[October 4, 2042]

It was after dinner, and Cal had just finished washing the dishes. As usual, Bridget had offered to help him, and as usual, he declined, insisting that she ought to let him do the job he was being paid for as housekeeper of Otter Manor. Cal took a certain pride in his work. It was why he insisted on doing all the laundry, on cleaning windows, on not letting anyone but himself vacuum or straighten up the rooms of the manor. He only tolerated Bridget cooking in the morning because he knew that she liked to make a little meal for herself to help stave off the boredom of a long sleepless night.

It wasn’t from a feeling of misguided emasculation that he denied the girls from helping him with his chores, but rather one of misguided guilt, born from the deepest depths of his psychology. He attached his own value to the work, to completing it, to completing it well. So, every evening after dinner, Cal would usher the girls out of the kitchen so he could clean up by himself.

Aina would leave without being prompted, leaving her dirty dishes on the table without even bringing them up to the sink — the byproduct of never once in her life having needed to clean up after herself. Ram would dip her head silently and scurry out of the room, like a cockroach fleeing from a spotlight, not out of an unwillingness to help Cal but rather because pushing back against another’s request terrified her even more than appearing rude. Ellie would sometimes make a show of insisting on staying behind (at least to wash her own dishes) but clearly would be glad to abandon Cal to his work at the slightest insistence — she would practically skip out of the kitchen with a carefree “thanks boss!” on her way back up to her room. And Bridget, of course, as she did every night, would stay behind and try to help.

At first, this repetition of denying his wishes annoyed Cal, but he quickly came to understand that Bridget’s motivations in her behavior were similar to his own. They were both people who felt most comfortable when completing physical actions that achieved physical results: it put them at rest and made them feel accomplished. He wondered how much of Bridget’s selfless nature was a byproduct of an entire life serving a spoiled princess — a life built around attending to the needs of a person who wasn’t yourself. He sometimes thought about what Bridget would be like if the roles were reversed: if she was the high-born princess of Luvinia instead of a simple attendant. Would then the more selfish and arrogant sides of her personality be exasperated? Would she behave as Aina did, seemingly without care or consideration for others?

No, he decided. She doesn’t care about or attend to others because of her position, or because it is what she is supposed to do. It’s just how Bridget is. She’s a kind person, I suppose.

Their battle of wills had reached a stalemate. Every night, Bridget would insist on helping. Every night Cal would gently deny her request. She would nod, a little sadly, but wouldn’t move from the kitchen. She would watch Cal clear the table, wash the dishes with soap and hot water, and then put the dishes or cutlery on the drying rack over the sink. She would cross her hands in front of herself, one palm on top of the knuckles, with a somewhat anxious look in her brown eyes. Her head leaned forward slightly, letting her long brown hair slide down over her shoulders. In this posture she often adopted, Bridget seemed like a sad little kid who had been put into timeout and wasn’t able to play with the others.

This particular night, Cal couldn’t take it anymore. Once he finished drying the final dish and placed it down, he turned to Bridget, who had been in the corner not moving for the past ten or so minutes.

“I know you mean well,” he said, trying to keep judgment out of his voice, “but as I said before, it’s awkward to have someone watch.”

“I thought you might need help, Mr. Cal,” Bridget responded, her eyes still lowered in almost a shy way.

“I don’t. I think you know that.”

Bridget didn’t say anything for a moment. Despite her advanced height, she seemed to be shrinking with nervousness. It wasn’t something Cal was used to seeing from the princess’ attendant. It was a manner that almost resembled Ram in its aspect.

“I do, Mr. Cal,” she said, pursing her lips, “but I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving you alone until I’m certain that you won’t need any assistance.”

Cal opened his mouth to argue back, but decided halfway to change his tactic. He crossed the room, tossing the wet cloth he had been holding in his hands into the sink, and sat down at the dining table. He then gestured for Bridget to do the same, which she did.

Even sitting down, Bridget somewhat towered over Cal.

Cal picked at the cuticle of his thumb for a moment, trying to decide how to word his question. “This is somewhat rhetorical,” he began, “but you do know that we’re peers, right? I’m not from your world, and am not bound by the same kinds of expectations.”

Bridget’s mouth opened in surprise. “Of course, I know that.”

She sounded almost offended. Her brown eyes narrowed, unsure of where this conversation was going.

Cal nodded. “Well, if you understand that, you should know that we’re… you know… equals. You don’t have to address me with undue respect or assist me with tasks that I am contractually obligated to complete. Because I’m just an ordinary person, so…”

Cal trailed off. He could tell by the further narrowing of Bridget’s attentive brown eyes that she was losing track of what he was trying to say. In truth, he was getting lost in the weeds himself.

I thought… it was so obvious… she's always so affectionate towards you. Ram's words echoed in his head.

Cal swallowed, trying to prevent a slight blush from coloring his cheeks.

“What I mean to say is… Ms. Bridget… we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Bridget flinched. She placed one of her hands over her large chest and took a deep breath. Then she nodded, unable to keep a look of satisfaction from coming over her face. “Yes, Mr. Cal.” She smiled. “We’re good friends.”

“Good,” Cal nervously scratched the back of his head, freeing some dandruff from his dark hair. “I wasn’t sure if I was being presumptuous.”

“I would say we have gotten well acquainted in the past month, and I think we enjoy one another’s company. We have had several conversations where we have revealed personal details about each other. I told you about my affliction of never being able to sleep, and in response, you have personally altered the schedule of your sleep so you can talk with me every morning.”

Bridget nodded to herself, as she rattled off these things with a matter-of-fact voice. “Not presumptuous at all, Mr. Cal. I would worry about your standards if after all that you still did not consider us at least casual confidants.”

Cal scratched the back of his head again. It’s a little embarrassing when you spell it out so plainly.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Well, good,” he said, “...so, I want people I consider my friends to be comfortable and at ease. I want to do what I can to trouble them as little as possible, and to not put unnecessary burdens on them… I guess.”

Cal sighed. “So… what I’m trying to say is… when I’m cleaning up dinner… I don’t want you to help me, or to be more precise, I don’t want you to feel obligated to help me. Preparing food and cleaning up afterward is part of my job — yes, of course — but since we’re friends, doing this myself is a way for me to express that I’m glad to do it if it means you are less troubled.”

He looked at Bridget, lights dancing in his dark eyes. She had tilted her head slightly and was listening attentively. “You seem… to have a lot on your plate already, Ms. Bridget. I don’t want to add to the pile, even something minor.”

Bridget studied him for a second, with a single one of her long fingers resting on her pursed lips. “You surprise me constantly.”

Cal blinked. “Do I?”

“Yes.” Bridget nodded, not elaborating. Instead, she brushed a strand of her brown hair away from her temples. “If I may say, Mr. Cal, your definition of friendship is lacking a certain principle of reciprocity. What you describe is a person that people tolerate, who makes themselves scarce, not one who is treated as an equal. In my opinion, those who consider one another friends are so because they do rely, they do trouble, they do presume when it is perhaps not their place to. They are peers, as you said. They share words, emotions, and inconveniences.”

“I don’t…” Cal said slowly, “I just want you to not treat me the way you would Aina, for instance. As someone you’re obligated to assist-”

“You’re being a little silly, don’t you think?” interrupted Bridget, who had pressed her finger onto her lips with a little strength. “Oh, if I may say that, Mr. Cal. Friend-to-friend. I’ve heard pushing back against misguided assumptions is a necessary part of a friendship.”

She smiled for a moment, as if surprised by her own joke, and then continued with renewed seriousness. “My relationship with my lady is… complex and not one I feel needs to be elaborated upon at this time. But yes, when I serve her — preparing her clothes, meals, or tea — I do so partially out of an obligation, well, a curse in truth, as I previously told you. This is an oversimplification, but it is undoubtedly true.”

Bridget fixed Cal with a stare, leaning her tall body towards him slightly. “However, Mr. Cal, I would like to make clear this is not all there is to it. Primarily driving my actions, as in everything I do, are feelings of care and endearment. Those are the feelings I hold for you, and I intend to make that clear.”

She winked. “Are they?”

Cal swallowed. “Yeah, crystal clear.”

Then he let himself grin. “It’s easy to forget because you’re typically so polite, but you’re rather formidable, Ms. Bridget.”

Bridget smiled in response, and leaned back in her chair, letting her body take on a more casual posture. The golden buttons of her uniform glittered in the light of the kitchen. It was night outside, and a somewhat loud chilly breeze was blowing against the windows. However, the atmosphere inside the room had become calm and warm, almost domestic.

Cal got himself a glass of water and then sat back down at the table. “You have convinced me, Ms. Bridget. You can help me clear the table and wash dishes in the evenings after dinner. But on professional pride, I have to insist upon being left to my own devices concerning basic household chores and maintenance.”

Bridget nodded slyly, a note of playful irony in her voice. “How generous of you, Mr. Cal. I suppose I can make do with such a compromise.”

“Do you simply enjoy helping others?”

“Nothing so selfless. The feeling of having helped, of lessening the worries of a person — that is what I get satisfaction out of.”

Their banter was interrupted by a sound from the hall. They both turned to see a man with curly dark hair enter the room, wrapped up in a winter coat and scarf. It took a moment for Cal to register the man’s presence, after which he immediately rose. “Mr. Frost, sorry.”

“Call me Isaac, remember?” replied Isaac Frost softly, untangling his scarf and laying it over one arm. “You got my texts about our meeting today, yes? I hope my intrusion wasn’t unexpected.”

“Yes,” Cal felt a little bit thrown off for a moment. There was something about the particular blueness of Isaac’s eyes that gave off a vivid sense of familiarity, in a way that hadn’t been present when he had first met the owner. “Of course, I just thought you would be there another hour.”

Isaac’s intelligent eyes flickered between Cal and Bridget, who was still sitting down and looking a little nervous. “Work ended early, so I thought I’d swing by before it got too cold. It’s supposed to hail a little tonight, and I’d rather not get caught in it. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Bridget’s cheeks reddened just slightly, and she awkwardly interlaced her fingers. “No, of course not, Mr. Frost-”

“-Isaac.”

“-myself and Mr. Cal were just having a casual discussion.”

The corner of Isaac’s mouth twisted into something almost resembling a smile, which looked odd on his typically melancholy demeanor. “Mr. Cal?” he repeated to himself and turned to Cal. “I hope you have told the young lady your actual last name, Cal.”

“Um-” Cal said, unsure of how to respond, but he needn’t have said anything, because Isaac was already addressing Bridget again.

“I recognize such exceptional manners from our discussion over the phone,” Isaac said, outstretching a pale, almost sickly-looking hand. “You must be Miss Dornlathe.”

Bridget blushed again, rising to her feet (she was taller than the man by almost a head’s length) and shook his hand. “Y-yes, that’s right, sir.”

Isaac’s eyes looked over her unusual uniform and the big buttons adorning her chest, and seemed to make a private decision not to bring it to attention. Perhaps he thought it was some sort of cosplay.

“It’s good to put a name to the face,” he said, “are you enjoying the accommodations well? I understand that you came from quite a distant place, so I wasn’t sure if you would be comfortable in my father’s unusual notion of a home.”

“It’s been a transition, but I’m settling in well, sir.”

“Good,” Isaac said plainly. He turned his tired-looking eyes towards Cal. “I’ll be waiting in the entry hall, whenever you’re ready to talk.”

Cal awkwardly bowed his head. “Yes sir. I’ll just be a moment.”

Isaac nodded, stretched his neck, and then departed the room, his scarf still hanging loosely over one arm.

Bridget followed his departure with her gaze. “That’s the owner of the establishment?”

Cal nodded. “My boss and your benefactor. He doesn’t come around very often, but I guess today he wanted to check in since it has been about a month since I started working here. He messaged me on FoxChat this morning.”

Bridget still didn’t look away. “I had a curious impression like I’d seen him somewhere before, but that’s not possible.”

“You talked with him over the phone?”

“Yes,” said Bridget, finally sitting back down and facing Cal again. “Briefly, the night before myself and my lady arrived. Things were touch-and-go for a while, though my lady’s grandfather made the arrangements.”

“I’m surprised you knew how to use a phone,” Cal said.

Bridget shrugged. “My lady’s grandfather instructed me. It’s not so difficult when you’re shown properly.” She looked at Cal with a different sort of expression. “What’s your last name?”

Cal flinched, pretending not to hear her. “Hmm?”

“Your surname, what is it?”

Cal considered lying for a moment and then let out a big sigh. “Clermont.”

Laughter played along Bridget’s lips, and she crossed her arms. “Why so shy, Mr. Cal?”

Cal frowned, debating whether to hit the emergency eject button on this conversation. “I… don’t like my name very much.”

“Is Cal short for something? I always wondered.”

“Do I… need to tell you that?”

Bridget grinned. “Only if we’re friends.”

“You’re truly formidable,” said Cal again, shaking his head. “It’s Pascal. My full name is Pascal Clermont. You have to promise not to tell any of the other girls.”

Bridget laughed softly, in a way that was gentle rather than mocking. “Whatever for? It’s a fine name.”

‘It’s a little much for me.”

Another laugh. “Okay, Mr. Pascal. Very well.”

“Please, I get enough teasing from Mel, Ms. Bridget.”