It was always like this at every servantry gathering, the gossiping, the wanton talk the professionally meek maids and rigid manservants indulged themselves in away from the presence of their masters. The party would begin in thirty minutes, this time in Lord Horatio’s manor. The last one had occurred at Nouliune’s Hall just a few weeks ago. One would be inclined to believe Ralagast was prospering as it had, consistently, for the past decade.

“Oh that’s bullshit!” A short maid with a plump physique said as she decorated the hors d’oeuvres with little mint leaves. “If things are really going so well why’d we have that riot just months ago? My cousin owned a haberdashery in that street. Honest work, he said, wouldn’t draw the ire of anyone from above or below. Guess who burned his place down in the end.”

“The exception doesn’t negate the generality, Fleur,” a friend of hers said loudly over the sound of the spice grinder. “My sister’s bakery has never seen more business.”

“Who do you think is buying cake during these times, Kalia? You? Me? Pellene’s warehouse worker gentleman friend? She said that he said the warehouses are full. Goods are being bought, not moved.”

“Could mean anything,” Kalia insisted.

“I ought to bring you to a magic show, seeing as you’re so easily impressed by smoke and mirrors.”

“Oh shut up. Either way, what can we do about it? Two silver hawks by the hour buys no cathexis.”

“What about her?” Fleur nodded at the girl just barely visible behind the chaotic river of maids, waiters, and waiter captains waltzing in and out of the kitchen.

“Her? She’s basically mute. What about her?”

“I hear she works for the eccentric Knight. Lord Lumens. Her salary is much higher than ours.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know. A lot more. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t fraternize with the rest of us. She has no need for stress relief.”

“Maybe she is stress relief for this Lumens fellow.”

The two laughed. No one but them would hear that conversation. The cacophony of the evening’s preparations were an infallible muffler.

Iana always knew very few in her profession liked her. Most of them were apathetic to her existence, given her limited interaction in their circles. Some took it as offense, reading into it as people often did. Does she think she’s better than us?—and other such rhetoric. It was unavoidable of course; there were those like that in any job, and Iana had worked many.

In the last minutes before the guests arrive, the busyness only doubled. Champagnes and wines were checked for temperature. The cuisine general walked in brisk strides, hands tucked judiciously behind his back, from one prep table to another, painting every morsel with an iron gaze. Presentation was scrutinized, the soups and sauces sampled, the cakes ruthlessly judged for symmetry and artistry. All eyes were on his stoic visage. For a brief minute absolute silence hung over the kitchen. Then he nodded, once, a single minute movement, and the quiescence immediately dispelled. The trays were stacked, glasses were poured, and out the food went into the halls, entering an atmosphere of golden light and string music. The first wave of guests clapped at the presentation.

Iana moved the tray assigned to her to the tables, and began to stack them in place. Her grip almost slipped in the midst of arranging a bouquet of crab legs; a large, rough hand had felt the roundness below her hip, roughly, without discretion.

“Who’s this one?” The Lord said. He was a primly dressed one; they all were. Practically indistinguishable from the rest. He locked over to his wife, a woman made statuesque by six inch heels sparkling with gemstones. The color matched her amethyst dress, shifting in gradient from décolletage to toe. “Haven’t seen her before. Reckon her owner would let us borrow her for an evening?”

“That would be just lovely, Ernest,” The Lady said. She turned to Iana. “Have you any experience, darling? Please be honest. I love the innocent ones.”

“I must apologize, sir and madam,” Iana said. “I must get back to work.”

“You’ve brought the chow out, what else do they demand of you?” The Lord said.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Come,” said the Lady. “Don’t worry about your master, we’ll work something out afterward.”

“Master Lumens wouldn’t approve,” Iana said, pleading. “I-I must go.”

The thin façade of amiability faded from the Lord’s face. “I’m not used to be being refused.” His hand reached for Iana’s elbow.

Another gentleman cleared his throat behind the pair, stopping the Lord from making any move further. The gentleman took off his top hat and bowed. Two thin spectacles rested loosely on his narrow nose. Senescent eyes regarded the couple harshly, but his voice had the sweetness of age.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I happen to know this one. She works for Lord Lumens, an elite from the Preservation. He is a strange one, but very, very protective of things under his purview.”

“Of course,” The Lord said. “We have forgotten our manners. Your wine is too prodigious a vintage, Lord Horatio.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” Lord Horatio said as they left. He beckoned Iana to come with. “Let’s bring you back to the kitchens… er—”

“Iana,” she said.

“Right. So many of you. An odd fellow, Edeard, to only have one servant.”

“He said he had no need for more. He prefers privacy.”

“Yes. He lent you to my party but did not attend. Are you close enough to him to know why?”

“I…”

“You are,” Lord Horatio answered for her, “But he is not. I see.”

“May I be excused, sir?”

“Of course. And, young lady, it doesn’t hurt to be more forward.” The old Lord adjusted his spectacles, then returned to the aristocratic busywork of welcoming new guests.

The rest of the evening progressed without further complication. The servantry worked hard knowing Horatio tended to pay bonuses if the event went well enough. It also served as a litmus test for the more speculative ones among them; is Ralagast in decline?—the endless topic behind kitchen doors. A career spent in relative silence leads to pent words, Iana supposed. She avoided participating in those talks. They were pointless, but most of all, dangerous. When the party concluded at about two o’clock, she collected her bonus and made her way back home. As she walked, curiosity got the better of her, and she counted the money. It was the same as usual. That suggested there was nothing wrong with business in the city, right?

She stuffed the money back in her purse, irritated. The other mouthy servants had filled her head with nonsense. Even when she tried not to eavesdrop, a few phrases and ideas still wormed their way into her head. In her frustration, she stopped at the front door of the Lumen house. This was not her home. She made sure no one was around to notice her mistake, then hurried the other way.

There was always a brighter side to things, her grandfather had said. Now she got to walk in Ralagast’s brisk nightly weather. Passing by the gas lamps intermittently placed down the streets gave her a brief wave of warmth. And the clouds had cleared enough this night to allow her view of the stars. An education gained as a child reared itself. She saw a much smaller, rounder version of herself stand before her pointing at the sky. Beside the little phantom, kneeled a man, a tutor, a father, a soldier, a reluctant conscript, for she learned early that a man could be many things at once, including things they desperately wished they were not. She did not slow her pace, scattering the memory as she walked through it.

The Wicham used to be the bad neighborhoods. It was where they shoveled misbehaved citizens and newly integrated from Aldren. The matter had long settled and the neighborhood was like any other now, but her skin still prickled at the sight of them. She rushed up the stairs to a small house among many others and entered quickly.

It was as quiet as the dead. She set her things down gently. The boards tended to creak. Her gait was graceful, careful. She checked the two large rooms upstairs. In the dark, her eyes barely saw the sleeping forms of her grandparents. Their pill trays were empty. Beside the trays were well-cleaned plates. She smiled and collected them, bringing them down to the kitchen sink to be washed.

“You’ll work yourself to death.”

The voice nearly made her drop the plates. She began to wash the dishes.

“What are you doing here, Ayden?”

“Just came to check up on family.” The young man stepped out of the shadows, a brown paper bag in his arm.

Iana stopped. “What is that?” She asked over her shoulder.

“I just want to help,” Ayden said, “That’s all.” He opened the ice box and began placing the groceries into it.

“How’d you buy it?”

“By the prophet, Iana, does it matter? Food is food!”

“You should leave. Don’t do this again.”

“You’re not the only one who cares. How did you afford those pharmaceuticals? I don’t ask about that, do I? Nor do I judge.”

Iana put away the last dish and tossed the brush to the side. She did not turn around. The idea was loathsome. She wished the voice inside would stop telling her to.

“As a matter of fact, I did pay for them with my work.”

“On a maid’s salary?”

“The one I work for is more generous than most.”

Ayden eyed her from head to toe.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said, implication dripping from his tone.

Iana shook her head. “You’re disgusting. I work longer hours, he pays me more. That is all. There’s nothing else.”

“Why can’t we be siblings again?”

“Be quiet, you’ll wake them.”

“Why do you judge me like this? Because I take a shortcut here and there? Honesty doesn’t work anymore, Iana. Maybe its illusion did in the heyday of the war.”

“Don’t talk about it.”

“Well it did happen. And now we’re on our own. You have your way, I have mine, but we should be in this together.” Ayden shook his head. “I’ll… come back later. Much later. I’m sure you’ve had enough of me for a while. But we’re not done.”

She heard a window slide open. Iana finally broke free of her stubborn will and turned to face her brother.

“What are you doing?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Ayden said. He pulled a mask over his face, completing a black suit. A harness on his back displayed barbed hooks, canisters, rope, daggers. “The night is alive.” And then he was gone.