Apollo looked with alarm at the wriggling dog in his arms.
The boy had worn his shirt to sleep in. He donned a pair of breeches and trotted over.
Apollo opened the outer door.
Outside, the morning had dawned sunny and glorious. He set Daffodil on the ground and she immediately squatted.
Indio was making his way around the back of the theater and Apollo followed him. The boy stopped at one of the few trees still living—a great gnarled oak—and began fumbling with the fall of his breeches.
He glanced up, grinning, as Apollo halted beside him. “I like to try an’ hit that knot.” He nodded at a knot in the tree, about three feet off the ground.
Apollo smirked back and unbuttoned his own breeches.
The two streams of urine hit the knot and steamed impressively against the morning cold of the tree trunk, Apollo’s lasting a bit longer than the boy’s.
“Cor!” Indio said as he shook off his little prick and began righting himself. “You’re dead good at that. Took me days to hit it the first time.”
Apollo tried not to let the compliment go to his head. Precision pissing was, after all, a sadly underrated skill among most of society.
“Indio!”
Miss Stump’s call echoed through the garden.
Indio’s eyes widened. “That’s my mama. She’ll be wanting us to come in for breakfast.”
Apollo followed the boy back around the theater to find Miss Stump standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over a wrap.
She raised a hand to her unbound hair when she caught sight of him. “Oh, Caliban. I didn’t know you were up yet. Good morning.”
He nodded, watching as she pushed her hair behind her ears. The sad female creatures of Bedlam had often had their hair down, but theirs had been dirty and tangled, the result of unsound minds no longer caring about their toilet.
Miss Stump’s unbound hair was an intimate sight—a sight such as a lover or husband might be privy to. It shone, waist-length, heavy, and straight, and he fought the urge to take it between his fingers to test its weight and feel the silky texture.
Perhaps some of his desire revealed itself on his face because she stepped back into the theater, glancing nervously at him from the corners of her eyes. “Have you washed, Indio?”
“Nooo.” Indio drew out the reluctant syllable.
Apollo tapped him on the shoulder and nodded at the water barrel. No doubt he could do with a bath as well.
Miss Stump disappeared for a moment and then returned with several cloths. The boy stripped off his shirt, shivering in the morning air, his arms wrapped over his skinny chest.
Apollo smiled and uncovered the water barrel to dip a cloth in. He handed it to the boy before wetting his own washcloth. Normally he’d simply have sluiced himself with the water dipper, but he had a feeling Miss Stump would not appreciate his undoing all her hard work in dressing his wound.
So instead he washed his face and neck briskly, then poured fresh water over the cloth and wiped his arms, underarms, and chest. He pivoted as he did so and saw that Miss Stump stood in the doorway to the theater, watching him.
He met her eyes and became conscious for the first time that he was half naked and performing a private act before her. Bedlam had stripped him of modesty. There the cells had never been entirely shut off, never entirely private. The most basic of human activities had, at times, been done before an audience of other inmates or uncaring guards. He might as well have been a horse in a stable—save that most horses were better treated than the patients at Bedlam.
But Miss Stump didn’t look at him as if he were an animal. She looked at him as a woman does a man she finds attractive.
Perhaps even arousing.
Her eyelids were half lowered, her cheeks flushed, and as he watched, her pink tongue ran slowly over her bottom lip.
He was aware suddenly of his nipples, pulled exquisitely tight on his chest, of his cock, pumping full of hot blood.
“Am I c-c-clean now, Mama?” Indio’s high voice chattered behind him.
“What?” Miss Stump blinked. “Oh! Erm, yes, quite clean, Indio. Come inside before you catch your death of cold.”