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merinsedai · 10 months ago

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Chapter 15: Roderick Burgess

“Morpheus, darling, come here,” Lady Nyx calls to him one afternoon after he returns from a drive with Hob. He is feeling light. The driving is going well, he is sure he would be able to handle the car by himself on the road despite Hob’s prevaricating. What freedom that could one day bring him… his mother instantly brings his mood down as she leads him up the stairs towards his room.

“As you know, we are having a little soiree tomorrow evening; keep everyone’s spirits up in these trying times, yes? Well, I have a special guest who I’d like you to look after at dinner. Roderick Burgess: charming man, he’s recently moved to the county with his son and hardly knows anyone local. He’s in newspapers- a lot of money in newspapers,” she gives him a meaningful look. “He bought Fawney Rig from the Russells, you know? You used to love it there.” Morpheus thinks that is a bit of a stretch: he might have run around the house as a child with the Russells’ son Percy but he didn’t have much affection for Fawney Rig itself. “Anyway, the poor man’s a widow. He must be so lonely, knocking around that big old house by himself. What better than the company of a beautiful omega for the evening, hm?” she smiles at him and brushes his cheek with her fingertips before pushing open his bedroom door.

Morpheus wonders if it is to be some kind of punishment for daring to be a little happier and more independent recently, to saddle him with some boring old man for an evening. He follows his mother into his bedroom and stops.

He sees the red dress. So, a punishment it is then. He says nothing. “You will be sweet to Sir Roderick, won’t you, dearest love?” his mother murmurs. “We have a shared grief, you understand. He lost his eldest son on the Titanic. I don’t believe the poor man has ever gotten over it.”

“Is it something one gets over?” Morpheus asks. “The loss of a child?”

His mother does not respond. He does not expect her to. They never talk of Olethros, three years gone now. Not dead but as good as. Both his parents pretend as if they never had a fourth child. There are no photos, no portraits, no mentions anywhere. Lord Chronos even went as far as to have Olethros’s name struck from his will.

Morpehus misses Olly. His brother had brought light and laughter to the house. He’d not told anyone his plans: one morning he had just been gone. Morpheus wishes he had gotten to say goodbye at least. He wished his brother well but his absence left all of them bereft.

“Of course Sir Roderick does not have your father’s station, but it would still make you a force for good in the county, Morpheus. And I hate to be…. Indelicate, but his wealth is not inconsiderable. Think how we would all benefit, my love. There would be no losers.”’ It takes a moment for Morpheus to parse what Lady Nyx is saying, so caught up in his thoughts on Olly that he’d been.

So it is another matchmaking session is it? Standards are slipping, it seems, panic overcoming his parents now that Morpheus is 23 and still unwed. Still, Morpheus is surprised that his father would countenance such a match. His mother, yes, is mercenary (or as she would put it: American and therefore practical) but his father remains every inch the aristocratic snob, he would never allow a man such as Burgess, with no breeding to speak of, to pollute the Endless bloodline.

“Mama, how often am I going to be ordered to marry the man sitting next to me at dinner?” he sighs, eying the red dress with distaste.

“As often as it takes. I don’t think your father has quite gotten over you refusing the Duke.”

Morpheus represses a shudder in remembrance. “I did not refuse him. He did not ask.”

“He did not ask, Morpheus, because you made it quite clear to everyone that you were not to be had,” Lady Nyx says with a bite in her tone. “A few kisses, that is all it would have taken!” An interesting choice of words from his mother. Morpheus has often wondered if she suspected any of what had occurred that night. “But you had to go and ruin it all by being so uncooperative. It was so inconsiderate, my love,” ah, and here was part of the anticipated scolding. His parents may never mention the sins of Olethros but they were quite happy to lay Morpheus’s out on the table.

“Anyway, that is done with,” Lady Nyx flicks her hand dismissively. “Tonight is a new opportunity.” she gives Morpheus a smile, but her eyes are chips of blue ice. “I should be so disappointed if you were to waste this one, my darling.”

—-

Later that day, Morpheus seeks out Hob. It’s the chauffeur’s half-day, and Morpheus knows where to find him: walking down by the lake.

“Hallo, Dream!” Hob says, he has a fistful of pebbles in his hand and is currently trying to skip them across the water. When he sees Morpheus, his face lights up in delight. It sparks something within Morpheus’s chest to be regarded so.

“Mama has invited Sir Roderick Burgess to dine tomorrow night. Have you heard of him?”

“No,” Hob shakes his head. “Should I?”

“I do not know. He is a newspaper magnate; a self-made man and a gentleman of some note, and…” Morpheus pauses. “The latest alpha to whom my parents wish to sell me.”

“Ah,” Hob looks at him with sympathetic eyes. “You sure that’s what this Sir Roderick wants? Your hand?”

“I know what he wants Hob. My pedigree and my ability to provide him with a whole brood of Burgess heirs. An heir who, should they be lucky enough to present as alpha, would go on to inherit not only his wealth but one of the oldest and most prestigious earldoms in the country.” Morpheus pauses, picking up a stone to throw into the lake. “I should want that too. That is everything I should desire.”

Hob sighs, and skips another stone. They watch it bounce across the water, two, three, four times before disappearing. “No it isn’t,” he says quietly. “And I know you don’t believe that claptrap either. You are not a bloody broodmare; you are allowed to want other things.”

Morpheus says nothing to that. Hob is wrong, a broodmare is exactly what his function is. Hob continues talking.

“Still think we should leave, y’know. See the world? The bits that are not currently being blown up of course. Lets run off to Scotland, first. I’ve always wanted to see the highlands; maybe we could spot Nessie.”

“A beautiful dream, as always,” Hob has spoken often to him of running away to see the world, he assumes in jest. “But lacking in practicality.”

“Would be nice though, yeah?”

Morpheus stares out over the lake and wishes Hob’s words could be true. That he meant them in seriousness and not in jest. “Yes,” he admits. “It would be nice.”

—-

Sir Roderick is exactly what Morpheus had imagined. Silver haired and straight backed. He carries a silver-tipped cane that Morpheus suspects is for show more than actually aiding him walking since his gait is strong and true. His eyes are ice blue and just as cold. Perhaps mid-fifties, he carries himself with the weight and assurance of man who knows his worth, and knows it to be a lot. Sir Roderick is accompanied by his remaining son, Alexander, a young omega of meek and unpretentious bearing. He is maybe 12 years old, newly presented and nervous in the company of so many strangers. He does not have the bearing of one who knows his worth. Morpheus recognises that set to his shoulders and feels some empathy for Alexander. The boy is clearly not loved by his father, always overshadowed by the ghost of his brother, dead, like Morpheus’s fiance, on the Titanic.

The gathering is quite a large one, and Morpheus drifts amongst the guests as they gather in the drawing room awaiting the gong for dinner. Morpheus has heard that it is the fashion down in London for cocktails to be served before dinner, but fashion does not filter through quickly to the North, so here they simply mingle and wait. Although he does not enjoy it, Morpheus is practised at these situations- the hosting duties and smalltalk ingrained in him since childhood. Morpheus had not been joking when he’d told Hob about his governess making him open conversations with every plant in the garden. He could make even the most gauche of guests feel at ease if he so desired.

Hob- as so often, his thoughts return to the chauffeur. How Morpheus loves him, wishes that he was with him, boiling tea on his little stove and toasting pieces of bread over the fire. It had been… idyllic. He wants more of that. More of that, and less of staid conversations and stuffy evening wear. Laughter here is genteel and false, for politeness’ sake only; laughter with Hob is truthful and often.

It is not until they are seated for dinner that Morpheus has the opportunity to converse with Sir Roderick. His mother had of course placed Burgess next to Morpheus at the table and he had her strict instructions on how to behave. Morpheus could be pleasant to this man for one evening. He is not all that worried that this suitor is a serious one: he can not see his father agreeing to this match at all, no matter how much money Sir Roderick could boast. Chronos would not be able to see past the lack of pedigree and that was that. Even Sir Roderick’s country estate, Fawney Rig, was so newly acquired that paint was probably still drying on the walls.

‘How are you settling into life in Yorkshire, Sir Roderick?’ Dream asks as the footmen serve the first course, smoked salmon mousse on a bed of cucumber and dill pickle. “You have not come up against any unpassable barriers, I hope?”

“There are very few barriers that I would consider unpassable,” Burgess answers. “And I have not come across any here yet.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Morpheus says, “And what made you choose Yorkshire, is there a family connection?”

“No,” says Burgess firmly. “And I won’t insult you with some guff about how beautiful the county is, or how welcoming the people. The plain fact is, Yorkshire is cheap, Lord Morpheus. Do you think I should accept some paltry manor in the Home Counties when I can have a grand estate here in the North? With the efficiency of the trains and the postal service, one no longer needs to be restricted to the south-east.”

“I see,” says Morpheus, and takes a delicate bite of his salmon mousse. Burgess watches him like a blue-eyed hawk. “Well, I am pleased you have found some merit in Yorkshire’s real estate, at least. Fawney Rig is a fine house; I used to know it well. My father was great friends with Sir Thomas Russell, you see. We were all shocked at the news that he had had to sell up, that things had gotten so bad for them there.’’

“Mismanagement, plain and simple,” Burgess spits. “Fawney Rig and her estate will bring me profit soon enough. The Russells gave up.”

“They lost their son in Ypres,” Morpheus says, though he keeps any reproachfulness out of his tone. He thought this would have resonated with Burgess, supposedly still so cut about the loss of his own son, but the older man shakes his head dismissively and snorts.

“Sentimentality has no place in business. And running an estate is a business, even if it is an inherited one. I have more strength of character than that.”

“You are… very plainly spoken, sir.”

“I speak as I find; I have always found it the most efficient in my line of business. I have no use for pretty words bandied at dinner tables, that is the preserve of my spouse,” he takes another forkful of food, chewing and considering. “There is some merit to that approach, of course. It was certainly a talent cultivated by my late wife.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Morpheus murmurs the automatic platitude but Burgess makes a sharp, dismissive gesture, as if the loss of a spouse is nothing. Perhaps it is, to him.

“Do not be. It was more than ten years ago. Lucy was a fine woman but she is dead and gone and can be of no help to me now.” His assessing gaze is back on Morpheus. “I have been observing you a lot this evening, my lord. You also have a talent for bandying sweet words. And now I am wondering, what other talents do you have? Is there more to you than a beautiful face? Can you sing, paint, play the pianoforte? All those pretty, useful talents a society omega must possess.”

Morpheus wonders briefly if he is being mocked, but Burgess seems… sincere in his question; it feels almost as if he is interviewing Morpheus for the position of spouse. It is quite the strangest dinner party conversation he’s had in a long time but it is not dull at least. Morpheus decides to humour the man.

‘Of course, Sir Roderick,’ he says sweetly, lifting his glass of wine. “I have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing and the modern languages. Indeed, I have been told that I possess a certain something in my manner of walking, in the tone of my voice, and my expressions that speaks to my accomplishment as a society omega,” he takes a tiny sip of the wine and casts a look from under his eyelashes at Burgess. “And I like reading, too.”

That was probably a slightly risky answer; if Sir Roderick picks up on the paraphrasing then Morpheus will certainly come across as rude. Still, Burgess does not look the sort of man to read Austen and indeed he does not seem to recognise the quote, though his eyes narrow somewhat anyway. Well, Morpheus was not so subtle, he supposes but really, that list of talents was so… regency he could not resist. He did omit the dancing, though. Morpheus does not dance, or say that he does, even in mockery.

“Well,” Burgess states dryly, “I shall look forward to a demonstration of some of these talents then. Perhaps you will sing for me later? I should like to know what gifts, aside from your looks and your lineage, you will pass down to our future offspring.”

Caught mid-sip, Morpheus almost spits out his wine. “I beg your pardon, sir?’ he manages. ‘I think I may have misheard.”

“You misheard nothing,” Burgess says brusquely. He is speaking quietly, thank goodness, so no one else on the table is privy to this… inappropriate conversation. “I think we would do well together, you and I. Could be a good team- your connections and my business acumen. You could help me build a worthwhile legacy; and provide the pups to continue it, of course.”

“Heavens,” Dream says, hoping he is keeping his face as neutral as he thinks he is. It would not do to show that shock and frank distaste he feels at such a future. He is not often at a loss for words, but he almost is here. “Is this a proposal?”

“I will speak to your father,” Burgess leans back, looking satisfied. “And then it will be.”

Dream decides a change of subject is in order. Sir Roderick is plainly spoken indeed; Dream wishes he could be so plainly spoken in his rebuff but alas, pretty words bandied about will have to do. He clears his throat.

“Mama tells me you’re in newspapers, Sir Roderick?”

“Well, I own a few.” Burgess barks a laugh.

“That must be quite a responsibility at a time like this. In a war, I mean. When it's so important to keep people's spirits up.”

“Lord Morpheus, my responsibility is to my investors,” Burgess scoffs, and takes a long drink of his recently refilled wine glass, before fixing Morpheus with that auger-like stare again. “I need to keep my readership up. I leave the public spirits to government propaganda.”

Sir Roderick does not mention marriage again for the rest of the meal.

And from his thunderous look when he and the rest of the alphas reappear from their after dinner smoke, his overtures to Morpheus’s father had gone just as Morpheus had predicted.

Morpheus hides his smile in glass and turns away. What a terrible shame.

—-

“He said what?” Hob says gleefully, when Morpheus recounts the story to him the next day. “And did you really quote Pride and Prejudice?”

“I could not help myself. It was so apposite.”

“Oh Dream, I do so wish I could be a fly on the wall at some of your dinner parties.”

“You do not,” Morpheus says drily. “They are deadly dull. You’d either die or boredom or die from anger over some of the things my parents say.”

“Well you make them sound interesting, at least.”

“Perhaps I have a talent for narrative,” Dream says airly, and Hob laughs, bumping his shoulder gently as they walk. Dream’s stomach swoops.

“Perhaps you do, at that.”

Dreamling Abbey

My fic for the @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang !!

No lie, guys: I decided to do this after coming out of a heart scan at the hospital on the sign up deadline. The thinking being: I could have a dicky ticker here, why not try something new? And this was perfect because if there's one thing I know about myself, it's that I need a deadline.

And so here we are.

I am MOST affronted by how hard this was?! And how bloody long it took me (mostly because I spent a lot of time staring into space or relentlessly googling 'did they have xyz in Edwardian England) All you wonderful, talented writers have made it look so easy that all that effort came as somewhat of a shock. Honestly, I am deeply saddened that the copious amount of Dreamling fic I have voraciously consumed in the past 18 months has not magically made a fantastic author out of me. Why does osmosis not work for writing?

If you read, I hope you enjoy!

(The ticker's fine, by the way. Not dicky at all.)

Art by the fabulous @lalaithquetzallicaresi Thanks for squeezing me in there, lovely! ❤

Pairing: Dream/Hob

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 50k

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con elements

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Downton Abbey Fusion, look it's Downton Abbey but Dreamling omegaverse. Sorta. If you squint, I'm not sure Julian Fellowes would approve, If you haven't seen Downton it definitely won't matter, because I've unashamedly just stolen bits and pieces and thrown the rest to the wind, Attempted Sexual Assault, Rape/Non-con Elements, Non-Consensual Kissing, Pining, period typical attitudes to gender. If you reframe gender to include alpha beta omega dynamics, omega rights paralleling the suffragette movement in England, Minor Violence, lots of vague references to classic cars, mention of unethical medical procedures, Time and Night are bad parents, Omega Dream of the Endless, Alpha Hob Gadling, Hob Gadling Loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless│Morpheus Needs a Hug, Unbeta'd

Read chapter 1 on ao3

Fic Summary: Lord Morpheus is the eldest child of the Earl and Countess of Endless, an ancient family hiding huge debts behind a fine name. As an omega, Morpheus cannot inherit his father's title or the family's ancestral home. His function is simple: secure a match that is both socially advantageous and financially viable, thus securing the future of the estate and the title of Earl of Endless for his offspring. The family believe that their troubles are solved when Morpheus dutifully (if reluctantly) becomes engaged to his wealthy cousin, Patrick. However, all their carefully laid plans are thrown into chaos when Patrick drowns on the ill-fated Titianic.

Now Morpheus is navigating treacherous waters of his own and discovering how tight the ties of family loyalty bind him. Will the charming and handsome Duke of Crowborough prove his saviour? Or will the wealthy yet odious Sir Roderick Burgess ensnare Morpheus in plans of his own?

Meanwhile, the family’s new chauffeur, one Robert Gadling, is muddying the waters of Morpheus’s existence even further- where is the line between a servant and a friend? Can Hob help Morpheus see that life exists beyond the confines of family and function?

Chapters below the cuts and in subsequent reblogs, should you wish to read it here on tumblr.

Chapter 1: Complications with the Great Matter.

April 1912.

The papers had been late this morning. Not that Morpheus notices their tardiness. Serious daily newspapers are the preserve of his father and since Morpheus has little interest in the society gossip that proliferated on the pages of The Daily Sketch, the only periodical he is allowed in his room, he rarely bothers to glance at it. However, the large photograph blazing across the front page is so arresting that he finds his eyes drawn to it immediately, ignoring all else on his vanity to take the paper and read. It is bad news of course, the papers rarely print anything but. ‘DISASTER TO TITANIC ON HER MAIDEN VOYAGE’ boldly proclaims the headline, beneath which is black and white image of the doomed liner, adjoined by one of her seemingly also doomed captain, John Smith. Morpheus’s eyebrows draw down as he reads the brief article: so many presumed dead, so few saved. They would know people, of course. His mother knew the Astors, and they had dined with Lady Rothes only last month. Still, the privilege of first class likely meant they would be amongst the survivors. Those below decks… on their way to a better life, well they would not have been so fortunate. What a tragedy, Morpheus sighs and closes the paper. This news rather put his own woes into perspective-

The door bangs open and Desire flounces in without so much as a by your leave, as is their way.

“Dream!” they shout without preamble, then glance at the newspaper in his hands with a slight moue of disappointment. Being the bearer of bad news is something Desire takes a measure of delight in, “Oh, you’ve seen already, Huh,” They shake their head, before bending over Morpheus to look more closely at his paper, hand gripping his shoulder. This close, the smell of the perfume Desire favours- a rich and spicy aroma deliberately chosen to overwhelm their natural omega scent- makes him wrinkle his nose and move his head away. Desire’s fingers tighten on his shoulder and they huff in amusement. They are not strictly allowed to wear perfumes but Desire goes their own way with everything. “When Jessamy told me, I thought she must have dreamt it!” Desire continues in a low tone, meeting Morpheus’s eyes in the mirror. “To think, we were just talking about that ship the other week. Remember how excited old Lucy Rothes was? Supposed to be unsinkable- ha!”

“Every mountain is unclimbable until they climb, so every ship is unsinkable until it sinks,” Morpheus responds neutrally, putting the paper down and shrugging Desire’s hand off to stand. Desire moves with him, smoothing their hands over the non-existent wrinkles on the shoulder of his jacket before adjusting his already meticulously placed tie pin. Morpheus endures the attention for a moment before once again moving away. He does not enjoy this close scrutiny and Desire knows it, but it is always a delight of theirs to make him feel uncomfortable.

“Hm” Desire hums then shrugs, “Come on, now you’re all sorted, lets go to breakfast. Aponoia said she saw the telegram boy come by. I want to find out if there’s any more news. Won’t it be something if someone truly important drowned? Gossip for weeks.”

***

The papers always print bad news. Of course they do. But that news is viewed through a detached lens. Shocking, of course, but not too close to home. Telegrams though- that’s different. They take that news and make it personal.

Breakfast had proven to be a fraught affair. Their father had been away from the room when they first arrived, speaking with their mother so they were to learn, but he had soon been back and imparted the news of their family’s misfortune to his children with unusual brevity. Then he had left without saying anything further, leaving the three of them to process the news alone: the news that Patrick Endless, their wealthy cousin and Morpheus’s fiance, had been aboard the Titanic with his father, James and neither were listed among the names of the survivors. Morpheus had not felt like eating further and had removed himself back to his rooms with his siblings following uninvited (though not strictly unwanted). He had wanted to think but he also knew the danger of getting lost so deeply in his mind, so Desire’s sniping and Aponoia’s quiet presence would be… grounding.

The stupid thing was that Patrick was not even meant to be on that cursed ship; he and his father weren’t expected in New York until May. Why? He thought Why did they go? And without saying anything? Perhaps Patrick had planned to telegram from New York- a boast and a surprise.

“Turns out that the lure of the Titanic’s maiden voyage was too strong.” Desire says as if reading his mind, and with a hint of mischief in their golden eyes. They lounge dramatically against the doorframe whilst Morpheus stands and stares out of his window, gazing at the grounds below. It all looks so quiet, so normal. Why doesn’t he feel sad? Desire continues, “They wanted to be part of history and now they are history.”

“Desire,” Morpheus chides half heartedly. It is a crass statement but he can’t find it in himself to react more strongly. Maybe they are looking for a reaction from him, or maybe this is now how his sibling processes strong emotions. It certainly seems in character. Aponoia has not yet spoken. She just sits unmoving, staring vacantly ahead, toying with the ring on her finger, turning it over and over. He himself feels oddly disconnected from the news. How is one meant to react upon learning that their intended had been so suddenly and shockingly killed- drowned in the icy waters of the North Atlantic, their frozen corpse not even recovered, just left to sink and rot in the sea. Dream blinks slowly, probably not like this, he thinks vaguely. He feels there should be some weeping and wailing involved at the very least.

But there is only numbness.

***

“Uh, I detest black,” Desire flounces into the room the next morning whilst Morpheus is busy writing in his journal. He enjoys writing, it helps to order his often scattered and rebellious thoughts.

Jessamy, the maid he shares with his siblings, has just finished fixing his hair and is busily setting his bed to rights, plumping the pillows and smoothing the coverlets. Desire regards themself critically in Morpheus’ tall mirror, turning this way and that. Aponoia trails after them silently. She is also dressed in black and it makes her look even more wan and washed out than usual. As for Desire, their outfit may have been the requisite black, but it still looked to Morpheus to be sufficiently rakish as to raise their parents’ blood pressure. Hardly proper mourning material. “At least going into mourning won’t ruin your aesthetic, Dream dear,” Desire stretches languidly and collapses back on the just-made bed, smiling thinly. “Always a silver lining somewhere.”

“Full mourning still seems a lot for a cousin,” Morpheus replies vaguely. He tries to pay little attention to his siblings, bent over his journal and writing quickly. The habit of diary writing was born of necessity: a strategy to help quiet his mind, he’d been told, but now it is a pleasure.

“But not for a fiance,” Aponoia’s voice is quiet. There is no accusation in her tone, only the retelling of fact.

Morpheus huffs slightly. “He was not really a fiance.”

“No? I thought that was what you call a man you’re going to marry?”

“I was only going to marry him if nothing better turned up,” he turns the page and continues writing.

“Morpheus! What a dreadful thing to say!” Desire looks simply delighted. “Poor dear Patrick was absolutely besotted with you. It was quite pathetic to witness really- your indifference and his lovelorn obsessiveness,” they shudder theatrically. “Perhaps it’s a good thing he drowned; saved him from a miserable life with you as husband.”

“You dare suggest I would have been a poor husband to him?” Morpheus demands, slamming his diary closed and rounding on his sibling. Desire shrugs insouciantly, fiddling with a diamond earring.

‘“Well you didn’t love him. Barely liked him. And he wasn’t the cleverest where you were concerned, but he would have seen it sooner or later, and hated you for it. Of course, I could wish an unhappy marriage upon you, dearest brother. But Patrick? He deserved better.”

‘Better?’ Morpheus raises his eyebrows. Desire’s words were often full of spite towards him but this was such a quick switch around from mocking Patrick to defending him. Was there something here he had never seen? Never bothered to look for, in truth. “You would have considered yourself a better prospect, my sibling? Taken what I would have discarded?” He raises his eyebrows in challenge and they glare at each other for a moment, then Desire drops their gaze.

‘Yes,’ they say softly, vulnerability etching their features momentarily. “Would that I were eldest and not… as I am. Then I would have taken him like a shot.”

They stand, shields quickly going back up. “Well,” they sniff pointedly, looking away from Morpheus and towards the door, “It’s not so bad I suppose. Mama says we can go into half mourning next month, then full colour by September. A shame we have to spend the summer so drab- and miss the season down in London!- but at least we’ll be ready for shooting parties in the autumn. Come on Appy, let’s leave his lordship alone. He clearly craves solitude. To think,” they sneer, “and write in his stupid diary.” They flow out the room without a backwards glance, Aponoia dutifully trailing in their wake.

Morpheus sighs and turns back to his journal, opening it and staring at the blank page but not picking his pen back up. Desire and Patrick… not that he thought Patrick had returned any sort of affection to his younger sibling but still, had he really been so blind?

“I was so terribly sorry to hear the news, my lord,” Jessamy offers quietly into the silence of the room as she finishes adjusting his bed again. “You say these things but I know you are sad. Whatever you say.” “You are a dear,” Morpheus murmurs. “But I do not feel as badly as I should. I do not really know… what I feel.” That is probably a bad reflection upon me, he thinks. The truth was that beyond the normal amount of grief that came with the sudden and untimely passing of an acquaintance, Dream felt nothing. Patrick had hardly been a grand passion. They had known each other since childhood but had been thrown together through circumstance rather than any actual attraction and they had barely anything in common. So no, he was not as sad as he should be and that was what was really making him sad. This marriage would have been a thing of duty. Their family was old, old enough indeed to have had plenty of time to rack up considerable debts. A lack of money hidden behind a fine name. Morpheus’ marriage to Patrick would have secured the estate’s future, shored up its ailing finances and kept the title very much in the family. As an omega, Morpheus would never have been able to inherit his father’s title but his children could, if they were alphas. And now, there was no marriage, no money and a very uncertain future ahead of them. Morpheus’s one duty, his one function in society, was to secure a good match and that duty lay so heavily upon his shoulders. If only Olly had stayed- but no, there was no use in dealing in ‘if onlies’. Practicalities only, and practicalities meant marriage. And soon.

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