Part 2
I am so bored, Trowa Barton thought to himself. Actually, he'd been bored since his encounter with the young boy on the street. How old was he... ten? Twelve? The boy had been small, and quite skinny. His hair had been pale, hard to tell because of the layers of dirt. Possibly blond. Eyes blue, very pretty...
He smiled to himself, still amused. Unfortunately, one was not expected to smile in amusement during a Latin lesson.
"Something amuses you, Master Trowa?" his crusty tutor asked him. He blinked and sat up straighter.
"No sir," he said, and let his gaze fall over the list of words and their meanings.
"You may stop pretending to pay attention, Master Trowa. Your lessons are over for the day." Trowa withheld a whoop of joy and stood up, gathering his books. He bowed with dignity to his tutor and walked out of the classroom. He thought he heard his tutor sigh with relief.
He returned his books to his room, picked up his drawing folder and wandered out to the solar. He sat at the window, admiring the lush lawns.
Of course I'm bored. My 'father' is mad, my 'mother' is nonexistent and my tutor is one of the living dead. Trowa sighed. So dull...
It had all started about a year ago. Dekim Barton, a wealthy if not somewhat mad old man, had just lost his son, Trowa, to a series of indiscreet and rather unfortunate events. His daughter, Leia, had been disinherited because of her own indiscretion, a relation with an up-and-coming entrepreneur.
Dekim had been wandering the streets, somehow avoiding his numerous servants, when he'd stumbled upon a pair of street performers, juggling knives and balls for whatever they could attract to their hat.
Dekim had declared on the spot that the boy was his son Trowa, and the girl his cousin Catherine. He'd been so shocked that he'd never had time to object. Dekim had taken him in and set up a battery of tutors to bring him up to the level of high society. It turned out that Dekim was the uncle of the cousin of the prince of Wales. This didn't mean much to Trowa, but apparently it meant he was rich and influential.
Trowa opened his art folder and pulled out a charcoal pencil. He thought about the boy on the street and began to sketch. I think I'd like a friend. Catherine was sent half-way across London to be apprenticed to a dressmaker and I never see her. And De- Father is rather nice, even if he is nuttier than fluffernutter.
Trowa paused to look at his drawing. The boy looked remarkably like the boy on the street. He had longish-hair, with long bangs that covered his eyes. He was wearing ragged trousers that were roughly cut off between ankle and knee, and a shirt that was dirty and possessed several tears. He was barefoot and looked as shy as he'd looked when he apologized.
Trowa smiled at the drawing. "How would you like to be my friend?"
TBC...