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Chapter Text

Jonah Magnus didn’t hire by the needs of his household, or the suitability of the candidate. Even before becoming embroiled with his research on the Dread Powers he had always been more keen to hire those that were interesting over those that were competent.

In the early days this was less of a problem. Jonah spent most of his time in London, in an apartment, away from the estate he left to his solicitors and groundskeepers. He rarely had to go to Edinburgh at all, only needing in his direct employ a valet to keep his shirts ironed and a cook for the occasions he wasn’t dining out or at his club. 

Things were different now. His growing collection needed a place, and what better place than his large unused manor home? 

Of course living in a manor meant staffing a manor, not to mention his own struggles keeping his horde of dark knowledge organized. 

Having interesting people working for him, he realised with a sigh, meant for the occasional missed button. 

He privately smiled to himself when Jon noticed the error and quickly moved to correct it.

Jon did try his very best, but he was…

“I apologise, sir,” Jon said. “I was distracted.” 

Distracted, yes. He had snuck into the collection again. His own little research project. Often spiders, but sometimes just pulled to a statement or letter out of pure curiosity. Jonah didn’t mind, and perhaps would have verbally reassured and allowed his valet access if only Jon’s guilt wasn’t so dear to him.

So unbecoming of a valet, sneaking into his master’s private collection. It was a betrayal, a betrayal to a man that had been nothing but kind and understanding to him! And now you can’t even do up his bloody buttons correctly. 

Jon was easily Jonah’s favourite. It was the reason he had hired him as a valet instead of footman as Jon had applied for. 

He had arrived at a fine time. His last butler, James Wright suffered a ‘heart attack’ after reading the book Jonah had acquired from Maxwell. His former valet Elias had filled the role. Within a week the place was in chaos. Two of the footmen quit, hence the posting and they hadn’t even filled the valet position yet. 

When Jon came in Jonah had one of his startling flashes of insight. Jon had been comfortable enough in his former position, but when he heard Jonah Magnus was hiring, well he had to at least try, right? Everything he wanted—needed to know all in one big house in Scotland.

He was lovely. Terribly awkward and shy, but rather than look away like most struck with nervousness, he made deep and uncomfortable eye contact. His grandmother had snapped at him whenever he didn’t meet her eyes, and even when he was supposed to be showing deference he would stare hard. He was prickly and defensive, and for all he tried to be polite he often came off as superior and brisk.

He had a stern face, but everything he was feeling could be read in his large dark eyes that seemed to magnetically draw everything in the room to his gaze. 

He could get by as a footman in a place like Bournemouth, but for a large country estate? He’d never get hired. And as a valet in the intimacy of his master’s confidence? Completely preposterous.

Jonah, utterly enamoured, hired him on the spot.

Jon’s pride intertwined with his panic, immediately in over his head. It was sumptuous.  

Jon quickly moved to help Jonah into his vest. All things considered, on a practical level at least, Jon wasn’t the worst hire Jonah had ever made when it came to actually performing his duties. He wasn’t well suited for the position, or trained for it, but he did his best to fulfil his role. He cared about his performance (and what people thought of his performance, bless him). He had even caught Jon reading a men’s fashion article a week ago trying his damndest to see to his master’s wardrobe. A fish out of water, but one that would rather suffocate than show it. 

“And what have you been so distracted about, Jon?” Jonah asked, as if he didn’t know, as if he hadn’t had peepholes and vents installed in his home for the sole purpose of spying on his servants. As if he couldn’t at times read their minds of all their little fears and uncertainties. 

Jon stiffened, both at the use of his first name and the question itself. 

“I… w-well,” Jon said hesitantly. He defaulted to a scowl to hide his nervousness. 

He could imagine Jon was berating himself for not having a good excuse, for looking the fool. 

“Relax, Jon,” Jonah ordered with good humour. 

Jon did not relax. Instead he was looking at Jonah plaintively with those lovely wide eyes. 

“Sir, you shouldn’t—” 

“I’ve told you you can call me Jonah when we’re in private, Jon,” Jonah interrupted, delighted by the social terror he was causing. Jon may resent his position in life, an orphan, the son of a dock worker, but he knew his place in it, and tried so hard to abide the expectations society had placed on him. From experience he knew how painful it was to stand out. If people knew he was calling his master not only by his name, but his first name??? To his face? 

“S-s-sir,” Jon pleaded. 

“You see me in my underclothes, shave my face,” Jonah continued to tease him, a cat with a particularly endearing mouse. 

“That’s—that’s how it should be,” Jon attempted to seem an authority on the subject. 

“Elias never lectured me about it.” Jonah batted that weak little burst of confidence away handily.

Jon wasn’t quite sure what to say. He didn’t exactly … respect the butler’s lax standards. Elias was more likely to watch the cobwebs gather than to dust, but he was an authority figure, and Jon had a thing about authority, and was perhaps worried if he pointed it out Jonah would give him another unearned promotion. 

Now Elias, wonderful personality for a valet. Charming, quick witted, and a problem with over indulging narcotics. An eye for fashion and a good head for finances when sober. Cut Jonah shaving constantly, ruined half the clothes he tried to clean, stole money, didn’t seem to be aware of how often he was fucking it all up. Daddy issues. Honestly he was doing less harm as the butler. Failing upward, his father who cut him off for his rakish behavior would be so proud.

Jonah had never called Elias by his first name in private. It would have been too welcome. Elias still clung to his memories of life as a wastrel heir. The good times, when people like Jonah would be happy enough to mingle with the son of new money when the money was that highly stacked. Hearing Bouchard made him think of his father and all the lovely little sparks of fear and anger it stirred. 

Elias had been fun to watch up close, but Jonah had grown somewhat tired of his antics, Jon was a breath of fresh air—and easier on his wallet. 

 “Alright, Jon,” Jonah said, letting him off the hook of forming another argument. Jon was so relieved that he didn’t even try to lecture his master for his continued liberty with his own first name. 

Jon finished up his duties. Jonah let him go, saying he would take breakfast late. There was a pile of unanswered letters on his desk… and a pile of unsorted accounts he should really get to filing, instead he went to the hidden compartment behind his mirror. He gave himself a cheeky smile and removed the piece of wood. Behind it was a pipe that carried sound up from the downstairs with such startlingly pleasing acoustics.

He listened to Tim, one of the footmen, idly flirting with Sasha, one of the maids. Sasha wasn’t interested in anything but Mr. Stoker’s friendship, a deep affectionate friendship, but an entirely platonic one.

Tim was a beautiful young man prone to sweet smiles and flirty looks. He had seduced many a village girl (and lad if some of the gossip could be trusted). He was on the cusp of being labeled a rake if he weren’t such a satisfying lay that his lovers forgave him his carelessness with their hearts. 

Sasha having no interest in him was probably what made him think she was the one as if such a thing existed. 

Jonah appreciated such a rare woman like Sasha, although he had always found the mentality of working women far nobler than the ladies of society. Sasha was brave enough not to be tied down in misery for the prospects of a safe life. She earned and saved her wages and planned to retire one day surrounded by friends, but no husband in sight. Meanwhile, Janice Fieldgate was having a panic of some such about her betrothed losing a vast amount of his fortunes gambling, and worrying about a life in comfort instead of lavishness. 

Jonah missed London, but he didn’t miss the obsession with marriage. 

From context clues there were others in the room as well. Michael the gardener and his jarring laugh, Helen stirring the pot both literally and figuratively, who was she trying to pit against another today? 

That would leave…

“Can you see it?” Martin’s voice burst in, interrupting the murmuring conversations. 

“See what?” Sasha asked, smoothly pivoting from Tim’s flirts to Martin’s panic. 

Jonah wished there was a way to see from here. He had floated the idea of mirrors to Robert once, the bastard had laughed at him.

Alas.

It would be too much time to go down the secret corridors and get a view through the peephole. 

Luckily, the downstairs was vocal enough to fill him in.

“Then you can’t see it?” Martin said in relief. 

As if on cue, Jon arrived.

“His lordship will be taking breakfast late,” he announced with gravity that the situation did not call for. A little awkward pause, “Sorry Ms. Richardson.” He added a little closer to contrite.  

A heavy annoyed sigh.

His sweet valet tried to needlessly (and incorrectly) defend him. “He’s very busy with his work—Mr. Blackwood,” Jon’s voice dropped to sub-zero temperature and Jonah’s smile widened. Ohhh, it would be Jon and Martin at it again today then. 

“Y-y-y-yes Mr. Sims?” Martin squeaked. The poor footman had been a pebble in Jon’s shoe from the get-go when on his first day Martin had let a dog into the kitchens. Jon’s sensibilities and need to do well in his position (and his terrible anxiety about his own qualifications) had him incensed at the disregard for decorum.

That is to say, Jon’s a cat person. 

It didn’t help that Martin was a fraud. Faked references, no experience, he had been a day labourer before he managed to find this position. If anyone ever found out he would be fired or worse, but his poor mother needed to be supported. She was ever so ill. How hard is it to lift things for rich layabouts? I’ve been lifting all my life! The little details he missed? Well he would learn. He would learn and not screw up. He would be so good at his job that even Mr. Sims would praise him.  

Poor Martin. He was easy to forget, fading into the background of every room he entered. He was a likeable enough presence that no one took notice of his deficit. At best they took pity on him. All except Jon. Martin’s lack of knowledge stuck out to Jon like a sore thumb. Jon was almost as good at sniffing out secrets as Jonah was, but he wasn’t as skilled at extracting them. 

It led to a beautiful cycle of Martin desperate to win Jon over and Jon more irritated by Martin’s lack of professionalism (his thoughts). 

And then there was the trouble of Martin and his weak presence. His mild personality meant no one disliked him, but no one knew him. He was so seen by Jon. It not only frightened him, but excited by him as well. It was pathetic and Jonah was eager to see if Martin’s feelings would develop into a bitter resentment or a hopeless crush. 

That was the other thing, Martin had a lifelong struggle with feelings sodomitical in nature (which really was half the staff with Jonah’s preferences for servants with terrible secrets and his own apathy toward the sin). He himself preferred the company of men. High society women rarely had anything to say beyond prattle about their current children, or future children, or the other inane gossip that only brought light laughter and little trouble. Men couldn’t trap him in a relationship or with a bastard, and were only too eager to keep it hushed when Jonah grew bored of them. The added fear of exposure was just icing on the cake.  

He had wondered if Jon might have such leanings, but it was impossible to tell. There was some vague talk of an engagement that fell through, but he hadn’t been able to get more than that. 

Speaking of Jon, Jon had gotten himself worked up into a fine little tantrum. “Good lord, man! Are you aware that Sir Robert Smirke will be arriving this afternoon? Do you expect the first impression of Lord Magnus’ household to be a footman with a—what is that? A tea stain on his livery?”

“Ohhh, I do see it now,” Tim said unhelpfully, trying to dissolve the tension with levity.

“Tim,” Sasha sighed.

“Oh it’s not that bad,” Tim insisted. “I bet you Elias won’t even notice.” 

“Mr. Bouchard,” Jon corrected, “Mr. Bouchard doesn’t notice anything,” he added childishly under his breath. Jonah smiled as he pictured a pout on his sharp features. 

“Jon’s right, it’s noticeable,” Helen said, trying to hide her glee. 

“See!” Jon said, a little too excited at having someone agree with him. Helen was probably lying just to get a reaction, bless her. 

“I’ll fix it!” Martin promised. “I’ll fix it before Sir Smirke arrives.” 

“You had better,” Jon said. “A stain on you is a stain on our employer.”

“Oof,” Tim muttered at such a stuffed-shirted line.  

Oh, what a dashing valet he had acquired, Jonah mentally chuckled.

He replaced the cover on the vent and headed to the dining room, ringing the bell before picking up one of the newspapers laid out for him. 

Tim had been right, Elias did not notice the minuscule stain. 

But Jonah was sure to give a little frown toward it when Martin laid out the tea, sending him into another panic about his job.

He smiled behind his teacup. It was life’s little joys.  

To work. He couldn’t play with the servants all day, lovely as they were. 

“I never pictured you as a hoarder,” Robert said, looking dubiously at the stacks of papers and books that had consumed the library and had slowly expanded into some of the bedrooms. The east wing at this point had become storage for his project. He could feel his patron’s pleasure, having this… space, this temple, but it wasn’t quite… right. It wasn’t enough. 

“Well, word has gotten around about my interests,” Jonah said with a shrug to the state of the mess. “And our friends are nothing if not helpful, using their connections, sending their own stories, and their friends in my direction.”

“I would say it’s helpful toward our research,” Smirke sighed hopelessly, “Except how do you expect to find anything?”

“Once I read it I have little interest in looking at it again,” Jonah admitted. He knew he had to keep the accounts. Knew they were for something. He had tried to file them away properly, but the abundance of paper became overwhelming. 

“You should get Fanshaw over here,” Robert said with zero subtly. Jonah was almost insulted. “He’s a dapper hand at organisation.”

“Jonathan’s still refusing my letters,” Jonah said. “As you already know, you snoop.” 

He had … regrets about Jonathan Fanshaw. The good doctor had luck when it came to running into the unusual. Doctors and grave robbers go hand in hand, science and cadavers wonderful little precipices to the unknown. He had had some good stories to share, and he had… potential. He had hoped he would be a part of his future. His worship to the Ceaseless Watcher would have been a sight to behold, he was sure of it. How he categorized things with such furious intensity. His refusal to walk away from his patients despite his fear of what might be happening to them. 

Jonah… thought he had a stronger stomach. 

He didn’t tell Smirke any of this. Smirke was getting distant, getting cold feet too. He could feel it. He was less enthused about hypothesis and more inclined to speak socially. Trying to remind Jonah of more human interests. 

That was a bitter disappointment as well. Two of his strongest allies and both of them didn’t have the nerve to dig deeper. 

Jon would dig deeper.

He wasn’t sure why the thought occurred to him, but he knew it was true. His valet’s curiosity wouldn’t allow him to ever stop, even if he wanted to. 

Alas, he was born the son of a dock worker and not a scion of the upper class with the access, privilege, and education it would afford him.  

“Well,” Smirke said, trying for humour, “I admit I’m not impressed. I hope you aren’t planning to show Mordecai this with all the money he’s given to you.” 

Jonah scoffed. “Morty is perfectly content with my letters, and happily makes his excuses whenever I send an invitation. He rarely has the… energy for me,” Jonah let a private grin slip. Mordecai and his unhappy marriage. Getting him into his bed had been a surprise, but quite a good position of leverage as it were. Lukas could barely stand to be in the same room as him anymore, having to face his illicit lover, not that he ever had much of a tolerance when it came to any room with people in it. 

“You need to be careful of him,” Robert said, worry in his eyes. “I fear he may have gone deeper than our group's original goals laid out.” 

Jonah wasn’t moved by the sentimentality. “You certainly have changed since the marriage.”

“Sorry?”

“You had a bit more boldness to you is all. You were the one so eager about pushing the boundaries of human knowledge. Of finding control. Balance,” Jonah said carelessly. “If this is what marriage does to a man, I want no part of it.”

Robert looked at him in disapproval. Robert and his penchant for digging, Jonah wondered what he had figured out about Jonah. 

“Marriage is good for the soul,” Robert declared. “It makes you see things more clearly. Laura has made me see things clearly… I’ve been thinking about designing churches. Perhaps using what we have gained for… for protection.” 

Jonah stared at him. “Churches?” 

Sir Architect of Fear wanted to waste his time on bloody churches? 

Smirke sighed. “I knew that you wouldn’t understand. You have been friends for a long time now, Jonah. Consider what it is your research is actually about. Consider Mordecai Lukas. Consider Rayner. It’s gotten out of control.” 

“And you do love control,” Jonah said coldly. “I’ve been thinking, Robert, is it a good marriage that has put you off your life’s work, or was it something as small as a spider bite?” 

“Jonah…that… that isn’t what’s happening.”

“I think it’s late,” Jonah cut him off. “Time for bed, don’t you think? Sweet dreams.” 

He was in a foul mood when he retired to his rooms. Jon dutifully ran him a bath and laid out his sleep clothes. Smirke had left such a foul taste in his mouth he didn’t even have the energy to tease Jon as he let himself sink into the hot bath. 

Instead, he closed his eyes, indulged in the feeling of Jon’s fingers in his hair. He didn’t think of himself as a man who needed people, but first Fanshaw and now Smirke abandoning it all…and he watched it happen as if he had no choice but to let it all fall apart. 

“... Are… are you alright, sir?” Jon asked nervously. Jonah cracked one eye open. Jon looked tense and extremely uncomfortable, even as he continued washing out Jonah’s hair. He did not try to make small talk lightly. Jonah’s mood must really be apparent. “It’s… it’s just usually you’re in a better mood after having company.” 

That, my darling valet, is because usually they are sharing with me stories of personal horrors, not mealy mouthed insipid words about building churches. 

He didn’t say any of it. He just stared into Jon’s eyes. Jon automatically stared back, growing more and more tense. 

Despite the two of them dead-eye staring at one another it did make him feel better. Something about Jon put him at ease. Not something anyone else would attribute to Jonathan Sims, and yet… 

Jonah sighed. He let himself sink a little further into the water feeling a little looser. Like it was all going to be okay. Like Jon’s expressive eyes held the future, and it would all end up going his way. 

“Are you worried for me, Jon?” he said at last, breaking their thick silence, but not releasing Jon’s gaze. 

“I… I suppose,” Jon muttered uncomfortably. “I… I know you had looked forward to his visit.” 

Jonah smiled, soft and genuine. “You’re quite sweet under your prickly quills, aren’t you, Jon?”

Jon, flustered and unsure, kept going. “I—well—I’m sorry anyway… the work you do is important, I truly believe that. If he can’t see it… well that’s his folly.” Jon twisted the washcloth in his hand. 

“Thank you, Jon,” Jonah said. Jon’s uncharacteristic kindness carried him all the way to bed. It wasn’t until he was drifting to sleep that he wondered how Jon had known. 

How did he know that he and Smirke disagreed about his work?

Chapter Text

In the morning Jonah went straight to breakfast for once, forgoing his usual spying of the downstairs. He knew Robert would have been up with the dawn. He hoped he might shoo him out of the house, unwilling for more of the wet blanket attitude his friend had taken up.

He had no interest in seeing that.  

Robert was already sitting at the table, having stolen his paper. 

“Anything of interest?” Jonah asked with a little teeth to the inquiry. Robert knew what he meant by interest. 

Jon stood to the side, ready to serve and be of aid. His eyes were glued to the back of Robert’s head despite him trying to seem unconcerned and deaf to all the world as a good servant should. 

Robert hesitated. “That pattern we were talking about… disappearing farmers… another to add to the list,” Robert said, handing Jonah the paper, pointing out the article. 

Jonah took it, surprised, skimming it over. The pattern was certainly more than established. There had even been some talk of a killer among Jonah’s contacts in the police. A killer that just killed for the sake of killing.  He glanced up at Robert. 

Robert sighed. “I do trust you, Jonah, you know that, don’t you? More than any one of our little group. I never thought of myself as the sentimental sort, but with Laura… well, I suppose I have something to lose. I’m not as brave as I thought I was, but maybe that just means our work for Balance is more important than ever. Everything has weight, everything has counterweight. If we can only unlock it. I… I’ll admit, I feel guilty. You’re doing so much work, finding so much material, and I’ve just been sketching designs. Maybe I just want Balance for you as well. Your interests and your human life steady and paralell.” Robert, always structure on his mind. 

Jonah noticed Jon’s shoulders relaxed a little at Smirke’s apology. Jonah wasn’t one to forgive so easily. Usually, he would let Robert stew with a few unanswered letters, see how he’d react to it…but Jon’s relief on his behalf was so touching he couldn’t help but ease up.

But the architect's words were a reminder of how far he had drifted from Robert's original tutelage. Balance wasn't something Jonah desired anymore. Perhaps he never had.   

“Marriage,” Jonah shook his head. “I knew there was a reason I avoided it.” The denouncement was teasing and Robert’s relief palatable. 

“You should try it,” Robert insisted despite all the obvious pitfalls. “Some men might claim a death to their freedom, but having a wife to tend to your needs, to share your thoughts, to look after you, it’s a tender thing.”

“I already have a perfectly good valet,” Jonah smirked, he peered innocently at Jon, who was desperately trying not to fidget at such a comment. 

Robert huffed. “You’re impossible. I heard on the train there’s going to be a ball in the coming fortnight. Hosted by a Mr. Gerard Keay, if I remember correctly, a neighbour of yours. I’m sure you were given an invitation despite rumours of your growing reclusive nature.”

“Recluse! Is that what they’re saying in London? I miss a season or two and suddenly I’m shut away with my tomes of horrors and little company?” 

“Not far off, my friend,” Robert lectured. "You haven't been to Edinburgh either despite the closeness. I doubt you see many guests."  

“Nonsense, I take in plenty of guests, don’t I, Jon?”

Jon, always uncomfortable with being addressed so casually, and to a knight of the realm no less, gave a stuttering agreement. 

Robert was used to Jonah’s games and didn’t even pause to spare a raised eyebrow at the familiarity. “Mr. Sims, you have lived here for a while now haven’t you? You probably know of Magnus’ neighbours better than he himself! Surely you might help me convince your master of the importance of gaiety that he might go and enjoy himself.”

Jonah almost laughed in his friend’s face that he had chosen Jonathan Sims to exalt the virtues of fun. Especially when Tim had just stepped into the room to serve breakfast. He seemed to have trouble hiding his own fond amusement at Jon’s expense regarding the question.  

And yet…

“Oh… well… the Keays… I…” Jon said. “Well, I think you might actually like Mr. Keay, sir.” 

“Oh?” Jonah asked, genuinely surprised. “Why’s that?”

“He…” Jon couldn’t stop himself from fidgeting despite the solid eye contact he maintained with Jonah over Smirke’s shoulder. “Well, I believe he has similar interests. I … he’s…” and Jon … was Jon embarrassed? He looked heated and became more enthusiastic. “He’s very knowledgeable—” clear admiration. “And I… I’m sure he has stories he could share with you, sir.” 

Robert groaned at being so thoroughly thwarted by such an unassuming source.

Jonah was wrapped up in curiosity, how did Jon know this person?---And jealousy, how DID Jon know this person? 

“With such high regard from you, Jon, I will have to make his acquaintance.” 

He didn’t shoo Robert away as he had intended. The two settled back into their mutual interests. Perhaps with Laura back in London, Robert couldn’t help but feel drawn back toward his esoteric interests. No little wife to frighten with dark things, safely tucked away.

It was too bad. Jonah had actually liked Laura. She hadn’t been too vain or vapid. She could hold a conversation at least. To think both of them could be so thoroughly ruined by marriage to each other. 

Oh well, while he had his attention Jonah would be making the most of it. He showed him some of the newer accounts he had collected, casually giving Robert more fuel for his pet theory about the Thirteen as he liked to call them. He had even shown him the ‘Haunted Spider Account,’ which had Jon and Martin arguing— or rather Jon scoffing and Martin muttering under his breath when the two had overheard the account a week ago while serving a light dinner in the office. It had been a delightful little episode as Jon tried desperately to hide how affected he was (spiders, always spiders), snapping constantly, and Martin insistently pushing, trying to convince Jon that not everyone was a liar, ‘and spiders were quite cute actually. Especially the big fuzzy ones!’ (eugh) Martin felt more and more determined at each dismissive hiss Jon made in his direction. He just had to win him over. The two of them perpetually motivated the worst in one another. It was wonderful. He was surprised it hadn’t turned into more actually after Tim had encouraged Martin's pushiness. Tim did have affection for the two, but seemed as amused by their little tiffs as Jonah. He had told Sasha it was 'good for both of them,' when she had scolded him for it.

Thinking about it, the two hadn’t been getting into it at all the past few days had they? But maybe he was just too distracted by Robert to notice. 

Robert was as sceptical about the 'haunted spider' as Jon pretended to be. Jonah thought there was merit… but didn’t really care enough to push. They quickly moved on. 

“The Farmer Killer could be an aspect of Murder,” Robert said, talking of churches well and truly gone. Jonah had pulled out the accounts he had gathered from of the investigators first to the scene. Even Jonah found himself squirming at some of the imagery.   

“Are they really calling it the Farmer Killer?” Jonah said, unamused. What an uninspiring name. Absolutely no flair to it. The Murder wasn’t much better, although it was better than when Robert had tried to go with a seven deadly sins theme, before they had separated out more than seven. The Wrath was far too broad. 

Robert shrugged. “Well… from what we’ve heard the description is… apt.”

“Hm. Chopper I think would be a more decent descriptor,” Jonah muttered. “All that… meat.” 

Robert shuddered. “Yes. The Murder can be bloody.”

“Doesn’t feel right though, does it?” Jonah hummed. “And why farmers?”

“Do you think the Chase may be involved?” Chase sounded too much like a child’s game for a dreadful god of fear. It didn’t really work with the pattern either. Pursuit of prey had nothing to do with farms. Not unless there was some sort of demon fox or werewolf that could travel all over the country—well, there might be. 

“No,” Jonah said in annoyance. It was bothering him, not Knowing. “It doesn’t fit.” 

“Perhaps a break?” Robert suggested. They had known each other long enough that Jonah would only grind the conversation to a halt, continually circling back on what didn’t add up. 

Jonah relented, not willing to push his friend so soon after he had seen sense. He rang the bell and Jon appeared, prompt and dutiful. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you have them send up some tea, Jon?” Jonah requested, distracted by the niggling little inconsistencies. 

“Of course,” Jon quickly bowed and left to fetch it.

“Hmph,” Robert said pointedly.

“What? Did you have a thought?” Jonah asked eagerly. For all of Robert’s faults (and poor naming conventions) he was brilliant at putting things together.

“What? Oh no, not about that. Shouldn’t your butler be answering that bell? Bouchard?”

“Hm? Bouchard? Oh, he’s useless,” Jonah said dismissively. “Probably sleeping in a warm dark corner catching flies in his mouth,” Jonah waved his hand, still distracted. Murder, Slaughter, it fit, but it wasn’t quite what it was. What was it?

“Then why do you keep him on?” Robert pressed. 

“Huh?”

“Jonah,” Robert said, pulling Jonah out of his musings.

“What?” Jonah frowned.

“You complained about him when he was your valet as well, why would you put him in charge of your staff? Why would you even keep him on?” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Jonah asked. Elias was one of his. 

“Because, from what I can tell, he’s a leech living off your good will. When you hired the fallen son of Bouchard I knew it was your proclivity for gossip, but this is a bit much, isn’t it? Surely your interest in the man has waned.” Robert was exasperated with him. “I didn’t want to say anything, but the state of this place! And not just your archive. The dining room alone was full of dust, especially up in the corners. It’s not up to a standard one would expect for a man with so many staff.” 

“Isn’t it?” Jonah was genuinely surprised by that.

“This is why you need a wife,” Robert muttered. “She would notice these things for you.”

“I have Jon. He notices things for me.” Jonah shrugged. He realised since hiring Jon, although not up to Smirke’s standards apparently, things had markedly improved. Clean sheets. The smoking room aired out. The silver polished. Huh, Jon was doing quite a lot, wasn’t he?

“Yes, ‘Jon,’” Robert said pointedly. 

“Oh, what? You don’t like Jon?” Jonah accused grumpily. He finally let go of his thoughts on the farmers, giving Robert his attention (as he often did when things concerned his valet). 

“I don’t… I don’t dislike him,” Robert said slowly. “He’s another of your odd little characters you like to employ, but he’s a bit…”

Jonah Knew the moment Jon was back in earshot. His valet paused. He guiltily stood just outside the door and listened in. Jon didn’t want to hear Smirke’s opinion of him, but was unable to stop himself. Darling Jon and his cat-like curiosity. 

“He’s a bit creepy, isn’t he?” Robert finally decided.

Oh dear, a direct blow. Anger, resentment, shame, shame, shame. 

“Creepy?” Jonah asked, genuinely perplexed. He had actually expected something about stiffness, surliness, or gruffness. Creepy? Was he?

“The way he stares,” Robert pushed. “The way he hovers in doors.” 

Adorable. Creepy? No. 

Jonah was very aware of Jon’s ears burning. The another jolt of guilt, the realisation that was exactly what he was doing right now. He was off-putting. Lord Magnus’ friend had noticed. He was a little nosy freak and needed to do better. What if his master found out? Found him wanting? He needed to—

Jonah let go of Jon’s little spiral. 

“Jon is diligent,” Jonah corrected. “Attentive. He wants to see to my needs as best he can. I admit I threw him into deep waters. He had been seeking employment as a footman, and had only had one placement before this. I was at my wits ends. Wright had died, Bouchard was stumbling through replacing him. I needed a valet and Sims came with an air of hard work and decency. And I’ll have you know he’s noticed the deficiencies you were pointing out, and has been correcting them on his own time on my behalf. He’s loyal. I won’t have you slander him.”

“I…” Robert was surprised. Jonah was… protective of his staff in very odd ways. He refused to fire anyone no matter how badly they performed, and he tended to be overly casual, overly interested in their lives, but it didn’t spare them from his own opinions and gossip at their expense. He was being uncharacteristically warm. 

Robert didn’t know that Jon had just heard every word, and Jonah had decided to endear himself a bit, although what he said was all true. He knew the heart of all his staff.

He could feel, among the shame and guilt, a flower of gratefulness at the praise. 

“Well, I suppose you know better,” Robert finally said. “It’s clear you’re fond of him, I only was wondering—”

Jon entered noisily with the tea tray. He was trying not to let slip he knew. The frown on his face wasn’t actually all that revealing to someone like Robert who had come to know him in passing. A frown was his default.

Jonah could see he was upset, even if he hadn't noticed his eavesdropping it was like reading a book. 

“Ah, perfect timing.” Jonah grinned, pretending to be ignorant of Jon’s snooping. “Oh! Sandwiches, lovely.” 

“I–yes, I thought since you both forwent lunch you might be hungry,” Jon said, extremely self aware under the gaze of the two men.

“How attentive of you,” Jonah said pointedly. 

Robert made a small annoyed gesture. Alright, alright, you win, I’m sorry.

“Ah, ham,” Robert said, a little less enthused by Jon’s choices when he saw what was being served.

Jon went into a private panic. “Oh, do you not?—C-can I get you something else, Sir Smirke?” Jon was doing his damndest not to overdo it with his natural eye contact so he didn’t know where to look. He ended up gazing at the ceiling.

It was rather cute, but also how long would it take for Jonah to coax Jon back to normal? Jon’s eyes were his best feature; being deprived of his awkward stare would be intolerable. 

Robert, a little ashamed of his nastiness toward a man only trying to do his job (who really wasn’t the problem when it came to Jonah’s staffing choices), shook his head. “No, no, Sims it’s fine. We were just…” 

Jonah remembered the topic of conversation. He laughed in understanding. Suddenly, the sandwiches didn’t look all that appetising to him either. “Ah, we were discussing the Farmers that have been in the news.”

“Oh.” Jon blinked once. “I see…”

“And I’ve dug deeper, gotten some more… detailed accounts that I was sharing with Robert,” Jonah continued. “Things not… appropriate for the news to print.” 

Jon’s lovely eyes widened with curiosity and dread. “Oh, I see,” he repeated softly. 

Jonah could feel the quiet yearning. Jon wanted to ask. 

But he was a valet, a dock worker’s son, an orphan. He couldn’t ask his betters, he couldn’t give his opinions. 

And yet, he did try.

"Was there-?" 

"Nothing that you should concern yourself with," Jonah cut him off. 

He indulged Jon's nightly visits to his collection because of the illicit nature and guilt, but he wouldn't indulge in this. Especially with Robert here. Jonah, for all his casualness, did value class and what it meant. His servants were intelligent, bright, and ultimately at his whims. Playthings to entertain him. 

Jon was his favourite toy, not his equal. His input wasn’t wanted.

Something within him struggled. It wasn’t wrong, it was just… something more. Something he wasn’t seeing.

The silence hung in the air a little too long before Jon cleared his throat. “Then I should take these away. I don’t suppose meat would be appealing reading about all that … flesh.” He shuddered a little, he was clearly interested, but also repulsed. He served the tea and took the sandwiches.

“Do give it to the staff,” Jonah said. “It shouldn’t go to waste.” 

“Of course, sir…” Jon said. He gave an awkward little laugh. “Of course it would be the day Ms. James and Mr. Shelley have off and Mr. Blackwood overslept. But—but, the prices for meat are so good now you won’t be losing much if…” he stumbled. He was still wrapping his head around Jonah’s pocket book, numbers weren’t his strength (but at least he wasn’t moving money into his own pocket like Elias). “I’ll see they get this,” he switched tact, not wanting to continue to embarrass himself in front of Smirke. He bowed and retreated. He would stew all day with what he had heard and dissect every single interaction he had. Fearing for what else had been noticed. 

Jonah felt a buzz of pleasure, his Patron was pleased by that little hors d'oeuvre. It usually felt particularly satisfied from Jon’s fears. Did demonic gods have favourites? Or preference of taste? Did one man’s fear hit differently than another’s?

Maybe it was just Jonah’s preference of victim colouring his own feelings of satiation. 

“He does seem to want to please you,” Smirke allowed, pulling him back to the present. “Although putting such an awkward man in the position of valet is rather cruel of you, Jonah. The footman that served us this morning, the handsome chap, at least he can put a smile on. His valeting on my behalf while I'm here has been nothing but smooth. You might consider-” Robert went on. 

“Hm.” Jonah said, only half listening. He had relaxed at his god’s obvious approval, and was turning what Jon said around in his head. Jon had said… the prices are good. Meat wasn’t always so cheap. Someone of Jon’s upbringing probably got little of it. His skinniness would align with that deduction. It wasn’t something Jonah ever thought of. He had never had to think about what was put on the table. Never quibbled about prices.

But it was true… more production, more capital. Even people like Jon could afford meat more often.  

Flesh. All that flesh, Jon had said. Jonah supposed Jon could guess the gory details considering his nightly perusals of Jonah’s stacks. 

Still.

Flesh.

Hm. Something to think about. 

He sat in a chair and Jon threw a towel over him. Jonah enjoyed being touched. It was, perhaps, the only pro Robert could have thrown into the marriage column, except of course Jonah preferred a man’s firmer touch over a lady’s delicate caress, he had experimented in his youth enough to know that, and although he might still tolerate a woman in his bed on occasion, the thought of tolerating a woman in his life, aside from servants like Ms. James and Ms. Richardson, made him annoyed to think of. 

He tried to imagine her, a tolerable wife. A woman who wouldn’t poke him for attention. Who wouldn’t talk about inane things like drapery. The list of what he compiled was more a list of what he didn’t like more than what he should like in a person that he would share the rest of his life with. Most of those things he associated with the ladies he expected to socialize with. All of the positives aspects were literaly just what a valet was for. 

So right, just sex, and that wasn't enough to throw his life into upheaval. He hadn't had a lover since Fanshaw, but he wasn't desperate. 

He leaned his head back and sighed. The steam from the hot water rose and Jon washed his face. 

Jon had some delicacy in his touch, but Jonah wouldn’t mistake it as womanly. It was firm, but held a carefulness that Jonah well appreciated after tolerating Elias' shaky hands for years. Despite Jon’s care he was thorough, getting every speck before carefully laying the warm wet towel on his face. His entire focus was on Jonah, eyes running along the curve of his brow and the shape of his jaw, seeing what he would have to do for the task ahead. He was frowning, but it wasn’t his default frown of airs. It was an intense concentration that made Jonah’s skin crawl in a pleasant way.

But he wasn’t meeting his eyes.

Jon removed the towel on Jonah's face and started applying shaving cream.

“I hope you don’t take what he said to heart,” Jonah said. He felt a little thrill at Jon’s fear for being found out.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jon said defensively. 

Jonah offered a little curve of his lips. “I think you do. This house carries sound in dreadful ways, and explains how shy you’ve acted all day.”

“Shy?” Jon scowled. Despite his annoyance he was so very slow and careful as he ran his long fingers along Jonah’s chin, making sure the cream was applied even and thick. 

“You’ve refused to meet my eyes all day.” 

A little flash of dark eyes meeting Jonah’s before they retreated again to the task at hand. 

“I… well,” Jon muttered. “I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, sir,” he grumbled. The scowl softened, but the frown was in full effect. 

“Do you think I would let you run a straight razor up my neck if you made me uncomfortable, Jon?” 

“I don’t know,” Jon said waspishly.

“Come now, Jon.” 

“You are quite the tolerant and forgiving man, sir. It makes it hard to know.” 

Tolerant and forgiving? That was not Jonah’s usual reputation.

“I… we all appreciate that about you, sir,” Jon added quietly, softening just a little. 

Jonah attempted to press a little into his thoughts and the Eye allowed it. Jon was ashamed and embarrassed for performing poorly in front of Smirke, and now having to have his master reassure him because he was obviously doing such a bad job of hiding it. No one else ever pushed him about his feelings (well, Tim, but he pushed everyone, and Martin was a busy body, and Sasha would just steal a journal if she wanted to know what was going on-), but it felt like his master could see into his heart. It was so … exposing. He could brush the others off, but not Magnus. His employer's reassurance also meant his master knew he had listened in, he didn’t want Magnus to think of him as a snoop. It wasn’t a good characteristic for a servant, especially a valet that saw his master in more intimate situations.

Jonah Magnus, Jon thought to himself, was far too forgiving. He never scolded anyone about anything, but Jon was sure he knew about the little shortcuts and bad habits among his staff. He was sure he knew Elias was gone for half the day and expected Jon to cover for him. He was sure he knew about Martin’s general lack of skill when it came to polishing silver and setting a table straight. He was sure he knew about Ms. Richardson’s starting of rumours. Of Sasha’s picking locks just for her own curiosities’ sake. Of Michael’s overeager delight with shears. Of Tim often not staying the night and going into the village for lark or a fuck.

And Jon was … he was glad that Jonah had such an understanding of his servants. He didn’t want anyone to get sacked… well perhaps Elias and Martin, although Martin did have his sick mother to consider and even Jon wasn’t that heartless as annoying as Martin could be… 

Then his thoughts got stuck a little on Martin and where WAS he anyway? Sleeping in would be one thing, but he wasn't in bed when Jon had stomped up to his room after breakfast. He hadn't been there. He was missing the entire day without word? Didn’t Jon have enough to deal with without a missing footman? He couldn't even figure out if he had left last night or early in the morning, no one knew.

Jon suddenly realised how long the silence between them had gone on. Jonah tutted.

“You’re distracted by this, aren’t you?” he asked. 

“Sorry,” Jon said shortly. He carefully pulled out the razor. 

Jonah held still as Jon carefully swept it along his face. 

 Jonah gave a little exhale of pleasure. He couldn't prod more for fear of getting nicked, so he allowed himself to enjoy the shave. His thoughts drifted back to marriage as Jon’s elegant fingers slid down his jaw checking for stray hairs. 

Had Robert really gotten to him? He wasn’t lonely. Neither capital L lonely or the regular kind. He wasn’t a recluse. People had started to seek him out for advice, and to tell him their stories. He wasn’t odd just because Society bored him. Most of their little group came in because of a sense of ennui and unfulfillment from the day to day that was so perfectly cured by imaginings of greater darker power.

“Do you have a special someone, Jon?” Jonah asked out of the blue as Jon was wiping the razor before his next pass. Jon was circling around his performance again. Those thoughts were replaced by a few shadowy silhouettes and then a bright image of a grinning woman with dark curls, but she was quickly gone as well.

“No,” Jon answered bluntly as he always did when Jonah tried to get overly personal. “Why?”

“Robert and his talk of marriage,” Jonah answered.

“Ah,” Jon said, awkwardness rising again at the mention of Robert. His eyes strayed to the side.

“Oh, honestly Jon.” Jonah reached up and took his valet by the chin. Jon froze, his eyes immediately back on Jonah. There, that’s better. “You aren’t creepy.” 

Jon staggered back out of his reach. “Sir–”

“You aren’t Robert Smirke’s valet, you’re mine, and you’re perfect as far as I’m concerned,” Jonah said stubbornly.

Jon’s eyebrows rose at the praise. His cheeks glowed, embarrassed and maybe a little pleased. 

“Oh.” 

“Just be your lovely self, alright?” Jonah said with a teasing smile. 

This incited a grumbly kind of pout, but it was the usual pout at his master’s over-intimacy. 

Jon nodded. He slowly approached again. He realised he had been holding the razor in a rather protective gesture and quickly lowered it; clearing his throat before getting a hold of himself and stepping in to continue shaving his employer. There was no more avoiding his eyes.

Good. They were such a pretty colour to get lost in. 

“Are you thinking of going to the city for the season then, sir?” Jon asked.

“Hm?”

“You were … thinking of marriage?”

“Not really,” Jonah huffed. “Why?”

“Oh, I just… if you were planning to maybe…dance at the ball,” Jon stopped short. “I… I could help you—I—I mean, I have been looking at the latest fashions if you wanted to…”

“Attract a young lady as my bride? The next Lady Magnus who will get my household in order?” Jonah said in amusement. He had forgotten about Jon’s little side research project in his efforts to be as helpful a valet as possible.

Jon cleared his throat. Was it really a scowl or was it just a pout with a hard edge?

Jonah continued: “Really Jon, between yourself and Elias, I’m more than happy with how the house’s day to day goes… but…” Jonah grinned, shark-like. “I do want to see your suggestions. What you think may look good on me.”

Jon choosing out clothes for him that he found aesthetically pleasing? Buttoning up an elegant coat, pinning a silver cufflink? My, that sounded like a lot of fun. Did he think about what colours would do well with grey eyes and ginger hair that was just beginning to show strands of white? Had he thought about it a lot? 

“Ah… yes, alright.”

“Who knows,” Jonah continued to tease. “Perhaps with the ensemble  I’ll meet the woman of my dreams, give up my life long work, and settle into marital bliss.”

Jon’s lips twisted. “Well that sounds dreadful,” he muttered under his breath.

Jonah chuckled, well in agreement.

Jon finished the shave and started washing off his master's face again. 

“Speaking of the ball, how do you know Gerard Keay?” Jonah asked curiously. He had meant to ask earlier, but Robert’s nonsense had gotten in the way.  

“Oh,” Jon startled. “Well… we met on the train here actually. For my interview here.”

And Jonah felt it. A twist of fear. Not the deep one that drove him to the stacks at night, but … something…

“We um, just fell into talking about books,” Jon said vaguely. “It was only the two of us. The train was very late. I don’t think Gerry’s much for conversation with strangers. Neither am I really, but we just sort of… fell into talking.”

“Gerry?”

“Hm?” Jon asked, distracted.

“You called him Gerry,” Jonah accused. “You’re usually not so casual, Jonathan. You still refuse to even call me Jonah and Lord knows I have asked you enough times.”

“Oh!” Jon realised. “I did. Oh… at the time I didn’t… I didn’t know he was a gentleman, his traveling clothes were—but ah you’re right. I shouldn’t take such liberties. Especially when we had only met once. He probably doesn’t even remember me,” Jon rambled. 

Jonah was immediately jealous of this Gerard Keay and his claiming of such intimacies with Jonah’s valet. Jon barely even used Tim’s first name and the two had known each other before coming to work for him, yet ‘Gerry’ was so casual. Without an ounce of thought that that is what Jon should call the man. 

Jonah tried to peer and see and know, but Jon wasn’t anything more than flustered, still using the name Gerry in his mind even as he vowed to remember the man he met was not a friend, but a member of the upper class and probably only allowed it that night because of what had happened.

Jon’s thoughts quickly swerved from that direction of thinking. He finished the shave and tugged the towel off Jonah’s chest, moving to clean and put his tools away. 

Gerard Keay. Jonah burned to know, but Jon had had enough, too many intense conversations in a row had him making his excuses. 

Well, Jonah would absolutely be going to this Ball then. He had to know who this man was.

And what he was to Jon. 

Chapter Text

Martin Blackwood’s disappearance hadn’t been noticed for near on two weeks. Even Jonah hadn’t really noticed aside from it being rather quiet in the house and Jon being in a slightly better mood than usual.

In retrospect it was rather obvious. No berating for misplaced gloves. No clicking tongue at spots on the silverware. He vaguely thought he perhaps had asked Jon and Jon’s answer was the assumption of Martin’s ill mother taking a turn while grumbling about the lack of communication. By now it was well established Jonah never fired anyone, so no one was overly worried about it. Martin would get yelled at by Jon on Jonah’s behalf for not telling them where he had gone and things would fall back into place once the footman returned. There were no expected guests, Robert had headed back to London and his wife and his thoughts about churches. Tim was fine on his own if anyone did stop in. Jon would aid him if needs must.  

So yes, no one had really looked into it. 

No one had expected what it would be.

Jonah, much to his disappointment, had been out and only heard second hand about Martin crashing into the kitchen, filthy, panicked, raving about maggots and walking corpses.

Surprisingly, it was Jon that had taken him in hand. Calming him down, and then, when learning of exactly what Martin had encountered, having him strip in the garden and checking for signs of infestation. He was clean, and so Jon brought him back in and had him wash up. 

“May I speak to you, sir… about Mr. Blackwood?” Jon said nervously. Jon had been waiting for him at the door for when he got in, and although his valet was a dutiful thing, he wasn’t so slavishly devoted as to be waiting at the window for him to return home like some kind of needy pup. Jonah sensed this was something beyond Jon’s usual complaints and nodded. “In my study.”

Jon didn’t seem to know how to start. Jonah waited silently, allowing him to regain himself. 

“Mr. Blackwood… Martin… we had… well, I had thought he had gone to look after his mother these past days… I… it seemed like a thing he would do, why he would go without telling anyone? Not informing us or sending a note. I … and some… Tim had asked, but I just brushed it off, so no one… we didn’t know—I even sent a message to where she... but I thought he was just avoiding the consequences of not letting anyone know, I didn’t ever think…I didn’t—”

“Jon,” Jonah said to steady him. He really did seem upset. 

“Have… have you ever heard of the Unkillable Rot?” Jon said carefully.

“John Amherst?” Jonah said, straightening up. “My God. He—did you—?”

“I checked him,” Jon said quickly. “No signs that he was… there were no marks, no signs of… of maggots or infection. I’m… I’m confident he’s not … I’m sure, I promise.” 

Jonah nodded, gesturing for him to continue. 

“He’s… he’s fine… I mean… shaken, but alright. He was… it was my…” Jon trailed off. He bit his lip. “It was my fault. We had been arguing. That… that stupid haunted spider nonsense. He wanted to … I don’t know… prove something to me? He went to speak to Carlos Vittery… who is…” he struggled to say it, his voice became a whisper. “Dead. And… the man was there.”

“Amherst,” Jonah corrected, his eyes not leaving Jon. 

“Yes. Well, Martin saw Vittery… he was covered in web, but flies were crawling all over him, getting stuck in it, filling the air. He swatted at them and a man, Amherst bellowed at him in rage. He got into Vittery’s root cellar and was able to board himself up. He lived off peach preserves. Fly maggots tried to crawl their way in. Flies constantly buzzed just outside his shelter.”

“How did he get out?”

Jon shook his head. “He… died. I mean, Amherst did. One day it all stopped. Martin cautiously emerged. The man’s corpse was decomposing, swarming with maggots. He ran.”

Amherst going after one of his staff? Was this a targeted thing, or just bad luck? Martin had gone to a site of possible paranormal happenings, was he just drawn there as well?

Jon squirmed. “I… I said I would speak to you, on his behalf. He’s worried you may fire him. I… I did tell him you surely wouldn’t. If you’ve kept on El—that is to say, you’re understanding and… and it wasn’t his fault.” 

“Well,” Jonah said slowly. “It was. He had no business being there.”

Jon was surprised. “Well, yes, but if I hadn’t—”

“If you hadn’t rationally thought a spider haunting a man was nonsense, he wouldn’t have walked into a dangerous house without any preparation?” Jonah countered. “While being the one that DID believe there was a danger there?”

Jon’s look of uncertainty was marvelous. He was utterly perplexed at Jonah seemingly turning on Martin so callously.

“Sir…” 

Got him.

“Call me Jonah,” Jonah said. “And I’ll forgive it.”

Jon stiffened. “Sir–th-this is a man’s livelihood.”

“Yes,” Jonah said simply, turning the tables on Jon with a disappointed look. “So why deny him over such a small thing? Do you really hate him that much? Especially after what he’s been through.”

“I…I don’t hate…” Jon opened and closed his mouth. “I… I don’t… it doesn’t seem…”

“You’re the one always complaining about him. Perhaps I have been a bit too lenient. My work is the most important thing to me, you know that. Blackwood getting himself tangled in it shows a lack of respect on his part.”

Truthfully, he wasn’t pleased by Martin’s behaviour. He didn’t mind Jon snooping around his collection, but tracking something like that back to Jonah’s house? The last thing he needed was an amateur footman bringing a literal plague on his head. 

And no, he wouldn’t be firing Martin for it, but… well Jonah was nothing if not an opportunist. 

“But he… he believed it and he…”

“Go on, Jon.”

“He was… right I… I don’t… I don’t like spiders,” Jon admitted, ashamed, “And I thought… ignoring it would… make it not real. S-so—”

“You know how to end this conversation, Jon.”

Jon took a deep breath. He looked like he wanted to run away. “Y-yes, Jonah.” He flinched at Jonah’s answering smile.

“See? You didn’t get struck down.”  Jonah teased. He liked hearing his name in Jon’s low voice. 

“Y-yes, right,” Jon muttered. He fell into a light scowl, a desperate attempt to hide all his anxiety. 

“Tell Mr. Blackwood he can have a day off tomorrow. Let him recover.”

“Y-yes, that’s kind of you,” Jon said, squinting a little, realising perhaps that he had been tricked. It was reactions like that that made the impulse to poke at Jon too strong. 

“Oh, and Jon. I would like to hear his statement. A shame I wasn’t here to—”

“Ah, yes. I… I wrote it all down.”

Jonah paused, watching Jon take out a few loose pieces of paper.

“Did you?” he said slowly. It was as it always was. He knew the story contained on those pages. Fear. Fear for his Patron. 

“I… I tried to do it as you do,” Jon said not mentioning how he might know the format so intimately. “The name, date, location, um.”

“No, this is very good of you, Jon.” Jonah reached for the pages, his petty little games with his valet forgotten. 

This was a statement.

He always Knew what was real and what was fake. And most of the time he could sense when someone had something to share. He could read it straight from their minds, use his knowledge and charm to coax them into putting pen to paper. 

“You wrote it?” Jonah again confirmed.

“Yes, well, Martin was a bit too jittery to write it out.” 

“Alright… you can go then, and … warn the others to be on the lookout. It’s not common for a thing like Amherst to release a potential victim. 

Jon nodded gravely and left him. 

Jonah’s eyes were immediately on the familiar tidy writing. Jon’s penmanship started neat, but became loopier as the statement went on, but the words…

Statement of Martin Blackwood, footman in the service of Jonah Magnus, regarding a close encounter with the Unkillable Rot. Statement transcribed direct from subject by Jonathan Sims, Valet to Jonah Magnus. Taken down Magnus Manor etc, etc… Statement begins: 

 

Martin Blackwood: 

 

I just need you to talk to Lord Magnus for me. Please Mr. Sims… Jon. Please. He listens to you. If you tell him then perhaps he’ll understand. I mean, it’s what he does!

 

Jonathan Sims:

 

What he does is compile stories of a supernatural nature. Usually it’s just folk lore, or falsehoods made up by liars and lunatics.

 

Martin Blackwood:

 

I need him to understand. You’re already writing it down! You can vouch for the soundness of my mind, can’t you?

 

Jonathan Sims: 

 

…

 

That is beside the point. I… alright, I’ll speak to him, but I don’t know why you’re worried, Lord Magnus has yet to sack anyone. Not even—ehem. Well, you know.

 

Martin Blackwood:

 

Hah, right. Well well I would appreciate the good word. So…

 

Jonathan Sims: 

 

So, go on then. Tell me. What happened?

 

Martin Blackwood:

 

It was a couple of weeks ago. You remember. Mr. Vittery came to speak with our master. I came up to serve some tea. You were there as well.

 

Jonathan Sims: 

 

Yes. Mr. Bouchard neglected the door so I showed Mr. Vittery into Lord Magnus’ office. I… I’m not sure why I didn’t leave. Vittery was a bit twitchy, maybe I worried for the safety of the situation.

 

Martin Blackwood:

 

Right, right. Well afterward you and I argued. I knew there was something not right about the whole thing from the off. I said it probably wasn’t natural. He was so … certain. I stand by that now too, though it wasn’t anything to do with spiders that ended up after me. Almost wish it had been. (Mr. Blackwood laughs nervously) I like spiders. Big ones, at least. Y’know, y’know the ones you can see some fur on; I actually think they’re sort of cute—

 

Jonathan Sims:

 

Please get back to the point, Martin…

Jonah finished off Martin’s account, the overwhelming fear reaching a peak and then falling back into steady dread. He found that he gained power with the expansion of his collection. 

But it felt as if…

It felt as if the Eye already had a copy, already hidden somewhere in his stacks.

Despite being real, despite all the strangeness that surrounded it, it felt… weaker than a statement like this should. 

And Martin wasn’t usually so eloquent, although Jon may have embellished. Left out all the stuttering…

But Jonah doubted it. It was all there. Perfectly transcribed. How had Jon kept up? He didn’t use shorthand, it was word for word, even as it grew loopier and harder to read.

And then he noticed the loopy handwriting was somewhat familiar as well. Not often seen, but Jonah had a memory for these things. Took note of it. A past lover had been very interested in graphology, reading a person’s character by the way they crossed their ‘t’s and all that.

Jonah’s letter ‘I’ signified a generosity of spirit apparently.

The same ‘artistic’ rounded letters he had seen on the crumpled up poem in the waste paper basket. It was Martin’s handwriting. As if Jon was so drawn into the account he himself had become Martin, reliving his fear. The signs of a quivering hand, or hard pressed indents against the paper at the more frightening details. At the end the writing switched back when Jon came to a few brief follow up questions.  

Had Jon… pulled the statement? Drawn it to the Eye’s gaze? Done it in a way Jonah had never experienced before? Surpassed the archiving of it? 

His interest in his valet shifted dramatically.

Was he… like him? Was that why he snuck into the stacks at night? Not just to learn more about cursed books and spiders, but… but to… to usurp Jonah? Is that why Jonah wasn’t getting much power from the new addition to his collection?

 But then, why hand him such obvious evidence? Besides, such a strong secret would have been pulled to Jonah ages ago. For all of the worries Jonah had picked up there were no signs that Jon was being duplicitous. 

“Is he like me?” Jonah said out loud, pushing his will into the question. The firelight flickered from the pressure of power manifest. It was a dangerous prospect, so directly seeking knowledge from the Ceaseless Watcher. It might lead him to answers or terrible painful secrets that burned his psyche to Know.

But he was given an answer. A simple answer.

Jonah knew with certainty that no, Jon was not like him.

But then if he wasn’t like him, what was he? 

His curiosity burned, listening to everything Jon said, watching everything that he did for the rest of the evening. It wasn’t all that different from any other night, but this wasn’t for his entertainment or little bite sized treats of fear, this was to See. 

He didn’t See anything. Jon was his lovely self, more abrupt and standoffish than usual. At first Jonah thought that might be an indicator of something, but then remembered the instant that Jon said his name.

Jon had finished Jonah’s nightly ablutions. He stood attentively. Jonah sat on his chair trying to think of an excuse to get information out of him, but he came up with nothing. 

“Is there anything else for you si–erm… Jonah?” Jon pushed his name out like it was something unpleasant. 

Right. Jon was annoyed about that. Jonah hadn’t even remembered the small victory he had made. 

“Do you really hate it that much?” Jonah asked. He wasn’t getting anything about what he was really curious about, but if he dug a bit deeper…

“I… it’s not proper,” Jon said. 

“But why does that distress you so?” Jonah asked, taking on a sympathetic tone he didn’t really feel. “I’ve said it’s fine. It’s only the two of us. Why does this bother you?”

Jon was very still.

“Come on Jon, you know I don’t bite.” Not unless you ask me too, he didn’t add. Such a frank flirtation was reserved for Mordecai or Fanshaw, not his servant. 

“It’s how I was raised,” Jon finally answered, quick and trying to seem dismissive, as if it wasn’t such a big deal. 

“You’re an orphan, aren’t you?”  

“Oh, I… I didn’t know you knew that, yes, I… my father worked on the docks. He was unloading something. He had climbed up and… he fell. Right into the ocean, they didn’t retrieve his body, it didn’t float I guess…” 

“How terrible. And your mother?” 

“Hospital. I think they must have taken her there so that I wouldn’t get whatever she had. I was… I don’t actually really remember either of them very well. I was two when my father died and four when mother … but I wasn’t…  I didn’t get sent to an orphanage, my grandmother took me in.”

“And she taught you to be proper,” Jonah guessed.

Jon nodded silently. “She had worked as a maid. I was hardly an easy child to deal with.”

Jonah smiled at the thought. Jonathan Sims as a child, a scowl on such a small face was quite funny. “A mischief maker?”

“Oh… no.”

Jon didn’t continue. 

“Jon, it helps to talk about these things. You know the kind of dribble I end up having to go through all day, nothing you say would make me think less of you. If your grandmother was unkind—”

“You’re getting the wrong idea,” Jon said quickly. “She was kind enough! She just… she already raised her children. I think she just resented having to do it all over again. On a widow’s jointure no less. I… she tried, but I guess I just noticed. It… it was grief. Just grief. Her sadness for my father would manifest in recriminations and bitterness, but it wasn’t… she was kind,” Jon repeated. “She cared for me as well as she was able in her old age, and she did her best. So that I had the means to take care of myself. And like I said, I wasn’t an easy child. I wasn’t a… I didn’t actively try to make trouble or get into mischief, but I was… well… I was precocious and impatient. Quick to talk back, quick to wander about whenever I was bored. See through doors I wasn’t supposed to see through.  It was my fault.” 

Jon fiddled with the button on his jacket sleeve. For once he was looking away. 

Jonah could feel something under the surface. He tried to push. There was a door in Jon’s mind…a spider. Always spiders…

But then it felt like a wall slammed down as Jon straightened his posture.

“Anyway, I just—she tried to get me to act proper, and I feel uncomfortable when you push the boundaries of civility between a man and his servant, that’s all.”

“Why do you hate spiders, Jon?” 

And  now they were staring into one another’s eyes. Jon’s pupils were so dilated there was only a thin ring of iris. Fear. It felt like a crackle of lightning getting ready to strike. Static electricity making the hairs on the back of his arm lift. 

Jonah didn’t know how long they were captured in each other’s gaze. 

And then something shifted. A sound from the hall. Someone turning down the gas and putting the lights out. Whatever it was, it didn’t take much. Jon jolted and then fled. 

Jonah gasped for breath like he had just ran across the moors, like he had just experienced the most passionate raw sex, like he had the first time he divinely communed with his Patron. 

“Shit,” he said.  

Jonah didn’t pursue him at first, he wasn’t sure he would be able to stand after whatever THAT was. 

He wanted to Know what that was.

But he had a terrible headache. Fuck. He should go and find him before he actually tried to escape—leave. Leave. He wasn’t one of the ghoulish circus clowns that grabbed their victims to steal their skin. He wasn’t one of the monsters. He was a servant of a thing of evil, yes, but that didn’t make HIM evil. He just wanted power. Power wasn’t bad in the hands of the right person. That’s what Robert believed. 

And it was, perhaps, what Jonah still believed deep down. 

Maybe it wasn’t Jon at all, maybe it was him, maybe he had done something—shit.  

“Fuck.” He staggered to his feet. 

Should he just go downstairs? A confrontation? That might break Jon as much as whatever he was hiding would. 

He went into the secret corridor instead and made his way down to the servant’s wing. Jon shared a room with Tim, which suited the both of them. Tim often snuck out which gave Jon the opportunity to sneak into the library.

It was only Jon, lit in soft candle light. He sat on his bed and tried to hold in his quiet sobs. Jonah couldn’t turn his eyes away. Not for embarrassment or decency.

“I should go, I should go,” Jon whispered. 

No. No he could not go. He would not LET him go— 

There was a quiet knock on the door that startled them both.

Knock knock.  

“Go away,” Jon ordered, managing to hide the wetness of his voice, covering it with abrupt rudeness. 

“Mr. Sims?” 

It was Martin. 

What did he want?

There was no way that Jon would open the door. 

And yet…

Jon furiously wiped his face. He glanced towards the candle and moved it, placing it so that he could still see, but Martin wouldn’t be able to catch his puffy eyes. He took a shuddering breath and was startled by another knock.

“Erm. Mr. Sims?”

“I—yes what?” Jon opened the door angrily. 

Jonah just had the right angle to make out Martin’s large silhouette in the door. He was hunched, making himself as small as he could, which wasn’t all that small compared with Jon’s scrawnier frame. 

“Look, I’m—I know you’re skeptical, but I just… I wasn’t making it up. I don’t want you to think I’m lying to you, or Lord Magnus about something like this just to save my job. I like my job… most days.”

“I…” Jon said, the anger draining out of him. “I never thought you were.”

“You… didn’t?” 

Jon shook his head. “I… as I already told you, I spoke to his lordship. You’re—you should be fine. He said it was forgiven. He’s a man of his word.”

“Oh… okay.” 

Martin was still in the door frame. He didn’t move. 

What was happening?

“I… sort of forgot you roomed with Tim,” Martin admitted.

“O-oh, you wanted to see Tim–erm, Mr. Stoker?” 

“Yeah—well—I don’t know what I expected, he’s never actually here…” 

“You’re not…” Jon said awkwardly, “You two aren’t…”

“W-w-what? No!”

“I don’t—I don’t care! I don’t care! I just—not—just not in the—not in the room I mean—”

“We’re not! I’M not. Do you think I–?” 

The room saturated with their mutual panic. 

“No, no, no,” Jon lied. “I just—I just—Tim, you know about Tim, right? I haven’t just told you and you didn’t know, did I—???”

“Yes! I know about Tim, but I’m not. Jon–M-M-Mr Sims, I’m not.”

“Okay, alright, I didn’t—I’m sorry, you were just… you were just looking for Tim and it’s the middle of the night, so I just—I’m sorry, you’re not. I understand.” 

“Okay, then.”

“Okay.”

Martin’s terrible panic for the discovery of his nature eased. He was surprised by Jon’s lack of disgust considering the man’s usual disdain for just about anything Martin got up to. 

“Then—” Jon couldn’t help but go on. “W-why did you want to see him? Tim?”

“Oh… well… oh, it’s stupid. It’s really stupid. I just. I have a room to myself after Mr. Moffat died. Uh, I was just… after… I just…”

“Oh,” Jon realised. “You… you wanted to see if … I see. Uh… yes.”

“Sorry?”

“There’s… room. Tim is … Tim won’t be back tonight. He’s uh… busy. You can stay in his bed, if you’d like.”

“Are you…? Are you alright?”

Jon scoffed, “Of course! Why wouldn’t I be? You’re the one that… well, I do take it seriously, what happened, Martin. If you’d like to stay, you can. This room is well insulated from the outside. There’s no windows.”

“Okay… thanks. To be honest, I didn’t, I didn’t expect you to …”

“Yes, well, I’m not a monster,” Jon turned quickly and made a bee line to his side of the room. 

“Right…” Martin said quietly. He slowly entered as if waiting for Jon to snap at him to get the hell out, but Jon remained quiet. Jonah’s view of Martin was obscured when he presumably climbed into Tim’s bed. Both of them had a view of Jon’s back as he quickly pulled off his uniform to change into sleep clothes.

He Knew that Martin was looking too.

It seemed the crush had taken root then.

Jonah watched Jon climb into his bed and curl into a ball, facing towards the wall, away from Martin (and Jonah).  

He stayed until Martin blew out the candle that had been sat on his side of the room.

Well… with Martin there, Jon wasn’t about to run out into the night. Maybe he wouldn’t have anyway, it would be proper after all.  

Jonah felt exhausted all of the sudden. He quietly made his way back to his own room, pondering what on earth was happening in his own home. 

He sighed, he was sure Jon would try to resign in the morning. He’d have to curtail it, ugh, and the bloody ball was tomorrow night too. 

He closed his eyes in annoyance at such a frivolous distraction. He never should have agreed to go, but Robert would no doubt follow up.

Well… there was the mysterious Mr. Keay that Jon was so taken with… perhaps he had some answers to all this. 

Jonah closed his eyes. Jon’s muffled sobs repeated over and over in his mind until he fell asleep. 

Chapter Text

Jonah woke naturally, hearing Jon’s soft foot steps. His valet went to the windows as he did every morning and opened the curtains to let in the dawn, angling it so that the beam of light wouldn’t catch Jonah’s eyes. Jonah silently watched him. He felt a terrible pang as he observed Jon looking out into the light of day, the summer sun lighting his hair and making the white strands amber. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” Jonah said from his bed. 

Jon didn’t startle, his long fingers curled on the windowsill.

“I don’t want to go, sir.” Jon said to the summer day laid out before him. 

Jonah sighed, staring at Jon’s back. “Then I suppose neither of us have anything to be worried about.”

Jon finally turned. “I’m sorry, I acted inappropriately.” Rather than the serene expression Jonah had imagined Jon had as he gazed into the light, his valet wore an agitated frown.

“I pushed you too hard.” It wasn’t really an apology. Jonah pushed himself up to sit, curling his legs to the side leaning on his arm.

“You were trying to help,” Jon said. He sounded resentful of it, of Jonah’s ‘help,’ but he also didn’t seem to be holding it against him. 

“Hm,” Jonah said non-committedly. He hadn’t been trying to help after all. He had just been… curious. 

“Can we… can we just… leave it?” Jon asked tentatively. Both his hands were behind his back. Jonah guessed he was clutching them tightly so that he wouldn’t fidget. 

“You don’t have to tell me your story, Jon,” Jonah lied. 

Jon shakily inhaled. “I… thank you.”

He would get it from him one day.  

“Of course.” Their eyes were pinned to one another once again, but it wasn’t the intensity of last night. 

Despite Jon’s frown his eyes were quite soft. “Well… um, I should…”

“Yes, go ahead, it is rather early for me, you must get tons down while I sleep the morning away.” Jonah grinned, his nightshirt slipped down his shoulder. Jon took absolutely no note of it. He nodded, and then realised he probably shouldn’t agree with the sentiment that his Master was wasting the day. He gave a little bow. Jonah let his head hit the pillow again pretending to go back to sleep, but watched Jon finish his little chores before he left the room. 

He closed his eyes again and sighed, letting the looseness of his body pull him back into a relaxed state of near dose. He wished he didn’t have to leave the comforts of his own bed; that he could just will it and see what was happening in the downstairs, or follow Jon’s movements down the hall. He wondered what he got up to. Jonah didn’t rise early enough to ever find out. It was a part of Jon’s routine he had no knowledge of. All of them he supposed. Tim would be sneaking back in since he was out last night, Elias would no doubt be asleep longer even than Jonah would indulge for himself. 

The little bit of privacy due to his own laziness shouldn’t bug him, but suddenly he wanted to know. He wanted to see Jon as he was at the window, staring out toward the golden dawn, natural and thinking himself unobserved. 

He pulled himself out of bed and rang the bell. Jon appeared promptly despite how early it still was. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you so early, sir.” he immediately apologised, even as he drew out the day clothes Jonah dictated.

Jonah shrugged “I may as well get an early start.” He usually worked late into the night, but tonight was the ball anyway. 

Jon was quiet. More so than usual. There was a weight between them. He had only just assured Jon that he wouldn’t dig further. It was a lie, but pushing so early would get him nowhere. He let himself be drawn into the familiar motions of Jon’s hands, dressing him, running a comb through his curls. Nothing too extravagant, that would be left to the late afternoon to prepare for the ball he had promised to attend. 

Perhaps a safer topic. He didn’t like the bite of tension between them.

“So, Mr. Keay’s little soiree is tonight. Have you decided how you’ll style me?” Jonah smiled a little at Jon’s surprise.

“Me?”

Usually, Jonah chose in advance what he would wear. He had a particular style he preferred, but he remembered Jon’s hidden away articles and the promise of fashion advice. 

“You did offer, and it is your job. I’m curious to see how you would have me.” 

“Oh,” Jon said softly, ducking his head a little. Jonah felt his eyes move over him. “I… I do have a few ideas then, if you’ll permit. Um. We can start a little earlier. That way if you don’t like it, we can—”

“Perfect,” Jonah agreed. He hummed softly as Jon’s hands ran down his jacket to smooth down the lines. 

“So Mr. Keay. Smirke was unfortunately not far off, I know very little of the man despite him being a neighbour over the past few years. You must tell me all you can. What’s his temperament? His hobbies?” Why do you like him so much? 

“Gerry—Ah, Mr. Keay… he … he’s very … matter-of-fact. Very straightforward. You know where you stand with him,” Jon replied. 

Jonah mentally frowned at how at odds that was with his own personality. 

“He, ah, I think he may have similar… hobbies to yourself,” Jon added, then spoke very quickly. “It was very late and I was very tired. I’m sure it wasn’t actually—” he squirmed. “Well, he was a very steady presence in a situation in which I was … overwhelmed.” 

“You experienced something with him?” Jonah asked. “Of a supernatural nature?”

Jon quickly shook his head. “No, like I said, I was tired, we were talking about darker subjects, I’m sure it was my mind playing tricks,” he said stubbornly. “Just seeing what I expected to see, but he was … steadying.” he was openly embarrassed now. “I’m sure he thought of me as very silly, but he humoured me. He’s a good man. He said that he was coming here to take care of his aging mother. That he was in the business of rare books. I don’t know much about the family in regards to their property or their ties there. You… you might ask Ti–er–Mr. Stoker. He has a better understanding of…the local gossip.” Jon shrugged at the end. 

Jonah desperately wanted to press about what Jon had experienced with Keay, but so fresh from almost losing him last night he held his tongue. 

Jonah was a creature of impulse, but he also had a strange sort of patience, letting things unfold as they would. 

He went down to breakfast and took Jon’s advice. 

“The Keays, sir? Oh sure, I know a little,” Tim said, with his usual winning smile. He didn’t look tired at all from his little night out. Jonah envied him. He missed his twenties (early thirties? Good lord) where he was able to stay out all night and not even be pressed with eyebags. 

“Do tell, I want to make a good impression, Jon speaks so warmly of Mr. Keay.” 

“Hm,” Tim nodded, although Jonah could swear there was a little bit of annoyance before it was wiped away with another easy expression. “Well, I know that they, or at least the Widow Keay, came here around a year before I started service under you. She got the reputation of being a recluse. Didn’t have company over, didn’t even hire servants for that big old house. Some rumours about strange visitors in the night, but you know how it can be in a community like this. Her son, Mr. Keay visits, but doesn’t seem to live with her, or, if he does, he’s usually out on business. He keeps to himself as well. I heard he got in a few fights in the village, but nothing was ever done about it. I’ve also heard that there’s some sort of blood relation with the Von Closens—”

“The Von Closens?” Jonah repeated. “They’re related?” he felt his heart speed up a little. Albrecht was not long in his grave, and now unknown relations of his were inviting him to a ball? Was this a trap? But Albrecht never mentioned the Keays. He had an interest in family, it was clear enough to see with how he doted on his nephew. If there was another young man without a father as Mr. Keay seemed to be, Albrecht would have offered kindness and mentorship. That was how he was. 

Jonah frowned softly, thinking of Albrecht. He had been avoiding it. Focusing on Jonathan’s rage at him, but avoiding the emotions of Albrecht’s death.  

He didn’t regret it. It was necessary. The difference in power of his collection now was exponential when he added those ancient accounts. He couldn’t have known it would mean his friend’s death—-he didn’t know if it HAD been the cause of his friend’s death. Albrecht had stolen from Johann von Württemberg’s tomb and returned there. Even if he had returned the books his fate may have already been sealed. 

He had thought of giving such an explanation to Jonathan, but he knew his dear Doctor wouldn’t be moved, even if Albrecht had brought it on himself. It had been a betrayal, and Jonathan was so terribly loyal.

He missed him. Both of them in fact, although he had let most of his yearning focus on Jonathan because that was easier. He could be just as sullen in counter to Jonathan’s anger.

Albrecht was just… an uncomfortable weight. Stewing did him no good, especially when he felt no regret.   

But now… 

He wondered if Albrecht would have understood if Jonah had told him everything. If he had been more open with what he was trying to do, going behind Smirke’s back, pledging himself to the Ceaseless Watcher. 

But Albrecht had lied in his letter. His talk of moldy ruined books he left behind, not the treasure trove he had actually found, that he KNEW Jonah would have wanted to see.

Then the vague letters and hints.  

And then wasting away. Jonah wondered about that too. Albrecht was a collector. “The books read me,” he had told Jonathan. Was that because he hadn’t been looking at them in earnest, or was there something wanting in him? 

Jonah never gained the symptoms Albrecht had. The feeling of being watched had been a constant since beginning his endeavour to collect the stories and gain power for his temple. It had magnified with the books, but there also came that personal power he had craved. He added to his library, piece by piece and shared every part of it with his god. 

Albrecht held on to fire with a bare hand and let it burn him. Jonah fed the flame, kept it controlled. 

If Albrecht had been more open, had told Jonah in truth, had not hid his secrets, then perhaps he would be alive today. Instead, he tried to lock those books back into obscurity. That was his sin. Not that they were empty, but that he had so thoroughly failed to live up to the Ceaseless Watcher’s expectations. A temple left to rot. 

Jonah’s mind drifted, as it so often did these days to Jon. To the Statement. So perfectly conveying Martin’s fear in his writing. 

A deep and visceral understanding. 

Was he to be another Albrecht? Was that why he went to the study at night? Was he being read by the books? 

The rest of the morning he spent running his hands over the stolen books. Their power, their eyes. 

Contentment wasn’t the word, but they were in the right place, he was sure of it. 

Jonah smiled to himself as Jon frantically pulled different pieces out of the wardrobe before replacing them just as quickly.

Jonah’s request had taken him by surprise despite their previous discussions. Jonah very rarely asked for input. He had a clear idea of what looked good on him, and had a touch of vanity that meant he was loath to put himself in unskilled hands. Elias had a sense of style that came from his days as a foolish waste. Jon had no such background.  

At last the clothing was laid out and Jonah frowned. 

“Green?”

Jonah tended towards blues which made the grey of his eyes and the red of his auburn hair bright. 

“It’s … it’s very big in Paris right now, this shape,” Jon said, trying to sound knowledgeable as Jonah inspected the ensemble. He remembered the purchase on the recommendation of Elias. It was shaped and vaguely reminded him of a woman’s silhouette. Tight at the waist, the coat coming down to the calf, no tail. A bit wide in the shoulders, not as puffy as a lady’s dress, but helping to emphasis an almost hourglass shape. White trousers rather than his usual tan breeches.

He had his doubts honestly, but allowed Jon to dress him.

“I haven’t worn this one out yet,” he mentioned. 

“It’s a growing trend in the cities,” Jon said, somewhat stubbornly. “We’re a little behind out here.” 

“Is that so?”

“Well-th-that was what the magazine said at least.”  

Jonah hummed gazing into the mirror. He supposed thinking on it, he had noticed the style on the rise when he deigned to visit the city for socal calls, rare as that was now. 

It would be better in a blue, he thought. He glanced to Jon and was surprised at Jon’s pleased expression. How his dark eyes trailed down Jonah’s body. There was an appreciation there, a deep satisfaction. 

Jonah played with his sleeves and tried to push a bit into Jon’s mind. 

He looks exactly like the pictures. He could probably model for the artists if it wasn’t so beneath him. 

Jonah caught Jon’s eye and grinned. It wasn’t exactly his taste honestly, but he enjoyed Jon’s reverence to his form. 

“This will do,” he said airly, but he let his expression show clear pleasure. 

It was more for his servant than for the trousers, but well, a little country ball wasn’t going to have the height of society anyway. Especially with an unknown element like the Keays, by invitation or not. 

Jonah brushed his fingers over the sleeve buttons. They were gold with pearls surrounding a green emerald. Jonah felt a private satisfaction. They resembled eyes.

“Good,” Jonah decided. 

“Is–are you sure? It’s not too late to change,” Jon said, snapping out of his reverie, falling into his usual anxieties of work performance.

“Nonsense. Eye-catching without overshadowing any ladies present I’m sure. You did well.”

A rare smile. He was embarrassed, but Jon clearly very pleased with himself. It made Jonah a little daring.

“I rarely see you outside your uniform. As my valet you do have the pick of my garments when I’ve grown tired of them you know.”

Jon’s eyelashes fluttered, caught out. “Sorry? Um, yes.”

“But usually I see them going to Elias or Tim,” Jonah pressed a little. 

“Ah, I-I…” Jon hesitated, “I don’t think I can carry them as you and the others do, honestly.”

“Nonsense, we’re of a similar height. Your thinness can be covered by padding.”

“Oh well—” 

It relaxed Jonah to see Jon’s usual fluster. Things were falling back into place, their … conversation of last night on the dim edges of memory. 

“You’re not letting Elias bully you out of it, are you? It’s your right, you know.”

“No, no,” Jon said quickly. “I just—I rarely need anything um… fancy,” he said helplessly. “I do have a few pieces that were once from your wardrobe sir.”

All very sensible boring pieces. Plain waistcoats. A sturdier frock coat in grey. Jonah recalled perhaps one vest that had an interesting pattern which had unfortunately not suited Jon in the least. It was never seen again, sent off to the church for the charity bin no doubt.

He wasn’t sure why, but he suddenly wanted to see Jon in his clothes. His good clothes. See him properly dressed as a gentleman. In something expensive and so obviously belonging to Jonah. 

It would be like a child playing dress up, Jon was a servant, and yet the thought wouldn’t leave his head. Even further maybe. Jonah wasn’t a dandy himself, but he had an appreciation for them and their fussiness. Jon’s prettiness, often hidden by clothes a little too big, and hair just a tad on the messy side. He was thinner than Jonah, what would his waist look like in something properly fitted? 

“With your becoming such an expert I expect you’ll be more prone to experimentation now,” Jonah teased, shaking away the ridiculous thoughts. 

“Oh no.” Jon shook his head. “I don’t… I couldn’t pull off anything so…” Jon’s eyes skimmed over Jonah’s figure again. “Grand.” 

“Nonsense,” Jonah stepped just a little closer. Being in each other’s space was common, but it wasn’t often Jonah fixing the lines of Jon’s collar. “I think you’d look handsome in something like this.” 

Green would suit him, Jonah couldn’t help but think. It would bring out the colour of those lovely dark eyes that shifted from a deep brown to soft hazel depending on the light. It would suit his natural colouring, look nice with his dark hair. 

Jon’ dropped eye contact, eyelashes fanning downward as he stepped away. “Well,” he cleared his throat. “Shall I inform Mr. Stoker you’re ready?”

“Please do,” Jonah said. His heartbeat had sped up. He needed a moment to himself. 

Jon retreated to see that Tim and the carriage were ready.

Jonah stared at himself in the mirror. His cheeks were pink. 

“What am I playing at,” he murmured.

He took a breath and waited for his colouring to return to normal, then he went downstairs. 

He met Jon at the door, who promptly  handed off his hat, gloves and cane.

“I’ll send your regards to Mr. Keay,” Jonah said neutrally, being reminded of the real reason he was interested in this ball. 

“Oh,” Jon’s pleased little smile at the mention of the man was annoying. “Please do, but I doubt he’ll remember me.” 

Jonah was sure that would not be the case.

“Planning to take a turn on the floor, sir?” Tim asked cheerfully. Among the staff he was the only one Jonah trusted with the carriage. Michael was too nervous, Martin was prone to catastrophe (and had the day off anyway), and Jon, although surprisingly good natured with animals, was terrible at directing them. 

Tim was chatty, but Jonah never minded the man’s carelessness with decorum. Unlike Elias, Tim’s casualness was born from a charming personality rather than a spoilt one. It was impossible to hold the man’s effusiveness against him. 

And Jonah was always happy for gossip. 

“I probably shall,” he answered. The last thing he needed was Robert to get more reports of his ‘reclusiveness.’ “Though I doubt I’ll be dancing all night. I don’t think I have the energy for it these days.” Which was unfortunately the truth. A year away from forty and he was starting to feel it in his knees and back. “There was a fete in the village not long ago, wasn't there?”

There had been, Jonah knew, because he gave the staff a half day. Let it never be said he was not a generous employer. 

“Yes, that was fun,” Tim replied happily. “Had to drag Jon there myself.” 

Jonah was used to Tim using Jon’s given name when it was only the two of them. Come to think about it, he didn’t actually know how the two knew each other before coming to serve in his household. They were an unlikely friendship. Tim upbeat and handsome, Jon awkward and wilting. It was a surprise Jon didn’t melt under the brightness of Tim’s smile. 

“Did you get Mr. Sims to dance?” Jonah asked in amusement, imagining Jon’s scowl trying to offset Tim’s happy-go-lucky personality. 

“Jon?” Tim snorted. “Oh, no sir. He declined every girl’s request.”

He got requests? Considering Jonah himself was not unmoved by Jon’s more positive traits it shouldn’t be so surprising, but then Jonah made a point of knowing all he could about his valet. His abrupt rudeness and prickly nature would surely ward off the fairer sex. 

Tim laughed and Jonah wasn’t sure why. “Oh yes, dozens. Poor bloke looked ready to hide under the table.”

“I can’t imagine.” Dozens?? Jon did have looks, but none he often showed. And they had more appeal to Jonah’s type than a woman’s fancy. 

“Well, someone perhaps implied he was quite shy underneath his bluster and how a valet’s pay is not bad compared to that of say a footman,” Tim admitted. 

“Trying to play matchmaker?” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Tim said in amusement. 

“So Mr. Sim’s reserved at parties, is he?”

“Does that surprise you?” Tim countered. His employees were all such sweet little gossips with the right encouragement. “He does his best… out of social obligation I think. He hates dancing though. Usually, he’ll sing to get out of it.”

“Jon can sing?” Jonah straightened. “Our Jon—Mr. Sims.” 

“It’s how he avoids the dancing and small talk, but don’t tell him you know. You know how proper he is. Wouldn’t be able to stand the shame of it if you knew, I’m sure. Lovely singing voice though.” 

This is what Jonah got for not showing his face at the fete. He couldn’t imagine Jon singing, especially at something like a village fete. Lively dancing songs? Jon? No. 

He had to hear it. How was he going to manoeuvre that situation?  

The rest of the ride was spent on idle scheming. Tim, in a merry mood, started singing himself until they came to the estate belonging to Gerard Keay.

The ride had been so pleasant Jonah was taken-aback by the old broken down manor that greeted him. Surely the place was abandoned, but other coaches and walking figures were heading into it. 

“This is the place?” he asked Tim anyway.

“Yes, sir,” Tim said. He whistled. “It’s quite… hm. Historic?” he tried diplomatically.

“Egads,” Jonah muttered. “Alright. I’m not planning for a long night so stay near.” Hopefully his attention wouldn't be drawn away by a pretty maid or a handsome footman. 

Tim hopped out of the carriage and opened the door. “Of course sir. I’ll be here.”

Jonah stepped out into the cool night air. It felt colder than it should as he made his way into the home of the widow Keay and her son. 

The Watcher’s Eye was open. 

He felt dread and anticipation in turns. 

This would not be a normal gathering.