Bishop Tenorus Riddell stood two heads taller than the average fellow. He was a fair-haired, broad-chested hulk of a man who'd chosen burns and scars over a magnificent mustache to compliment his face. At first glance, one might mistake him for a blacksmith or mercenary if not for his long, magenta alchemist cloak and ice-blue eyes twinkling with curiosity yet steeped in knowledge.

After Sir Christopher left, the sprightly priest beckoned Arinel out of his lab into the courtyard, where merchants, peasants and castle workers milled about their business.

The alchemy labs were among the several outhouses built along the castle wall. Unlike the other open-air lean-tos for dyeing, washing, dressmaking, leather-working and various other crafts, the labs were walled against contaminants from without, and those walls were fortified with stone to withstand the experiments within.

Riddell stopped at an outhouse two times larger than the average peasant cottage in Crosset. A heavy, rusty padlock barred the wooden door, upon which was tacked a piece of cowhide with DANGER scrawled across in red ink. Above the door, a copper nameplate swayed in the breeze. Ornate gold-leafed letters gleamed upon it, framed with golden curlicues.

Muldor

Arinel cocked her head. The name seemed familiar. She might have picked it up in a treatise somewhere.

Riddell slid out a crammed keyring from his belt, humming as he thumbed for the right key.

"So, Meya, is it?" He chirped above the jingling, his voice high for a man of his size. His stunted-looking thumb flicked keys apart. Arinel noticed with a jolt it was missing a chunk. His palm was also parched and wrinkled as if burned by acid.

"Your first job is to clear out this place. It belonged to my late friend, Noxtis Muldor. I need it well-aired and spotless, since I'll be using it for risky experiments. Fire, booms and flashes, as the general populace put it."

He tittered at his little joke as Arinel eyed the innocent laundry maid walking by behind them.

"Ah, here we are."

Riddell slotted a burnished old key into the padlock's hole and turned. The door shifted, freed from its frame, but its hinges were rusty, and years of humidity had bloated its wood. After a forceful shoulder thump, it swung open.

The musty, moldy smell of disuse billowed out in welcome. All the windows were shut. Daylight streamed through the doorway, casting Arinel and Riddell's shadows upon an oaken worktable surrounded by shelves crammed with dusty bottles and jars.

An elaborate distilling set gleamed on the worktable; its glass beakers with burnt bottoms sat empty but for dust, all intact. Muldor didn't die during an experiment. Lucky you, thought Arinel darkly.

Silence fell as both took in the scene; Arinel with curiosity and a touch of fear, Riddell with nostalgic reminiscence. At last, Riddell heaved a sad sigh.

"Right." Clearing his throat, he turned to Arinel. "Muldor worked with some dangerous chemicals, but he was a meticulous chap. I don't expect there to be anything hazardous lying around where they shouldn't be. Still, it's been a decade. Make no haste. Be as careful as you can be."

Arinel nodded. Riddell noticed the shelf beside the door. He picked up the nearest jar and wiped it with his apron, revealing the milky yellow powder swirling within. Sulfur, thought Arinel. The faded, peeling label confirmed it.

"You don't know your letters, I believe?" Riddell asked as he checked the jar's top.

A sudden throb of anger pounded on Arinel's temples, then she remembered she was supposed to be Meya the Maid, not Lady Arinel. She chewed her lips. Would Riddell become suspicious if she told the truth?

"I do, sir." She eked out, fingers twisting her apron. Riddell's eyes grew round as dough balls. He mouthed for a beat before his face split into a wide smile of delight.

"Really? That's a pleasant surprise!" He chirped in his high-pitched voice. Arinel blew a silent sigh of relief. Of course, a literate maid would be given more work. And more work means more opportunities to rise.

Riddell set the sulfur jar back on the shelf then clapped his hands.

"Very well, then. I expect you'd find several bottles with interesting labels, but do not uncork any." He raised a strict finger, his voice solemn, "Curiosity without caution has maimed many alchemists in this place. I should know, of course."

Riddell glanced at his nub of a thumb with a sigh, then shrugged it off, gesturing vaguely about the lab,

"Dust the shelves. Clean the glassware. Relabel the bottles." He rummaged in his tunic pocket and produced a pair of thick leather gloves.

"These will protect your delicate fingers," He motioned towards the handkerchief poking out of Arinel's apron pocket, "Cover your mouth and nose, and get those windows open right away. Everything you'll need, you'll find in the shed."

Riddell pointed his thumb toward the wooden toolshed leaning against the lab's stone wall. Arinel craned her neck to see past his hulking frame. The alchemist wagged a cautious finger again,

"Remember, no haste. Be as careful as you can. I'll be in my lab. Knock if there's anything."

With that, Bishop Riddell gave her a warm smile and walked briskly back to his workshop. Arinel bowed and waited until he had disappeared behind his door, then ventured into Muldor's lab.

A diligent maid should start working immediately, but Arinel couldn't help herself. As soon as the windows were open, she swooped over the distilling set on the oak table, examining the strangely-shaped flasks and elaborate layout from start to finish.

She shone the glass with her apron and tapped it with her fingernail. She turned glass knobs and imagined liquid dripping from suspended bottles into the flask waiting in the tub filled with imaginary ice. She imagined a merry fire in the silent stove and pictured red liquid bubbling in the empty beaker.

She sidestepped the aisle between cabinets high as library bookshelves, turning bottles to see their peeling labels, hastily drawing away from ones bearing dangerous names. Their contents came in all colors of the rainbow and all the shades in between. Some even glittered like gems. She could spend all day just reorganizing them.

Ever since Arinel could remember, she'd been peeking through the windows of the lab Mother and her master, Bishop Tyberne, used to work in, watching their successors tinkling with weird-looking glassware and colorful chemicals, only to be dragged away screaming by Gretella, laughed at by her half-sisters and reprimanded by Father.

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Your mother died in that very room, Father would roar, back when he still had enough snarl in him, I had her cut open to save your life, and you're throwing it away in that cursed lab, too?

Arinel had no comeback; all she could give were empty promises; pinky swears with crossies. She understood the logic of everyone's fear, but she couldn't feel it.

When she peered into the lab, she wasn't reminded of what once happened there. She saw fascinating experiments with unpredictable results. It was like embroidery; you master the basics, then experiment with new patterns and techniques. Whenever she grew bored, Arinel liked inventing new patterns. So far, she'd wound up with nothing but tangled thread balls, though.

After a thorough tour of the lab, Arinel stood with hands on her hips, looking around, dithering. So many things to be done. Where should she start?

In the end, she decided on the worktable. After studying the distilling set for a moment, Arinel strode out to the shed and returned with two large wooden tubs, a stool, a sponge, a bar of soap, a brush and a bucket.

Filling the tubs took five trips to the well in the middle of the courtyard. Arinel's apron was splashed all over by the time she was done. Still, it wasn't as soaked as on her first day in the scullery, fetching water for the dishes. She was getting better at this.

Once the last bucket of water was emptied into the tub, Arinel tied her handkerchief over her mouth and nose, forced her fingers into the thick, damp leather gloves, then dismantled the distilling set, loading the tubes and flasks carefully into the bucket.

One by one, Arinel dropped the glassware into the sudsy water in the first tub, then started scrubbing. Some flasks only needed a sponge to wipe off the grime. Some needed persuasion with the hog-hair brush. And the most stubborn must be sandpapered with a wire brush to scrape off the charred remains sticking to the bottom.

Arinel was struggling with the sooty burner when a pair of warm hands slapped over her eyes. She nearly jolted out of her skin. The metal burner dropped from her frozen fingers into the tub with a dull plonk. A breathy, laughing voice whispered into her ear,

"Guess who."

Zier.

A voice screamed inside her. In less than a heartbeat, Arinel transitioned from terrified to relieved, overjoyed and disgruntled, in that order.

"Oh, it's you." She settled on flat and neutral, groping laboriously in the tub for the burner to wait out her giddy smile and blushed cheeks, scolding, "Don't scare me when I'm handling fragile things. Do you want me to lose my post on the first day?"

Arinel's lack of reaction disheartened Zier. Years they hadn't seen each other. Since her first day here, he'd been finding every chance he could to sneak away and reunite with her, but she acted as if she couldn't want to see him any less.

Arinel returned to her scrubbing as if he wasn't there. Sighing, Zier offered,

"Want a hand?"

"I don't have spare gloves." She shot him down without pause, curt and distant, then hopped straight to business before he could lead her astray, "Where's Meya Hild?"

Zier allowed himself another sigh first.

"Brother managed to drag himself out of bed today, so he's dismissed me from wife-sitting duty. They're probably taking a tour of the manor. As scheduled."

He sidled in, using chatter to mask his move. By the time Arinel caught wind of an ambush, his arms were around her torso and his nose burrowing into her hair.

Arinel struggled feebly. She ripped her cheek from his ravenous lips as her body collapsed like putty against candle flame.

"Zier, don't."

"Please, it's been so long since our first time," He tightened his embrace. Arinel's face burned.

"Which will be our last." She retorted, harsh and final. Zier jolted alongside her own heart, but she didn't relent, "I'm betrothed to your brother, Zier."

"You're not you anymore, remember?" Zier raised an eyebrow.

"I'm always me," said Arinel flatly, "Have you talked with Meya? What did she say?"

Zier opened his mouth to argue. He changed his mind and shrugged, nonchalant as ever,

"She said she's happy keeping the status quo."

"Did she?" Arinel rose, forcing him to his feet and backward, her narrowed eyes cool as her voice, "And what did you tell her? Did you tell her what I said?"

Zier opened his mouth before he could think. His first instinct was to lie, but his eyes met Arinel's piercing blue eyes, and he couldn't bring himself to. He never could. He drew in a deep breath,

"I told her you're not feeling worthy, and you're happy with your new post."

Silence. Zier held his breath and steeled himself, planting his feet firm on the floor. Arinel exploded like a spectacular fireworks mishap,

"No, that is not what I said at all!"

She jabbed a finger at his chest and stretched herself to his wincing face.

"I struck that deal with Meya, yes. I didn't think it would be over this soon. The situation's changed. We need to tell your family the truth now! While we still can. I'll vouch for Meya. She'll be pardoned and rewarded. Have you told her any of that?"

Arinel snapped, arms flailing in exasperation. Zier lowered his eyes and scratched his nape. Her well of calm, patient waters freezing to solid stone, Arinel nodded, her voice cold as ice,

"Fine. I'll speak with her myself."

Arinel yanked off her gloves and marched to the door. Zier scrambled after her,

"Ari, wait! Stop!"

She did, her nose inches from his. Her beguilingly calm blue eyes traveled from Zier's outstretched arms to his wavering eyes, simmering with anger.

"You're thinking of keeping me from Coris, aren't you?" Her soft, level voice somehow scared Zier more than Coris's scream. She shook her head like an elder sister cautioning her little brother, "Lies aren't meant to last, Zier."

Zier twisted the hem of his shirt, his fingers burning and drenched. He shook his head as if he could dislodge the truth from his head and flick it off his shoulders. He leaned in, staring straight into her eyes,

"Meya slept with Coris. And you slept with me." He whispered, painting her cheeks with shame and fury, "The damage's done, Ari. Meya can't go back to Crosset, and you can't marry Coris."

"So, instead of simply asking your parents to ignore that, you're willing to lie to them for the rest of your life?" Arinel hissed.

"So? It's what I've been doing all this time, isn't it?" Zier shrugged, undaunted. A shadow fell over his eyes as he added, his voice dead, "For you."

Arinel shivered as last night's events returned in flashes of images and snippets of sounds. Zier tried to steal The Axel for her sake, and now it was lost inside his stomach.

With everything that had happened, Arinel hadn't had a moment of peace to digest that harrowing, chilling fact. Even now, she didn't know how she was feeling, how she should be feeling. Even so, she stared right back, willing herself not to tremble,

"You didn't have to. And you still don't," she said heartlessly. Zier blanched as a sneer curled the corner of her lips, "And it backfired, didn't it? I'm still betrothed to Coris. He's not fat or obnoxious but he's dying. And I would've already become his if not for all this."

"So you'd sleep with him too if I let you marry him? Because he's changed?" Zier cried, his face twisted in disgust. Arinel blanched from fury.

"I'm his wife, Zier! How in the three lands could I avoid that? Why are you being so dense!?" She shrieked.

"Dense? Me?" Zier jabbed a finger at his chest. Arinel held her chin high, unrepentant, and Zier shook his head in frustration,

"You know you'll never get what you want out of your life as yourself. This is your chance. And you're throwing it away for what? Honesty? Honor? Duty? Your father? My brother?" Arinel clenched her fists to rein in her temper at his mocking grin. "They're not going to live for much longer, Ari, but you are."

"No one knows that for sure, Zier!" Arinel snapped, her heart lurching.

"Well, I do!" Zier snarled, "And if it's the last thing I do, I'll make sure you're not bound by their decisions for the rest of your life!"

His voice echoed across the dim room, giving way to heavy silence as two pairs of blue eyes clashed, one willing to show nothing but resigned righteousness while the other burned with rebellious determination. Yet, Arinel saw the plea for sympathy, the longing, the bitter anguish in his eyes, and she relented.

She reached out, her arms trembling and hesitant as her walls crumbled from stone to dust. Zier threw himself into her embrace. She held him as he shivered, whispering as she smoothed his hair,

"I was yours. I still am. I always will be. Isn't that enough for us? For you?"

Zier tensed and pulled away. As Arinel gawked in alarm, he wiped his face with his sleeve. When he surfaced, his eyes were dead and cold as a frozen corpse in a snowdrift.

"I've been tied to duty all my life. And I've become one with it. For you." He fixed her with his flaring blue eyes, then his mask fell. He shook his head, begging,

"I know you didn't ask me to steal The Axel, but if you pity me at all, please...don't let it be for naught."

With that, Zier swept from the lab, leaving Arinel to crumple over her stool, hands cradling her temples, at a loss of what she should do.