As Fredrick Garrison walked down the dusty lane with no definite destination, his eyes still adjusting to the overwhelming brightness of the world outside the prison walls, a voice, calm and authoritative, called out to him.
"Fredrick Garrison."
The sound of his full na, spoken so formally, made him freeze. Hearing his given na spoken with such precision was unnerving. He turned slowly, his shoulders tense, expecting a guard who’d had a change of mind or an old associate with a new problem.
Instead, he saw a man stepping out of a fine, polished carriage that had pulled up silently beside him. The man was young, dressed in an impeccable attire that spoke of imnse wealth. He carried himself with an air of power that was unmistakable. It was Eric.
As it turned out, the Royal Penitentiary had sent him a quiet ssage that morning, informing him that the man connected to his wife’s family history was going to be released that day.
Eric offered a polite, small smile that didn’t quite reach his observant eyes. "May I have a word with you for so minutes? I promise I won’t take much of your ti."
Fredrick stared, his mind struggling to process the scene. The gleaming carriage, the well-dressed man, the polite request. None of it made sense. "What does this rich looking young man want from ?" he wondered, a deep, instinctual suspicion rising in his gut. n like this didn’t speak to n like him unless they wanted sothing, and it was usually sothing that would land him right back where he started.
Eric seed to sense his hesitation. "We can take my carriage, if you don’t mind," he offered, gesturing to the open door. "It is more comfortable than standing in the street."
Fredrick looked from Eric’s calm face to the plush velvet interior of the carriage, then back again. His stomach growled, a loud, embarrassing reminder that he hadn’t had a decent al in a very long ti. Curiosity, and the promise of a comfortable seat, won out over his suspicion. He gave a short, stiff nod and climbed into the carriage.
A short while later, they were seated in a fine dining establishnt. It was the kind of place Fredrick had only ever pickpocketed people outside of. The tablecloth was starched white, the cutlery was heavy, real silver, and quiet, efficient waiters moved swiftly between the tables.
Eric had ordered for them both, and when the food arrived—a thick, juicy steak with roasted potatoes and a side of fresh bread—Fredrick forgot all about his suspicion.
He ate with a desperate hunger, foregoing all pretence of table manners. He held his fork like a shovel and barely chewed, the flavors exploding in his mouth. He spoke with a full mouth, waving a piece of bread to emphasize his point.
"I have been in and out of prison since I was a young man," he said, swallowing a large piece of steak. "From pickpocketing to stealing from people’s stalls. And in all that ti, you are the first person to ever give a good al like this. The first."
Eric simply watched him, a calm, patient expression on his face. He hadn’t touched his own food yet. "You are welco, Mr. Garrison," he said quietly.
Fredrick pointed his fork at him. "A person is bound to be moved by the small gestures," he continued, his voice rough. "So let’s have it. What do you want to know?" He was no fool. He knew this generosity had a price.
Eric leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the white tablecloth. His gaze was direct. "It is about Baroness Augusta Ellington."
Fredrick’s chewing slowed, just a fraction. He did not say a word. He kept his eyes on his plate, speared another piece of potato, and put it in his mouth. His silence was a wall, quickly and expertly built.
Eric continued, his voice even. "That accident that happened twenty three years ago. The one that got you in prison. Baroness Augusta had sothing to do with it, right?"
Fredrick continued to eat, but the frantic hunger was gone now. His movents were more deliberate. He was listening to every word.
"You were the driver of the other cart," Eric went on, his eyes never leaving Fredrick’s face. "The official report said you were drunk, that you lost control. But the angle was strange. You happened to steer directly into the Ellington carriage, knowing fully well that it was approaching and you fled the scene which isn’t normal for a man who was intoxicated."
He saw a muscle twitch in Fredrick’s jaw, a tiny, almost unnoticeable change. Eric’s lips curved into a faint smile. "I’m not asking what the reports say. I’m asking if any of it was intentional."
Fredrick finally put his fork down. He took a long drink of the wine Eric had ordered for him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and ignoring the fine linen napkin next to his plate. He looked at Eric, his eyes shrewd and guarded.
"Twenty three years," Fredrick said, his voice a low rasp. "And I finally get to hear my forr lover’s na out of a handso young man’s mouth."
The statent hung in the air, unexpected and charged. Eric’s calm expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. He had expected a denial, a demand for money, perhaps even a confession. He had not expected this. "Your lover?" he asked, his voice steady.
Fredrick picked up his fork again, but only to gesture with it. "The end," he said flatly. "That’s all you get. The al you bought could only buy that amount of information. That one little piece." He leaned back in his chair, a weary look on his face. "Just because you have money doesn’t an you can just shake out soone’s past like that. So things aren’t for sale."
He was protecting her and Eric knew this. It was clear in the way he sounded defensive, the finality in his tone.
Eric regarded him for a long, silent mont. He saw the pride in the older man’s eyes, the fierce loyalty that had survived two decades in prison. He had offered to buy Fredrick’s past, and Fredrick had refused. So, he would change the offer.
"Then, how about I buy your future?" Eric asked, his voice quiet but carrying an imnse weight.
Fredrick’s own smile vanished completely.
He slowly put his spoon down next to his fork. The half-eaten steak, which monts ago had been the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, now seed unappealing.
"I’ve lost my appetite," Fredrick said, his voice laced with annoyance.
Eric’s small smile widened. "Very well." He said as he finally picked up his own knife and fork.
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