Twenty-five years. Cornelia had been head housekeeper at the residence of Lord Julian for twenty-five years, and before that, a cook; before that, she had dusted for ten, and her mother and father before her had served.

They had endured through the rise of the parliament, through the fall of the kings. Through the destruction of the Empire. The manor house had changed owners, had changed flags, had changed facades. Cornelia’s line, their service, had stayed strong. She represented the backbone of the Southern District. Consistency. Quality. Most of all, Strength.

She folded her arms. The boy in front of her scuffed his shoe along the floor, avoiding her eyes. “That’s hardwood,” she said. “Imported from the northern expanse, cut down from the heart of a great tree. Installed two years ago. You’ll be polishing that. Scuff marks are intolerable. What will the neighbors think?”

“These are the servant quarters. Who’s visiting?” The boy was scratching at his own chin, twitching. He was meant to be holding to attention. Really! She had been tested before. Tested for her loyalty, tested for her competence. Never before had she been tested like this!

The Lady Sylvia had simply deposited this boy in front of her. Declared that he would be her assistant. Was this a form of advanced test? Was she going to be inspected on how well she could transform this abject failure into a true representation of their quality of service?

Well. Cornelia had never failed before. She reached out and grabbed his wrist before he could scratch his chin again. “Name!”

“Duran!” He squeaked, his voice breaking.

“Wrong! While you are here, you have no name! You are a serving boy, and while you are here, you are a Servant of Lord Julian. If anyone asks after you, that is how you will respond. Now! Name!”

“Servant of-” He coughed. “Ah, I really think this is a -”

“Try again!” She tightened her grip. Ah, now this truly was a challenge. He was too old to break easily. She tried her best glare.

“Servant-of-lord-Julian,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. Bad posture. Sloppy, with mud all around his clothes, and that inappropriate sword. She clucked her tongue, inspecting him.

“Well, it’s a start.” She released his hand and stalked around him, looking for any more weaknesses. The movement in the kitchen continued in the background, the crab floating in the tank. Another test; they had to preserve it, in case the Lady Elysia returned. Would she return? How long was the crab meant to stay alive?

So many tests, and during festival season. Perhaps Cornelia should retire soon. Moving faster than the boy could anticipate, she pulled the belt off and grabbed the sword away. The boy shouted and chased after her, but Cornelia turned on her heel and strode towards the hallway closet.

“A sword is inappropriate for a boy in service,” she said, falling into the easy lecture she could remember from her time as a girl. “You will always remember that the only one who carries arms in this household is the guard service. You will never fear for your own safety. There is no safety to consider. You are an instrument, not a person to be protected. There are only three factors to consider. Do you know what they are?”

The boy lunged for the sword. Cornelia put it neatly in the hall closet and locked it, putting the key back around her neck with a feeling of deep satisfaction. The result of incredible service and trust; all of the weapons of the household, put in her hands.

“Um,” he said, finally stepping away from the locked closet. “Spice, oil, and warmth?”

Cornelia frowned at him. “What are you, a cook? No! Consistency! Quality! Strength! Repeat after me.”

She thought she could feel the ghost of her father leaning over her shoulder, watching.

The boy swallowed, throat bobbing. “Consistence… quality… strength!”

“You’ll do,” she said. “I hope you know how to mop.”

After she’d found him a mop and a bucket full of soapy water, she retreated back to the kitchen. It was a pleasant way to spend a few hours, watching the cogs of the clock she’d carefully constructed tick over. They were all tired, nervous with energy. Lady Sylvia had gone to join the Lord Julian, the young Lord Servius had been tucked into bed; they were all waiting for their Lord and Lady to return, to prepare the house as they wanted. No one could rest until their employers had returned.

Even Duran, new as he was, couldn’t resist the effortless culture of efficiency. She watched as he continually tried to sneak away, only to be drawn back in; the floor was cleaned, then wiped up with a rag, then finally polished. All without a word from Cornelia. Her subordinates took the reins, showing him what was needed.

Consistency. Quality. Strength.

As she let her shoulders lower slightly, satisfied, a shout rang throughout the quarters.

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“Lady at the door!”

“At your positions!” Cornelia snapped, then straightened her apron. With a last glance at the new boy, his head down as he polished, she sighed. There was nothing to do about it. Perhaps the Lady Sylvia had already decided how her performance was, and she must face the music.

With one last prayer to Cabellus, she walked into battle.

“My bath is prepared, I hope,” said the Lady Sylvia. She handed Cornelia her gloves. Cornelia could see the sun rising behind her. If she had been a lower quality of servant, she might have asked how it had gone.

She could see fine lines around Lady Sylvia’s eyes, a slight exhaustion in the roundness of her shoulders. The Lady Sylvia was worried about something. Certainly it wasn’t Cornelia’s place to press. Instead, she bowed. “At once, my Lady.”

In fact, there had been a bath prepared all night. Every thirty minutes, Drusilla, the handmaiden to Lady Sylvia, had been sent to refresh the water. She had needed to climb three flights of stairs with all ten buckets of water, sweating and aching, after emptying the tub. Cornelia knew from experience that Drusilla would be aching in bed that night- although, since they woke at dawn, she wouldn’t get to sleep much. Only a few minutes before they began preparing for breakfast. Even if the mistress didn’t wish to eat, their purpose as servants was to anticipate her every delight and demand.

Cornelia followed the Lady Sylvia up the stairs. “Shall we prepare a bath for Lord Julian as well, my Lady?”

“He’ll be occupied for a few hours more,” said the Lady. “Don’t mind him. Is Servius well? Still in his chambers?”

Cornelia turned to check. There, at the end of the hallway, was one of her most loyal footmen; a boy named Crispinus, Crisp for short, who had only one working eye but very sharp ears. He’d been dusting the same vase all night. He gave her a slight nod.

“Servius has been sleeping soundly,” she said, keeping her head down. The carpet was slightly battened. She needed to speak to Drusilla about brushing the carpet after she refreshed the water. Exhaustion was no excuse for a failure in service. “A little lamb for us.”

“If that boy is a lamb, then I’m a sheep.” Lady Sylvia sighed. “I don’t know what I did to earn such a rebellious child. I’ve only ever done my best for this family.”

“Of course, my Lady,” said Cornelia. She bowed, opening the door. “Will you be needing anything else?”

“No. In fact, don’t wait for the Lord Julian. He needs to know that his late nights have an impact on this family.” The Lady Sylvia reached up, pulled the pins from her hair, and paused. “The boy I gave you. He’s still here?”

Cornelia frowned. “Of course he is.” How could she have lost the boy already? What did she think he was? He was a little twitchy, perhaps, but she’d seen worse.

The Lady Sylvia nodded. Cornelia thought she saw a small lowering of her shoulders in relief. “Of course,” she said. “I simply- no, never-mind. He simply seemed rather troublesome. I should have known you would have it all in hand. Thank you, Cornelia.”

Cornelia watched her for a moment more, suspicious she’d missed another test. But the Lady Sylvia simply resumed undressing, moving towards the tub at the side of the room- it was still steaming, so Drusilla had maintained her duties- and Cornelia finally retreated.

Something made Cornelia’s neck itch. Why had Lady Sylvia been so worried?

Cornelia didn’t run. That wasn’t suitable for someone in her position, of course. She was someone of Quality. She did, however, walk quickly, down to the hallway. First, she slipped past Crisp and knocked sharply on the doorway. “Cleaning,” she said. “Here to collect your linens.”

A small lie, but something she’d earned. No response. She tried not to be bothered. Servius slept very deeply, after all.

Cornelia tried the door. Locked. After a moment, looking over her shoulder, she jiggled the handle in the way she’d grown used to after twenty-five years operating as head housekeeper in this house. Under her deft hand, it opened easily.

Beyond, there was a quiet room. The covers were untouched. The desk was messy, full of written plans.

The window was open. There was no trail of sheets outside. Only a convenient tree, which a boy, if he was clever and rather limber, could climb down easily.

Cornelia did not swear. That would not be appropriate. Instead, she stood very still, closed her eyes, and then opened them.

“Crisp,” she said. “Did he pay you?”

“He said it was for the good of the house,” said Crisp. “And also that he outranked you.”

Technically true. Cornelia was going to find that boy and- and- well, she didn’t know what she was going to do. Bring him to his mother, perhaps.

She spun on her heel and strode past him. “Close the door,” she said, through clenched teeth. “No one knows of this.”

“Not even-” Crisp was quiet. He wasn’t very bright.

“No,” she said. “Not even. This is between us. Unless you’d like to be fired for your indiscretion?”

“But he said-”

“There is no higher power,” hissed Cornelia. Her blood was high. “You answer to me. Not to Lady Sylvia. Not to any god. Not to Servius. This is your one warning. Listen to it well. I am the one you work for. I am the one who determines the quality of the service in this house. Lady Sylvia tells me what is needed. I tell you. You are never to jump the order of command again. Is that clear?”

Crisp trembled, but didn’t speak. Cornelia didn’t look at him again before she strode down the stairs. She kept her posture high. She checked the hallway closet first.

The sword was missing. The one she’d taken from the boy, the inappropriately large one with the wrapped hilt.

Servius should not have had a key. She remembered earlier that night, when he’d taken his father’s sword. Had anyone checked him afterwards? There were many ways for a precocious boy to steal keys.

Cornelia closed her eyes and took another deep breath. Consistency. Quality. Strength. She had to stay strong. She was a pillar, not a waving tree in the wind.

She strode into the kitchen. “The boy,” she said. “The new one. I’ll speak to him.”

He had spent some time with Servius, perhaps; he must know where the boy would be. The cook looked up, her hands red and half-boiled from steam. She’d already started making the breakfast platter.

“Ah-”

Cornelia turned on a heel, scanning the kitchen. Where the boy had knelt before, polishing the floor, there was nothing but shining wood. “Where,” she said, trying to remain calm, “Did he go?”

“The Lord Servius said he had a special request for him,” said another one of her footman, who was carrying a stack of dishes in from where he’d been washing them outside. They shone, perfectly gleaming. Excellent work as always. “Something about a task for his mother?”

Cornelia pressed her mouth closed. Very firmly. She could give up now.

That wasn’t how she was built, however. Consistency. Quality. Strength.

She was Cornelia, of the Southern District. Born to serve the greatest lords of the city. She had risen among the ranks, to lead her peers. She would not be defeated by a boy with bad posture and a rebellious lordling. “I see,” she said. “Continue service. I shall return shortly.”