The next evening, about 7:00 Kensington time...
     The older valet coughs as he hands you a sweater to wear. How Ian thinks of everything. In Kensington, the staff is perhaps the most reserved, but indeed, they are most used to serving royalty. "Sir," comes the old man's voice, "...I was asked to query you on something." Tea has already been brought in this evening, but the palace is quiet...one of the Lords is on Estate.

     The staff may be more reserved, but their voices... Jesus. Put the megaphones down, lads. The ...lord - and you'd have to take his word for it, as he doesn't quite look it at the moment - lifts his pained, and perhaps still drugged, eyes to you. "Yeah?" His hand slowly reaches forward to take the sweater. It's not really noticed. It's at hand, but an afterthought. He's more into the tea at the moment. William clears his throat and tries to look a bit more... well... human. "Yes... please..." Go on. You have the floor. William drops his sweater on his lap and lifts his cup. Slowly.

     The elderly gent coughs and nods, "Someone from laundry," said with all the haughtiness of London, "...found this...within one of the rooms earlier today upon cleaning." Which room, he does not say...it's best you figure it out yourself. The man pulls out a petaled flower, almost chameleon colored. Fresh and quite alive. He offers it to you curiously, but his confusion is played down.

     It's a flower. Who cares? Yes?

     "She," the man seems hesitant to say, to explain why a broken-off flower would need be given to you, "...she...claims that it was as this...after she took the clothing from...the wash."
     "I'm...very sorry to...bother you with this..." but yet he did...

     Hmm. It is taken. Lifted in a hand. Held cupped there on a palm. And the tea is set down. The flower is studied. The color, lovely. The eyes stray upon it a while, and then eyes lift. Indigo flickering. Suddenly. Reverie broken. The flower is set aside. "No trouble... thank you..." he manages to say. His voice is rough. With recent waking, the effects of drugs and ... well... all of the vociferous activity of the previous night. "Thank you," William says again, corners of his mouth upturning in a slight smile. His eyes, however, tend back to that flower. "Anything else?"

     The older man seems to disappear when you touch the chameleon-colored flower. In your fingers, the hues shift through the spectrum, and instead, there is an image pressed upon your mind, into conscious thought. It's an image of Cesare...you remember him, yes? Quite present, quite living, quite handsome. He is dressed as he was the last time you saw him, in black upon black, in corset and straps that cut tight around his muscled arms. But it is an image of him early in that evening, brown hair crisp as is his blue eyes. Cesare as you first met him.
     Upon his lips an absent smile, a faint blush as he smirks. Someone, outside of your viewing must have said something. It is like looking at a replay, the young man murmuring in silent conversation. You watching a few moments of him. He laughs as he looks left, and he smiles again, face turning down as he listens to something. A captured instant. He nods, Cesare does, and then the image disappears.

     "Sir?" the older man says, as if having said it before, "...Sir...was there anything else?"
     Cut to. Yes. Kensington. The room returns. And an aged man stands still nearby, trying not to stare at you.

     No more icicle drinks for you, Plantagenet. You're seeing things, mate. Fingers reach up to rub tired eyes. He shakes his head. No, nothing more. Thanks. All of that expressed in the single motion of his head, side to side. The images stick with him. The young man - handsome, well done in that Plantagenet - is a curiosity. Now, more so than before.
     Flowers and waking dreams. Old men standing knowingly. Trying not to stare. Funny, he did that. William gives his head a shake. Are you still here, old man? He looks to the flower, and then reaches slowly for his cup of tea.

     The old man nods and blinks, turning to shuffle from the room for the evening, leaving you with your privacy...and the chameleon flower...

Posted by rowan at February 06, 2000 04:22 PM