Oh. No. It was definitely the former. Fletcher kicked himself for misreading the situation, and for pulling such a bad bluff. He shot an apologetic glance at Aneisha. "Sorry to dine and dash. Thanks for the food, love. I owe you one." With that, he took off after his silent charge as the man rushed through the house: known territory for him, largely unknown for Fletcher. Fletch huffed and puffed up the stairs behind him, not certain where Pretty Boy was going but determined not to lose him out a window.
"Sir — wait — " he gasped in between bouts of swearing beneath his breath. But Theodore never faced him, instead racing in and out of an empty room and hurrying up the next flight of stairs. Hot on their heels, the Baroness began her awful shrieking. "Good fucking emperor, woman," Fletch breathed, and picked up his pace again.
When at last they reached the top, Theo finally gave him a chance to speak. Fletcher leaned against the doorframe and fought to catch his breath again. "Can you not do that to me?" he mouthed, barely letting a whisper escape his throat for fear that he'd be heard downstairs. He straightened and recoiled a little at what Pretty Boy said last, then screwed up his face in confusion. "No. Why would I...? You're not a child, sir. And I'm not a fucking sadist. I'm not invading your quarters." He rubbed at his eye and grumbled. "Yeah. Thanks. You're right. I'm going to go take care of the contract. Please just...don't get me fired by hopping out a window and breaking your ankle. Alright?"
He spent the afternoon settling in as best as he could. Between securing Aya her position as princess of the stables, checking his room to make absolutely sure nothing had been taken, exploring the ins and outs of the property, and beginning a truly laughable series of bullshit interviews for the sake of appearances, the rest of the day was hardly his own. By the time the cook dished out dinner for the staff, he found himself looking forward to an early night.
But somehow, rest didn't come easy. His mind buzzed with the events of the day — the riddles and puzzles and peculiarities of this way of life that he'd always imagined having, yet never known. It was soft, and the people here were kind, and he had everything he could think to ask for. But something felt wrong about it. The too-quiet house that felt more like a tomb. The way Pretty Boy ran from his mother and rebelled like a teen under curfew. He'd known how to keep quiet when he walked. It was the same way Fletch had moved as a kid when he was scared his dad might go after him. That thought kept him up longer than he'd have liked. By the time he finally fell asleep, fully clothed and atop the covers, the candles had burned down to the stick.