Section One, Part Two
In the five or so hours before Alastaros had to be back in the kitchen to take Cyprus his lunch, he’d completed enough chores to fill a short novel. He had brushed the dust from all of Eleanor’s potted plants, checked all of the mirrors in bathrooms twice for smudges or stains, cleaned the spice rack in the pantry, decorated the largest archway in the front of the mansion with winterbuds from the garden, dusted off all of the bookshelves and cards table on the third floor, fluffed the pillows in the guest room and fussed with the bedspread, glazed rolls with honey for lunch to satisfy Eleanor’s sweet tooth, placed homemade candles all throughout the dining hall that he reminded himself to later light for ambiance, polished the golden vases for that night’s flower arrangement, started a dough for the berry-filled pastry his khastas and their guest would have for dessert, swept several rugs, tidied the entryway over and over again, and tucked several sweetly-scented beads subtly into every pair of curtains except those in the rooms of the servants. When he finally got his hands back on the cart he’d had earlier that morning—which had been freshly polished, of course, because having it go between two meals without a nice cleansing would be an absolute travesty—his clothes stuck to his sweat-damp skin and the dull soreness in his hip had grown into a red-hot, fiery pain that overwhelmed him more and more with every step. His face wasn’t looking good, either. It was a miracle that Cyprus had missed his eye, but his cheek was bruised, tender, and swollen. Every time he passed another servant, they took one glance at him and instantly looked away. He wasn’t offended by it. Hardly a day went by that one of them wasn’t in a similar way, and they’d developed a sort of code to deal with it: don’t stare, and definitely don’t say a word. If they did and were caught, they might end up the same way.
Alastaros started out of the room but stopped when he noticed that there were two trays on the cart. He looked around helplessly for an explanation. The only other person in the kitchen was the same female servant as earlier. She’d finished his berry pastries and was sprinkling them with powdered sugar. When she saw him, she drew near to him.
“They’re both in Cyprus’s room,” she murmured, touching him on the arm. He nodded his thanks and went up the stairs straightaway. This time, somebody actually opened the door when he knocked.
“Oh, it’s about ti- goodness, what happened to you?” Eleanor stared at him in utter dismay. Cyprus, who was seated at his desk with papers before him and a quill in hand, eyed him. His face was unreadable.
He ducked his head to avoid meeting their eyes. “I acted out this morning and was reasonably punished for my transgressions.”
She whirled around to face her brother, causing the huge skirt of her white dress to puff outwards. “You did this to him?”
“You heard him. He acted out. What was else I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know, but this is ridiculous. We’re having a guest! Does this look presentable to you?” To emphasize her point, she seized Alastaros by the chin and gestured wildly. Her fingers were icy and her nails dug painfully into the wound. It was all he could do to keep from crying out. “It’s so swollen! He’s ugly enough to put off anyone’s appetite!”
“Please, Eleanor, don’t be unreasonable. It’s Nikolai. You know his reputation as well as I do. He’ll probably be thrilled to see us—ah, what was it?—‘disciplining them’ like Uncle taught us to.“
She pushed her servant away finally with a sniff. “I guess. Still, you couldn’t have done it anywhere else? Under his clothes, perhaps?”
“Listen, if it bothers you that much then we can lock him away in his room until it heals,” he sighed. A drop of ink slid off his quill and stained the back of his hand without him noticing.
“No, no, you’re probably right. Nikolai is big on this sort of thing, and we do want to keep him in good spirits.” Her sharp gaze slid over his face once more. “You do look absolutely grotesque, though. Keep your head turned away from me.”
He did as she asked, naturally, before pushing the cart forward into the center of the room.
“Really? I think it’s rather becoming,” Cyprus teased. He drummed his fingers on his desk and grinned wildly. “I’d even say it’s an improvement.”
Although he didn’t intend to do so, he couldn’t stop himself from gritting his teeth. The beatings were bad; the taunting was equally so.
“What do you think, garrhas?”
“I think it was a rightful punishment to correct my unforgivable behavior.”
“Yes, I know that. But how do you think it looks?”
“I think… I don’t…” Color flooded his cheeks—or, rather, what was visible of them. Eleanor giggled at him, and Cyprus only smiled wider. His stomach twisted. “If I think if I were to say anything about it,” he started again, choosing his words carefully, “I’d say that it is not the most unsightly I’ve ever been. I thank you graciously for not doing worse, khasta.”
“See? Look. One little bruise and they’ll be as loyal as a dog. Actually, you know what? That’s not a half bad idea. You’d make a decent bitch, wouldn’t you, garrhas? You already have the collar for it.”
“Cyprus-“ his sister began. He cut her off by standing suddenly. Like a beast of prey, he strode forward proudly and marked his victim by looping a finger through the metal ring around his neck.
“You’d do anything we asked, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, khasta,” he mumbled.
“I’d like to hear you say it.”
He was so close that eye contact was inevitable. Alastaros squeezed his eyes shut.
“Say it!”
“I’ll do anything you ask, khasta.”
“Cyprus!” The quiet shuffling of a skirt brushing the ground filled the room. “That’s quite enough. If you keep messing around then our food will get cold, and I’m starving.”
The knuckle that’d been digging into the space between collarbones slid away. He only opened his eyes when he heard the scraping of a chair. Cyprus, apparently already over his little game, was eating his lunch and scribbling out a letter. His sister looked bored. She plucked a honey roll and nibbled at it delicately. He didn’t bother trying to find any pity for him in her made-up eyes. He’d lost hope of getting her on his side long ago. Like brother, like sister. She wasn’t nearly as cruel as he was, and honestly not half as clever, but she still did have a mean streak to her. A tiny gasp escaped his lips as his hip throbbed. That was right. It’d been her cane that’d given him that wound, after all.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked disgustedly.
There was that twist of nausea again. He hadn’t missed it in the slightest. “Nothing at all, khasta. My deepest apologies. Please, continue your meal.”
Her dark eyebrows pinched together. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I didn’t mean to do so. I apologize once more.”
“Stop apologizing already and just leave us be. Your voice is grating on my nerves.”
Listening to Cyprus always wore him out. In just the one conversation alone, his khasta had been both downright furious and curious, pleased and malicious, and now he was acting like he’d been forced to take part in a particularly boring chat.
“As you wish, khasta. What do you wish for me to do with the cart?”
“Leave it, I’ll call someone up later.”
“Alright.” He opened the door as quietly as possible, making sure the hinges didn’t squeak, and started to step through it only to be stopped by the young man’s voice once more—
“Oh, and garrhas?”
“Yes, khasta?”
“Woof.”
That was about all Alastaros could take. He managed to get about halfway down the stairs before he started to sob. Silently, of course, and without tears. Whimpers could be heard and tear tracks seen. All of the servants in the mansion had discovered rapidly that crying would not be tolerated, so they’d learned how to do so without paying the price in blood. He bit back a scream by literally biting down hard on his fist, stumbled down the last few steps, and darted for his room. The second his door was closed behind him, he snatched up his pillow and opened his mouth wide to let loose all of the rage that’d been festering inside of him. All that came out was a shuddering gasp that lasted for over a minute. During it, his hands, lungs, and legs shook like he’d been left out in the snow.
And then, just as soon as his fit had come on, it was over. He felt hollow and very, very tired. All he wanted was to crash into his bed and have some sweet dreams for once, but he knew he couldn’t waste more time. Dinner needed preparing, and there was still a handful of chores he needed to wrap up before Nikolai arrived. He rolled over to the side of the bed and let his feet thud onto the ground. Standing was hard but not as impossible as it’d seemed.
The hearty aroma of roasting meat filled the hallway to the kitchen. He padded towards it slowly, hand back on his hip, and found two servants in the kitchen: the same girl he’d seen multiple times—she was fancily frosting the pastries—and a guy whose name could’ve been Pierce that appeared to have just finished up putting the last of the main dishes on the fire pit to cook. As soon as he did so, he grabbed a sponge from one of the cabinets and a homemade soap and scurried off to who-knows-where.
He went back to read their orders for the day and found that everything was either finished or in the process of becoming so except for the vegetables that would be served as an appetizer. That was good, he‘d gladly handle that. Preparing food usually didn’t require that much movement, and he could snatch something small to eat in between cooking times since the only thing he’d eaten that morning had been a stale hunk of bread.
When he moved over to the spice rack—which he was glad he’d organized earlier—to start generating ideas, he found that the servant girl was awfully close to where he needed to be. She slid past him to grab a container of edible luster powder and, as she went by, said under her breath, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” he mumbled back. If anyone had been looking—which they weren’t, luckily, not another soul was in the room but one could never be too cautious—they would’ve assumed he was talking to himself. He kept his focus on the wall and didn’t dare risk a glance her way.
“I should’ve offered to take him this morning. He’s alright to me.”
“Your hand says otherwise.”
“What…” She exhaled and walked by him again. “What did he do?”
“Besides this?” He pretended to idly scratch the bruise. “Called me his d- d-“ The word wouldn’t leave his throat. He coughed into his elbow and ignored the burning in his eyes. “His dog.”
“Goodness.”
No more words were shared after that. They’d said all that needed to be said. Neither one could do anything about what’d happened, not if they treasured the skin on their backs, and besides, there was still a fair amount of cooking left to be done while the others shined up the floors a last time and set up cozy fires in the hearths.
Speaking of fires, he really did need to get to cooking. The recipe he wanted to prepare floated up in his mind’s eye. When he’d first come to the mansion three years prior, the only thing he’d known how to do properly was cook. His own mother had started teaching him how to make a decent meal when he was about five. Fourteen years later, he was still excellent at it. Hundreds of recipes and tips were forever stuck in his head. Cleaning would always be his least favorite task; it was rivaled only by gardening simply because of his ineptness at it. Whatever he tried to grow usually ended up dead within that same week. But hand him a few spices, a stove, and a bucket of ingredients and he became someone truly special—truly worth paying attention to, and not because of the blossoming blue mark on his jaw. It gave him comfort to know that he was good at something, at least. He told himself, as he had many times before, that it didn’t matter if he was good-looking if he could make a good meal. Someone would appreciate his food eventually, surely. The mental image chipped away a sliver of his bad mood. It didn’t matter if they hated him. They’d always hated him. He could do something they could never dream of, after all.
And now it was time to prove it. He dove into the pantry to pull out all of the items he’d need to whip up something tasty, like mushrooms, peppers, tomatoes, garlic, diced roots, three or four spices, olives and olive oil, parsley, and, after thinking for a moment, a handful of other ingredients to help create a nice broth.
Onto the stove it all went in a large cast-iron pan. He’d show them. Just like the vegetables, he was simmering. Around and around his spatula went like the anger swirling inside of him. He’d make them regret their cruelty. He’d make a meal so good they’d weep.
Something broke him free from his internal rant. It hit him in an instant. That scent was familiar. He inhaled it slowly, savoring it, and closed his eyes dreamily. How had he not recognized it before? This really was one of his mother’s recipes, not one of his own. It was one she made often, too, because they lived next to a family that owned a vegetable patch. They gladly traded their produce at least once a week for a hot, tasty free meal. His anger faded away. He missed his family more than anything, especially his mother. Her hugs were always so comforting. He could picture himself snug in her arms after a bad day. For about the eightieth time that afternoon, he could feel tears threatening to spill onto his cheeks. Reluctantly, he forced another image to fill his head, someone he’d already pictured that day: Lovey. He imagined she was there with him, her hand on the small of his back, pushing him to do his best so that he’d avoid both, literally and metaphorically, getting burned.
Wait.
Burned?
He fell hard back to reality and looked upon the dish he’d been crafting in horror.
No. No, no, no. He couldn’t have burned it, because if he burned it then that would mean he’d get punished again, and he couldn’t do that, not again, he couldn’t-
“Get a grip,” he scolded himself, lips trembling, and put his hands on his hips. His brain kicked into top gear. So, he didn’t have time to start over. Was there anything he could do to salvage what was in the pan? Tomatoes, as well as the peppers and mushrooms, could actually be delicious somewhat burnt. With an artful was that surprised even himself, he expertly wielded the wooden spatula and scooped out the other vegetables, leaving behind the edible ones in a simmering broth. Recipes flickered through his mind at unbelievable speeds. If he added a quarter cup or so of cream and a dab of butter to even out the texture, it seemed likely that nobody would be able to tell he’d made a mistake at all. He raced for the icebox in the pantry and scooped up the ingredients in the blink of an eye. Then, masterfully, he did exactly what he’d wanted to. The transformation was beautiful. Before long, he wasn’t so much back on track as he was completely ahead of it. Speedily, he transferred the dish to actual dishes and set jewel-encrusted cloches on top of them to keep them warm. The dreadful tightness in his chest dissolved into giddiness. He’d really done it. Celebrating would be a mistake, so he allowed himself one simple laugh before launching a last lap to clean up the kitchen.
The girl and possibly Pierce joined him in bringing all of the food out to the table. They shared small, exhausted smiles while they did so. Pulling off such a large order in such a short amount of time was an incredible feat. Normally, they only had to cook for the two khastas, and they didn’t have to try nearly as hard to impress them. As rich and powerful as they were, he’d bet neither knew the difference between milk and cream.
Just seconds after they’d finished, a different servant rushed into the room. She was the most recent addition. In a panicked tone of voice, she announced loudly, “He’s here.”
“Keep it down!” Alastaros whisper-yelped back. “Is anyone out there with him? Did Cyprus give us orders on where to be?”
“Yep, Louisa and Agnace, and also yep, but they’re kind of weird. He said the pretty one’s supposed to help serve the food. He also said something about a dog taking dirty dishes back to the kitchen. Do you know what he meant?” She tapped her chin. “I haven’t seen any dogs around here. Didn’t think he was an animal person.”
“I know what he means. Just… just get to where you’re supposed to be.” He spun towards ‘the pretty one’ and gestured at himself. “Do I need to change?”
“No, you’re fine. I can’t see any stains. I’m going to start lighting the candles.” She scurried away to grab matches from the kitchen. In the meantime, possibly Pierce sidled up beside him.
“Have you eaten?” he asked in the softest of whispers.
“No, I was busy.”
“Come to my room later, if you can.”
While it wasn’t outright forbidden for the servants to spend time with each other, it was frowned upon severely by their khastas. They’d given several excuses as to why they shouldn’t, but Alastaros was pretty sure it was because they thought they’d plan an escape or something. It wasn’t like they could, really. Their tattoos meant that everyone in Morrim would know who they belonged to, and they’d just be brought back. There was only one servant he could remember that had ever tried to run. He was the reason there was two empty bedrooms for servants instead of one, and it wasn’t because he’d succeeded.
“If it’s not safe, then don’t risk it. Eat this for now. It’ll keep your stomach quiet.” He passed him a small block of hard cheese that he devoured in approximately five seconds. “He didn’t tell me what to do. I’m going to assume I should stay out of the way. If he asks, I’m upstairs.”
“Alright. Thanks.”
When ‘the pretty one’ came back, he helped her in lighting all of the candles and lanterns. The whole room smelled absolutely heavenly. They finished in about two minutes flat and assumed positions at the opposite sides of the table, her by an antique painting and him by a tapestry and cabinet that was strictly for decoration.
Luck might not have been on his side earlier, but it was then. Cyprus and Eleanor took Nikolai upstairs to set his bags down first before bringing him down to eat. They entered the room and sat less than a minute after the two of them had settled into their places.
The first thought that registered in his head was that Nikolai was, much like his cousins, beautiful. He had their same black hair but shorter and curlier, eyes of rich, vibrant emerald that caught the flickering candlelight wonderfully, and slightly fuller lips than either of his cousins. His nose was more prominent than theirs in a fitting way; it didn’t just disappear into the paleness and sharp angles of his face. He was also nicely dressed, but in a deep green cloak and white undershirt, not in creams and navies.
The second thought that registered was that he should most definitely not stare at the young man. He’d heard bits and pieces about him over the years. Most of it was about how horrid he was to his own servants, although he had a vague memory that was suspicious in legitimacy of catching briefly that he liked plums. Either way, whether he enjoyed the fruit or not, Alastaros end up in trouble if their eyes met. He tilted his head down, subconsciously hiding his injury in shame, until the edge of his metal collar bit into his neck.
The stranger was in the middle of a story. His voice was like music. It crescendoed at the perfect moments and rose and fell in a lovely sort of way. “-and then I said that he was probably fit for a different occupation, if you know what I mean.” His laughter was sweet and warm and bright. “But all joking aside for a moment… ah, Cyprus, are you well?”
“I’m in perfect shape.”
“Are you sure? I mean no offense by this, but you’ve looked better, hava.” Hava was a new word to Alastaros. He figured it to be some sort of slang for cousin in a language he didn’t know and continued to stare holes into the floor.
“Admittedly it has been a difficult few weeks, but I’ve survived.”
Alastaros nearly snorted. A difficult few weeks for who, he wanted to ask, but kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want there to be three empty rooms, after all.
“I’m glad to hear it. I wish I’d been here sooner, but I got caught up in the mountains.”
“I really wish you’d consider moving in. We have extra rooms, you know,” Eleanor said wistfully. “And you could bring your servants, too. They could share rooms.”
“I know, I wish I could as well, but you know my home is elsewhere. Besides, I’d drive you both to madness in a week with my ramblings.”
“You most certainly wouldn’t, I assure you.” If he hadn’t known Cyprus, he would’ve said he was charming. Perhaps it was the same with his cousin. He made a mental note not to trust Nikolai. “But you know what is driving me to madness? My hunger. Are you in the mood to eat?”
“I am! It smells amazing in here.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor humbly said, smiling. A twinge of annoyance worked its way through her servant’s core. As if she had any right to say that. She’d done nothing at all to help set up the room.
“Unveil the first course.”
The female servant swiftly stepped forward and scooped servings of his vegetable dish into bowls. Once she was finished, she put the cloche back on top of the serving plate and retreated.
As usual, Eleanor and Cyprus said nothing about the food. They just ate it. He supposed he’d spoiled them; they were used to his cooking. Nikolai, on the other hand, wasn’t. After he swallowed the first bite, he was clearly in paradise.
“This is splendid. Might I ask who made this?”
“Of course. Garrhas, come here.”
For just a moment, his and Nikolai’s eyes met.
The other man dropped his gaze first.
“You’ve trained your servants well, I see,” he remarked.
“Oh, absolutely,” Cyprus said smugly, “they’re as well behaved as dogs.”
Alastaros wished he was dead.
“Dogs, huh?”
“Not to brag, but I’d even say better, really,” Eleanor chimed in.
“My father would be so proud of you two! You’ve made such great lives for yourselves out here. It’s impressive.”
“That means a lot. Thank you, Nikolai. I know he’d be proud of you, too. I’m sorry about his passing. He really was a great man, someone truly worth honoring.”
“Thank you, hava.”
The rest of the meal, including dessert, had a much lighter tone to it. Nobody at the table mentioned the servants again—except to call either of them forward to take away or open up dishes—or the deceased at all. In fact, the majority of the conversation was packed with boring details about travels, artifacts, old weapons, jewelry, maps, and hunting. Nikolai did most of the talking, although his cousins would occasionally join in with a tidbit of information or witty anecdote.
They stayed at the dinner table for longer than Alastaros was required. After he’d taken the last plate, he and the girl were dismissed to their rooms for the rest of the night. Neither one of them said a word on their way to the second floor. It was only once they passed by possibly Pierce’s door did she decide to speak.
“Go in quickly. I’ll keep watch. They shouldn’t be coming up for a few minutes, anyways.”
“Alright.” His nerves spiked as he rotated the knob and entered. Possibly Pierce was folding some of his clothes. He looked up when he heard the creaking, and Alastaros really took a second just to look at him. His skin was the color of a dark tea, his hair was just a shade darker, and his eyes were a pleasant sort of light greenish gold that instantly reminded him of his sister’s. There was an old scar across his lips that, if he had to guess, was most likely dealt by one of the pieces Cyprus’s large knife collection.
The chore was forgotten. Possibly Pierce came over to him and returned his stare.
“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” he joked in the same quiet, soothing voice he’d used earlier. “You should try and put something on that.”
“It’s not bad. Mostly, it’s my hip that hurts.”
“Make a heating pack before you go to bed and put it on it. It’ll help it. Now here,” scrambling back to his bed, he yanked a small pouch out from under his pillow, “take this and hide it in your room. You Can eat it later.”
“Why’re you doing this?”
“I don’t now. I heard what he called you, I guess, when that girl came in. It made me sick. You’re not a damn animal.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. Don’t listen to him, alright?”
“You’re right.”
“Good. Now, get out of here. I don’t want either of us to get in trouble.”
Alastaros took three steps before, unable to resist, asking what his name was.
“Pierce Vanguard.”
“Alastaros Deviari.”
“Good luck, Alastaros.”
“You too.”
The girl smiled at him when he exited. She walked him to his own room before taking the hallway back to hers, leaving him standing there alone.
What a day it’d been. He wanted to call it quits and head in for a nice three day nap, but he still had work to do. What was that rhyme he’d heard once? He hummed it as he hid the bundle of food and made his way back to the kitchen. A troubled soul with a heavy head kept would have miles to go before he slept…
End of Section One, Part Two
