That night, he dreamed about Richard: he was in the study in the western part of the house, sitting in his favorite armchair in the warm afternoon sun, and Richard had his mouth on him in the exactly the way that Bush used to -- tongue, lots of tongue. Hornblower had always thought of it, in the back of his head, with more than a little irritation, that Bush went after him the way he went after mustard on his fingers when there was no need to stand on manners.

So there was saliva. Wet, disgusting noises, pleasure so intense and yet so fleeting that made him rock from side to side in half-hearted attempts to get away from it until the mouth closed on him, imposibly tight and good, and there, underneath him, just as he'd remembered it, was the finger, slick with spit and what Hornblower had, himelf put in that wonderful, clever mouth. It was pushing at him; he was tight after all these years. He closed around that finger like a fist. It felt so good, and if he could get a fucking out of this -- get another finger in him, get fucked on his back or maybe even on his knees --

Hornblower knew, as his heart began to pound wide enough so that he was almost awake, knew that he had reached out with his arms and was holding that dream head down and his hips moved frward again and again -- Hornblower knew, then, even as he gasped and spent himself down the throat that wasn't there, that it didn't matter all that much whether Bush had been Richard's father or not.

He woke in his armchair in the study on the western side of the houe. It was night; the servants had gone to bed, and he had fallen asleep by the fire with port and the Naval Gazette. His pants stuck to him a little.

It didn't matter whether Richard was a ghost or not, he realized. The sentiment was there regardless.