"Reading is bad for you."

"What? *What*?" Imperious purple eyes stare at Lanos in utter disdain. If I'd been under that gaze, I'd melt like butter in the sun. But Lanos is used to it. He's not head chamberlain of the Palace for nothing. "Are you being *stupid*?"

Lanos sighs and shakes his head. "My silly little white snake. Don't you admit that you feel...changed...after you finish one of your books? You're not the same person for a little while. Something has been taken away, and something else put in its place. But," he leans down and takes the pale pointed chin in his fingers and shakes it gently, "whatever's left there in you is *not real*. It's false emotion, a longing for things which do not exist."

The boy rolling about in the huge bed glares at him. He really does look like a white snake, slender and writhing about among the sheets, pale blond hair, skin the color of a lit alabaster lamp. The purple eyes are narrowed, blazing venom at Lanos. Lanos knows him too well. Lanos knows everything.

"Now be sensible and eat your breakfast," he adds.

Despite himself, Croix is hungry. He's always hungry, especially after a Master leaves. He eyes the silver-covered tray that the under-butler carries with thinly-disguised interest. "What is it?"

"Three-mushroom omelette with sausage and tomato sauce, fresh oranges, muffins with butter and boysenberry jam."

"Ooooohh," breathes Croix, sitting up and leaning towards the platter.

"And for lunch, you shall have seared lamb chops. This Master was certainly pleased with you."

The light that had come into Croix's eyes at the mention of lamb goes out. He draws back, rubbing a bruise on his pale wrist that's almost the color of his eyes. "He'd damned well better be," he muttered, "after what he made me do."

"Made you do?" Lanos raises his heavy dark brown eyebrows. "You did it. You let him do it, because you know you're not worth a dry crust of bread otherwise."

A little gasp escapes Croix. He looks like he's been struck. His violet eyes are huge and almost black with shock and fury. Suddenly he snatches the cover off the tray and hurls it at Lanos.

Lanos moves aside--more smoothly than I do; I drop my spear and dive to the floor--and the cover clangs against the wall. It's closely followed by the book Croix was reading. The under-butler has backed against the wall; he'd nearly dropped the tray, but it would have been worth his job to do that. He's shaking, though. Still relatively new, then.

"Then let me STARVE!" shrieks Croix. "Or cut my throat yourself, you bastard! Rip open my stomach and take back everything I've ever eaten in the foul name of your foul Lord and his foul Palace!" His skin is flushed, his eyes fairly glowing with rage. Even in anger he's more beautiful than anyone I've ever seen.

Tight-lipped and silent, Lanos leaves the room. The under-butler and I hurry after him, Croix still screaming curses after us.

"W-what shall I do with th-the young man's m-meal, s-s-s-sir?" stammers the under-butler. The teacup on the tray is clattering in its saucer.

"Leave it by the door," grumbles Lanos. "He won't resist it for long." The man obeys and scurries off, clearly glad to be out of earshot of Croix's continuing shrill abuse.

We stand outside the door for a while, neither of us obviously listening. Soon the curses turn into violent sobs, which sound muffled, as if by a pillow. Lanos bows his head then, and walks away from the door. I fall into step beside him, but just a little bit behind.

Three corridors and a staircase later he stops and leans against the wall. His face looks old and cracked.

"I don't know why I said that," he mumbled. "What the bloody hell possessed me to say that?"

Silence seemed the best course. I kept it.

"I didn't mean to, 'Pol. I was just so...so angry, and I took it out on him."

"It's better this way, sir." My mantra. Every time this happens, every day after a Master hands in Croix's Key, every time I meet those eyes that seem to say yes, I've been fucked again by someone nowhere near good enough for me, so what makes you think YOU'RE any better?...I clench my teeth and say it in my head. "Better he

thinks you don't care."

"I know that, dammit."

"Yes, sir."

"Does he think I've got nothing better to do than wait on him? I've got that meeting with the Franglicas in a few minutes, I need to get dressed. Go on and wait by his door, you can take your things to keep you company."

Ever since I came to Lanos' attention he's been teaching me to read and write. He used to be the Captain of the Palace Guard, which meant he was smart even before he started learning from books. He taught himself to read and write, and from there he taught himself to run a whole household instead of just the Guard. He wants to bring me up to do the same. I hate to tell him I just like the words, not what they tell me.

I fetch my slate, books and copies of his handwriting and settle down cross-legged outside Croix's door. The tray's already gone.

Let's see now...a-e-s-t-h-e-t-e...who on earth would put so many of the same letter in a word? And what does it mean?

"It means one who loves beauty."

Croix has opened the door a crack and is watching me. His eyes look bruised, but that's just from crying. I feel guilty for even thinking this, but I like him better after he's been crying: he's quieter, more docile. Almost sweet, sometimes.

"Feel better?" I say quietly.

"I'm not sorry."

"I didn't expect you to be. Did you like breakfast?"

He can't stop the smile that spreads across his face. "Yes."

"I don't get meals like that, you know."

"You don't get fucked up the ass by fat old rich men, either." He says this almost lightly, as if he's joking.

"If it weren't for Lanos, I'd get it up the ass from sergeants who hardly change their underwear, much less bathe." I glare at him. "At least your fat old rich men are clean."

"Well, they're not all fat and old," he admits. "Not even most of them." He raises his puffy eyes to me. "I still hate them though."

"I know."

"Still slaving away at your letters?" He has said, many times, that he can't believe people my age still don't know how to read. Which proves Lanos right: just because you've read lots of books, doesn't mean you can't be ignorant.

"I'm not *slaving away*," I say, feeling my ears and face get hot. "I'm doing pretty well, really. I mean, a lot of the words I know already. It's just the pronoun--the pronunshaytion that ties me up in knots."

"Pronunci-a-tion," he says clearly, pushing the door a little further open. He's kneeling on the floor, still wearing what he was wearing this morning: practically nothing. In warm weather like this Croix likes to wander around in a waistcloth and a few pieces of jewelry. He doesn't really wear too many clothes. Probably reckons they'll come off soon enough anyway.

"Well, study hard and maybe you can finally learn to say my name." He gives me a sly smile.

I roll my eyes. "Nobody can say your name." I pronounce it "Croy", when I say it at all, which is hardly ever because he laughs at me. Lanos calls him "Cro", and rolls the R. I like that better than the way it's really pronounced, which sounds like someone hacking up a ball of phlegm to spit. Pity; it looks so pretty in letters.

"Then they can't scream it when they come, can they?"

Sometimes his sense of humor makes me feel sick.

"Are you reading yet? Without using your finger, I mean."

My ears get hotter. "What's wrong with using my finger?"

He raises his blond eyebrows. They're plucked; arched like a girl's and painted a fine line of black. "Why, nothing. The finger is quite a useful reading tool. Especially when one runs across words with too many letters." He starts to laugh.

Stuck-up twat. I'd give him a right ding alongside the head, if he weren't so pretty.

He's winding down now. He's lovely when he laughs. I just wish he weren't so spiteful all the time. I try to ignore him and concentrate on my a's. My name is good to practice on; it has lots of curls and tails and interesting loops.

"Apollyon," he reads over my shoulder; he's pushed the door open all the way now. "That's a nice name. Very classical. Where'd you get it?"

Hot ears again. This is becoming annoying. "It's mine."

The eyebrows go up again. "Really. Interesting."

Think I'm not good enough for it? You're not telling me anything new.

But he smiles at me, a rare, real smile. The smile he gets when he talks about his favorite food. "I like it. I don't think anyone should call you Pol anymore. I shall call you Apollyon henceforth."

You can tell when Croix's in a good mood because he uses longer words.

He's smiling at me. He's smiling! He looks so sweet, even with puffy eyes and a damp face.

I love you.

I never need to use my finger when I read those words. I like to write them, too; they look perfect together.

His smile fades a little; he drops his eyes. His lashes are long, and almost as dark as the paint on his eyebrows. I watch amazed as a blush rises in his cheeks like red wine pouring into a marble cup. It spreads down his long neck and small shoulders until his whole body down to the waist is fairly glowing with it.

"I, ah...I have to go back...inside and read, and read...something," he falters. He gets up quickly and shuts the door.

Was he...He was! He was! I don't believe it!

Some other guards who share quarters with me pass by, a few minutes later.

"Lord, 'Pol," says one, "what'd you swallow? You're grinning like an idiot."

"Ah, leave 'im," another one mutters. "You can't tell, with that lad. It's the books. Never know what's in 'em. Turns the head right round."