Simon looked at the door. Then at Zech. "My father knows I'm out with you, ser..." He gave Zech a small smile. Did he expect him home? Possibly. Did Simon care? No. He entered the grand home and looked around, pursing his lips lightly. Admiration? Judgement? Disgust? Maybe it was all one.

Chaim came to mind again. It was as though he had been sent some fellow’s daughter with trust, though he knew that trust was unlikely to be the case.

It was nice to dream, nonetheless.

The food was already on the table before they arrived – their approach visible from the window view, no doubt.

There was no fish.

Zechariah cleared his throat and gestured to the dining room.

“I will be right with you,” he said. “You can start without me.”

With that, he retreated like a vampire from the sun into the study on the same floor.

Simon did not sit down and eat, but when Zech was gone, he did take a small piece of food from the plate and ate it. He was surprised at how tasty it was, with flavours mixed in there he did not know. Simon clasped his hands behind his back and walked around the room, studying different items. Some fine, expensive looking objects made his fingers itch. Would Mr. Meijer ever miss them? But he kept his hands clasped behind his back. He was no thief.

Zechariah set a full bundle of papers and a cartridge pen on a stand by the dining room door. There was faint ink on his thumb and forefinger, though the smell was still fresh.

Seeing Simon still standing, Zechariah furrowed his brow. Strange bird indeed. He stepped up to him, pulled the nearest chair out like he used to for his sisters and stood behind the chair with a curious look.

Simon looked up when Zech returned. He looked at the paper and ink, realizing that he had never even gotten to the stage of using it. He had practiced with slates. And after school, he had never attempted to write anything. Would he even know how to use it? He approached the table, but when Zech held out the chair, he frowned. All of this was very strange. How could he sit down and begin to eat in a wealthy gentleman's house? How could he let the man help him into a chair? How was he even in the dining room and now below with the servants? If Meijer wanted what Hurley wanted, he wouldn't have to go through all this trouble. Hurley had never given him food, or let him into any other room but the bedroom - God forbid a servant should see him and talk. Hurley always reminded him of his place. He just couldn't figure out Meijer. "But ser... Mr. Meijer. Surely I should be servin' you, no offence..." He stood frozen in place, unable to decide how to act and not be offensive.

Zechariah raised his brows in mild exasperation, leaning an arm on the back of the chair as though he suspected this might take a while.

“Where did you meet Christopher?”

Simon furrowed his brows. Did Mr. Meijer know? Were they going to negotiate now? Or would Mr. Meijer be disgusted? But why else had he invited some stinky fisherman over if he did not want something he obviously had the money to buy. He still stood frozen in place. "At the beach, ser. Near 'is house. I had an injury and he kindly offered to have his servant dress it..." Kindly. From the moment he had seen the way Hurley look at him, he knew what the man wanted. And he had been fascinated.

The closest comparison he had to Simon’s state was the horrible tremors some of the boys had when they had to present their work in front of the class. Zechariah looked on sympathetically, waiting for him to find the words.

… But not those words. It was his turn to look nervous. Had he misread Simon’s intentions? He had seemed so forward! Zechariah was as red as his coat, letting out a strained laugh and running a hand over never-flat hair.

He had seen what he wanted to, and made a fool of them both.

“He is … very kind.”

Kind enough to offer some more rancid-tasting liquor tonight – of that he had no doubt.

"Aye..." Simon said vaguely. Did Mr. Meijer really believe Hurley was kind. Why was he blushing. And then he suddenly understood, and shot red himself.

They were together!

Did Meijer know Hurley was paying Simon and tons of boys for sexual favours? Did Hurley know Meijer looked at him and probably other men as well like this and invited them to his home. This was awkward. He looked down, bright red, and bit his lip. He did not know what to do or say. At all. Was that the clock in the hall ticking?

[CW: Mild homophobia.]

What on earth did a man even say in this situation? ‘Golly jee, a thousand pardons but I thought you were a sodomite!’?

Maybe if he stood utterly still long enough, Simon would escort himself out to a land where – wait a minute. Something was not adding up.

“Oh,” he said with over-inflected lightness. “Where is the injury?”