Heat Season – Day 14 of 91, 48th Year of Creipus the Pious
Five days before the wedding, you were unsure you would survive Ellsworth’s estate management lessons long enough to say your vows.
“When hiring a tradesman, as a woman, you must assume he will attempt to cheat you. For example, paying more than five drossler per room to a redecorator is absurd. Obtaining multiple price quotes will help, but I strongly recommend taking Mr. Watts to any negotiations as he—”
As Ellsworth prattled on, your eyes started to cross. You bit your tongue, trying to straighten out the list of monthly expenses before you. Piles of words jumped in and out of focus: liquor merchant, greengrocer, fishmonger, butcher, jeweler, laundress, medical supplies, fromager, sharpshooters, steam-ore, car—
Wait a moment. Sharpshooters!?
“Mr. Ellsworth?” You held up the ledger. “What is this line item?”
“Oh, that.” Ellsworth nodded his head to the window. The cloudless sky was a bright sunny blue. By comparison, the deep forest at the edge of the lawn looked like a carpet of shadows. “When the original Gravelorne nobles’ debts grew too great, they could not afford their hunting dogs. Selling them would be dishonorable, so they elected to release them into the foothills. Thanks to their foolishness, there is a pack of ferals that makes its home in the pines. Once a year, we hire some hunters to thin them out.”
“Thin them out?” Your throat tightened. “You mean—”
“If we do not tend to them, they spread the madness disease,” Ellsworth explained. “Some will be stricken dumb and die quietly, but others become furious and lash out. It is not a risk we can afford.”
You shuddered. In an old medical book of Professor Campbell’s, there had been two images of a man with madness disease. Clapped in irons, his bulging eyes stared out of the pages and into your soul. In the first image, frothing drool sputtered from his spasming throat as he tried to swallow a small cup of water. The next shot showed the cup lying spilled in his lap. His face was contorted in agony. A single line below the twin pictures read:
In the later stages of hydrophobia, patients will beg for water but cannot drink.
Ellsworth watched your protests fade into heart-wrenching silence. He crossed his arms behind his back and turned to face the window. “Fifteen years ago, before Mr. Sicarius owned Gravelorne, a stray puppy entered the town at the foot of the hills. It was an adorable creature with long soft ears and button black eyes. You can imagine how the village children felt about it.”
Your stomach clenched like you had swallowed burning oil.
Ellsworth’s silhouette cast a deep shadow across the desk. “Adults know that the madness is incurable, and that a swift bullet is a kindness to the afflicted. Children do not understand these things. When it grew sick and began to bite, they hid the animal, fearing their parents would kill it. It died of the madness and took fourteen of them with it.”
An icy tremble rippled up your arm. “Can not all warm-blooded creatures also catch the madness disease?”
Ellsworth nodded.
“Then, what of Lemon and the other cats?”
“Unlike the skittish feral dogs, cats like Lemon allow us to vaccinate them. The village dogs and livestock are also protected by our master’s order.” He pointed to a line item at the bottom of the list, which read: “medical supplies.”
Your hands curled into your lap. “So it is only the ferals then?”
“Yes.”
As the implications of the story rattled in your head, something Sicarius had told you months ago crept into your mind:
“Lemon’s colony was attacked when she was a kitten.”
“Is that what happened to Lemon’s family then?” you murmured
“Yes.” He turned back, examining the weary expression on your face. “Perhaps we should stop for today. We need to prepare for the dinner party.”
“Of course.” With a shaky inhale, you bowed your head. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Ellsworth. I know that this is not enjoyable for either of us.”
The butler’s lips twitched upwards. “At least you are more determined than Mr. Reeves.”
When the two of you reached the dining hall, Reeves’s arrangements for the evening guests were “underway.” The glossy mahogany table smelled like lemon oil. Jade napkin rings with Sicarius’s spider seal clenched the fan-folded serviettes. The footman himself was nearly crossed-eyed as he scrubbed the scalloped crevices of the large serving spoon. Vague mutterings of thinly veiled curses poured from his lips like water from a tap.
“Mr. Reeves.”
The footman jolted, a panicked expression on his face. “Oh! You two are done early?”
Ellsworth’s eyes swept across the half-assembled display. He pinched the broad bridge of his nose. “I had expected you to have completed this task by now.”
The footman stabbed his finger at the massive box of silverware. “Come on, Ellsworth! You can’t be serious!”
“There are only six guests this evening. It is hardly a large affair.” Ellsworth’s eyes narrowed. “You will need to become accustomed to your job again lest you bring embarrassment on our employers.”
Reeves looked at you, and a frown flitted across his lips. “Sorry, Mrs. Estrova.”
“It is all right,” you replied. “I am continuing my maid duties for a while, so you will have help.”
Ellsworth stiffened so swiftly you swore you heard his neck snap.
“Is something the matter?” you asked.
Lips drawn tight, Ellsworth stared at you. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “May I speak freely, Mrs. Estrova?”
“So long as I am wearing this, you are still my superior.” You lifted your apron. “I am not ‘Mrs. Estrova’ yet.”
Ellsworth massaged his temples. “Which is why I object to this situation. The lady of the house should not be doing a maid’s duties. The longer you persist in your old life, the harder it will be to conceal your habits.”
You hated that he was right. Imagine what the nobility would say if the mistress of the manor polished her own flatware. It would be the social scandal of the week! Still, standing in what was soon to be your dining room, your fingers ached to finish the place settings. Your eyes rolled over the mess, searching for a way to satiate your cleaning compulsion. At the far end of the table was an olpe vase made of dusty bone china. The white, hand-painted lilies that encircled its body resembled funeral bouquets.
“Mr. Ellsworth?”
“Yes, madam?”
You strode to the middle of the table and lifted the vase. Slick grey dust clung to the pads of your fingers. “Would arranging flowers be sufficiently lady-like?” you asked with a beaming smile.
Ellsworth froze. Reeves grinned and flashed you a thumbs up. The butler scowled at the footman. Then with a heavy sigh, he replied, “Yes, that is a habit of fine ladies.”
“Excellent!” You backed away from the pair, one step at a time. “Then I will handle this.”
Before anyone could protest, you darted into the hall.
“We shall get you properly clean,” you whispered to the vase.
Despite your reassurances, the vase seemed unimpressed.
As soon as the dining room door closed behind you, the oppressive tension in your neck began to relax. You sighed with relief and hitched your captive higher in your grip. Now… which sink to wash your victim in? Ah! Yes! The bathroom at the end of the hall had a deep bowl.
As you turned the corner, Alex stepped out of the toilet and caught sight of the object in your arms. The blood drained from his face. Bug-eyed, he pointed a shaking finger at the vase. “W-where did you find that!?” he demanded.
You looked from the teen to the china and back again. “The dining room. Is something the matter with it?”
Alex’s breathing turned into chest heaving panic. You set the vase down on the carpet runner and hurried to his side. As you reached him, the boy slumped to his knees. Veins bulged in his neck. He gasped for air. When you grabbed his hands, they were clammy and cold.
“Mr. Reeves! Mr. Ellsworth! Come quickly!” you shouted down the hall.
As if carried by wings, the footman flew to your aide. His arms enveloped the boy in a warm, gentle embrace. Reeves began to rub Alex’s back, murmuring soft and slow, “Alex, you will be fine. You are safe. She cannot harm you anymore. Sicarius saw to that.”
The undercook’s gaze remained fixed on the china. Dry, raspy croaks rattled from his mouth. Alex’s pulse hammered in your hands. His complexion had turned grey-blue. Wide pupils eclipsed the brown of his irises until he looked like a button eyed rag doll.
Silent as the grave, Ellsworth appeared. He looked at the scene before collecting the china. Then he vanished down the hall, taking the vase with him.
“Alex, listen to me,” Reeves continued. “You will not die. If you pass out, your body will take over your breathing unconsciously. You have no control over that. No matter what you do, you will live through this, okay?”
Alex’s stilted nod looked more like a tremor than an affirmative.
Reeves’s brows wrinkled, but his smile remained calm. He continued to rub soothing circles in the boy’s back. “Good kid. You’ll be fine. We’re going to wait this out together, okay? We’re right here.”
Tears spilled down Alex’s cheeks.
Down the corridor, you heard the hurried tapping of metal on wood. Cook burst around the corner as if he was pursued by a Shadowhound. “Alex? Alex, where are you, boy?”
“About ten strides up on the left side,” Reeves called.
Behind the chef, you caught a glimpse of Ellsworth’s tailcoat disappearing beyond the bend. Cook counted as his cane clacked on the floor. When he reached nine, he slowed and squinted at the group. Reeves loosed his hold on the teenager and tapped the cane with two fingers. Cook kneeled to the ground. Big, calloused hands climbed from Alex’s elbow to his arm.
“Dinner is on a simmer, so don’t get yourself all worked up.” Cook patted his apprentice’s shoulder. “Did you put the tarragon away for me?”
Alex’s breathing began to even. With trembling lips, he looked into Cook’s eyes. The thundering pulse slowed. Freezing fingers gripped your hand back. With one deep inhale, Alex replied, “Y-es.”
Cook broke out into a wide smile. “There’s a good lad. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
“The—” Alex gulped. “The vermouth—”
“Already reduced. Needs to cool before I can add the cream anyway.”
“M-ushrooms?”
Cook winked. “They are perfect. Wanna come see?”
“Yes,” Alex wheezed.
The chef’s ringing belly laugh filled the hall. As he leaned on his cane, a loud crack snapped from his back. “Reeves, help an old man up, would you?”
Reeves grabbed Cook’s hand and scooped under his shoulder. With a smooth heave, both men stood. Your toes tingled from kneeling so long. One leg at a time, you climbed to your feet. As you steadied yourself, Reeves helped Alex up.
Cook smirked and rapped his cane on the floor. “Well, with all you people hustling and bustling, I’m apt to smack someone in the shin before I can dodge ‘em.” He held out his arm. “Be my eyes for a moment, boy.”
Alex took his mentor’s arm and wrapped it over his own. Despite the fact that he was still shaking, the teen’s expression was smooth and determined. One step at a time, the pair walked towards the kitchen. Reeves tapped your shoulder and cocked his head towards the dining room. You trailed after him, casting quick glances back at the others.
“What just happened?” you whispered.
“I screwed up. That’s what happened.” The footman gripped his temples. “Sicarius said to use a container with white flowers. I just grabbed the first one I found. Totally forgot that it was Lady Milton’s vase.” Reeves groaned and smacked his forehead. “Stupid! The lilies should have been a dead giveaway!”
“Who is Lady Milton?”
Reeves paused with his hand hovering over the dining room door handle. A bead of sweat rolled down his brow.
“Lady Milton is Alex’s former employer.” Both of you jumped at the sound of Sicarius’s voice. He held the vase, his sharp eyes staring at the footman. “Garrick, Ellsworth requested your presence in the dining room.”
Reeves’s jaw clenched tight. His hand started to shake. “Yes, sir.”
As the door snapped shut, your fiancé turned back to you. “Thank you for taking care of Alex until Cook could come.”
A cold wave of guilt rolled through your veins. You shook your head. “Reeves did all the talking. I only held his hand.”
Sicarius took a step closer, taking your fingers in his. He pressed a soft kiss to your skin. “You know as well as I do that just having someone by your side can be enough to ease the pain.”
Worried eyes glanced back down the hall. “I still do not understand why that vase caused the boy that much panic.”
“I assume you never met the late Lady Milton?”
You shook your head.
Sicarius snorted. “Lady Milton was a client of mine for a time. She had only two loves: cleanliness and fine china. Alex was a hall boy in her home. You have seen his rash.”
“Yes?”
“It is not contagious. Merely an allergic reaction which must be managed,” Sicarius explained, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I was there the day Lady Milton first saw it. She thought the boy brought a disease into her home. In a rage, she attacked Alex. Her butler and I managed to get her off of him, but she broke his arm long before we could stop her.”
Your breath caught in your chest.
“I took my wares and Alex back to the townhouse and reported her to the police. Before they could arrest her, she disappeared. The authorities have not located her since.”
A numb cold prickled across your palm. “It is a pity she will never face justice for her actions.”
He cupped your cheek, stroking it with his thumb. “I would not worry. Her deeds no doubt caught up to her.”
“What will you do with the vase?”
Sicarius tucked the china under one arm and held out his hand. In the depths of his gaze, ego swirled with glee. “Let me show you.”
Sicarius guided you up the passage until you crossed the threshold onto black marble floors. Warm afternoon sun bounced off the aluminum leaf above, making the ceiling glow silver. As windswept clouds drifted away outside the great windows, stray beams caught the edges of the golden tree’s branches. The rough surface scattered the light into the air, making any floating dust sparkle like fireflies under a full moon.
Speaking of dust, was anyone ever going to tell you how to clean that gaudy thing without breaking it?
“Did you go to temple as a child?” Sicarius asked, leading you under the winding tendrils of the sculpture.
You snapped out of your frustrated thoughts. “Oh. Yes. Lady Horitage is very religious. She required it of all the servants and their families.”
He set the vase down on the edge of the artificial pond. “Then you must know what lives inside the Fae Tree?”
Without hesitation, you recited the famous lines from the Holy Text: “Before the modern era, the eternal fae treated mortal humans like play things. As punishment for their greed and cruelty, the gods locked the fae’s souls away in a golden tree, deep in the underbelly of the world.”
With a bright smile, Sicarius clapped. The sound echoed like gunshots in the open hall. “My Fae Tree is not guarded by Shadowhounds of course,” he explained, climbing over the railing onto the hard crystal waters. “However, I did ask the builders to make it as authentic as possible.”
Watching the man pick his way through the field of delicate jade and capiz was a nerve wracking affair. Every time his pant leg brushed the edges of the fragile flowers, your heart stopped. Somehow, he managed to make it to the base of the tree without breaking any. He caressed the bark, tracing a single seam between the ridges.
Click, whirr.
With barely a vibration, the glass shifted and split, leaving a smooth path to the center of the sculpture. On Sicarius’s right, at the end of the new passage, the tree itself parted to reveal a hollow compartment.
“Since the gods could put things inside their tree, I wanted mine to be capable of the same,” he explained patting the trunk. “Lyle helped with the mechanisms.”
You stared at the vase, still sitting on the edge of the pond. Despite all the movement, it was undisturbed. Your jaw dropped, eyes lighting with excitement. “That is incredible!”
His lips curled into a proud grin and pointed to the china. “Would you be so kind?”
Picking up the container, you walked up the path between the parted waters. When you reached the open hole, you peeked inside. Large enough to fit three grown men, the compartment filled the base of the tree. Lining the wide roots were a few remnants of chipped bowls and broken plates. In the center of the floor was a steel door with a large handle.
“Where does that go?” you asked, handing him the vase.
Sicarius set the china inside the sculpture. “Out to the Nortons’ cottage. I commissioned it during the reconstruction.” He winked at you. “All proper manor houses should have some secret passages, yes?”
“I fear I have read you too many novels,” you teased.
Sicarius shooed you back past the edge of the false water before pressing the hidden button again. With the same whisper quiet whirling, the statue shifted back to its proper place. Despite the movement, not a scratch marred the marble floor.
When Sicarius returned to your side, his eyes were brimming with anticipation. He clasped his hands. “So? Do you like it?”
A beaming grin broke out on your face. “Yes. Very much.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I knew you would.”
“There is one thing I do not understand.” You pointed to the tree. “Why keep the broken ones? You have enough china, do you not?”
“I am a bit sentimental,” he explained, slipping his arm around the back of your shoulders. Smooth as cream, he steered you towards the south lawn. “So… the bearded night irises are in bloom. Why don’t we go find some for the table?”
“Suddenly, you are free when you have been working all morning?” you asked, smirking at him. “Are you trying to make me forget that affair with Alex?”
“You wound me,” he declared with fake offense, resting one palm flat against his chest. “Can a man not spend time seducing his fiancée with flowers anymore?”
You stared at him from under a raised brow.
Sicarius laughed and tapped the tip of your nose. “Fine, you suspicious creature. I admit I am tired of paperwork.” Letting go of you, he stepped in front and swept into a ridiculous formal bow. “Allow me to use you as a distraction, my good woman.” He lifted his head and extended his hand out to you.
You weighed the choice for a moment. He was being so obvious in his efforts. A little sucking up here, a little razzle dazzle there, and then suddenly you would forget Alex’s terrified expression. Still, between what had transpired in the hall and Ellsworth’s horrifying story, the thought was not unwelcome…
“I know you are lying,” you told him, taking his hand.
“Do you now?” He wrapped your arm around his and placed a kiss on your temple. “Then why are you coming with me?”
You hummed and leaned into his shoulder. “Twice today I have heard stories that will give me nightmares.” A frown crossed your lips. “Honestly, after all that, I want to forget.”
Sicarius nuzzling your head. “You’ll enjoy the flowers,” he promised.
You sighed. “I just hope this evening is less trying.”
Within two hours, it was clear that this evening was not less trying.
Lady Wilford, the matriarch of the oldest titled family in Marinar, smacked her wrinkled lips as she polished off her fourth glass of expensive Beruché wine. “As I just told Lady Foster last week, good help can be so hard to find nowadays.”
Clasping your hands in front of your ruffled apron, it took all you had to stop your eyes from rolling.
“Quite so!” Lord Dankworth agreed, ruddy faced and wagging his fork in the air. “All these fiddly little girls with cotton stuffed heads trying for men’s work in the factories. It’s as if the world’s gone mad!” He turned to his wife. “Do you not agree, my dear?”
Beside the bombastic politician, the mousey Lady Dankworth nodded her head. She was a painfully young slip of a thing, all long bones and painted cheeks. There was a distinct lack of substance about her, both on her body and in her manner. Her perpetually doll-like expression was as empty as her thoughts. Fortunately, her husband preferred her that way.
On the opposite end of the table and political spectrum, Mrs. Westcott, leader of the Marinar suffragettes, dabbed the edges of her tight smile. With well-practiced poise, she flipped a few stray box braids behind her shoulder. “Really now. The way you two go on, one would assume that any woman who holds a job outside of housewife or housekeeper was destined for the brothels.”
“That is wholly unfair.” Lord Dankworth’s scoffing laugh rippled across his belly. “I have never spoken a word against governesses.”
As only one half the table erupted in laughter, your teeth clenched. In stiff silence, you made your way to your master’s side and refilled his tisane. The steaming heat of the chamomile was nothing compared to the burn deep within your gut.
Lord Dankworth shook his finger. “Look at what happened to the Hunts! They let their precious little girl go sailing, and poof!” He clapped his hands. “Next thing they know, she’s gone missing. I tell you, no daughter of mine will be doing something so dangerous!”
Sicarius sipped his drink. “It is fortunate then that you have only sons.”
“Quite so!” Dankwoth agreed, slapping his own thigh.
Mrs. Westcott gripped her napkin tight with her scarred hands. “I do not see the harm in allowing women to stand beside their men. The war proved that both sexes were capable of performing under gunfire.”
Dankworth stabbed the table with his pasty finger. “Yes, but that was war, and this is now. Things are back to normal. Women should return to their proper places in the home.”
Mrs. Westcott looked up the table to her husband. With a slow nod, he set down his drink and folded his hands. “I say, Dankworth,” Captain Westcott pointed out, “it is rather bad form to infantilize half the population.”
The ever-opinionated Lady Wilford grinned into her glass. “I am sure the fact that you married your nurse has not affected your opinion in the least.”
Sicarius’s shoulders shook once before a well-timed cough hid the laugh. You took two steps back from the table and held your breath.
The captain lifted his dimpled chin and stared down at the stubby society dame from under thin blonde brows. “Unlike some, I am not too proud to change my opinion when I am proven wrong.”
The lady scoffed and waved her hand. It was freshly tanned from her recent trip to the sunny southern isles. “A joke, my dear man. It was merely a joke.”
“A joke rather requires others to find it funny, does it not?” Mrs. Westcott remarked coolly, her thick lips pursing.
Sicarius’s grin was as wide as the nude painting on his wall. “My goodness, what a spirited debate.”
“And what is your opinion, Mr. Estrova?” Darkworth insisted.
Sicarius folded his hands in front of his face. “That a good companion is as precious as a fine gem.”
The ring on your keycord scraped against your breast.
“Agreed!” Darkworth declared, pushing a lock of his wife’s silky hair behind her ear. “Women should be properly molded, polished, and then kept safe like any other valuable.”
“But Lord Dankworth, you have left out one thing.”
“Have I?”
Sicarius closed his eyes and chuckled. “The finest gemstones are prized precisely because they can cut as well as be cut. To forget that would be a grave error indeed.”
Lord Dankworth paused, staring at his host over thick, round frame glasses. As a bead of sweat rolled down his red face, he turned slowly to his young wife. She looked up at him with the button-eyed bemusement of a toy poodle confronted with calculus. He breathed a sigh of relief.
On the other end of the table, Mrs. Westcott’s eyes rolled away. The creeping smile on her face spread like ivy up a wall, threatening to tear off the last of her crumbling façade. The captain took a bite of his ganache cake and said nothing. He could barely chew through the stifled laughter.
Lady Wilford lowered her glass and raised a greying eyebrow. “Upon my word Mr. Estrova, you make it sound as if all women are lurking about waiting to tear their husbands to pieces.”
“Not at all, my dear lady. I said ‘companion,’ not woman.” He smirked into his cup. “I find good men capable of the same.”
She huffed. “It rather defeats the purpose of polite society if we start behaving like vicious animals.”
Sicarius’s blue eyes flashed. “Lady Wilford, you know as well as anyone that the right society can be both polite and vicious.”
Mrs. Westcott and Lady Wilford sized each other up across the table. Both wore narrow eyes and a knowing smile.
“So what do you recommend, then?” The often silent Lord Wilford asked, leaning into the table. “That we all go out and acquire partners that bite? Hardly seems domestic at all.”
“I find a pleasing relationship more like taming than domestication,” Sicarius stated.
For the first time all evening, Lady Dankworth’s tiny voice escaped her mouth. Her head cocked this way and that, trying to process words far too large for its capacity. “Taming? Domestication?”
“Fear not, Lady Dankworth.” Your fiancé extended his hand to you. “My maid was assistant to Professor Campbell. I am certain she can give you the definition.”
As all attention in the room turned to you, a burning heat engulfed your cheeks. Sicarius grinned. You curled your fingers into a fist to keep them away from his throat. With a cough, you explained:
“Domestication is a generations-long process in which a species is bred to a specific desired trait or personality. It is a purposeful genetic modification that leaves the target species unique from their wild counterparts. Taming refers to making existing creatures tractable to the presence of humanity. A tame animal is still wild and while friendly, may exhibit wild behaviors.”
“Much like the professor himself,” Sicarius joked.
This time, you could not conceal your grin. “Yes, Master.”
Lady Wilford huffed. “Having been to a dinner party with the late professor, I can not disagree.”
“Does that make more sense, my dear?” Lord Dankworth asked his wife. “Domestication takes longer but produces more consistent results. It’s a matter of breeding.”
The young woman’s eyes flickered to life for the briefest moment at the word “breeding.” Her voice was barely a whisper: “Ah. I see.”
As you watched Lady Dankworth return to her sea cucumber like state, you were suddenly grateful not to be a purpose-bred lady.
“Well,” Sicarius rose from his seat. “Shall we retire to the parlor for some drinks and cards?”
“Oh yes!” Lady Wilford replied, rubbing her hands. “Gin and gin rummy would do nicely.”
Sicarius waved his manservant over. “I’m sure Ellsworth can accommodate you.”
Ellsworth looked like he would rather accommodate a sharp pike up his anus. Lips pressed into a thin line, he opened the door of the dining room and ushered the guests towards the front parlor. As you began to trail after them, a large hand caught your elbow.
“Go take your nap, kitten,” your fiancé purred in your ear. “This dinner has been rather stimulating. Once the guests are in bed, I will need you tonight.”
You shivered. “Of course, Master.”