Chapter Text
Morgana refuses to admit the absurdity of her behavior. She insists that all she did was observe a simple possibility.
Mother reprimands her and calls what she has done ‘cruel’ and ‘heartless’ and ‘completely unnecessary.’
Morgana counters that by arguing that it was Merlin who was cruel and heartless for not giving her favorite Guinevere the appropriate admiration. He has no taste, she maintains, and Guinevere does not deserve to have to compete with him for the attention of her chosen man.
Arthur removes himself from the situation before his teeth crack in his jaw.
He closes his door and sits again before the square piano.
What must it be like to be the heir to a family sick with land and riches in one realm and practically helpless in another? he wonders as his fingers grip the edges of his square piano.
If Nimueh’s and Lancelot’s accounts are true, then Merlin does what he does out of pure love of mankind.
And for that, he is rewarded with this: gossip and accusations.
Were it him in Merlin’s shoes, he doubts he would have the grace to conduct himself half as amiably.
In fact, were it him in Merlin’s shoes, he might never have returned from the east.
Homesick, indeed.
What is he to do?
He sits at the bench and strikes a chord to give his body something to do while his mind races to come up with a solution.
Father soon arrives and orders him through the door to ‘silence that evil sound.’
He is quickly called away by Mother, but Arthur is no mood to hear their discussion thrumming through the walls and floor.
He peels himself out of his boots instead and climbs onto the desk and then onto the windowsill. He lets one stockinged foot fall through to the other side of the open pane and chews his knuckle in hopes of drawing inspiration through meditation instead.
Needless to say, it does not come. Not even when he has gone to sleep.
The next day comes and brings with it Leon for coffee and negotiations over the specifics of Morgana’s dowry. His father and Arthur’s have not left the study for nearly an hour by the time Mother comes into the drawing room with a new pot of coffee.
Leon smiles at her in his small way and she curtseys lightly as she takes away the old pot.
“Captain, may I ask a personal question?” Leon says when she’s left.
“You’re going to anyways,” Arthur says.
“Does your mother know she employs servants?”
“We remind her twice daily.”
“I see. Is this something I should also prepare for?”
In less polite company, Arthur would have snorted.
“Rest assured, your bride-to-be has no such compulsions,” he says.
Outside, the day is wet but bright. Cool, humid air buffets through the open windows.
“Sir,” Leon says.
“We are to be brothers, Leon. Call me Arthur for God’s sake.”
“Sir,” Leon maintains, “I couldn’t help but notice some tension between yourself and Miss Draig this morning.”
“Another thing you will soon be accustomed to,” Arthur says. “Pay it no mind. Our quarrels are between us and us alone.”
“Is it too forward to ask about the cause of your current upset?” Leon asks.
Arthur uncrosses his legs and recrosses them in the other direction and rubs his knuckles under his chin.
“Leon, have you heard of botany?” he asks.
“Botany?”
“Yes. Plant science. The science of plants.”
“You mean horticulture?”
“Sure.”
“What of it?” Leon asks.
“Have you heard of it?” Arthur asks.
“Well, yes,” Leon says, setting his cup on a side table. “I’ve heard there has been a surge in popularity in exotics. My mother and youngest brother are all caught up in it—have you seen such a thing as a ‘pineapple?’”
“A what?”
“A pineapple.”
“You mean a pine cone?”
“No,” Leon says. “Far more mysterious than that.”
“I’ve only heard of a pinecone,” Arthur says testily. “What business do people have in making them apples?”
Leon chuckles and relaxes in his chair.
“Why do you ask about horticulture?” he asks.
Arthur fixes his gaze again on the window, trying his might to exude an unaffected air.
“No reason,” he says.
“Arthur, we have known each other for far too long for you to expect me to take that lying down. What is it?”
Arthur acknowledges this fact cooly out of the corner of his eye and goes back to the window haughtily.
“Have you seen my mother’s new garden?”
“The with the fence?”
“Yes, that one.”
“She showed me in the second we came through the door last week.”
“Strange, isn’t it?” Arthur asks.
“I am understood that such things are quite fashionable at the moment,” Leon says.
“Yes, all these well-to-do ladies playing at peasantry,” Arthur says.
“It’s romantic,” Leon says.
“The man who planned it has a son who my mother is on the verge of adopting as one of her own,” Arthur says. “Or she would do if Morgana did not utterly loathe him.”
“Ah. I have heard much of Mr. Emerson, yes.”
Arthur frowns.
“Emerson?” he asks.
“The doctor’s apprentice?” Leon asks.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “But Emerson?”
“Is that not his name? Merlin Emerson?”
“Merlin Abbel.”
“Abbel?”
“Why did you say Emerson?”
“Why did you say Abbel?” Leon asks back.
The men stare at each other for precisely as many beats as it takes for reality to set in, in the shape of perspiration under Arthur’s arms.
“Did the doctor introduce him to you as Emerson?” Arthur asks.
“Yes,” Leon says. “And my brother has bought no fewer than six orchids off him in the last four months. Have you seen his collection?”
“Merlin’s collection? Or your brother’s?”
“Mr. Emerson’s.”
“No. Have you?”
“In fact, I have. I admit, I was originally dubious of my brother’s fascination with such things, but when I finally witnessed Mr. Emerson’s orangery for myself, I must say I began to understand the appeal,” Leon says. “He’s done it up like no one else’s I’ve ever seen. It’s like walking into another world.”
Arthur picks at a fleck of dried skin on his lip.
“Do you think he’s a bastard?” he asks outright. “His father is Lady Nimueh’s gardener, and he definitely goes by Abbel.”
“I suppose he must be,” Leon says. “I didn’t realize his family were gardeners on the other side. That explains so much about him, you know.”
“Yes,” Arthur says as he settles back in his seat. “I suppose it does.”
“Morgana seems to think him an absolute scoundrel,” Leon says tactfully.
“She insulted him needlessly to his face last night,” Arthur says. “She accused him of—”
“Of being a sodomite, I presume?”
Arthur frowns.
“Did she tell you?” he asks.
“It seems to be a concern of hers,” Leon says. “I understand that he is close friends with one of her favorite companions.”
With a sigh, Arthur passes a hand over his face.
“I hope this doesn’t change your mind about marriage,” he says.
“It doesn’t,” Leon says. “The arrangement is chiefly between she and my mother.”
“Leon, you good son. And here I thought you were in love.”
Leon shrugs a shoulder.
“My youngest brother will marry for love in my place,” he says. “But I digress—it is not a small charge. Do you know if it is true?”
Arthur thinks back on Lancelot and his parcel and all those lozenges in Merlin’s pockets.
“I think it might be,” he says.
“So be it, then,” Leon says. “Our George is the same. Though, I can’t say I find his preferences particularly offensive; he is as pious as any other man and as hardworking when it suits him.”
“With respect, Leon. There was never any question about George’s situation,” Arthur deadpans.
Leon smiles.
“I did try to teach him some sport,” he says. “But in Merlin’s case, I wouldn’t concern myself too deeply. The doctor’s affairs and those of his family are theirs to muddle through, not yours.”
“I know, I know. It’s just the injustice of it all,” Arthur sighs. “My sister truly had no reason to be so nasty and now my mother has lost yet another of her friends.”
“Well, if your conscience truly cannot bear it, you can always apologize,” Leon points out.
“I tried,” Arthur says. “I tried last night, but he would not accept it.”
“So try again,” Leon says. “Go to his orangery. Bring him some sweets. George always does when he goes there to barter. If Merlin continues to reject your friendship, then at least he and you and the doctor will know that you tried to make amends.”
This is good, sound advice from a good, reliable man. Leon has never led Arthur astray, and so they begin a new conversation, this one about where and what sweets would be most welcome for the occasion.
Mother cannot bear the thought of Arthur purchasing honey cakes the next day. She insists that she will make them, and upon Father’s reprimand, she insists that she will watch the cook make them.
This means she will make them come hell or higher water if that means hiding beneath the kitchen benches under a table cloth, so Arthur must change tact.
He takes her into his confidence after breakfast and explains that he wants to go to town to soften Merlin enough that he becomes amenable to a second apology.
Mother instructs him then to go fishing and to bring half the results of that endeavor to Merlin and the other half to his mother in the cottage on Nimueh’s grounds.
“Working ladies like fish,” she says when Arthur asks her if a hare mightn’t be a better offering.
There is no arguing with that logic (for the sake of his sanity anyways), so he promises he will do exactly as asked and sets out to spend the day by the pond.
With fish in buckets in hand, Arthur rides to Nimueh’s estate and finds the lady herself out in her garden, stripping the heads one after the other off the long stems of her white and black anemones. The enormous straw hat she wears has been dyed black to match her veil and long shirt. She confirms for him that Merlin’s mother is home, for she is who made the hat.
Merlin’s father is home, too, she says, which is a rare treat for the whole family, but especially for the lady of the cottage, who spends most of her days alone while her son and man are out working.
“Her name is Hunith,” Nimueh says. “But flatter her by calling her Lady Abbel.”
“Will she curse me?” Arthur asks.
“I’d say the likelihood is low since you’ve come with a gift in hand. For the dragon, I couldn’t say; I’ve no idea if he’s the kind that eats fish.”
Now, she’s just telling stories. Arthur knows he’s an easy mark after enduring her previous torment, but he’s not that gullible.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Your poor Mama came to me miserable last night, you know,” Nimueh says, following him along the edge of the garden as he attempts to take his leave.
“I shall compel Father to re-examine the walls and plug up her latest mousehole,” he says.
“She told me of Morgana’s coarse words to Emrys.”
“Emrys?” Arthur asks.
“Merlin,” Nimueh says.
“Just how many names does the man have?” Arthur demands.
Nimueh ponders the question while he hooks his boot into the first stirrup.
“As many as he needs, I imagine,” she says. “It’s no matter, though. It’s all the same person. Anyways, are you coming to my ball?”
Clearly, the grounds are ready for it. Arthur has not seen such bountiful knolls in all his time as Nimueh’s neighbor. Mr. Abbel must be working hard for his money.
“What is that?” Arthur asks of the globular mounds of pink idly oozing along the edges of the walking path between tall, pale stalks of lavender.
“Creeping thyme,” Nimueh says. “Are you coming?”
“Yes, Lady Nimueh, I’m coming. Mother already told you this, I know she did.”
“Ask Merlin along,” Nimueh says.
“He already told me he would be in attendance to mind his father’s artwork,” Arthur says.
“Bashful thing,” Nimueh tsks. “Such humility will be the ruin of him. Stay there just one moment.”
Her massive straw hat scrapes the sides of the door when she hurries through to the foyer. Arthur huffs and so does his horse as they wait for her to wrangle it on the way back out, now sans-veil.
She holds up to him two cream-colored envelopes, both tied with velvet blue ribbon.
“What’s that?” he says.
“An invitation,” Nimueh says. “Give one to the parents, too.”
He takes both and tucks them in his waistcoat and finally trots away.
Merlin’s mother keeps a fine, neat home and his father has done up the garden. Arthur knows the cottages on Nimueh’s land to be of somewhat questionable quality, but what stands before him now is a white-washed, two-roomed home with a basket of half-shucked peas on its step next to a bushy herb garden.
Climbing roses have taken over the southern-most cottage wall, alongside a thick layer of ivy and some other creeping small yellow flower that bursts out of the green here and there.
A collection of chickens father around an old rotted stump filled now with water bursts into chaos at Arthur’s arrival and, by this means, alerts the lady of the house to company outside her door.
Quickly, she appears in the doorway wearing a heavy leather apron and her hair tucked away in a kerchief.
“Hello,” she says
“Hello,” Arthur says. “Are you Lady Abbel—er, Emerson?”
The woman raises a skeptical eyebrow in a mirror (though far more womanly) image of the doctor in town.
“That’ll depend on who’s asking, my lord,” she says. “Have we met, sir?”
Arthur dismounts and comes over to produce Nimueh’s invitation from his waistcoat.
“I am your neighbor, Arthur Draig,” he says. “Your mistress is great friends with my mother. She’s asked that I deliver this missive on my way into town.”
“Arthur Draig,” Merlin’s mother says. “Now this is a familiar name. Aren’t you a handsome young man? Does your beast there need water?”
Arthur looks over and panics at the sight of his horse devouring one of many ornamental cabbages planted along the outermost edge of the cottage’s front garden.
He rushes to nudge him towards more appropriate grass and comes back flushed and embarrassed.
“I beg your pardon,” he says. “I’ll pay for the damage.”
Merlin’s mother offers him an amused, close-lipped smile.
“Forget the damage,” she says. “Greens are meant for eating.”
“Ah. And fish, too,” Arthur says. “I was advised that you might have use of some.”
He thrusts the invitation into Merlin’s mother’s hands and goes to fetch half of the fish. He presents them to her and receives another arched eyebrow for his trouble.
She does not reach to take the basket he holds out, leaving Arthur feeling foolish and awkward.
“Does—does your dragon not eat fish?” he asks.
“Ah,” Merlin’s mother says. “So you know of the dragon.”
Oh, thank God, Arthur groans internally.
“Lady Nimueh has, er, enlightened me,” he says.
“And here you are, unafraid,” Merlin’s mother says in an approving tone, “Have you come to make amends with my boy?”
She’s very quick, she is.
Arthur clears his throat.
“My sister spoke to him out of turn the other evening. I imagine he told you so,” he says.
“He told his father,” Merlin’s mother says. “But dragons aren’t known for secrets, you know, so mine passed the knowledge along. You are very noble to go through such trouble, Mr. Draig. Merlin would have forgiven you regardless.”
Arthur hands over the basket and wipes his hands on his trousers.
“He shouldn’t,” he says. “Not without at least some effort on the part of the offender. Does he eat fish, Madam?”
“Dragons’ll eat rocks if you leave them unattended,” Merlin’s mother says. “Whatever our mistress has told you about them, you can pour right out of your other ear. There’s a reason they keep human companions. Every powerful thing like that needs a voice of reason.”
Right. That makes good sense to Arthur.
“Are you Mr. Abbel’s voice of reason?” he asks.
“Mr. Abbel is a dragon companion, not an actual dragon. We only call him that because the two are one and the same spiritually in their religion,” Merlin’s mother says. “But if you’re feeling extra brave, I’m happy to show you the two he’s minding in the barn.”
Arthur is one hundred percent not feeling extra brave.
“That’s alright,” he says. “Should I call upon Mr. Abbel or Mr. Emerson when in town?”
“Just call upon Merlin, dear,” Merlin’s mother says. “And give him the letter after the fish for your best chances of success.”
Someone in town has wrapped ribbons around the necks of the streetlamps lining each side of the paved road.
Each lamp has a bevy of colors fluttering around beneath it, through which crowds of starry-eyed children dart and dance.
They laugh uproariously when the strings steal passing gentlemen’s hats.
Arthur ties his horse to the post outside Doctor Emerson’s storefront and goes to rap on the door only to find Merlin already standing at the window, watching the spectacle with a smile. He notices Arthur right away and, to Arthur’s surprise, comes quickly around the counter to open the door.
His apron is newly laundered and white, and his shirtsleeves have been rolled up.
“Mr. Draig,” he says. “Here to join the celebrations?”
“And which celebrations are those?” Arthur asks.
“The vicar was just married,” Merlin says. “The one everyone likes.”
“As opposed to the one everyone doesn’t?” Arthur asks.
“You know, if you say his name three times in a looking-glass—”
“Merlin.”
Merlin grins.
“What can I do for you?” he asks. “The doctor’s not in, but if it’s a cough or a bleeding you need, I’ve got a surgeon right ‘round the corner who’ll take care of it for half the price of your typical barber.”
Despite himself, Arthur feels his mood lifting.
“You wouldn’t handle it yourself?” he asks.
“My uncle tells me it is the doctor’s way not to cut for the stone,” Merlin says. “What brings you in, sir?”
“Three matters of business,” Arthur says. “The first has to do with fish.”
“Fish?”
Arthur hauls his second basket up and onto the counter.
“Fish,” he says, opening the top so that Merlin can behold the silvery bodies within.
“For…?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“And your mother,” Arthur says, flushing. “But she already received hers.”
“You brought my mother fish?” Merlin asks.
“I—well, I heard sweets would have been preferred, but you see, Mother’s protesting the sugar so—”
Merlin’s lips stretch into smooth curves as he pulls the basket towards him.
“That’s very kind of you,” he says. “I’m sorry to hear my reputation as a sweet tooth has spread so quickly. The fish’ll be better for the family. Thank you, Mr. Draig.”
“And the dragons?” Arthur whispers.
Merlin burst out laughing.
“The dragons will eat rocks if you let them,” he says.
“Your mother said the same thing.”
“Did she show you them?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Do you want me to?”
“The second order of business,” Arthur says, loudly and pointedly before any more threats of reptilian nature are lobbed his way, “Is an apology. A real one. I’m sorry for the other night. I’m sorry my sister was so spiteful. You didn’t deserve that, and I should have intervened earlier. Moreover, it doesn’t matter—I mean, who you do or don’t fancy and why or why not—it doesn’t matter to those of us who appreciate you for your generosity, integrity, and industrious nature. Notwithstanding my sister’s wounded pride and whatever loss compelled you and your family into Lady Nimueh’s employment, I am glad to have met you. I feel I am better for having done so.”
Arthur’s heart flutters with pride at the end of this speech. Since he returned from Leipzig, he has not felt more in control of a situation.
The feeling is fleeting.
Merlin simply stares at him over the basket of fish on the counter between them. He blinks once and then rapidly, and before Arthur knows what’s happening, the man’s eyes are an ocean of water. Their colors are lost in the sea that Merlin tries to mop up with his sleeve.
As a pang of horror rings through the lowest part of Arthur’s stomach, he jerks away and gives a watery laugh.
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Merlin says like he did before, but broken up this time by dreadful hiccups of heart-stopping emotion.
Every second Arthur watches him is one more in which he is consumed by the urge, the impulse, the burning desire to somehow make it stop.
“Merlin,” he pleads. “I didn’t mean—I never meant—”
“No, no,” Merlin says, “It’s alright. God, what a mess. I’m the one who should be sorry. What a mess. What a mess. Over some fish—get it together, Em.”
At that moment, a customer comes up and raps on the window. Merlin coughs and clears his throat and moves to let him in, but Arthur raps back on the window before he can and snaps his fingers across his throat.
He points sharply back down the street and, terrified, the man follows the order.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Merlin says. “He’s just here to pick up.”
“He’ll live five minutes,” Arthur says. “You’re unhappy. He can wait.”
“I’m not unhappy,” Merlin says.
“You’re not?”
“No,” Merlin says, “In fact, I don’t know when I’ve been happier. Thank you.”
The ocean that was in his eyes has fallen away into clear skies. Arthur thinks he might see the shadow of a gull in them.
He might forget to breathe for a moment.
Only a moment.
“You said there was a third matter of business?” Merlin asks.
The world comes whirling back.
“Ah. Yes. Right, the third thing,” Arthur says. “The third thing can, er, wait until Mister, er, what’s his name picks up his medicine. I’ll fetch him. One moment.”
With the customer off on his way, Merlin can address the third thing, which turns out to be a glass-roofed structure behind the store and Doctor Emerson’s private offices. It is not large, perhaps the size of a shed, but completely transparent—or it would be if the glass was not fogged with condensation.
Merlin unlocks the door and waves Arthur inside.
“Duck now,” Merlin says, and Arthur does to accommodate a low branch absolutely bursting with flashes of color and spots and stripes and wide, oval-shaped leaves.
Beyond that branch are wooden mounts fitted into the walls from which more orchids bloom. Their thick, bulbous roots crawl into the mounts and form tangles with others as they search for more hot, wet air.
Beyond them are round-bottomed pots suspended from chains and overflowing with fat little striped bubbles here and morning glories there and peculiar plants shaped like mal-formed vials with hairy fibers around their lips.
“Orchids,” Merlin says. “And aloes. Come; it’s a little drier over here.”
He steps away towards a different corner of the shed, where an enormous specimen with paddle-like protrusions and needles jutting out of it stands on its own, surrounded by drier-looking creatures of a similar variety.
“Have you ever heard of a prickly-pear cactus?” Merlin asks. “This one came from New Spain via London. It makes purple fruits, like so.”
He cups his hands around a tubular growth at the top of the plant.
“They’re sweet,” he says. “Want to try?”
Arthur has barely opened his mouth when Merlin folds his apron upon itself a few times and twists the growth right off its paddle. He produces a knife from his pocket and lops off either end of the thing before bisecting it and peeling it out of its fleshy jacket.
The resulting lump, he cuts a slice from and holds out to Arthur.
“Be careful of the stones,” he says as Arthur nervously takes the slice.
“Is it poison?” he asks.
“Oh no. Gaius lets me keep the poisons upstairs in the attic.”
Fantastic.
Arthur takes a nibble of the fruit and comes away surprised.
“Very sweet,” he says.
“And crunchy,” Merlin agrees. “Take a bigger mouthful.”
“You grew all these?” Arthur asks, inspecting a different corner of the orangery, where Merlin has constructed a miniature pond, much like the one his father made in the garden at home. Merlin’s, however, is rich with tiny flowers and frothy herbs.
“Smell this,” Merlin says, setting aside the rest of his purple cactus-pear.
He draws Arthur over to the little pond and dips his fingers into the water so that he can flick that moisture onto a fern-like plant with a nigh-invisible stems.
He ushers Arthur in close to it to breathe in an aroma that takes him immediately to an early summer forest in his mind.
“Adiantum,” Merlin says. “Sometimes called maiden hair or Venus hair ferns. This one is green, but you can find them red.”
“Red?” Arthur asks.
“One day,” Merlin hums.
“How long did this take you to make?” Arthur asks.
“Years,” Merlin says. “The glass alone, I tell you—I had to go to a glazier in the north of England. Took my allowance for nearly half a year just to purchase nine panes, but I made it work until I could get the last few.”
“Couldn’t you have magicked it?” Arthur asks.
“Well yes, and no,” Merlin says. “Plants like these know if you’re trying to trick them; if you do it too obviously, they won’t grow.”
“You sell them?” Arthur asks.
“I propagate.”
“Does that mean yes?”
“If you must be crass about it, yes. But I prefer to think of it as supporting the art.”
Arthur chuckles and stands up straight to appreciate the vines climbing around the glass walls and subtle, languid motions of a self-propelled fan in corner behind the door.
“An orangery with no oranges,” he says.
“My father warned me against citrus,” Merlin says. “They’re bad for dragons. They eat the pips. Grapes, too.”
With smears of pear-juice staining his apron and frizzy curls rising from his coal-black hair and the color of the misted glass in his eyes, he’s never looked so at ease.
So genuinely happy.
He notices Arthur staring and tilts his head in question.
“Not bad, is it?” he asks.
“You’re beautiful,” Arthur says, then nearly chokes. “IT,” he says. “It’s beautiful.”
Merlin laughs.
“I’m glad you think so,” he says. “Here, let me help you get started. I’ll show you everything. Come. Come.”
Mother comes in while Arthur is drumming his forehead against his writing desk that evening, lamenting the little bell-shaped glass on a wooden plate by his head, in which Merlin has constructed a miniature creek bed complete with a tiny fern and moss.
Arthur knows she is behind him, but he is too miserable to muster the strenth to send her away.
“What’s this?” Mother asks as she comes up over him.
“Adiantum,” Arthur moans.
“Adi-what?”
“Fern.”
“Oh. Fern. And where did she come from?”
“Merlin.”
“You went to see him? When? Did he forgive us?”
Without lifting his head, Arthur gestures to the fern.
“Is that a yes?” Mother asks.
“I should’ve gone to France,” Arthur says.