The faint scent of old parchment and polished wood lingered in the air. Behind the desk, Mr. Fleming adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles, his expression as impassive as ever.
Ambrose stood on the other side, hands clasped behind his back, eyes lowered. The flickering light from the desk lamp cast long shadows across the paneled walls.
"Mr. Lysander... I've called you to inform you of a new arrangement regarding your duties in this household." Mr. Fleming paused, fingers tapping lightly against the papers in front of him.
"As per Madame Ashford's instruction, you will assist in Young Master Ashford's education, in addition to the Governor's lessons. Your role is to provide supplementary instruction, before and after the Governor's appointed hours."
Ambrose's gaze flicked upward, the briefest glint of surprise in his dark eyes, quickly masked. "...I see."
Mr. Fl eming's sharp gaze lingered on him, as if measuring the weight of that simple reply.
"For this reason, the household will provide for your clothing. It would not do for... outsiders to think the Ashford family treats its educators sparingly."
There was something deliberate in the way he said that word. As if he found the notion faintly distasteful.
Then the old man added softly, "You will find no greater misfortune in this house... than drawing attention where it is not desired."
Ambrose inclined his head, voice even. "I understand, sir."
Mr. Fleming opened a drawer and placed a neatly folded bundle of dark fabric on the desk.
"These belonged to Master Lucien. They are hardly worn and will suffice until your own garments are ready."
A flicker of something colder passed behind Ambrose's eyes, there and gone in an instant. He reached out to take the bundle without a word.
"As for your schedule... you will follow the Governor's timetable. Your duties begin before the morning lesson and continue after the evening session."
He paused, then added with careful emphasis, "You are to report directly to Madame Ashford from now on. Her word will be your highest authority in this matter."
Ambrose's fingers tightened faintly around the folded cloth. The only sign of tension beneath his composed exterior.
"Understood, sir."
There was a long silence. The clock on the mantel ticked softly.
At last, Mr. Fleming leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "I expect you'll find the Ashford family... generous... when served with diligence."
The candle flickered.
"But the household has little patience for those who forget their place."
Ambrose's lips curved faintly, the suggestion of a smile, polite and razor-thin. "Rest assured, Mr. Fleming... I have no intention of forgetting."
Mr. Fleming's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he couldn't quite decide whether the answer pleased him or not.
He reached for his pen and bent back over his papers. "That will be all, Mr. Lysander."
. . .
Ambrose had no experience in teaching, not officially, at least.
But if that was what Madame Ashford required of him, he would carry out the task as if his life depended on it. After all, the Ashfords' trust was not something to be taken lightly. Especially not when it came directly from Madame herself. And if the Young Master had spoken well of him...
Well, that only made failure all the more unacceptable.
The morning sun barely filtered through the heavy curtains when Ambrose finished dressing.
Lucien Ashford's old clothes, brushed, mended, and smelling faintly of lavender, fit him better than he'd like to admit. The fine fabric hugged his frame a little too comfortably, tailored for someone taller and leaner than Carmine but not quite as broad as Ambrose. The waistcoat was perhaps half an inch too snug across his chest, but nothing that would betray his role.
The finishing touch was the pair of pristine white gloves he pulled over his fingers.
They were his own, the only personal belonging he still clung to from his old life.
By the time he stepped out of his modest quarters, Ambrose was no longer simply a servant.
He was Mr. Lysander. The Ashfords' newly appointed tutor's assistant.
He found Carmine exactly where he expected, still buried beneath layers of blankets in a room kept deliberately dim. The faint scent of roses and stale sleep hung in the air. Rose, the maid assigned to the Young Master's chambers, was already sweeping dust off the windowsill with practiced efficiency.
"Young Master."
His voice was calm, clipped. Not too gentle, not too harsh. Just enough to stir someone who only needed a polite reminder to wake.
Carmine didn't so much as twitch.
Rose glanced over her shoulder, her lips curving in a knowing smile.
"Usually, it takes me almost an hour before he wakes up."
There was fondness in her voice, the kind of patience that comes from years of tending to the same spoiled little prince.
Ambrose didn't like the sound of that.
An hour? They had preparations to make before breakfast, hair to comb, collar to straighten, manners to polish. Time wasted in bed was time stolen from his schedule.
He tried again. "Young Master."
Still no answer.
Without a word, Ambrose leaned down. Two fingers brushing against Carmine's shoulder in a series of precise, rhythmic nudges.
The boy only burrowed deeper into his cocoon.
Rose smothered a chuckle behind her hand and slipped out the door, leaving Ambrose alone with the sleeping prince.
Very well.
If polite methods wouldn't do... Then he'd simply have to resort to harsher measures.
Ambrose's gloved hand traced down the blanket, seeking, searching, until he found his target.
A bare foot.
His fingers hovered over the delicate arch of skin for a moment. Then, with ruthless precision, he struck. Massive, merciless scratches, swift, practiced, utterly unforgiving.
"!!!!"
The shriek that filled the room was downright undignified. Something between a cat's yowl and a dying bird.
Carmine flailed out from beneath the covers, half-tangled in silk sheets, red-faced and wide awake. His reddish blonde hair sticking out in every direction. He blinked rapidly at the sudden light filtering through the half-open curtains.
His bleary, sharp eyes locked onto his attacker.
"You...!!"
Ambrose straightened, brushing invisible dust from his gloves.
His face was the very picture of perfect disinterest.
"Good morning, Young Master."
Carmine's chest heaved. "You—"
"I took the liberty of waking you myself."
The corners of Ambrose's mouth barely twitched. But oh, there was a smile hidden there.
If Carmine wanted to play at being sharp-tongued and spoiled, then Ambrose would teach him firsthand that even the sharpest little princeling could be dulled by patience and method.
There was a long pause. Carmine's glare burning into him.
Then, without a word, the Young Master threw himself back into bed, pulling the covers up to his nose like a sulking child.
Ambrose leaned down again. This time, his voice dipped low, just enough for only Carmine to hear.
"If you do not rise now, Young Master... I'll be forced to try again."
Another scratch, barely a whisper against the edge of the blanket.
Carmine bolted upright like he'd been struck by lightning.
. . .
By the time Carmine was fully awake, the irritation of being dragged from bed still clung to him like a second skin.
Ambrose made no comment on the Young Master's sour mood, nor did he offer apology for the wake-up method. Instead, he waited in patient silence by the washstand, white gloves folded neatly behind his back.
The room had brightened since sunrise, casting soft golden streaks through the high windows. Dust floated lazily in the air, the kind of stillness that belonged only to privileged mornings.
"Come along, Young Master."
Carmine dragged his feet as he approached, still grumbling under his breath.
It wasn't the first time he'd received help dressing. His whole life had been wrapped in the gentle hands of maids or valets. Soft fingers fastening buttons, tying cravats, smoothing collars.
But this...felt different.
Ambrose's hands were gloved.
His touch was light, methodical, never lingering longer than necessary. Yet every brush of fabric against Carmine's skin sent a flicker of something strange crawling beneath his still-waking nerves.
The gloves, cool, smooth, seemed to dull the sensation at first. But somehow...
They only made the pressure more noticeable.
Ambrose worked in perfect silence, pulling the sleeping shirt over Carmine's head with ease. He guided the fabric down Carmine's shoulders with steady hands, brushing bare skin in the process.
Carmine hated how aware he was of it.
He hated even more how his breath caught when Ambrose's thumb grazed the nape of his neck while straightening the collar of his undershirt.
"You could simply ring for Rose."
His own voice came out clipped, defensive. As if the heat prickling beneath his skin was anyone's fault but his own. "It's not required of you to—"
"It isn't." Ambrose's reply was calm, polite, undeniably practical.
He buttoned Carmine's waistcoat without breaking rhythm, eyes focused on the task at hand.
"However... it may benefit you in the long run if you learn to manage these things yourself, Young Master."
Carmine's brows knit together.
"In the long run?"
"Should you ever find yourself in a situation where no servant is available."
A flicker of dry amusement curled at Carmine's lips. "You mean if I were abducted?"
He meant it as a joke, something sharp to cut through the strange tension in the air.
But Ambrose only nodded, utterly serious. "Yes."
That single word hung between them, unexpected. Heavy in a way Carmine hadn't anticipated.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Ambrose's hands hovered at the last button of Carmine's waistcoat, just over the center of his chest. Gloved fingertips brushing the fine linen.
Then, the older of the two leaned back, the distance restored so naturally it was as if nothing at all had passed between them.
"Your cravat, Young Master."
Carmine swallowed hard. He didn't meet Ambrose's eyes as the man stepped behind him. Gloved hands moving with quiet precision, looping the silk around his throat.
"Will you be abducting me personally, Mr. Lysander?"
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Quick, barbed, meant to cover the unease coiling low in his stomach.
Ambrose didn't so much as blink. "That would be highly improper."
His voice was perfectly neutral, no hint of teasing, no trace of amusement.
And yet...
Carmine could have sworn he felt the slightest pull of the silk cravat. Just enough to make him aware of the knot tightening against his throat.
His breath hitched from the scare.
. . .
By the time Rose returned with fresh water and linens, the Young Master was already dressed. Grumbling under his breath as Ambrose combed through his blonde curls with precise, merciless strokes.
"I hate you."
"Yes, Young Master."
"You think you're so clever."
"No, Young Master."
"I could have you dismissed for what you did."
Ambrose's gloved fingers stilled for half a second, just long enough for Carmine to notice.
But then they resumed, just as calm as before.
"As you wish, Young Master."
It would take Carmine several more mornings to realize that no threat of dismissal would ever work on Mr. Lysander.
And it would take Ambrose just as long to realize...
He rather enjoyed waking the golden boy.
.
.
.