A spiral staircase leads to the baths. Up, then down, then up again, and you arrive at the pools of sour, crystalline water. From across the room of blue tiling, sitting on the roof, The Fish waits. It greets you, swimming in the air, with billowing movements as it extends from rafter to rafter, like a puppy celebrating their master has come back. It’s one, it’s two, its seven, all at the same time, it’s the Fish.

I entered the water and began scrubbing my skin with the cold liquid. I was a tortuous task, bathing while quivering like that. Scrub, scratch, check on the Fish so it doesn’t come for me, scrub.

Before I finished cleaning the congealed wine smudges, a known figure appeared on the bath’s doorframe.

“Long time no see, Gator Prince!” I scurried to greet him.

“Gator Prince? She told you to call me Gator Prince?” He spat, raising his snout with haughtiness.

I took a step back. “No, sir, no. I… assumed.”

“I’d eat you if you weren’t her favorite toy. Do you seriously think I am a gator?”

“You look like one to me. But I am no biologist, only saw them in documentaries, so… a crocodile?” I ventured, and kept retreating one step at a time.

He growled, revealing teeth sharp and long, unlike mine.

“Winds curse me, you are serious. Well, try again: what am I?” he put a long finger against his scaly chest and awaited my answer.

“Would get mad if I suggest… a large Iguana? I mean your scales look too big for one and you are slightly taller than the ones in pet stores but still—“

“Shut your trap. I am Gadorprims the Peerless. That’s my name, and you may refer to me by it. Gadorprims. Got it? Not a gator, not a croc, not a small, frail, pathetic iguana. Gadorprims.”

I found myself not knowing what to say, and confused, if he wasn't an iguana, then…

“Perchance a gharial, if I may be so bold?” I suggested, crawling deeper into the water, which would have been wise if he weren’t a gharial.

“Do you really think I look like a gharial? Like a long snouted, small needle teeth fish eating… thing?” he inquired with a tone I wouldn’t allow a normal visitor to hold in the Lady’s domain.

“With all due respect sir, yes. I think you are a gharial.”

He said something under his breath and then smiled “I may be. But don’t ever remind me again. Gadorprims, call me that if you must ever refer to me,” He raised his gaze, “Are you aware this room is full of those?”

He pointed at The Fish, and the fish didn’t point back.

“Yes sir, they are fish, they like places with water.”

“No, you are either dumb or myopic. They are in the roof. Those are clearly phan…” he made a second of silence “Pha fish. Pretty common in my homeland, they are, slave.”

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“Pawn. Servant. Butler,” I corrected him, scowling. The Lady is no slaver.

“I will… speak to her about this matter. Keep an eye on the fish, they like to possess people,” he gave me a word to the wise, and then parted in direction to the main chamber.

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Gharials don’t talk. Gharials don’t talk. Gharials don’t talk. Gharials need the sun, too dark, too dark, too dark. Gharials eat fish that swim, the ones in the bath don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t. Gharials inhabit in Asia, the dragons there are long, long, long. The one we must kill isn’t long, lives in the dark, and talks. If it eats fish, we know not. Grab your sword, kill the dragon, kill the dragon, kill the dragon!

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These acts of vandalism are getting me on my nerves! Specially because this one is a careless, disorganized stunt carried on by schmuck. An accusation of this caliber is no simple matter. This man is playing a dangerous game, and I need to set a trap for him. He seems to be constantly near, eavesdropping my interactions with the others in the palace. I will, when I finish this entry, hide the diary. Even if I do so in a wet crevice, the lady’s magic can preserve even oil from the fire, how would it not preserve these, my precious writings, from a bit of water? She will, yes, she will. There is no other possible outcome. The Lady preserves, The Lady heals, the small fawn is proof of it. For eternity, we will serve her in her crusade against the claws of time and rot. And so will my words.

But this invader, he tries to thwart the lady plans. What is he trying to achieve? And why does he want to go after Gadorprims? He even if not a servant of the lady, is a good friend of hers, and, by extension, of everyone who inhabits this palace. Therefore, one who attacks Gadorprims cannot but be our enemy. But I shall prove too sane a man for him, too clever a butler. He’s after the dairy, so, if I hide it and set up a simple trap, I should be able to catch him. Then, deliverance of bittersweet justice would be a matter of simple judgment and execution.

That said, I have been thinking: this could be one of my peers trying to get a laugh. Or could have been, if most of them were not illiterate during waning and waxing moons. Full and new moons, I haven’t tested. They cannot be, no, no, no.

As for coffee, I miss it. I am craving a good cappuccino. Yet there are no coffee makers in the palace, The Lady is intolerant to caffeine or so it seems.

Could it be a prank of The Bear? She ought to be in her room, hibernating or estivating now. She’s a mischievous one when awake, serving The Lady on her own, particular, granular terms. I hold no grudge against her, for to annoy seems to be simply her nature, and she is only awake during a few days every several weeks.

No, it cannot be her, I waited till she went to sleep to start the diary, and if there is something she never fools around with, it’s her circadian cycle.

The Bear cannot be, no, no, no.

I will take my sword, avoid the lady’s chamber, yes, and then, when I find him in the trap, strike.

Now for the trap, concealing a sigil of containment among the balls of the ball room should do the dirty work. The Lady feels uneasy when I cast my spells without a good reason. Magic’s a thing of beasts and gods, she says, humans should not mess with it for mundane tasks, she says. Protection of the diary and the palace, however one may look at it, it’s to me justification enough to use weak incantations. A minor transgression, a forgivable transgression, to apprehend an unforgivable, major transgressor.

It’s a simple spell, just evoke mana on my fingers, and claw the sigil into the ground. I am good mage, yes, a mighty one, even. Yet I could be a mere firework maker compared to The Lady, as her sorcery knows no match, not in this world, not in the prior one.

An equilateral triangle to begin, a few wobbly lines, and a trembling spiral to finish it all. That’s all the sigil would take. Simple, effective for what I need, and easy to bury among the balls.

The problem with holy magic being that its shine may cause horrible hallucinations and only those wicked of heart may be caught in the sigil. Still, I cannot fathom how any intent to harm the lady or her allies could be anything but ill. Rallying me to attack Gadorprims is, no doubt, vile to the full extent of the word. Which would be four whole letters. Maybe wretched is a better word to use in this situation, as it is longer. Or execrable, with nine letters.

I will report my findings if I survive this endeavor, which I hope I do. And if the diary survives this endeavor, which, if you are reading this, it probably did.