The Chiswell Society

"What are you doing here?" Victor whispered when he saw him.
"Well, nice to see you, too," answered Henry in a reserved voice. "I am here to discuss business if you must know."
It took Victor a few seconds. Yes. That's right. His father. Henry's father. Business.
"I'm sorry," Victor looked away, embarrassed.
"Did you think I was here to see you?" continued Henry.
Victor felt foolish. And disappointed.
Henry reached into his pocket. A letter.
"You'll need a password this time."
Victor nodded, confused. Henry's breath was warm on his earlobe. Two words.
It was almost time for dinner.

"Victor, you need to wake up!"
Victor mumbled something and covered his head with a blanket. He was up all night and sneaked in just a few hours ago. Now, it all felt like a dream.
"Victor, are you listening to me?!"
During moments like this, he wished to be married already so he wouldn't have to deal with his mother anymore.
His body was sore and something was screaming inside his brain. He needed a bath.
The memories were blurry but he could still taste the alcohol. He touched his lips. Hot, red, swollen. But it wasn't just alcohol.

Smell, sound, voices. A lady dressed in red was entering the room. Victor would stand up if he wasn't so shocked. A woman? At night in a pub? Was she a prostitute?
A man, much drunker than Victor ever was, was following her. She clearly didn't like it but she let him put his arm around her waist anyway.
"Who is she?" Victor asked Henry before he could stop himself.
"She is queeeen Margaret," immediately shouted the drunk. "She is the queen of all roads. They all lead back... to her bed." he giggled but nobody else found it funny.

The light was dim and the air was filled with the scent of opium. Two men were sitting on a divan, talking. Their half-empty glasses were standing on the table.
Henry was saying something but Victor wasn't listening. He could only hear humming in his ears. Like from a factory.
Victor noticed the men were sitting very close. Touching. He could feel Henry's fingers on his thigh. He had two glasses already and the poisoned air wasn't helping either. He needed to concentrate.
"Five and five is ten, three times three is nine." more random numbers. Counting. It usually helped.

"Knock three times shortly and say I invited you."
Victor did as he was told.
It felt strange. Wrong even. Was it too late to leave?
Inside, the place looked like a normal pub. Men of all ages were talking and drinking. Somebody was smoking opium.
Mr. Astley was standing by the stairs, holding a glass of sherry.
"I am glad you came," he smiled. "Can I call you Victor?"
Victor nodded, nervous, unable to speak.
"Call me Henry, then. Come."
The room was silent. Victor felt as if he was being watched when he followed Henry up the stairs.

The sky was already dark and the cold wind was pinching his cheeks and making them red. It looked like he was blushing. Soft petals tickled his palm as he gently held the flower. A green carnation.
That afternoon, he had an appointment with one of father's clients. Young Mr. Astley. His forearm was still burning from the firm touch. Victor pretended he didn't understand.
Why did he give him the carnation? An invitation. Risking everything. Losing his wife, business, reputation. He could’ve ended up with nothing. They both could.
Victor took a deep breath and knocked. Come what may.