“You said,” Sebastian said, “you had something to ask me.” In the library, he glowed like the book-spines: antique gilt, precious stones, layers of value hidden beneath graceful covers. He’d worn green today, lighter than his eyes; Edmund got briefly distracted evaluating the color, deeming it inferior.

Sebastian came over to him, near the tall loom of shelves and histories. Rain rippled outside, framed by tall windows. “You made it sound urgent.”

“It is. I mean -- I don’t know what to do.”

“If I can help in any way --”

“I have five days, and I don’t know how to speak to people, and my father is definitely dying, and I need a respectable reputation, and my father thinks I’ll fail because I’m inadequate in the bedroom --”

Sebastian held up a hand. Edmund, mid-sentence, gave up.

Sebastian left the hand up for a second. Then said, “Which specific part of that list did you need my help addressing?”

“Oh gods.” Edmund sank down onto the nearest chair. He did not remember choosing the material -- he’d simply hired a designer -- but the turquoise satin cushion accepted his weight. “Never mind. It’s too -- I cannot ask you. Any of it. Forget I requested your assistance.”

“No, sorry, too late now. I do love a good knot to untie.” Sebastian took the small tasseled footstool in front of him, reached out, gathered up both Edmund’s hands. In the moment it did not feel awkward. Natural, instead. As if they’d done it before. “Begin with the first part. You have five days to do what?”

Edmund bit his lip. He did not normally do that. Then again, he did not normally clutch his only friend’s hands as if he were drowning, nor have five days to either find a spouse or lose his entire purpose. “Father ... he is honestly ill, I spoke to the physician ... not imminent, but perhaps ... perhaps a year ...”

Sebastian nodded, not speaking, fingers gently rubbing over Edmund’s. His hands were large, long-fingered, with small pen-calluses from sketches, figures, scientific designs.

“He told me I had been inadequate. As usual, I suppose. He demanded that -- that I find a spouse by Midwinter Eve. Someone of benefit to the family -- magic, or wealth, or a title, along with a spotless reputation.” The words tasted like medicine: dry, bitter, supposedly the right cure for a problem. “He’ll disinherit me otherwise.”

“So.” Thoughts moved behind Sebastian’s expression; the green of his eyes remained unwavering, not backing away. “Five days, then. I’m assuming the disinheritance isn’t an option.”

“No ...”

“Edmund. Of course it isn’t.”

“Because I’m the heir, and Sam is a hopeless source of melodrama, and --”

“Because you know who you are, and you care for the estate and your responsibilities, truly, deeply, more so than anyone I’ve ever known.” Sebastian sighed. A lock of his hair had slid out of place. Up close, the gold held one or two streaks of silver; like the lines at his eyes, they only made him more attractive. Mature, at a year younger than Edmund’s own forty-five: a solid well-built man. “I believe that. I know you’ll always do your duty.”

“Then I need to find a spouse.”

“In five days. It isn’t impossible. You’re a desirable man -- I mean you’d be a desirable catch. For anyone. The title, the Rookwood estates --”

“I’m not.”

“But why -- no. Wait. You said -- about the bedroom --”

“It’s not a problem you can solve.”

“But -- I know you’ve -- we’ve both been to Marlowe’s --”

“Yes. I have -- had -- specific requests. The men I know, the men I --” He tugged his hands out of Sebastian’s. Pressed them over his eyes. “I did not mean to tell you this.”

“Well,” Sebastian said, after a moment, “it seems you’ve begun, and I do like knowing everything, so by all means continue.”

That was so unexpectedly, recognizably, Sebastian, and therefore inexpressibly right; Edmund couldn’t hold back the abrupt shaky laugh. “Thank you.”

“I said I’d help, and I mean it.” Sebastian tilted an eyebrow at him. “And I’m fairly unshockable. What specific requests, specifically?”

“It’s not ... it isn’t ...”

“Is leather involved? Lace? Ladies’ undergarments?”

“What? No!”

“Amazingly enough, I guessed that’d be your answer.”

“Then why --”

“Humor. Edmund, we’ve been friends for years. Simply tell me.”

Edmund looked at his best friend -- his only friend, the only person he could think to turn to -- and blurted out, “Are we? Friends.”

Sebastian flinched. Genuine hurt, as if the words had cut and slashed. “I thought we were. Since Eton. And Oxford. The years, the shared books, the advice --”

“That’s what I mean. We speak of the practical. Or the scientific. The mathematical. This isn’t ...” He shoved a hand through his hair. Brown and grey, plain, unremarkable. “Why did you come, when I asked?”

“Because I wanted to,” Sebastian said. He had not looked away; something of the hurt lingered, as if it’d left a scar, and Edmund knew about scars. “Tell me what’s wrong.”