He sat at afternoon tea with Ms Tuttle, the lady in perpetual white. She had kept a close eye on him ever since she'd arrived at the Palace, following his every move, and he had never been allowed to leave the Yellow room, being told that it was just too dangerous for him to be walking about alone. His new Iron Room was still being prepared, and he reached into his pocked to feel the well worn Iron skeleton key, hefty to carry around, but to Dove, it was a good weight filled with the promise of new adventures.

He squirmed in his seat, unused to the new clothes that Ms. Tuttle had so thoughtfully ordered for him the first day when she came. She had given him something called underwear. . . they were tight, and he didn't like them at all. . . and they kept sinking into unmentionable places. Ms Tuttle fixed him with a glare, and he blushed. She smiled.

"Mr. Dove, I've a surprise for you, the Iron room is now ready for your immediate occupancy." She smiled and sat up straighter, as if she'd just announced that Dove had been given the most precious gift in the world. . . and perhaps he had. The Iron key room was not to be entered by anyone save Dove himself, and the servants, sneaking in unseen and unheard, to clean and provide Dove and his "slave".

The truth was, Dove was very excited to meet his new "slave", though a little nervous. He didn't really know how he was supposed to treat a slave, but he supposed that he would treat his new slave the way he would want to have been treated by his deceased Master, with kindness and friendship. He and his slave would be friends more than Master and slave. He hadn't seen any other boys his age at the castle, and he was looking forward to meeting someone like himself. He didn't want to do. . . any sexual things with his slave. . . not that he would have the least clue how to, really. And just the thought of doing any of those secret and forbidden things made him feel like hyperventilating all over again. He turned red just thinking about it. He and his slave, they'd be good friends, and they'd go play in the garden, every day. He would treat his slave well.

As he sat staring into his tea, woolgathering, Ms Tuttle pulled a small silver box out of her massive white purse, tied with a gold ribbon. "I almost forgot, Mr. Dove, this is another stipulation of your former Master's will." Dove stared at the box, loving the way it looked. He gasped, as he touched the fine transparent gold of the ribbon. "It's beautiful!" He gasped, holding the small rectangle to his chest happily before slipping it into his pocket-the one convenience he admired about these so called "pants". . . he actually had some place to carry things. He sipped his tea and smiled at Ms Tuttle, who was giving him another of her frequent strange looks, as if he was something not quite of this earth. He stared back at her, wondering what he'd done now.

"Dove. . . aren't you going to open it?"

"Open what?"

"Your master's present!"

Dove blinked. "You mean, it opens?" He pulled the pretty shiny thing from his pocket and undid the bow. "Oh, I see, it does open!" He gasped happily when he pulled the lid off. . . nestled in black velvet lining was a tiny gold locket and chain. "Oh, it's lovely! A necklace!"

Ms. Tuttle clucked happily and helped him put it on. "Your Master has asked that you wear the locket at all times."

"I shall. It's so pretty." Dove fingered the locket.

Ms. Tuttle smiled. "It opens, you know." She fiddled with the clasp of the locket but found it stuck. Frowning, she finally gave up. "Oh well, we'll have to get a jeweler to take a look at that."

Dove smiled and went back to sipping his tea, having no idea what Ms. Tuttle was talking about.

The shirt, however, he really liked. It was so white that it almost shined, and the silk was so soft, he would have swooned every time it caressed his skin, except that that wasn't a manly thing to do.

They had also given him a nice little dagger. . . a wicked thing, very sharp, very expensive, with precious stones and aquamarines set into the hilt. He moved it back and forth between hands, testing its weight. It wasn't bad. . . he could probably protect himself well enough with this. He'd been a fencing champion in high school, but he learned how to use a dagger and a knife from a fellow gigolo who had not been as fortunate to have a priveleged background as Lancelot himself did.

He wondered what his master would be like. . . probably some woman who had a passion for historical romance novels. . . the room was straight out of a description from one of those cheesy things. . . he'd read one once, when he was sick and holed up in a hotel room in Monte Carlo. The stone walls,nice large tapestries--all this was something straight out of one of those books. There was even a large fireplace flickering and making the room warm and cozy. . . though why they needed one was beyond Lancelot. They were in the desert after all. They probably had the air conditioner on extra high just to combat the effect of the fire.

Lancelot. . . he was already used to the name. All the training he had had. . . it was more like brainwashing to him. He wasn't really sure of what or who he was anymore. It was strange. . . as if everything that he used to be was erased in two weeks, and superimposed with someone else's personality. But it was worth it; with the money, he could get enough to reestablish the family name and the estates. . . something to leave to his children.

He had just gotten a call from the Palace Management who had informed him that his new Master was to arrive shortly. He stood from the bed and prepared himself for their first and crucial meeting.

"Ms. Tuttle, do you think that the boy will like me?"

"Oh, I'm sure he'll love you dear, how could he not, you're such a nice boy." Ms. Tuttle fidgeted with Dove's clothes, and with the black velvet bow that tied back Dove's red hair. "Now you've been waiting for this for a long time, don't worry so, you'll be just fine. And if your slave says anything mean to you, you just come and tell me, all right?"

Dove nodded his head and unlocked the door, pushing it open, looking down at the ground as both he and Ms. Tuttle walked inside.

Dove gasped at the munificence of the scene before him. . . the large canopied bed, the high ceiling, the fireplace and the lovely tapestries. . . in the corner of the room was a sunken tub, filled with water and white rose petals. He was so engrossed with admiring his new room, that he didn't even notice Lancelot approaching him.

Lancelot, on the other hand, had been alert as soon as he heard the heavy iron door creaking open. He had held his breath in anticipation of who would walk inside. . . but what he saw wasn't displeasing. . . in fact, he hadn't been able to serve someone so attractive in years. This was *definitely* going to be a sweet gig. He approached the pair, smiling at them both.

By the time that Dove managed to tear his eyes away from the magical room, he gasped again when he saw the boy who would be his slave. He seemed a few years older, but absolutely beautiful. He had long yellow hair, and big green eyes, and Dove hoped that this new boy would like him, not only hoped, but *wanted* with every fibre of his being. Dove had never, ever in his life, wanted something so bad, not even his own freedom, as much as he wanted to be friends with this new boy. He didn't want this boy to be nice to him just because he was the boy's master, he wanted the boy to genuinely like him. Dove's eyes lit up, a smile slowly appeared over his face, making his delicate features glow. The boy came closer, closer, walking across the enormous room, walking towards the pair. . . until. . .

Lancelot got down on one knee before the Lady in White, ignoring the pretty boy with the red hair. He took her hand and pressed the soft skin against his lips, seduced her with his eyes. . . running his gaze over her body, thinking of all that they would do that night. . . and for the rest of the days after, as long as she would be his Master.

"Welcome, My Lady, to the Iron Room. I am Lancelot, allow me to pledge myself to you, body and soul. I will be all for you, do all for you, protect you from harm, keep you warm and safe, devote my life, to making one as beautiful as you, happy, for the rest of your days here."

Lancelot bent lower, pressing his lips against the immaculate suede tip of one shoe. "I am yours, to command, for as long as you should want me." He rose back onto one knee gracefully, staring at his new master with glittering eyes, full of promise.

And beside the pair, the smile that had lit up Dove's face began to falter, then fade, then his own eyes, began to glitter, from unshed tears. He thought, perhaps, there was something wrong with him after all. He was the one holding the key, the boy. . . Lancelot. . . should have known that it was he who was the Master, not Ms. Tuttle. He turned away, not wanting Ms. Tuttle to see how hurt he was.

Ms. Tuttle, to her credit, was extremely embarrassed, and had to restrain herself from kicking Lancelot away as he slobbered all over her expensive shoes. "I'm not your Master, you twit. Your Master is the one holding the key. What kind of a slave are you, anyway?!"

Lancelot, rose, confused, staring at the extremely attractive and sophisticated woman, as her words began to sink into his brain. He looked her over again, and now noticed that she wasn't holding the key. He had overlooked that fact because he was too busy ogling her. The only other person with her is the red haired boy. . . so. . . who the hell was his Master?! He regained his composure and bowed deeply at the waist. "I apologize for my mistake, My Lady. Who then, may I ask, will be my new Master?"

The red haired boy, who until now had been silent and staring at the wall, was pulled closer by the Lady in White. He stared at the floor, and he looked a little sad. Lancelot wondered why.

Their eyes met, and Lancelot stared into those dark blue depths with confusion. Somehow, they held him captive, and he could not look away. There was so much pain in those depths. . . and yet, there was an aura of innocence, as if he had been untouched all his life. The boy was lovely. . . exquisite even, and had he been a woman, he could have had the world with his beauty. His slight build, his shy manner-these things, as a woman, would have given him all. But as a man, it made him seem too effeminate. . . at least, to Lancelot. It wasn't as though the boy did anything overtly feminine. . . it was just that the boy. . . didn't do anything overtly masculine either. He frowned, and the boy looked away again. Then, he noticed. . .

Dangling from the boy's hand, was a black satin ribbon. . . and from the ribbon. . . an Iron Key.