Full Summary: A simple mission to retrieve his two adopted boys from a treacherous noble environment lands Arthur in the Braginsky Manor. It's a temporary stay, until he can convince Alfred and Matthew to return home, but certain circumstances will see that he stays longer than intended. With the manor's illustrious tailor - Francis Bonnefoy - offering him work as a full-time modeling assistant, Arthur will have to bide his time until he can finally leave.

Meanwhile, Alfred and Matthew will encounter their own endeavors, which consists of the manor's mysterious patriarch, and it's painfully sweet matriarch.

AN:I'm so sorry, but this was another case of an AU refusing to leave my mind. I became so enamored with it, I decided to start up yet another fic. The pace at which this is written may vary, considering I have a very busy schedule this summer, but nonetheless, I hope everyone enjoys it!

The main pairing is by far FrUK, but there will be instances of CanUkr and RusAme. The priority of pairings will be in that order.

Many days have been stricken from Arthur's mind in the last decade or so, but one still lies freshly at the forefront; a sore reminder of why the current situation was so grim, and why his heart was beating wildly away with anxious concern.

One doesn't forget the day they become a parent, and fourteen year old farmhand Arthur is no different. Parenthood should be unfathomable for young men his age, but at the time of this distant memory, he hadn't had much choice in the matter. It was certainly no option to turn away the two, little seven year-olds staring up at him with frightened, wide eyes, their bodies so tiny and fragile from malnourishment, that it literally brought him physical pain at the thought of leaving them alone.

No, the memory remains as crisp and fresh as the moment in which it took place in. Arthur hadn't spoken too much in their way, just simple questions of, "Are you lost?" and "Where are your parents?" The slow shakes of the boys' heads had stolen the breath out of his lungs, leaving him bereft of anything else to say after that. He'd gathered one against his hip, and the other with their small arms wound around his neck, and made that sweltering, humid trek back to the humble little shack he called home.

His brothers had not been happy, and honestly, Arthur couldn't fault them. One doesn't simply foster two young boys in one day, with no warning in advance. Arthur certainly didn't have the credentials to be doing so, and two more mouths to feed would certainly make an already tough existence even more miserable.

Still, he carved out a space for the two young boys, and they were no longer strangers, but rather, almost his sons; Alfred and Matthew, twins forsaken by their parents and the world, and more than Arthur had bargained for in many ways.

It seemed with their arrival, they had brought a slew of rain storms with them, and while Matthew would cower at night under the sheets, Alfred would stare wide-eyed at the sky, like he was watching the most wondrous thing unfold. Later, when his eyes would eventually droop closed, the rain and thunder would subside, and Arthur would awake to fields quenched of their thirst, and a bounty of food enough to feed the little ones. Not by much, but enough to keep them under his lineage.

It was as if God had taken a small mercy on him, and this would continue up until the day Arthur awoke to find the boys missing.

Except, they are no longer boys, but rather, lanky, almost fully grown adolescents. Regardless, Arthur flies into a panic, searching through a house with rampant alarm, and waking his brothers from their hay cots. He chokes out a string of garbled words, fanning flimsy, wooden doors and pacing around the shack. They merely watch him, peeking out of their room every so often with red-rimmed, sleep crusted eyes, occasionally offering a half-hearted attempt at condolence.

Arthur knows, however, that their words hold no real weight to them, and their awful attempts at appearing to be worried serve only to set him alight with anger as he turns his search towards the empty fields. Alfred and Matthew are, expectantly, nowhere to be seen, and it's only after an hour of relentless trips up and down the crop rows that Arthur finally gives up.

He retreats back to the shack, nearly collapsing in grief, his hands coming to cover his face as he sits there in guilt-ridden silence. Eventually, Arthur leans back against his seat, throwing his arm over his forehand, and his other to rest across the rickety wooden end table.

The sound of paper crinkling catches his attention, and he lifts his arm to reveal a wrinkled note resting underneath it. Arthur eyes it for a long moment, before scrambling to gather it up in his hands. The scrawl on the note is one that he could recognize anywhere - mostly due to its uneven, unrefined form.

It's Alfred's writing.

'Alright, step one is don't panic. You probably already did that, so here's step two: calm down.

Mattie and I are OK. We know what we're doing and we've been talking about this for a long time. The thing is, we're tired of making things harder on you, Artie. So we're gonna head off on our own and try to get some things rolling.

I know what you've gotta be thinking, but really, it's fine. We're heading off to Rus, where we've heard from a few crop-buyers is doing pretty well for itself. Don't know what we're gonna do when we get there, but we'll figure it out. Mattie's smart, and you know that as well as I do.

We appreciate everything you've done for us, Artie. But we're basically adults now, and there's really no reason we shouldn't be trying this. So don't freak out and go all protective parent mode on us. We'll be just fine. Take care of your big brothers, because Lord knows you're the only one with any common sense there.

Love, Alfred and Matthew

PS: I heard there's some major magic business in the city. I've never seen that stuff before, so I'm super excited to get the chance. I'll try to write back to you soon. I think they've got couriers leaving in and out of there everyday.'

Arthur barely allows himself enough patience to finish reading the note, before he's crumbling it up and tossing it across the room. It bounces off the wooden paneling, landing on the dirt-encrusted floor with barely more than a muted thud. Then, he's wrenching himself from his seat, storming into his once-shared room with Alfred and Matthew, and gathering a meager amount of amiable clothing.

His racket must gather the attention of one of his brothers, because soon Allistor is peaking around his door frame, fixing him with a fuzzy, red-rimmed look, "What's all the fuss for?"

"The boys have run off," Arthur grits out, shoving a handful of clothing into a worn knapsack. "to a capital too big and complex for their tame, little minds." He ties the opening of the knapsack closed, and slings the pitifully light bag over his shoulder. "I'm going to fetch them before they accidentally sell themselves off to a magister or something. Expect me back by tomorrow night."

Allistor cracks a smirk at him, his arms coming to cross as he regards Arthur with amusement, "They're not quite 'boys' anymore, you know. Hell, they've almost outgrown you."

Arthur shoves past him, disregarding his words entirely, "They're not conditioned for the thorny, social environment of a place like Rus. They'll be eaten alive within a matter of hours."

"And how do you know any better?" Allistor shoots him an accusatory glare, a familiar air of contempt passing over him.

It makes Arthur's skin crawl with annoyance, "Maybe because I actually took an interest in our mother's teachings, before she passed away." Arthur stands at the entrance to their shabby home, the rising sun cresting over his shoulders and casting his shadow towards his brother. "It might do you some good to read a book sometime, instead of the label on a drink, Allistor."

He leaves him with those words, and receives none in return as he closes the door behind himself. If Allistor had any objections to Arthur leaving, he doesn't seem to be willing to fight for them. Good, Arthur thinks, because his soured mood didn't leave much room for a levelheaded discussion this foul morning.

Arthur has not personally traveled the wooded roads leading to Rus, but there is an abundance of signs pointing the way towards the bustling city.

As the hours tick by, and the sun passes slowly over the sky, Arthur finds the air cooling to a chilly degree, and suddenly the sun is no longer able to be seen, hidden sneakily behind billowing, grey clouds that seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere.

The dirt road eventually parts off into a neatly cobbled one, and Arthur passes by a stray, roadside inn, and the occasional parked carriage. Travelers, no doubt, seeing as how the carriages were nothing out of the ordinary. He doubted nobles would be passing along this road without ample protection, anyway.

Another hour in, and the first few flakes of snow begin to pelt Arthur's face. He peers up at the darkening sky, taking note that the change in weather climate is too drastic to be normal. He muses that it must be the doing of a set of magisters nearby. It was only early autumn, after all. Much too soon for a normal snowfall back home.

Manipulating the weather was not an unknown practice of those gifted with magic, and even if Arthur himself lacked those very talents, he had heard plenty about it from his late mother, and the occasional traveller passing by. Still, it wasn't something to addle his mind with, so he merely pulls up the hood on his cloak and continues the chilly trek along the road.

Soon, city walls emerge over the tops of the snow-blanketed pine trees, and the glinting shine of a guard's dull, metallic armor catches Arthur's eyes. He prays that this city doesn't have a strict checkpoint, but then decided that if that were true, he perhaps would have found Alfred and Matthew further back along the road.

As he approaches, there is a small crowd of citizens passing under the large gate. Arthur pays close attention, listens for any indication of a closed premise, but finds none. When a guard levels him with an unknown look through his closed helmet, Arthur stiffens visibly, waiting for him to speak first.

He stamps a plated foot against the cobblestone, his voice coming out gruff and authoritative, "Citizen, traveler, or courier?"

"Traveler," Arthur murmurs quietly, and clears his throat before repeating just a bit louder, "Traveler, sir."

The guard cants his head, seeming to observe him closely for a few moments. A plated hand reaches forward, feeling along the perimeter of Arthur's knapsack, before retreating back to the guard's side. He nods at Arthur, seeming satisfied with whatever he didn't find. "No trouble inside the city limits, traveler." He waves Arthur forward.

A long breath gusts pasts Arthur's chapped lips, held in a moment of pure apprehension as the guard hovered over him. He nods slowly, and proceeds forward, emerging into a bustling square of humanity as he does.

Shops decorated with hanging, colorful lights brighten a snow-dusted street. Lamps of ethereal, violet fire float above their braziers, the embers cascading off of them catching Arthur's eyes in bewilderment. He catches sight of a heavily robed woman walking down the line of waning braziers, her hand casting a flicking motion before the dying fires burst back to life again.

Only a few moments in, and he can already see how dominant magic must be in this city.

Still, as much as a smaller part of Arthur would love to to wander around aimlessly, letting himself get lost in an art that he's never personally seen before, he knows that the time separating him from the boys is more important. Every second widens the gap between him and Alfred and Matthew, and the longer he waddles around, the further off they could be.

He begins walking rapidly, his head turning every which way.

The cloak of his hood remains over his head, giving him a bit of anonymity. But there's no denying that he must stick out like a sore thumb, what with his painfully plain and heavily worn clothing, and sagging knapsack that holds no more than a pound or two of items. The men and women around him boast colorful, well-tailored outfits, with cloaks made of silk and velvet, and embroidered with the most beautiful, glinting thread he's ever seen. Arthur could only dream of wearing such frivolous, high-class clothing, and a corner of his heart burns with jealousy at the prospect.

The city streets seem to crawl on forever, only offering more and more strangers to Arthur, and a growing sense of concern pooling in his empty stomach. Suddenly, his brash exit this morning seems more and more ill-thought in hindsight, considering he didn't pack the first scrap of food, or the first piece of coin on his being… not that his savings had much to offer.

His stomach rumbles, and the beginnings of a headache have him squinting through the cold winds. The idea of having to spend a night out on these freezing streets paints a deep frown on his face. He thinks of Alfred and Matthew, shivering in the cold of the unforgiving night, huddled together with not the first copper piece to their name - not that copper could probably afford much here - and his expression quickly morphs into one of distress.

"Stupid, stupid boys… utter children, I swear. Not the slightest idea of the trouble they've gotten into…" There's no true hostility to Arthur's voice, just a small attempt at consoling his quickening heartbeat.

He gathers his cloak against himself, trying to close out the intensifying wind and snow flurries. Eventually, he has to squint his eyes to keep the cold from drying them out and making them burn. An hour passes, with no foreseeable trail of his boys, and no indicator of where they may have gone. Arthur finds himself becoming more and more fatigued, a dull sort of hopelessness settling into his bones as the streets begin to thin out.

He stumbles into a fairly empty opening near a fenced-in establishment, an assortment of wire-frame, ivory benches lining what appears to be the perimeter of a garden. Arthur collapses onto one of the benches, the chill of the metal biting through his thin cloak at his legs. Like the morning earlier, he covers his face with his hands, his cloak falling back to reveal tousled, blond hair. "This is utterly hopeless."

"-ey, c'mon! Gardening is totally my thing! It's like… in my blood, or my lineage or whatever. Ain't that right, Matt?"

Arthur's head shoots up.

"He's not lying."

He tears himself away from the bench, ears straining to discern where the voices were coming from.

"Yeah! And Mattie here? One of the smartest guys ever. Seriously, no one catches onto stuff like he does. You can show the guy anything, and he'll figure it out in no time."

There's another, deeper voice that Arthur doesn't recognize. The tone of it suggests exasperation. "You do realize that you can't just waltz up to someone, demanding a job? No less one at this manor of all places-"

"We're not demanding though! We're begging! C'mon, man. We need this work, and all the other places around here have said no, and this was the last place we thought to try. Don't make me beg, because I will. I'll get down on my knees and do it, I swear."

The stranger sighs, "Please don't do tha-"

" Too late ! I'm doing it!"

Arthur rounds the corner to find Alfred kneeling on the ground, head pressed to the tips of what seems to be a guard's boots. Said guard is pinching the bridge of his nose, helmetless like his fellow peers, and sporting armor that glints a bright gold rather than the dull bronze Arthur had been seeing. His pauldrons sport accents unlike the others, carved feathers and symbols decorating the plate like a complex mosaic.

And then there was Matthew, peering down at Alfred with an equal amount of embarrassment plastered to his face.

Arthur makes it a point to stomp as loudly as he can, his echoing footsteps catching not only the guard's, but Alfred's attention as well. One, blue eye opens to catch Arthur's stomping form advancing forward, and widens in apparent alarm.

"Oh, shit."

The guard glances down at Alfred, and his mouth opens to speak, perhaps ask a question, but then Arthur is bellowing over him, "Alfred! Matthew!" Matthew turns at the noise, the color seemingly draining from his face as he purses his lips, hands coming up in a motion of immediate surrender. "Why, the nerve of you two! All my days, I cannot believe you two would do something so hare-brained! Do you not understand the amount of trouble you could have flung yourself into? We'll, don't just stand there and gawk, answer me!"

The guard steps away from Alfred, freeing his boots of the other's face, his arms coming to cross as he observed Arthur with calculative, bright blue eyes. "Your father, I presume?"

"Sort of." Alfred mumbles halfheartedly, pushing himself to his knees, and then his feet. He mimics Matthew's stance, hands held out to stop Arthur before he tries to drag them away. "Artie, calm down. That was step two, buddy. Did you forget already?"

"Oh, don't you dare try to joke with me. Leaving without any forewarning, taking such a huge, dangerous risk! I'm appalled! Furthermore, I won't hear the first bit of it from you. We're going home. Now ." Arthur jerks his thumb behind himself, eyes narrowed into furious slits.

Matthew seems to sigh in resignation, but Alfred mirrors Arthur's glare, his hand shooting out to keep Matthew from moving forward. "See, here's the thing, Artie. Last time I checked, Matt and I were adults. So you know what that means, right? We get to do adult things, and one of the first adult things I'm gonna do is get a job from this guy. Right, buddy?" Alfred directs his eyes to the guard. He seems to be just as equally indisposed as before.

"Again, I don't think you-"

"Oh, no you won't. Besides, where would you even stay out here, Alfred? Did you not take into consideration that perhaps money and shelter may be factors in this? You and Matthew will freeze to death! Come home, now." Arthur spares Matthew a softer glance, though hesitation seems to have formed upon his face.

Alfred's rebelliousness was always infectious.

"You know what? I'm just gonna say it. No. N-O. I've already made up my mind, and I'm sticking to it, and not you, or this guard," Said guard holds up his hand, as if in objection, "or anyone is going to convince me other-"

"Ludwig? What is all that yelling outside?

All four heads turn to the closed off gate, where the light, feminine voice had emanated from. The guard - Ludwig, presumably - rubs at his temple, "Nothing, Lady Katyusha. Just some travelers passing through."

"Oh?"

The sound of the gate creaking open breaks the growing monotony of the emptying streets. A delicate, pale hand creeps around, pulling the gate open to reveal a tall, full-figured woman sporting light, silvery hair. On her form lie flowing garments, all white and blue in color, and various pieces of pearl and ivory jewelry wrapped around her wrists and neck. Deep, blue eyes framed by white lashes gazed upon the three strangers with open curiosity. Then, her lips spread into an welcoming smile.

"Travelers? Of what sort? Tourists, perhaps?"

Ludwig glances nervously behind himself, drawing in a stalling breath before answering, "Not quite. I'm afraid-"

"Hey lady! You own this place? You look like you do. Anyway, I need a job really bad, and so does my brother here, and we were just in the middle of negotiating some stuff with your guy here," Alfred nudges Ludwig, as if they were the most casual of friends, "but we can't come to an agreement. So how about it? That job, I mean. I noticed you had a really mean looking garden, and I kind of specialize in that sort of field. Right, Matt?"

There's no immediate reply, and Alfred turns to find his brother staring ahead, his lips parted on air. He nudges Matthew, earning a surprised jump out of him.

"Oh… right. Right. Alfred is… good at that sort of thing. Really. Good." Matthew swallows visibly, and averts his eyes elsewhere.

"See? Certifiable evidence! So what do you say, Lady? I promise it'll be the best decision you've ever made in your life." Alfred clasps his hands together, like a businessman closing in on a deal well made.

Ludwig shakes his head, as if the notion is unfathomable. He turns to the woman - Katyusha - and breathes out an apology, "Lady Katyusha, I am terribly sorry for this disturbance. I'll escort them off the premise immediately."

"As you should. Alfred, Matthew, I hope the two of you have learned a valuable lesson from this mess-" Arthur goes abruptly quiet as Kayusha's voice cuts him off.

She holds her hand up, calling for silence. "Tell me, strangers, what your situation is? It must be dire, for you to have ever approached us like this."

Alfred's smile seems to brighten at that, and his mouth opens to answer her, but only the first word makes its way out before Matthew is speaking over him, "It is. Alfred and I, we come from a very humble farm. For years, our caretaker, Arthur-" He motions to the cloaked man whose expression seems to be growing more and more perturbed by the second, "took care of us. But with an already tough living, I'm sure you can imagine how much harder it must have gotten. We felt so guilty, that we took it upon ourselves to leave and try to make it on our own. So that brings us to the current moment, you see." Matthew turns his eyes to Alfred, his smile turning tender. "Alfred is eccentric, but he's one of the hardest workers I've ever seen. He'll do anything you need. So please, even if you can only take one of us, take him. I'll go back home with Arthur."

"Matt, no, c'mon… we were gonna do this as a team, and that's the way it's gotta be." Alfred seems to deflate, his shoulders slumping and expression turning crestfallen. Arthur looks on with unwavering disappointment, waiting for the moment when the boys will undoubtedly be turned down.

Except, that moment doesn't come. Instead, Katyusha spares Matthew a sympathetic look, her already soft features somehow conveying a look even more comforting than before. "I see… that is a grim set of circumstances. And the two of you seem so determined. What a waste it would be to turn away such eager, young men."

Ludwig's expression turns baffled, as does Arthur's, and he takes a cautionary step towards Katyusha. "Lady Katyusha, do you really think it would be wise to do this? Your brother might object to-"

"My brother can answer to me. We are equals, he and I, and I have as much right to make my own decisions as he does." Katyusha turns back towards the gate, sparing only a momentary glance over a poff of clothing covering her shoulder. "Ludwig, escort our new employees to their temporary quarters. I will pass off this information to Ivan. Tomorrow, I will speak with our new friends again."

As Katyusha disappears into the confines of the garden once more, Alfred's mouth spreads into a large grin, and he wastes no time with hugging Matthew from behind and nearly hoisting him off his feet. "Man, that was awesome! Matt, you got such a way with words. Or maybe just girls, but whatever it is, I can't believe that actually worked!" He turns toward Arthur, whose lips have turned down into an intense scowl. "See Artie? Told you so! Everything is A-OK now and you can go home, because Matt and I are gonna be just fine."

"I am not leaving, unless it's with you boys in tow. I don't give a single damn if by some far-fetched chance, you happened to secure a job. The environment of this place wasn't meant for you boys, and it'll only be a matter of time before someone takes advantage of that! I refuse to leave." Arthur plants his foot sternly on the cobbled walkway, eyes flitting from Alfred to Matthew.

Ludwig pays no mind to the tirade, instead choosing to clasp both Alfred and Matthew by their shoulders, "We should head inside then, if you're ready. I can't waste much more time out here as it is."

Alfred turns away from Arthur, more than pleased and willing to ignore everything he just said, "Now you're speaking my language. C'mon, Matt. Let's check out what kind've place this is."

The guard nudges Alfred towards the well-lit manor, and Matthew makes a motion to follow, though a moment of hesitation has him sparing Arthur a look of condolence. Arthur fixes him with a hard-eyed stare, and the callousness of it has Matthew turning away quickly and following Alfred through the gate.

Ludwig allows the twins to proceed before him, holding the gate open as Alfred's excited voice begins to drift off. His bright, unreadable eyes find Arthur, still standing defiantly in the increasingly cold streets, the snow already starting to accumulate in small patches over his cloak. His thin brows would furrow, perhaps in consideration, before a thumb would be pointed towards the gate.

"What are you getting on at?" Arthur's voice would be guarded, skeptical of what Ludwig had to say.

"Come inside. It's much too cold to be spending a night on the street."

"You're kidding," Arthur breathes out a hollow laugh, almost mocking in tone. "I refuse to freeload off of nobles."

"Then come inside, and find a purpose here. Your boys seem to have done as much, so you should be able to as well." Ludwig's gaze turns critical, hard. Suddenly he's less of an unfortunate guard, and more of the authority figure he's supposed to be. It has Arthur's throat turning dry.

"I don't expect to stay longer than a night."

Ludwig nods, and holds the gate open for Arthur to pass through, "Your decision, and not mine."

Alfred and Matthew are gone by the time Arthur has settled inside, and with how the hallways go on and on and wind mercilessly around each other, he doesn't make an attempt to find either of them.

Ludwig leaves him resting on a chaise lounge, ordering for him to stay put until someone can deal with him accordingly. Arthur let's his knapsack slide off his back, resting the barely filled bag against the side of his leg as he sits and takes in his surroundings.

The manor in which he's in is lavishly decorated, with silver, white, and blue seeming to dominate most of the colors he sees. Crystal chandeliers and faux roses line the ceilings and walls, with blue-flamed lamps burning dimly every few feet or so.

Heavy, velvet curtains frame arching windows, their glass panels sporting intricate wooden frames and designs. The floor beneath his feet is blindingly white marble, and the small specks of dirt and slush he leaves underneath his shoes makes him feel like an unwanted pest invading this place.

The occasional servant passes by him, sparing him looks ranging from curiosity, to bewilderment, and even the occasional upturned stare of contempt. Arthur is certain to glare extra hard at the latter.

Time drags on mercilessly, the steady tick-tock of a nearby clock permeating Arthur's mind. He's taken to tapping his foot against the marble to the steady tune, half out of boredom and half out of nervousness. He begins to feel more and more alienated as the minutes tick by, feeling like a large puzzle piece trying to fit into the smallest of slots. There's a moment where he considers pulling his hood over his face, but then whoever was coming for him might not recognize who they were looking for.

It's a late hour by the time someone does come, and Arthur has taken to leaning against the cushioned side of his seat, half dozed off and arms crossed protectively over his abdomen. The soft, lilting voice has to speak twice before he's cracking his eyes open, bleary from fatigue and short-lived sleep.

He rubs at his eyes, stifling a yawn out of politeness, and peers up past his hand to spot a well-dressed man standing over him, sporting a slightly confused expression on his delicate face. Arthur has to do a double-take when he sees him, however, because he was not expecting someone so handsome to be sent for him.

The man standing over him resembles the lavish dress of Katyusha, though his clothing is more male oriented and darker in color. White-gloved hands are clasped together, their wrists disappearing underneath highly detailed cuffs. As Arthur's eyes trail up, they meet the face of a man with shimmering blue eyes, and light blonde hair pulled back into almost a side pony-tail, though many strands lie free from the white bow that tries to hold them. A meager dusting of facial hair lines his face, though it's bright blonde color might give the indication that he was clean-shaven at a distance.

Arthur says nothing, only waits in what seems to be partially stunned silence before the man speaks again. "Arthur, I presume?"

Still no words, but he manages to nod.

"Oh, good. I was beginning to think I had found the wrong person." The man laughs almost nervously, though it feels more forced than anything. "Ludwig sent me to find you. I am Francis Bonnefoy. I am supposed to be showing you to a room." Francis holds out his hand, to which Arthur merely stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time, before realizing that he wants a handshake.

He offers his own hand in return, feeling almost like a grimy stain for letting himself touch someone so refined and beautiful. "Arthur Kirkland. I…" He contemplates what to say, doubting that Francis had any inclination towards him besides what he looked like and his name. "I had a pair of rowdy boys show up here demanding work. I plan on staying until tomorrow, and then returning home with them."

Francis spares him an amused smile, "Sounds like quite the thorny situation, though from what I gathered from Ludwig, they seem to have found a spot here inside the Braginsky manor."

"They're children, they haven't the slightest idea of what they're doing," Arthur grumbles, allowing his hand to fall away from Francis'. "So that's the owner of this estate? Katyusha and her brother?"

"And their little sister, but shhh, don't speak her name aloud." Francis glances down both ends of the hallway, before allowing himself to laugh. "I am kidding, of course. The three siblings get along perfectly, though Natalia is prone to foul moods. Just stay clear of her path, and you will make it just fine."

"Well," Arthur begins, trying to envision what the other two siblings looked like, "Like I said, I don't plan on staying past tomorrow."

Francis shrugs at him, though there's a coy motion about it. "We will see. You may find that the weather here can shift unpredictably, so only time will tell if that remains true. But regardless of all that, let me show you to your quarters for the night." A hand is offered once again, though this time as assistance.

Arthur eyes it for a moment, before disregarding it entirely and standing on his own. He hears a light whisper of a sigh from Francis. "Quickly then. I'm exhausted."

Francis leads him down a few winding hallways, and up a winding spiral staircase to the second floor. Here, there are more servants roaming about, and it's clear that this is where the manor's employees must reside. Still, the second floor is no less opulent than the first, and even sports a grand view of the garden below. Arthur studies it as they pass by, noting that only snow-lilies and the occasional white rose seems to be blooming.

"A bare garden for such frivolous nobles." He comments dryly.

"You must understand that the weather conditions only permit certain flowers to grow. If it were possible, Lord Ivan and especially the two Ladies would want more." Arthur spies Francis peering down at the garden as well.

"Then why is it that I hear constantly from strangers that this place is purposely converted into a permanent winter biome? If his 'Lordship' wanted more flowers, you'd think he'd use his brain when it came to the type of weather he needed." Arthur also doesn't miss the concerned look that passes over his face at the mention of 'Ivan' in such a careless manner.

"It is more complicated than than that, Arthur. You must think that we employ magisters to keep this city blanketed in snow. I assure you that we do not."

Arthur pauses in the hallway, causing Francis to come to a standstill as well. "Then what is the reason for all of this cold nonsense?"

"Lord Ivan cannot make the snowfall cease. In fact, as long as his heart beats, it will never stop, and anyone carrying his family's bloodline will carry with them snow wherever they may roam." Francis gazes out the window, up into the dark sky that seems to be spitting out an endless amount of flurries. "Seems more like a curse than a blessing of magic, hm?"

"A major inconvenience. He should consider himself lucky that he was born into luxury like this. I imagine if our positions were reversed, he would starve to death before too long." The more Francis speaks of the manor's patriarch, the more Arthur finds himself becoming annoyed with the prospect of perhaps meeting him.

"You may think that, but he would kill with his bare hands before he let himself starve to death, let alone his sisters. It might do you well not to undersell him. I say this from a point of concern on your behalf."

"Hmph." Arthur doesn't comment on the matter past that.

Instead, the two resume their walk around the servant's quarters, with Francis picking up the lead. Arthur watches as his coattails bounce with each step, their length nearly brushing the bottom on the floor. His eyes study the expert threadwork on them, and he occasionally glances at the pitiful clothing he's wearing in comparison.

He shouldn't feel bad, he thinks. He won't be here long enough for it to matter, anyway.

"What do you do around here?" He finds himself asking instead.

Francis turns to face him, though he doesn't stop walking. Instead, he walks backwards as he answers Arthur, "I am a tailor to the Braginskys. You see this," Francis smooths his hands down the silken vest he wears, pointing to the trousers he's donning along with the various accents lining them. "I made this, along with numerous other items for the siblings. I occasionally take orders outside of the manor as well, though most of my work stays inside this estate. A pity, that is. But the Lord and Ladies do pay handsomely for it." Francis shoots Arthur a wink.

"How exciting."

"Oh?" Francis levels him with a complacent stare. "I assure you, the quality of my work supersedes what you are most likely used to. Tell me, Arthur, do you know anything of spellthread?"

Ashamedly, he does not. "Never heard of it."

"Exactly! That is because most people would rather channel their magic into other mediums. But moi ? I see its practicality in other uses. For example, wouldn't it be lovely if your clothes stayed cool or warm no matter what the conditions were like? One could, perhaps, weave a bit of ice magic into their thread, and produce the most wonderfully cool vestments this side of the city."

"You do that?" Arthur asks, unable to keep the wonder out of his tone.

"I do that." Francis smiles at him, and then he's turning and letting loose a sound of acknowledgement. "Ah, here we go." His hand fishes into a pocket on his trousers, and he procures a brass key from it. "Your new quarters, Arthur." He hands the key over, and Arthur takes it carefully, noting that the key is much fancier than any he's ever seen before.

"Right then. Well. Thank you for the escort."

"Of course, but, ahh… Arthur, if I may ask, what do you plan on doing here? In the event that you can't convince your charges to leave with you?" There's something thoughtful in Francis' voice, to which Arthur isn't sure of what.

"Firstly, they will leave with me. Secondly, I haven't the slightest idea, nor do I care, because it won't matter tomorrow." Arthur rolls the key around in his hand, anticipating the moment when he'll be able to collapse into a warm bed.

"Right." Francis begins, but his tone suggests heavy doubt. "Well, in the case that you were to stay here for an extended amount of time, you would need work. And it just so happens that I am looking for a full-time assistant. You see, many of the servants here are already working full-time jobs."

"Ignoring the fact that I won't be around to take that offer, I don't know the slightest bloody thing about making clothing to begin with." It was true. Most of his clothing was hand-me-downs from his older brothers, or purchased cheaply from travelling merchants.

Francis shakes his head, "Oh no, no experience needed. I merely need a model with which to fit my clothing to. While it is true that I have mannequins, they don't really offer much in regards to criticism, you see. One of my biggest issues with spellthread is getting the temperature just right, and having a live model would do wonders for me."

"Excuse me, what?" Arthur can help but shoot a flabbergasted look at him. "You want me to model for you while you literally sew clothes around me?"

"What? Oh, no. No, the mannequins will still do just fine. All I would need from you is some patience and cooperation while I fit you with them. I might make some alterations here and there, but mostly, I just need your opinion on how they feel." Francis crosses his arms behind his back, leaning forward ever so slightly, as if he could barely contain his enthusiasm at the idea. "So, what do you say, Arthur?"

Arthur draws back, feeling widely uncomfortable with such a pretty face looming so close. Not that Francis' presence is off-putting, just more so that Arthur feels unworthy to be so near to him. "The situation remains the same, so I don't see how it matters."

"Just in case?" Francis pouts, actually pouts at him, and Arthur has to resist the urge to scowl and shove him away.

"Fine. Fine! Whatever you want to hear. Just… I think I'm ready to turn in for the night."

Finally, mercifully, Francis leans back, giving Arthur a wide berth of personal space again. "I can take a hint. But, remember our agreement." Francis steps back, giving a small, courteous bow to Arthur as he does. "Goodnight, Arthur. I hope these awful winds won't keep you up too late."

"I don't imagine they will." He receives a parting wink before Francis turns to walk away, Arthur tries not to let the subtle shaking of his hands become too noticeable as he unlocks the door to his spare room.

When the door does swing open, it's nearly too dark to make out anything in the room, windowless due to its position in the hallway and lacking any lit lamps. But as Arthur takes a step inside, a violet flame comes to life in one of the sconces, lighting his way to his bed and illuminating a good portion of the room. He glances about himself, taking in all the lavish decorations and accents lining the walls, amazed that even the servant's quarters could be so well kept.

His bed is a four-poster canopy, sporting blue silken curtains hanging from the top and draping over the bed's sides. Arthur slowly walks forward, letting his bag slide off of his arm in lieu of dragging his hand across the bed sheets. They're soft, softer than a hay-filled cot, that's for sure. The scent coming from the sheets is like a hundred gardens rolled into one, and Arthur breathes it all in deep ly, eyes coming to close as the smallest of content smiles graces his face.

He allows himself to fall forward onto the bed, not even bothering to shuck off his cloak or underclothes, because suddenly he is exhausted, and this bed is like a siren's song, beckoning him to come lie with it. The light emanating from the sconce seems to dim somewhat, turning most of the room's features into large, imposing shadows against the wall.

Distantly, through a mind addled with weariness, he can hear the sound of strong winds battering against the manor, casting ominous whispers through the hallways and the cracks in the doors. Arthur thinks that that must be what Francis was speaking of, though he honestly doesn't find it that bad of a noise. It was much better than the stifling silence and heat of a late summer night.

For a few moments, he wonders about tomorrow, and how he can possibly convince Alfred and Matthew to give up this ridiculous farce that they're so dedicated to. He can't conjure up any intelligent plans or conversations at the moment, so he deigns it a cause for tomorrow morning, and allows his eyes to shut completely.

He sleeps like a rock, undisturbed and buried in a mountain of fluffy sheets.