[Closed] Where the Heart is (Tom)

[Maximus]

Dentis 12, 2719 | Evening
Vauquelin House, Uptown

.

Rosmilda hadn’t worked out what to do with herself. This was the first full day in her new… employment? Home? This wasn’t home to her and this… it wasn’t like a regular job; it wasn’t as if the passive truly had choice and could be properly employed. She wouldn’t be paid, she wouldn’t have the option to walk away if she wanted. She wasn’t an employee, she was an indentured passive, which sometimes sounded a bit like ‘forced labour’ if you said it right. She’d never suggest such a thing aloud obviously, she wasn’t stupid but it was just… well, it was just one of those things, wasn’t it? It was important to make the best of things but she hadn’t expected to have to readjust again so soon and when she had found a home with her mistress.

Drezda…

She could say her name now, even to herself, it wasn’t some secret that she had to keep locked away in her heart, unable to recite it to herself lest she inadvertently say it aloud to the galdor’s face. The girl would be all too happy to return to referring to her as ‘Mistress’ if she could go back to the home she’d known for close to two years. She’d give anything to be back with Jerome and his strange imbala ways, Luca with his flamboyance and melodramatics, and even Cora, the eldest and the only human in the household, who had seemed perpetually displeased with it.

She didn’t want to be here with its new dynamics. Drezda had dropped her off here the day before like she was a parcel instead of a person and it already felt as if it had been an eternity. She didn’t know what to make of the new environment but she had been doing her best to work out where she fit in it. She’d avoided the golly element in the place, which was easy to do with the woman of the house, even when she was here, but it was really him that she wanted to keep away from and she had succeeded thus far. Instead, she’d been trying to work towards assimilating, finding the place where she fit — where she could fit.

The young woman had had to interact with the other servants, their world being the closest to her own, but while it was too early to know for sure, Rosmilda already felt like there would always be a distance between them. They were human while she was from galdori stock and while her parents and quietly disposed of her when she’d found herself cut off from the reality of the mona, she was still other to humans; she was still the enemy.

The older maid was nice. Margaret was someone who might be her friend — or close to one — if she persevered. She was kind, kind enough to try to make her transition a little easier. Her coaxing attempts to get the secretary to speak about herself had hurt. An innocent thing, it shouldn’t have hurt but it did. Every question she asked made Rosmilda clam up more, using her hair as a means to obscure her face as she helped the older woman with her tasks. The passive had wound up tighter and tighter until she’d wanted to scream.

In contrast to Margaret’s kindness, the butler had a mean streak. Morris had prodded at her slyly every time they were in each other’s orbit, less sly about it when Margaret was nearby but he did it again and again. He might allow her to relax a little bit, try to get her to let her guard ease, but then he would be at it again, testing her, gauging her. She had a feeling that from henceforward, he would be less aggressive, possibly allowing her to go days at a time thinking that he’d finally grown bored before he’d snap at her again. She knew the type; her time with Drezda hadn’t been her first foray into the world.

Her path hadn’t crossed much with Douglas, the footman’s, yet but he seemed nice enough. Still human though, whether they were nice or cruel. She might lack access to the mona like they did, left to sense its motions but she could no more capture it than she could the wind. But she wasn’t the same as them, those small-minded humans with their strong bodies and their big thudding feet. They were beasts of burden really. She might be shackled to a life of servitude but she wasn’t some plodding ox! How could she be anything other than separate from them? She’d always been separate from Cora but at least the woman had shown more than a spark of intelligence and even then she hadn’t needed the housekeeper. Her own kind had been enough and over them all, her mistress to eclipse them all, unattainable even if Rosmilda had shared her bed and so utterly appealing.

Her mother had separated them, or rather Ksjta had been the final blow that had parted the tenuous connection that had remained between them after Rosmilda had so foolishly admitted that she loved Drezda. For all her hopes that she would be able to remain, she had known that it wouldn’t truly be possible after that stupidly childish declaration. She wasn’t some Brunnhold schoolgirl who could afford to giggle and act foolishly as she talked about infatuation and love. The girl had to live by her wits and she had failed. The diplomat hadn’t been the same towards her since but she also hadn’t been able to do anything with her. Rosmilda had understood. No matter how unwilling the redhead might be to provide information on her mistress, a galdor with the desire to get it out of her could do so. Until she could find someone she could trust the passive with, their parting could never have come and she had thought herself safe. Her mistress didn’t let people close and finding someone trustworthy was out of the question so she never had to fear.

She had been wrong.

Incumbent Anatole Vauquelin, her new master. A man — a man! — who had appeared from nowhere and had someone wormed her way into Drezda’s heart. It beggared belief and yet, it was all too true. Somehow, the man had succeeded where others hadn’t and she didn’t know how it occurred precisely. The man had seen the Hoxian at her worst, it was true but it had made her bring him closer, rather than pushing him away. They’d had that weird argument where the woman had gotten so uproariously drunk that she had been frightening, throwing up on herself in the politician’s presence and yet he had persisted.

They had been apart from each other for months, whatever bizarre relationship they’d had seemingly at an end and yet somehow… no. She had trusted him enough to place Rosmilda with him. Trusted him enough to assure the passive that she was safe with him, no matter what tales she might hear about him, particularly in regard to women. If her mistress- if Drezda said it was so then it must be so but that remark about him and women had added a chill to her blood.

The galdor worried her and that was still the case after all the months she’d had to gather little tidbits of information on him. The more she learned about the politician that Drezda called ‘Tom’ (if it was a nickname then it was an odd one but she hadn’t asked when it would reveal her eavesdropping), the earlier she grew of him.

Even so, Rosmilda had ended up in his office. He wasn’t there of course. Lady forbid that she should have entered so casually if she so much as suspected that he might decide to go there! The servants had worn on her nerves and there was curiosity on her part as well, a desire to see what she could discern. It had driven her to enter as the sun’s rays slanted in through the window, an intense gold as the last of the day’s warmth and light bled in before the long night swallowed it, the sun bowing to the power of the Lady’s dominion. It was cosy in there, glowing and it had the feel of a safe haven. The redhead could be in there because she was supposed to be his secretary, or so she’d been told, and as yet she didn’t know if it was mere pretence or reality.

Being in his office was a matter of reconnaissance though. Yes, it served as a sanctuary but it was her presence here on a fact-finding mission which had prompted her to open and close the door so stealthily, stealing into the room like a thief. Rosmilda hadn’t come to covet things that couldn’t be hers but what someone kept on their bookshelves could be so illuminating and the Mugrobi poetry had simply-

Okay, it hadn’t dropped into her hand and fallen open to an appropriate page of its own accord, she’d done it but she hadn’t planned it.

One page couldn’t hurt and there had been something lovely and familiar and grounding about it, even if it was remarkably different from what Ksjta Tzacks wrote. The words had felt like they were something of which she could take ownership and she had allowed one page to give way to another, eyes round and fascinated, lips slightly parted, moving occasionally as she sounded something out.

Rosmilda forgot that it was not in fact her home as she perched on the corner of his desk. Only when the door opened did the spell waver, shattering entirely when she saw the unfamiliar room and worse — far worse — the strange man. Too late, she felt him, straightening up with a wince and a slight buckle on one side as stiffness registered on that side. Her face reddened, the many freckles splattered across her it damn near lost beneath the scarlet as she shut the book, fumbling it.

“Sir! I’m so sorry, sir!” she exclaimed breathlessly, teeth sliding viciously across one side of her lip. “My apologies, sir, it won’t happen again, I-I-I forgot myself. My mistress allows- always allowed me to read whatever I-”

Her teeth clamped down on her lip hard so she’d stop speaking, sketching a deep bow, even as she clasped her hands demurely below her waist. Her head dropped, green eyes darting furtively up through the curtain of hair, even while she awaited… well, she didn’t know.

Rosmilda didn’t know what to expect and that frightened her dreadfully.

[Tom Cooke]

The Study • The Vauquelin House

Evening on the 12th of Dentis, 2719

T
om had never much enjoyed – had never been much good at – farewells.

The airship had docked an hour ago. He’d gotten precious little sleep the night before, and none up in the air, shackled to the leaning, tipping turbulence and the creaking and popping of all that wood. The dock hadn’t been too crowded, but there was always something damned disorienting about catching your feet for the first time after having been in the air longer than half a day; the coachman, a bright-eyed lad named Ennis who’d just entered his employ, had led him to the street half sleeping on his feet.

It was sunny and blue, with a handful of wispy clouds drifting across the sky. It was cold enough here he’d sat tucked into the corner of the box, all swaddled in his coat; the heavy dark curtains over the windows had stirred with the chill, autumn-smelling breeze.

Outside, as they’d rattled through the outskirts of Vienda, he’d heard the bustle and chatter, the clatter of other coaches and cabs. They’d jolted to a halt once, at Old Gate, before he could get to sleep. Ennis had hopped down to have a word with the guardsman, and he’d fumbled in his waistcoat for his papers and brushed aside the curtains. For once, the brush of his field had been enough; the portly red-whiskered brigk had smiled broadly and tipped his hat at a caprice.

Even if he had wanted to think on it, he couldn’t’ve carved out the space in his mind for it. He’d known even then that something was different. He’d seen it on Ennis’ face, the white flash of his grin too broad, something pinched about his dark eyes.

The rest of the way, he’d nestled his chin on a fold of wool and shut his eyes. He’d felt like parchment draped over bone; he’d felt as if he drifted out of his body. Underneath the scratch of the moas’ talons, Vita turned, he knew. It turned, and turned.

Against the backs of his eyelids, he’d caught half-formed blurry faces, thoughtful dark eyes pinpricked with a million stars. The light that filtered in through the cracks had turned gold with the arc of the sun; he breathed in the scent of oranges and lavender, and something – someone else – sleepily buried his nose in the collar of his coat, where he could still catch a whiff of someone beloved.

It had taken Ennis tapping on the door before he knew where he was. Trying and failing to push down a yawn, he drew his coat tighter round him. The coachman opened the door and helped him out, two strong hands at his arm and his back.

“Welcome home, sir,” he’d said, respectful-like, then added, “It’s good to see you back to your old self, sir,” tipping his hat.

Morris’d been there at the door; he thought he’d caught a twitch of something sour on his face, but only for a moment. He had brushed off Margaret’s tittering, had stopped himself before he swore at Douglas and Hall. He climbed the stairs by himself, in the end, all the way round, holding tightly to the railing. On the landing of the first flight, a passing maid had jumped when she came into field range, only to curtsy quickly and bustle off to the second-floor bedrooms.

At the top of the stairs, he paused, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. Nobody up here; not a sound, except for the tick of the clock. Just the short hall, and then the heavy mahogany door to his study.

He rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath. He’d the strange feeling he’d forgot something; he’d received a missive from someone while he was in Brunnhold – but it didn’t matter, he reckoned, not tonight.

He started to take off his jacket when he heard something, he didn’t know what. A shuffle, maybe. Easing his shoulders back and re-buttoning it, he moved cat-quiet down the hall. He started to reach into his waistcoat for the key to the study, but then paused; he tried the door, and found that it opened easily.

She was perched on the edge of his desk, framed by the gold light from the window; it spun copper from her hair, and half-silhouetted the rest of her. He stopped, staring. There was a book open in her lap, and something like a smile playing across her face.

She was off the desk in an instant, stiff as a ramrod. The book snapped shut; she fumbled, nearly dropping it, and he half-jumped before she caught herself. His mouth hung slightly open; she was stammering. My mistress, she said, and it snapped shut, his lips pressed together thin, his brow furrowing.

Rosmilda.

She had jolted, as if at the brush of a field. He stepped back once, quickly. One more step, he thought, than he’d measured, when he’d measured his field all those months ago.

He took a deep breath and bowed, as deep as he could with his stiff back. “Ms. –” Drezda’d never told him her last name; it was as if it had never mattered. Frowning, he tried to meet her eye through a fringe of red hair. “Ms. – Rosmilda,” he offered, awkward.

She’d looked almost like a galdor, when he’d stepped in. Scrap – the word came to his mind unbidden – he winced slightly, glancing down, then glancing back. He felt a familiar prickling fear at the back of his neck, and then shame, thinking about – (but he was different, wasn’t he?)

“Don’t – Don’t worry about it,” he went on, fitting a pleasant smile to his face. On the desk, he could see it clearly: a slim black volume, Tsadi pezre Awameh III, gold inlay glittering. “You made a rather good choice,” he added hesitantly. “That’s, ah…”

He paused.

“Did Ms. Ecks tell you anything of – why I had need of a secretary?” he asked, taking a tentative step closer, though not so close that his field did anything more than brush.

[Maximus]

Dentis 12, 2719 | Evening
Vauquelin House, Uptown

.

He’d been absent and it had made so many things far easier for her. Perhaps it would have been nice to have some definite direction rather than left to find her own place, largely unsure of her status beyond a tentative title of ‘secretary’ but at least, she hadn’t had to interact with anyone who actually had some say in her life. His wife could certainly make her life difficult if she so chose or worse, but she didn’t think that the woman was actually concerned with her. The Incumbent though… she was effectively his and screwing things up with him wouldn’t go well.

Well, she’d made one hell of a first impression and not the kind she would have wanted. Drezda may not be her mistress anymore but she also hadn’t wanted to make a mess of things for her sake. She could imagine the woman’s displeasure if she saw her now, inhabiting a galdor space without an invitation and in the most indolent manner. Insolent is how it must seem! There were plenty of things that the Hoxian had allowed her to do but those permissions had been granted, she had no right to assume-

He looked equally surprised to see her as she was to see him but while his reaction was shock at encountering the unexpected — it seemed that the man hadn’t even known that she was in the house! — hers was one of terror. And yet… he did almost seem a little afraid of her. The brush of his field when he entered was no longer present, the man having stepped back, out of range.

If her heart hadn’t been hammering quite so much then perhaps she would have considered that strange, a galdor retreating instead of pushing his magical superiority in her face. They didn’t always do it intentionally either but they never truly noticed, did they? Oh, they knew to mind their manners when they were around their own kind but with their inferiors, they almost seemed to forget that their fields existed. They simply never considered that one of the lower races might feel discomfort or intimidation when faced with a field that could be strong and pulsing, sigiling or any other number of effects that could be experienced by their non-magical kin.

Rosmilda didn’t consider the implications of why it was gone; she simply felt some measure of relief, small though it was in the face of her panic and embarrassment. Relief in spite of the fact that his field was no longer as strange as it had been on all those occasions she’d had reason to be within range of him before this. The familiar galdori feel made her uneasy because it was new where he was concerned.

Gooseflesh was already prickling across her body from that unexpected touch when he clocking well bowed. If she hadn’t been freaked out before, she surely would have been then. The green eyes stared out through the strands, a slight movement of her head creating an opening that showed one more fully, so wide that the sclera was fully visible around the iris. That her stare could be construed as rude or insubordinate didn’t occur to her because the galdor had bowed to her as if she was- As if-

He’d bowed deeply.

He had actively seen her before, the man even having smiled up at her as she passed the book of poetry to him that time in Drezda’s house as if he was grateful to her for permitting him to have it instead of simply being the messenger.

His eyes caught hers having been actively seeking and she dropped her gaze hastily, heat creeping higher up her face. She was clocking mortified.

“I-I-I’m just Rosmilda, sir — Ros if th-th-that’s easier,” she informed the floor in a whisper, her voice perhaps managing to carry that far; it would be a wonder if the raen heard it. She repeated it a bit louder, stuttering more over the simple words as she raised her face so he’d be more likely to hear. “I once had a claim to the name of ‘Norris’ but I d-d-don’t have familial ties anymore,” she heard herself say, horrified that she’d revealed that.

No, she was simply Rosmilda now. He might have tried seeking a surname but that didn’t mean that she had to provide it! Lady guide her, she shouldn’t be able to offer something she didn’t even clocking possess!

Now that she’d looked up again, the passive found that she was unable to stop herself from staring. It wasn’t that he was much to look at, he was just… golly, unassuming really but he had something that the girl couldn’t identify. Behind that rather ordinary facade was something that had utterly captivated her mistress and made her open herself up to him. This was the man who had remained calm while Drezda had screamed obscenities and thrown bottles, and the one who had helped lead her upstairs after she’d thrown up on herself.

There had to be something about him.

Admittedly, he was trying to be friendly with her on almost equal terms and that was certainly… different.

“I sh-shouldn’t have presumed to- But it seems I chose w-w-well. Not that I should have been reading!” Rosmilda blurted, well aware that she was in a precarious position indeed as she traversed an increasingly narrow line between being demure and suitably subordinate, and being outspoken.

The young woman made some effort to straighten up, carefully tucking her wavy hair back behind her ears so it didn’t obscure her vision. Her face was exceptionally rosy but she endeavoured to appear somewhat composed in spite of the many signs to the contrary. He had asked a question and she could answer it in a perfectly forthright manner. She had to show that she was somewhat capable and if it meant speaking more slowly so that she wouldn’t stutter wildly than so be it.

“No. Ms Ecks didn’t tell me anything really.”

There was the briefest pause over the formal reference to the Hoxian diplomat, the barest hesitation as she tried not to choke on it. In truth, she knew more about why Drezda had been willing to offer her up for the role than why the Incumbent had been seeking to have it filled. She had no idea if he had any idea why she’d been so keen to get rid of Rosmilda but the girl found herself offering information in that area unbidden, mentally kicking herself for doing it.

“In truth, she was m-m-more concerned with getting rid of me as soon as possible and it was more important that I-I-I understood why I couldn’t stay with her than why I was to go to you. What you wanted didn’t really matter.”

If there was room for more blood to flow to the surface then it must surely have done so. The redhead choked, green eyes flitting nervously from side to side as she considered how to get out of the hole that she had dug for herself.

“I mean to say… it wasn’t my concern, sir. If I may be frank.”

A bit late to be asking for that kind of permission…

[Tom Cooke]

The Study • The Vauquelin House

Evening on the 12th of Dentis, 2719

W
hen he rose up, she was staring at him, whites-of-her-eyes staring. It was hard to see through a thicket of red hair, but her face was still red as a fever.

He felt wrung dry; he felt heavy from all the godsdamn missing, too, the missing that’d just barely begun. It was hard to think of anything but the empty-bed night ahead, pressing down on him like a stormcloud, and that he’d forgot today was Rosmilda’s first day in his employ hadn’t made the sight before him any less jarring. His heart ached, tight as if coiled, and all he wanted to do was sit down and put his head in his hands.

He couldn’t think why she was staring at him. If he looked how he felt, he looked like the dead. Running a hand through his hair, he took a deep breath. “Rosmilda, then,” he said, pursing his lip. He barely had time to speak; her voice came flurrying out over his, stammering and stumbling.

“Are you sure?” he asked, when she’d finally gone quiet. He’d thought to take a step closer, but he felt strange about it still. “I understand if you’d rather – leave the name behind,” he said, slowly, “but I’d rather not be calling you by your first name, if you’re not calling me by mine.”

Sir. It still ached through him, ached with his heart. He heard the word, sir, in a different voice, rattling about the back of his head.

Not that she should have been reading. His glance flicked to the book on the desk, then back. The lass stumbled – choked, more like – the name Ms. Ecks.

He sucked at a tooth. When she straightened herself, he did the same. He let himself breathe in deep through his diaphragm, and searched for what scraps of composition he still had left. He lifted his chin, square-jawed, and clasped his hands in the small of his back. He tried to fit something like a professional smile on his face, but he wasn’t sure he did such a good job of it.

This was not, he thought, particularly professional behavior. Like he’d’ve known what professional behavior was – oes, once, ne. Now, he knew rather how a servant was meant to behave round a golly employer, and this wasn’t it. The more she tried to cram herself into the shape of one, the more obvious it was she didn’t fit. She’d tucked her hair behind her ears only to give him a full view of her scarlet cheeks.

He thought. She didn’t need a field for the bitter green tang of jealousy to leak out into the air. Gods almighty, if he’d ever needed a confirmation of what he’d begun to suspect at Drezda’s house.

When she was silent, he was silent – for a moment. He shut his eyes and thought more, sucking at a tooth; he kicked his tired brain into motion, searched through it – searched the wide-eyed red face printed against the backs of his eyelids – for steady footing.

He opened his eyes, and a smile came more easy. “You can always be frank, Miss Rosmilda.” It was awkward, but it’d do. “I understand the, uh – circumstances of this aren’t – ideal. For anybody involved.”

Drezda wasn’t, he’d thought wryly, in much of a position to consider his feelings on the matter; that was fine with him. The conversation he remembered only hazily – he remembered keeping his voice under control, despite the white-hot anger threatening to crawl up from his throat. Recommending to me, he’d kept saying, not giving to me. You’re laying her off; she’s choosing to work for me. Right?

Right?

“I’ll fill you in,” he said brightly, pushing away the anger again. He stepped – slowly – toward the desk, letting his field edge round her; he knew better than to try and caprise, for once. There was already a pitcher of water on the desk, and he bent with a grunt to get two glasses. “You should sit down,” he said, nodding toward the chair on the other side, “and take some water. Will you take tea?”

I don’t give a shit what you want to read, he almost said, but held his tongue. She was already shocked enough; let her calm down first, he thought, and get the most important rubbish out of the way.

[Maximus]

Dentis 12, 2719 | Evening
Vauquelin House, Uptown

.

It wasn’t clear what sort of ground she was on with this Incumbent fellow. He’d aimed for friendliness, familiarity, even something like equality, but that didn’t mean that she believed that he was truly her friend. Appearances could be rather deceiving and the fact that he pursed his lips as he echoed her given name made her fear that she had already found a line by crossing over it. Did he disapprove of the information that she’d offered unbidden? Did he dislike the diminutive form that she’d volunteered or was it the surname that she had no real right to anymore?

Lady forgive her but she hadn’t been able to stop herself, what restraint she had cultivated over the years utterly lost to her in the face of panic. She was cleverer than this, she knew better and yet here she was blurting more than she ought like some undisciplined child. Yet his response wasn’t one that she could have predicted.

Was she sure that she’d… rather leave the name behind? Clocking hell! Did he really believe that she’d had a choice? She’d spent time in Brunnhold before she’d been carefully plucked from the population to be trained for the world beyond the university’s walls and while her family name hadn’t been forbidden, it had been made rather clear that it would be better to forget it. There had been pain surrounding it at the time as well as fear, a mysterious sort of threat hanging over her head if she should go against the rather strong “suggestion”.

Of course she hadn’t forgotten her surname, ten years of her life hadn’t been erased simply because she’d been branded as passive and gated.

“It isn’t a matter of preference, sir. I am passive, not a common servant. I ceased to be a Norris when I failed my initiation,” she responded matter-of-factly, lacking either malice or bitterness. She had accepted it as a fact long ago. Really the only thing in her voice was a faint irritability because didn’t he know this? Hadn’t he been around passives before? Did he really have no idea that they weren’t like galdori or humans or wicks?

They lacked self-awareness so much of the time and there were a great many things that they didn’t consider because they’d never had to think about them, like the fact that non-galdori experienced their fields. The passive sighed. Honestly, she couldn’t be angry but it was still clocking annoying that they made assumptions without expending an iota of thought to consider matters properly.

Rosmilda was well aware that she had to be tolerant of her new master’s uncertainty about her and his well-meaning questions and statements, no matter how they might make her feel. He wouldn’t always say such things because he would surely lose interest in such things and a mutual understanding would develop between them. There were worse matters about which friction could arise.

She hadn’t expected him to reveal an apparent discomfort about addressing her on a first name basis when that courtesy wasn’t one that she could return. There was that equality talk again, the redhead not entirely sure how to address the matter. She didn’t want to be referred to by her family name, the idea of which made her uncomfortable. She chewed over the remark, well aware that her face had warmed anew.

He seemed glad to give her permission to speak frankly — blanket permission — and it drew a relieved but sheepish smile to her lips. She had overstepped but she was thankful that he had accepted her words so graciously and without signs of having been offended. It was good that she wouldn’t have to completely censor her words, albeit a complete lack of restraint would be ill-advised. It would take time to determine how much honesty was too much.

Her blush didn’t subside when faced with his words, the display one to which she was unfortunately predisposed. It wasn’t always as intense as this but rosy cheeks were a habitual sight on her complexion. Addressing her as ‘Miss’ Rosmilda probably would have pinked them anyway, the young woman hesitantly licking her lips as she weighed the possibility of correcting him about her name or not. Well, she would effectively be repeating herself but it was better to nip this in the bud before it had a chance to stick.

But she’d adhere to his wishes first, his words couched too softly to be an order, the galdor offering more of a suggestion that she sit. She did as she was bid, carefully tucking the skirt of her dress beneath her, albeit perching close to the edge rather than settling back. Her feet crossed at the ankles, the toe of one tapping lightly on the floor, restless.

“I’ll take some water. Thank you. I… won’t take tea. I’ve never acquired a taste for it or rather, I’ve never had the chance and Hoxian tea is… not particularly palatable so I suppose that I didn’t have a fair chance to develop such a taste,” the servant explained with a quick laugh, tucking hair back behind her ears again. It was less liable to stray across her face now that she was keeping her gaze on him instead of fixing it downwards.

“And just Rosmilda please. Without the ‘miss’. I understand why you’d um… not want to call me that when it seems overly familiar. Obviously, we aren’t on an equal footing but it doesn’t have to be quite as uh… uneven in private if it would… make it easier? I won’t presume to suggest that I address you by your first name, Dr-Drezda didn’t approve of- not even- She was ‘Mistress’ in public or private and I… could address you… in an alternate manner if you’d prefer as well?”

She tried to read him, scrutinise him by straining all of her senses. She had some notion of fields and the different ways that they could shift. She couldn’t pick up on the same subtleties as her magical kin but she wasn’t completely incapable. Strangely enough, coming to grips with his field was difficult because he seemed to be keeping it close and she realised that he had veritably tiptoed his monic aura around her. It didn’t seem possible that it could be incidental and if it was in fact done on purpose then it was rather curious, wasn’t it?

She couldn’t help but be reminded of the way Drezda’s mother had reacted to her—to all the passives—in the house. Passives had ruffled her somehow. Her emotions had been kept in check but her field had always kept away as if she wanted to avoid something that wasn’t there, as if she was trying to keep away from the lack. She bit her lip hard, blood flooding it.

“Do I- Did you… did you want a passive?” she questioned hesitantly.