Aurora Tapestry

As the massive gates to Michael's estate closed behind him, Gabriel Izard pointed the nose of his beloved, shining, black Thunderbird to the south. With practiced ease he navigated the winding, tree-lined streets of British Properties and as he slowed to enter Clarence Square he realized that he would have to make up his mind soon. A little voice in the back of his mind kept telling him that he should go home, that he needed sleep. This Gabriel had to agree with. He was very tired, but had long since passed the point when he could sleep. He was too excited, to hyper to sleep, the adrenalin rushing through him causing his eyes to sparkle.

Gabriel passed through the square and onto Chartwell Road and knew that it was decision time. Chartwell connected to the Trans Canada Highway. Gabe could follow this highway to Taylor Way, swing south across Lion's Gate Bridge, through Stanley Park and into the city, taking Georgia Street to Burrard, west along Burrard to Cornwall and Cornwall to Locarno Drive where he lived in a stately old Edwardian pile of stone with his former guardian and Honourary Uncle, Louis Arundel.

Thinking of home always caused Gabe to smile. Uncle Louis occupied the top two floors of the six-storied building. He always referred to his 18-room home as a "duplex", something Gabe could never understand. How in the hell, he always asked himself, could you call what was essentially a mansion, a "duplex"? Of course, when one realized that Uncle Louis abhorred ostentation of any kind, one could understand the old man. His "duplex", while large, was comfortable, unostentatious and without any flash at all, the rooms decorated with fine old antique furniture, good paintings but no gilt at all. Uncle Louis could have employed an army of servants. He didn't. He had a cleaning service come in three times a week but only, he claimed, because his one live-in staff member, MacReady, was getting a little long in the tooth and needed the help. MacReady was an irascible old poop with a heart of gold, who had sailed with Uncle Louis during the war and who now supplemented his all-too-inadequate Veteran's Pension by "doing" for Uncle Louis. MacReady was a friend and confidant, never a servant.

When he was younger, and freshly discharged from hospital, Gabe had been taken to Uncle Louis' duplex and nursed with all the devotion and care that both Uncle Louis and MacReady could provide. Both men became surrogate fathers and MacReady, being a rough and ready ex-sailor, pulled no punches and minced no words. Uncle Henry, while kinder and gentler, was just as blunt. Gabe was taught discipline, and the art of being a proper young gentleman. He was loved beyond measure and never wanted for anything.

As he was growing up Gabe thought that Uncle Louis and MacReady might be lovers. They certainly acted like an old married couple, bickering and feuding constantly. But there was never a sign, never an indication that anything untoward was happening between the two men. Louis had his room, and MacReady had his. Not once did Gabe see or hear anything that would indicate nightly visits on the part of either man, and in the end Gabe had decided that they were just two old gentlemen, friends and brothers of the sea, who were fated to live together.

Thinking of Uncle Louis and MacReady made Gabe think of Darren. He had the same close, but symbiotic relationship with Darren as the two old men had. Gabe could never explain why he felt the way he did about Darren, he just did. He loved Darren and on more than one occasion of self-examination admitted to himself that had Darren been normal, they might very well have been lovers in every sense of the word.

A sob rose in Gabe's throat and he had to pull to the side and park. God Damn It! Why Darren? Why such a sweet, wonderful young man such as Darren? It just wasn't fair! Gabe pounded the wheel of his car and swore angrily. Darren was a man! But he was also a boy trapped in a man's body. He might grow old but in his mind he would always be a ten-year-old boy.

Doctor Vincent, the neurosurgeon who had refused to give up on Darren, had tried to explain to Darren's mother Flo, and to Uncle Louis and Gabe that the damage Darren's brain had suffered in the automobile accident had been too extensive. This, coupled with the swelling of the brain, had led to massive damage and frankly, while Darren would live, he would always have the mental capacity of a child. The doctor had also explained, in calm, well-modulated laymen's terms, that Darren would also suffer from a form of epilepsy which, while it could be controlled up to a point by medication, would cause seizures and that eventually there would be one, final seizure and Darren would find peace.

Almost from that moment Gabe had dedicated his life to Darren. There were, in chronological age, only four months difference, but as they grew older Darren became a younger brother, a brother who needed guidance constantly and reminding always. Extensive therapy (gladly paid for by Uncle Louis) had taught the lad how to dress himself, feed himself, even go to the bathroom by himself, but his attention span had its limits and, like any child, sometimes he forgot things. Like the time he forgot to put on his clothes and wandered over to Green Timbers Forest Reserve, which was directly across the road form the ranch-style house Uncle Louis had bought for Flo, buck naked. Darren had been fifteen at the time.

Shaking his head, Gabe regained a measure of composure. He would drive down to Surrey and see Darren. He had been away much too long and long-distance telephone calls did not make up for the pleasure of seeing, and holding his friend.

The house seemed quiet when Gabe pulled in front. He left his car and as he walked up the flagstone path the door of the house flew open. "Gabe!" came a high-pitched, youthful sounding voice. Gabe looked up to see Darren charging down the path. He smiled as Darren wrapped his arms around him. "Gabe," he crowed, "I missed you. Where have you been? Did you bring me something?"

Untangling himself Gabe held Darren at arm's length. Dearest God was Darren handsome. The man stood six feet tall, had a slim build and close-cropped, neatly barbered black hair and his eyes, though, those wonderful eyes, were rimmed with dark lashes and sparkling with the joy of seeing Gabe.

"I've been away," Gabe said gently. "I told you where I would be, or did you forget?"

Darren seemed to think a moment. "Oh, yeah, in Europe. That's very far away."

"Yes, it is," replied Gabe. "I missed you, a lot."

Laughing, Darren kissed Gabe soundly on the lips. "And I missed you, but I missed you more."

Gabe heard the screen door of the house squeaking quietly and looked up to see Darren's mother standing there. She had a worried expression on her face and Gabe knew immediately that there was a problem.

"Have you been good?" asked Gabe as he led Darren into the house.

"I've been very good," exclaimed Darren. "I didn't pee the bed or anything, honest." He cast a worried glance at his mother, who simply shook her head.

"Well, how about you find us some ice cream while I talk to your mother," Gabe said as they entered the living room. He sat on the sofa and gestured toward the kitchen. "Get us two big bowls, okay?"

Darren smiled happily and went into the kitchen. Flo watched him leave and then looked at Gabe. "Oh, Gabe, I really don't know what to say!"

Taking Flo's hands in his, Gabe leaned forward and asked, "Tell me what happened."

Much to Gabe's surprise Flo coloured and ducked her head. "This is so embarrassing," she whispered.

"Did he wet the bed?" asked Gabe.

Flo shook her head fiercely. "No . . . he . . . oh hell, Gabe, he had an accident and he was so upset I could barely calm him."

It took a while before the implication of Flo's words sunk in and then it was Gabe's turn to squirm and turn red. "You mean that he . . .?"

"Yes! Oh Gabe, he's a man, but he's also a little boy and sometimes it's so difficult to explain to him the difference."

"FUCK!" ejaculated Gabe silently. This was all he needed. "But surely you explained to him that, well, he's had them before, hasn't he?"

"Really, Gabriel, I did try!" exclaimed Flo. "I've been trying for 12 years!" Gabe did not notice the haunted, feral look that came into the woman's eyes. Flo suddenly calmed. "But you know how he is and what he can be like. He's forgotten what I told him and it hasn't happened in a long time."

"And now it has happened again, and he has to be told all over again."

Flo nodded. "Perhaps, Gabe dear, if you explained everything to him he might remember."

Gabe's eyes widened in shock and horror. Dear Lord above, how could he, a veritable neophyte when it came to sex, explain nocturnal emissions, wet dreams, to a mentally challenged man? He remembered how Uncle Louis had acted, coughing and sputtering as he tried - ineffectually - to explain the facts of life and what little boys got up to in the dark of night. Thank God for MacReady, who had overheard the sad little affair and then taken Gabe into the kitchen where, with a banana as a training aid, explained exactly what was what. For a brief moment Gabe wondered if Flo had any bananas in the house.

"Please Gabe," Flo begged, "talk to Darren."

Gabe realized that it had to be done. All too often people forgot that while the mind might more or less remain locked in time, the body progressed and normal, biological functions, which the mind was incapable of understanding, occurred. Darren was a normal man when it came to sexual function. He was a child when it came to how his body exhibited those functions, giggling his way through puberty and not at all embarrassed when he popped a boner unexpectedly. Gabe had thought that those days were long gone. Obviously they were not and obviously Darren needed to be spoken to.

Major Meinertzhagen studied the spreadsheet before him and frowned. Projected revenues were virtually nil, with expenses rising inexorably. The Order was hardly destitute, and there was no chance of the bailiff appearing at the front gate. Still . . .

There were assets. Some, religious artefacts such as jewelled crosses, the collars of the defunct Priories, various bits and pieces of the Order's history, could be sold at auction. Unfortunately the art market was down. There were stocks, and tax-free municipals in the coffers. But then the market, thanks to Michael's recent forays, was down considerably and would need time to recover.

The Major was aware that Michael had access to considerable funds. His business interests generated huge profits. The down side of the businesses, however, was that the profits had to be shared with Michael's partners, not one of whom was prepared to overlook a slight imbalance in the accounts. Any hint of skimming and they would begin to circle, like sharks, and attack, mindlessly tearing to pieces their prey. This was one avenue neither Michael nor the Major dared pursue.

Looking about the room, The Major considered the artwork. The paintings could be sold. But then, again, word would leak out eventually and everyone would jump to the wrong conclusion. If Michael was selling his most prized possessions there was trouble, somewhere, in his empire. As well, the paintings were well known and Michael's ownership of them well established. The Rubens, the Constables, the Lawrences, all were firmly established in the public's eye as the property of Michael Chan, a well-known, wealthy, Chinese financier. The paintings could not be sold under any conditions.

Sighing, the Major left his desk and stared through the high windows overlooking the gardens. There were further complications to be considered. Michael was at the age when he had to marry. There was no question of it. His business colleagues in Hong Kong and Taiwan expected it. Negotiations, protracted and, at times, acerbic, had been completed. The marriage contract lay in Michael's safe, lacking only his "chop", his personal seal. Yet Michael hesitated.

The girl was the daughter of a noble house whose ancestors had been Mandarins for untold generations. The marriage settlement was generous - more than generous - and the money and gifts of gold and jade given as wedding gifts would have been Michael's to dispose of as he wished. Yet Michael hesitated.

It would be a loveless match, of course. No one expected Michael to actually be in love with the girl. They had never met and would not meet until the day of the wedding. The Major had pointed out time and again that love had nothing whatsoever to do with the thing. It was a merger, a dynastic joining of two powerful families. It happened all the time. One had only to look at the Windsors. While the present Queen's marriage had been, and from all accounts still was, a love match, one could hardly say the same for her antecedents. No one had mentioned love when the last three surviving sons of George III suddenly found themselves in a sticky position. There were no legitimate heirs after them and they had to marry. They looked for convenient, and hopefully fertile brides amongst the German nobility. Love had nothing to do with it. The three princes were required to produce an heir. Alexandrina Victoria of Kent had been the sole result and she had gone on to become arguably the greatest Queen England had ever known.

Edward VII had married Alexandra of Denmark, not because he was in love with her, but because his parents, Victoria and Albert, could think of no other way to cure his (to them) dissolute habits. Once again love had never been considered, just as love had not been considered when it came time for the next generation to marry. Edward's son, Albert Edward, Duke of Clarence and Avondale, dissolute, feckless (and, it was rumoured, bi-sexual), was told of his engagement to Princess May of Teck. It was necessary for him to marry a firm, steady woman and May met the bill. That he died before the wedding ceremony was of no consequence. May, who later became Queen Mary, was quickly affianced to Prince Eddy's brother, George, the man who would be King. Again, no love, although Queen Mary did admit in later life that she became rather fond of her stodgy, gruff-spoken, conservative, Sailor King.

The Major had argued in vain. Michael still hesitated.

It was Michael's sense of personal honour that was queering the pitch. How, he had asked the Major, could he do something that to him was reprehensible and dishonourable? A loveless marriage was one thing. A marriage of convenience was one thing. Even a dynastic marriage was agreeable. BUT . . .

In a way the Major understood Michael's position. The girl, a beauty by all accounts, would expect a husband, a husband who at least had a passing interest in sexual relations with his wife, if only to produce the grandchildren her parents in Hong Kong looked forward to with eagerness. Had Michael been convinced that he could fulfil his conjugal duties; there would not have been a problem. Michael, however, had very real doubts about this aspect of marriage. He had no interest whatsoever in bedding a woman. Michael was homosexual, and his conscience would not allow him to wed under false pretences.

"Ridiculous," snapped the Major to the otherwise empty room. Michael had to be made to realize that not marrying was far worse than marrying. Refusing to seal the marriage contract now would indicate disfavour of the girl, which would bring dishonour to her house and that would mean a great loss of face. The Soongs were powerful, wealthy, and as proud as they came. They could not be insulted! Their honour would demand satisfaction, something to erase the stain on their name and family. Such a slight could, and probably would, lead to war. And this could never happen.

Further complicating everything was Michael's rigidly enforced celibacy. Why he couldn't find a handsome young man to share his bed the Major could never understand. Michael was a normal, healthy, hormonally active male! He needed an outlet. He needed at least a modicum of affection, needed someone to just hold him. Michael needed a refuge from the day-to-day grind of work, work, and more work. When he married he would be in greater need of a haven where he could be himself. Every man needed such a refuge, even the Major, who was not homosexual, and a confirmed bachelor. He had a lady friend whom he visited from time to time. They were fond of one another, and their relationship had no restrictions. Neither wanted, or expected, marriage. It was a convenient arrangement between two consenting adults and that, the Major determined, was something that Michael needed, something that he, the Major, was going to arrange. Michael would have a convenient arrangement, a refuge and a haven.

The Gunner's flight was late in arriving in Toronto, which was not surprising. A line of fierce thunderstorms advancing across the prairies had forced a detour to the south, and then headwinds further impeded the flight. The Gunner arrived in the bustling, out-of-date terminal tired, red-eyed, and cranky.

The flight had not been all that bad. On arrival in Vancouver he had found that his Economy Class seat had mysteriously been upgraded to First. He knew that he would have to thank Michael for that. In a way, the upgrading of his seat had been somewhat a blessing in disguise, aside from the usual benefits of space, cuisine and personal attention. Seated in First Class he would not have to endure the injured pique of a certain French-Canadian Sea Cadet any longer.

The Pacific Western flight from Comox to Vancouver had been an embarrassment of sorts. The Gunner had been seated beside Sylvain Beauharnais, a stunningly handsome, blond-haired, blue-eyed pur langue Canadien boy from Chicoutimi. Sylvain, until that morning Drum Major of the HMCS AURORA Bugle Band, was still smarting from the real and imagined slights and slings directed at him while serving in AURORA, and wanted nothing more to do with cadets, or anyone connected with cadets. The appointment of Harry von Hohenberg as Chief Drum Major rankled and Sylvain had, in a snit, "Green-Sheeted", sending in his papers and ponying up enough cash to pay his own way to Montreal, and home.

The Gunner, understanding how easily the feelings of a teenage boy could be hurt, had offered to front the money to upgrade Sylvain's seat as well. Sylvain, in frosty, razor-edged words, had ever so exquisitely declined. In French. He remained in coach.

As The Gunner expected, there was no one to meet him. This was not at all surprising to The Gunner. He and his uncle, Edward Winslow, had never gotten along. Edward had always been the "take charge" member of the family, and had never be known to take "no" for an answer in anything. He was pompous, punctilious and pedantic, in short a Class A pain in the ass. Growing up The Gunner had thought it no wonder that his parents chose to live in Lakefield, a small town in Central Ontario on the Trent Waterway, and well away from Edward, who lived in Toronto.

It did not help that Edward was a power in the bank where he worked. He was a Senior Vice-President and extremely well thought of. Never one to hide his light under a bushel basket, Edward had crowed in one of his last letters that he was being considered for a partnership, a position he richly deserved, at least in his opinion. Out of spite The Gunner, as he crumpled the letter into a tight wad, hoped the old poop was passed over. It would look good on him.

The relationship between nephew and uncle had never been close. Edward, ever the martinet, tried to rule every aspect of his relatives lives. The Gunner's father had ignored his older brother and gone his own way. They had not corresponded for years - except at Christmas when each sent the other a tacky card - and each seemed satisfied with the arrangement. Unfortunately everything changed barely three months after The Gunner's seventeenth birthday, when his parents were killed in an automobile crash. Uncle Edward had come charging up to Lakefield, determined to take charge, not only of his brother's funeral but also of his brother's son. The Gunner had other plans, plans that did not include living and going to school in Toronto.

No one but The Gunner knew that he had been struggling with his sexuality from the age of ten or so. Stephen Winslow was homosexual, albeit a virgin homosexual. The Gunner had lived in fear that his being queer would be discovered. At that time, in that small town place, homosexuality was not tolerated. The Gunner was determined that he would not be queer. He had tried prayer. He had tried fasting. He had flung himself into sports, hoping that the massive expenditure of energy would lessen the feelings he felt for his schoolmates and teammates. Playing sports only made matters worse. The Gunner played baseball, hockey, ran track and swam. His teammates were his age, and as teenaged boys, had few inhibitions in the team locker rooms. They thought nothing of stripping off their swimsuits, their baseball uniforms, or their track shorts, and parading about naked, their wares on full display. The Gunner had tried not to look, but failed miserably and after every game or meet went home frustrated and hornier than a Newfoundlander in the moonlight.

Somewhere along the line The Gunner had conceived of the idea that - rightly or wrongly - his salvation and transformation from a queer boy to a straight man lay in joining one of the military services. Everybody knew that queers couldn't serve. If he could join, say the Navy, well he couldn't be a queer then, could he? He was determined that as soon as he graduated high school he would travel to Toronto and join up.

Uncle Edward demurred. He had no objection to Stephen joining up, but surely obtaining a commission was much more desirable than taking the Queen's Shilling as a mere ranker. There was a University Naval Training Division at the University of Toronto and Stephen would have no trouble in being accepted. He, Edward Winslow, would make all the necessary arrangements and . . .

The roof all but blew off the top of the Winslow house when Stephen, angry beyond redemption, scorned his uncle' offer. He would join up the day he graduated from high school. He would be a "ranker" or a fog dodger; it made no difference to him. Join up he would and if Uncle Edward didn't like it he could go and fuck himself. That he would not be of legal age until November was no deterrent as far as Stephen was concerned. Edward would either sign on the dotted line in the Recruiting Office or Stephen would run away, to Toronto, to Montreal, it didn't matter. It was easy to get lost in a great city and ways to make a living.

Horrified at what her nephew was implying, Stephen's aunt Margaret had stepped in and in kind, gentle words, calmed the waters. Stephen would go. Her steely determination had so surprised her husband that he had clamped his jaws shut and never opened his mouth again for the remainder of his mercifully short visit.

As he entered the cab he had hailed on the airport concourse, The Gunner heaved a heavy sigh of sadness. His Aunt had deserved better from him. Locked in a childless, loveless marriage to a man she secretly despised, Margaret Winslow had used her husband's wealth and position to further the lot of the less fortunate. She was a pillar of her church and gave of her time and money generously. She donated toys and knitted garments to every Christmas fund in town (including the Toronto Star's, a newspaper she looked upon as little better than a Liberal Party mouthpiece). She campaigned tirelessly for the Red Cross and the Salvation Army. To many she was a saint. To her husband she was merely a wife.

The Gunner was not unaware of the situation in his only relatives' house. He went there when and if it was convenient for him to do so. In many ways he hated himself because he had consciously visited his detestation of his uncle on his aunt, a kind, gentle woman who loved him, who gave to him the love she could not give her husband.

Feeling as guilty as hell, The Gunner tried to take his mind away from his reminiscences of his aunt and stared out of the window of the cab as it barrelled along the 401. Toronto had changed greatly since his last visit. There seemed to be construction going on everywhere, both sides of the highway lined with strip and industrial malls. There were new buildings, blocks of flats and office towers, going up everywhere, each construction site marked by the dipping and swaying of cranes, huge fossilized skeletons of steel resembling some strange creature from the Neolithic Age.

There were more cars as well, it seemed. The cab swung onto the Bayview Avenue Extension and off to his left, across the Don River as it slowly snaked its way along the floor of the valley, was the DVP, the Don Valley Parkway, outmoded the day it was opened and known by one and all as the Don Valley Parking Lot. The roadbed was packed with three long lines of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Vehicles of all makes, sizes and models clogged the triple carriageway, filled with commuters struggling to their jobs in the city from their homes in the newly developed, northern suburbs. Ahead, downtown had changed, with office towers dwarfing the art deco Imperial Bank Building, at one time the tallest structure in the British Empire. Looking at the passing scenery The Gunner shuddered and thanked the Lord that he would never have to live in this city, with its summer heat, its humidity, and its seemingly ever present view of smog.

The cab entered the coolness of Rosedale Valley Road and before he knew it The Gunner was staring at the white stucco and black of the mock-Tudor house that stood on the corner of May Square and May Street, the house that Edward Winslow called home. The house stood on 1.8 acres of land in Rosedale, the leafy enclave of private roads, cul-de-sacs and tiny squares that the true elite, the old money, the Old Guard, called home. As he stood under the porte-cochere The Gunner looked around. A mansion in Rosedale, he thought with a disagreeable smile. The Winslows had surely arrived.

He heard a bustling from the double, frosted glass doors, which opened to reveal two men who hurried down the steps to take up his lone suitcase. The Gunner found himself being conducted into the large, sparsely furnished entry to the house. He had no idea who the men were. Edward employed only two servants, a maid and a cook. The grounds were kept by a service. He would later learn that extra staff had been hired to give the proper tone to Margaret Winslow's obsequies.

As he looked around The Gunner saw that the drawing room had been cleared of its furniture and a bier was set up under the large, multi-paned windows that overlooked the garden. He heard a soft footstep and turned to see Edward's secretary, a strapping young man with slightly curly, coal black hair, a firm jaw and a tightly muscled body.

"Mr. Edward is in the library with Mr. Grimes," the young man informed The Gunner. "You are expected and are to go right in."

The Gunner could not have given a hoot if Edward were hanging from one of the trees in the garden. "My aunt?" he asked gruffly.

The young man did not react to The Gunner's rudeness. He'd been suffering Edward Winslow for the past three years and nothing surprised him anymore. "She will be along later in the day," he replied without expression. "Mr. Miles has promised to meet Mr. Edward's viewing schedule."

Once again, The Gunner was not surprised. You really were a nobody if you were not buried under the auspices of A.W. Miles. Anybody who was anybody spent their last days above ground either in the drawing room of his own house or in one of the tastefully appointed viewing chambers of the A.W. Miles Chapel on Eglinton Avenue. Nor was The Gunner surprised that his uncle had a "viewing schedule". Things had to be done properly and one did not simply throw open the doors and permit all and sundry to wander in. He knew instinctively that the funeral announcement, engraved on heavy, cream-coloured bond from H. Birks & Sons, By Appointment, were even now being hand delivered to the elite of Toronto, that Daniel et Daniel, the premier caterers to the carriage trade and aristocracy of nominally Republican Toronto, would cater the lunch and that Wadley and Smythe would handle the floral arrangements. Bread and circuses. Pomp and circumstance. Edward Winslow would put on a show befitting the wife of a man of stature.

Wondering if Edward had hired a band, The Gunner asked if the young man would recommend a florist. He wanted something simple. The young man was about to point out that the florist had already been chosen, then thought better of it. "Tidy's is as good as any. They'll do you a nice, simple, arrangement."

"Good." The Gunner thought he saw a twinkle in the young man's eyes. He took a chance and gave the young man's arm a squeeze. "Don't let the old prick get to you down."

The young man started, and then grinned. "The only reason I stuck around was because of Mrs. Winslow. Now that she's gone I'll be moving on."

The Gunner thought a moment. "When this . . . circus finally folds its tent we'll have a chat. I know some people who can use a smart young man." He nodded toward the closed door of the library. "Do you have any idea what is going on?"

The young man grimaced expressively. "The will," he all but whispered. "Mr. Edward wants to get it over with."

The Gunner glared at the closed door. "Never one to let the grass grow, is he?"

"No, he never does, I'm afraid," agreed the young man with a mournful expression as he opened the library door.

The next voice The Gunner heard was that of his uncle and the words, cutting and hurtful, set the tone for the length of The Gunner's visit to Toronto.

"How nice to see you again, Stephen. And how unfortunate that you could not see your way clear to visit before your aunt left us!"

In Surrey, Gabe stripped off his clothes and settled into the bed in the guestroom. The fatigue of his travels and the seemingly endless, sleepless nights had caught up with him. Flo, full of concern, had insisted that he stay and sleep. Darren was off to his swimming class shortly, and she would be out shopping most of the day. He could sleep undisturbed and she would ring Louis Arundel to let him know where Gabe was. Flo had been very persuasive and Gabe, too tired to argue, had gone to bed. He was asleep almost before his head touched the pillow.

With Gabe safely tucked into bed, Flo had hurried Darren along, making sure that he had his swimming shorts, his towel, and some money tucked into his wallet. Swimming at the Centre allowed Darren an opportunity to develop an understanding of team sports, and also to interact with others. It was good therapy for him. Darren whined, not really all that eager to leave his Gabe, but in the end he allowed himself to be prodded onto the bus that would take him to the Centre. Swimming was good for him. Mommy said it was, and he liked swimming.

As the bus pulled away Flo's eye hardened. She opened the door leading to the closet off the main hallway and pulled out her packed suitcase. She found her purse and pulled out a long envelope. The letter inside would explain everything. She opened the envelope, read the short note, and then added a postscript, begging for Gabe's forgiveness and understanding.

In British properties The Major went about his daily business, keeping track of the market doings, authorizing expenditures and frankly avoiding Michael, who was haunting the War Room in the basement. The other members of the staff, at least those who had been around for any length of time, found things to do in other parts of the house, or in one of the villages. As lunchtime approached the Major sought out his employer and the lunched together. Their plans were coming together nicely and while Michael's mood had improved somewhat, the Major did not think it wise to mention either the parlous state of the accounts or the Soongs.

After lunch the Major left the estate through the back gate and followed one of the paths that meandered its way through the Crown forest at the rear of Michael's walled compound. More and more he had decided that something had to be done to make Michael's life a little easier, a little more pleasant. Michael needed a proper mate and as he walked the Major mulled over just what sort of a man would appeal to Michael Chan.

The man would have to be trusted. That went without saying. He would also have to "fit in", be as inconspicuous as possible, and look as if he belonged. He would also have to be intelligent and at least know his way around a drawing room. Michael would never put up with a clod. The man would have to be good looking, but more importantly he would have to be a man. There could be no touch of the pouf about him.

In a secluded glade the Major sat on one of the benches provided by the thoughtful Department of Parks and Recreation for the hikers and walkers, and pulled a heavy gold and blue enamel cigarette case from his inner jacket pocket. The Faberge case was an heirloom from his father, who had been given it by King George V as a token of thanks for services as Aide de Camp during one of the old King's many visits to the Western Front during World War I. After selecting a Player's Navy Cut cigarette, the Major reached into his side pocket and found an heirloom he prized even more, a plain, gold Zippo Windproof lighter on which was fixed the unit badge of No. 6 Commando, Royal Marines. The lighter was a prized, and much appreciated token and remembrance of his service with the Bootnecks.

For a long time the Major sat and puffed contemplatively, mulling over and over whether there was a solution to what he considered to be a very real problem. Unless he was in combat, Major Meinertzhagen was not a man to make snap decisions, and would consider every argument before he made his decision. He was aware that he risked Michael's wrath for interfering in what Michael would rightly consider to be his personal business. The Major was prepared to take the risk.

Having decided to find Michael Chan a mate, the Major now had to decide which of the men on staff might be a suitable candidate. He had a fairly good idea just what sort of man would appeal to Michael. The Major considered that the men who formed the guards and piquets of the estate, the men who staffed the main house, were indicative of Michael's taste. They were all strong, healthy young males in the prime of life. Young stallions, really. That Michael had never expressed an interest in any of the footmen or perimeter guards was beside the point. He always had the last word on any new man being hired and the Major was convinced that the men guarding and manning the estate represented Michael's tastes.

Knowing the type of man Michael would find interesting did not necessarily mean that there was one readily to hand. Except for the footmen, Michael had very little to do with the rest of the staff. The Major met most of them on a more or less regular basis and while several would be prime candidates he thought it best to think things through thoroughly before he went to market.

Knowing which type of man he was needed to fill the bill, the Major began mentally ticking off the attributes of each member of the staff, rejecting most, considering some. After all, one did not want to rush to judgement. There was still a little time and he had to be very sure of exactly what he was looking for. After all, if one were looking for a bull one did not go to Covent Garden, which was world renowned as a flower market. For a bull one visited Copenhagen Fields, where the finest breeding stock was auctioned. But then, a bull would never appeal to Michael. No, he would want a stallion, a full-blooded, fearless Arab, and for that one went to Tattersall's, in Knightsbridge Green.

The Major clapped his hands in gleeful satisfaction. He would go to Knightsbridge, as it were, and find Michael a fine, intelligent, young stallion. A young man who would . . .

Groaning, the Major slapped his forehead in despair. How stupid of him to think that one of the white staff would ever be acceptable. Michael's helpmate could not white! Michael's companion would have to know and understand him implicitly. He would have to think the way Michael thought and, at times understand why Michael did the things he did. When Michael married he would have to pay at least lip service to the customs and traditions of his in-laws, who would be very suspicious of a young white man having a place of importance in a supposedly Chinese household.

Rising abruptly the Major strode off at a fast clip, loudly cursing. Damn and hell! How was he supposed to find a Chinese man to become the lover and confidant of a man who loathed his own Chinese heritage, eschewed anything and everything that was remotely oriental and had spent money to alter his appearance so that he looked less Oriental?

The Major glared at a White Poplar. Where was he supposed to find a Chinese stallion, who didn't look Chinese, and was intelligent, moderately good looking and willing to give his entire life, every ounce of his being, to one man? Did such a creature exist? Could such a man exist? The Major thought not and then, quite suddenly, he smiled at the White Poplar. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was such a man.

The sun was a fiery orb beating relentlessly down on Vancouver and its suburbs when Gabe opened his eyes. The room was a hot box and Gabe could feel the sweat pooling in the small hollow of his chest. He should have reminded Flo to turn on the air conditioning. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and was in the process of massaging his usual wake-up, full-bladder-induced woody when he heard a soft giggle. He looked up and saw Darren sitting Indian style at the foot of the bed.

"Hi, Gabe," said Darren with a giggle. "You wear the same kind of undies as I do!" Then he giggled and carolled, "And you've got a stiff penis!"

Embarrassed beyond measure, Gabe quickly covered himself with a corner of the counterpane. It was then that he noticed that Darren was all but naked, clad only in a pair of very white, tight briefs. "Darren, what are you doing here, and where are your clothes?"

Darren pouted. "I came home and Mommy isn't here so I came in to see you. Can we go out and play?"

Grumbling, Gabe left the bed. "I have to use the bathroom and you still haven't told me where your clothes are!"

"Well, you don't have any on!" countered Darren toward the closed bathroom door. "If you don't have clothes on why do I have to have clothes on?"

"Because I was in bed, sleeping, that's why," replied Gabe as he exited the bathroom, not really wanting to further this particular line of conversation. Darren's childish mind saw nothing wrong in being naked, or wandering around in just his underpants.

Darren watched as Gabe sat on the edge of the bed and held out his arms. Grinning, he scrambled into his friends arms. "You're not mad at me?" he asked as he held Gabe close.

"Of course not," Gabe assured the young man. "You surprised me, that's all. It's not every day that I wake up and find someone nekkid sitting on my bed."

Darren giggled. "I'm not nekkid. I have my pants on."

"Of course you do," replied Gabe. Darren did have pants on, albeit snowy-white briefs. "So, how was swimming?"

"It was okay. We played a lot and then Mr. Tsapopoulas took Eddy Freemantle into his office."

Gabe thought a moment, trying to sort out who was who. Then he remembered. Mr. Tsapopoulas was the Director of the Surrey Centre for the Disabled. Eddy Freemantle was a sad, lumbering man who had been born retarded, even more retarded than Darren, and at least ten years older.

A suspicion crept into Gabe's mind. "Darren, does Mr. Tsapopoulas take Eddy into his office . . . every time he goes to the pool?"

Darren looked crestfallen. "I'm not supposed to tell."

So, something was going on. "You can tell me," whispered Gabe. "I'm your Gabriel, remember?"

Gabe could see the machinery turning slowly in Darren's damaged brain. "Well, I suppose I can tell you," said Darren eventually, and with great reluctance. "You have to promise that you won't tell and get Eddy in trouble."

Sliding his hand behind his back Gabe crossed his fingers. "I promise."

Darren settled back and unconsciously adjusted his genitals hidden under the tight, white fabric of his underpants. "Mr. Tsapopoulas only takes Eddy into his office when no one else is around, one of the nurses or instructors, I mean." He lay back on his arms. "Eddy doesn't mind. He says he likes what they do."

Gabe's stomach plummeted. "Do . . . do you know what they do?"

"Sure," replied Darren indifferently. He began fiddling with the design crocheted into the counterpane.

Gabe sighed. Darren's attention span on some days was very limited. "Darren?"

Looking into Gabe's inquiring eyes Darren shrugged. "Oh, well, sometimes Eddy takes Mr. Tsapopoulas' penis into his mouth. Sometimes Mr. Tsapopoulas takes Eddy's penis in his mouth. Eddy really likes it when that happens 'cause he says he always gets to squirt . . . What does that mean, Gabe?"

Gabe was shocked beyond measure. He fell back against the pillows. For a long time he stared at Darren, barely able to comprehend Darren's words. "Darren, tell me . . . has Mr. Tsapopoulas . . . has he touched you? Has he asked you to touch him? "

Shaking his head vigorously Darren said firmly, "No! Touching your penis is nasty. Mommy said it was, so I don't do it. Eddy wanted to touch my penis but I wouldn't let him." Then, much to Gabe's surprise, Darren shrugged. "And why would I want to touch an ugly thing like Mr. Tsapopoulas's penis?"

"You've seen it?" gasped Gabe.

Darren nodded and grinned conspiratorially. "When we change into our swimming suits so does he. His penis is very ugly and all covered in skin and ropey things."

Gabe assumed that Darren was referring to the veins that sometime laced a man's penis, but said nothing.

Continuing on Darren snickered. "Mr. Tsapopoulas isn't circletcised like you and me. You have a very pretty penis, Gabe, and very nice testicles. Not like Mr. Tsapopoulas at all. His testicles are all covered with hair and . . ."

"Circumcised, Darren," corrected Gabe absently. "Remember I told you when you asked me?" He was secretly smiling. Darren, for some reason, was unable to grasp the concept of slang names for body parts. He always referred to his penis as his "penis", never his dick, or wienie, or cock, as many young boys would. Testicles were always "testicles", never balls, or nuts or stones. Of course, Darren also had trouble with the idea that animals could be given names. Dogs and cats were always called just that: "Dog" or "Cat".

"Yeah, 'circumcised'!" crowed Darren. "I remember."

Gabe struggled into a seating position and reached out. His large, firm hands grasped Darren's shoulders and he asked, "For sure, honest-cross-your-heart-hope-to-die, Mr. Tsapopoulas has never done anything to you?"

"Nope," confirmed Darren. A sly look came into his eyes and his hand flashed out to gently touch the mound in Gabe's briefs. "But you can, if you want to. I think I'd like that."

"Darren," growled Gabe as he pulled away. "If Mommy says its nasty to touch your di . . . uh your penis, why isn't it nasty to touch mine?"

"Because it's very nice and Mommy doesn't know everything." He smiled smugly. "Sometimes, when I wake up, I have a stiff penis and I rub it. It feels ever so good but I always stop when I get to tingling down there 'cause it makes me want to pee. Eddy says if I rub it long enough I'll squirt but I never done that 'cause Mommy says it's very nasty to make a mess in my undies."

"Was that what happened when you had your 'accident'?" asked Gabe.

Darren shook his head. "No. I was asleep and when I woke up I had a mess in my undies. Mommy was very mad. She said that nice boys didn't do things like that." Darren began to whine. "But Gabe, I couldn' help it! I was asleep."

Gabe raised his eyes to the plastered ceiling. He really had to have a little talk with Flo, and with Darren. The trouble was that Darren could understand only if shown, if presented with an animate object. He could not understand abstract concepts at all. Gabe prayed silently that there was a banana somewhere in the fridge.

"No, you couldn't," commiserated Gabe, "and you didn't do anything nasty. It's happened to me, too, so don't get worked up about it."

"It did?" asked Darren, his eyes wide. "Honest? When?"

Now was not the time to pursue the subject of wet dreams. Gabe shook his head. "I'll tell you all about it later, but first, is Eddy the only boy Mr. Tsapopoulas takes into his office?"

Darren thought carefully. "Yes. He used to take Stanley Perkins into his office, but Stanley had to go away to a special hospital. Mommy said it was for the best. I don't understand that, Gabe, 'cause Stanley was very nice."

"I'm sure he was, but did he tell you what Mr. Tsapopoulas did to him?"

"He couldn't talk," replied Darren, his tone suggesting that Gabe was as retarded as he was. "But he always came out crying and rubbing his bum. Eddy said the first time it happened Stanley's bum was bleeding 'cause Mr. Tsapopoulas stuck his stiff penis up Stanley's bum, which he wanted to do to Eddy, but Eddy said no 'cause it hurt too much and he didn't want his bum to bleed too!"

Gabe fought back the tears. It's happening, still! His mind reeled as the memories of Brother Liam returned and he fought for breath. Darren, frightened, started to cry. Gabe shook himself. He had to maintain control. He couldn't lose it now! "Darren, I . . . I want you to get dressed. Go into the garden and I'll be out soon. I have to call Uncle Louis."

In the paneled, Edwardian splendour of the downstairs powder room Acton "Ace" Grimes gently shook the last of his urine from the healthy, pink head of his penis, squeezed it gently and then tucked it away into the dark tan, silk boxer shorts he was wearing under his suit trousers.

He walked to the marble sink and began washing his hands, looking at his reflection in the over-hanging mirror. "You are some hunk!" he declared to his image. He reached down and slowly massaged the silky fabric of his underpants across and around the curving glans of his penis and as the softness caressed his most prized possession he winked at his image in the mirror and said, "And if you play your cards right, and if that look I saw in his eyes is any indication, why tonight, Ace me boy, you will not be sleeping alone!"

Major Meinertzhagen studied the dossier on his desk and nodded firmly. What he read was satisfying to say the least. The young man had potential, the Major thought as he studied the small black and white photograph of the candidate. Good features, not too Oriental at all. The bloodstock was a little dodgy, but then one couldn't have everything.

The Major leafed through a few more pages. University education in Oriental history. Very high marks, but no surprise there. The Chinese placed great emphasis on education and their children were expected to apply themselves with dedication and diligence.

A few more pages. Young, only a few years older than Michael, but looking much younger. Good reviews from his superiors. Discreet and, as was to be expected, completely loyal.

Laurence bustled into the office and handed a sheaf of papers to the Major. "There's panic in the streets. Every one of Simpson's enterprises has been hit. He's lost a packet."

"And the shares in Willoughby's bank?"

Laurence chortled evilly. "Can't be given away! The exchanges in Toronto and Montreal have suspended trading. The man's ruined."

"Good," returned the Major. "We managed to recoup something, though?"

"A little over a million," replied Laurence. "We'll take advantage of a down market and start buying back tomorrow." He glanced at the open file on the Major's desk. "Are you going to tell me what you are up to?"

"I'm buying a stallion," replied the Major with a straight face.

Laurence shook his head. There was no use in prying further. He would know what and when the Major wanted him to know. He changed the subject abruptly. "Sir Stephen arrived in Toronto without any problems. I've arranged for the flowers."

"Good," replied the Major, nodding. He reached out and consulted a Rolodex file. "It's important that our Chancellor knows that we are with him at this time." He handed a card to Laurence. "Ring this chap and tell him that I would like him to afford Sir Stephen every courtesy."

"Acton Grimes?" asked Laurence after reading the name.

"Yes. 'Ace' to his friends." The Major muttered absently, "I could never understand the insistence of North Americans, the Americans in particular, in gifting every male with a nickname. Not quite done!"

"Better than 'Ass', one supposes," opined Laurence. "He wears the ring?"

"He is the eldest son of the Winslow family solicitor. He works as Edward Winslow's secretary, poor lad, and yes, he wears the ring." He looked directly at Laurence. "He is also of the Brotherhood."

Laurence grinned wickedly. "Major! Don't tell me that you've taken up procuring!"

"I most certainly have not!" huffed the Major. Then his face lost its choler. "At least not for the Chancellor." He tapped the dossier on the desk in front of him. "Is Patrick Tsang about?"

Laurence started. Patrick Tsang? Surely the Major was not thinking . . . Laurence recovered quickly. "He's on duty, yes. He'll be patrolling the grounds, I should think."

"Then fetch him!" ordered the Major imperiously. "Bring him to me."

After the introductions The Gunner, his uncle, and the family solicitor, Malcolm Grimes, settled around Edward's massive, wood desk. Mr. Grimes was very put out. He saw no reason whatsoever to read Margaret Winslow's Last Will and Testament. Edward had a copy of the thing, and it wasn't as if she'd left a fortune. The poor woman was hardly cold, and her damnable husband was wringing his hands in anticipation.

Sniffing his very real disdain for Edward, Mr. Grimes broke the seal on the document that represented Margaret Winslow's last thoughts and wishes, and slowly droned his way through the dry legalese. It was, in fact, a very short document. There were small bequests to Margaret's favourite charities, legacies of jewellery and silver to special lady friends, and a 600-acre farm to her only nephew. Everything else, the money held in her name in the bank, the furniture she had brought with her on her marriage, the jewellery her husband had given to her in her lifetime, everything else went to Edward.

"And there you have it," said Mr. Grimes as he closed the document. "All in all I should think it will come out of probate to the sum of oh, after taxes and duties, half a million."

"About what I expected," growled Edward tonelessly. Neither Grimes nor Stephen had to know about the very substantial insurance policies. Edward had already been on the telephone to his insurance broker and the cheques would be issued upon presentation of Margaret's death certificate, which the undertaker would in any case take care of.

Malcolm Grimes was no fool, and he knew about the insurance. He also knew about a certain co-op apartment on Spadina Road, which housed a certain woman and the two insufferable brats she had whelped, brats sired by Edward Winslow. Margarita was not at all bad looking. Her sons, however, would never take a Blue Ribbon at Cruft's. They took after their father, more's the pity.

Dismissing Edward Winslow's alternate domestic arrangements from his mind, Mr. Grimes turned to The Gunner. "Your aunt was very fond of you, Stephen," he said slowly. He had no desire to rankle Edward, who was no doubt rankled anyway. "The farm was her family's and has been since 1789."

"I didn't know," replied The Gunner truthfully.

"Oh yes, quite a bit of history there," observed Mr. Grimes. He glared maliciously at Edward, who was rummaging through some papers on the desk. "Your aunt's family were Tories, and were forced out after the American Revolution. They came up from Carolina and the Crown gave them a grant of land just outside the town limits of what is now Arnprior, Ontario."

While grateful that his aunt had thought so highly of him as to leave him her ancestral home, The Gunner said, "Whatever am I to do with a farm? I'm a sailor. I plan on spending the rest of my life in the Navy."

Ignoring the snort that emanated from behind the desk, Mr. Grimes shrugged and said, "Use it as your aunt did, as a source of income. None of it is under the plough and two parcels are rented on long-term leases, one to the Canadian Preparedness College, and the other to Dehavilland Aircraft. The bulk of the property is leased to the neighbouring farmer for use as grazing land for his dairy herd. There is a house, but it hasn't been kept up, I'm afraid." His tone implied disapproval of Edward's refusal to use his money to keep up his wife's house.

Edward, who was not at all interested, interrupted with a loud harrumph. "If you will excuse me, I must call the bank. The market has been somewhat volatile of late." He looked indifferently at his nephew. "You'll be wanting to stay, I expect. I'll have the maid make up your room."

The Gunner was about to tell his uncle exactly what he could do with the room when Mr. Grimes touched his arm and nodded toward the door. In the hallway the older man chuckled. "Let him have his pitiful moment, Stephen." He led The Gunner into the main entryway and nodded toward the young man, who was back at his station. "You have bigger fish to fry."

Wondering what the young man had to do with things The Gunner asked, "I do?"

"You do," returned Mr. Grimes without inflexion, "and from a catch your uncle has no knowledge of." He gestured toward the young man. "Meet my eldest, Acton."

The Gunner held out his hand and smiled. "We've met, sort of." He felt the frisson of electricity passing from Acton's hand and saw the twinkle in Acton's eye. "I have a feeling we'll be getting to know each other better."

If Mr. Grimes noticed the wealth of meaning in the Gunner's words he made no mention of it. He looked around and then gestured. "Come outside for a smoke. Edward does not care for the habit."

"Fuck Edward," The Gunner muttered under his breath as the trio made their way to a small wooden gazebo in the garden. They lit up and The Gunner presently asked, "You mentioned that I had other fish to fry?"

"Ah, well, yes." Mr. Grimes pointed to the handsome young man sitting opposite. "That somewhat disappointing, dissolute youth will provide the details."

"Pay no attention to Pop," said Ace with a grin. "He wants me to follow a career in law. I want to have fun before I settle down." He ignored the muted sputtering of his father and continued on. "Your Aunt Margaret was a grand old girl. She and my mother are - were - great friends. She also cared a lot about me, which . . ." he stared mischievously at his father, " . . . is more than I can say for some."

"I shall remember that, Acton, when next you come looking for a small advance to tide you over until payday," returned Mr. Grimes with a smile.

"No, you won't," rejoined Acton, his smile as large as his father's. "I am your favourite son and you can deny me nothing."

Mr. Grimes shook his head at his son's audacity and impertinence. "The bank will be open soon. Perhaps you and Stephen might want to conclude your business there."

Ace nodded and stood up. "Let's take a walk. The bank is not too far and we can chat." He looked around as they proceeded through the garden. "It's better that we're out of earshot anyway."

They left May Square and walked the short distance to Glen Road, which they followed southward toward the busy streets of Toronto. The leafy enclave that was Rosedale seemed to be insulated, to distort and muffle the rushing sounds of the teeming city that surrounded the area. As they walked Ace pointed out various sumptuous and dignified mansions, giving The Gunner a thumbnail sketch of each. Ace had been in all of them at one time or another when he accompanied Margaret Winslow as she visited her friends.

Ace stopped in the middle of the wood and iron footbridge that connected Glen Road to Bloor Street as it passed over the forested valley below. He gazed into the leafy bower and then leaned against the iron railing. "That gelt that Edward was drooling over back at the house? That was chicken feed compared to what comes next for you."

"I beg your pardon?" asked The Gunner, surprised at Ace's very serious tone. "Gelt?"

"It's Yiddish. It's a slang term for money. My roommate in college was Jewish." He laughed quietly. "Very Jewish."

The Gunner ignored the double entrendre and scratched his chin. "My aunt was less than truthful in her will?" he asked.

"Lied like a rug," said Ace. "You, my sailor friend, are about to come into a packet that only two people knew about, and one of them is dead. Even my father doesn't know."

Masking his confusion The Gunner asked, "But you plan on telling me, I take it?"

"Of course." Ace made an expansive gesture. "But first, a history lesson."

"A history lesson?" asked the Gunner as Ace took his arm and led him across the bridge. They exited onto Bloor Street and walked west toward the intersection of Bloor and Spadina where there was a small bistro that Ace frequented.

"Your aunt's family were not poor, Stephen. They were, in fact, quite well off. And they sure as hell were not rabble." He shook his head. "They were gentry, aristocrats, Lords of the Manor in South Carolina before the American Revolution."

"I thought they were kicked out for being Tories," replied The Gunner.

"They were," agreed Ace. "But the were not penniless. When the war broke out your aunt's great-grandfather to the 10th or so degree moved the family from their plantation up the Ashley into their townhouse in Charles Town - later Charleston. He also moved his slaves, his silver and his furniture there. Then he went off and joined the British Army."

"No wonder the rebels burned his house."

"They burned an empty one," reported Ace. "Which reminds me," he said in an offhand manner. "The best pieces from the old house are in storage in Arnprior. Some very important pieces."

"And what would I want with furniture?" asked The Gunner.

"Haven't a clue," returned Ace. "In the event, it's yours." He grinned. "Now, to continue. When Charles Town surrendered to the rebels everybody moved north, household goods and all, to Halifax. From there the family moved to where Arnprior now stands. They farmed, but they were gentry still. They were also very active in the provincial government and law courts. They married well and in the course of time they were travelling in high places."

"Marrying my uncle must have been quite a come down for her," sniped The Gunner.

"I'm sure her family thought it was," agreed Ace. "Anyway, they had money and when war broke out in 1914 her grandfather raised a militia regiment which eventually became a part of the British Army, the Canadian Corps."

"I never knew," said The Gunner.

"Yeah, well, you had your life to live, and Mrs. Winslow understood that. She wrote everything down, though, in a huge old book. That is one part of your legacy."

By this time they were waiting for the traffic light at the intersection to change. Ace gestured across Bloor Street to a small, open-air café. "We'll have a coffee, first."

As they entered the red leather and mahogany depths of the café the waiter, a slim, fey man with obviously dyed blond hair rushed up and burbled, "Ace! How nice to see you again!"

"I don't see why, since I saw you just yesterday," returned Ace crossly. "Can we get a seat, and some coffee?"

"Oh, Ace, what a cruel man you are," teased the waiter. "And after all we've been through."

Ace raised his eyes and then growled, "Table? Coffee?"

The waiter ignored Ace and gave The Gunner an appraising glance. "It seems our date on Friday is off. Nice, Ace, very nice."

"Lester!" Ace all but shouted. "We never had a date!"

"Lance!" returned Lester angrily. "My name is Lance! How many times do I have to remind you?"

The Gunner listened to the interplay and almost killed himself trying not to laugh. As Lester/Lance angrily pranced through the length of the café The Gunner forced himself to calm down. He could not resist, however, poking a stick. "It's always nice to meet an old friend," he said with a distinct snicker.

Ace grew red in the face and his eyes glared maliciously. "Lester is not an old friend!" he informed the gunner in a barely controlled whisper. "I met him down at The Barracks three weeks ago. He's been a pain in the ass ever since he found out I live next door."

A look of surprise came over The Gunner's face. "You're in the Navy?" The only barracks he knew were those down on the Lakeshore that housed the Naval Reserve Division.

It was Ace's turn to laugh uproariously. "Oh God, what backwater did you spring from?" Lester/Lance chose that moment to bustle up with their coffee and Ace waited while the man fussily placed the cups, the creamer and the bowl of sugar cubes on the table. When Lester/Lance walked away to serve another customer Ace took a deep breath and plunged in. "Steve, you strike me as a stand-up sort of guy."

The Gunner, wondering what was coming, nodded his agreement. "I like to think I am," he replied simply.

"Okay, then I won't lie to you and, because I think you're the type of guy a man can trust, I'll fill you in on a few details about me."

The Gunner thought of the look, and the electricity that had passed between them back at the house. "Lester is as light in the loafers as Tinker Bell and The Barracks has nothing to do with the military," observed The Gunner.

"Lester is a lot more than light, he wears work boots!" said Ace. "And The Barracks is a bath house down on Widmer Street. When Lester isn't here, working, he's there. He's very popular to those that care for his type."

"His type?" asked The Gunner.

Ace grinned foolishly. "You are from some backwater!"

"I am not! There are bathhouses in Vancouver. I just don't go into them."

Ace shrugged and leaned forward. "Look, Steve, I'm usually right about such things so I'll come right out and say what I want to say. You are one hell of an attractive man and I would like to get to know you better."

The Gunner recalled The Phantom, his lover and friend, opining that it was only a matter of time before The Gunner met a Stud Muffin. The Gunner also had to admit, if only to himself, that he was attracted to this young man. "I will admit that I find you . . . attractive," he admitted tentatively.

"Thank God for that!" exclaimed Ace. "For a minute there I thought you were beyond straight."

"Let's just say that I've been around," replied The Gunner, his instinctive reluctance to admit his sexuality coming to the fore.

Ace sensed The Gunner's reluctance. The man was obviously not out, and not about to admit that he was gay to a stranger. He decided to put The Gunner's mind at ease. "Steve, I'm gay. I met Lester in the baths and in a most unfortunate fit of horniness, I had sex with him." He shrugged apologetically. "I'm usually not so careless, I assure you. But, I'd been drinking and Lester seemed attractive at the time. I almost shit when I came in here the next morning and found him working here!"

"And he's been trying for an encore ever since, I take it?" The Gunner stirred his coffee and looked at Ace. Then he looked at Lester/Lance, who was simpering at a young man as fey, as slim, and as dyed blond as he was.

Ace caught The Gunner's look. "Lester is a fem. Some guys like 'em that way. I don't, normally."

"What do you like?"

"Men," replied Ace simply. "M-E-N, who act and talk like men. I prefer quality to quantity and I have ever since my roommate popped my cherry when I was 14. I suppose because of him I like my partners to be more twink than bear." He grinned and waggled eyebrows. "Sort of like you, and like me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You have no idea what I am talking about," exclaimed Ace, his surprise registering on his face. "You really have been living a sheltered life."

"Well, it's just that you seem to be speaking a foreign language!" replied The Gunner. Nobody in his circle of friends spoke of "twinks" or "bears" or "femmes".

Leaning forward Ace pointed with his chin toward the door. "Out there, only a few blocks from where we are sitting, a sub-culture is being formed. It is composed of gay men - increasingly angry gay men who are fed up with the bullshit, tired of being condemned and pilloried by mainstream society. So they are leaving the mainstream and forming their own place, creating their own lifestyle, in some ways their own language. This sub-culture is small, but it exists in Montreal, here in Toronto and in Vancouver. Gays are gathering together for mutual protection and companionship. They're saying to hell with the rest of the world and leave us alone."

The Gunner remained silent, wondering if Michael knew of the formation of these gay "villages."

"Just as in every society a new, well, language is being developed," said Ace. He tapped his chest. "Take me for example. Underneath this terribly hot and horribly expensive suit is a man who is 26 years old. He stands a pubic hair over six feet, and weighs 185 pounds, all of it muscle. He's a buff twink with a seven-and-a-half inch cut dick and . . ."

The Gunner started to laugh. "Seven-and-a-half?" he asked doubtfully. The Gunner admitted to six-and-a-half, and that with a following sea, a clean bottom and all laundry aloft.

Ace joined in Gunner's laughter. "Okay, seven, and that's as low as I go!"

I have a feeling that I'll find out, said The Gunner mentally. "Anything else?"

"I prefer my partners to be cut - sorry, circumcised. It's what I know, and what I like," replied Ace honestly. He looked earnestly at The Gunner. "I am, however, prepared to make an exception for the right guy."

"You don't have to make an exception," replied The Gunner. "I think I'll pass the inspection."

Ace grinned. "Good. Now, I like my men to be like me. I prefer to top, but again, I can be versatile for the right guy. I don't jump right in. It's the romantic in me. When the mood is on me I prefer just to cuddle and snuggle. I also like frottage."

"You've lost me again," said The Gunner.

"Okay, I'll explain," began Ace. "A twink is a guy who is good looking and well built, with well defined muscles, not a body builder, not a hunk, just, well boyish, I suppose. He has little body hair." He ran his fingers through his coal back hair. "Don't let the hair fool you. It's a gift from some ancestor or other. My mother was Black Irish. I have hair in all the right places and not too much anywhere else."

"A bear then is a guy who is hairy all over?"

Ace nodded. "Some guys get off on them. I don't." He glanced at Lester/Lance. "Some guys are exclusively tops. Others, like Lester, are bottoms."

"Lester likes to be fucked, you mean," stated The Gunner without rancour.

"In spades," said Ace. "Now me, I'm a top."

"You said you were versatile," reminded The Gunner.

"Only for the right guy. I've done it, I've enjoyed it, but only a few times and only for a very special guy." His eyes told The Gunner that he was indeed a very special guy. "I've been active since I was about 12, mostly just fooling around, you know, jerking off and sucking off with my friends," Ace continued. "That's all they were willing to do." He shrugged. "Most young guys don't mind a little experimentation. Those that really enjoy it usually end up tops. That way they can tell themselves that they're not queer and are just getting their nut."

"You sound like one of a set of twins I know," said The Gunner.

"I'll bet they went to a public school," replied Ace. "You learn a lot about the way other guys think, how they react, what they will and won't do in an all male environment."

"Tell me about it," said The Gunner. "I've been in the Navy for ten years."

"It's different, a different world. I don't mean to suggest that guys are not getting off with each other. I am suggesting that it doesn't happen every night in Naval establishments."

"No, it doesn't," agreed The Gunner. "The Navy frowns on that type of pastime."

"So do the authorities of every public school in the country," countered Ace. "That doesn't mean that the boys pay the slightest attention to them."

"In the Navy play time can get you two years in the jug."

"Expelled at St. Andrew's. We did it anyway."

"St. Andrew's is a private school?"

"Very," said Ace. "It's right up their with the best of them." He smiled wistfully. "All the boys belong to the Army Cadets - the 48th Highlanders, actually - and you haven't lived until you've stood in the middle of the gymnasium and watched 100 or so guys strip off their underwear and stand there, balls and dicks waving in the breeze, wearing nothing but a khaki shirt and a Glengarry."

"What?"

Laughing, Ace explained. "All the boys have to belong to the cadets. It's supposed to help you develop self-discipline. The corps is affiliated with the 48th Highlanders and everybody wears a kilt. The first drill night everybody lines up booted and kilted. The RSM - the Regimental Sergeant Major - inspects the new boys and he has this mirror attached to the toe of his boot. He puts his foot under a cadet's kilt and he'd better see dick." He smiled knowingly. "But it always happens because the . . . "

"The new boys never believe that nothing is worn under a kilt," supplied The Gunner.

"You got it. If the RSM sees underwear he throws a tantrum and everybody has to take off their kilt. Then they take off their shorts and put the kilt back on. In a way it's very instructive because a guy at least gets to see what's on offer for the next few years."

"And you told me that you preferred quality over quantity."

"Call it comparison shopping," replied Ace with a grin. His grin widened as he said, "You know, I still have my kilt. Perhaps you'd like to come up and inspect the regiment."

The Gunner did not laugh or smile. "Acton, I admit, I am very tempted. But I'm like you in some ways. You've been up front and honest so I have to tell you that I'm involved with someone back home. Very involved."

"Oh, in that case . . ."

The Gunner held up his hand. "Neither of us expects that we'll be monogamous. He understands, as I do, that from time to time we will meet someone that appeals to us, and that something will happen between us. He has some special friends, very special friends, whom he sees, and whom he plans to go on seeing. I know that he loves those friends in a very special way and that when they're together they have sex." He looked firmly at Ace. "And I also know that what he does with his friends in no way denigrates or lessens the love he feels for me. I understand the feelings he has for the others."

"And he understands that you might have feelings for other men from time to time?" asked Ace.

"Yes."

"Then what is the problem? I'm willing, you're obviously willing."

"But I'm not the type to jump into the sack, Acton. I like to get to know the other guy a little."

"So, I don't get my kilt out of the closet?"

"Not yet. Let's just take this one step at a time. We still have things to do; such as going to the bank so you can reveal the great mystery. I also have to find a decent hotel room."

"Why," asked Ace. "You have a room back at the house."

"Call me superstitious, call me silly, but I am not spending the next two or three nights sleeping in a house where my aunt is laid out in the parlour!" He was also not about to spend one night under his uncle's roof if he could avoid it.

"I have an extra bedroom," offered Ace. "And there is a very sturdy lock on the door. Nothing has to happen that you don't want to happen."

The Gunner thought a moment. "Tonight, after the viewing - there is a viewing?"

Ace nodded. "From three to ten tonight, tomorrow and Sunday. The funeral is set for 10:00 Monday morning at St. James the Less."

"Really? Uncle Edward hasn't booked St. James' Cathedral?"

Laughing softly Ace shook his head. "Mrs. Winslow was very specific about where she wanted to be buried from."

"Good for her," said The Gunner, rising. "Let's get the bank over with. Tonight, after the viewing, I'd like to take you to dinner."

"That would be great." Ace said happily as he threw some money on the table to pay for the coffee. He looked sincerely at The Gunner. "And I meant what I said. You can stay with me. I won't bother you."

Laughing, The Gunner led Ace from the café. As they waited for a break in the traffic so that they could cross the street to the bank building The Gunner snickered and murmured. "And here I was thinking that I might see you in your kilt. And what in the hell is 'frottage'?"

Gabe supervised as Darren dressed in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and then sent the child-like man into the yard. He pulled on his trousers and padded barefoot into the kitchen. He was as thirsty as a popcorn fart and he was still reeling from Darren's revelation about what was going on at the Centre.

Sitting at the table, Gabe picked up the envelope he'd seen lying in the middle of the table and ran fiddled with it. He was much too upset to open the envelope. How anyone could take advantage of a sad, mentally retarded person was quite beyond him. He was not at all surprised, having endured rape and abuse in the orphanage. He'd seen enough, and heard enough, to know that in any controlled environment, a prison, an orphanage, a hospital for the mentally challenged, a group home, abuse occurred, and more often than those responsible for the welfare of the poor unfortunates held in such places cared to admit.

What Mr. Tsapopoulas was doing to Eddy Freemantle was morally and legally reprehensible. Eddy, while a man in his late 20s, was legally incompetent, and not responsible for his actions. According to law Eddy was unable to function, to think, to act, for himself. However, it was apparent that Eddy at least had an inkling of some things. He had told Darren that he liked what Tsapopoulas did to him. Would the law consider that what Eddy did with Tsapopoulas was between two consenting adults, in private? But if the law said that Eddy was legally incompetent, than how could he give consent to such an act? It was all very confusing. He would talk to Uncle Louis about that. He would also talk to Mr. Michael. Between them, Gabe was certain, they would see to it that Mr. Tsapopoulas never again put his not "circletcised" penis in another man's mouth, or stuck his stiff penis into an uncomprehending boy's bum.

Through the open windows of the kitchen Gabe could hear Darren laughing and hooting as he was chased the ducks and Canada Geese that waddled over from the park and infested the gardens of the neighbourhood. Darren loved to chase the poor creatures that had only come looking for a good meal of slugs and worms that could be found in the flowerbeds. Gabe smiled fondly and decided that somehow he would make Darren understand about "touching" himself. Gabe knew that in extreme cases men and boys like Darren, and Eddy, took medication to control their sexual urges. Darren, because he knew what happened from time to time to his penis, and also what happened when he rubbed it, was obviously not an extreme case.

Gabe began tapping his teeth with the envelope he still held; trying to decided the best way to begin Darren's instructions. He glanced idly at the kitchen clock and his eyes widened. Look at the time! Where was Flo? She should have been back long since. Then, for the first time he noticed, really noticed the envelope. Written across the front was his name. His heart beat rapidly as he ripped open the flimsy envelope and his eyes scanned the words written on the piece of paper.

When he had finished reading, and absorbing the contents of the letter, Gabe stood up and walked woodenly to the telephone hanging on the wall. He dialled Uncle Louis' office number and when the telephone was answered he took a deep breath, swallowed, and said, "There's a problem with Darren. Flo has done a bunk."

Patrick Tsang stood in the middle of Major Meinertzhagen's office. Outwardly he was calm and very controlled. Inwardly he was quaking.

Patrick had no idea why he had been summoned to the private chamber of the Great Chamberlain, the Chief Minister to the Serenity, a man of great power, a man who, in the old country, would have worn a Mandarin's jade button and a peacock feather on his hat, a man who would have been attended by a retinue of chair-bearers, outriders and footmen, shaded by an umbrella of honour, a man whose robe would have been adorned with the Yellow Imperial Dragon. Major Meinertzhagen might be yang keui-tzu, but he was a very important foreign devil. One word from him and Patrick would find himself back living in the family compound in Chinatown, a most distasteful prospect.

Patrick had, as he always had of late, been patrolling the grounds of the estate when he had been approached by the younger yang keui-tzu, Laurence, who was also very important. Laurence was Chief Secretary to the Lord Chamberlain and enjoyed great favour from the Serenity. Patrick actually liked Laurence because he, unlike the Lord Chamberlain, never made him feel like a piece of dirt, to be used as and when necessary. Laurence had told Patrick to return to his room, clean himself, change into his best suit and present himself as soon as possible to the Major.

As he showered Patrick wracked his brains, trying to think of a reason for the summons. He had done nothing to displease the Great Ones, at least he couldn't think of having done anything wrong. He had followed instructions and performed every duty given him with dispatch and expertise. As a Tsang it had been his duty, his sworn obligation, to give to the Serenity everything he wanted. It was the life of a Tsang, after all.

As he dressed Patrick continued to think. Perhaps he had displeased one of the Great Ones? He couldn't think of having done anything to cause displeasure on the part of anyone. How could he? Since being summoned to the precincts of the Forbidden City he had done nothing but patrol the grounds, eat, sleep and . . .

Patrick sank to the bed, his soul filled with despair. They knew! Somehow, some way, they had discovered what he and Kuang Hsu did at night. That had to be the reason. They had found out and he was a dead man, or soon would be, and before the sun set he would be as dead as Elder Cousin Joey.

But then, Patrick reasoned, Kuang Hsu had not been summoned. He had seen the younger man, a native of Hong Kong not an hour ago, idling away his shift in the massive Gate House that guarded the entry to the estate. Perhaps he was worrying over nothing. Perhaps no one knew of his relationship with Kuang. A new assignment? Yes, that had to be it, a new assignment.

Still, Patrick's fears increased as he entered the office. He had been directed to stand in the middle as the Great Chamberlain studied a file of papers on his desk. Patrick had expected such treatment. He was, after all, nothing more than a peasant. It did not matter that his father, Tsang Su Shun, was the Clan Elder now that Tsang Tso Sheng was confined to a small room howling and scratching at imaginary moons and demons, his brain ravaged by syphilis. It did not matter that Su Shun had scorned his female cousins and sought elsewhere for a bride, bringing new, cleaner blood to the Clan. It did not matter that many of the functioning illiterates who had condemned the Clan to ignominy and scorn had been sent away, returned to the ancestral village in China. It did not matter that each of Shun's four sons had been sealed to the service of the Serenity three days after their birth and given, with great ceremony the same mark as was borne by the Serenity, a special favour granted only to the sons of Su Shun.

Nothing mattered. Patrick had been sent away to school, had learned the ways of the white barbarians. He was handsome, he was intelligent, and he was sealed irrevocably to the service of Michael Chan. While ambitious, neither Patrick, nor his father, expected to ever occupy seats in the councils of power. But they could, as lesser men had before them, rise above their peasant roots and show those who scorned them that they were not lumps of clay, or ignorant farmers. Their modesty did not allow them to think that they would ever wear a Mandarin's button, or wear a robe embroidered in imperial yellow. Their ambition led them to believe that they could, and would rise, from the muck. Their total, unquestioning loyalty to the Chans, to the Serenity, would see to it. Their hard work and dedication would guarantee it.

Patrick was determined to show no fear. The silence in the room was broken only by the soft shuffling of papers and the slow, steady breathing of the lesser Great Lord who sat impassively in the corner, watching. Patrick might be a peasant to these two men. He was not a coward. He was a man and he would, if all this were leading up to it, die like a man. He would not die, as Cousin Joey had died, squealing and moaning, weeping and begging that his life be spared. Joey had betrayed the trust placed in him. Joey had died badly. Patrick would not. He was determined that if the gods so desired it, he would die like man.

The Major put aside Patrick's dossier and focused his eyes on the young man. He said nothing, his eyes boring into the young Chinese as if seeking to discover his most inner secrets. Patrick, determined to show no fear, matched the Major's look.

The Major noted Patrick's look and nodded inwardly. "The lad has spunk. He is afraid but he refuses to show fear." One point in Patrick's favour.

"You are Patrick Jung Lo Tsang," asked the Major, using the western form of address. "The third son of Tsang Su Shun, Elder Brother and Tsang Clan Elder?"

Patrick's gaze, and voice, never wavered. "Yes."

"You are here because it is suggested that you will be able to perform a special, very special favour for your patron."

"My life belongs to the Serenity," returned Patrick, somewhat angrily. A foreign barbarian who occupied a seat in the rooms of power in the Forbidden City should know such things.

The Major caught Patrick's tone. "So, the lad is insulted by my questioning his loyalty." Two points in Patrick's favour.

"Michael . . . the Serenity, does not demand your life," the Major stated emphatically.

"It does not matter," replied Patrick calmly. "I was sealed to his service on the third day of life. Whatever is asked of me is my duty, my honour, to do."

The Major glanced at Laurence, who shrugged and nodded. Gesturing, the Major rose from behind his desk and, with Laurence, walked slowly around the impassive Patrick Tsang. "Good form, high cheekbones, skin clear and pinker than one might have expected," thought the Major. Hair neat and presentable, cut in a military style. Eyes, almond-shaped, but not as pronounced as one would expect. All in all, looking much more Occidental than Oriental.

"Remove your clothing, please," the Major suddenly ordered. The Major had once purchased a riding horse from a dodgy dealer and ever since then had learned to examine every part of the stallion before he put down a pound note.

The Major's order had reinforced Patrick's fear that his fate was sealed. The men, those men who come for Joey, they had made him disrobe, had laughed at his body, laughed scornfully at his pitiful genitals. Woodenly Patrick complied, removing his suit coat, his starched white shirt, his regimental striped tie, his shoes, his socks, and his trousers. Soon he stood wearing nothing but his white boxer underpants.

"The pants as well," said the Major impatiently.

A slight tremor betrayed Patrick's fear as he pushed his underpants down and stepped out of them. He was naked, with nothing to hide. Instinctively he cupped his hands over his fear-shriven testicles and penis.

"Hands at your sides, please," ordered the Major. When Patrick did as he was told the Major and Laurence made another circuit. "Good musculature, good skin tone." He nodded ever so imperceptivity at Patrick's groin. "At least that will not be a problem." As they continued to walk slowly around the increasingly confused Patrick Tsang, the Major continued his Tattersall's inspection. "So, then, Laurence, what to you think?" he asked as he gestured expansively. "Well-formed haunches; makes a good hunter that. Good strong legs, straight shanks. Might make a decent jumper of him. Good slimness to him as well. Might do well at Aintree."

"Might do, and he'd have a good run in The Oaks," replied Laurence, continuing the equine metaphors. "He'd give a decent showing at Ascot I think."

Patrick began blushing. He understood the allusions to horse races and hunters. He maintained his temper and his composure even though he was not well pleased at all to be compared to a horse!

Laurence paused and stopped directly in front of Patrick where he looked deliberately down appraised the Chinese man's crotch. As Laurence expected, Patrick's genitals were rather on the small side. He was Chinese after all, a race not known for massive genitalia. Still, what Patrick could boast was sleek, and very well formed. A smooth, crisp, gently curving, pink glans crowned Patrick's penis and the plump-shafted organ rested over low-hanging, heavy testicles. His pubic bush, as was normal in most Chinese males, was sparse, but delicately formed and very black.

Laurence looked at the Major and nodded. He then returned his attention to Patrick and asked gently, "Is that what you meant when you said that you had been 'sealed' to Michael's service on the third day of your life? That you had been circumcised?"

Patrick nodded. "My father decreed that all his sons would bear the mark of the Serenity. Only his sons would have the honour."

"One way to express devotion," observed the Major tartly, "although a little drastic."

"Hardly unknown in a cultured society," observed Laurence. "Marking one's body in emulation of a god, or even the Saviour, is not unheard of." He noticed the Major squirming and continued gleefully on. "There are several Buddhist sects that demand it, and I know of one priestly order of the Catholic Church that requires it prior to ordination. Makes the lads more Christ like, one supposes, as He was circumcised, you know. Then there is a certain order of Knights that . . ."

"Point taken, Laurence, point taken!" growled the Major testily. "Good blood stock, then?"

"More Andalusian than Arab, but yes."

"Good, then we shall introduce him to Michael properly. With a little luck this young man will soon be wearing racing colours!" Laurence had his doubts. Michael did not strike him as the sort of man who would appreciate the Major interfering in his personal business. "Frankly, I think you're batting a sticky wicket," he returned tartly. "And not even you would ask this fine young man to take his loyalty as far as you wish him to."

"He would not be asked to do anything that he could not, in good conscience, do," replied the Major easily, ignoring Laurence's doubtful tone. He looked at Patrick, who had relaxed somewhat. "I am going to ask you some questions. I want, no, I need total honesty. Do not lie to me for if you do, I shall know it."

Patrick stiffened again. "I . . . will tell you the truth."

"You are not married." The Major's tone was all but accusatory. "You're brothers were found brides when they turned 18. Is there no bride in your future?"

"I have dedicated my life to the Serenity. There is no room for women. My duty compels me to give all my energy to . . ."

"You swore to tell the truth," said the Major in razor-edged, icy tones.

"I . . ." Patrick raised pleading eyes to the Major's inflexible glare. "I am sealed to the service of the Serenity," he babbled. "I cannot take a wife. My life belongs to . . ."

A knowing look crossed Laurence's face. Patrick's palpable discomfiture could mean only one thing. "Why, you're homosexual," he exclaimed.

Patrick clasped his hands to his face and began weeping, his resolve broken, his darkest secret revealed. "Please, I am a man. Treat me as a man. Do not slaughter me as you did Elder Cousin Joey!"

Astonished at this outburst, the Major gestured toward the door leading to his private bathroom. "There is a robe in the bath. Fetch it please," he asked Laurence, who complied quickly. Patrick had been embarrassed enough.

When Laurence returned he draped the robe over Patrick's naked body and guided him to a chair. While Patrick slumped in the chair Laurence poured him a healthy drink of brandy. "Drink this down," he ordered as he handed Patrick the glass of liquor. "And be assured, no one is going to harm you. You are in no danger at all!"

"But, Cousin Joey . . ." returned Patrick through his tears.

"Joey was derelict in his duty," interjected the Major harshly. "As well you know. He was given a task and allowed his baser instincts to influence that task." The Major returned to his desk and sat down. "You, on the other hand, are well thought of and have performed well."

Patrick shook his head. He continued to weep in shame. "I am unworthy. I have offended the gods and the Serenity. I am an abomination. In my pride, in my vanity, I convinced myself that my deformity would not matter, that I could serve the Serenity with honour, that one day I would prove to him that while I might be a Tsang, I was not a peasant, that I was a man worthy to sit in the Counsels of the Forbidden City, worthy to wear a robe embroidered with the token of the Serenity's love and trust."

Laurence looked enquiringly at the Major, who said, "A yellow dragon. Only the great nobles and favourites of the Emperor were entitled to wear it."

Kneeling, Laurence placed his hand softly on Patrick's shoulder. "You are not an abomination, nor do you have a deformity. You are a man."

"You cannot understand," returned Patrick angrily. "Such as I are not considered men."

"Then I am not a man, for I am also homosexual," confessed Laurence.

Patrick's eyes widened. "You? But you cannot be. You sit in the Councils, your robe bears the Yellow Dragon."

"I am," confirmed Laurence firmly. "And if the Major's little scheme goes as he seems to think it will, you will sit in the councils. You will have your Yellow Dragon."

"I do not understand what is required of me," rejoined Patrick. "What is you want of me?"

"All in due time," said the Major. "Trust me when I say that you are exactly what I think is necessary. But first, you have been with a man before?"

Patrick, shame-faced, nodded. "Yes. In college, with my roommate and here, with Kuang Hsu."

"One of the outside staff," supplied Laurence. "He is Hong Kong born. He speaks no English and has little or no knowledge of the Order or of what goes on in the house."

The Major frowned. Patrick's relationship with Kuang Hsu was a complication he had not expected. If Patrick were chosen to be Michael's refuge, it would have to remain secret. There could be no hint of improprieties. He thought quickly. "Kuang Hsu has performed well and will be rewarded. I am sure that he misses his home and family. He will return to a position of responsibility and a bride of quality will be found for him." He looked at Patrick. "You will dress and return with Laurence to his private rooms. He will explain what we wish of you. If you agree you shall dine with me tomorrow evening. Sunday you will lunch with Michael."

"And then?" asked Patrick, his face registering his surprise at this sudden, strange, turn of events.

"Why then you shall have your Yellow Dragon," replied the Major.

"Sweet Mother of God," exclaimed The Gunner as the jewels cascaded from the box Ace had upturned onto the bare steel table in the bank's private office. Diamonds, a river of them, seemed to flow across the metal surface, interspersed with small creeks of emeralds and rubies and amethysts.

"Praise be to Lenin," returned Ace as he reached out and picked up a truly remarkable emerald and diamond necklace. The deep green stones, 8 cabochon emeralds, gleamed in the harsh overhead fluorescent light. The six rose cut diamonds separating the emeralds added their lustre, six bright stars of light. Hanging on diamond ropes from the central, square cut emerald were two pendants, one a pear-shaped emerald drop, the other a marquise cut diamond. "This is part of a parure, or suite. There are also a pair of diamond and emerald earrings, a rather pretty brooch with emerald pendant drop, a stomacher and two bracelets." He held the necklace to the light and his eyes sparkled a brightly as the gemstones. "According to the inventory this, and the other pieces - did I mention that there are also 15 loose emeralds? Anyway, it once belonged to the Grand Duchess Vladimir Romanova."

"I . . . I don't understand," murmured The Gunner. He picked up a small stand of pearls. "Where did all this come from?"

"It's a long story," replied Ace. "But first, I have to give you this." He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. "Your aunt asked me to give you this when I opened the box."

His hand trembling slightly, The Gunner opened the envelope and extracted a letter. He recognized the handwriting and looked at Ace. "It's a letter, from Aunt Margaret."

"I thought it might be," replied Ace. "I'll leave you alone for a while then." He made to stand up but The Gunner stopped him.

"Stay, because I see that there's a bit about you," said The Gunner as he quickly scanned the neat, curving writing. A word caught his eye and he snickered audibly.

"What?" asked Ace.

"In a minute," replied The Gunner. "But first, stand up and turn around."

Doing as he'd been asked, Ace stood up. The Gunner asked him to hike up the back of his suit jacket. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

"Sophie Nicholson was right. You do have a damned fine caboose!" exclaimed The Gunner with a frankly salacious grin.

"I beg your pardon?" returned Ace, sitting down. "And just what else did Sophie say about my 'caboose', may I ask?"

"Not much," replied The Gunner. "Now, hush up and I'll read the letter." He coughed, cleared his throat and began reading aloud.

"Dearest Stephen," the letter began.

"As you are reading this I expect that I have finally gone to join my parents in that special place were there are no Edwards to bedevil one. I suppose that sounds cruel but it is how I feel. Edward was a good provider, but never a husband. I hope he treats his mistress - and her children - better than he treated me. And yes, dear Stephen, I know about her. We, at least I, lived in such a small world that there were few, if any secrets. I rather think that between Sophie Nicholson and myself we managed to ferret out the juiciest bits. I am afraid at times we quite shocked dear, sweet Acton Grimes . . ."

The Gunner left off reading and looked at Acton, who squirmed and asked, "My caboose?"

Laughing, The Gunner shook his head. "Tea and conspiracy, I think," he said, shaking his head.

Ace had a fairly good idea what The Gunner was getting at and laughed. "If half of what your aunt and Sophie told me is true my kilt would never have been in the closet. Hell, if any of the stories were true I could have draped it over some very prominent Rosedale bedposts!"

Harrumphing, The Gunner continued reading.

" . . . Who is a nice young scamp, and not quite the imp he makes himself out to be. Sophie Nicholson insists that he has the best caboose she's seen since Robert Redford and knowing Sophie, she would know . . ."

The Gunner laughed heartily and reread the passage while Ace blushed and looked back at his "caboose". "Well, it is kind of nice, and I can't recall anyone complaining," he said with a grin.

The Gunner cocked an eyebrow and returned Ace's grin. "I agree with Sophie."

Ace made a small face. "You keep that up and we'll never make it to the viewing, let alone dinner!" He waved his hand. "Read on, MacDuff!"

" . . . But, enough of Acton . . ." the letter went on. "I shall have more to say about him later because, dear Stephen, this letter is for you and I intend to speak sternly to you.

"First dearest nephew and surrogate son, when I reach wherever it is I am going, I do not want to look down - or up - and see you grieving. I believe implicitly in the teachings of the Church and I believe firmly that I will be in a happier place. I've had a good run and God blessed me not once, but twice, with the love of two wonderful young men. You, dear Stephen, were the joy of my existence. How I cherished your letters and the all too few times you came home. How handsome you looked in your blue uniform - and how that horrible little man Mr. Hellyer was ever allowed to wreak such havoc I shall never understand!

"I have two small confessions, Stephen. The first I should not confess, as it will make you as vain as that black-haired scamp Acton. I happen to think that your caboose is every bit as fine as Acton's, perhaps better. Sophie disagrees, but then she is prejudiced."

"She is," Acton said sourly. "Sophie likes her men young." He shrugged. "But then, that's another story."

"I'll just bet it is," returned The Gunner. "But, no matter," He chortled and returned to the letter.

"The second confession is that when you graduated from CORNWALLIS I was there. I never told you that I had travelled, most uncomfortably by train, just to see something that had become so very important in your life. I hid in the shadows and oh, dear Stephen, how happy you looked. I know that you were struggling with an inner turmoil, yet that day you had found your place, your peace. I did not want to intrude so I left immediately the ceremony ended. I also managed to obtain a photograph of your graduating class from a rather grim man who said he was your Drill Instructor . . ."

"That would be Chief Phillips," said The Gunner quietly. "He was a tough old bird, but he had a heart of gold. He'd be very upset if he knew how the guys deep down loved him." He went back to the letter.

" . . . Which is in a silver frame on my dressing table. Edward will be happy to give it to you, as he never approved of your choice of career. Thank God that you continued on your path and that he was unable to make you over into a stodgy, boring little man such as he always was."

"Margaret surely knew her husband," interjected Ace. The Gunner nodded, but said nothing.

"Stephen, you have chosen your path and I admire you for it. I sometimes wish that I had your sense of adventure. But then, I would never have had the oh, so happy, wonderful visits from you. I looked forward to each and every one. I read your letters until they were mere tissues. I kept them, and they are in this box. They meant so much to me and I want you to never, ever blame yourself for not visiting more often. I understood, as your uncle could not, that a sailor cannot spend too much time on land. The sea, the beautiful, roaring sea, creeps into his soul and claims him utterly. You are such a man and in the claiming of the sea you were happy, which meant that I was happy.

"Which leads me to the other reason for this letter. Sooner or later you will, as all sailors must, find a safe haven. I left you my family home so that one day you might enjoy the peace and serenity I always felt there, where I tried to go every year, even when the house was closed, just to recall my happy childhood, to forget the times with Edward. I was happy when I was home, Stephen, and I hope you will use the jewels that I have also left you to make the farm a happy place. It cries out for children, to be filled with the happy voices of rough and tumble horseplay of boys. I confess that I would much prefer that you have sons, rather than daughters. You deserve sons, Stephen. And before you can raise that damned eyebrow of yours, you should know that I know that you have a different love. That does not mean that you cannot have sons to fill my house! Or better yet, tear it down and rebuild. Build a house of love and fill it with boys. Teach them that boys can love, that there is nothing wrong with that love. That is my wish, that is my inheritance to you."

"She knew," whispered The Gunner as the tears coursed down his face. "But I never, not here, never here. How could she know?" he asked. "And why did she never say anything?"

"Mothers know, Steve," said Ace as gently as he could. He reached out and clasped The Gunner's hand. "They always know and they never say anything. It's the way of real mothers, which leads me to suspect that my mother knows about me. But then, this is not about me. Now, wipe your eyes and finish the letters." Nodding, The Gunner returned to his letter.

"Which leads me the jewels. I have only worn a small bit of them, and that only once and I shall be forever grateful to Acton for allowing me the opportunity and for making me feel young again.

"The jewels are the result of a fortuitous incident for some, a time of terror for others. Acton will tell you the history, although I have written down in my journal the true story of how my grandfather acquired them. Use these jewels, Stephen, as you see fit. Use them to fill your house with joy and love and boys! They will open many doors and if you are the man I am sure you are, you will find those doors and kick them open. Do it! Do it, as I love you, Stephen. I loved you and thank your for the joy that you brought to me.

"You must also use Acton. He is not quite the carefree, shallow thing he thinks he is. He has also brought me great joy and made an old lady's final years very happy. I shall always be grateful for our time together and cherish the memory of our dancing into the wee hours, in that draughty hall so wonderfully beautiful in tartan, scarlet and gold. I am also grateful that Sophie Nicholson was not present when we did the reel, as I would never have heard the end of Acton's baring all when he twirled."

The Gunner looked enquiringly at Acton, who had the courtesy to blush. "We went to the Regimental Ball. During the reel the back of my kilt flew up and well, everybody found out what a Scotsman doesn't wear under his kilt!" he laughed delightfully. "Thank God I was wearing sporran!"

"The world is not quite ready for that particular sight," returned The Gunner, divining Ace's meaning. "Two inches of brag and bluster attached to a buff twink, I'm thinking!"

Ace began sputtering and waved impatiently for The Gunner to continue.

"Acton - I could never call him Ace - is, underneath that smug exterior, a truly sweet boy. I hope that by now that you have met him and that you and he can become, if nothing else, friends. He projects a feckless manner but he is, in many ways, your carbon copy. He, too, has a spine of steel and a determination to reach whatever goal he has set himself. I love him for that determination, for his steadfast, unquestioning friendship and I hope that my little gift for him, which is contained in the small, red-leather box at the bottom of my safety-deposit box, is a small token of my friendship.

"Acton, my dashing beau, I leave to you something that has little intrinsic value, although I value it more than all the jewels I have ever owned. It is my father's watch and chain and I hope that you will, Acton dear, wear it as he did, with grace and all the dignity and pride that is yours. You are, as the Irish say, a proud stepping man, Acton. Even if you are a scamp!

"It is now time, dear Stephen, for me to close. Know that you were always in my heart and in my thoughts. God was gracious to me in letting me have you in life but I shall still ask Him that when I take my leave of this world, I shall be thinking of you. Do not weep for me, Stephen. I did not die, I do not sleep. I am as alive as the brightness of the morning star and I will be with you always.

"Fight your fight, Stephen. Make me as proud of you as you have always done, for you, dear Stephen, are destined to bring something special to this world.

"Love from your old auntie,

"Margaret."

The Gunner did not heed his aunt's last words. He wept bitter tears of recrimination, trying to cry away his guilt. He wept and wept until he had no more tears to give.

Ace sat passively, not intruding on his newfound friend's grief. When The Gunner heaved a last, final gasp, and leaned back in his chair Ace handed him a clean linen handkerchief. "Feel better, now?" he asked.

"No! I should have come earlier. I should have been with her when she died."

"You were," insisted Ace. "You were always with her and she knew it. Be thankful that she died the way she did, in her sleep, without pain! Neither you, nor she, would have wanted her to die the way her doctors said she would."

"I knew she was ill, a terminal illness Uncle Edward wrote," said The Gunner absently.

"She had uterine cancer, which had metastasized. It was in her liver, in her lungs and it was only a matter of time before she would have been in such pain that no drug, not morphine, nothing, would have helped her. She knew it and she wanted to die with dignity, not in some poxy hospital, which was where she knew Edward would have warehoused her. She died with dignity."

"She was a grand lady, a wonderful person, and I shall miss her," said The Gunner heavily.

"Don't you dare start crying again," ordered Ace. "It's time to review the loot."

"Ace, really!"

"No, I promised your aunt that I would do this, so shut up and listen." He reached into the pile of jewellery and pulled out two pearl necklaces. "These are 18th century and are supposed to have belonged to Catherine the Great. One contains 46 pearls weighing in total 1,045 grams. The other, purported to be the property of Archduchess Sophia of Austria, contains 50 pearls weighing a total of 1,429 grams. They are all natural pearls."

He reached into the pile and pulled out what was obviously a tiara. "Your aunt wore this to the Regimental Ball. It is diamond bow knot tiara and is usually worn with pearl drops and pearl spikes. It can also be worn with emerald drops and spikes, which is what your aunt chose for the ball. She wore gold lace with a tartan sash - Mackenzie - the emerald necklace, matching earrings and a brooch to hold the sash in place. I wore Regimental Mess Kit, Davidson kilt, gold-laced red serge jacket and Cairngorms. I was quite dashing."

"I am sure you thought you were," retorted The Gunner. He held the tiara to the light. "This is really beautiful."

"It was made in Paris for the Grand Duchess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. She wore it for years and then gave it to the Empress Alexandra as wedding present. The Empress lent it to one of her ladies in waiting who, in light of the war and then the Reds, neglected to return it and managed to get it out of St. Petersburg."

"How do you know all this?" asked The Gunner.

"Because your aunt trusted me to help with the inventory," replied Ace. "And to make sure that it to all came to you and that her husband knew nothing about them."

"Somehow, knowing Edward, I would have thought that he had managed to weasel the very existence of these jewels out of some member of the family."

"You've heard of the old saying that familiarity breeds contempt?" asked Ace. When The Gunner arched his brow and nodded, Ace continued. "Margaret's family had no use for Edward and the more they knew him the less they liked him. Margaret's mother had the jewels, and she saw no reason to tell him about them. When she died she left the box to Margaret. Edward, sly fox that he is, thought that her family was on the uppers so he never really made any effort to find out what Margaret's mother had left her, which he thought was just the farm. Margaret's mother never let on what she had and, since these are not the kind of jewels one wears to the local Grange Christmas Party, they remained in the box, sight unseen."

"If I thought it would work, I'd tell Edward about the jewels," returned The Gunner. "With luck the old bastard would have a heart attack and peg out!"

"He's too mean, Steve. Besides, he'd look at the jewels as part of his wife's estate," said Ace. "He would try to claw them from you, sure as a bear shits in the woods. Now, be quiet and let's get on with the hunt."

The wealth that had poured from the large wooden box was truly mind-boggling. There was a diamond collet necklace (25 stones with a pear-shaped diamond drop, 161 carats), with matching earrings; there was a diamond brooch composed of a large, square-cut diamond (63 carats) with a pear-drop diamond (94 carats); there was a ruby necklace with matching brooch and bracelet; three diamond bow-shaped brooches and two small, flower-shaped brooches, one highlighting a yellow diamond, more pearls, an emerald and diamond bracelet, a parure of rubies and more diamonds and yet another of amethysts, with matching tiara, which converted into a necklace and which The Gunner thought rather ugly. There seemed to be no end to the bright baubles.

"Wherever did they come from?" asked The Gunner. "They are not the stuff that paupers wear!"

"No, they are not. They are the stuff that nobility, in particular Russian nobility, wear."

"These are Russian pieces, then?"

"No," replied Ace, shaking his head. "Mostly French, with a few Faberge pieces. The Russians loved their jewellery. Not only was it very nice to look at, it was an investment and a means of ready cash if they had to get out of town in a hurry. Which is what they had to do in 1918."

"The Russian Revolution. Is that what you were talking about when you said 'Thanks be to Lenin'?"

"Woodrow Wilson once said that those in power should enjoy it while it lasted because the mob was always ready to turn," replied Ace with a bob of his head. "The Bolsheviks were in power and busily hunting down anybody they perceived as enemies. Head of the list were the Romanovs, then the Czarist nobility, who took off running. Now, I grant you that the nobility might have been foolish, feckless and only interested in having a good time, but they were not stupid. The first things they grabbed were their jewellery cases. They fled south, east, and north."

"Germans to the south, the Japanese and British to the east in Vladivostock, the Americans, British and CANADIANS to the north, in Murmansk!" exclaimed The Gunner.

"You've been reading again, Steve," said Ace with a snickering grin. "Yes, the Canadians, and that is where the jewels came from. Margaret's grandfather was a Captain in the 21st Battalion, the Canadian Corps, which was a part of the British Army. The Brits were anxious to curb Bolshevism, and also to remove as much as they could of the war equipment they'd shipped to Russia. They formed what was called Syren Force, which included the remnants of the Canadian Corps, which had been decimated in the battles in France. Margaret's grandfather was in the right place, at the right time, and he had something everyone wanted: gold sovereigns.

"The Russian nobles that could crowded into Murmansk looking for passage out. They were desperate and would pay any price for a steamship ticket. They all had jewels and for a while diamonds were a glut on the market. Those who didn't have diamonds, well, they would do anything to gain safety. Countesses were offering themselves to anyone who would pay their way out. It was a very sad time, a desperate time."

"So, the good Captain took advantage of the situation."

"He did indeed. He brought home that box . . ." Ace gestured at the battered wooden crate. "It was his hedge against inflation, and the mob rising, as there was a very real Red Scare here in Canada and in the United States. He, and his family, kept the knowledge of that box in the family. It was given to Margaret, who has given it to you."

"To make her dreams come true," said The Gunner.

"No, Steve, to make your dreams come true," replied Ace. He squeezed The Gunner's hand tightly. "Your dreams, Steve. Your dreams."

"Well, I cannot say that I blame her too much," said Louis Arundel as he tossed aside Flo's letter. "It cannot have been easy for her."

MacReady, who was standing at the sink washing the supper dishes, sniffed audibly. Darren was in the drawing room watching television so Gabe and Louis could talk freely.

"Do you have something to add?" asked Louis sharply.

"I do," returned MacReady as he wiped his hands on the dishtowel. "I don't dispute that taking care of Darren was hard on her. No social life, always having to keep a sharp eye out in case he came a cropper. I can understand that, because I've had to put up with you since 1942!"

"MacReady has yet to learn that Coxswains should be seen, and not heard," Louis said to Gabe with a slight smile.

"If you don't want my opinion why then did you ask for it?" demanded MacReady.

"I didn't," returned Louis. "But since you've opened your gate, pray do continue."

Sitting at the table, MacReady glowered at Louis. "The woman had a hard time of it, and tending Darren was a chore. But, and this is what galls me, she also had a live-in nurse when he came home from the rehabilitation hospital, and a minder later on. You . . ." he pointed sternly at Louis. "You should know because you paid for it, as well as for her house and the allowance you settled on her. There are many who had less and never packed their bags and walked away."

"But she has," Louis pointed out. "And I doubt from the tone of her letter that she will be back."

"She won't be," snapped MacReady. "And neither will I if you two don't get out of my kitchen! I have to bake a cake, a chocolate cake. Darren is partial to chocolate."

"MacReady is going to spoil that boy rotten," prophesied Louis as he and Gabe hastily exited the kitchen.

"So will you, because we'll keep him here with us," replied Gabe.

"Of course," replied Louis with a smile. "Just as I spoiled you."

****** Gabe fell into bed, exhausted. Both Uncle Louis and MacReady had insisted that Darren keep to his normal routine. After dinner there had been television, a board game, and then, because it was what Darren liked, a bath before bed. Darren had been quiet most of the night and had not kicked up a fuss when Gabe told him that it was time for bed, although he had insisted that Gabe come in and scrub his back.

After seeing Darren into fresh underpants and pyjamas, Gabe joined Louis for a quick nightcap and then went off to his own bed. He showered and donned, as he always did, fresh underpants and pyjamas. As he was dressing for bed he had to laugh a little. Joe Hobbes had always given him the eye when they had shared a room. Joe did not know that Gabe felt safe, and secure in briefs and pyjamas. Gabe knew that it was silly, but it was the way he was. To him, if he kept his underwear on, and wore pyjamas, nobody could hurt him, he was safe behind cloth bastions.

Sometime during the night Gabe's sub-conscious told him that something very pleasant was happening to him. Stirring, Gabe smiled in his sleep. Gosh it felt good. His penis seemed engulfed in a warm, wet cavern that moved slowly on and off, stimulating the glans and about two inches of the shaft. Something was also slowly caressing his testicles, which jumped slightly with each gentle stroke. Gabe moaned and arched his body, and the cavern took in more of his hard, silky skinned penis. It took a while but Gabe, still deeply asleep, registered in a dark recess of his mind that he was being given a blowjob. An inexpert, clumsy blowjob to be sure, as from time to time he felt the scrape of teeth across the shaft, but a blowjob nevertheless. Climbing toward a minimal consciousness Gabe's brain told him that he was having a wet dream. Which of course, he was not.

Revelling in the pleasures that coursed through him, Gabe rolled his head and bit and realized that his head was resting closely to the sweet smelling crotch of a man. From time to time the head of the man's penis, spongy hard and leaking delicious honey-like nectar, bumped against his lips. In his dreamlike state Gabe fanaticised that it was Joe Hobbes. He had wanted to be with Joe, but he could not. It was far too soon for anything to happen between them. The memories of Brother Liam's rape were deeply imbedded, and still far too real for him to act on his dreams and fantasies. The dreams that had haunted him for nearly 17 years had prevented him from being with anyone, ever. He had retreated into a land of fantasy, a land that he discovered often, but only in his dreams.

As he always did, Gabe gave himself over to his dreams. He turned his head and took the penis into his mouth, sucking slowly, savouring every inch that he was able to swallow. He growled low, wondering how anything could taste so wonderful. The penis in his mouth jerked and throbbed and he thought he heard a high-pitched squeal of exquisite delight. Reaching up to stroke the shaft of the penis he was suckling, Gabe encountered testicles, two warm, oval eggs, contained in a smooth, tight sac.

Gabe was not so lost in his fantasy that he was not unaware of what was about to happen. Deep within his soul the great pleasure began, a small, barely perceptible feeling that suddenly blossomed, thundering outward. His back arched and suddenly time and place stood still. A low, long, growl of indescribable delight left his throat, surrounding the penis that still throbbed in his mouth. Without warning the penis seemed to swell and a great wave of warm, thick, sheer delight filled Gabe's mouth and throat. He swallowed avidly as the mouth on his own penis swallowed. While Gabe bucked and thrashed as his penis continued to discharge his seed, his throat eagerly accepted the small stream that continued to flow from the head of the penis in his mouth.

As quickly as it had begun, his orgasm ended and he pulled back his hips, forcing his penis from the still-sucking mouth. The head of his penis was too sensitive, the glorious feeling too, too wonderful to endure. He thought he heard another squeal and the penis in his mouth was quickly withdrawn. He felt a shuffling and the mattress stirring and then warm lips pressed against his. He tasted his seed for the first time; his seed intermingled with the seed of another man. Warm, strong arms embraced him and he felt a heavy presence next to him. A smooth, bare leg was draped over his pyjama-clad leg.

As he sank deeper into sleep, his fantasy realized, Gabe reached out and held the body next to him close. He sighed a deep, contented sigh, and he slept.

****** The Gunner thought that the day, and the night, would never end. Edward, in total charge, supervised as the undertaker's assistants placed the closed coffin on the bier prepared for it and arranged what seemed to be a hundred floral offerings around the coffin and the room. More arrangements filled the entry hall, the second drawing room, the library and the dining room where the caterers had set up a lavish buffet.

When the coffin was opened The Gunner saw that his aunt had been laid out in a mauve dress. Her hair was perfectly coifed. Around her neck was a string of pearls and on the ring finger of her left hand were a diamond ring and a simple gold band, her wedding rings. In her hands was a small, ivory bound prayer book.

The Gunner had been to more than one funeral in his life and had could never understand why people insisted on saying that the deceased looked so lifelike, as if they were sleeping. To The Gunner, they had always looked, well, dead. The Gunner thought that he understood why the dead were so honoured. The living, it was argued, needed closure, needed to see their loved one at peace. Up until now The Gunner had dismissed such arguments. The dead were already at peace, and what was on view was nothing more than an empty shell, for the important part, the essential part of every human being, was long away to a place of rest. The soul, the person, was at rest in a green field far away.

Yet somehow, as he gazed down at the face of the woman who had loved him so much, who had given so much in life, and much more than death, The Gunner felt comforted. His aunt did look at peace, did look as if she had merely lain down for a short nap. He bent down and kissed the cold, powdered cheek and began to weep, long, rasping sobs rent the quiet of the room. He wept for Margaret Winslow, he wept for Stephen Winslow. He wept for those he had loved and who had been taken from him. He wept until Acton Grimes led him gently away.

Edward Winslow was never one to stand on sentimentality. The Gunner had barely time to splash some cold water on his face before he was called to stand in the Receiving Line. The mourners were about to arrive and one had one's duty, after all.

The first to arrived was the Lieutenant Governor, a tall, heavy set, bespectacled man in Naval uniform (he was an Honourary Captain in the Navy), accompanied by his Naval and Army AdeCs. Margaret Winslow's best friend and partner in crime, Sophie Nicholson, followed him.

Sophie was dressed in a black silk moiré dress created by the House of Chanel, with matching coat and hat. Around her neck was a triple-strand necklace of what Ace assured The Gunner were real pearls. Pinned to the lapel of her coat was a flower-shaped brooch, a gift from Margaret, and on her arm was a strapping, blond haired beautiful young man, whom she introduced as the son of a dear friend who just happened to be in town "for the Season" and had agreed to be her escort. Ace raised his eyes to heaven and said, "Fuck!" under his breath. These were the dog days of August and there was no "Season". If Sophie heard him she pretended otherwise, and managed to give his behind a firm squeeze.

"Still the best caboose in town," she smiled sweetly as she swept in to pay her last respects to her friend.

More flowers arrived, and more guests, including a brace of elderly gentlemen wearing the distinctive doublet and kilt of the Toronto Irish Regiment, which had been disbanded by Hellyer. They had served with Margaret's father in the War, and had read the announcement in the morning papers.

The afternoon and evening passed in a daze of people, the rooms filled with the aromas of a thousand and more cut flowers. There were friends, people whom Margaret had helped and people from the charities she had supported, and those who came because it was expected of them. These were bankers and movers and shakers, business acquaintances who, while they had little use for Edward, respected his business acumen and had no great desire to offend the man who signed their loans. All murmured the practiced insincerities of mourning and then went off to partake of the funeral feast set out in the dining room.

Sophie, irrepressible as always, truly mourned her friend, but saw no reason not to be the person Margaret had loved. She stayed and stayed, deliberately cutting Edward, and managed to pass a beringed hand down the curving arc of The Gunner's firm buttocks. "The King is dead, long live the King," she said and her crystal laugh filled the entryway.

Finally, the night was over and Ace took The Gunner away, to a late supper in the dramatic, Edwardian elegance of the restaurant of the King Edward Hotel. They sat in the high-ceilinged room under the baroque splendour. Afterwards, they strolled along King Street for a while and then took a cab to Ace's apartment.

In the privacy of Ace's guest room bath, The Gunner showered and prepared for bed. He was about to slip under the crisp, clean sheets when there was a light tap on the door. The Gunner opened the door to find Ace, dressed in full Regimentals, smiling at him. Ace waggled his sporran at The Gunner as he said, "You can tell me to go away."

Laughing, The Gunner held out his hand. "I had hoped to find a Stud Muffin knocking at my chamber door," he said, his eyes gleaming. "But now, I rather think that I would dearly love to find out what a Kiltie really has under his Davidson tartan!"