He would buy two chickens, eight bags of sunflower seeds and some twine. Using the twine to attach the chickens to his feet, he would throw the seeds out before their beaks all the way to the country so that they would lack no incentive and carry Peter out to those pastures he so longed to see.
Few would find this a suitable plan, but people so often underestimate the power of chickens. There is nothing more reliable than an animal who will complete his job solely in pursuit of food. Chickens were always famished and, therefore, always loyal.
The ride was undoubtedly rickety but Peter Duke did eventually make it out to the countryside. The air tickled his cheek and invigorated him. The smell of the wild flowers flowing through his nostrils was intoxicating. He wanted ultimate proximity to this tranquility that so often eluded him in the city even though he heartily sought it out. He wanted to stay here.
Nudging his chickens forward, he set out in search of a house. He was determined to achieve his goal and achieve it he would.
After speaking with several realtors in the area (not a single one of which had failed to inquire about his conspicuous stitches) he had finally found a man who pleased him and seemed to understand the type of place Peter was looking for.
Jorie Jarvis was eager to start showing Peter the available houses and insisted they start immediately. Although it was impossible to be sure, it was almost certain that his eagerness stemmed from his belief that Peter was in fact a duke and Jarvis had always wanted to be able to brag that he sold a magnificent house to a man with a title and status.
With a smirk on his face reflecting his pleasure at having a man believe one of his infamously tall tales (something that in the city was a well known and anticipated occurrence), Peter agreed to an immediate tour of the area. But, after all, Peter thought to himself, he was a Duke. Maybe not by title, but certainly by birth. He was Peter Duke was he not? That was obvious, but in his mind, Peter knew he was also a noble of a different, more mainstream sort. He was the Duke of Albion, utterly and entirely. He embodied the land like no other did or ever could, it was written in his face.
Peter saw several houses, all beautiful old things perfectly maintained in every detail, but none of these pleased him. He did not seek perfection. He sought a house that would more closely resemble his mind.
It was towards the end of the day when Jorie Jarvis (ever “Jorie Jarvis” and never simply “Mr. Jarvis“) finally presented to Peter a home that got his hormones working.
The house, a 15th Century estate, was everything he wanted. The walls were dark, smooth, and long dead. The tapestries covering them were musty and faded, but not thread bare. Though ancient, they retained their original glory and they did so naturally, without the help of glass cases.
Peter was intensely aroused by their presence. He bent down, breathing deep and heavy, and inhaled.
The stale scent most smelled (were they to be so overcome for a moment as to press their faces to the ground) was imperceptible to Peter Duke; he smelled Nobility.
It was a smell only a madman or genius would recognize. This strange mélange of dirt, sword metal, silken fabric, powder, sapphire, wine, enamel, and leather.
Peter adored this scent. He often found it in his volumes, elegantly dusted onto the corner of a page that he would press to his face and sniff. Or in his clothing, specifically top hats, the very capsules for cranial perfumery. The frequency of these encounters was dying, however, becoming more and more rare. And yet here was an entire house filled with this smell, and all for him! He was overcome with elation.
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