[Closed] You are at my Service? (Fionn)

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

941 G Lampwine Square - The Stacks
The Afternoon of the 23rd Day of Yaris, 2719

I

t was absurd on the face of it. For the past three hours been organizing the place. Organizing for the love of reason! He’d never really organized anything. Well, other than his book collections, his notes, and the small army of chalkboards that filled the second floor his over-sized townhouse. Over-sized, yes, and about to become considerably less so. What did he need a servant for? He had not asked for one, had not wanted one, had not needed one. And yet one was being wished on him all the same. Scholarly gentlemen were simply not permitted to attend to their own wardrobe, laundry, and whatever else valets were supposed to do.

They were also supposed to clean and organize. Well, he’d see about that. He’d clean the place from top to bottom, organize just as he saw fit. He’d give this parasite nothing to do. He would enjoy watching the pestilential houseguest wither away from a lack of employment.

He had servants before. He either drove them away with his strange hours and curious habit. One had objected to his keeping a skull on a small table in the sitting room. Had objected more to his having to polish it daily. No sense of respect for the dead. Exactly who the dead fellow had been, well, he had no idea. The skull was old, extremely old, but it had been found with a label stuck to it that has the name ‘Ponsonby’ written in fading ink. So Ponsonby he had become. And a more genial companion he could not imagine. And the old valet had been appalled by the thing. He had quit in a week. Well good riddance. He hoped the man had fallen into a pond. A rather deep and muddy pond. Others had objected to his keeping a schedule entirely at odds with the clock. The hours of the day were a mere convention, a form of orthodoxy kept by those who believed that slavish adherence to the position of the sun mattered in the slightest. If he wanted to have his dinner at the third hour, and sleep through till half past the seventeenth hour, will that was his prerogative.

Others had stolen his socks, objected to his choice of neckcloths, or tried meddling in his affairs. His affairs were already a shambles, there was no need of a self-important busybody to complicate them further with cunning schemes. He preferred the chaos. Chaos at least was entertaining.

Perhaps he could drive this new one away? No, likely not. This one was property of the University and as such had no more personal agency than Ponsonby or the table on which he reposed. In theory. That was probably just a legal fiction. That helped not in the slightest. Dammit, he was going to be stuck with this one. It was the seemly thing to have servants. How he loathed being seemly.

For what appeared to be the seven-thousand-and-seventh time that afternoon he trudged down the stairs in a cloud of fine dust. Where had all of that come from? Surely it must breed in the dark and neglected corners of the house. There was no possibility of finishing this mad cleaning frenzy before the blue encumbrance arrived. He flung himself down on a chaise lounge, admitted utter defeat.

He could use a coffee. No, something stronger. Some of that Gioran stimulant tea? Perhaps, but just now he did not want to be stimulated. Wine then, or perhaps some grappa? That was the ticket. He reached out his hand, realized that the drinks cabinet was on the far side of the room, and collapsed back into the chaise. Well, perhaps the servant might be useful for something after all.

[Fionn]

Yaris 23, 2719 | Afternoon
941 G Lampwine Square, The Stacks

.

Fionn had felt like many things in his life — a failure, an idiot, a nuisance, a reprobate, a disaster — but he’d never thought he’d feel like a package being delivered. Of course, it wasn’t a perfect comparison because packages didn’t tend to walk themselves to their destination or wander around with hands balled into fists and shoved into the pockets of their trousers. They probably didn’t have a strong desire to hit people either; packages didn’t tend to have that level of agency or consciousness — at least he hoped not!

Despite walking to his destination unaided, the passive couldn’t shake the impression that he was a parcel being delivered. Evidently, he couldn’t be trusted to travel to a house in the Stacks by himself, even though once he started, he’d be left to his own devices or at least, he wouldn’t have his current escort. The pair of servant men who were accompanying him to the home of his prospective employer had been given other errands to carry out in the university town so it wasn’t as if they were solely occupied with Fionn but it still seemed ridiculous. They were unnecessary and a nuisance to boot.

The blond had been saddled with a short redheaded man with so many freckles on his face that they’d run out of room to themselves on his pale skin, choosing to band together into larger, uglier blemishes. He was probably older, maybe in his thirties judging by the fine lines that the young man could discern on his speckled face but he seemed younger, especially as he chattered away incessantly. He’d seemed nervous of the teenager from the moment Fionn had joined them, perhaps intimidated by the full head of height that the boy had over him or maybe it was his reputation that preceded him. Either way, he was clearly exceptionally nervous and had decided to fill the space with the sound of his own voice, making a great deal of noise for someone with nothing of note to say. Albert, he thought he’d said but he didn’t much care.

The other man was taller, close in stature to Fionn although he was broader, swarthy and dark haired, fingers of grey creeping their way through the strands from his temples. He had a heavy brow and together with a dark mark — probably a birthmark — that stretched from the outside corner of his right eye up to a point above his eyebrow, he had the appearance of a cantankerous and potentially vicious ersehole. He might have been dumb as well for all the middle Madden knew; he hadn’t said a word.

This strange pair were his escorts and after this, he hoped never to be this close to them again. If he had to see them again then it’d better be at a distance, especially Albert. The little redhead reminded him of Jamie, but more annoying — something he wouldn’t have thought possible — and without an apparent off switch so that Fionn was sorely tempted to put his fist through his face. The youth was behaving himself although it was a near thing, fists pressed hard against his thighs but remaining firmly in his pockets. It was an exercise in restraint, the level of control he was maintaining really quite impressive but at the same time, it was extremely tempting and would likely improve his mood.

He had other reasons to be irritable other than being accompanied by the odd couple, mainly the reason for this trip. There was an academic — a monic theorist that Harper knew — who was looking for a servant and he’d been recommended. That he’d been recommended at all was no doubt the professor’s doing because no one in their right mind would have put his name down for this when there were other, better behaved passives to be had. If Harper knew him then he couldn’t be too bad, must be in some way open-minded at least but Fionn wasn’t optimistic. For one thing, he wasn’t guaranteed stability where he was going, the galdor taking him for a trial run. It suggested that he was choosy but more than that, it made the teenager feel like some item that could be returned to a shop if it turned out not to meet the customer’s specification after all. Keyes might have been thrown slightly off his orbit but at least he was familiar and Fionn had grown accustomed to his eccentricities. Whereas this guy that he was going to…

The boy couldn’t say that he disliked him, not when he hadn’t met him, but he could certainly say that he disliked the idea of him. The fact that he was going somewhere he didn’t want to go while listening to inane talk and having the Yaris sun bear down mercilessly on him did not help his mood. Perhaps if he arrived and chewed the galdor’s head off then he could go straight back the way he’d come. As lovely as that thought might be such an action would surely have consequences and not just for him either. Moore had stuck his neck out and it would hardly be fair for Fionn to repay him with cruelty. Besides, Niamh would kill him if he did anything that would reflect poorly on her precious Harper.

When they arrived at the correct location, the teenager made a show of double checking the signage on the street, taking some grotesque amusement from watching Albert squirm uncomfortably. They weren’t supposed to read but of course, the vast majority of them were literate to some degree at least and he would hardly walk into the wrong place if it could be avoided by ensuring that he was at the right place. By the way the diminutive passive was acting, the signs might have been in Monite and he was preparing to do something exceedingly forbidden. Despite Albert’s anxiety, his other escort appeared nonplussed. Fionn wondered idly if the Circle had provided him with the comically contrasting pair in an attempt to take some of the sting out of this situation.

The blond moved up to the door and rapped, not overly loud but good enough for the show of the thing. He’d been told that he was expected and that there weren’t other servants so he didn’t actually expect this academic to open his own door. He paused, head cocked to the side as he listened for any sound of movement beyond the portal. He took the time to flap his shirt near the collar to allow some air to circulate before his fingers moved to do up the loosened buttons. He’d done up one with no sign of movement from inside when he undid it again.

"Sod it!" the youth muttered. The sun was splitting the stones, the air was humid and if he had to deal with this ersehole then he wasn’t going to add to things by being fastened up tighter than a fashionable lady’s corset. He left his sleeves rolled up as well, proper appearance be damned and reached out to try the door.

The handle turned and the passive snorted. The thing was bloody well unlocked. He unlatched it all the way and swung the door open.

“What are you doing? You can’t just- just-” Albert blurted, caught between tearing his own hair out and bursting into tears by the looks of it.

“What does it look like?” Fionn shot back snidely, rolling his eyes as he stepped over the threshold. There was a strangled sound of panic. “You can sod off now, you saw me to the door so… shoo.”

“We can’t just- You could leave after we-”

“We will wait outside for a few minutes and then we will go,” their previously silent companion interjected in a soft baritone.

“Oh, it speaks! How nice. Do whatever you clocking well like!” the teenager retorted rudely before shutting the door firmly in their faces. It was still unlocked but Fionn didn’t think that they’d dare follow him — idiots!

The house was large for one person, more luxurious than any space Fionn has resided in since his gating and he disapproved of so much space belonging to a single individual. However, despite its size, he didn’t appear to have messed it up, moving from room to room as each previous one became too untidy to comfortably enjoy. Things didn’t appear to be strewn. He pressed his lips into a thin line, eyeing everything critically but he could appreciate that there was order here, some self-awareness on the part of the occupant that he should tidy up after himself. Good, he approved. If he stayed then such habits would make his life easier.

The blond padded softly from the entrance, quietly seeking the occupant and sussing the place out as he went. When he found him, the young man wasn’t wholly presentable, leastwise not to the standards that were preferred in Brunnhold, but his sleeves were neatly rolled to the elbow, his collar wasn’t hanging crooked even with two buttons undone and his shirt was tucked in so that should be good enough for anyone reasonable really. The servant clasped his hands behind his back, unconsciously hiding scars and burns, and straightened his posture.

“Good afternoon, sir. The door was open and I was told that I was expected. My name is Fionn,” he explained. His voice was level, the tone polite and he didn’t think that there was any attitude under it.

“I did knock,” he added simply.

Fionn made himself hold his tongue, waiting for the other to speak, to make comments, to deliver orders, whatever it was he wanted to do. The teenager could have asked questions or commented that it must be nice to be able to lounge around without a care but he didn’t. This was an exercise in restraint too.

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

941 G Lampwine Square - The Stacks
The Afternoon of the 23rd Day of Yaris, 2719

H

e was nodding now, drifting in and out of a sort of light doze. Sprawling out at odd angles was his preferred mode of rest, and this was a passably comfortable chaise. However like most of the furnishings in the house it had not been his idea. Another folly of trusting in the taste of an estate agent. When he got himself settled, if he got himself settled, he would acquire his own furniture. Classic, comfortable, and preferably with at least a century of previous owners. Modern trends in interior decoration here in Anaxas had seemed to be stuck in a period he could only describe as ‘early great aunt’. He excused his own beloved Great Aunt Jocasta, of course, whose tastes in furniture were properly classical. Yet the named seemed correct. If something wasn’t a doily, then it called out for doilies, or little fiddly vases with pictures of saccharine ladies and gentlemen swanning about to no apparent purpose. Several of those had been thoughtfully provided. He had already destroyed one, and was considering subjecting the rest to rigorous arcane experimentation.

Perhaps he could send the new servant to harass the estate agent or find a better supplier of furnishing. Was that something one sent a servant to do, or a lawyer. The new servant. Ah yes, that whole absurdity. What was he supposed to do with a passive servant? He couldn’t easily send him on errands about the Stacks, not with all the rules and restrictions. He would have thought the general confines of greater Brunnhold would have been open to them, but no. No one trusted them. Curious, since they cooked, cleaned, dressed, undressed and generally tended to the needs of the students and faculty. If they were properly feared, and properly dangerous, they would have been exiled to some remote island and left to fend for themselves, or possibly executed upon discovery. The fact that they were not spoke to some other, rather more sordid, motivation.

At some point in this sequence of jumbled thoughts he must have fallen asleep. It was not a deep sleep, and he remained almost aware of the room about him. The doze was too deep for proper thought, and too shallow for proper dreams. Another absurdity in a day full of them.

A voice, a start, and Umberto tumbled off the chaise and onto the floor in a general tangle of limbs and foul language. With his ankle at an altogether unreasonable angle, his hair in his eyes, and feeling like an age of grime was coating his skin, he very much doubted this was the sort of sight that the servant had been expecting. Good, let him be introduced to what he was going to be dealing with.

He looked up, bleary-eyed and stunned, into the face of a young fellow of almost impish appearance with pale hair and a look that was almost as confused as his own. “Ah, yes, well, that is, oh dash it all . . .” Well that was a brilliant start. Well done. Just the sort of eloquence and gravity one expects in the conversation of the visiting lecturer in theoretical incantations. “Well, I’ll give you this, you appear silently and out of nowhere like all good servants. I understand that this is a desirable trait. I remain unconvinced.” Still bleary, still not quite up to the task of being sociable, Umberto oozed back up onto the chaise, blinked again, and extended a hand to the blue apparition. “Umberto Gian-Lorenzo Bassington-Smythe. I fear we’ve been rather thrown together. I know you come with recommendations, which is well and good for me, but rather leaves you all to seek.” Or was that 'all to sea'? One was as good as the other. Idioms were not really parsable in any event. Did they give recommendations for potential masters to servants? Probably under more normal circumstances, yes. But these were anything but normal circumstances. The young fellow really had no choice in this matter. Not a servant then, not really, call it but it’s proper name: slavery. A sigh. Well, that was nothing new, and no matter the trappings of custom and the tormenting of language, that is what it was.

Magnificent. He had been given a long-term loan of a slave. Might as well make the best of it, share the awkwardness. “As to yourself, allow me to try and provide my own recommendation. If you’d be so good as to go over to the drinks cabinet and pour two glasses of the grappa, then take a seat where ever you are most comfortable, we can talk business. I suppose you’ll be wanting to know what your duties will be?” He would have to think fast. He would be interested himself.

[Fionn]

Yaris 23, 2719 | Afternoon
941 G Lampwine Square, The Stacks

.

Fionn was honestly trying to be good but this academic really wasn’t helping. However, his mood had improved by watching the man spill onto the floor, the boy doing his best to keep his mirth inwards and his face impassive. The fact that the other had come out with a string of expletives that he was fairly sure weren’t meant to come out of the mouths of respectable members of galdori society. Oh his sister might think that those who were galdori-born shouldn’t stoop to such vulgarity and Fionn was entertained by seeing the rug pulled out from under such ideals. It was a shame that Niamh wasn’t here to be horrified by it but gods, it was hilarious to him.

He bit his lip, pulling it into his mouth, happy to let his teeth slide as far down his face as they would go if it would allow him to swallow any and all skin that might twitch and betray him. Not laughing took an extreme effort and when the man spoke, clearly flustered and put out by having a passive ‘sneak up’ on him, the teenager couldn’t keep his mouth shut. However, it took everything in him not to be flat out rude and insubordinate.

“I did knock, sir,” he managed, a note of amusement entering his tone to accompany the small smile that curved his lips. Did it sound as if he was correcting the man? He had been quiet, it was true but someone paying attention would have noticed — someone who hadn’t been dozing, of course.

He provided a name that was so long it sounded like a title and the teenager’s brows pulled together in thoughtful puzzlement as he tried to determine how to address him. ‘Sir’ was safe, especially as he wasn’t sure if the man held the honorific of ‘Professor’ because while he might be an academic, he didn’t have tenure. He thought that was how the professor thing worked although he wasn’t sure. It would be weird to call him Mr. uh… Bassington-Smythe but it’d be weirder if he had to come out with that whole spiel every time he had to address him. He was loathe to ask but there might be a way to coerce him into giving up the information that the passive wanted. Sometimes if you offered information in a particular way then others were likely to offer the same in exchange. It would end up sounding rather foolish though, especially given his status.

More puzzling than the name was the hand that he extended, holding it out as part of the introduction as if a galdor shaking hands with a passive was a perfectly ordinary thing to do. Quite regular! Nothing unusual about that at all! The blond eyed the extended digits uncertainly, trying to recall everything that he knew about handshakes.

They were meant to be firm, he remembered. Firm and they weren’t meant to be lingering. So firm, efficient and well… confident, he supposed. He could have crushed the other man’s hand, he had the strength but he had to consider how to take his hand and apply the right amount of pressure. There was just a moment of hesitation before he took Umberto’s hand and shook it. A slight upwards movement, a dip down, up and release, taking his hand back at a reasonable pace so that it didn’t look like he was trying to pull it quickly from a trap.

No one would have believed that there could have been so much mental power involved in that one seemingly simple action but the unfamiliarity of it meant that he really had to think about it. Concentrating on the handshake, the dilemma concerning the academic’s name and his own carefully chosen words involved multitasking, the young man really having to work for it all. He’d never explained it to anyone but there were a great many things that required a conscious effort on his part, even if it was just to review his own mental shorthand on how to deal with situations he’d encountered before.

With so much going on, he found it necessary to speak slowly — calmly — so that he didn’t trip over his tongue as he spoke.

“Fionn Aodhán Madden,” he responded, everything beyond Fionn feeling strange to him but especially the middle name. While once upon a time, he had revealed his surname to Castor Devlin as a rebellion of sorts and had even been addressed using it, he hadn’t revealed his middle name before. It wasn’t something that one typically threw around willy-nilly but this man had! And a double-barrel one at that! It was a wonder that he didn’t have a second name tacked on to Umberto so that it wouldn’t have to feel left out beside the other pairs.

“It’s not as if the surname is mine anymore and while some people address me as Mr. Madden, it’s hardly… appropriate. Fionn is… well, it’s the only name I need really and I prefer it,” the teenager added, aware that he might be overstepping but in light of the handshake, he thought that he was safe enough. His preferences weren’t meant to come into this relationship but the monic theorist had begun things on relatively equal footing so it seemed safe. Furthermore, it seemed like a good sign for things going forward, namely about the other’s level of open mindedness.

He did have to wonder what sort of recommendations had been tacked onto his name; it’d be interesting to learn about some of the falsehoods and carefully spun truths that had been offered.

There was no hiding his shocked bewilderment though when instead of an order, the other gave him something more like a suggestion and one where Fionn got to be on equal footing indeed! Have a glass of grappa? He didn’t know what kind of alcohol that was but he was quite certain that it was alcoholic and it was hardly commonplace. He’d had alcohol before but usually it had been a taste that he had managed to sneak here and there, minor acts of rebellion, rather than something he’d been given with permission.

The blond had long wished to be treated as an actual person and one on a par with his magical brethren — he was still from golly stock after all — but he couldn’t help being taken aback.

“I… Yes, sir,” he squeezed out, the youth trying not to wince at the breathy awe in his voice. He went to the indicated area, fetching two glasses and managing to find the appropriate alcohol courtesy of its label. Unfortunately, the label didn’t provide him with serving suggestions so that the blond had to open the grappa and sniff it tentatively in an attempt to gauge its strength. It seemed wine-like but seemed stronger. He’d had to serve at dinners before so he knew about wine and how much to serve. He went with his instinct and poured a similar serving as he would have done with wine, albeit a reasonable one, not the sort that certain faculty members enjoyed where the glass was left veritably overflowing. The middle Madden prayed that he wasn’t about to become drunk.

Returning to his master—he would say employer except he was owned and he was oddly inclined to think of him as host—the youth offered one of the glasses to Umberto before seating himself on the edge of a chair. Fionn wouldn’t relax, he couldn’t afford to do so, not when this felt so much like a trap. It seemed too good so far, certainly not what he’d imagined and he was deeply suspicious.

“I don’t usually get to… talk business,” the teenager admitted, eyeing the glass of alcohol in his hand. “I’ve never had to talk business, I’m simply meant to do what I’m told.”

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

941 G Lampwine Square - The Stacks
The Afternoon of the 23rd Day of Yaris, 2719

S

hould he have handled that differently? Been more lofty and high-handed? It would have been expected, even proper, orthodox. Well, to perdition with orthodoxy. It would also have been far too much work, and he was inclined, or rather reclined, towards a bare minimum of social effort. There was enough to work to be done without putting on the persona of a harsh and disinterested master. It was probably a failing, especially here, but he’d never quite warmed to the idea of being frosty with the lower orders. They were still the lower orders, he wasn’t that mad, well, not in that way, but they still were people. And there was very little sense in antagonizing someone who was going to hang around making coffee, running errands, and generally attending to his person. That was a recipe for a knife between the ribs, and curiously enough, it was not a situation he was keen on experiencing.

“Well, Madden. Oh, I am sorry, Fionn. Yes, yes, I must remember that. Fionn.” The name felt odd in his mouth. Old, curious. Still, it flowed well enough. A fine name. He would have to remember it. He rose from his still-awkward recline, perching himself upon an elbow. “Only every servant I have ever had the misfortune of employing seems to have gone by the surname, and I’d hate to break with that sort of custom. Frankly, it would be confusing. And I am already confused enough for three ordinary men.” He blinked once or twice, trying to restore himself to a state of full wakefulness. It was less than satisfactory. “Still, if you prefer your given name, I shall endeavor to make use of it. What’s in a name, after all?” And he would know. He had too many of them. Had shed most of them in one way or another, and fused the remaining bits into something that was almost comfortable. He had done it here, in Brunnhold, and rather by accident one evening in a garden with rather unexpected company. Still, his chosen name was comfortable enough. Let this young fellow have it his own. It hardly mattered. He probably would not last a week. They would find themselves at a mutual impasse, unable to stand each other’s presence, and part ways. Nearly every servant of his own had fallen into that pattern. He could not really blame them. Most could not put up with with his lifestyle. Risings that did no respect the hours, days on end where he never slept, other days where sleep was all he could be expected to accomplish. The fact they he expected his servants to participate in his more scholarly and even unsettling work did not help matters.

And yet the boy had been recommended. Granted that was mostly via letter. He and Moore largely corresponded by letter. It seemed correct, natural.There was also the occasionally paper subtly critiquing the other’s position on some abstruse topic, but in truth their work had only intermittent overlaps. Still, he was a legitimate scholar, a reasonable man, and his recommendation could not be dismissed out of hand.

“As to the business, and it is business, so never you fear. What I shall require of you, is, I hope, fairly straightforward, at least in most respects.” He raised the glass of grappa. It was too full, he would have to correct that, but the spirit, ha!, of the pour had been correct, and that counted for more than proper serving. That, at least, could be corrected. “Upon University grounds I will require a general purpose servant and errand runner. I request and require that you be at my service at most hours of the day, for my own hours are, to say the least erratic. I will require tea and coffee, you can make a tolerable cup I assume? If not, I can instruct you in the proper Bastian methods.” He took a sip of the grappa, enjoying its sharpness as a means of shifting him out of his still-somnolent state. “When I require more personal services, you will act as my valet within the confines of this house. A private room will be provided, assuming you can find a room that suits your purpose. This house if far too large for me, so feel free to take any under-furnished chamber as your own.” It was an absurdly oversized house for his needs. This Fionn could take the whole suite of private living quarters on the second floor and he’d hardly have noticed. “I realized errand running may be unnecessarily difficult for you in those cases, and, if you prove satisfactory, I shall attempt to acquire a special dispensation to have you drift about the Stacks on various errands.” He leaned back upon the chaise, a slight indulgence of his status. If the boy, if Fionn that is, had chooses to make himself more comfortable, well, that would have been acceptable as well. A comfortable servant was a useful servant. “Other than duties as assigned, of which some may be of a rather arcane nature - do you object to mild experimentation? - I imagine that you’d like one day a week off, to attend to personal business, relax, or otherwise ignore any by my most urgent requests. If the house is on fire, for example, I may require your assistance, but barring such matters, I can fend for myself.” He raised his glass again. “Now, is this acceptable to you, or do you find yourself unable to acquiesce?”

[Fionn]

Yaris 23, 2719 | Afternoon
941 G Lampwine Square, The Stacks

.

To admit that the use of ‘Madden’ got under his skin would mean declaring too much to a golly. Okay, so a mere admittance wouldn’t do the trick but saying it felt as if it would open him up to questions and vulnerability. Why should he take issue with it after all? But then again, there were a great many passives who dropped their family names after being gated and he supposed that there were also a fair few who did it less out of a sense of necessary obligation and more because such retention would be upsetting to them. He supposed that others felt as if those names no longer belonged to them; Fionn wondered if his family name had ever belonged to him.

He found himself chewing over the matter as he sorted drinks, ruminating on the different things he’d said and wondering. Did Umberto really believe him to be like any other servant he’d had before? For one, to refer to the passive as being in his employ seemed a cruel joke. Yes, one could be employed if they were engaged in activities for someone but more often, employment tended to be linked with free will. Many servants might not want to leave a disagreeable employer, might truly rely on their position but they always had the option to leave whereas the blond didn’t have such an opportunity.

Don’t you? You’ve had the chance to leave before, to run, he whispered internally, the remark carrying the hallmarks of sly temptation. Even now, he had opportunity, even now, there were ways. But to leave would be to mark himself as wanted but how anonymous could one make one’s self in Anaxas — probably well enough. Even so, he didn’t think that ordinary servants could be hunted down after they left but he certainly could be. He wondered if this academic understood what the teenager was — really was.

Only once he was sitting did he finally choose to break his pensive silence on the subject.

“My given name is my only real name these days, sir. My surname isn’t mine because I don’t belong to my family anymore,” he pointed out softly, not sad or even bitter, just matter-of-fact. “Furthermore, I’m not an ordinary servant and you aren’t exactly… employing me in the regular sense. I am a servant… in a sense. What’s in a name after all?” he added, not able to keep the delicate beginnings of a sneer from his voice or his face although his gaze turned to one side, brown eyes fixed on some point at a far greater distance than the physical one between himself and Umberto’s chaise longue.

It wasn’t a preference. The man really seemed to think that he had a choice in this — any of this. Galdori could be really bloody oblivious most of the time and in some ways, Fionn envied them. How nice to be able to be so unconcerned, so out of touch, so privileged and self-centred. Although the young man should probably be glad that this one was like so many of the others in that way because it gave him a job that was handy in many ways — far handier than what he’d done when he was still pulling regular shifts of everyday drudgery. He would have preferred to stay with Keyes and his familiar, if kooky ways, but if this was his lot then he’d just have to make the best of things.

With his piece said, he didn’t expect the man to take much notice of what he’d said about names, certain that the academic would be too caught up in whatever all important tasks he had to explain to his new errand boy.

The teenager sat with his glass of grappa, gazing at it warily as if the alcohol might leap up and bite him. Wary and pensive but also faintly annoyed and frustrated, he sat through the beginning of a litany of needs that were sure to be less than thrilling despite the importance Umberto might assign to them. Pick up his shit, be at his beck and call, treat him as if he was at the centre of the universe basically.

Except that things didn’t continue as he’d expected them to go on. One moment, his ability to carry out basic tasks was in question (although was Bastian tea usually different from Anaxi?) and the next thing he was being treated as if he had the capacity to be choosy in regard to a room. Did he believe that Fionn could afford to be picky about such things? He certainly acted as if Fionn might turn up his nose at the prospect of-

His own room! His own room to choose from among Alioe knew how many! Sweet Lady, were the Circle smiling on him now? That certainly wasn’t a gift that he intended to ignore, not when there was the prospect of his own space, the prospect of genuine privacy. It boggled the mind, the galdor unaware what he was offering to the boy on a silver platter! He had to be unaware because otherwise…

Otherwise…

Well, Harper had recommended him for here so maybe he had known just how liberal this man was. A crackpot by the standards of his peers, no doubt — moony!

He took a hearty mouthful of grappa as if that would smother his shock and found himself coughing violently as he tried to breathe and swallow at the same time. The teenager rarely managed to hide his feelings from anyone, his face typically a fair reflection of the internal workings of his mind, and so shock was highly evident on his features. The blond couldn’t hide it and in truth, he made no attempt to keep the shock from his face either. When he recovered from his coughing fit, eyes watering as they veritably popped out of his head, Fionn was able to gawk more openly.

And somehow, it got stranger. A special dispensation! The middle Madden was actually ready to start laughing, hysterical, incredulous because here was a man who had no real idea who Fionn was. He couldn’t know that a year ago — less than a year ago in fact — that it would have been considered a bad idea to allow him to do anything that might involve interacting with galdori and going outside to run errands? Forget about it! Was he wildly naive in thinking that a passive allowed to roam around alone wouldn’t try to make a break for it or did it not occur to him? He wouldn’t of course, given that he had connections with Brunnhold but Umberto didn’t know that — how could he?

The teenager glanced down at his beverage, wondering if he’d managed to get drunk on the fumes alone because he hadn’t drank any of it before this strangeness began but perhaps that mouthful he’d managed to swallow had gotten to his brain with exceptional quickness. Maybe the room thing had come from the fumes and the dispensation bit had come from possibly the fastest transfer of alcohol from mouth to bloodstream ever. However, what came next probably would have required some sort of hallucinogen in his system, possibly also a state of dreaming because there was no other way that he could have made it up himself.

Day off.

A day off.

He was a fucking passive for the sake of the clocking Lady! Did Umberto not know that-

What did he think that a passive would do? What personal business could a passive have? How did a passive manage to relax? Yes, they got some downtime but not too much — certainly not an entire day! After all, you couldn’t give the indentured servants too much time to think!

He could have a day off to be at somebody else’s beck and call! Marvellous!

The question about whether he could acquiesce to the terms or not broke something in Fionn, a high giggle escaping him. His glass shook, grappa sloshing wildly up the sides in a bid to escape, a few droplets succeeding by pattering into his lap. The giggle turned to a snort, the pitch at the back of his throat grew higher, an odd, keening hiccup coming out of his mouth when his nose took a break.

Hiccup, snort. Hiccup, snort. Snort, hiccup, snort, snort.

Somehow, he managed to set the glass down before his fingers really started to tremble or the spasm of his body threw the damn thing somewhere.

The blond wheezed in air, tears glistening in his eyes as the corners of his mouth tugged in a dreamy, bemused smile.

“I… I-I apologise, it’s just- I’m a passive, sir. No one asks us what we want,” he managed, wiping spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. “We just do what we’re told, sir. Do or be hit. We aren’t people, sir, or children, not to gollies. We’re just here.”

There was something almost pitying in his tone as he gazed at Umberto but there was also some bitterness now, something a bit weary too.

“A day off with you simply means going back to campus to work, sir. We get worked until we drop dead, that’s it. I’d say I’m grateful but… it doesn’t matter what I think or feel. Frankly, sir, you aren’t supposed to care.”

He’d probably crossed a line but he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d spoken the truth to a degree, some of it delivered with expressions that showed what he thought of such truths — society’s truths.

“No offence, sir but we aren’t supposed to be friends.”

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

941 G Lampwine Square - The Stacks
The Afternoon of the 23rd Day of Yaris, 2719

"P

assive or no passive Mr. M . . .That is, Fionn,” that really would take some getting used to. It was madness. But, then again, madness was the norm in this house. He did live here after all. “I require a degree of autonomy in my staff. It makes it easier to assume you are a person and endowed with reason and agency, rather than view you as a sort of overly complicated automatic coat rack.” Were there automatic coat racks? What would that even entail? A coat rack following one about trying to remove one’s coat at inopportune moments? He shuddered slightly. That seemed like it would be worse that a servant. At least with a servant you could infer malice, rather than unthinking compliance. On the whole, he’d prefer malice.

“Nice discrimination,” he topped up the grappa. His grappa. Guests, and especially servile guests, were not something he was in the habit of entertaining, and he was a poor host. “Is what I require. Knowing this and that, speaking your mind when needed, vanishing comfortably when you are not required.” Vanishing was a skill to be valued in servants. They were, after all, not really meant to be seen. That ghastly blue outfit would make that much harder.
“I have a great deal of work I am engaged in and I would prefer that I be interrupted by the maintenance of my being as little as is practical. Still, it needs doing. And I am terrible at it. I tend to forget to eat, to have my laundry seen too. Or, I tend to see to it all at once, tormenting the local washers and finding myself condemned to live in an old dressing gown and battered slippers for several days. Trying times Fionn. Trying times.” He was trying to keep it light. Was that wise? Probably not. So How did one even entertain a servile guest? Well, one didn’t of course, what a ludicrous idea. And yet, that seemed to be what was happening.

No, not a guest. Gods, this was more like some perverse thesis defense. Or what he understood to be a job interview. He had never experienced such a thing. They sounded ghastly. He’d been expected to slide into the family business. He had, just not the antiques trade. Scholarship was in the blood. Though it had always been a rather more quiet kind. Still, nearly heretical papers on incantation theory did not write themselves. And he was behind on that. Behind on lectures, behind on too many other things. Life was taking up far too much time. A servant was needed, and little boy blue here was the best he could hope for. Not promising. Not promising at all. Especially if the Fionn insisted on leveraging his position as an ill-treated drudge to maintain a truculent attitude. Something would have to be done.

“If you are concerned about your day off, which I am reliably informed is de rigueur for most domestic servants, then you may state that I am a cruel and hard-driving master, and have required that you tour all the cafes on a particular street looking for one to meet my exacting standards. I do have exacting standards in my choice of cafe, by the way. You may claim what you wish.” He looked at the boy, his confused, downcast face, his cerulean slave’s uniform, and shook his head. This was no good. “Look, I have no idea what to do with you. All I know is you’ve been wished on me, and frankly I could use a hand. If it would help, I can find something to beat you with, a shoe perhaps, if that would make you feel more at home. I’d rather not though. I am low on shoes.”

He took another sip of the grappa. It wasn’t bad, but it lacked some of the body he had come to enjoy. One of the local brandies might serve better. Decagon of decadence, what was that? A traitorous desire for Anaxi spirits. A strange day all around.

There was not much to be gained sitting here, drinking in this awkward fashion. It was probably distressing the boy as well. Distress would not do. He needed the youth in fine form. Both for the usual domestic matters, and for the other duties.

“I should probably show you around. The kitchen, the pantry, the various rooms that I think I am supposed to stash my neglected family in. I do have family, and I do neglect them, but I prefer to do so at a distance. And finally, I should introduce you to the laboratory. You’ll be spending a non-trivial amount of time there.” Limbs untangled from the chaise, and Umberto rose like some i'll-controlled marionette. Grappa still in hand he made his way toward the stairs. “I should like to introduce you to my equations and semantic parses. You will be enjoying their company, both on the chalkboards and, eventually, on your person. A magically abnormal subject will be most interesting.” He turned back to the boy. “And one more thing, do not pretend you cannot write. That is a fiction I cannot abide. I will require you to make notes from time to time. You did once have an education, let us see if any of it has stuck.”

[Fionn]

Yaris 23, 2719 | Afternoon
941 G Lampwine Square, The Stacks

.

It was quickly becoming apparent that Umberto was an odd sort of creature. Well, he was a galdor and they were bizarre to begin with so it went without saying that a galdor would be odd but even by golly standards, the academic was an odd creature. He wanted Fionn to speak his mind but based on what he’d witnessed over the past few minutes, it was clear that no matter what he said, it didn’t reach the man. Oh some version of it obviously managed to get through to him but it evidently passed through an odd filter of his own experiences and beliefs that the passive couldn’t begin to understand. If he had to make a guess, he thought that the man liked the idea of having someone argue with him but really just wanted something a bit more animated than a coat rack to act as a sounding board. It was easy to imagine the man talking to inanimate objects and growing exasperated when they failed to mount an appropriate response.

There seemed to be no reason to argue with him in any proper sense given that any point that the passive made seemed to bounce off him. He couldn’t be reasoned with because he didn’t want to be reasoned with. Fine, fair enough, that was something he could learn to handle. Maybe he should just go along with things, just agree and sort out things on his own. Like the time off. Obviously taking a day off couldn’t work on a practical level — although he had certainly wrangled something like them before by being clever — but Umberto couldn’t see that and so Fionn would simply have to work around him. Say yes, he was taking a day off but carry on as he was expected to do.

Actually, he quite liked that idea. Ignoring a galdor sounded wonderful. He’d always wanted the chance to ignore a galdor without consequence. Surely, if he did something wrong then he could probably manage good-natured bewilderment, allow the man to believe that he was simple and just assume that it was beyond the teenager’s capability — not his fault.

It was oddly amusing. He could be a being with reason and agency but apparently, Umberto didn’t need him to demonstrate it actively, not if he merely assumed that these were qualities that he possessed. As long as the man got to continue existing in his unique version of the world — Alioe have mercy, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the ‘trying’ prospect of living in a dressing gown and slippers — then Fionn thought that he could probably get away with just about anything.

But sweet Lady! Dressing gown and slippers!

“I can only imagine, sir,” the blond remarked gravely in response to the dressing gown comment. “I’ve done plenty of laundry, sir, for Professors Keyes and Moore specifically and the Brunnhold population more generally. Professor Keyes also has a tendency to forget to deal with necessities. That being said, I’m not intrusive until I have to be, sir.”

It wasn’t a lie so he could carry it off with ease, able to keep himself quite well composed now that he’d stopped trying to view everything the man said as being strictly serious — even when seriousness was the galdor’s intent. He could settle into his seat a little more comfortably, aware that the glass of grappa sat near his feet and could be discreetly disposed of at a later moment. Even though, it had been offered—well, forced on him by command, really—Fionn had no desire to drink the stuff. Perhaps it didn’t help that his initial sampling had involved some aspiration into his airways, but he didn’t think he liked grappa; the flavour hadn’t appealed to him, especially when spluttered up.

“Very good, sir. I shall do as you suggest should the need arise,” the teenager retorted briskly, careful to keep his tone suitably respectful instead of slipping into the flippancy that he felt inclined to employ. None of it was a lie, of course, and maybe he would take the suggested day off. After all, why shouldn’t he? However, he’d given himself the impression that he was having fun at Umberto’s expense. It didn’t help that he was beginning to speak in a style that seemed to be closer to how the galdor spoke as opposed to Fionn’s more natural patterns.

He hoped his expression appeared impassive — he was aiming for impassive — but he doubted that it was, the effort of hiding his true emotions so immense that he rarely, if ever, succeeded in such concealment. No matter how he tried to appear though, there was no holding such an expression when the monic theorist spoke in an off-hand way about beating the youth with a shoe so that he’d feel more at home. The scars on his back itched, a phantom echo of the original pain when they’d been inflicted seeming to race along the various crisscrossing marks. He twitched, his brown gaze abruptly sharp and focused on the other man with a fiery intensity that indicated that he’d like to beat him — with his fists rather than any item of footwear. He inhaled sharply, nostrils constricting and his fingers curled without him thinking about it.

How dare he, how fucking dare he! He had no idea what- And to be so flippant about it, to make such a throwaway remark! Golly or not, Fionn thought he could launch himself across the intervening space and thump him in the face before he could do anything. He was a smug, complacent ersehole, why would it even occur to him that the passive would go for him? He’d probably never had to defend himself with magic, would hardly have needed to do such a thing but knuckles crunching into his nose would certainly break concentration. It’d be so easy and godsdamnit, he wanted him to know what a real fucking beating was, the blasted clockstopper!

Control yourself!

The voice in his head made him wince, carrying the tones of his father and the fire within him cooled as suddenly as if he’d been doused with ice water. He deflated, head bowing even as he turned it to one side, away from his superior. He swallowed hard, protuberance in his throat bobbing up and down violently.

“That won’t be necessary, sir. I’m sure that I can be useful and well-behaved,” Fionn replied evenly, picking absently at his trousers with his now uncurled fingers. He’d clenched them so hard that they ached a bit.

The academic discussed a tour, rising inelegantly to his feet and the passive followed suit, standing with greater fluidity.

“Why yes, sir. I’m sure that would be quite beneficial.”

Did he sound too brisk? Were the words too clipped, the short, biting syllables fired off like bullets from one of those abominable clocking guns? An attempt to modulate himself seemed bent for failure, the young man still feeling the adrenaline course through his bloodstream from his flare of rage, even if the fury and intent were gone. His heart beat too quickly, a war drum within him that called him to violence, urging him to put the adrenaline to good use.

Equations. The young man didn’t know that he wanted to meet equations given that he didn’t understand them but needs must. He supposed that he could look at the familiar symbols, characters and numbers placed in incomprehensible arrangements and try to guess at their meanings, although they were as indecipherably arcane to him as Monite. And when such things were drawn on him? Well, it’d be like new tattoos, except that they’d be removable. Or at least… he assumed they’d be removable. The prospect that he might have such mysterious things etched into his skin permanently made him gulp.

The warning that he shouldn’t pretend to be ignorant in the ways of writing was a distraction — a welcome one in this instance — but it did give him cause to frown.

“Of course, I can write!” he snapped indignantly. “I’m literate. I’m a passive, not an ignorant fool! I’m not… particularly good at it, mind you. My hand has never had the chance to mature and what I did for Professor Keyes, well… I’ve hardly had the time for much improvement. I also write with my left-hand so you can have slow and childish but legible or you can have a quick, largely illegible and probably smudged scrawl,” he explained, his tone more even, his expression somewhat apologetic as he shrugged.

“By the way, sir… what’s the correct manner to address you, or refer to you for that matter? I’m aware that you’re an academic but I don’t know if you’re a professor or…”

The servant allowed the question to hang.

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

941 G Lampwine Square - The Stacks
The Afternoon of the 23rd Day of Yaris, 2719

W

ell, that could have gone better. The boy was upset, possibly angry, clearly indignant. That would not do. Indignant servants had an annoying tendency to off their employers in diverse interesting ways. All very well and good in an enigma tale, but less entertaining in actuality. It was quite clear that light badinage was not the way to assure the boy that his time here in the too-spacious house at Lampwine Square would not be either cruel or particularly onerous. Well, not intentionally.

The boy was stern-faced and too-serious. He was what? 13? 15? He looked older. He seemed younger. What have they done to you, boy? Did they beat the whimsy from you? Weigh down your tattered soul with nothing but drudgery and the constant reminder of your misfortune? Very likely. The gated did not lead pleasant lives. He knew this of course, but he had never much thought of the implications. He never had to. Adjustments would be necessary. How did one adjust? He had no idea. Well, he’d founder along, he supposed, making a pig’s breakfast of the whole thing.

Time to try a different tack. He’d prefer not to end up with a letter opener thrust between his ribs. That would have been inconvenient. He had too much work to do, and being dead would have been a considerable setback. “I am glad to hear you can write. And you are ambidextrous? That is a skill I lack.” He wagged the spidery fingers of his hand. “I’ve been sinister since I learned to pick up a pen.” He gave the boy a rather wry smile. “It’s a minor inconvenience, what with the smudging of the ink or chalk.”

The boy had asked what to call him. A perfectly reasonable request. He wished he had a satisfactory answer. “My official title is ‘Visiting Lecturer in Theoretical Incantations’, so, no, I am not a professor.” Not yet at any rate. Perhaps never. “That, however is a mouthful. ‘Sir’ will do for the present.” In truth, so long as the boy did not call him ‘Bertie’ he really did not care what he was called. ‘Sir’ however seemed the most reasonable. “Now then, Fionn, let me show you around.”

Slow strides on his long legs brought him to the arch that led from the sitting room to the central corridor. “The house is, as I say, over-large. I swear I keep finding rooms where I’d never expect. There is a closet under the stairs on this floor. I have no idea what to do with it.” He had thought to make a sort of private retreat of it, something rather like a nest. A place to slip away from the world. He’d hauled a few cushions in one afternoon, just to give it a try. In short order the little space became absurdly stuffy and airless. One might store brooms and such in there, or out of season clothes, but as a retreat it was useless. “At the front of the house are the two sitting rooms. No idea why. Seems a bit much. Then,” he gestured down the corridor, “you’ll find the dining room on one side, some room whose purpose escapes me on the other, and at the back the kitchen and washroom. This kitchen is small, but seems well appointed. It may not be, I am useless at cooking. Providing light fare will be part of your duties. I prefer a diet of vegetables, legumes, bread, cheese, and fish, with the odd cured pork product. I’d like to say I am not picky, but that would be a lie.” No, picky was not quite the right word. Select. Snobbish. Those were nearer the mark. “I can provide a list of decent shops at which to purchase reasonable supplies. I have accounts on credit, so you won’t have to worry about being harassed for carrying coins. At least I hope not.”

He conducted the boy about the first floor, into the kitchen with its too-flowery decor. Then through a dining room so stuffy as to be possibly funerial. He hated dining in that space. It was a blessing he never entertained. The idea of sitting in that gloomy space with its bare wooden walls oppressed him. Those dark panels seemed more judgmental than a whole corridor full of portraits of glowering ancestors. No, he preferred to dine in the comparatively airier space of the largest room on the second floor. It has probably been intended as a music room. He had turned it into his work room, his personal laboratory.

They ascended the stairs. A slight creak as they arrived at the landing, and then into the expanse of the late music room. On easels and stands, on cords dangling from the picture rail hung a multiplicity of chalkboards. On each, in slightly smudged chalk were fragments of incantations, parse trees, dimensional analyses of phonemes, semantic modelings. Umberto let out a contented sigh, his eyes traveling with great delight over his work. His unfinished magnum opus. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, providing more light. They swung in barely visible arcs, stirred by faint currents of air. “This,” he made a sweeping and satisfied gesture, “is my workroom, my public study, and the room I am most likely to be found in. When I work, I become engrossed and will forget to eat, to attend to my social obligations. I will lose track of time. At your best judgement, implore me to eat, to sleep, to leave the house. I cannot promise I will be best pleased at the time. I will likely snap at you. But it will be appreciated in the long run.” He tried to make a friendly smile, one without threat, without condescension. He hoped it would register. He doubted it. He’d not managed it so far this day.

“For what it is worth, and it may not be much, I hope you do not find this work too onerous. I know you don’t really have a choice in the matter.” Neither did he. Faculty were obliged to have servants. To maintain their dignity. Dignity. What did that matter? He wanted to work, to research, to think, not parade about like a self-important peacock. Ludicrous. “But, even taking that into account, I will try and be a civilized master.” He sighed, shook his head. “I cannot guarantee I will be any good at it. And with the experiments and the incantation, it may well be unpleasant for the both of us. Mistakes, arcane and mundane, will be made. Now, shall we find you a room and get you settled? I’m sure there are rooms about here somewhere.”

[Fionn]

Yaris 23, 2719 | Afternoon
941 G Lampwine Square, The Stacks

.

He started out indignant and then rapidly become self-conscious, well aware that a misplaced sense of pride had very nearly led him into a trap out of which he wouldn’t have been able to escape. Yes, he could write but it really wasn’t very good. He’d had far too many years of being out of practice and not a huge amount of experience with it in the first place. If he hadn’t caught himself then he might have inadvertently given the impression that he had a perfect hand, his script exceptionally elegant instead of being more akin to what might happen if you dipped a spider’s feet in ink and got it to tapdance; when Fionn was having a bad writing day, he was almost certain that the spider would be the neater of the pair. So no, he couldn’t go claiming such grand things, even though the galdor wasn’t liable to believe such fanciful nonsense. All that he would have done would be to make himself seem like an idiot. Perhaps he’d done that anyway because the other man understood his predicament — another leftie although he’d never heard it called ‘sinister’ — and so now he’d just seem like he was making a bunch of excuses.

Wonderful!

And ambidextrous! He sounded the word out in his head and remembered it, an odd one that he’d never heard aloud before but it had been many years since he’d read it. Of course, the blond recalled it dimly, especially given the context because once upon a time, he had tried to find information about his handedness, the rarity of it and frankly, he had been interested in the why of it. The teenager had managed to be a child of rarities, it seemed.

“No. No, I’m not ambidextrous. I didn’t mean to suggest- I just meant that I have difficulties writing anyway because of a lack of practise and being left-handed- Well, the direction you write Estuan has added difficulties. I’m sure you uh… understand,” he explained quietly, offering clarification with as much dignity as he could muster, his tone approaching one that suggested equality between them as they seemed to be on a level. Well, aside from the fact that the galdor considered it to be a minor inconvenience and Fionn… considered it to be rather a lot worse.

For a moment, it had seemed that they might have reached some common ground, something that would make them something other than galdor and passive, master and servant, a case of us versus them. But it had slipped away with the topic of writing and the distance only increased again. The lack of understanding persisted. Clearly the academic didn’t realise that he could hardly refer to him as ‘sir’ when speaking with others. He couldn’t be bothered repeating the question with greater clarification because he could foresee the man being puzzled; he’d think that he’d already given enough of an answer. What had he said before? Bassington-Smythe? And given that he wasn’t a professor, Fionn could always give him the title of ‘mister’ or refer to him by surname alone with the addition of ‘lecturer’ if further explanation was needed.

Good Lady, why couldn’t he have had a nice short and simple name like Bob?

The young man could only sigh softly, doing his best to keep his expression neutral while he kept his frustrations to himself — or tried to do so at any rate. Clasping his hands behind his back, he set off on the tour, which was likely to be largely unnecessary because surely he could just as easily have wandered around on his own accord.

His new employer had a flare for the dramatic though and a desire to hear his own voice. He supposed that that was possibly a draw to academia, a desire to speak into the air with the understanding that someone might be paying attention. Honestly though, he thought that the drama was a big part of it; the academics he’d encountered liked to debate and argue and leave raised tempers in their wake. Umberto also seemed to enjoy employing sweeping gestures. Maybe he’d have done well on the stage as well, maybe all academics would. Maybe they were only in their chosen fields for the added pleasure of being able to declare themselves more knowledgeable than others. That seemed to fit, especially given the competitive spirit that seemed to exist between those that should have been peers.

But he was supposed to be paying attention to the layout of the house itself rather than his tour guide, wasn’t he? Well, the youth had gotten rather good at paying enough attention to catch keywords and sometimes absorb quite a lot of information all while allowing his thoughts to run away on whatever interesting tracks that they chose. If he didn’t have that ability then he probably would have gone mad long ago. In all honesty though, the fact that his mind was so active probably brought a whole world of problems and suffering of its own. Being intelligent did bring its own hardships.

Fionn wondered idly if that was something that himself and Umberto had in common as well. The man seemed like someone who would understand such things.

He listened to the rooms being listed off, nodding along and assembling his own thoughts, finding that he had quite a few comments as it happened although he wasn’t sure which to share and which to keep to himself. He settled for storing them up with the intention of unleashing them in one go when an opportunity presented itself. Assuming that he found a suitable window.

The youth had always been oddly fond of hearing his own voice as well, or at the very least, he certainly enjoyed speaking his mind when the fancy took him. In a different, less cruelly destined life, he might have been an academic himself. So while he tried to hold his tongue, he found that he couldn’t quite manage it.

“Two sitting rooms might suggest a setup that allows for a formal and an informal way of accepting guests but honestly, it’s more likely to allow ladies to retire to one room after dining while men go to the other,” he commented matter-of-factly. It may have been awhile since he’d been deemed worthy of being part of proper society but there were certain things that he recalled from his childhood, which included gender segregation at different times and rooms that were considered worthy of entertaining special guests in, while others served for everybody else. It was a small house in comparison to some but Anaxas did love to keep men and women apart when it could in case they got ideas like how there might not be a whole lot of difference between them after all.

“I’m sure that a kitchen in a house like this would be up to a certain standard. I’m sure that it’s more than adequate for a man with discerning tastes such as yourself.”

And someone with cooking skills as mediocre as mine are, he added mentally. He wondered how poor a cook Umberto must be to lack confidence in his assessment of facilities. He doubted that he was as bad as Niamh was, mainly because he didn’t think that anyone could be as bad as his sister. Honestly, he wouldn’t have thought it possible to turn flour into a potentially deadly weapon while doing spot of baking but obviously, his sibling had special talents that were best aimed as far away from a kitchen as possible.

The teenager did manage to keep some of his thoughts to himself at least, and as they toured the different rooms, he didn’t have too much to offer behind a hum of recognition or understanding, or a suitably neutral and often pointless comment. Sometimes, you just had to say things to be polite. He might be a servant and he might have been gated but Fionn did have some notion about how to be good-mannered. He had had such lessons imparted upon him and he didn’t always choose to disregard them utterly.

Frankly, his new master seemed to be going through the motions as well, showing him the layout of the house because it was something that ought to be done. Admittedly, it was an indulgence on his part to be doing such a thing for a servant — or so Fionn thought — but it evidently wasn’t necessary and in spite of all his mannerisms, his heart didn’t appear to be truly in his task. However, when they reached the room that was quite clearly the man’s study, the whole tour made sense.

This was the place that he’d wanted to introduce to Fionn. This was the true heart of the house for him, the only room that really mattered. It was clear on his face, in his voice, his demeanour, the subtle buoyancy in his field. Not that the passive spent very long paying much attention to Umberto once they’d crossed the threshold because here was wonder and temptation. If the servant had been dying of thirst then the academic had dropped him straight in the drink where he was liable to drown, or at the very least feel as if he would.

The blond forgot himself, eyes roving over the various drawing and writing surfaces, greedily taking in characters that were mundane or arcane in nature, the whole display beyond his comprehension, even the parts that he could technically read. He could decipher the individual pieces in places but they were disconnected, meaningless even within their specific contexts but altogether? The entire picture was impossible for him to discern like trying to see the whole of Vita from his current standpoint, with the difference being that he had some intellectual grasp of the lay of the land, even if he couldn’t physically see it from here. This though…

He’d drifted in without even realising, without noticing most of what the other man had said in fact because he was rapt. Forgetting himself meant that the young man didn’t have a hope of keeping control of his tongue, his thoughts coming out entirely unfiltered.

“I’ve long wanted to learn Monite,” he remarked dreamily, sighing wistfully, an odd little smile on his face. “It’d simply be nice to know. It’s not as if I could put it to use. In theory.”

The last was a quiet aside, a conspiratorial murmur, a private thought that he had had and turned over in his mind many times. However, when it dropped from his lips, he found himself tilting his face towards his companion to favour him with a small, near humourless smile. Instead, the youth found himself freezing in place, horror and panic warring on his features with embarrassment, painting his skin a deep pink.

“Not that I- Obviously I’m not here to- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I just- Please, pay no mind to the ramblings of a passive,” Fionn explained hastily, recalling the peculiar horror his sister had shown whenever he broached the topic of being taught Monite because it was the path to something illegal: magic being taught to a passive.

Flustered, the scarlet-faced boy attempted to return things to their former track, to act as if such ill-considered words hadn’t tripped merrily off his tongue. Blasted idiot! Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? What had ever happened to keeping his clocking mouth shut?

“I understand. You’ll become caught up in your work while you’re in here-”

Oh, he could understand that. How could you fail to get caught up in all of this? Couldn’t make head nor tail of it but how marvellous it all seemed!

“-and if I disturb you, you’ll be annoyed at me for pulling you away — justifiably annoyed, I’m sure. It’s just a response, I understand that.”

Did he truly understand it or was he simply prepared to say anything at this stage that sounded appropriate?

“I’m used to it, sir. I’ve dealt with gruffness and irritation, dealt with it from people who had no intention of being civil to me at any time so I wouldn’t worry about it, sir. If I allowed such small things upset me then I wouldn’t have fared well. I’ve been part of experiments before as well.”

As if he’d fared well since his gating. Well, he hadn’t completely lost his mind. Probably, he supposed that it was a matter of debate. He did know that he’d calmed down somewhat though, his heart still beating in a manner that seemed unnaturally fast but nowhere near as bad as it had been and his speech had levelled out as well. The speech mattered more though. The man wasn’t going to have an inkling of his physical panic unless he laid a hand on the middle Madden’s chest.

“I’m sure that any room that you deem suitable will be fine. I just need a bed and uh… well, I suppose that I’ll need to have some uniforms brought over but besides that…” he shrugged helplessly. It was very strange now that he was thinking about it again.

A room of his own, all to himself. Whatever was he to do with it? It wasn't as if he could gain much benefit from it.