On cold feet, he padded across and slipped his feet inside the warm footwear. The familiar bit of warmth and comfort did nothing to quell the unease that had taken up residence inside him. Next he moved to the door, half-expecting it to shudder with a breathless Mister Finch’s knock as he begged forgiveness for his tardiness, a half-dozen valid excuses ready on the tip of his tongue.

Instead, the door remained still and silent.

Edward opened it.

Stuck his head out, peering down the length of the corridor to the left. It was empty. Swiveled his head and looked the opposite way, where he spied a maid going about her business like it was any other day, dusting the various frames containing priceless artwork that had been in their family for decades. This was one of her daily duties in this particular corridor, because Edward was woefully allergic to dust.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he called. Her body jerked wildly, arms flapping about like a wounded duck’s wings, and she dropped her feather duster. “Sorry to startle you.”

She didn’t move to retrieve her duster, eyes wide as she stared down the hall at him. “By the gods…,” she murmured. “How did you…where did you…by the gods,” she repeated. Then, of all things, she turned tail and bolted in the opposite direction, calling, “Mister Finch! Mister Finch!” at the top of her lungs, an act that broke all sorts of rules on palace decorum and which would likely land her in a world of reprimand from his mother if the queen caught wind.

“Queer woman,” Edward muttered under his breath, before heading back inside and closing the door quietly behind him. At least she’d gone to get Mister Finch, so that was something. He sat at his dressing table, trying to remember which part of his daily routine came first, the washing of his face or the brushing of his hair; and also, how exactly these tasks were completed. After a moment of uncertainty, he thought better of attempting these tasks by himself and instead stood and hurried over to a chest of drawers in which he’d hidden more than a dozen books that were supposed to be kept in the royal library, but which now resided within a variety of his clothing, from undergarments to pantaloons to vests and capes.

His fingers located one volume at random and withdrew it, not even glancing at the title as he scurried back to bed and flopped bodily onto its plush mattress, settling in with his back to the headboard. Within seconds, he was lost within the words so thoroughly that he didn’t even notice the door opening without so much as a courtesy knock, his personal attendant entering the room without being invited.

“Edward?” came Mister Finch’s voice, but Edward was so lost in another world that his only response was, “Hmm.”