Snow Season: Day 62 of 92
My dear Rebecca,
I am overjoyed to hear that little Lillith will make a full recovery from her influenza. I suppose there must be some drawbacks to the daycare the factory provides, but I suspect the pre-school socialization will be better for her than the bar patrons’ manners. As to Jace’s troubles with grammar, tell him I would be happy to tutor him when I am next in Illestrad.
My employer’s freeness with the servants continues to be, at best, eccentric and, at worst, wholly improper. However, I cannot deny that the general frivolity in this home has a certain chaotic charm, which you would enjoy. Aside from the ever-serious butler, Mr. Ellsworth, and our prickly undercook, Mr. Slater, I fear I am in the company of clowns.
Mr. Watts’s “automated laundry folder” is now contained, but his workshop bursts into smoke twice a week. Mr. Reeves spends more of his time telling jokes than learning his duties as an under-butler. Cook is a jolly gossip. I fear by the time I meet his wife, I will know more about her than she does about herself. As to the master of Graveborn, I must conclude that the only way he can sleep at night is by exhausting himself taunting me.
While I do my best to rise above the nonsense, I confess to what I suspect will be your delight, that the “easy manners” around me have made my own slip on more than one occasion. As to the old farmer’s warning, the only ghoulish thing I have witnessed is the state of Mr. Watts’s living quarters.
Please relay to your husband my sincerest appreciation for his inquiries on my behalf. It is a relief to know that the master’s reputation is generally honorable for “an eccentric new money type.” His generous donations to “Counseling and Support for Veterans of War” seem in line with his hiring habits. While Mr. Reeves’s full background is a mystery, I must assume him to possess some military pedigree. More than one night I have seen him patrol the halls as if waiting for the enemy to sneak upon us. Perhaps it is he who “left more on the battlefield than bullets and body?”
As to the master’s behavior, if it were not for the trouble he causes me, I would think him a celibate! Lady Anton’s numerous attempts to fling her six daughters at the man have been utterly fruitless. Then, thinking the master’s tastes ran more masculine, she brought her nephew to dinner. The master gave his guest a phone number for a “gentlemen’s only” club, wished him luck, and shooed him out the door. Last week, a Miss Ravensport of Drighton, Malsworth, and Illestrad spent more of her meeting thirsting for Mr. Estrova than the wine she wanted to import. Never before have I seen eyes that cold or a rejection that quick. The poor girl is probably still crying. Though with her looks and her father’s fortune, I am sure a suitable match will be found.
Lastly, though I will always cherish your ever unique advice, please refrain from writing things like: “get the money before you give up the goods.” Despite what may be said about me, I am a servant, not a succubus. Furthermore—
As the hall clock chimed three in the morning, blood-shot eyes looked up from the letter. Heavy lids drifted closed before popping open again. With a sigh, you flipped off the light.
“Oh, forget it. I will finish this in the morning.”
Mealtimes at Graveborn were an odd affair. While breakfast was served to the master at exactly whenever he felt like waking up that day, gods above save the servant who was late to lunch. Alex Slater, the undercook, did not hover over a hot stove all morning to have ungrateful diners show up tardy. If one survived his lecture, then one faced Ellsworth. At that point, the only option was to politely beg the Dark One to take you below before the butler got hold of you.
As the hall clock chimed half-past twelve, you hustled down the long corridor to the kitchen. Before you could knock, the door pushed open from within. Out from the room swung a bear of a man with a deep tan and a tall mohawk.
“Oh! Sorry there!” Barnard Miller, the manor’s chef, exclaimed with a rowdy laugh. “Didn’t realize you were standing so close!”
The undercook glanced up from the stove. As always, his double-breasted coat was a crisp bleached white. “Serves her right. She should have said something,” he stated, stirring the pot. With a firm rap on the side of the copper cookware, he glared at the short distance between you and his mentor. Brown eyes narrowed. “Rude to just barge on in.”
“Mr. Slater is right,” you agreed with a nervous chuckle. “It is rude of me not to announce myself.”
Cook removed a long white cane with three horizontal stripes from the wall hook. He patted your shoulder and wagged a meaty finger. “Don’t be worried about that, missus. Every day that you come here early and set the table is a day that I don’t have to.”
“I am the maid after all,” you replied. “It is a part of my duties.”
“Still, it gives me more time for my midday constitutional.” He loosed a throaty chuckle and playfully slapped your shoulder. With that, he strode out the door, sweeping the corridor with his stick as he made his way to the bathroom.
“I hate it when you call me that.”
You turned to face your remaining companion. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m fourteen,” he grumbled, adjusting the flame. “It’s stupid for a woman who’s older than me to call me ‘Mr. Slater.’ Sounds like you’re just kissing up.”
You smiled. “You are correct again, Alex. I am sorry if I caused offense.”
“Good.” He waved his hand at the food. “Now, either be useful or get out.”
You ducked around the butcher’s block island in the center of the room and grabbed the handles of the rolling cart. When you first learned that the chef was blind, you wondered how he could arrange the food so beautifully. As it turned out, Mrs. Norton created a textured, symmetrical bone china set just for him. It contained eight wide ivory blocks that were interspersed with platinum stripes. Lotus petals were etched in dotted filigree. Cook used these marks to plate his meals like a clock. The hearty potato wedges sat at five, the flawless sunny side eggs were at six, and the golden brown toast points lay at seven. Alex was left to place the porridge, fruit, and sausages.
Like his mentor, Alex pressed the meat with the spatula, checking to see if it was cooked through. The undercook insisted that the sound of the sizzle and sponginess of texture were more accurate than just looking at the juices. You watched him with a fond smile, secretly suspecting he wanted to mimic Cook in every way possible.
“Why are you gawking at me like some stupid owl?” Alex demanded.
Best not to say anything. He would probably run you through with the kitchen knife if you told him he was precious.
“I am waiting on the meats.” You nodded to the stack of bowls in the wash sorter. “Would you like me to ladle out the porridge?”
“If it’ll please you,” he grumbled, rotating the links. “Just don’t misplace anything. Cook needs things in proper order.”
“Of course,” you replied, dishing out the lumpy oats.
When the cart clattered into the servant’s hall, Lyle was already seated on the end of the bench. He leaned into the smooth oak and waved at you as you walked in.
“Thanks for the tip about the mold,” the mechanic said. “The grout in the shop bathroom doesn’t look so terrible now.”
You passed him his plate. “Just make sure to open the windows next time. The bleach will burn your nostrils.”
“Right,” he groaned, flopping his cheek into the varnish.
You shook your head before nodding to his left side. “How is your leg?”
Lyle rolled up his pants, revealing an angry red sore on the outside of his short knee. He flexed the limb and winced. “The vacuum suction helps keep the prosthetic better attached, but the edge of the brace is rubbing something foul.”
“Did the nylon stocking inside the sleeve help at all?”
He shook his head. “A little but not enough, I’m afraid.” Calloused hands cupped the worn flesh. “I think I need to make a double layer. Something with more give on the edges and a hard brace to hold the shape.”
“What about calfskin?”
“Worth a shot.” He wrinkled his freckled nose. “Full grain chafes, though. Dunno how Reeves stands having that shoulder holster strapped on him all day.”
You mentally added that to the list of questions about the causally bizarre Mr. Reeves. It could come right after: “why would a footman need a jackknife in both boots when he carried a switchblade in his pocket?”
“Speak of the Dark One, and he shall cometh!” a cheerful voice quipped from the door.
“Mr. Reeves!” You glanced at the clock. Only two minutes left. “What brings you here on time?”
Reeves plopped onto the bench beside Lyle and wrapped his arm around the younger man’s shoulders. Grinding his knuckles into ruddy curls, Reeves flashed you a sparkling grin. “Can’t be late all the time, can I? I’d ruin my reputation for spontaneity.”
“Get off!” Lyle protested, digging the heel of his palm into the brunette’s cheek.
Reeves loosened his grip and folded his hands behind his head. “Try a moleskin liner. Helps cut down on the chafing.”
The redhead shoved Reeves’s shoulder. “Oh, and you’re such an expert.”
Reeves tutted, wagging his finger back and forth. “Nope, just know a lot of soldiers. Moleskin or nothing, so says my friend Jim.”
The young man sneered and thrust his pointer into Reeves’s chest. “You told me last week that Jim’s arm keeps popping off!”
Reeves smacked his fist into his palm. “Whoops! You’re right!” With the wave of a hand, he added: “Forget I said anything.”
“Wish I could forget everything you said,” Lyle shivered, rubbing his arms. “Promise me you’ll let Ellsworth or Cook give Alex ‘the talk.’ I still have nightmares about you and Mr. Sicarius going back and forth like a pair of ruddy cucklocks.”
“Mr. Watts.”
The air turned to ice. Three petrified faces rotated slowly to face the voice. Cook leaned on the door frame, gasping for air as he pounded the hardwood. In front of him, back straight and gloved hands neatly folded, Ellsworth was a towering force of poise and grace. Despite the serenity in his words, his dark eyes were fixed upon the freckled servant. Watts froze on the spot. Playing dead was his only defense.
With a flourish of his wrist, Ellsworth bent the young man’s ear. “Five drommands for using that language at the dining table.”
“It ain’t fair to short my pay for that when it ain’t even a word, Mr. Ellsworth!” the mechanic protested.
“No, it is not a word.” Ellsworth took a dignified sniff. “However, I can guess what it was supposed to be.”
Poor Lyle. Another few “five drommand” dockings and he would not even make a drossler for the whole week.
You bit your lip and turned back to the serving cart. Cook tapped the bench and the edge of Lyle’s wheelchair with his cane before wandering around the far side of the table. Reeves edged away from the scene, taking his plate from you with a fox’s grin.
As the clock chime whirled in the hall, Alex appeared in the door. Without a word, he rounded the cart and held out the plate of fresh sausages. There was a red, blistering rash crusted over his palms. When his eyes followed your gaze, he stiffened.
You took the dish without hesitation and looked up at his face. “Thank you, Alex.”
He turned his cheek and muttered: “You’re welcome.” Then, he bustled over to his place at Cook’s right hand. As he took his seat, he scratched the inside of the elbow through the sleeve of his shirt.
“Another flare-up?” Reeves asked. “I thought you just got the last one healed?”
Alex wrinkled his nose. “Allergic to the new soap too, I guess.”
“Ah…”
Ellsworth released Lyle’s ear and took his customary position at the head of the table. At the moment of the last bell, he sat in his chair and scooted in with one clean sweep. The other staff took their seats at the bench. You dished out the sausages before following suit.
Ellsworth closed his eyes and folded his hands together. “Let us bow our heads in a moment of clarity.”
You stood before your nemesis, clenching your weapon. The dull face gazed back, lifeless and tarnished by the oily evils of the flesh. Polish in hand, you attacked with the hatred of ten aching fingers. Steadily, the filmy beige gave way to gleaming silver. With a sneer, you shuffled back onto your haunches and crowed, “Not today, my worthy foe.”
The faucet said nothing in reply.
Your eyes fell to the filthy red ring in the bottom of the bath. Slathering another heap of paste on your rag, you wagged a finger at it. “Do not think I have forgotten you. I do not know from where you came, but your services are no longer required.”
The bone china basin you could forgive. Unlike the tap, it was only gaudy but not completely impractical. It scratched less than the carved stoneware most aristocrats preferred for their tubs. However, your master loved to lounge about in his long, scented baths like a cat before a fireplace. Between the salt and the humidity, the facet’s silver tarnished within a few short days. Clearly, he only purchased the fixtures for the bragging rights that came with maintaining something so impractically ostentatious.
As the grit at the bottom of the tub yielded to your rage, you glared at the jars scattered around the altar of vanity. Hues from coral to amethyst crafted a devious membrane which would stain even the most excellent vitrified finish. Beside them, oils of peony, lilac, and rose taunted you with flowery proclamations of capricious spending. A thumb-sized bottle was worth a year’s salary. These were as long as your forearm. Whenever you moved them, your hands shook.
Burning knees and shooting aches in your spine protested your hunched posture. You stretched your elbows behind your shoulder and rolled your neck. A satisfying crack made you sigh with relief. Pain postponed, you searched the gleaming white surface for any sign of your quarry. There, at the corner nearest the wall, you spotted the fiend. Its rosy crust screamed a challenge as surely as an ape beating its chest. Your eyes flashed as you raised your rag. All at once, you lunged over the cusp of the bath, a violent sneer pulling tight over your teeth. Your hips collided with the porcelain. One hand gripped tight to the edge of the basin while the other stretched to reach the corner.
“Your enthusiasm is charming.”
Your fingers slipped, sending you headfirst into the hard ceramic. The resounding “thunk” was accompanied by grey spots at the edges of your vision. Hissing pain rushed through clamped teeth. You scrambled to right yourself but could not. There was no grip to be had on the smooth edges. Curse your polishing skills! This was a disaster of your own making!
Large hands reached under your arms and lifted you aloft. Your skin flushed hot as long fingers gripped at the side of your breasts. Sicarius set you upon the floor and gracefully draped himself along the lip of the bath.
“Are you all right? That was quite a clunk.”
Unable to speak, you blinked at him like an addled-brained pile of mush.
His hand reached out to touch the crown of your head. You winced as he found the bruise. He smiled. Soft fingers stroked a stray strand of hair back into place. The tickle of his nails at the edge of your scalp sent goose pimples rippling down your skin.
“I will have Reeves bring you some ice. Wait here a moment.”
Bristling with discomfort, you stammered out, “I-I am fine!”
Sicarius gave you a raised brow and a cynical stare. “You will obtain no praise for martyrdom in this house.”
Your hands balled into your thighs. Through gritted teeth and watery eyes, you replied, “Yes, Master.”
His thumb traced the shell of your ear. “Did you know you hiss when you are startled?”
“I do what?”
He retracted his hand and leaned back on his perch. “Like a kitten. It is rather endearing.”
Skin sizzling with shame, you leapt to your feet. “I think I will go get that ice. Please excuse me.”
A deep chuckle chased you from the bathroom.
Later that evening, you hovered behind your master’s desk. The note he left crumpled in your cold grip. Deep inhales and slow exhales were the only things keeping you from screaming. There, written in a tidy scrawl, was a single taunting instruction:
Read me something about cats.
That man was testing you.
With an exasperated sigh, you stalked down the hall. As you passed by the east stairs, you heard the clicking of metal teeth. Lyle’s chair descended down the gear lift. With a proud grin, he pointed to his seat. Unlike the rattling disaster it was last week, the magnetic clamps were well sealed on the bolt pegs. He must have adjusted it again.
Pushing the lever arm to hasten his journey, he waved a friendly greeting. “Ma’am! Ma’am!” the young man called. “Are you going to the library t—?”
One look at your thunderous expression sent his words writhing into silence. Slowly, so as not to attract your ire, he pulled the lever back. The chair arced around one click at a time. As soon as he was facing the other way, the gear lift whisked him back up the stairs.
You pushed the doors to the library open and closed them with a snap. There, stretched over the long sofa, was Sicarius. A book in one hand and his cheek in the other, he never even looked up. You were grateful. Your mask was slipping.
Turning to the natural sciences section, your hand trailed over the spines on the lower shelves. Walrus. Weather. Windmills. Wine. More wine. An empty gap. More wine. Wombats. Clearly, what you sought was not here.
You stretched to your tiptoes. Feathers. Fungi. Still not there. It must be further up.
You took a few steps back and craned your neck, pointer finger skipping from subject to subject. Aardvarks. Ants. Bears. Berries. General Biology. Birth. Botany. Calamondins. Wait, calamondins!? That was an oddly specific subject. How much would anyone want to know about one citrus fruit?
Rich people certainly were odd.
You inhaled sharply as your eyes fell upon the next subject. Aha! Cats! Right there at the— Oh… That was rather high.
You scanned the room. The ladder was all the way over by languages and customs. With a frown, you walked to the far end of the library. As you passed the couch, blue eyes stayed trained on their reading.
Grasping the ladder, you began the arduous task of relocation. Despite being well oiled, there were multiple places where the vile tracks got caught.
“Come on, friend,” you whispered into the metal. “Move along.”
Resentment and resolve heaved your unwilling ally to the field of battle. By the time you clanged back to the reference texts, your armpits were damp with perspiration.
With a yawn and a stretch, Sicarius rose from his seat. As you shoved the ladder into place, he appeared at your side. In his hand was a book on Kestania’s wine region. He rapped on the brass bars. “I asked Lyle to have a look at that this afternoon. Have you seen him?”
You stiffened. “Yes, but he was heading in the opposite direction.”
“Ah. Well. One cannot rush genius, I suppose.” Sicarius nodded to the top of your head. “How is your wound?”
“It is a little tender, but Cook assures me I will make a full recovery.”
“Splendid.” Your master squatted down at your left and pushed his book back into its slot. As he hummed to himself, you glanced from the ladder to him and then down at your skirt. His lips mouthed a children’s rhyme as his index finger bounced back and forth between the other two wine-based texts. Your brow furrowed, but you elected to say nothing.
Grasping your hem, you pulled it to your leg and started your ascent one rung at a time. Up past M, L, K, and J, you climbed. When your heel reached even with F, you stretched out your empty hand. Fingertips barely brushed the binding. You took one step higher.
Clink!
All at once, your world spiraled backward in a gut-wrenching rush of adrenaline. A hiss of pain flew from your mouth as your ankle slammed into a metal rung. Nausea coursed up your throat, and you prepared to hit the ground. Instead, you collided with something warm and firm.
“I am about to call my insurance company to take out a policy on you.”
When you realized who was holding you, the feel of his hands on your thighs made you throb with humiliation. You turned your cheek, pretending to examine the ladder. A bolt was missing. The step swung loose in the air.
Sicarius hitched you higher in his grip. A stab of pain shot up your leg. You tried to move your limb but rocking the ankle only brought more agony.
He frowned. “Are you all right?”
You grimaced. “I think I twisted my ankle.”
The master walked off towards the center of the room. You gripped his jacket, hiding your face as best you could. When he reached the sofa, he laid you down and took a seat beside you. You shuffled away from him, but he consumed every bit of space you gave up. The edge of his hip pressed against yours as he untied the laces of your heels. He tugged the shoe off, setting it gently on the floor. The tight nylon of your stocking only accentuated the swelling. Sicarius pulled at the sheer fabric.
“We need to take this off before it gets worse.”
You sat up, trying to grip the silky hosiery through your long uniform. It slipped from your fingers. You wrinkled your nose and tried again. The fiendish fabric tented for only a moment before it snapped out of your grip. This would be easier if you could lift your skirt but not in front of—
All at once, your master’s hands crawled under the hem of your dress.
“What are you doing!?” you demanded.
“As I said: taking this off before it is too tight to remove.”
You scrunched your face and shoved at his arms. “I can do it myself!”
“Clearly not.”
His hands rounded the side of your knee. Long fingers slithered up your thigh. Your breathing became a panicked series of tight inhales.
Sicarius gripped the edge of your stocking and slipped his hands below the fabric. Smooth skin glided down your bare flesh. He peeled the clothing away with a suspicious lack of haste. The palms of his hands caressed your calf before dancing down to the injured joint.
Blood pounded through your veins like the beat of a drum. It was as if his hand was coiled around your heart, not your hosiery. When warm fingers tapped your injured ankle, your breath caught in your throat.
“This may hurt some.”
He palpated the edges of your bones, carefully squeezing from your shin to your toes. As tender touches rolled down your leg, your stomach flopped.
“There does not seem to be any lasting damage,” he stated, lifting his hands. “I am glad.”
Deep in the cockles of a long-numbed heart, there was a feeling too blatant to ignore. Eyes the color of aquamarine locked onto yours. Entrancing facets cast their spell, leaving your brain in a fog. Your tongue clenched tight to the roof of your mouth before any words could escape.
His voice was soft. “Are you going to keep falling like this?
Your chest spasmed. The trance broke. Balling your hands into the sofa, you whipped your head away. “I am not doing this intentionally,” you muttered.
Sicarius examined your embarrassed expression before humming with satisfaction. He rose to his feet and strolled to the intercom near the door.
“Lyle, when you come down, bring some ice.” Sicarius’s smirk was sinful. “Our maid has had another accident and it has left her rather bothered.”