vers was waiting to take the boy for dinner downstairs, bowing briefly to Lucius.
‘Come,’ he said to the boy, offering his hand; Lucius was a little surprised at such treatment, but the boy took Evers’ soft, strong hand, and did not seem upset by the gesture.
‘Thanks,’ the boy said, and walked with him.
As Lucius dressed for dinner, he wondered what Evers would report to him, afterwards; after dinner was the usual time Evers made his reports of the daily state of the slaves, and their progress; Evers had transitioned the boy from the auction house to his new home since he’d been brought home the day before, and likely they had spoken much, with how chatty the boy was when he was trying to be quiet.
Stitching his own hair into more complex patterns suitable for dinner, Lucius thought on what to name the new boy, even temporarily; he’d seen enough to know the boy did not call himself anything, having rejected the name given him immediately, and never finding a satisfying replacement. He cleaved hard to the idea of being a changeling, and all that he knew it meant—he knew a great deal of lore on the matter of the Gods of the Grove, but much of it was from new stories, and new understandings of stories, and from American lore, which of course they had brought with them, that had changed over generations.
His mind was very different from others Lucius had known, and given all the boy had said, and the gods they shared…
He was not a wizard, but nor was he precisely a muggle. Sacrificing your own flesh to the god of magic and prophecy meant something, meant that Lucius had not simply acquired another toy, but something the gods would be watching over, an oracle. It, also, meant that Lucius had himself been given a blessing and sacred task with this oracle, that something was about to happen, some enormous shift in the tides of their world. It was critical not to run away with the idea of it being a sign of one’s plans succeeding, nor of them failing. He had to step back from his own singular goals, however lofty, and see the bigger picture—or, he had to simply do his best to let the oracle control the interaction, treat the boy like a pet cat rather than a bonzai tree.
He rose to his feet, going back outside to wend his way to dinner from the terrace path, as it was such a warm evening.
Perhaps ‘oracle’ was a good name in and of itself; it would serve as a reminder to everyone as to the boy’s import… but then again, perhaps it would be best not to advertise such things, not yet. Lucius thought on the synonyms he might hide it in…. Devin was too ordinary, Auspex too cold and sibilant…
A movement caught his eye, as a mantis caught an unlucky Oak Eggar in her claws. Lucius recalled, as he watched the mantis eat the struggling moth, that the word ‘mantis’, also, meant ‘oracle’—and one did not ignore clear Signs from the gods.
Mantis, then.
⁂
When Lucius came to the tiled loggia outside the dining room, he saw that Narcissa had apparently reached the very same conclusion regarding it being too nice an evening to stay indoors to eat. She was by no means the only one at the outdoor table—Draco had come for dinner, and he and his mother were chatting when Lucius arrived.
‘Darling, love of my life, joy of my youth!’ Lucius gushed in his usual, theatrical way, kissing Narcissa’s hand, and then her cheek, and then her lips, as she chuckled at him in her husky voice, kissing back. Their marriage had been arranged, but they had always been friends, and it had been no terrible doom, despite both preferring their own sex when it came to sex.
‘Mon cher,’ Narcissa purred, squeezing his hand after he pulled back from the kiss and sat down. ‘Draco decided to surprise us tonight with a visit. He’s going to look over the old blueprints after dinner.’
‘It’s good to see you, Draco,’ Lucius said, and meant it; when Draco had been a youth, Lucius had made many mistakes with parenting him, unused to interacting with children, and holding him to adult standards too high for him to reach, worried about him turning out more like Lucius, who had not had impressed upon him enough the importance of scholarly effort and finding skills beyond those of a mere gentleman. Now that Draco was grown, and had moreover found his passion and skill in a profession, it was easier for both of them to get along as two adults. Draco was studying under a master architect, now, Jaris Fawley, a cantankerous but brilliant wix, a Ravenclaw of the first water, that headed up a firm that specialised in vouchsafing the longevity of all the heritage estates and buildings in their world.
‘And you, Fa, you seem in a splendid mood. Any particular reason?’ Draco had been trying to get his parents to talk to him about the matter of the bed-slaves for years, ever since he’d turned sixteen and heard about them from an older student up at school; while he’d understood not being told until he was a full adult, he was well into his twenties now, and felt it was silly they kept him in the dark. He’d had sex, for Merlin’s sake!
‘I believe our patron has made known that he wishes us to thrive,’ Lucius said, as one of the servants poured him a glass of wine. He took a sip, contemplative, appreciating their attention sharpening. ‘I cannot say for certain, but we have been given a gift, and I mean to care for it as well as I can.’
‘That’s cryptic,’ Draco said with dry wit. ‘One would think it was a gift from Apollo, not Hermes.’
‘It might be both,’ Lucius said. ‘Wherefore studying the blueprints, Draco?’
Draco understood this meant the matter was closed; frustrated as he was, he knew better than to push and lose all chance of finding out. ‘Jaris wants me to find out whether the plumbing pre-dates the eleventh century.’
‘Why would it?’ Lucius asked, curious. ‘Our family came over with the Normans.’
‘Cornerstones are carved by people, and people lie,’ Draco said, then added, ‘Jaris says that often. Any cornerstone that claims a date close to William the Conqueror should be treated as a lie of survival. But plumbing can’t lie.’
‘I would be interested to know your findings, then.’
‘Does Master Fawley often upend established family histories with plumbing?’ Narcissa asked, with a smile hidden in the corner of her mouth.
‘He’s done it about six times, in the past six years,’ Draco said. ‘He’s brilliant, Mother.’
‘And what does the Ministry think of this?’ Lucius asked, carefully. ‘People who so radically correct established history tend to be unpopular.’
‘Well, he doesn’t know how to care about that sort of thing; but all of the other Pureblooded families do, don’t worry, Father. They’ve all kept it very quiet, just amongst ourselves. We all know how the current regime is about revisionism. One of the houses was Rookwood’s old place in Essex.’
‘Good boy, Draco,’ Lucius said, and was pleased at Draco’s blush, even as the young man admirably tried to hide how much it affected him, sipping his wine. Lucius had never praised him enough, when he’d been young, and that had been folly, he understood that now; so, he tried to do it more now, tried to point out when Draco had done something to make him proud. He couldn’t change the past, but he could be better in the present.
‘I haven’t seen Gussie in a while,’ Narcissa commented lightly. ‘We should invite him to dinner soon. I know he’s terribly busy all the time, but a man should make a little time to relax.’
‘I believe he relaxes as intensely as he works, if he’s still the same Gussie,’ Lucius said with a soft laugh. Rookwood was an acceptable dinner guest, but knowing him personally was exhausting, and best done at letter-writing distance. ‘Will you be staying overnight, Draco?’
‘At least until Monday,’ Draco said. ‘I need time to wander about in the bowels of the house, and I wanted to visit the trees again. Mother was just telling me the winter guest list is still up in the air?’
‘I thought perhaps Draco could invite a few friends this year, darling,’ Narcissa told Luicus, putting a hand on his softly. ‘It would be nice, having young people about.’
Lucius considered it for a few moments, and realised he’d need more time than a polite pause allowed. ‘I shall need to consider it, but I will have an answer before you leave on Monday.’
‘Thank you, Fa. I was just telling Mother that I think it would be wise to invite some suitable matches, before the Season, so that I might have time to get to know them before the pressure comes on. I,’ Draco paused, steeled himself. ‘I would like to marry a boy. Astoria Greengrass has already offered to be surrogate, I fully intend to fulfil my duty in regards to heirs.’
This was rehearsed, Lucius and Narcissa could both tell; Lucius did not keep Draco waiting, but nor did he interrupt. When he spoke, it was carefully. ‘I appreciate that you gave some thought to the consequences of that choice, Draco. That shows a great deal of responsibility and respect for our name and position in society.’
He saw Draco’s relief, it was palpable on the air, though he tried not to slump or sigh, the tension drained from his shoulders.
‘Do you have someone in mind, darling?’ Narcissa asked, curious. Draco looked away, blushing for different reasons.
‘Erm, no, I just—I’ve been a little too busy trying to sort of—come to terms with all of that. Figure out who I am. Auntie Phrixus was wonderful, that year I spent in Nice was very illuminating; but I’m only just now starting to feel settled in to my profession, and I feel I’m a poor prospect if I’m not at least a journeyman. And, well, I… had to tell you both, first. About my preferences. I…’ he sat back, finally giving into the urge to sigh, swirling the wine in his glass. ‘Honestly, I was prepared to have to argue.’
‘And you came beautifully prepared for that debate, my dear,’ Narcissa said. ‘Don’t you think, Lucius, darling?’
‘Quite so,’ Lucius said, ‘Let it not be said I’m a man who doesn’t listen to a well-reasoned argument.’
‘I didn’t even get to that bit,’ Draco said, with a half-nervous huff of a laugh.
‘You opened with it, dear boy,’ Lucius reminded him, ‘I suppose you’ve considered the possibility your husband will have a womb of his own?’ He asked because it had not occurred to him, not until seeing Mantis in the catalogue, that a boy would even have one.
From the look on Draco’s face, he had not considered this at all. ‘I… does… does that… happen? I mean, I know people can be blessed by Hermaphroditos, but they’re never fertile, are they?’
‘Why wouldn’t some of them be fertile? Or at least, have it be possible with a bit of aid from a Healer?’
‘Where did this come from, Lucius?’ Narcissa asked, but with a soupçon of mischief in the raise of her brows.
‘Yes, where did this come from, Fa?’ Draco asked, with a little more point. ‘Have you met someone like that recently, or something?’
‘I may have encountered a being that has opened my mind to the possibility of these things happening,’ Lucius said, delicately.
‘One of the slaves,’ Draco said bluntly, knowing it was rude and too frustrated to care. ‘Why do you still pretend you don’t have them? That I’m still a child.’
‘It’s not for a parent to share their sex life with their children, Draco,’ Narcissa said gently.
‘What if I want slaves of my own?’
‘Not until you’re thirty, Draco,’ Lucius said firmly.
‘That’s old-fashioned, Fa, and you know it,’ Draco said mutinously, trying and failing to keep his voice civil, just barely ratcheting the volume down from shouting.
‘The gods set the age at thirty for a reason, Draco.’
‘Please, dear, try to understand,’ Narcissa added, soft-edged as always. ‘It’s not that we won’t tell you all about it when the time comes, it’s just not something a young man should focus on. You’ve been saying how you have wanted to find yourself, and settle into what you want for your life. That’s just as it should be, and slaves aren’t a part of that. They’re something for later exploration of the self.’
Lucius took a steadying breath, slow and silent as he could, and was very grateful for his wife, and her way of making Draco listen to her. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘well put, Narcissa.’
Draco wanted to riposte that denying even talking about their slaves made it feel as though he were still at the children’s table, but… he forced himself to think about what he had that children could not have, as Phrixus had taught him: he had his own little town-house in Mayfair, that was just his; he had his own Floo address—home and work—and he had friends that he hadn’t met at school, that came over for cocktails. Children didn’t have these things, couldn’t have these things.
Returning to the point… Draco wondered if he would prefer a boy with a womb—or if he might Transfigure himself? Did he want that? The thought had never occurred to him. To have his own children, as his mother had borne him?
He felt rather unmoored from what he’d thought of as this particular aspect of reality. Hermaphroditos existed, true, but somehow Draco had never considered that blessings from him went in that direction. He’d met plenty of the other direction, had never questioned that, there were some in his family, along with Aunt Phrixus, who was himself a castrato, having sacrificed his fertility to Apollo so that his voice would not break, as was traditional for third sons in that branch of the family. Draco’s own father was well-known as being so, and Draco had seen pictures of him from younger days when he’d done a little travelling in stock with a traditional theatre troupe, playing female roles more than male ones. Draco had learnt fashion not from his mother, but from his father, who even did Mother’s makeup and hair for her when they went to parties.
Mother was rather… well, she was Sapphic, though Draco only knew this in the abstract, she didn’t have nearly as much of an expressive way about it, it was more wrapped up in what she didn’t do—she didn’t wear makeup, she didn’t wear her nails long, she didn’t wear her hair in any kind of complex formal braids the way other witches did, unless she was being Seen in Society. At home, she was just in a long practical plait, wound up messily, and no makeup, and usually well-tailored but plain clothes in sturdy twill and tweed, because Mother liked being outside, liked being in the stables with the small herd of cows Draco had never been much interested in seeing. Her hands were soft, because she liked to spin and make pottery, but they were plain and strong hands.
But there was a bit more to it, Draco knew that now, having been friends with a few more Sapphic women. Some were very masculine, indeed—as much as Draco and Lucius could be feminine. There had even been a very embarrassing, but later funny, incident where Draco had flirted with what he’d thought was a fellow boy and said boy had admitted she had thought he was a fellow girl. Draco had been terribly embarrassed, but she’d been so good-natured about it that he hadn’t stayed embarrassed. Still, Sapphic women were still women, just as queens were still men.
Then there was Hermaphroditos, though, Draco thought. But would that be the same as being with a boy? He wasn’t really sure about that part. He’d have to meet one, he supposed. Had he met one? There was Jaris, Jaris was ‘he’ but very clearly a wix, wearing practical skirts and with a strident voice, and yet also seemed to have some manner of bosom (Draco wasn’t sure, Jaris dressed in loose clothes, and anyway one didn’t think these sorts of things about someone one had a professional relationship with. It was as anathema to Draco as the crushes some of his classmates purported to have on professors). Asking Jaris about it, though, was a recipe for disaster—the man was not socially nor emotionally graceful, and most of working for him was doing the socialising he did not care to do.
Fa had a new slave, a boy with a womb, a blessing from many gods, including Apollo? Draco was very curious, but he knew he couldn’t go sniffing around; he’d tried for years already to find the slaves, but in vain, so there was no reason to think he’d succeed now.
Then again, he was going to be wandering around in the less accessed parts of the house… that gave him a perfect excuse to do a little bit of searching for secret passages and rooms….