Deidrick eyed himself in a tall gold-ornate body looking-glass, loathing the preened, non-dishevelled sight being advertised. He was dressed in a stifling—only outwardly loose—white blazer with tassel chains, epaulettes, and a soon-to-be-buttoned-away rouge waistcoat inside, all accented by golden trimmings and embellishments, summed up with a superfluous, obtruding gold cravat.

"I'm actually going to marry a goddamn whale, Nolan."

"Miss Lilith Barret Houghton, your highness," the valet said more than asked, rearranging the ruffled layers of hair sagging languorously off Deidrick's slick, wide shoulders—a task made absurdly impossible with his employer's constant erratic movements.

"You're more gentlemanly than me, Nolan; do you know that?"

"You flatter me, your highness."

"No, seriously," he made another stark twist, sending an unfinished braid flying from Nolan's patient embrace into a turbulent mess. "Call it what it is: Lady Barret Houghton is a cheap, slutty whale whom I wrongly trusted." His eyes paled grayish-green beneath the dim lighting from the room's grand cast iron hearth; and so did his mood.

"Do not tell me you too are in support of the bitch!"

"Never," Nolan answered, attempting to placate the easily combustible lion cub... which semi-worked; his shoulders slouching somewhat down, returning to their usual sloppy placidity and his pinched pupils adjusting to the comfort of its dull surroundings—an openly proclaimed sanctuary.

"You're lying."

His voice: unnaturally grave, Nolan noticed.

"Your highness?"

Frustrated, Deidrick moved to pour himself a scotch that lay idle and abandoned from last night's exertions with Delilah at his bedside table and subsequently fell into a plush armchair, downing cup after cup of intoxicating elation. Then, after a long silence, "What?" he asked Nolan, who stood gawking at God knows what—because it sure as hell wasn't him. It couldn't be him... something about servants not looking masters in the eyes and shit, he thought, irked by how dismissive of normalcy aristocratic elitism persisted.

"What then do I call you... your highness?"

"Were you born a parrot?" He took another large gulp. "Has it ever occurred to you that I'm in possession of a solid, practical name... just perhaps?"

"Perhaps." Nolan waited. "And—just perhaps—you may refrain from drinking because, at tonight's processions, we can't have guests finding their prince reeking and smelling like he bathes with alcohol in lieu of soap."

Deidrick shrugged from exasperation, allowing the goblet to slide from his grip and roll onto the Persian carpeted floor, echoing subtle crunches and tinkles. He jumped up, pointing an index finger as if it was a lethal pocket knife while stealthily creeping towards the door. "D'you wanna switch places, huh? It's either that or get out of here, so choose one."

Click.

A loud knock ensued, followed by an imperceptible gargle.

"Open the privacy latch, Deidrick."

"I'm changing!" he yelled at the unwanted company, retreating to entertain his lonely alcohol bottle once more.

The voice, faded into the crackling fireplace for a few brief seconds, bellowed again—gentle-er. "Vincent wants to say hi. You wouldn't disappoint your one and only nephew, would you, little brother?"

"Less 'disappoint', and more 'traumatize'," was his retort, leading the intruder to express her discontent like an adult-sized baby. That was his sister, for you; always using unscrupulous methods to get her way—kin or not, notwithstanding. "Plus, what are you going to do? God forbid you hang him upside down until I show face."

Right now, her sea-blue eyes probably crackled with mirth, illuminating the porcelain skin she manicures eerily with a perky pink shimmer. Her swan-shaped shoulders were probably also soaring sky high, and her dirty blonde hair, bouncing up and down, sharing in the exploding unladylike zeal her body ostensibly tried to suppress.

He'd given her a very nasty idea... but she wouldn't act on it. Would she?

"See what you've done, Deidrick? Vincent is crying now!"

Classic Genevieve, he sighed.

Self-righteous, unbending, tenacious, rebellious as fuck, and openly going against status quos. Riding anyway but side-saddled. Using fruit knives instead of butter knives at breakfast, lunch, or supper, because they were her favourite. Purposefully embarrassing fellow debutants in front of gentlemen who she took an interest in. And, the worst offender in mother's good opinion, which had also almost killed her off early, was when Genevieve joined an infamous feminist lobby group—whatever that is—while sent to spend a social season with poor, unsuspecting aunt Merripen in Cryptal.

Then five years ago, after falling into a trap set by a sleazy commoner with nothing but his money to show, she'd finally compromised herself and was forced to marry in exchange for a non-stop pecuniary buffet, if not titles. The marriage, just like my pending one, was arranged reluctantly and appears to be loveless—nothing like the abusive scenario I'd imagined it'd become.

"Merthingham above... What do you want?" He clicked the door open, Nolan following behind to cradle the outstretching surly baby.

"I heard you compromised a young lady some nights ago," she let herself in. "Hello, Paqoski."

"Your highness." The valet bowed, closing the door behind them as he exited to find a wet maid.

"Well, I heard you fucked an ugly footman."

"I'm a good 10 months older than you," her voice hardened. "Don't test me."

"And I'm a good penis stronger," he slunk into his armchair again. "Beat that—a penis."

"Trust—I'll pound it, instead."

"Ew."

For a woman, Genevieve had always been openly frisky, which was likely why she never scored a "decent" husband among even the most desperate aristocratic counterparts. However, "frisky" was just as evil connotatively as it was denotatively, meaning there was reason to believe her child, after 5 years in a clearly unwanted marriage, could have been a last-minute attempt to conserve her worth and dignity.

"Not that way, you pervert!" she sunk into the gold sheets of his walnut-carved, button-tufted canopy bed, taking in his heavy-scented Acadia covers. "But if that's what you're into..."

"I'm not."

"Rightttt..." her face turned crimson. "How I missed this room."

"I wouldn't miss it too much if I were you," he muttered, a wicked grin taking shape across his face as he handed her a lit pipe. "You want one?"

"Thanks," she supported the snake-carved meerschaum gem with both hands—just one amongst hundreds in his extensive collection—and puffed several wisps of grey which suffused the dimmest crannies of the capacious chamber. They took turns sharing it, a resonating memory carried through every inhale and exhale: of her various misadventures in their father's wine cabinet... of their first smoking experience done together... of his fishing trip with friends, where she'd tag along just to pester them and he'd curse her ears out till they bled afterwards. Or of magic experiments gone wrong with each other's belongings—she, his sex manuals and erotica, and him, her favorite rag dolls.

Being the golden child and all, Eric preferred to avoid those instances, spending more time with their father and discreetly discouraging Genevieve's company with Deidrick. However, whenever it became too much, and they started interfering with his personal life, hellfire even the two troublemakers couldn't possibly create broke loose; especially between the two brothers.

At age twelve, an unofficial peace treaty was signed when Eric left for school abroad. But whenever he returned, the document would be dissolved, and they'd start fighting all over again.

"You even started brawling at Uxford, when you came of age to follow suit!"

"Hmm..." his eyes shut softly, soaking in the disorienting effects of cannabis.

"I never understood why." Genevieve rolled off the bed, setting her leggings straight, putting her heels on, and slicking back her blonde coiffure. "Why did you two like fighting so much?—"

"Who's the fucking father, Gen?" his lax eyes suddenly flew open. "You ramble when you're nervous. Who's the father?" he asked again, watching her linger silently at the door.

"You, of all people, shouldn't judge me."

"You're a woman, not a man."

"Now that's a very Eric-like thing to say."

"You're a woman," he went again. "Not a man."

She felt her heart rip from her chest, staring at her aloof brother, silently praying he would say something otherwise... something indifferent.

"We're not children anymore... sweetheart... we're different."

Filled with bitterness, she wanted to riposte: "How's that working out with Delilah?" but was sure the reply would be, "Delilah knows what she is. But, clearly, you don't."

"It's Gatsby's..." she replied, turning. "Vincent is Gatsby's, you asshole."

"Really now?"—each word extensively drawn out.

"My word against... well, no one's." Her heart shattered further, seeing him smile drunkenly. "So make haste and hurry to dinner. One never keeps a fiancé waiting."

_ _ _

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