K had not known such simple, unadulterated bliss in his whole life, but alas it was only partial and temporary – for all the while a voice was going in his head (quiet at first, but growing louder and louder):

‘Impostor! You don’t belong down here – this isn’t for you. You’ve forgotten your station!’ and very soon, with these thoughts, there came a grogginess and a sick belly-ache.

‘O-o-oh, I’ve eaten the labourers’ food – it’s not meant for stomachs like mine, nor my constitution! I’m a lawyer who belongs up top.’ He groaned,

and with his new strength he heaved himself up from the bench, dropped the spoon out of his hand, and staggered away to the door as though drunk.

‘O-o-o-oh my head!’ He cried, for it had begun to pound now; dull, and regular, like a drum mallet wrapped in felt, but forceful enough all the same. He reeled through the laughing crowd, who were all amused by something else by now, and wove between bodies as though he knew not the way out – though it was the same door he’d entered by.

‘I think I’m taken ill!’ He murmured through leaden lips; the words following a good few seconds behind the sluggish movements of his tongue, all jumbled up. He felt now that he was sorry he’d dared to go on this adventure; that he’d have done better to stay up with Gerald and remained where he belonged. Yet this feeling only made the headache worse, so much so that it brought tears of self-pity to his eyes. He trudged rather pathetically out of the mess, out of the living quarters, and back up Pitzhangar lane to the stairs above. His only thought was to get back to his room and bed – to sleep off this drunkenness. He spared no thought for the office, nor for getting any work done the rest of that day – he’d taken his gambit and was paying for it now; nothing else mattered.

It was reassuring to focus only on climbing the stairs and on finding his way back, and the food in his system gave him the strength to keep plodding on. When he got back on the right floor, the little voice in his head gave just enough of a prompting to slip out of the overalls and back into his overcoat, that he was able to accomplish the remainder of his journey without attracting attention.

For all his misery, and the clumsiness of his limbs – which led him into collisions with walls, doors, and several people – he never lost the way, for each impact seemed to reorientate him in the right direction. He barely remembered the journey later on; all he knew was that, whether it had taken one hour or several, he found himself back in a familiar corridor that afternoon, where he collided with a messenger standing in one of the doorways.

‘Ah, there you are, Mr. K.’ The man said, the same one as before, but Joseph could have sworn he was wearing a more friendly expression than usual. His voice was almost joyful as he handed over one of his letters, and he walked away with a veritable spring in his step. K understood why when he saw the Lord’s seal on the envelope now in his hands – this one had come from the very top. It took several attempts with his fumbling fingers (each about as dexterous as a shovel) to force it open, and all that registered with him in the note was a reference to Lady Avonhurst (who was requesting a meeting the next day, it seemed) and Tollswhip’s crabbed signature at the bottom.

It was proof enough that the effects of the labourers’ draught were wearing off by the fact that he could make out this much, and that he only spent about fifteen minutes staring, enraptured, at the swirling strokes of Tollswhip’s pen. At last he looked up and noticed the door to his own room, standing wide open beside him. He didn’t for a moment consider why it might be so, but staggered in, barely closing it behind him before he fell upon his bed, fully clothed, and fell asleep at once.

That sleep was troubled by the most fantastical dreams, for the effects of the lunch had exaggerated most details, as well as slowed the time within his dream state so much that a nap of an hour and a half felt something like a decade, of curious wanderings; shifting scenes; tragedies – an epic unfolding in a land of its own. Yet, if everything around him was shifting, fading, or passing under the weight of years – if he passed through countless copies of a situation, each time from a different perspective, the situations themselves modified so that they were all but unrecognisable, until one had got fairly far into the dream. Over time he began to notice another constant, another person it seemed, albeit her face, voice, and appearance altered in each instance, he felt the changes slowing down, growing less rapid and extreme as he drew closer to her in each new scene – yet it seemed that the closer he drew the more the dream accelerated, until, in a rapid tightening, like the closing of a door, he found himself waking up – emerging ignorantly into consciousness once more, the last image in his mind being something like a crown flashing on the head of that other person – in a split second before the vision melted away into sunlight.

It was only the middle of the afternoon, and K had a splitting headache. He rolled over, still in his clothes and feeling much the worse for it – but someone had removed his shoes for him, for he saw them placed neatly by the door. And, as he slowly, groggily, looked around the room, trying to take in the reality shift he’d just experienced, he noticed other things that had been tidied or swept clean or put away. He’d been meaning to put his things in order when he’d had a moment, but clearly someone had beaten him to it.

‘After all, why not – it isn’t as if I haven’t got my hands full enough already.’ He mumbled complacently, then sat up sharply with a pang of remorse.

‘Oh damn it, what a mess I am. One day in and I’ve already thrown in the towel by lunchtime. I wish someone would tidy me up...’ but he got rather irritated by these thoughts after a while, and so got out of bed.

He was more curious than anything about who exactly had access to his room, but this passed when he saw that envelope laid on his table. Just a few hours old and it was already looking aged and faded, like a wilted rose.

‘They certainly get through a lot of paper in this place.’ He murmured, tearing it open and looking over the letter again.

‘Hold on,’ he thought. He could have sworn it had said the meeting was to be tomorrow. Now, examining Tollswhip’s crabbed handwriting more soberly, it was almost impossible to decipher whether the date read the 12th or the 13th. A glance at the time told him he could easily make it there if it was to be today, and he knew at the very least that with instructions from up top it is better to be safe than certain. If he’d been wise he’d have run it past Tollswhip to check, but what with his truancy, and even more so because of the dislike he’d already developed for that pen-pushing official, he wouldn’t humble himself to go. Instead, he did what most young men do when preparing for an audience with a lady – he washed and dressed, taking especial care of his appearance.

It was the least he could do, to be fair, after having trawled through the pits in sweaty underclothes and weather-beaten overcoat. After making his toilet, and with all else in order, he made some approving faces in the mirror, and headed out with time to spare.

Once on the move again it was hard to ignore the pounding of his head with all the usual bustle in the corridors (his shower had felt like a rain of pebbles on the cranium), but over time it was beginning to subside, giving way to a constant, low-level throbbing. He had to swing by the office to pick up a few things, though he had no idea what excuses he could give for his absence. In the event, Gerald started up when he saw K, breaking protocol with a loud stage whisper:

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

‘Ah, Joseph! Hope you’re feeling better after your upset stomach! Are you back to stay?’

K looked at him with incomprehension for a moment or two (we can’t be too hard on him for this, for he still had a hangover) before responding truthfully:

‘No, I’m just picking up my things for a meeting.’

The others spared him half a glance, more disturbed by the noise than anything, and continued to work in silence.

K was surprised to see how neat his place looked – it had certainly grown with stacks of paper far higher than he’d left them, but not nearly as high as they ought to have been. Now he saw why; as he passed Gerald’s desk on his way out he saw the man working almost at double speed to cover half of K’s workload, in addition to his own. K wanted to say something, stopped dead in his tracks by this sight, but Gerald merely shook his head towards the door. There were only a few minutes now to spare before his meeting with the Lady – he’d have to thank Gerald later.

On he sped, and upwards, at a quicker pace now, but being careful not to lose his composure. He had to find his way back to Tollswhip’s office, to take the lift, but he was anxious not to meet the man himself. As he passed the stairwell that led up to it, he was sure that he heard the familiar, wretched voice croak something after him, but he kept moving, pretending not to have heard. By the time he was in the lift it was too late to change his mind, even if he’d wanted to, for the doors swung shut, sealing him into the narrow little cubicle. A second later it shot upwards at speed.

The ordeal lasted about five minutes, and it was all he could do not to heave up his lunch when it came to a rest on the level of the lower receiving rooms. This was where the family received officials and commoners – fellow aristocracy they met in the upper, and their private quarters were up top. K had taken a servants’ lift and was now in the same place he’d waited to meet his Lordship the day before. Silk, and hangings and green carpets, and high, bright ceilings – it was all familiar, but still impressed him. A portly attendant stood by, some kind of footman in the same uniform as Travis.

‘Excuse me,’ K panted, ‘I’ve a meeting with Lady Avonhurst, could you tell me where I’m to see her? It wasn’t clear from the-’ K felt around his pockets for the letter.

‘Her Ladyship is currently holding audience with the minister of butlers. If you have an appointment scheduled I suggest you wait in the next room until the appropriate time.’ The footman barely opened his eyes as he spoke these words, in a tone of utmost disdain.

‘Where is she meeting him? I might be late already, do you see?’

‘We-ell, I’m not at liberty to-’

‘Where? It could be important!’

‘Receiving room number 35, but I don’t see – I say!’

The footman’s eyes snapped wide open as he saw K dash down the corridor without a second thought. He might have called out, or rushed after him, but the training he’d received in the estate as a boy had never prepared him for such a situation, so he did his best to forget all about it.

K found room 35 without any difficulty – it was accessed through a narrow door squeezed between rooms 34 and 36, that suggested something the size of a broom cupboard, but which led up a flight of steps to a very spacious and handsome interior. The room was round, with a raised level around the outer part, and a recess in the centre of the floor with a sun dial submerged in a pool of water. Light flooded in through frosted windows round the back half of the walls, and a crystal chandelier glittered from the ceiling.

Standing by the pool, slightly to the left of it, was a thin man in black livery, with a great quantity of chains strung from his belt to various pockets. He looked at K with alarm when he entered – all his features frozen in shock, save for the quivering of his bushy white moustache. Reaching into one of his pockets, he pulled out a watch with a gesture of disbelief; most likely presuming he’d overstayed his welcome and now had the heavies after him to chuck him out. The Lady, who had her back to them both, was standing on the raised level, gazing at one of the window panes where some glass had been inset in the shape of a rose, and continued to issue commands to the minister, nonchalantly.

K hovered on the steps, uncertain. He stared at the minister, and the minister stared at him, until the Lady Avonhurst, sensing perhaps that she was not being listened to, turned around and registered the interruption without the least degree of surprise showing through on her features – which were very lovely. Seeing her for the first time, K was even more lost for words, and stared from her to the minister, and back again – as if extended exposure to her direct image might be damaging.

‘Well, that will be all, minister’ she said coolly, descending a step to offer the man her hand. He grazed it with the bristles of his moustache before scurrying out of the room backwards, chains jingling. K found his voice at last, and stammered:

‘Joseph K, my Lady – the estate’s new lawyer. You asked to meet with me.’

‘I did?’ she replied, but K missed the question in her tone. He only noticed that she had some trace of a foreign accent – something southern – but he couldn’t tell. There was a pause in which she looked intently at K’s face, as if trying to read his character in it, and then she spoke:

‘And how do you find the estate, Mr. K? Have you been well received?’

‘Oh, no complaints my Lady – that is, I like it very much.’

Looking away from her dark and bewildering eyes, he noticed a large, waxy and ancient portrait on the wall. The Lady’s likeness, but even more beautiful, and more solemn. It caught his breath for a moment.

‘My ancestor.’ Lady Avonhurst said, with obvious pride, seeing how K was transfixed. ‘I’m often told how strong the likeness is between her and myself, but I confess I don’t see it.’

‘She is very beautiful.’

‘I think so.’ She said, firmly. ‘And how do you find your work?’ she continued, turning once more to face K with great condescension.

‘Well, I find it, fine. Much to do, and a lot to learn, b-but nothing I can’t handle.’

Her eyebrow raised a hair’s breadth. There was another pause, while she resumed her post by the window, looking once more into the rose set there, which sparkled in the sunlight as if it were cut from rubies and emeralds. Something in her posture seemed to relax, and when she spoke again her voice had softened, and grown warmer, at least to K’s ears.

‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it so far – sometimes it’s very difficult to tell what my servants and officials think of their lives here, for they’re all far too polite to tell the truth.’ She smiled to herself as she said this, and K relaxed once more.

‘I suspect they’re a little in awe of you, My Lady,’ he said, without thinking.

‘Yes, you’re probably right. That is the way it ought to be, after all.’ She drew herself up to her full height.

‘Tell me, Mr. K, what do you think it is that keeps an estate like this running; not only working, but truly flourishing?’

‘I don’t know, my Lady.’

‘An ideal.’ She turned to face him, with a bright look in her eyes; a look of defiance, almost.

‘All of the toil, all of the sacrifices made, day in, day out, to ensure this estate functions, even for a single minute – all of it is in service of an ideal, without which there could be nothing.’

K pondered on this, and, whether it was the after effects of the lunch, or the memory of the labourers below, something raised a question in his mind.

‘Don’t you agree, Mr. K?’ the Lady asked.

‘Absolutely. No doubt. Except… do you-? don’t you think one could get along without ideals, I mean, just in principle?’

The Lady gave a smile at this that made K feel very stupid, and he could have kicked himself for asking. Her reply, nonetheless, was very serious.

‘No. Without the ideal, there can be only chaos, and death. I keep my people safe, housed, and fed; free from wars, invasion, plague, or famine. Not I, that is, but the ideal. I am just a woman – weak, unworthy of the titles I hold...’ here her voice caught in her throat, as she walked over to the portrait of her ancestor. Her hands clasped together as if in prayer. She hung her head for a few pitiful moments.

‘That is my sacrifice. To be what I was enjoined to be – no more a woman, but a Lady. Do you understand?’

K replied solemnly: ‘Yes.’

Somewhere, a clock struck the hour with a pleasant little chime, and the Lady at once broke out of her reverie.

‘Well! It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. K.’ she said, brightly and formally. ‘I look forward to working with you to arrange the affairs of my late husband, and the inheritance of our Lord Postlethwaite III, the Prinz Eugen.’

She took a step down to offer K her hand, and he knew that the meeting was at an end. After kissing her rings with as light a touch as possible, he filed out of the chamber backwards, taking each step very cautiously. Travis was waiting for him outside.