Peter’s mother was glad to have Bayani there. It helped Peter, she said, in a lot of ways. She trusted them not to do anything too mature, and in return Bayani had a place to sleep that was closer to the high school than his own home, which meant not having to ride the bus. He hated that bus. At Peter’s house, they could study together, eat together, and play together. At night, they would lie down together and fall asleep in each other’s arms as they stared up at the glow-in the dark stars that covered the ceiling in Peter’s room, and in the morning they had breakfast together. He liked being around his brothers and sisters, and pitched in with the chores, even when Mrs. Westminster insisted that he was a guest and could simply relax. He felt like a part of the family.
He’d check in with his parents every day, calling them to let them know where he was (even if they would have assumed it had he not called). Sometimes Peter would go with him to his small house halfway up the hill and help him tidy up. Bayani liked helping his parents where he could. They assured him that they only wanted him to focus on doing well in school, but he wanted them to be happy, too.
How long would they go without worrying about him? Being in Summerlay was a lot different from sleeping at the Westminster residence. It seemed like it was going to be a lot more dangerous, too. He was glad to have Peter with him, but quite nervous about the idea of danger lying ahead of them.
“Should we tell James that we won’t go?” Bayani asked after a long time of simply enjoying the quiet of the early morning. “Do you think he would take ‘no’ for an answer?”
“How should I know?” Peter replied restlessly. “He’s the idiot who brought us here. Let’s just go back to sleep.”
“Okay,” Bayani said, and leaned up to kiss the tip of Peter’s cheek before laying his back on his chest and closing his eyes to let the rhythm of his breathing put him to sleep.
When they awoke again, it was to a brighter day. The sun was glowing warmly in a cloudless sky, and the blanketing silence in the manor had lifted. It gave way to the sounds of footsteps in the halls, and Bayani imagined scenes like those he had seen in medieval themed movies: maids scurrying along, cooks fussing in the kitchen over steaming pots, scullery maids getting to work on cleaning whatever the headmistress ordered them to clean, even the clatter of silverware on the feasting tables.
Saravel manor, Baron Lexavier’s home, was not singularly medieval. There were parts of it that seemed to come from other, later centuries. That was the strange thing about Summerlay; it was lot like Earth’s past, but not completely. Peter was not amused either way. He was still upset about being brought there without forewarning.
The knock that eventually came to their door did not help in that regard. He wanted answers, but all he had was a maid wanting to lay out fresh clothes for them and offer to draw a bath. Peter accepted the clothes and then sent her way; they had bathed the night before.
“As you wish sirs,” the maid said with a curtsy. “His Grace Baron Lexavier and Lord James would like to invite you to breakfast once you have changed, if you would care to eat.”
Peter was about to shoo her away when Bayani thanked her instead, and then showed her out in a more gentle manner.