The Prince (5 page)

“I suppose Father Martin is a hero, too.”

“Father Martin is an astronomer. He discovered three comets and invented a formula for calculating the expansion of the universe. Retired now. His eyes aren’t strong enough to keep searching the heavens. So now he teaches math and science to us.”

Stearns led them from the dining hall, outside and to the library. The main room was empty but for three boys about Kingsley’s age huddling by the fireplace on the west wall. Stearns picked up an abandoned book off a table, glanced at the spine and headed to a bookcase not far from where the boys sat and talked.

“Stanley Horngren—he’s the one wearing the jacket,” Stearns
said, inclining his regal blond head toward one of the boys. “He has twelve brothers and sisters. He works two jobs every summer in order to pay his own tuition here and not burden his family with the extra expense. James Mitchell, sitting next to him, is here on a full academic scholarship. Rather impressive considering he is completely deaf and never had access to a school for the deaf. When you speak to him, speak clearly and make sure he can see your lips. And speak only in English,” Stearns said, giving Kingsley a dark look. He slipped the book onto a shelf in what was no doubt the correct spot. “The boy on the sofa is Kenneth Stowe. He spent two years in an institution because his teachers thought he was mentally deficient. In reality he has a minor learning disability and a genius IQ. He is now a straight-A student. The library closes at nine. If you need to stay later, you can ask Father Martin for a pass.”

Stearns turned on his heel and headed back outside. He paused outside the door to the church.

“Weekend Mass is at 5:00 p.m. on Saturdays and 10:00 a.m. on Sundays. It’s a traditional Catholic mass. Are you Catholic?”

Kingsley shook his head. “We’re descended from the Huguenots.”

Stearns exhaled through his nose. “Calvinists.” He said the word like a curse before continuing on. “You are encouraged but not required to attend chapel. You will not be asked to cut your long hair. You will be asked to wear the school uniform, but for no reason other than it helps foster an environment of equality. None of us here is better than any of the others. You do understand that, yes?”

Kingsley stared at the floor. “Yes.”

Stearns took them to the dormitory building, stopping outside long enough to gather an armful of logs. Kingsley picked up some firewood as well, thinking they would be carrying it up to their dormitory room on the second floor, but instead Stearns went into the room where the youngest boys slept and piled the wood neatly next to the hearth.

He took the wood out of Kingsley’s arms and added it to the pile.

Several young boys sat on their beds reading. Only one managed to mumble a muted “thank you” as the two of them walked out. Stearns said nothing, only tapped the boy lightly on the forehead in a gesture almost brotherly. All the boys in the room followed Stearns with wide, awe-filled eyes.

Kingsley trailed after Stearns to the top floor of the dormitory, where the oldest boys slept.

“Lights-out is at nine,” his guide continued in his shockingly fluent French. Had Kingsley not known otherwise, he would have assumed Stearns was a native. “If you have homework that keeps you up later, you can work in the common room downstairs. As Father Henry says, ‘Firewood does not grow on trees.’ Please replace any of the wood you use.”

“Bien sûr,”
Kingsley said, but knew he wouldn’t have thought to replace the firewood without someone telling him.

“Eighteen of us sleep in this room. Nineteen now that you’re here. Nathan Weitz has night terrors for reasons he hasn’t chosen to share with anyone yet. At least once a week he wakes up screaming. Ignore it. He will go back to sleep in a few minutes. If you see him sleepwalking, follow him. Last winter he wandered outside and nearly developed hypothermia. Joseph Marksbury is in charge of the chore list. I suggest you talk to him before he comes to you, unless you want nothing but bathroom duty for the entire semester. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my Portuguese.”

“You’re learning Portuguese, too?” Kingsley asked. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Eight.”

“I’m bilingual. What do they call someone like you?”

Stearns arched an eyebrow at him. “Intelligent.”

Kingsley started to laugh, but then realized Stearns hadn’t been joking.

“Eight,” Kingsley repeated. “I would go crazy with so many words in my head. I have enough trouble keeping my French and English separate.”

“A few students here speak a little French, but since Father Pierre died, I’m the only one fluent at the school. If you need to speak French, speak it to me. And as you’ve seen, this place is full of kind and courageous priests and intelligent and hardworking young men, many of whom have had to overcome great obstacles to be here. If you ever feel the need to lie again, tell your lies to me.”

Kingsley blushed and crossed his arms. “I’ll apologize to Matthew.”

“A very good idea, Mr. Boissonneault,” Stearns said.

“You can call me Kingsley. That’s my name.”

Stearns seemed to mull the invitation over.

“Kingsley…” He nodded, and Kingsley tensed at the sound of his name spoken by the blond pianist who seemed to own the school. “This school has been my salvation. I would appreciate if you at least pretended to show it some respect.”

Stearns turned and started to walk from the dormitory room.

“Merci,”
Kingsley said, before he was gone. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Stearns asked from the doorway.

“The Ravel today.
Mon père aimait Ravel.
”

For a moment Stearns only stared at him. Kingsley wanted to shrink from his penetrating gaze, but held his ground and didn’t blink, didn’t look away.

“
Aimait?
Your father is dead?”

Kingsley nodded. “
Et maman.
A train crash last May. You play piano beautifully. I’ve never heard Ravel like that before.”

Stearns came back into the room and stood before him. Kingsley felt his eyes on his face again and found himself suddenly shy. Shy? At age sixteen Kingsley had slept with nearly fifty girls already. No, not just girls—women, too. Even the wife of his late father’s business partner.

“I was named Marcus Stearns,” Stearns finally said. “No one ever calls me Marcus.”

“Why not?”

“Because Marcus is my father’s name, and I am not my father’s son.” He spoke the words slowly, deliberately, as if imparting a threat instead of just information.

“Can I call you something other than Stearns? It seems very formal.”

Stearns seemed to ponder the question.

“Perhaps someday.”

“Anything else I need to know?” Kingsley asked, intimidated by him, but for some reason not wanting to let him go yet.

Stearns fell silent and looked at Kingsley’s suitcase sitting at the foot of a bed. “Your bed is the one next to mine,” he finally said.

Kingsley’s hands tingled at the mention of the proximity of their two beds. He didn’t know why he was reacting to this young man the way he only ever reacted to a beautiful girl. He couldn’t stop staring at him, couldn’t stop wondering what secrets he kept, and what it would be like to hear those secrets whispered across a pillow at night.

“How did you get stuck sleeping so far from the fireplace?”

“I volunteered. I stay warm enough. A word of advice,” Stearns said, turning to stare Kingsley in the eyes, “do not wake me up at night.”

Kingsley barked a laugh. “What? Will you kill me?”

Stearns turned and headed toward the door again.

“Or worse.”

NORTH

The Present

Kingsley took a length of rope and twisted it into a slipknot. With wary eyes the girl watched him as he brought the rope down over her head and let the knot rest at her throat.

“It’s a simple game,
chèrie.
” He made a circuit of her body and nodded his approval. Lovely girl. Twenty-nine years old. Blue eyes. A yoga instructor or something equally silly. He’d bend her in half tonight, and she’d thank him for it after. “One end of the rope is around your neck. The other end…” He tapped the back of her knee until she raised her leg like a well-trained show pony. Grasping her calf, he raised it, and looped the other end of the rope around it. “Goes
là,
on your lovely, well-turned ankle. You say you can hold your yoga poses for hours. Let’s see how long you can keep your back leg up and bent while I fuck your ass. The leg starts to drop…you start to choke. Simple.
Oui?
”

Her pupils widened. She swallowed audibly.

“
Oui,
monsieur,” she whispered.

“
Bon.
Now allow me to simply tighten this a bit.”

Kingsley bound her wrists to the bedpost in front of her and shortened the rope that connected her neck to her ankle by a few inches. So far he could tell her boasts had been honest. Her leg stayed up, high and bent, and her breathing remained unconstricted. Of course, once he started fucking her, she might lose her concentration.

He did love this game.

From the bedside table, he pulled out his lubricant and a condom. Her fear and her arousal mingled so powerfully he could smell it from three feet away. Standing behind her, he started to open his pants.

The door to Kingsley’s bedroom opened and Søren strode inside, glanced at them with only the merest arch of an eyebrow before sitting down in the armchair by Kingsley’s bed and throwing his long legs up onto the covers, shoes and all.

“We need to talk.”

Kingsley leveled a stare at Søren that would have sent any submissive at The 8th Circle into paroxysms of panic. Søren only stared back without blinking.

With a sigh of frustration, Kingsley unknotted the ropes, slapped the girl on her bottom and uttered a quick, angry, “Out.”

“But…” She looked first at him, then at Søren, who, thankfully, had come to the town house incognito tonight. No collar. He wore only a black T-shirt, black pants and he carried his black motorcycle helmet in his hand.

“Out,” Søren repeated, and this time she listened. Quickly, she gathered her clothes off the floor and raced from the room. Kingsley started to shut the door behind her, but his second favorite girl, Sadie, slipped inside and sat at his feet.

“You’ve never heard of knocking, have you?” Kingsley asked, dropping into French. He grabbed Sadie, his lone female rottweiler, by the collar and shepherded her to the bed. She hopped up nimbly and onto his covers, making herself at home.

Søren smiled and answered in English. “I’ve heard rumors of knocking. I never believed them.”

“I had a lovely evening planned.”

“Now you have a new plan. I called. Irena answered, not Juliette.”

“Juliette is gone.” Kingsley sat on the bed next to Sadie and scratched her ears.

“Gone. Where has she gone?”

“Haiti. She left today.” He kept scratching Sadie, refusing to meet Søren’s gaze.

“You never let Juliette go to Haiti alone.”

Kingsley raised his chin. “Special circumstances.”

“How special?” Søren pulled his legs off the bed and set his feet on the floor. With one movement Søren signaled their conversation had ceased to be of the casual variety.

“I saw a ghost.”

Søren raised his hand and mindlessly rubbed his bottom lip with the tip of his thumb. Kingsley bit his own bottom lip in a sympathetic response. Those lips…both cruel and sensual…the damage they’d done to him he couldn’t even begin to calculate. And yet he craved them as much now as he had a lifetime ago.

“I don’t believe in ghosts and neither should you, Kingsley.”

“Why not? I’ve been in love with a ghost for thirty years.” Kingsley strolled over to the armchair and sat on the ottoman between the other man’s knees.

Søren narrowed his eyes at him. “The body’s not even cold yet. Eleanor’s been gone one day and you’re already trying to get me into bed again?”

“Again?” Kingsley laughed and rolled his eyes. “Always. Are you surprised?”

Søren shrugged. “Not really. Tell me about your ghost.”

On the nightstand lay a folder. Almost reluctantly, he picked it up and carried it over.

Søren eyed him for a moment before taking the black file folder from him and opening it. He studied the contents before closing the file again and looking back at Kingsley.

“It’s us at Saint Ignatius. Eleanor has a copy of this photograph. What of it?”

Kingsley took the file and opened it. Thirty years disappeared in that foot of space between his eyes and the photograph he gazed at. Thirty years gone in a heartbeat.

Kingsley still remembered the day it was taken. His closest friend at St. Ignatius, a native Mainer named Christian, had gotten a camera for Christmas and decided some day he would work for
National Geographic.
The first animals he’d stalked with his lens were his fellow students. That day, the day the photo had been taken, Kingsley and Søren had disappeared into the woods by the school and had argued. Underneath his school uniform Kingsley’s body had sported bruises and welts over nearly every inch of his back and thighs. The only marks visible were two small fingertip-shaped bruises that remained on his neck from the act that had ended the fight.

“I have a copy of the photograph, too,” Kingsley confessed. “I’ve kept it all my life.”

“And?” Søren crossed his ankle over his knee and waited.

“And…” Kingsley slid the photo out of the file and turned it over. On the back someone had inked their initials. The white of the celluloid had faded and yellowed. “This isn’t my copy. This is the original.”

Søren narrowed his eyes at Kingsley. “The original?”

Kingsley nodded. “I received this in the mail yesterday. No note. No letter. No return address on the envelope. The photograph in the folder and nothing else.”

Søren said nothing for a moment. Kingsley waited.

“Postmark?”

“New Hampshire—your home sweet home.”

Søren came slowly to his feet and walked to the window. Pushing back the curtains, he gazed out onto the Manhattan skyline. Kingsley would have written the man a check for a million dollars then and there to know what he was thinking. But he knew Søren too well. Money meant nothing to him. Secrets were a far dearer currency.