Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Incognitus ❯ Incognitus ( Chapter 1 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

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“Heero, can we have some more coal on the fire?”  Duo just managed to whisper hoarsely before he was overcome by a fit of coughing.  




Heero remained silent as he quickly thrust a handkerchief into Duo’s hands.  Duo held the kerchief, which was really little more than a frayed scrap of linen, to his mouth as he coughed.  Heero watched with a worried frown as Duo’s whole body was wracked by the spasms.  When the fit finally subsided, Duo lowered the kerchief from his lips, having discreetly deposited the sputum he had produced into its worn folds.  He fell back against the pillows, exhausted by his efforts, and closed his eyes.




“Let me take that.”  Heero said as he gently removed the kerchief from Duo’s nerveless fingers.  The sickly young man offered a brief but ineffectual resistance, finally giving up the kerchief to Heero with a look of apology, tinged with a modicum of guilt.



Heero turned his back to Duo and held his breath as he surreptitiously glanced at the contents of the crumpled ball of fabric before tossing it onto a pile of similarly soiled kerchiefs.  He released the breath in a sigh of relief.  There was no sign of the blood flecks that he feared seeing.  Duo’s condition could still be just a severe winter chill.  There was, as yet, no sign of the dreaded consumption, an illness that Heero knew would take his beloved Duo from him, were it to develop.  He would know one way or the other if he sent for the doctor, but that was impossible.  He turned back to the pale, sickly form on the bed, and smiled.  



“How are you feeling?”  He asked as he smoothed Duo’s ragged fringe back from his forehead.  



Duo, whose eyes had been closed as if in sleep, opened them and fixed them on Heero, and once again, Heero was amazed and encouraged by the brightness and clarity of the violet orbs, despite Duo’s worsening condition.  Duo’s skin might be pale and sallow, and his waist-length hair might have lost much of its chestnut lustre, but his eyes were as vibrant and lively as ever, and for this small mercy at least, Heero was grateful.  Duo’s smile was wan, but it was reflected somewhat in his eyes.




“Fine.”  He said, although his obvious weakness and incapacity belied this.  “I’m cold though.”  He added, looking across at the fireplace, where the waning fire burned fitfully.  “Can you put some more coal on the fire?”  He asked again.




Heero rose and crossed to the fireplace.  He did not trouble to turn his eyes to the coal-scuttle however, since he well knew that the vessel was completely empty.  He took up the poker and stirred the embers of the fire in a desperate attempt to turn up any morsel of coal that might yet have escaped consumption.  He crossed back to the bed and took Duo’s pale hand as it lay upon the patched counterpane.  Duo immediately entwined his fingers with Heero’s, although his grip was weak.




“I have to go out to get a few things.”  Heero said.  “You’ll be alright on your own for a while?”  Duo gave a slight nod, which was accompanied by a brief bout of coughing.  Heero reached for another handkerchief, but this time the fit passed with no expectoration.




“Please don’t be long.”  Duo said as he fell listlessly back against the pillows.




“I won’t.”  Heero replied.  He carefully rearranged Duo’s pillows and helped him to shift his position in the bed so that he lay outstretched rather than in his former upright position.  “You get some sleep,” He said, “And I’ll be back before you wake.”  




“And will you brush my hair for me when you get back?”  Duo asked with a hopeful smile.




“Of course.”  Heero pulled the counterpane closer around Duo’s neck and shoulders, tucking in the edges against the relentless cold.  He bent and pressed his lips to the other man’s in a tender kiss and he was surprised at their pliancy and warmth, despite the coolness of the ambiance.  He hoped that this did not indicate the onset of a fever and once again, he cursed the fact that the services of a doctor were quite beyond their slender means.  However, a tense hand pressed to Duo’s brow showed it to be quite cool and dry, so Heero pulled on his overcoat and wound a muffler around his neck.




“I will be back soon love,” He called over his shoulder as he grabbed his hat and moved towards the door, “Try to get some sleep.”  Little did he know, however, that fate would decree otherwise and he would never again cross that threshold.


_______________________________



Quatre leaned forward and pulled on the tasselled cord that hung from the centre of the blind.  The blind rose with a resounding ‘snap’ and the gloom immediately lifted.  He settled back against the plush, tufted, velvet upholstery of the carriage seat and relaxed, allowing himself to sway along with the rhythm of the carriage as it rocked gently.  The steady ‘clippity-clop’ of the horses hooves as they trotted through the cobbled streets lulled him and the sound, coupled with the rocking motion of the carriage, soon had Quatre’s eyelids drooping.  In raising the blind that had covered the carriage window for most of the journey, his intention had been to afford himself a view of the streets of the city.  As picturesque as the scenery had been through the sprawling rural landscapes that had characterised quite the greater part of Quatre’s journey, he was more interested in the sights of the bustling metropolis where his father maintained his town residence.




Quatre sighed wistfully as his thoughts wandered back to his lover, whence they were never very far.  It was the start of The Season and Quatre anticipated the endless rounds of dinner parties, soirees, musical evenings and theatrical performances with his customary dread.  He was of marriageable age and heir to a considerable fortune.  These assets, coupled with his androgynous beauty and angelic disposition, ensured that he was relentlessly preyed upon by predatory matrons seeking a 'good match' for their unwed daughters.  Only one small aspect of The Season had any appeal for Quatre, and that was the fact that he was sure to run into his lover many times during the course of the event.  Suddenly, all thoughts of Trowa were expunged from Quatre’s mind and were replaced by an image that was as vivid as it was terrifying.



“No, get back!”  He screamed as he sprang out of his seat and fumbled with the window catch, but even as he felt the deceleration of his own carriage and heard the screams, anguished cries, and the nervous whinnying of horses, he knew it was too late.




As the carriage clattered to a halt, Quatre abandoned his attempts to open the window.  Instead he threw open the door and leaped to the ground.  He ran across the cobbles to where a crowd were already clustered, looking down at something that lay at their feet.  Fighting his way through the press of bodies to the centre of the throng, Quatre’s heart plummeted when he saw what it was that had so arrested their attention.




The crumpled figure lay in the gutter, and if it was not for the pale skin of the hand that lay on the edge of the kerb, exposed where one glove had either fallen off or been torn off, it could have been mistaken for a pile of old clothes, so shrunken seemed the body within.  Quatre was about to start forward when a tall, well-dressed man peeled away from the crowd and knelt beside the body.  As the stranger reached out to touch the huddled figure, Quatre quickly reached out and laid a restraining hand on his arm.




“Sir,” He said briskly, mindful of the fact that to move the unfortunate victim might do more harm than good, “Are you a doctor?”  The man turned his head to look at Quatre and his penetrating, steely blue gaze made Quatre’s breath catch in his throat.




“I am… a healer.”  The man replied in a voice that was rich and mellifluous.  The man’s searching gaze lingered on Quatre a moment or two longer, then he turned back to the figure on the ground.




He then began what appeared to Quatre to be a most singular examination.  He made various passes with his hands over the huddled figure, but it seemed to Quatre that his hands never once actually made contact with the body on the ground.  This examination took no more than a moment or two, then the man laid a hand on what appeared to be a hunched shoulder and he gently rolled the body over.  A face was revealed as the body turned, and the crowd let out a collective gasp.  Quatre looked down at the face that was all too familiar to him.  




The young man was around 20 years old or so, Quatre guessed - no older than himself anyway.  In his vision, Quatre had seen him whole and standing, but the face was unmistakeably the same.  His eyes bore the same epicanthic folds that hinted at Eastern or perhaps South-Eastern Asian origins; his honey-gold skin tones spoke of the same.  His stature, from what Quatre could tell in his vision, was not large and certainly, the figure within the pile of old clothing on the ground seemed pathetically small.  The young man Quatre had seen wore a hat, so his hair had been obscured from view, but what had seared itself indelibly in Quatre’s memory was the young man’s striking cobalt-blue eyes.  These he saw most clearly before the… incident.  Now he lay deathly-still, his eyes closed, and as Quatre watched, the tall stranger withdrew a beautiful gold hunter-case watch from the pocket of his fine brocade waistcoat, flipped it open and held it to the young man’s nose.  After a few seconds he removed the watch and inspected its surface.




“He’s alive.”  He said, though he directed the statement to no-one in particular, and a gasp of relief rippled through the crowd that still pressed close, but remained tense and silent.  Replacing the watch, he placed an arm around the young man’s back and the other beneath the crook of his knees, and bearing the inert body thus in his arms, he rose effortlessly to his feet.




“If you please Sir,” Quatre said hurriedly, “My carriage…”  




He indicated the waiting coach and led the way through the throng, who fell back to allow him passage.  Quatre’s liveried coachman opened the carriage door and the stricken young man was stowed carefully within.  Quatre remained a moment to supervise and to see to it that he was made comfortable, then he turned back to the tall stranger.  The man had gone, however, and Quatre saw him striding purposefully back towards the crowd, who were beginning to disperse, now that the casualty had been removed and there was nothing more to interest them.  Quatre followed after him.




“You there!”  The tall stranger said in a stentorian voice, addressing himself to a man who was attempting to hurry away.  The man, a crossing sweeper from the stout besom he was carrying, was checked in his stride by the commanding voice.  He stopped and turned, removing a grimy cloth cap from his head and twisting it in his hands nervously.




“Me Guv?”  The cowed man said, looking up at his interlocutor with a frightened expression.




“Yes, you.”  The man replied.  “Did you see what happened here?”  




“I did Guv, yes Guv.”  The man nodded emphatically as he twisted his hat a little tighter.  By now Quatre had come to stand alongside the tall stranger and he now smiled kindly at the man.




“Good man.”  He said.  “Now just you tell me and this gentleman here everything you saw.”




“Yes sir, right you are sir.”  The man tugged deferentially at his forelock.  “I was standing over there sir, just a buyin’ of a newspaper,” He indicated a news-stand at the corner of the street with a grubby forefinger, “When I ‘eard the carriage.  It was comin’ on at a fair old speed sir, I could tell by the sound of the ‘orses ‘ooves.  I turned round to see who it was that was a comin’ in such an ‘urry.  I saw that it was an ‘ackney that was comin’, then, of a sudden, this cove stepped orf the pavement into the street.  Weren’t nuffin’ for it – the ‘ackney ran ‘im down.”




“And the coachman failed to stop?”  Asked the tall stranger.




“Just kept on a goin’ sir.




“Thank-you my man.”  The stranger said and pressed a coin into the man’s hand.  He turned away, indicating that the interview was at an end, and the crossing sweeper hurried away.



“Sir,” Quatre turned to face the mystery man, “I must thank you for your help; you’ve been most kind.”  Quatre held out a hand.  “My name is Quatre Raberba Winner.”  The man took the proffered hand in a firm grip and shook it.




“Treize Khushrenada.”  He said.  “The boy should come round in an hour or so.  He has a mild concussion.  Nothing more now, save a few bruises.  Make enquiries at Browns if you should have further need of me.”  With that, he turned on his beautifully shod heel and strode away.



‘Nothing more now…’  Quatre mused.  It struck him as a particularly strange thing to say, but it was no more than a passing thought.  Quatre watched him disappear into the crowd, wondering why the man’s name had stirred something at the back of his mind.  He pushed this thought aside also, and turned back to his carriage.  The young man inside was his first concern now, and he had no time to spare for pointless wool-gathering.  




Hanover Terrace, Mayfair       23rd April, ‘87

Dearest Trowa,

I hope this finds you well, my love.  How is Catherine?  I hope she is well too.  
 


As you can see from the address of this letter, your ruse worked wonderfully!  You letter arrived at breakfast.  Really Trowa, could you not have thought of something a little less sensual to write?  I was drinking a cup of tea while reading it at the breakfast table, and I almost choked!  And you needn't think I won't hold you to every one of those things you said you would do to me when next we meet.  I hope it will be soon - I miss you so...

Anyway, my fit of coughing was rather fortuitous, because by this expedient I gained the attention of everyone at the table.  Once all eyes were upon me, I clutched my brow, tottered (if indeed one can achieve this successfully whilst seated), and declared that I simply had to return to town immediately.  "Urgent business" I replied in response to their queries.  Papa did give me a doubtful look but he let me go, and here I am.


But Trowa, your little Quatre had quite an adventure on his way back that was both mystifying and horrific in equal measure.  Firstly, I witnessed a terrible accident, but when I say witnessed, I didn't actually see it - I only dreamed it.  But it actually happened!  Oh I know I’m not making much sense, but not much of this does make sense.  


My love, forgive me for telling such a garbled story.  Let me begin again.  I was daydreaming in the carriage on the way home (thinking of you, as usual), and I had another vision.  It was the same young man again – just the dark-haired one this time.  I do not know where the other one was – the long-haired one; I didn't see him.  In the vision I saw him step out into the street and get run down by a speeding carriage as it careered round a corner.  The coachman made no attempt to pull the horses up nor did he take any evasive action, not that there was much he could have done, admittedly.  As I said, I think I cried out, then the vision vanished.  I heard rather than saw the actual accident but when I alighted from my own carriage there was little doubt that while in a reverie within my carriage, I had dreamed exactly what was happening outside in the street.  But I have yet to relate the most singular aspect of this experience.  The coachman driving the carriage that ran down the young man meant to do it!  His sole intention was to cause harm and the young man was his target.  I am certain of it - I could 'feel' it in him.  I think that was what caused me to cry out.  Anyway, miraculously, the young man was not badly hurt but he lost consciousness during the accident.  I had him carried to my carriage and I brought him home with me.  What else could I do?  I could scarcely leave him lying in the gutter, could I?  Anyway, he is currently asleep upstairs in one of the guest bedrooms.  


It is all rather rummy and I do not really know what to make of it.  Also, does the name Treize Khushrenada mean anything to you?  When can we meet?  I do not expect Papa back for some time yet, so do come and stay, if you can.  We will be all alone.  Just imagine the potential….

Yours ever,

QRW


_______________________________

< br>
As the shades lengthened and dusk fell over the city, the street traders packed up their barrows and the storekeepers spread muslin cloths over their wares, muffled their doorbells and ceased trading for the day.  Respectable citizens bustled about in their hurry to gain their homes before darkness proper set in.  Duo woke, and immediately sensed that something was wrong.  



“Heero?”  He called out, his voice weakly quavering.  The word echoed hollowly around the room, then died.  Silence, broken only by the heavy sound of a horse’s hooves on the cobbles outside, enveloped the room.



"Heero?"  He called again, louder this time but the effort cost him dear, and he was overcome by a violent fit of coughing.



Violent though the coughing fit was, it was also dry, and although Duo had caught up the kerchief Heero had left him, he had no need of it.  He looked around but could see nothing.  The room was totally dark.  The fire had died completely and gave no light or warmth and Heero had left no lamps burning as it had been daylight when he had left.  Though Duo had no clock or watch available to him, this fact clearly marked the passage of time for him, and his worry deepened.



“Heero…”  He called for a third time, and his anguish was palpable.  However, he was answered by nothing but cold, dark silence.


_______________________________



H anover Terrace, Mayfair25th April, ‘87

Dearest Trowa


I had hoped that you would be here by now.  Is Catherine so much your keeper that she can hold you so?  I thought you the head of the family, but your sister's lightest word seems law.  I am sorry if I seem vexed - it is just that I miss you so, and I need you.



As for my news, all is well.  My mysterious guest still lies upstairs in a dead swoon.  Dr Goldsworthy came yesterday to attend him and dress his wounds, although these are but slight.  He said that the young man will wake from his insensibility at some point, but he cannot say when.  The young man lies quite quietly for the most part, but I confess that I am not at all easy in my mind about him.  At times he appears restless and troubled, and he murmurs so, as though he were trying to say something.  And he takes no sustenance.  Dr Goldsworthy said he would be fine for a few days, but how can he recover if he takes no nourishment?



The gentleman who assisted me, Treize Khushrenada, called upon me this morning.  I cannot think how he found me since in the confusion, I did not think to hand him my card, nor did I tell him my address.  I was out having a new coat fitted when he called, so he left his card.  I sent Rob with a note telling him that I would wait upon him at his club this afternoon.  The carriage awaits me even now, so I must say goodbye for now, my love.  


Come soon.


Yours ever,

QRW


_______________________________

< br>
In his study the priest dipped his pen into the inkwell and paused for thought, the pen hovering inches above a page that was already covered with his bold, spidery hand.  Heedless of the droplets of black ink that dripped from the freshly-charged nib, he composed his thoughts before setting them down onto the parchment...



Those who are deceived by drink are not wise.The Bible warns about the effects of drink, time and time again, only to be ignored by those who have believed alcohol's lie.For example, it is a fool who ignores all of the road signs that warn him of the bridge that is out.The fool plunges headlong over the edge. In the same way, it is the fool who knows all of the warnings along the roadside of life concerning an excess of drink, and yet drinks anyway...



A tap at the door, light though it was, broke rudely into his thoughts and despite his cloth, he uttered an oath.



"Come!"  He barked truculently.



The priest placed the pen carefully onto its silver stand, and raised his eyes to meet those of the man who had had the temerity to interrupt the composition of this Sunday's sermon.



The man before him, from his shapeless billycock, through his filthy, moth-eaten old Ulster, down to his scuffed, down-at-heel boots, looked as dissolute and reprehensible a character as ever drew a foul, gin-laden breath.  He approached the desk, where the priest's ominous presence loomed, with visible reluctance, stopping at what he considered to be a safe distance.  Around the low alehouses he frequented, rumours abounded about the severe penalties exacted by the cleric against those who came bearing ill tidings.  



The priest fixed the newcomer with a gimlet stare.



"Well Flood," He said at length, "You have interrupted me for a good reason, I trust."



"Yes Father Maxwell, Sir."  The thoroughly disreputable character know as Cornelius Flood wheezed.  He raised a hand to hover tentatively in the vicinity of his brow, though it stopped short of actually tugging his forelock.  "I done the Japanee like you said, Sir."  



The priest gave a fleeting smile that contained as much warmth as a shard of ice.



"Good.  And you are sure he is dead?"



"Yes, Father, 'e's bound ter be.  I ran 'im down see, wiv me ‘ackney, an' if the 'orses ‘ooves didn't do fer 'im, the carriage wheels would 'a done."



"Good," Father Maxwell said again, nodding approvingly, "Only, spare me the grisly details."  He made a small grimace of distaste, as if the other man's revelations had offended his fine sensibilities, a blatant hypocrisy since they were a direct result of his own orders.  



It was ever the same with Father Robert Maxwell, founder and administrative head of the Maxwell School for Orphaned Children.  He seamlessly appeared to combine a public life of exemplary probity and respectability with a private, rather more secret life.  In this second life, he freely consorted with criminals and prostitutes, and was himself deeply immersed in sin, vice and corruption.  Father Maxwell's pious side, never very far beneath the surface, frequently emerged when confronted with the accomplishments of his evil side.



"Now that his 'protector' has been removed,” He spat the noun out with considerable venom, "The child is mine.  Bring him to me."  



The priest pulled open a drawer of the desk and withdrew a soft pigskin purse, which he placed carefully onto the front edge of the desk.  Flood's eyes grew avariciously wide at the satisfying chink of coin that emanated from the purse as its contents settled.



"You have done well Flood," Father Maxwell again gave an insincere
smile, "And you deserve your reward.  Bring the boy to me, and there will be more…, much more."



Flood took a few tentative steps toward the desk.  As soon as he was within range, he snatched up the purse and thrust it deep into the folds of his Ulster.



"Thank-yer Father Maxwell, Sir,” Flood wheezed unctuously, “Thank-yer very much."  This time the forelock was most definitely tugged.  "I'll bring yer the boy Sir, I'll bring him to yer, never fear.”  The man bowed an awkward obeisance as he backed towards the door.



"See that you do,” The priest barked sharply, "And quickly.  And Flood,” He added as the other had almost made his escape, “Be gentle with him.  I will be most displeased if I find out that he has been hurt in any way."  As Flood muttered his disgruntled acquiescence and shuffled from the room, the priest reached once again into the drawer whence the purse had come and this time he withdrew a framed daguerreotype of a young boy.



The boy was on the threshold of manhood, perhaps some 16 or 17 summers.  The picture was a portrait study - just the head and shoulders, and though such clothing as was visible was clearly that of a boy, the face of the subject was surpassingly lovely.  The sepia tint of the picture probably enhanced rather than diminished the youth’s ethereal beauty, imparting a translucence and clarity to his eyes and a porcelain smoothness to his skin that defied the lack of natural colour.  The boy’s hair was unusually long, and was braided into a thick rope, which could just be seen against the tweed of his jacket.  The sepia tint also rendered the boy's hair a rich chestnut colour which, Father Maxwell noted, was not so far from that bestowed upon it by nature.



"Do not hurt him Flood," He uttered in a light, breathy whisper, a thin, bony finger lightly tracing the path of the boy's braided hair as it fell over his shoulder, “For that pleasure is to be all mine."


_______________________________



Han over Terrace, Mayfair26th April, ‘87

Dearest Trowa

As I write this my unbidden (although not unwelcome) guest still lies abed upstairs.  I have relieved Polly of her regular duties (much to Mrs Peel's annoyance) so that she can nurse him.  There, you see, I really do need you.  Only your silver tongue and faultless charm can talk Mrs Peel round if she finally tires of my interference with her running of the house and decides to give notice.  She pays not the slightest heed to anything I say.



Polly is proving to be quite a good little nurse - indeed, she appears to be a better nurse than she is a kitchen maid.  She tends him most assiduously and does not baulk at his more intimate needs.  She has even managed to coax a little beef broth into him, although he is still more or less insensible.  I say more or less, because he has actually spoken a word.



True to form, my love, I am telling my story 'arse about face', as Billy the bootboy would say, but yes, he spoke a word - or rather, he said a name, but it amounts to the same.



Thank-you for offering to undertake some research on my behalf.  Your contribution to my efforts was most useful and I now believe I begin to see things more clearly.



I called upon His Excellency Treize (you were right about his being of the noblesse) at his club as he bade me, and we formally made each other’s acquaintance.  Trowa, he is quite remarkable!  He is tall, he is extremely handsome, he has the most alluring blue eyes and the most beautiful auburn hair (are you jealous yet?)  His Excellency appeared most pleased to receive me and I was introduced to his companion, a pleasant (if a little taciturn) fellow of Chinese origin, although his English was perfect.  He is the same sort of 'companion' to His Excellency as you are to me (you were right about that too).




I now know why the name Khushrenada was so familiar to me when that gentleman first introduced himself.  Do you recall when Lord Dovercourt's new young wife suddenly sickened and apparently died, then a short while later she turned up alive and perfectly well at the Pytchley Hunt Ball?  I seem to remember that his name came up in connection with the incident.  There was never anything definite, but you know how tongues wag.




I did not question him directly about it, nor did he make any actual admission, but in the light of all this, I firmly believe that it was he who somehow healed the young man's broken bones, perhaps even restored his life.  He did describe himself as a healer after all, and he said one or two things that made me wonder, such as that curious statement he made at the scene of the accident that struck me as so strange at the time – ‘He has a mild concussion.  Nothing more now, save a few cuts and bruises’.  ‘Nothing more now…’  



I am sure I am right.  That accident should have killed him Trowa.  The horses trampled him and the wheels rolled over him.  I saw it in my dream, and as I told you, I 'felt' the driver - I sensed his purpose.  He meant to make sure of his man, and he thought he had.  He drove away from the scene certain that his quarry was dead, and he was very happy about it too.




His Excellency was keen for news of how the poor young man was faring and was very interested to hear about his distressed murmuring.  He insisted that we at once return to the house, that he might observe the phenomenon for himself.  This we did and as soon as His Excellency heard the strange utterances, he confirmed that it was indeed speech, but not a word, as I had thought, but a name - 'Duo'...


___________________________________


Flood halted the carriage in the narrow little street, directly outside the small boarding house.  He looked around him in what he hoped was a casual manner, but he need not have bothered.  The street was deserted and as quiet as the grave.  He clambered awkwardly down from the driver's seat at the front of the carriage and looked about him again, before walking up to the house and pushing open the door.  There was no lock on the front door.  The boarding house had some six or seven rooms for rent, and access to the building was freely available.  Each individual room had a stout latch on the door, and the tenants used their own latch-lifter to gain entrance to their rooms.  Security was not exactly tight, but then the occupants of these clean but basic rooms owned little of value that might lure a burglar.



Flood entered the house, passed the two rooms on the ground floor and ascended the rickety staircase at the end of the passage.  He walked up to the first landing.  There was only one room on what was ultimately a mezzanine floor, tucked part way between the ground and first floors as it was, and this was the room he sought.  Using the skeleton latch-lifter he had purchased from a man in a pub a few weeks ago, he unlocked the door and entered the room.  He made no attempt at stealth, entering as if he had a perfect right to do so, and once inside, he cast a swift eye around the room.



Flood had not thought it necessary to recruit a confederate to assist him, since he felt himself equal to the simple task of seizing a sick youth, conveying him across the city and depositing him at the priest’s house.  Besides, involving someone else would mean sharing the money, and this Flood was not about to contemplate.  Equal to the task of abducting a sick and defenceless youth perhaps, but when Flood realised that the apartment he had broken into appeared to be unoccupied, he was momentarily nonplussed.  His wits, never great at the best of times, deserted him completely and he stared dully at the shabby but scrupulously clean room.  



The furniture was sparse and the room small, so even Flood's limited intellect grasped the immediate fact that it was also quite empty.  He crossed to the bed and for a moment stared down at the rumpled sheets and the thin blanket thrown casually back, as though its previous occupant had risen from it but a moment before.  



Suddenly, with roar of frustrated rage, he grasped the bed by one rickety leg and hurled it forcefully aside, overturning it and sending it crashing against a wall.  He then made a swift, untidy search of the room, hoping for perhaps a clue as to where his quarry might have gone.  He found nothing and fear of the priest's reaction on hearing news of his failure fuelling his anger, he embarked on a frenzied and increasingly violent sweep of the building, desperate to find the boy or news of him.



When the realisation finally dawned that terrorizing the residents would avail him nothing because the poor unfortunates knew nothing, he took himself back to the hackney cab and climbed up into the dickey box.  He drove a short distance along the street and stopped.  The only thing he could do now was sit and wait.


_______________________________



Hano ver Terrace, Mayfair27th  April, ‘87

Dearest Trowa,

Developments - the plot thickens.  Something decidedly mysterious is afoot, but as you insist on staying away, you will miss all the fun.



His Excellency has an idea concerning the name 'Duo', as uttered by our hapless victim upstairs.  It appears that he is, or at least he was (His Excellency, that is), patron of an orphanage, which is presided over by a priest of the catholic faith, called Father Robert Maxwell.  I know of Father Maxwell and of the orphanage.  Papa is also a patron and he makes a substantial donation every year.  Apparently, this priest is not at all the paragon of virtue that everyone takes him for, but rather he is something of a criminal mastermind, specialising in extortion, white slavery and child prostitution. He preys upon the poor motherless and fatherless mites who end up at the orphanage that he governs.  If this is indeed true, then I shall ensure that Papa never gives him another penny.



His Excellency related a most extraordinary tale.  Many years ago Father Maxwell became rather fond of a young boy who ended up in his care after he was caught picking pockets at Euston Station.  The lad was alone in the world and was destined for the workhouse, but Father Maxwell intervened (apparently the Magistrate was one of his Parishioners) and offered to take him on, despite his being a little older than those usually taken in at the orphanage.  The Priest took a special interest in the boy and became something of a mentor and protector to him, singling him out for special treatment and such like.  As a priest of the Roman Catholic faith, Father Maxwell was not able to adopt the boy, but it was quite clear that but for this impediment, he would have done so.



Some time ago, the boy fled from the orphanage and disappeared.  The priest was outraged by his disappearance and has been seeking him relentlessly ever since.  His Excellency does not know for sure what prompted him to flee, but there were various rumours floating about, none of which had any obvious basis in fact.  The boy's name was Duo...


_______________________________



Flo od had no idea how long he had been waiting when the girl came.  She descended from the smart equipage that pulled up outside the lodging house, and swept confidently inside in a flurry of skirts, followed closely by a liveried footman.  The driver remained behind.  Flood's curiosity was piqued.  The girl was obviously from the upper echelons of society - the quality of her conveyance, the  opulence of her costume and the authority of her manner all attested to the fact, so what was she doing here?  It was broad daylight and she had made no secret of her visit so this was no clandestine rendezvous.  Flood realised that he would learn nothing while seated where he was, so he climbed down from the dickey box of his own shabby cab and approached the smart new arrival.



The morning was by now well advanced and the street was fairly busy, so Flood was by no means the only one curious about this beautiful equipage, the likes of which was as common a sight on the streets of this impoverished part of the city as snowflakes in July.  Other passers-by were casting admiring glances in its direction.  Some, like Flood, had actually stopped and were standing singly and in groups, discussing the phenomenon.  Flood studied the coat of arms boldly emblazoned on the door, making a mental note of the details of the device and filing the information away in his mind.  One never knew when such titbits of intelligence would come in handy.



Suddenly, the young footman who had followed the girl inside, rushed out again and halted at the head of the perfectly matched pair harnessed to the carriage.  



"Blimey Bill,” The coachman frowned down at his young colleague, “You've never left 'er on 'er own in there 'ave yer?"



"Nah,” Bill replied excitedly, "Sumink's up in there.  She sent me to fetch the busies."  He sped off along the street, selecting a direction at random, not knowing the exact whereabouts of the local police station.  



Flood took a step or two back, melting into the shadows, and watched as the coachman wavered in indecision - should he go into the house to attend to his mistress' safety, or should he remain with the carriage.  Such a fine equipage would not last long on these streets if left unattended, to say nothing of the horses.  



Flood himself waited avidly for the coachman’s decision.  If he elected to remain with the carriage, Flood thought to slip into the house to see whether he might obtain some clue as to who this confounded girl was.  Her arrival had something to do with the Maxwell boy, Flood was certain of it, and in all likelihood she knew where he was.  If he could only get her alone for a while...  He would not need long.  If a seasoned villain such as he could not get a slip of a girl, for all her imperious manner, to tell him what he wanted, well, then he was not Cornelius Flood.



However, Flood's plan was foiled by the reappearance of Billy, who suddenly came careening back round the corner with a uniformed constable at his heels.  They rushed passed Flood and entered the boarding house, paying no attention to the small crowd standing around the carriage.  At the sight of the policeman, Flood withdrew even further into the shadows, and as soon as the law officer had disappeared inside the building, he turned and made swiftly back to his own cab.  With a smart pull on the reins, he set his old nag Betsy on the road to Father Maxwell.


_______________________________



S ally Po waited patiently until the young man's coughing subsided.  She noted with satisfaction that the fits of coughing that had continuously wracked his frail body from the time, two days ago now, when Relena and she had come upon him all but collapsed in the street, were much less violent now and a faint tinge of colour seemed to have returned to his cheeks.  When the coughing had abated, Sally scooped another spoonful of the rich beef broth that was all that the young man could stomach at present, and held it to his lips.  He swallowed it gratefully, then looked at her with wide, ingenuous eyes.



"Your mistress has been gone a long time,” He said, “I wonder if that means she has found Heero."



Sally's heart sank at his words and at the desperate hope in his eyes, the most beautiful eyes, Sally thought, that she had ever seen - deep amethyst in hue, clear as a mountain stream and bright with anticipation.  She smiled and fed him another spoonful.



"Don't you worry Duo,” She said with a reassuring smile, “Relena will be back soon, then we will see what she has discovered."



She continued feeding him the broth until the bowl was empty.  Then she proceeded to measure out a dose of the powerful cough linctus that the doctor had prescribed and carefully administered it, making sure that every drop was consumed.   



Sally enjoyed her impromptu role as nurse to the young man. She was content to devote her life to caring for others, so her current situation as paid companion to Relena Peacecraft, the pampered daughter of a landed family, suited her down-to-the-ground.  The Peacecraft family were now reduced to Relena and her as yet unmarried brother Milliardo.  In addition to running the family estates, Millardo also dabbled in politics, in which field he was carving quite a reputation for himself, despite his relative youth.  Milliardo was rarely home, so Sally and Relena were left to themselves a great deal of the time.  They went out in Society as much as was seemly for two unwed young women, and the rest of their time was spent doing exactly as they pleased.  



Sally’s dearest wish would have been to study medicine and become a doctor but as a woman, such an option was not open to her.  Beyond reading, writing and basic arithmetic, the only education a girl could hope to receive was a little French, some music and embroidery.  Drawing was also encouraged.  A woman's place in society, at least a woman of Sally's class, was as a wife and mother, unless she was considered too plain or too intelligent for marriage (for what man wanted a wife who was his intellectual equal?), in which case she became a governess or a paid companion.  Failing either of these less-than-attractive options, she remained an unwed spinster in the house of her father.



Sally was far from plain and her beauty appeared to have won out over her obvious intelligence, since she had refused two good offers for her hand and was effectively dodging a third.  She was content to remain as companion to Relena, and had no desire for a husband and a particular loathing for children.  It was this that had convinced her that she was not cut out to be a governess.  For all that though, she enjoyed taking care of Duo.  He was not exactly a child, being much of an age with herself, but he seemed so helpless and was in desperate need of care just at present.



Two days ago she and Relena had been walking through a particularly disreputable part of town.  They had been distributing old clothes at a nearby mission that they regularly undertook voluntary charity work for, and were actually making their way back to their carriage when Relena happened to glance down a side street and saw a shambling figure heading towards them.  Even as they watched, the figure staggered, fell to the ground... and did not rise.  Sally's instincts told her that this was no mere drunkard suffering the effects of overindulgence, and she promptly sent Relena on to fetch help from the coachman while she hurried to make sure that the poor wretch was not beyond aid.  He was not, and they promptly loaded him into the carriage and took him home with them.  A doctor was immediately summoned and diagnosed a severe chill, exhaustion and a simple lack of nourishment.  With a promise to re-visit the patient in a day or so and the firm assurance that no, the young man was not a consumptive and with careful, attentive nursing he would soon make a full recovery, he hastened off to his next patient.



Both Sally and Relena were surprised and pleased when they realised just what they had given refuge to.  The comely but callow young man was touchingly sweet of nature, and his fulsome gratitude for their kind assistance in his hour of need and reluctance to put them to any further inconvenience brought to the fore every nurturing instinct that the women possessed, and found them waiting hand and foot upon him and pampering him shamelessly.  However, in addition to his physical ailments, he was suffering much distress of mind with regard to a companion of his who had disappeared.



Duo's impassioned tale of his missing friend Heero moved the two women, and Relena pledged their assistance with this also.  Though the ailing young man was grateful for their assistance and kindness, he was eager to get home since he was convinced that his errant friend would be waiting for him at their lodgings and worrying to find him absent.



"He was most concerned about my illness and he will indeed be cross with me for having gone out in search of him."  He fretted, though from the sparkle in Duo's eyes and the radiance of his smile as he spoke of his friend, Sally surmised that Heero's ire was not something to be feared.



"Don't worry," She said soothingly, “You just rest here a while and Relena will be back shortly.”  She did not trouble to offer any meaningless platitudes, such as she was sure that everything would be alright.  She was quite certain that it would not be alright at all, and that this extremely pleasant (and extremely pretty) young man was in for some distressing times ahead.



She had listened to him and watched him as he spoke of his friend Heero, and of the home they shared.  The deep affection he felt for the missing youth was evident, and if the depth of feeling were reciprocated, as she was sure was the case, only some serious circumstance would have made him leave his friend sick, cold, hungry and alone.  She knew that whatever news Relena brought would mean pain of one sort or another for Duo.  As she pondered this, the door opened, and with a whisper of silk skirts, Relena entered, followed by a portly, jovial-looking man.



"Hallo Sally, Duo."  She nodded a greeting to each of them in turn, and then smiled at the invalid.  "How are you feeling Duo?  You see that I have brought Dr Goldsworthy to see you.  I met him on the doorstep and I brought him straight up."  



This last she said as she removed her velvet travelling cloak and unpinned her hat.  These she handed to a young maidservant, who had followed her mistress and her guest into the room and now, bowed with the weight of the heavy winter outdoor garments of the two newcomers, she bobbed an awkward curtsey and backed out of the room.  The doctor immediately approached the bed and began to minister to his patient, but the boy squirmed restlessly and attempted to sit up, although a firm hand on his shoulder from Sally curbed his efforts.



"Did you see Heero, Miss Relena, has he come home yet?"  He asked eagerly, his eyes fixed on the door, as if expecting his friend to walk through it at any moment.



Relena shot a quick glance towards the doctor, then her gaze locked with her companions.  The two women seemed to come to a quick, wordless accord and Relena began speaking, regardless of the doctor's presence.



"Duo,” She said, lowering herself into the bedside chair that Sally had vacated the moment she and the doctor had entered the room, "I think you have to prepare yourself for some distressing news."  As the hope in the braided young man's eyes died, Relena quickly took his hand and chaffed it gently between hers.  "Now I need you to be strong and to listen to me very carefully."



Relena then proceeded to relate how she arrived at Duo's lodgings to find them ransacked, but empty.  She immediately sent her footman for a constable and when he arrived, she insisted that he make immediate enquiries.  She accompanied him around the building, listening as the tale of the rough brute who came looking for the young man with the long hair unfolded.



"I'm dreadfully sorry Duo,” Relena concluded, "But I believe you are in grave danger."



"But what about Heero?"  The sick young man asked plaintively, obviously much distressed by what he had heard.  However, his fear was clearly not for himself, but for his friend.



"Yes indeed, what about Heero?"  Relena echoed.  "He certainly seems to have disappeared, although,” She added quickly as she caught sight of the young man's expression, "We have no reason to believe that he has come to any harm.  After all, he was not in the house when this ruffian came looking - I'm certain of it."




Sally, who had relinquished her seat to her mistress but had remained close at hand, was less of an idealist and she frowned dubiously before remarking,


"Lena, When the constable was questioning the tenants at Duo's lodging house, who did they say the man was looking for - who exactly?"



"I told you,” Relena began irritably, "They said he was looking for the people...”  Then she hesitated, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully, "No, you are right Sally,” She had grasped the other girl's meaning, "It was only you Duo!"  She exclaimed, tightening her grip on his hand, "He was only looking for you.  Some of the tenants said that the man described the person he was seeking, and others say he gave the name ‘Duo Maxwell’.  One or two of the tenants knew you as the long-haired boy who lived on the first landing with the Japanese boy, and some knew you and Heero by name, but Heero was not the one the man was looking for, it was you."



"Which may well mean that he already knows where Heero is."  Sally said.



"Or what has become of him."  Relena added darkly.



Throughout this exchange, the doctor had been listening with interest, and now he gave a gentle cough, drawing all eyes to him.



"Miss Peacecraft,” He began, "If I have understood correctly, Mr Maxwell's friend has gone missing."



"Yes Doctor Goldsworthy,” Relena replied, "And we are trying to find out what happened to him."



"Quite so, quite so."  The doctor's excitement was barely concealed.  "And the missing young man is of Japanese origin, you say – visibly so, I presume?"



"Yes, yes he is!"  Duo struggled to a sitting position, but the effort induced a paroxysm of coughing, and the doctor was compelled to administer a soothing linctus to calm him.  "Yes, Heero is Japanese,” He said excitedly, when he was able to continue, "Have you seen him?"  



Three hopeful pairs of eyes were trained on the kindly doctor and he recoiled slightly under this scrutiny, fearful lest his contribution to this most singular discussion ultimately prove to be a disappointment.  Considering his words carefully, he replied.



"Yes, I believe I have.  He is my patient."


_______________________________



Hanover Terrace, Mayfair29th April, ‘87

Dearest Trowa,

The identity of my mysterious houseguest has been discovered!



Treize Khushrenada and his companion called upon me this morning with an update on their activities.  Since our last meeting they had been following up the clue of the name Duo, and have confirmed that  Father Maxwell's protégé Duo had indeed absconded from the orphanage about a year ago, although they were not able to ascertain why.  No-one seems to know what prompted him to flee, although there were rumours that he witnessed something that frightened him or put him in fear of his life.  Father Maxwell has been seeking the boy all this time and sent one of his minions after him, an odious villain called Flood.  



While His Excellency was relating all of this, Blackwell entered and announced another caller.  It turned out to be Dr Goldsworthy, and he brought with him a Miss Relena Peacecraft, with whom I have a slight acquaintance - indeed, she was mooted as a possible marriage prospect by Papa last season, but neither of us were particularly interested and the thing fizzled out - anyway, I digress.  Along with Miss Peacecraft, the good doctor had brought with him Miss Sally Po, a friend of Miss Peacecraft’s and amazingly, a remarkable young man whom he introduced as Duo Maxwell!



I say remarkable and such he was, because I knew him - he was the long-haired one from my dreams.  He was about our age - not yet twenty, I would have said - and astoundingly beautiful (although he could not hold a candle to you, my love).  He had the most amazing chestnut- coloured hair, which was as long as a girls’ and was plaited along his back.  His eyes were an unusual violet, and these I confess I stared at somewhat - you know how eyes interest me.  Despite his comely looks, he was pale and drawn, and it was clear that he had not long risen from a sick bed.  Indeed, it is doubtful whether he should have been abroad at all.



As soon as Mrs Peel laid eyes upon him she would have nothing but that we settle him comfortably on a sofa, tucked up in a rug and warming his hands around a mug of beef tea, before she would so much as allow us to speak a word to him.  Necessary though these solicitations were, needless to say we were all beside ourselves by the time she decided that he was comfortable enough and that we could continue.


He told us his story clearly and concisely, confirming that he was indeed the Duo Maxwell that we had been hearing of and that he had fled the foundling home when he and another young man, who held a minor post at the orphanage, began to fear for their safety after they investigated the sudden disappearance of several of the younger inmates and stumbled upon a vice ring.  He was able to confirm, from first hand information, what His Excellency had told me about the duplicity of Father Maxwell, and his misuse of his position and power.  Duo and his friend went into hiding for a time, and when they thought they were safe, they found lodgings and scraped together a mean but honest existence.  This was the extent of his knowledge, but as we all pooled what further information we had, we were soon able to piece together the few remaining pieces of the puzzle.  



Father Maxwell's minion was relentless, and finally tracked them down.  He made an attempt on Duo's friend's life by running him down with a carriage.  As we know, however, he survived and is comfortably lodged upstairs in the blue guestroom.  Thus, we discover the identity of my erstwhile comatose houseguest.  His name is Heero Yuy and yes, happily, he has since recovered from his swoon.



The manner of his waking was worthy of a ballad!  As soon as it became clear that the young man upstairs was indeed Duo's missing friend, we lost no time in reuniting them.  Duo was reduced to tears of joy as he espied his friend, and I believe that at that point we were witness to the release of all the tension and anguish that had been welling up inside him, probably from the moment he awoke to find himself alone.  His account of it was most moving - he was clearly quite affected.  Dr Goldsworthy had prepared him for Heero's condition, but when he actually saw him it did not seem to concern him in the least.  He just went to the bed where Heero lay, smiling broadly through the tears that streamed down his face, and took his friend’s hand.  Heero had taken to repeatedly murmuring the name 'Duo' and he did so now (nicely on cue).  Duo, while gently stroking Heero's face and hair, whispered some words to him.  We were all standing at a discreet distance , but I managed to catch a word or two, and when I heard the words 'I'm here, love'  I understood much about these two young men.  Duo's ministrations actually brought Heero round, and with a very few minutes, Dr Goldsworthy pronounced him perfectly lucid.  



As you can well imagine, Duo has cleaved to Heero's side and will not leave him, so it appears that I now have two houseguests instead of one...



"Master Winner, Sir?"


Quatre laid down his pen, and glanced up from the letter he had just endorsed with his florid signature.



"What is it Blackwell?"  He asked rather testily, as he carefully blotted the document on the pad before him.



A gentleman to see you Sir."



Somewhat chagrined by the untimely interruption, Quatre looked up again, expecting to see his redoubtable butler bearing a visiting card on a silver salver.  Instead, the man stepped smartly to one side, allowing a tall, lissom young man to glide gracefully into the room.  Having shed his hat and cloak in the entrance-hall, he stood dressed in an impeccably tailored, deep green frock-coat, gold brocade waistcoat and charcoal trousers.  His startlingly green eyes sparkled with mischief as he pushed back a lock of cinnamon-coloured hair that had fallen across one eye, and shy smile played about his lips.



"Well little one,” He declared, arms spread in a mildly expansive gesture, "I'm here!"



"Trowa!"  Quatre cried, and with a squeal of delight, he fell into his lover's arms.


_______________________________



"Do you want me to come in with you?"



Treize Khushrenada glanced up from The Times and caught the eye of the Chinese man.  He shook his head.



"No, you wait for me outside with the cab.  I shouldn’t be too long."



Wufei Chang's dark eyes remained fixed on his companion, mentor and lover, despite the fact that the other man had transferred his gaze back to the newspaper.  Swaying with the motion of the hansom, he raised his hands to the back his head and with deliberate, precise movements, he unwound the fine thong that held his thick, shoulder-length hair in a tight ponytail at the nape of his neck.  As he felt the driver pull up the horses and the hackney clattered to a halt at the kerbside, he wound the ends of the cord around each hand, and stretched it taught.



"I'm coming with you."  He said flatly.



Treize looked across at him, first at the ‘thong between his hands, then up into his impassive face.  He folded the newspaper with a wry smile.



“Very well.”  He said with a resigned sigh, and opened the door of the cab.



The priest's reaction was at first fury at the interruption, but when he saw who it was who had burst so unceremoniously into his private study, a glint of malicious glee stole into his eye.  



"Khushrenada," He said, grinning evilly, you have made a grave mistake in coming here.  Your constant meddling in my affairs has cost me dearly and caused me much inconvenience, and I confess – I grow weary of you.  I know not what madness has overcome you to make you come here, and I care not.  Flood, deal with him!"



The henchman had been standing in his usual place when in the presence of his master - at arms-length from the desk and with a clear route to the door.  Within a moment of the priest’s command, two things happened virtually simultaneously.  Firstly, with flash of steel and a speed that one would scarcely have credited from such a decrepit looking character, Flood drew a wicked-looking knife from within his filthy Ulster, and lunged towards the red-haired man.  Secondly, but only a fraction of a second later, the door flew open and Wufei whirled into the room.  With lightning speed, he intercepted Flood, and the knife clattered to the floor as the henchman found himself completely immobilised.  Wufei had the thong he had removed from his hair around Flood’s neck, stretched taught.  Treize Khushrenada, who had remained motionless throughout, approached Father Maxwell’s desk.  He lowered his tall frame into the soft leather chair that stood at the desk, facing the priest, and smiled.



“As you can see Father Maxwell,” He said, “Your ‘creature’,” He spat the word out contemptuously, “Is in no position to effect any mischief.  It would take a fraction of a second and only a little more pressure for Wufei here to slice his head off.”  



Both Treize’s and Father Maxwell’s eyes swivelled to Wufei, who indeed had the garrotte so tightly around Flood’s neck that it was beginning to bite into his flesh and beads of bright blood spotted the edges of the deepening wound.  Despite this however, Wufei’s face and body appeared completely relaxed and he seemed to be expending no effort at all.  Father Maxwell’s prominent Adam’s apple worked visibly as he swallowed hard, but he maintained his composure, albeit with an effort.



“What do you want, Khushrenada.”  He asked tersely.



“That’s right,” Treize said, crossing one long leg nonchalantly over the other  “Enough nonsense.  Let us get down to business.  Now, the young Maxwell boy…”



“I warn you Khushrenada,” The priest hissed vehemently, leaning forward across the desk, “This is nothing to do with you.  Do not interfere with me.  The boy is mine, and I will…”



“That is enough!”  The flame-haired aristocrat barely raised his voice, but his tone of command was sufficient to check the Priest mid-sentence.  He leaned forward in his turn, and fixed his interlocutor with a steely glare.  The priest made no reply and the ensuing silence was broken by a stifled cry that emanated from Flood, who was still held at bay by a grim-faced Wufei.  Trieze shot a brief, glance in their direction.



“You can put him down now, my pet,” He said airily, “I don’t think Mr Flood will be any further trouble to us today.”  Wufei compliantly loosened his hold on the ends of the garrotte and Flood dropped to the floor, where he lay groaning softly and massaging his throat.  Wufei watched him indifferently as he gathered up his hair into a ponytail and rewound the thong around it to secure it.


“Where is he?”  The priest said levelly, paying no attention whatsoever to the plight of his henchman.  “Still with the Peacecraft girl?”  At Treize’s raised brows he continued.  “Flood told me all about the well-dressed ‘lady’ who visited his rooms.  He described the arms on her carriage, which told me exactly who she was, although quite how he fetched up there, however, I cannot imagine.  How does he fare?”  He added gently.  “I heard he was very sick.”  Treize regarded him coolly.  



“Your attempt to kill his friend failed, you know.”  He said.  Father Maxwell’s eyes widened with incredulity.  



“How…  But Flood…”  He stammered.



“Yes, your man here ran him down with his carriage, but the boy still lives.  He would have succeeded, but for the fact that I happened to be on the scene.”  



“So, it is true then.”  The Priest said.  “I had heard the rumours after the miraculous recovery of that young strumpet that Dovercourt was fool enough to marry.  Really Khushrenada, you wasted your talents on that one.  You should have let the slut die.”  Treize ignored the Priest’s cutting remarks.



“He is being cared for by Quatre Winner at his father’s town house.”  He continued.



“Quatre Winner?”  The Priest spat contemptuously, “That milksop?”



“Milksop or no, he has given refuge to Heero Yuy.  In fact, Duo Maxwell is so happy to be reunited with his friend that he refuses to leave his side.  Therefore, Quatre is currently playing host to both of them.”  Treize glared balefully at the priest.  



“Now mark me Father Maxwell, and mark me well.  Duo Maxwell is under my protection, as is Heero Yuy.  I will take it amiss if anything happens to him – anything at all.  If either of those two young men so much as slips on wet cobblestones, I will come looking for you.  I will come looking for you, I will find you, and then I will destroy you....  Do I make myself clear?”  The priest swallowed again, but said nothing.  Treize continued.  “You have covered the tracks of your activities very well, and I admit that so far you are unassailable.  However, touch either one of those boys and I will bring you down.  Incidentally, the same goes for Miss Peacecraft and for young Mr Winner.  They are all under my protection.  I urge you to remember that before you seek to satisfy your legendary vengeful wrath.  Good day Father.”  He rose from his seat and turned to Wufei.  



“Come Sweet.”  He raised an arm invitingly and, placing it lovingly about Wufei’s shoulders as the other man came obediently to his side, he gently guided him out of the room.
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