Chapter Text
“Your name is Carlo.”
P blinked. The old man who stared up at him, knelt at his feet, had kind eyes and a gentle smile. He spoke delicately with words full of affection.
“And you are my son.” He said.
Warmth ran gently through P’s body, he felt cogwheels whirling to life and the steady beat of a drum inside his chest. He placed his hand over his breast and the drumbeat ran through his hand as well.
“Carlo.” P said the name, tried how it sounded from his own lips. It was odd.
The old man smiled and stood up. “Yes, my son.” He said and extended his hand.
P looked it over for a moment. Light skin, wrinkles from age and calluses from work, but the gesture did nothing but portray warmth to him. He extended his own and placed it inside the man’s palm. He was pulled to his feet.
“From now on when I call for Carlo, I’m calling for you. Remember that.”
P smiled at that. The warmth continued to circulate through his body. He liked that, liked having a name given to him by this man, this father of his. He was no longer just ‘P’, he was Carlo- Geppetto’s son, Carlo.
It was always a pleasant feeling to be called by his name, by one he loved.
Even when the days, the weeks, the months rolled on, P found that he never felt any dislike to having his father call his name. And he was always gentle when he called it. And P was obedient, like any good son should be.
When his father took him to events, or whenever they hosted their own, the nobles would flock to the child of Geppetto to see how handsome he was. They called him dashing, a beautiful boy, and every compliment made him beam. It was not just a compliment to P but to his father. He was his father’s perfect son.
Of course they were not all like that. Some looked at him with disdain, perhaps with envy. They were jealous of him or wary of him- P did not know why and he would not ask father either. If his father had not told him beforehand, it was not something he needed to know.
He played his role of Carlo diligently and his father held him in high esteem. It was a blissful sort of existence. Until something changed, one dark day.
There was a soiree to be held by Geppetto’s good friend and talented patron of the arts Antonia Cerasani. She was a good woman with good morals, or that was what P had gathered from how others spoke of her. He’d never met her in person though he often received letters from her.
She would write constantly how she wished to see him, she wished to see the boy who was like a son to her once more, but Geppetto always had reasons to decline. This party as well, Carlo was not to be attending.
It puzzled P enough to do what he would never usually do- to question why.
Geppetto looked over at him from his position in front of a golden floor length mirror. He was straightening his bowtie and flattening out his fancy black suit.
“Why can’t you come?” Geppetto repeated the words P had asked of him.
P did not think it an unreasonable question. He was always by father’s side when they ventured out to events. There was barely a party Geppetto would attend without his darling son at his side. So P thought he would be easily forgiven for asking why this one he could not venture to.
P nodded his head, delicate curls bobbing. “I write to Lady Antonia often. She is fond of me. I would like to meet her.”
Geppetto looked back to the mirror and cleared his throat. “Don’t dwell on it, son. This is simply not an event for children.”
That was odd. P was 16 already, father told him so. Although technically a child, he had attended many other events that were ‘adult only’. He cocked his head and continued to watch Geppetto, how the man’s fingers trembled with each waistcoat button he fastened.
“Allow me?” P stepped forward and motioned to his father.
The man turned with a nod. “Thank you, Carlo.”
P fastened the buttons with practised ease, his fingers moving delicately to loop each button through the hole. He pulled gently to straighten out the waistcoat and looked up to his father with a smile.
“Father, are you certain I cannot attend? Perhaps just for a moment to meet-“
“That’s enough.” Geppetto spoke sternly and P silenced his words. His father did not speak harshly to him without reason but the reason was lost to P.
He took a step back and bowed his head in a silent apology.
Geppetto sighed and moved away towards the door. “I will return late. Go to bed on time, alright Carlo?”
“Yes, father.” P nodded his head and the door slammed shut on him. He was left standing in his father’s study. The silence was overwhelming.
He watched through the window as his father’s carriage drove along the long path, past beautifully cut bushes and eventually left the estate. The maids were beginning to light lamps around the property as the sky darkened and night set in.
P returned to his room with a sour expression. He did not think his request had been terribly unreasonable but father was clearly angry with him. It left a painful ache in his chest and yet a part of him, just a tiny part, was strangely gleeful at the defiance. It was uncomfortably odd and P tried his best to push aside such an awful feeling.
As instructed, like the well behaved son he was, P went to bed on time that night.
A few days later a letter arrived, addressed to Carlo. One of the maids came scuttling in to the dining room, where P sat studying as instructed, to hand the letter over to him.
He only ever received letters from one person and so P was not at all surprised that the letter, written in elegant cursive handwriting, was from Lady Antonia.
“My Dear Carlo,” it read. P had never heard her voice but he imagined it to be very soft, elegant like her writing with a touch of flamboyance. “It saddens me that you could not attend my soirée the other night. Poor Geppetto was so very worried, you had fallen ill so suddenly! My dear boy, I do hope you’re feeling better as you read this. All my love to you, and my hope to see you again very soon. Antonia.”
P read the letter over in his head once more. You had fallen ill so suddenly . He blinked and looked up to his father who was sat in a chair beside the window, writing in a notebook with the sun on his face.
He had not fallen ill. He was not able to get ill. Geppetto had specifically told him he was not allowed to attend and so- did that mean father lied to Lady Antonia?
P opened his mouth to speak but found his lips trembled and his voice did not emerge. Geppetto did not look at him and continued to write, as he often did.
His chest ached once more, a feeling that was familiar and yet not. It was only since the other night that this tightness in his chest flared up whenever he was in a room with his father, whenever he thought about the man. Had he really fallen ill? Did father notice and that’s why he had forbidden P to leave the house? That must have been it. Father would not lie to Lady Antonia and he certainly wouldn’t lie to his son.
Clearing his throat, P tucked the letter between the pages of his book and continued to study. Diligent as any son should be.
Days later a knock came at the door. As always it was answered by the maids.
Geppetto had left to attend some technical event and P was not needed there so he found himself with little to do around the house. He poked his head out the door of the living room, book lowered, to see an elegantly dressed older lady being shown into the foyer.
A maid walked into the living room and quickly blocked his sight. “Young master.” Her voice was soft and polite. “Lady Antonia has come to visit.”
P’s heart fluttered and he jumped up from the sofa, like a dog for its owner. He did not know Lady Antonia, not in person, he would not recognise her in a crowd, and yet he felt a warm connection from their weekly letters.
“Show her inside.” P said to the maid. “And brew some tea. And biscuits.”
The maid glanced up at him with hesitation. She seemed like she wished to speak but her lips remained sealed and she nodded her head, a polite bow as she turned on her heel to exit the room. A moment later she walked back through, Lady Antonia following in her footsteps.
Antonia was dressed in a deep emerald, a warm velvet gown that stood out against the lacklustre tones of the beige and brown decorations in the Geppetto manor. Her grey hair was wrapped up in a sophisticated style on top of her head and a hat sat on top, matching her wonderful dress. She had a large smile on her face as soon as her eyes fell on the boy standing awkwardly, not sure how to greet her.
“My darling.” She said, voice louder than P had imagined but just as gentle. She approached with ease and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. “Oh it is so good to finally see you. You gave me quite a fright, you know? When Geppetto said you had taken ill.”
P raised his hands awkwardly, wishing to hug her back but he did not quite know the proper etiquette for hugging a lady and father was not here to defend him should he fumble. But Lady Antonia did not seem to mind and her hug tightened, lasting far longer than any touch P had experienced before.
When she pulled away her face was bright. She held onto his arms and stepped back, her eyes lowering to scan his face.
P smiled at her, unsure what to say. A tiny fear rumbled in his belly but he could not place the reason. Then Antonia’s expression wavered.
“My boy…” Her smile flickered. She looked closely at P’s delicate face and a frown creased her brow. “You look…” She trailed off and zipped her mouth shut.
Pain flickered up like flames in P’s chest once more.
“Forgive me, I came here unannounced.” Antonia said and her hands fell from P’s body, her warmth disappeared. “You are well?” She asked.
“Yes, my Lady.” P nodded.
Antonia stiffened and took another step back.
The door sounded behind her and both of them turned to see Geppetto standing under the doorframe, a scowl etched onto his face.
“Antonia. You should have wrote to say you’d be coming.” He passed his hat to a maid by his side and loosened his bowtie. “We were not prepared to welcome you.”
“Oh, no it’s fine.” Antonia’s eyes flickered back to P for a brief moment before a stern look formed on her gentle face, directed at Geppetto. “I wanted to see Carlo.”
“The boy is fine.” Geppetto waved off her concern.
She turned her body fully around and P could not see her face any longer. “Is he?” Her words were low and that rumbling fear rose in P’s chest once more. “I don’t quite think he is.”
“Not here, Antonia. Come to my study and we’ll talk.” Geppetto turned and stepped out of the room, disappearing around the corner.
Antonia huffed out a breath and briefly turned back to P, who stood motionless and confused behind. “Darling, I- I will be right back. Stay here.” And she hurried off after Geppetto, her steps loudly echoing down the hall.
P was left alone in the drawing room once more.
He had waited, as instructed. At first. But the longer he stood motionless the more that seed of defiance grew in him and P soon found himself sneaking down the hallway towards his father’s study. He did not need to be overly close. As he approached he could hear the raised volume of the conversation from across the hall. P dipped into the library opposite and sat by the door, listening.
“What on earth is going on, Geppetto?” Antonia’s voice was no longer soft but rather shrill, anger flared up in her tone. “Who is that boy? Where is my Carlo?”
“Antonia.” Geppetto sighed. “Do not make a scene. He is right there.”
“No he is not!” Antonia shouted. “You may be able to fool those gaggling noblemen but you cannot fool me! That is not my Carlo, so who-“
“This is why you were not invited here, so you wouldn’t have to know.”
Antonia fell silent for a moment and P could not imagine what her face looked like. Perhaps it rivalled his own, his trembling lips and sore eyes, hearing words he did not wish to hear. And yet he could not move away. He had to listen.
“Where is he?” Antonia’s voice came softly, as if she already knew.
“Dead.” Geppetto said flatly. “Carlo is dead. That boy is here now, that is Carlo now.”
“Dead…” Antonia’s voice wavered and she staggered backwards, falling down onto the chair beside the desk. “How? W-when?”
“Six months ago. A disease, probably caught from that orphan boy he was so fond of-“
“He died and you did not think to tell anyone? To tell me ?!” Antonia raised her voice once more and her shouts were crystal clear to P.
His own body stiffened, his muscles ached, he wanted to run away now- he’d heard enough, and yet nothing would work. His legs only shook and his hands trembled before him. Even if he closed his eyes everything was so vivid, so loud, it did nothing to help.
“I knew you would react like this.” Geppetto still spoke plainly, as if it was a simple inconvenience to him.
“How could you just replace your own child? Oh my god, Geppetto, you’ve truly lost it. I cannot- cannot be here, right now.”
P jumped as the study door flung open and slammed against the wall, the paintings on it shaking. He was hidden from sight but watched as Lady Antonia stormed down the hallway, wiping tears from her eyes. She did not go to the room P had been in. Instead she left, immediately.
The door shut behind her and silence fell on the manor once more.
P wasn’t sure how long he sat for, twisting the information he’d heard over in his head. It was not… hard to believe. He had had his own doubts, he simply did not wish to listen to them, but now the truth had come straight from his father’s mouth.
He was not Carlo. He knew that. But father still wanted him to be.