Snow Season – Day 21 of 90
The difference between affluence and opulence was the decor of Gravelorne manor.
Stepping onto the black floors of the great hall, the click of your heels was as sharp as a snare drum. The inky marble’s white veins coiled around your dark reflection like smoke in still air. Two stories above, the vaulted plaster was embossed with water lily motifs as fine as wedding lace. When the morning sun filtered through the great windows, the ceiling’s aluminum leaf backdrop glowed like starlight.
In the center of the hall, more ostentatious than the luminous ceiling, was a massive gnarled tree rendered in tendrils of gold. Perched on a bed of opalescent river stones, it stretched taller than the second-story banisters. Smooth crystal glass pooled around tumbling roots like water on a windless night. Jade lily pads, seating on wire stalks, dotted the surface of the artificial pond. Their tiered blossoms were rendered in capiz so fine you feared your breath might shatter them. Every child in Coriland would recognize the design. It was printed on the front of the Holy Text, guarded by the Dark One and his Shadowhounds.
“I still can not believe he has a scale model of the Fae Tree,” you groaned.
Still, as you examined the problem before you, the tree’s beautiful appearance belied what legend told you lived beneath the golden bark.
You put your hands on your hips, staring into the tall branches. “Pretty as you may be, how am I supposed to clean you?”
The lovely tree did not bother to answer the question.
With a sigh, you retreated to the closet below the grand staircase. Inside the spacious cupboard were ample cleaning supplies. There were buckets and broomsticks enough for fourteen maids. Rows upon rows of sponges and rags were neatly stacked on labeled shelves. A veritable army of polish and powder blue sat in bottles near a small sink. On the left of the chemicals, there was a flask of gin. The alcohol had a large label which read: For cleaning, not consumption in tidy scrawl. You extracted Reeves’s list from your pocket, and compared the two. Clearly, the note on the gin had been written by someone else. One could actually understand it.
Deciphering Reeves’s handwriting was an exercise in patience. Disheveled words blurred together like one long scribble. The letters were tiny, bearing neither depth nor contrast. What little punctuation he used was smudged. You had spent easier days translating Olde Tronkish with the professor than reading this “note” from the footman. Still, squinting your eyes, you managed to decode it as follows:
1. Aside from the master’s bed and bath, nothing needs tidied every day. Just divide up the work into days of the week and do the best you can.
2. Use Lyle’s gear cart to bring any laundry up when you clean the bedroom.
3. Only Ellsworth answers the front door. Do not deprive him of his fun.
4. If you see Norton the gardener in the glasshouse: yes, he is always like that.
5. By order of Ellsworth: do not help Lyle with the laundry room.
6. Do not touch the kitchen or the larder. Punishment exceeds death.
You sighed. Somehow, it felt like Reeves’s note gave you more questions than answers.
Collecting a stepladder, you made your way to the grand portraits on the wall.
On the right, a teasing ethereal beauty with powder-white skin sat on her pedestal. Clothed in a low shouldered gown of cream silk, she hid a coquettish smile behind a folded fan. Golden butterflies trimmed in ivory pearls adored waves of hair as pale as moonbeams. Half-lidded eyes of aquamarine sparkled with saucy delight. Below her painting was a nameplate which read: Mrs. Estella Hedgecoth.
On the left, the twin painting contained a pale man, not older than twenty-five. Wearing a black tuxedo and a coy smirk, he leaned into his index finger and thumb. Though the slick quiff was longer than the taper cut he wore nowadays, there was no mistaking the teasing gaze of haunting blue. As smug as the slinky feline in his lap, your master stood for all time staring out on his handcrafted domain.
While you dusted the gilded frames, all three pairs of painted eyes seemed to follow every flick of your wrist. Despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, goose pimples crawled up your arm.
“Did he trap their souls in the oil?” you murmured with a shudder.
As your silent audience looked on, you turned your attention to the various furnishings of the hall. Thanks to your mechanical replacements, the mirrored facets of the deco sideboard were already immaculate. A simple cleansing with warm water removed the dust from the soapstone top. You wiped the rotary phone down with gin before turning to your next task: a pair of feathered glass vases near the door. While the curvaceous outsides were clean, you were appalled to find a layer of dust hiding within.
“How shoddy.” You unbuttoned your cuffs and rolled up your sleeves. “We shall fix that.”
Strapping on your cleaning gloves, you returned to battle armed with a bottle, brush, lukewarm water, and a determined sneer. Thirty minutes later, your elbow burned, but the twin jars were a flawless luster gloss. With a satisfied nod, you rolled your shoulders and faced the problem child of the hall.
Looming above you, the gleaming golden menace reached out to the ends of the room. You stalked around the sculpture three times, looking for weaknesses. It was no use. The upper branches were too high.
“Do not think you have escaped that easily, my friend,” you told the tree with a shake of your finger. “Once I find a taller ladder, I shall return.”
As the clock struck half-past two, you pushed your way through the etched wooden door into the master’s office. You chuckled at the monochrome mosaic on the floor. Asymmetrical triangles trimmed with brass? How “new money” of him.
“Less of a study and more of a party,” you joked to yourself.
When you drew back the heavy grey curtains, sunlight spilled across a tufted wingback chair and dark pedestal desk. You frowned at the empty bone china utensil cup. Clearly, your new master had an unhealthy love of the material.
Under the chair, you spotted a flash of gold. With a snort, you retrieved the fountain pen and tucked it back in its proper place. The convex brass shade of the enamel lamp attracted fingerprints like liquor attracted sots. A rag and sharp polishing put an end to that. Once the desk was in order, you turned your attention to the built-in fixtures.
The bookshelves were an ebony walnut, much like the desk. You ran your finger over their edges. It came back clean and smelling of lemon oil.
The alabaster fireplace had tiered columns of round molding, which were already dust free. As you inspected the triangular inlays of obsidian and brass, a sigh escaped your lips. The mechanical mice had handled this too! You checked the crevices of the scallop-backed guest chairs. There was neither crum nor hair to be found. It seemed that your robotic replacements could vacuum even the deepest parts of the furniture. That was convenient to see but not a comfort to know.
By the time the hall clock chimed three, you were back to your list.
“Gear… cart?” You set your bucket down in the stairwell closet. “What is a gear cart?”
“Would you like me to show you?”
With a startled hiss, you whipped around, clutching your pounding chest. Leaning on the door frame, wearing the same smirk as his portrait, was your master.
“My… I did not intend to surprise you that much.”
Willing your breath to even, you bowed your head. “It is not a problem. How may I assist you?”
“I came by to check your progress.” Sicarius turned his gaze to the gleaming glass vases by his front door. He raised a wry brow. “It seems I am getting my money’s worth.”
“I merely washed them. It is hardly worth praise.”
“Reeves has been terrified to do so since I brought them home from Lustras.”
“L-Lustras?” you squeaked. “Those are real Lustras glass?”
Sicarius’s lips curled in a grin. “Were you expecting imitation?”
Two Lustras glass vases. Your old mistress would have shrieked with jealousy. The famous Gamoid glassmaker had a three year waitlist for paperweights, let alone vases plural.
Oh stars above, and you touched them!
“I-I see.” Inhaling to stave off the dizziness, you faked a polite chuckle. It sounded pinched. “Well, I am glad you are satisfied.”
The master hummed and strolled over to the stairs. Anchored to the wall was a long brass track. Sicarius depressed a small button. From above, the click of metal teeth grew louder and louder. Around the bend, a strange apparatus made of strong steel construction descended the stairs. When it reached the bottom, your master unfolded the device to reveal three heavy prongs.
“You will find the gear carts in the laundry. Once their pegs are sealed into the magnetic bolts, you can use the hand lever to move them up the track.”
Your eyes traced the long path up to the second story. “Mr. Watts made this?”
Sicarius leaned against the wall and tucked his hands in his pockets. “He said it was more fun than an elevator.”
“Your house is incredible, Master.”
“I try.” Wearing a wolf’s smile, he nodded to the list in your hand. “What other questions have you come across?”
Swallowing your pride, you pointed to the tree. “With sincerest apologies, how does one clean that?”
“The sculpture?”
You nodded.
Sicarius chuckled. “Statistically speaking, with my butler’s tears.”
Leaving you flat-lipped and alarmed, the silver-haired sadist strolled to his office. You glanced up at the golden nightmare one last time. Its winding branches felt like they were wrapped around your neck. The study door snapped shut. Your trance broke. Slapping your cheeks, you set off for the laundry.
“Get yourself together, woman. You are a professional.”
The office floor you might forgive, but the master’s bed was just folly.
Standing beside the blonde four-post, you pursed your lips. Ivory silk sheets seemed to sneer at you. As you reached out, the threatening prickle of static charge rolled up your arm. With a grimace, you clutched your hand back to your chest.
“Who in the world actually sleeps on these things?”
With a sigh, you lifted the heavy damask comforter from the floor and folded it over the smooth satinwood hope chest. Your nose tickled when you sniffed the navy velvet bed curtains.
“Honestly! When did they last wash these!? The whole staff is so complacent from their little toys that they manage a half job at best!”
After bundling the dusty drapes down the laundry chute, you turned towards the bathroom door. The lights snapped on, revealing a tile floor with tessellations of creamy blue shells that matched the scallop-shaped sink. There were no walls around the shower, only a rainfall spout above a drain. Near the window, a bone china soaking tub was mounted on clawed feet. When weary eyes settled upon the dark, tarnished faucets, you nearly threw a clot.
“Silver!?” you squawked. “What madman puts silver in a bathroom!?”
Your vision blurred as phantom pain burned up your elbows. There was only one rational thing to do: turn off the light and come back later.
Once the bed was made, you proceeded with your inspection. The tulipwood waterfall vanity was already polished to a glowing sheen. Dusty window drapes were dragged off to the bowels of the laundry. Yet again, the carved marble fireplace looked unused. Good. That was one less headache to deal with. You ticked off the last items with a bouncing finger. Oversized down pillows? Fluffed. Custom-tailored clothing? Hung. Water lily bed lamp? Dusted. Gaudy silk boxers? Folded.
Throughout your cleaning fit, your attention was hopelessly drawn back to the evils which you could not unsee. Your wild eyes stared into the great black maw leading to the bath. You cracked your wrists.
“Let the gods have mercy upon you, for I shall not.”
At nine twenty-nine that evening, you rapped on the study entrance.
“Enter,” your master called.
Using your hip, you pushed through the heavy doors. Spread across his workspace were stacks of papers in a whirlwind of chaos. The waste bin was filled with crumpled envelopes and shredded letters. You placed the tisane service at the corner of the desk. The smell of apricot scones and grassy chamomile filled the room.
“Good evening, Master. Would you like me to light the fire?”
Sicarius slumped into his palm, rubbing his temple in firm, tight circles. “No, I hope to be done with this nonsense before eleven.” He waved at the book sitting on the velvet guest chair. “When you have finished with the bathrooms, return here. My mind is a jumble tonight.”
Amber liquid filled the squat teacup. “I have completed that task.”
Sicarius glanced at the clock. “I meant all the bathrooms.”
You buttered the scone. “As did I.”
“All seven?”
“Twenty, sir.”
“What?”
You placed his plate beside his right elbow. “There are twenty bathrooms in your estate. Four in the halls, one in the garage, twelve for the guests, the master suite, and the two in the servants’ quarters.” Your eyes glowed brighter than his lamp. “With the dust-mice handling the floors, the work was much speedier than I expected. I finished changing the linens as well.”
The fountain pen hit the desk. “You cleaned Lyle’s bathroom?”
You shook your head. “No, I taught him to clean it.”
Sicarius turned his chair to face you. “You expect me to believe that you completed twenty bedrooms and bathrooms, washed the vases, dusted all statues and paintings in the main hall, tidied my study, polished the metalwork, and hung my laundry by yourself in”—he glanced at his mantle clock—“eight hours?”
“Six hours,” you replied, turning the handle of the cup to face him. “Two half-hour meals, and after dinner, Mr. Ellsworth instructed me to take a nap. I can stay up past two, should you require it.”
Sicarius regarded you with baffled amusement. “I assume you encountered the infamous Black Faucets of Gravelorne during your journey?”
“Those silver faucets of yours are heinous but nothing beyond salvation.” You held the saucer out to him. “Would you like sugar?”
Sicarius burst out laughing. With a shaking hand, he took the clattering cup. Fearing for his papers, you hastily surrounded the china with a cloth napkin. As he banged his free hand on the desk, you lifted the drink out of his grasp and set it upon the tray. When you turned back to him, his grin stretched wide as a skeleton’s.
“What force have I unleashed upon my home?”
For the next few hours, you sat in the guest chair, flipping through Gemstones and Jewelry: From Historical Pieces to Modern Design. Representations of antique rings, pearl hairpins, and ancient beadwork filled the first ten chapters. However, your area of focus was the nearly hundred pages on gemstone properties and practical applications. At the master’s request, you bookmarked options which were both pretty and pragmatic for daily wear.
As the chime cried quarter to eleven, your master dripped golden wax onto the last envelope. Removing his signet ring, he stamped the spider seal onto the letter. Bloodshot eyes stared at the overloaded outgoing correspondence pile. The only sound was the ticking of the mantle clock. Holding his breath, Sicarius eased the letter on top of the tower. The stack swayed to the left. Both your heads followed the lean in synchrony. When it stopped, there were two quiet sighs of relief. The master pressed his index finger to his lips and motioned you to your feet. Sicarius edged his way around the desk as you grasped the weighty tome to your chest. Once both of you were in the hall, you drew the office door closed behind you.
Like ghosts in the night, you climbed the long stairs in uneasy silence. The dark bronze banister felt cold in your hand. By the time you reached the second floor, your heartbeat quickened from more than the ascent. Overlooking the northern hills, past the dim wall sconces and wide windows, was the entrance to the master suite.
Sicarius strolled into his bedroom and made for the nightstand. With the flick of his thumb, the water-lily lamp glowed to life. He motioned for the book. You uncoiled your arms and handed it to him. As he set it upon the dressing table, the hairs on the back of your neck stood.
“The blue pajama set if you please.”
“Of course, Master,” you replied, hurrying to the wardrobe. Cold hands thumbed through the fabrics until you located an azure satin with white trim. You hung them on the door hook and unbuttoned the front. The room air was dry and static crackled along your forearm. You frowned at the garish sheets but said nothing. If the man wanted to be electrocuted, that was his business.
When you turned back around, Sicarius had his arms spread open. Wide eyes flitted between his face and the clothing. It felt like you had swallowed an icicle.
“Is something the matter?” he asked with a coy smirk.
Stars above, why did you not think of this problem before!?
You glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight now. No doubt the other servants would be tucked away in their beds. Your eyes met his. There was nothing there but amusement.
“No, Master,” you answered, reaching for his striped tie. When you touched the shell knot, you forced yourself to breathe. “I simply did not want to overstep my bounds.”
“Boundaries are often blurry in the dark.”
You nodded to the nightstand. “Then I am grateful for the light.”
Sicarius chuckled as you pulled his jacket off, sleeve by sleeve. After you hung it in the closet, he was still standing in the same position. You cursed under your breath. Was he oblivious, shameless, or simply teasing you?
“You’ve forgotten some things,” he stated, pointing to his chest. There, at the edge of his mouth, you caught the upward twitch of a smile.
With new information in hand, it did not take long to formulate a plan. After all, you were far closer in age to an implacable dowager than a blushing virgin. This should not ruffle you.
You approached him with all the passion of a limestone block. Sharp fingers plucked the buttons down to his belt line. The hem pulled from his pants with an abrupt tug. Musky sweat threatened to distract you. You bit your tongue hard, forcing any bashful impulses into painful submission. With the flick of a wrist, you tore the warm fabric from his pale skin.
He whistled. “Cold.”
As you stuffed his shirt down the chute, your smile was as frigid as dry ice. “I had not noticed, Master.”
Your hand hit his belt buckle. He refused to yield. There was a loud jingle and a rush of fabric. With an unflinching nerve, you squatted down, keeping your gaze on his. As wool pants began to slip down thick, unshaven legs, his eyes seemed to spark like static.
“Tell me, did you always need to be in control or was that a habit you learned to survive?”
“Discipline is expected in the face of duty.”
Dressed in only socks and underwear, Sicarius hummed and stroked his chin. “So it is not your natural temperament?”
“What is the difference between one’s ‘natural temperament’ and the pattern of behavior one consistently displays?” you asked, peeling off his socks.
“Quite a bit, really.”
Folding his pants over your arm, you replied: “Behaving however one wishes is the purview of children, the senile, and those that can afford it.”
“I cannot tell if you are a cynic or a pragmatist.”
You nodded to his dresser. “What color drawers would you like this evening, Master?”
There was a deep chuckle. “The ones with the papyrus.”
You lifted the garments with both hands, presenting them like a street seller hocking a cheap pan. “These?”
“Yes.”
“The bathroom is clean.” You flipped his wrist over and pressed his underwear into his palm. “I shall turn down your covers while you wash your face.”
With a snort, the master closed his eyes and chuckled. “Very well then.”
As you gave him your back, he strolled to the closet and claimed his satin pants. The bathroom door closed and the unmistakable sound of water on tile filtered through the wood. With a firm slap to your own cheeks, you set about re-fluffing the pillows until you practically coughed feathers.
Ten minutes later, when the shower flipped off, you were prepared for the next wave of attack. A plush robe hung over your shoulder. You held the pajama shirt aloft, long sleeves at the ready. Loins girded, you clenched your teeth.
The door opened. Steam tumbled through the frame. Shuffling a towel over his short locks, the silver-haired hellion strolled into the room, bare-chested and brazen. A stray bead of water trickled down the center of his rolling pectorals. Your traitorous eyes trailed it along smooth abs. By the time it reached his navel, your mouth was dry. It was too late to conceal the stare.
With a calculating smile, he held his arms aloft. “If you would be so kind.”
Burning with frustration of all kinds, you slipped him into the smooth satin. Your eyes remained fixed on his buttons until every last one was in place.
He nodded to the robe. “I appreciate the effort, but I do intend to sleep at some point this evening.”
The master walked to his bed and slithered beneath the covers. He wrapped lean arms behind his head. As you tucked him in, blazing blue eyes never left your face. You turned away and folded his dressing gown onto the nightstand.
He patted the side of the bed. “Pull up a chair. I am rather restless tonight.”
“Yes, Master.”
Retrieving a heavy sitting stool, you took up your usual position on the edge of your seat. The weighty tome unfolded in your lap. Using your page markers, you turned to the gem section. The first images were of sparkling clear stones scattered over white chantilly lace.
“Not diamonds.” He waved his hand. “The Gause family has a stranglehold on the mines. Those rocks are far less rare than they would have you believe.”
“Ah.” You flipped forward a few pages before stopping on images of glowing blue stones. “Would you like to hear about sapphires?”
“Are they good for daily wear?
On the next page was an image of a woman’s engagement band. The stone was a brilliant marquise cut surrounded by tulip-shaped filigree. Seeing it made your stomach flip. Without thinking, your right hand coiled around your empty left ring finger. When you realized what you were doing, you jerked the two apart.
“Y-yes.” You cleared your throat. “Are you designing a new pocket watch?”
“Something like that.”
You scanned the text for an acceptable topic. “They score a nine out of ten on the hardness scale.”
“And the blue would complement my eyes.”
Your hand paused mid page turn. “I suppose it would.”
With a grin, his lids drifted shut. “Read to me,” your master commanded.