"People like poetry. The ability to twist words of the soul" he responded before lifting one of the logs into the couch with a light groan of annoyance as he got it into position.

He looked his age. Perhaps a little younger. He had learned that the boys of no future tended to marry fairly young.

Simon had not, but then Simon had not done many things an intelligent man would.

Zechariah brandished the book up like one might a sword after the log settled, clearing his throat.

“As Adam early in the morning
Walking forth from the bower, refreshed with sleep...”

Once upon a time, he might have offered to help.

Claude looked at him in a moment of surprise before giving a light smile as he listened and went about setting the next log in place.

There was a suspicious look when the workman smiled. Did he actually enjoy this sort of drivel? There came a mischievous slant to his brow: wait until he heard the rest of it.

“Behold me where I pass! Hear my voice! Approach!” He waited until the workman had the log midair, and then, overly sensually: “Touch me. Touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass.”

Claude was enjoying it. Not able to read himself, he took great pleasure in listening to others.

The log didn't mean to leave his hands nor was his face meant to turn a light shade of red. But Claude did manage to catch the log before it hit the floor, only to look at the man in his hunched over position.

Chin up and gaze loftily down on him, Zechariah locked eyes on his.

“Be not afraid of my body,” he finished with a devious look, sliding a bookmark in and snapping the book closed with one hand. “Is that the sort of poetry you enjoy?”

Claude watched him for a moment wide eyed, any response lost on it's way up. Slowly he turned back to face the couch, only once the log was safely in place did he respond. "My experience with poetry is limited sir."

It was a gaze one learned to pay attention to where words might be too fraught. The devious look faded into mere curiosity, and he turned his attention to putting the book aside lest his gaze be too prying.

He thought the topic had been dropped, but the workman was the one to bring it up again.

“I see. What is your experience with poetry?”

“Church and the ones my sisters like mostly” he replied moving to grab another log, his face slowly fading back to its normal colour. “I’ve always liked the idea of it though.”

“The concept is always better than the execution,” he said crisply.

Christopher’s murder came to mind... and with it, Simon’s.

“Let the butler know when you are finished.”

He rose, put the book away like he had developed the habit of between maids, then left the workman to his devices.

He did not have a name, and Zechariah much preferred it that way.