Snow Season – Day 17 of 90
As you entered your new quarters, your travel satchel hit the floor with a thud. The room was double the size of the space you shared as a maid at Fulston Manor, your very first place of employment. Turning back to your escort, you fixed him with a frown. “This cannot be a servant’s room,” you protested, jabbing a finger at the hand-carved, blonde wood headboard on the twin bed.
In the doorway, Reeves scratched the back of his neck. “Would you believe me if I showed you mine?”
You shook your head at the champagne-colored dressing table with its curvaceous legs and matching velvet seat. “No, I doubt I would.” As you opened the doors of a standing closet fit for a princess, you noted no indication of a roommate. “I truly am the only woman living in the servants’ wing?”
“Yes, but during the reconstruction, Mr. Sicarius saw that we all have private rooms.” The brunette rolled his eyes. “Probably a wise choice. Lyle keeps his in a frightful state, and Alex hardly says two words together that aren’t dipped in annoyance. If they had to share, there might be a murder.”
“Alex?” you asked.
“Alex Slater, our undercook.” He raised a lecturing finger. “And don’t let him catch you pilfering the larder, or the boy will give you an earful that makes a cleric’s scolding sound like a sweet song.”
You raised a dubious brow. “What kind of servant would pilfer the larder?”
Reeves winced. “Ah. I forgot. Proper maid. Ignore what I just said.”
You nodded, examining knobs on the drawers. There was a distinct pearlescence to them that simple porcelain could not possess. More bone china, then? One would think over fifty vases was enough. You pinched the bridge of your nose. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered.
“Not up to your standards, Your Highness?”
Your glare sent Reeves into a chorus of hearty laughter. He bent over, grabbing the door for support. “Stars above! You look like my old quartermaster. Can’t you take a joke?”
You turned away and walked to the window. A short gap of grassy turf separated your room from the side of the ten-car garage. “Well, at least the view is appropriate for a servant.” You smirked at him. “Even if nothing else here is.”
Reeves grinned. “So you do have some wit under the propriety.”
You wrapped your arms behind your back and stood up straight. “I do not know to what you refer.”
“Right,” he teased, scanning up and down your wardrobe again. “Onto our next subject, are all your clothes like that?”
Your hands fell to your skirt. It was a bit old, but in good condition. You glanced back to the man in the door. “What do you mean?”
He clicked his tongue. “They’re just… plain, aren’t they?”
“What did you expect? I am a maid, not some diva of the opera house.”
Reeves rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. He walked across the room and handed you a squat key on a leather cord. “This is the skeleton key. Most of us wear them on our pocket chains, but I confess I don’t know where a woman keeps—”
You took the key and placed it around your neck.
“Right…” A nervous chuckle slipped through gritted teeth. “Well, I suppose it’s out of sight but do not let Mr. Sicarius see you do that.”
“Why not?”
Reeves shrugged again and gestured for you to follow him out into the hall. He shook his head when you locked the door and tucked the key down the collar of your dress. As you followed him down the wide corridor, he pointed out the sights.
“The bathroom is there on the left. You’ll share with Alex. We banished Lyle to the wash in the garage, so you needn’t worry about him leaving oil stains everywhere.”
“Am I to assume that indoor plumbing was installed during the reconstruction?” you asked, hurrying to keep pace with his long strides.
“Yes. The water is flash heated by the steam system, so you needn’t worry about running out. You can bathe every night if you wish. We encourage Lyle to do so.”
A warm bath every night? Incredible.
“Do you have any hobbies?” Reeves asked.
“Cleaning?” you replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I meant any non-work related hobbies.”
You stared at him. “With fifteen hour days six days a week, what hobbies does one develop?”
Reeves cringed. “You can’t be that boring. No one is.”
“I enjoy reading,” you replied. “Though, at my last employer, I never had the opportunity to choose the books.”
“Mr. Sicarius will probably let you borrow some if you ask.”
A servant? Allowed to borrow the master’s books for herself? That was doubtful.
Reeves chuckled at your dubious expression. “Moving on, breakfast is served at eight for servants, though I doubt you’ll want to wake that early. Luncheon is about quarter to one. Once you eat, you’ll see to the dusting and polish work.” He dug in his pocket and extracted a crumpled paper. “I wrote down some tips. You can read, right?”
“I am literate,” you replied, taking the list. The hand was sloppy. Your lip twitched as you kept the snide remark inside.
Reeves scratched his cheek. “I know, I know! It’s awful, isn’t it? Ellsworth said I won’t make a proper valet until I improve, but the practice is rather dull.”
You hummed and kept your mouth shut.
Your companion sighed. “You know, the head maid and footman are on the same level. You needn’t be so formal with me.”
“First, one can hardly be called a head maid when there is only one maid.” With a sad smile, you added, “Second, as a male servant, your rank is higher than mine, even if we are on a similar level.”
He frowned. “You will find that this household has much easier manners than most.”
“So I have noticed,” you replied with a grimace. “However, please do me the favor of allowing me to keep to the manners with which I am most comfortable, Mr. Reeves.”
Reeves shrugged. “All right, have it your way.”
“Thank you.”
As you crossed the threshold into the main house, he began to tick away on his fingers. “We’ve seen the front hall, the dining room, the servants’ area, both parlors, the formal hall, the office, the billiard room, the sunroom, the wine cellar, and the conservatory.” An uneasy grin crossed his face. “It’d be best to tour the kitchen after dinner. Both Cook and Alex get fussy when there’s work to be done.”
You smiled. Cooks were notoriously protective over their domain. Given Reeves’s earlier comment about the larder, you suspected this was well warranted.
Down the elegant halls, you followed your companion until you came upon two dark doors with imposing bronze handles. Without pause, Reeves pushed forward. Your heart leapt at the sight.
To call the room a library was to call a masterwork a painting. Polished white marble floors glowed under sunbeams from the two-story windows on the west side. There were weighty shelves, black as pitch on both levels. Each was heavily laden with countless titles. Upon an ornate wool rug, an overstuffed lounge chair and massive leather sofa surrounded a claw-foot coffee table. Above all these luxuries, a crystal chandelier made of rectangular shards hung from the coffered ceiling. Glittering glass sent sparkling light scattering across the bronze foiled recesses.
You grabbed hold of the rolling ladder to keep from falling over. “Stars above,” you murmured.
“Yes, I know.” Reeves winced. “Thank the gods for the dust-mice. All those books to clean. Makes you want to sneeze just thinking about it, right?”
Dumbstruck, you walked past him. The vast forest of leather and linen swallowed all sounds, leaving only a peaceful silence. A tentative hand reached for the spines on the nearest row. Bound in kidskin, their beveled edges were smooth and pleasant to grasp.
You shook your head. “To just be in such a place as this…”
A decade-old memory of the professor’s study crept into your mind. Clear as the day it was made, you still felt the warmth of the lazy afternoon sun on your skin. A younger version of yourself picked your way through the first lines of a story, word by word. Your tongue was slow and halting, shaping the syllables like a child learning to walk. When you reached the end of the page, you realized he had not corrected you. You looked up. There was a proud smile upon his thin lips.
He would have loved this room.
“Are you all right?”
Your hand retracted from the books as if their spines belonged to a quill fish. “Forgive my impertinence, but I must disagree with you, Mr. Reeves.” You lifted your head and smiled like a little girl. “I would dust a million books just to see this room.”
“A million, you say? That would be an impressive collection,” a smooth voice said from above.
Both you and Reeves lifted your eyes to the second floor. Standing at the railing was a striking man with tall cheekbones and a long scar slicing through his silver hair. A form-fitting, double-breasted vest of elegant charcoal grey accented broad shoulders and a tapered waist. Ice blue eyes never left yours as he walked to the spiral stairs with all the grace of a cat.
“Si-Mr. Sicarius! When did you arrive?” Reeves stammered.
The pale foreigner held up his hand. “Shortly before dawn. If it mattered, I would have told you.”
“O-of course.” Reeves tugged his jacket straight. “Would you like me to bring you breakfast, sir?”
Your eyes flickered to the chime clock hanging below one of the wall sconces. Breakfast? At two?
The man above traced your gaze. His lips twitched into a wry grin. “Reeves, is this my new maid?”
“Ah, yes, sir. I was giving her the tour and reviewing her duties.” Reeves turned to you. “This is the owner of Gravelorne Manor, Mister Sicarius Estrova.”
You took the hem of your dress in hand and bowed at the waist. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Estrova.”
The hairs on the back of your neck prickled. There was a great pause, as if all the air had left the room. You lifted your head only to see your employer’s shoulders shake. His wrinkled eyes were crinkled with delight. He brought his large hand to cover his mouth. Your face fell as a short snicker escaped his fingers. When you turned around, Reeves’s gaze failed to meet yours. A cunning grin split his lips.
In a tone ill-fitted for a lecture, your new employer said: “Reeves, you cannot tease every new hire.”
You looked back and forth between the two men. “Have I done something out of order?”
“Nothing as would offend,” the scarred man assured you. “However, when in my own home, I prefer to be called by my first name.” He drank in your stiff spine and tight frown. “I know it is against etiquette to call an employer by their given name, but I insist upon it.”
You closed your eyes. “I understand, Master Sicarius.”
Reeves’s puffed cheeks looked like a balloon about to pop. “P-please excuse me for a moment,” he stammered, pointing at the door. “I-I’ll go fetch you s-something to eat.”
Your employer nodded.
As a man with food poisoning hurries to the bathroom, Reeves rushed out of the study. Muffled by the heavy wood door, you could still hear gales of raucous laughter echoing down the hall. A dread heat bloomed in your cheeks.
“Please ignore him,” the master instructed. “My relationship with Reeves began on equal footing. Given our history, the formalities between us are very minimal.”
“I see,” you murmured.
Your employer took a seat in the lounge chair. “I am surprised he held out this long calling me Mr. Sicarius. I can only assume your use of the word ‘master’ tipped him over the edge.” Sicarius propped his elbow on the soft leather arm and rested his chin on his long fingers. The other hand gestured to you and then the couch.
First, the overly casual footman treats a maid as a guest, and now the nonchalant owner invites a servant to sit? What was wrong with this house!?
Unsure what else to do, you bowed to the master’s whim and took the seat he indicated. Perched on the very edge of the sofa, you folded your hands in your lap. As you bristled with agitation, an amused smile broke across his lips. You swallowed to clear the stone in your throat before speaking again.
“Should I refrain from calling you that, sir?”
His eyes were mesmerizing and cold, like some great ice sculpture at the frost festival. Up and down your body they swept, never pausing until they met your gaze again. Goose pimples ran along your arm.
“No, in fact, I rather like it. Please continue to do so.”
The down-filled cushions made it difficult to keep your posture. With as much decorum as you could manage while being swallowed by the sofa, you replied, “I understand, Master Sicarius.”
“Now then, has your trunk been sent for?”
“Yes. Mr. Ellsworth called for it after I accepted the position.”
Sicarius frowned. “Are those clothes generally representative of your wardrobe?”
You looked down at your dress. It was a simple black column silhouette with a drop waist and a long skirt. The linen fabric was tolerant to wear and washable without the fuss required of a fine lady’s filmy nets.
“Yes, Master?”
Sicarius wrinkled his nose. “I must go into town myself in three days. Reeves and I will accompany you to my seamstress.” He nodded to your travel frock. “Burn that and anything of similar appearance when your new wardrobe arrives.”
“E-excuse me? Wardrobe? You can not mean—”
The master leaned back in his chair and held his hands out, waving at the entire room. “I am sure you have realized this by now, but I only bother to keep fine, useful, and beautiful things around me. The result is as you see: a restful home filled with the best.” He sneered at your dress. “If my servants mill about in drab attire, it detracts from the aesthetic.”
You pursed your lips. A seamstress sounded expensive.
“Of course, all the clothing will be from my wallet as it is my folly,” he explained with a wave of his hand.
You bowed your head, trying to hide your stunned expression. “If that is your wish.”
“It is.”
You winced at the sharp finality of his statement.
“Now… about your nightly duties…”
Your heart pounded at his words. Always the same implication. Why could no one take the truth at face value? Why could no one believe that you just—
“I understand that you used to read my friend to sleep.”
Lifting your head, you scanned the pale man’s face. There was no derisive sneer, and no insinuation of impropriety in his tone. His features were placid and smooth, like someone commenting on the weather.
“Yes!” In your excitement, you blurted the word. With another cough to hide your embarrassment, you steadied yourself. “The professor had difficulty sleeping. As his vision failed, I read to him to quiet his nerves.” Your voice was weak as specters of all the gossip-mongers haunted your thoughts.
Slut.
Fortune hunter.
Maid-of-the-night.
You shook your head to dispel their slander. Stinging eyes lowered to your lap. “I just read to him. Nothing more.”
“Yes? That is what your letter said, is it not?”
Your skirt wrinkled in your grip. “Not everyone believes it.”
The master scoffed. “Not everyone knew him. Anyone that did knew that man was irrevocably blunt. Why lie when he found such great entertainment in ruffling people with the truth?”
You lifted your gaze. The sparkle in Sicarius’s eyes was as impetuous as a schoolboy recounting his summer adventures. You covered your mouth to hide the relieved giggle that fluttered from your lips.
“Very true,” you agreed.
Sicarius ran his fingers through his silver hair. “One time, a fellow classmate tried to claim a death in the family as an excuse for missing a deadline. The professor told my classmate that his grades were already so low they could be placed in the coffin alongside the dead man.”
Was this man trying to break your composure? You clamped your teeth, sides splitting from holding in the laughter.
“Worse yet, when the headmaster demanded to know if Professor Campbell really said it, he doubled down!” Sicarius sat up straight. With a pompous huff, he pantomimed pushing a pair of glasses up his nose. His voice drifted into a tenor tone that perfectly mimicked your previous employer. “The boy’s brain should go along with them both as it may yet gain more use than in its current employment,” Sicarius quoted.
A few whiney noises blew between your fingers, but you managed to control the worst of it.
Your companion folded his hands in front of his smile. “I am glad you stayed. Ellsworth told me that the salary almost ran you off.”
Recalling the terse conversation, you scratched your cheek. “Knowing what I know now, I feel awful assuming the position was just a ruse for—”
Sicarius raised a single finger. “But the position was a ruse.”
You blinked at him. He grinned at you. Cold sweat beaded down your neck. As the man stared at you, there was a dark fire in his eyes that made your stomach flop. His lips curled into a menacing grin.
“To be blunt, I was not looking for a maid. I only ever wanted you.”
“E-excuse me?”
All at once the tension snapped as Sicarius descended into a round of cackles. “You look like a startled cat! It was just because of the professor’s complimentary letter. That’s all I meant.”
“O-of course. The letter. How silly of me.”
“You must understand, when a man like Professor Campbell makes a recommendation, I always take it.” The master nodded to the books behind him. Then, he crossed his arms and lifted his chin like a man at a lectern. In that same flawless mimic of your old employer, Sicarius droned out: “West facing windows, my friend. A well thought out library must maximize the evening light to reduce strain on the eyes.”
Sicarius clearly knew the professor very well. The west-facing windows were located in the professor’s private parlor. No one was allowed in there who was not a close personal friend.
The first time you were permitted in the study was a disaster. Wanting to impress the professor, you stayed up past four in the morning practicing your letters. By midday, you were so dizzy that he forced you to sit. The sun was warm. The overstuffed arms of the club chair were comfortable. When you awoke, the old man was staring at you from his desk. You blubbered out apologies, but Professor Campbell just scoffed.
“Does one commonly apologize for following instructions? I told you to rest before you fell over, and you did so. Now silence your sniffling, girl. I wish to finish this letter in some semblance of peace.”
As the memory faded, the grim sense of something forgotten crept up into your gut. You cocked a brow, still trying to recall the man before you. Professor Campbell suffered few guests. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, you could not recall one instance where you saw this man in the professor’s townhouse.
“Is there something on my face?”
Your cheeks burned. Stars! How long had you been staring!?
“Forgive me, Master,” you apologized, bowing your head. “You clearly knew him well, but I cannot seem to recall—”
“Seeing me at his home?”
Hot with shame, you nodded.
Sicarius shrugged. “My job kept me away more often than not. I should have visited more, but in my mind, he was like an ancient tower. He had stood on his own for ages before I met him, and in my foolishness, I assumed he would be here long after me.”
As your master scanned over all the finery and knowledge in the room, there was a cold melancholy in his gaze. When his eyes became unfixed and distant, you recognized the look. It was one you often saw on Professor Campbell’s face when his insomnia was most acute: hot and muggy evenings after a heavy summer rain.
“The professor was the only one who truly understood me.” Sicarius swallowed, like the words choked him. “The deprivation of his companionship will be my greatest regret.”
Your heart skipped.
Sicarius sat forward, putting his elbows on his knees, observing you over folded fingers. “Did he ever tell you about his work as my translator?”
You shook your head.
“Perhaps that is wise.” Sicarius’s gaze turned to the window. “It was not always pleasant.”
In the pale light of a winter afternoon, your master’s expression seemed as ragged as wet paper. Dark shadows and deep creases spoke of restless nights staring vainly at blank ceilings as if they would yield some great truth beyond the pain. His eyes glazed with icy grief that seemed no more likely to thaw than your own. He simultaneously looked childlike and weighted down by too much life.
Your chest squeezed. “Thank you, Master.”
“Whatever for?”
One hand coiled to your breast. “Somehow, hearing you speak so fondly of him, I…” Your voice trailed off.
“I understand.” A pensive smile played upon Sicarius’s lips. “There is a certain comfort in shared pain.”
“Yes,” you agreed. “Forgive me.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “There is nothing to forgive.”
Sicarius rose to his feet and strolled to the shelf nearest the staircase. His large hands traced the bindings like a boy dragging a stick along an iron fence. “Reference texts,” he declared.
Puzzled, you repeated, “Reference texts?”
Long, powerful legs reached the wall by the window in less than fifteen strides. He rapped on a few large tomes with his knuckles. “Philosophy, religion, social sciences, languages, and customs are here.”
“Ah!” You snapped to attention. “Of course!”
He pointed to each set of shelves in turn. “The natural and applied sciences are near the door. On the other side, geography and history.” He turned to you with a twinkle in his eyes. “Do you follow so far?”
“Yes, Master,” you replied.
He folded his hands behind his back and turned his gaze upward. The gesture stretched the fabric of his shirt over his toned chest. “The upper south and east walls are entirely fiction from horror to romance. To the north, art and architecture are paired as I consider them much the same.”
As he reviewed his collection, Sicarius’s posture was open and cordial. Standing amongst his fine belongings, he held all the bearing of gentry without the presumption of class. Your stomach twisted in knots. In a normal home, with status and roles sharply delineated, it was easy to predict what was expected of you. However, Sicarius Estrova and his “easy manners” were like a fog over your mind. He commanded you like a servant but treated you like a guest. It made your head ache to puzzle over your place. Reeves could keep his “easy manners.” You would take clear expectations over this nebulous role any day.
“Biographies are there.” Sicarius thrust a finger toward a small section near the window’s edge. “I confess my temperament makes me poorly inclined to hear men prattle on about their own greatness. However, I do prefer learning from the mistakes of others to living them myself.”
You nodded along.
“Every evening, after your dinner, you are to report to my study. If I have selected a title, it will await you on the desk. If not, there will be a sheet of paper with the general genre I wish to hear.” He flicked a finger over his shoulder. “I trust you will be able to find something of interest?” he teased.
You bowed your head. “I will endeavor to always please you, Master.”
An eerie smirk stretched his cheeks. “I shall hold you to that promise.”