyond the bed.

Qrow rose gingerly to his feet, approaching Clover tentatively. He touched his arm, and Clover looked at him.

"So we are alike, you and I. We face the same difficulties due to our— preferences."

Clover nodded. "I understand you, Mr Branwen. And I feel deeply the hurt you have been dealt, through no fault of your own."

Qrow held his gaze for a long moment before moving away. He drew back the curtains and looked out over the wide expanse of grass stretching to the wooded side of the park.

"I believed I had found someone with whom I could share my life. Share myself." He fingered the edge of the curtain. "It seems I made a mistake, and now... now I am uncertain what to do." He turned around with an impatient gesture. "You must think me a poor fellow, to be so affected by this occurrence."

A lump rose in Clover's throat. Without hesitation, he crossed the room and placed his hands on Qrow's shoulders.

"You are anything but a poor fellow. You are a kind man, who does not presume himself to be better than anyone else, and you have a fine figure and—" He broke off, blushing furiously. "I have said too much," he muttered, drawing back with a quick glance at Qrow.

The chuckle Qrow gave was unexpected. "You have said precisely what I needed to hear," he said. "I am wont to indulge myself in a fit of the dismals from time to time, but I declare you are just the man to cheer me up."

Clover gaped at him, before joining in with his laughter. "Well, it would be my pleasure to do so, if you would permit me. Although—" he broke off, a look of consternation on his face. "As you are my employer, maybe it is inappropriate—"

Qrow trod swiftly to stand close to him. "You know as well as I, such worries do not concern me. Although I would not wish to embarrass you." He raised a hand and touched Clover's cheek gently. "I am not inclined to pressure you into anything unwanted, and indeed, I am in no mind myself to do so at this moment. But you have lifted my spirits considerably, and if you feel able to continue to do so, it would please me greatly."

Clover took his hand and lowered it, squeezing the fingers before releasing it.

"Let me assist you in your toilet. We can talk while we listen to the birdsong."

The servants found the tale of their master waking early to hear the birds amusing, and attributed it to the strange habits he adopted from living abroad. When Clover joined Qrow for dinner that evening, the brandy decanter remained stoppered.

"You must think me flighty. It seems I have put Vittorio to one side most readily."

"No, I do not agree. It may be the connection was not as strong as you believed... on either side." Clover raised a hand as Qrow opened his mouth to protest. "I do not mean to belittle or diminish your feelings, merely— we struggle to find others such as ourselves, so when we do... perhaps we cling more tightly. That is all I am saying, Mr Branwen."

Qrow smiled. "Perhaps when we are private, we may use Qrow and Clover. If you are agreeable."

Clover felt a thrill of anticipation at the prospect. "I am."

Qrow reached across the table and rested his hand over Clover's.

"Then we are in agreement."