[October 7, 2042]

It was Bridget Abigail Dornlathe who first noticed that something was wrong with the caretaker of Otter Manor. When he first descended the stairs, the purple light of early morning sketching lines in his dark hair, his face had a pronounced pallor she wasn’t used to seeing. He took the stairs one step at a time, gingerly holding his side, and only grunted in acknowledgment when Bridget called out to him with an infectious enthusiasm: “Good morning, Mr. Cal!” — as she did every morning.

When she noticed his clear discomfort, Bridget frowned. She stepped forward and held Cal’s shoulder, a tender touch he did not withdraw from. This surprised Bridget — she had come to realize over time that the boy she lived with didn’t like physical contact much in general. After shaking Cal’s hand the day after she had met him, Bridget had been careful to not repeat any possibly unwanted contact.

In fact, out of all the girls in the house, Bridget had only ever seen Mel touch Cal. The ghost would poke his cheeks, absent-mindedly play with his hair, even casually hold his arm when the two watched movies in the living room some nights.

It was a fact that Bridget had become increasingly cognizant of, and one that bothered her more than she would ever admit out loud to anyone else.

So, when this morning Cal abruptly leaned against her in response to her outstretched hand, actually putting his body weight against her tall frame, Bridget made a squeaking noise somewhat unbecoming of a loyal and dignified attendant of a Luvinian princess.

But before a flush even had time to color her cheeks, Bridget noticed something. Obscured by his height and the somewhat baggy dark clothes that he often wore, the person now leaning against her was far, far lighter than she expected — almost distressingly so. All skin and bone. His chest briefly touched her arm, and Bridget felt the distinct shape of his ribcage.

She held Cal steady for a moment, as if balancing a ladder.

He’s so thin — far thinner than he should be, Bridget thought to herself, yet he eats every day with us, even if he takes only small portions…. What kind of diet did he have before coming to this place?

“Sorry Ms. Bridget,” muttered Cal, detaching himself from Bridget. He had dark circles around his eyes, like he had had trouble sleeping.

“It’s okay, Mr. Cal,” Bridget said carefully.

As she did every day, Bridget fetched tea from the kitchen, and the two sat together in the entry hall. However, instead of the typical comfortable conversation, they sipped their beverages in silence. To be more accurate, Bridget drank her tea, while Cal looked down at his own cup, as if he were unsure of what it was.

“I need to start making breakfast,” Cal said unexpectedly.

He stood shakily.

“Mr. Cal, I really think…”

Cal had already crossed the room and vanished down the hallway. Bridget shook her head and followed him. She watched with frustration as he attempted to begin to prepare breakfast for that day: it seemed he had planned a breakfast of hot oatmeal with blueberries and yogurt, judging by the ingredients he was now removing from the fridge and cupboards. As he reached for a kettle in which to boil water, he knocked it over. It clattered with a loud sound against the wooden floor.

“Shit,” he cursed tiredly, almost in a gentle voice, as if he wasn’t used to using an explicative. The word sounded strange in his mouth.

Bridget took a step towards him, her brown eyes fiery. “Please Mr. Cal, you need to sit down for a moment! You could hurt yourself.”

Cal shook his head, reaching downward to retrieve the empty kettle from the ground. “I’m fine. I need to finish making this…”

“Honestly, you’re as bad as my lady when it comes to being stubborn,” said Bridget with exasperation. She had fully switched into “professional attendant” mode. “You two ought to bond about how you can be insistent over the most silly things. Now, do as you are told and sit down.

Cal practically glared at her, but deciding it was the path of least resistance, took a seat at the dining room table. He was secretly grateful. It had been difficult while standing to keep his legs from shaking and an uncomfortable pressure from building in his head.

Bridget leaned down in front of him so that their eyes were level. She pursed her lips. “Excuse me,” she said matter-of-factly, and laid her palm upon Cal’s forehead, brushing back his bangs. His hair was more oily than it typically was, and she could smell perspiration. He hadn’t showered this morning. “As I thought, a fever. Mr. Cal, you’re clearly quite sick. You should go back to bed.”

“No,” Cal said in that same quiet voice. His words took on an almost automatic quality, as if he were reading from a script. “I need to finish making breakfast for the tenants…”

“You are sick, Mr. Cal,” Bridget repeated, removing her hand. “Has your sense left with your health? I can finish making breakfast.”

“But-”

“Do you suppose I am incapable of boiling some oats? Sit, Mr. Cal?” Bridget’s voice had taken on a serious tone, as if scolding a child. “Oatmeal will be good for your stomach. I’ll leave off too much sweet fruit and yogurt in your serving. It is best to eat something bland when you’re ill.”

The next to enter the kitchen was Ellie, some minutes later. She burst into the kitchen as if she had been running from something, her dark braids bouncing and a wide smile on her face. She wasn’t wearing her typical pajamas and was instead wearing casual jeans and a green form-fitting top. It was the sort of outfit a girl might wear when about to hang out with friends after dark.

“Morning, morning!” She chirped, slipping into a chair beside Cal. “Bridget, you look beautiful as usual, and Cal, you’re as imperturbable as-”

She paused, frowning as she noticed the color of Cal’s face and the sweat accumulating around his temples. “-Woah there dude, you don’t look so good.”

“I’m sick,” croaked Cal, his voice barely audible. He had wrapped his clothes around himself tightly like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“He’s sick,” Bridget repeated louder, sprinkling blueberries and dabbing yogurt on the portions of oatmeal. “But he doesn’t want to go upstairs and rest.”

“Really?” Ellie widened her eyes and scooted her chair a foot further away from Cal. “You didn’t strike me as the sort to get sick before anyone else, boss.”

“Sorry for disappointing you,” muttered Cal.

“Yeah,” Ellie paused to smile at Bridget as the attendant placed her bowl of oatmeal in front of her and then turned back to Cal. “You seem to me as the type to be the last one standing in a crisis, you know? One of the few left in an apocalypse scenario. Like if there’s a zombie virus in the future… or if aliens attack… or…”

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“-or the dragons sleeping underneath the volcanoes of Luvinia all awaken at once, as foretold in the ancient prophecy,” offered Bridget, as she placed Cal’s portion in front of him.

“Or that,” nodded Ellie, “maybe it’s just because you always act above any problem that happens to come along. You have a very patient and serious persona. I guess that’s just the version of you in my head, though. In practice, it seems like you have the constitution of an ailing Victorian schoolboy.”

“Why am I getting made fun of for being sick?” Cal croaked.

Ellie grinned, clearly delighted at her own sense of humor. “Come on, I’m just joking, boss. I wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Is that because I make the food?”

“Ahem,” said Ellie slyly, still unable to hide her grin, “you have other uses… probably.”

Then she laughed, unable to hide her merriment. She finally took a bite of the oatmeal. “Get well soon, Cal. Eat your oatmeal and then get upstairs. Rest assured, everyone in this house wants the best for you. There’s nobody here that would actually take amusement in you being unwell.”

“What is this discussion? What is happening?” said a new voice.

Aina ud Cormac had entered the kitchen, her scarlet hair shining with moisture from the shower and a beautiful silver-colored dress trailing behind her. She fixed her green eyes on Cal as she sat down at the foot of the table (as far as she could manage from him), clearly taking note of the unusual paleness of his face.

“Mr. Cal is feeling quite under the weather,” explained Bridget, dutifully placing Aina’s portion of breakfast before the princess.

Aina’s eyes alighted with energy, and a self-satisfied smirk came over her features. “Oh, how amusing! You have often mocked my refinement and delicate tastes, peasant, yet it appears like you are the one who is liable to crack under the exertions and difficulties of this realm!”

She jutted her chin out. “I win!”

Cal stared at her with a nonplussed expression, as if he was debating internally every single one of his life-choices that had led him to presently being mocked by a spoiled princess for weakness of character (getting ill).

“Wait, what game are you two playing?” asked Ellie, confused.

“My lady,” said Bridget pointedly, as she sat down at the table herself. “Mr. Cal is our host, and we ought to treat him politely when he is feeling unwell. It is unbecoming of a princess to take delight in the suffering of others.”

Bridget adjusted her hair. “We have spoken about this before, my lady.”

All of Aina’s self-satisfaction seemed to evaporate, and she shrunk back in her seat. “I know that, Bridget,” she muttered, sullenly taking a bite of oatmeal. “But this peasant has disrespected my eminence many times. I thought it only proper to take this opportunity to return the scorn.”

“The only eminence you hold is that of entitlement,” replied Cal thornily, not in the mood or state of health for Aina’s typical behavior.

“See, just like that!” Aina jutted her spoon in Cal’s direction, and some oats landed on the table. Bridget wiped them up with a napkin. “You see how he speaks to me, Bridget?!”

“Enough my lady,”

Bridget’s voice had raised a register in chilliness, and Aina seemed to shrink even more. Bridget then fixed a warning glance at the entire table. Ellie shrugged, having done nothing wrong, and continued to eat her breakfast with delight and with relish.

“Anyway,” continued Bridget, “typically Mr. Cal, if someone is sick in a household I happen to occupy I would do my best to attend to them, but unfortunately myself and my lady have some important business today that we simply cannot miss. My lady’s grandfather is stopping by in this realm for a visit, and we expect to be with him for the entire day-” (An expression here crossed Aina’s face, one that was hard to interpret) “-so I would typically ask you, Ms. Ellie, but I understand you are occupied with academic obligations today?”

“Yeah,” said Ellie, a little evasively. “I got school stuff.”

Bridget turned to Cal. “And Ms. Ram isn’t here today either, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” said Cal, swallowing some warm oatmeal, which seemed to slide right down to his stomach. “She texted me yesterday afternoon. She had to leave for a doctor’s appointment, and won’t be back until later tonight.”

Aina frowned, picking at her food. “My guide requires such an extended medical visit — overnight nonetheless? Is she alright?”

“You’d have to ask her,” said Cal shortly.

“I see…” Bridget scratched her chin, her brown eyes narrowed in consternation. “This is all rather inconvenient. I’d rather a person not be home alone while sick. If only there were another occupant who could-”

She paused here. “Ah.”

Mel the ghost nodded with sincerity, clearly honored to be tasked with any sort of responsibility. “You got it, Bridget! You don’t need to worry! He’s in good hands, I’ll watch him night and day! And if he starts vomiting blood, I’ll call you on his phone right away! — oh, but it might take me a few tries. I still have no trouble picking up small objects… wait, do you have a cell number?”

It was after breakfast, and they were back in room 01. Bridget had helped Cal back onto his bed, where they had disturbed Mel, who had still been sleeping in the room. However, the ghost was fully energetic now, clearly happy to be remembered by the rest of the girls in Otter Manor and to take over the role of Cal’s caretaker.

“Um..” Bridget smiled, a little bemused. “I don’t think it will come to that, Ms. Mel. It’s only a fever. Just ensure he stays in bed, drinks plenty of fluids, doesn’t get up and attempt to do chores — that sort of thing. I’ll prepare some tomato soup before I leave with my lady. That can be warmed up whenever he needs to eat.”

“You both are taking this too seriously.” Cal was sitting on the side of the bed, shivering despite his protests. “It’s just a little fever. You don’t need to go through all this trouble. I can take care of myself.”

“Lay down under the covers, Mr. Cal,” Bridget said, casting a stern look at him.

He obeyed.

“This is what I mean, Ms. Mel,” continued Bridget, “he will insist on such ridiculous things. Make sure he rests.”

Mel raised her hand in a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am! Leave it to me! I will make sure he doesn’t leave the bed — not even to go to the bathroom!”

“That’s… unnecessary.” Bridget turned to leave. “Feel better, Mr. Cal.”

“Thank you, Ms. Bridget,” Cal called to her as she exited the room.

“Thank you, Bridget!” repeated Mel. When the door closed, she floated over to Cal, her blue eyes warmly shining. “You were right, she’s super nice.”

The boy nodded, holding the covers up to his chin. “Yeah, she is.”

There was a little pause.

“How do you feel?” Mel asked gently.

Cal shrugged, opened his mouth, and then seemed to change his mind. “Pretty awful, to be honest. I don’t get sick very often. And I’m certainly not used to people fussing when I do.”

“Some fussing is okay,” said Mel, leaning her head next to his. “Bridget’s the kind of person that wants to take care of people. And I’m the kind of cute girl who likes to accumulate favors that I can cash in later. So our interests happened to align at this moment.”

Cal snorted at her joke.

“Need anything?” Mel said.

“No, I’m okay. Bridget was right, of course. I just need to rest.”

“You’ve been working hard, haven’t you?”

Cal’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Mel, who was studying him intently with her blue eyes. He could count her freckles from this distance. “Yeah… maybe I just tired myself out.”

He felt emotional for a reason he couldn’t quite explain. His voice sounded more hoarse than it had before.

“Then take this opportunity to rest,” Mel said reassuringly, “Bridget left you that juice on your bedside table, if you need it. I’ll leave you alone now. If you need something, just holler.”

He nodded. “Thanks, Poltergeist.”

A playful pouting expression.

“Honestly, you’re still using that nickname?”

An hour or so later — after everyone else had left Otter Manor — Mel floated through the door of room 01 to see that Cal had fallen asleep. It was a novel sight for the ghost girl. Cal always seemed to fall asleep later and wake up earlier than herself.

The ghost now studied his sleeping face, interested by the effect it was creating. The boy seemed less tense, more relaxed, more vulnerable than she had ever seen him. Cal always seemed to hold a sort of control over his facial expressions, always specifically styling them to situations. To see the lines of his face move uninhabited brought a certain tenderness into her chest that she couldn’t explain.

Mel moved ever closer. She wanted to touch Cal’s sleeping face but didn’t want to risk waking him.

A sound resounded through the room, distant but still sudden. Mel practically jumped out of her faintly-transparent skin, and then looked around the room guilty, as if she had been discovered doing something wrong.

There was an unfamiliar knock at the front door.