#and then various family members in drips and drabs over the years

[beeseverywhen]

I don't consider it enough but God I love being out. There's just something about casual conversations with family & friends where they know to say boyfriend or girlfriend. If you got married... your husband or wife. There's something so simple in it and when I think about it for more than a second I just feel so free? I'm so glad I took that step cause it was 100% the right one for me, you know? And now I have it I can't even consider that I thought about living without it

[sushiandstarlight]

“Coal”: NaNoWriMo 30 Days of Prompts

Prompt One / Prompt Two

Today’s Prompt

Read this story on AO3

The customer had sauntered into her bar around 8pm, dressed from head to toe in the tightest black outfit Carline had ever seen. It was an arresting sight, even if she wasn't overly interested in anyone's appearance. She served the drinks and she mopped the bar and, sometimes, she listened when people needed it. And then she went home to her cat and her family of succulents. It was a simple life, but it suited her just fine. Despite decades of listening to the romantic and sexual woes of her customers, friends, and family members, none of it had ever really interested her personally. Still, there was some intrigue to be found in the drama of it all... for other people, if not for herself.

They slapped a credit card down on the counter- although where they had been keeping it was a mystery as surely the whole outfit was too tight for the pockets to contain anything, even lint- and ordered a round for the house.

“And for you, dark stranger?” Carline teased as she rang up the order and started pulling the drinks.

“Don't care. Something strong enough to knock me on my ass.” The dark stranger took up residence on a stool directly in the middle of the length of the bar. In her experience, this meant the person was either here to spill their woes or to pull someone for the night. She wondered which it was. It could be both.

“Gonna be a short night with us?” She passed drinks down the bar to the various patrons gathered there. Mostly they were the regulars. They didn't need to ask for what they wanted anymore, she knew. That's why they kept coming back here. She was something comforting and familiar in a world that made less and less sense.

“You'd be surprised,” they grunted back, accepting the amber liquid she placed on the bar for them, “how much I can take.” But, they didn't knock back the drink as she expected. Nor did they say much more to her as they sipped it sparingly.

People eventually came and sat next to them, various sorts. But none of them seemed to draw their attention. They got their fair share of once-overs and longing looks. Even a few predatory stares, although she gave them harsh warning glances and they left before they caused real trouble. She wouldn't stand for that kind of thing in her establishment. She tried, when she could, to look out for her customers, even when those very same customers made the job difficult. Someone had to look out for wayward souls, perhaps it was part of her calling in life.

The dark stranger only had eyes for the bottom of the glass. She wasn't sure what they saw, but she spent the next couple of hours glancing at the shock of red hair rather than the black shades they wore, their gaze lost in thought down in the emptying glass.

They didn't look up even as they tapped the bar for another. And another. And another. They were more than halfway through her bottle of top shelf whiskey and she knew she should cut them off, but they didn't seem nearly as intoxicated as they should be. She sat another glass in front of them and crossed her arms on the bar, resting her chin on them and peering at them.

“Can feel you staring at me,” they mumbled, glancing at her briefly before taking the new glass and peering down into it, “bit unnerving.”

“Says the one wearing sunglasses inside so no one can tell where they're really looking,” she watched as the dark stranger looked up, grinned, and sprawled a bit more over the counter, “I'm tryin' to figure out how drunk you are and if I need to cut you off.”

“m'not drunk, really, at all.”

“Well, you certainly don't sound like it. But, you really outta be by now.”

“Told you, it takes more to drag me down,” their grin slipped at one edge and a crease formed on their brow. They looked back down at their glass, swirling it between long fingers tipped in deep red varnish.

“That could be true. Supernatural drinker, I get it.” She tilted her head, trying to meet their eyes again, “Do you want to talk, then?”

“Is that what humans do when they come here?” They said it like they, themself, weren't human. Weird, but not the weirdest thing she'd ever heard.

“Some do,” she nodded, glancing up and down the bar to make sure no one else needed tending to, “when they need someone to listen.”

“Not sure you can help with this one,” they downed the last of the glass, faster this time than the previous, and handed it to her hopefully, “this tale is as old as time.”

“Hmm, old as time? That's heartbreak, mate,” she filled the glass and scooted it to them, “if I ever heard it. Only love can make a hurt go on that long. Well, the way I hear it, anyway.”

At first they talked in drips and drabs, punctuated by her needing to fill another customer's glass or call a cab for someone. But, as she moved from one bottle of whiskey to the next they started to spin outrageous tales of angels and demons, heaven and hell, and an armageddon that had already happened. Or, not happened. All of that was just backstory, though, to the one they told her about their best and only friend through it all. She might have chalked up the fantasy talk to the massive amount of alcohol in their system, but despite all that she had served, they were only barely slurring.

Some people, she had learned, needed to couch their stories in fiction to tell them. Telling them outright was too painful and left them feeling too vulnerable, especially to strangers. That they were getting it out at all was probably good even if she didn't understand what most of the metaphor meant.

They never mentioned an actual name in the whole story, only referred to their love as “Angel.” And, even though parts of the story clearly stung them, making them pause and swallow or look away for periods of time, there was a softness to their voice that spoke of an enduring love that continued despite the pain. The warmth in their tone when saying the nickname pricked her own heart. There were people she loved in life with her whole heart, even if it wasn't romance like the stranger experienced, and she could relate to it: friendships broke as unevenly and sharp as any relationship could.

“You've made it through so much, though,” she patted the dark stranger's arm, “maybe you should outright tell him how you feel.”

“He knows,” the stranger was leaning to one side now, the alcohol having clearly caught up with him at last, “s'no way he doesn't know by now. S'just not interested in those sorts of things.”

“I mean, that's possible. There are people that aren't,” Carline stopped short of telling her own stories in that regard, “or maybe he's just really, really dense.”

The stranger snorted.

“Or very afraid that maybe you don't want the same thing anymore. You know, now that the danger's past and there's been so much history.” All the metaphors, she could work with them. They had to stand for something, even if she couldn't decode them.

“Maybe so, hard to tell. After six thousand odd years, I can't afford to screw this up, y'know? I can't- I won't- I-” the stranger wheezed, whipping off their glasses and swiping at their eyes- eyes rimmed in kohl darker than coal itself (that, perhaps had her believing in miracles since it did not smudge no matter how much they rubbed at it), “I can't lose him now, he's all I have. He's all I've ever had.”

The stranger had some of the longest eyelashes she'd ever seen, which was all she could make out of their eyes since they were once again staring down at their drink.

“We're the only ones on our side. I don't want... I don't want to be alone on my side,” they shuddered deeply, shoulders hunching inwards as they swayed unsteadily on the stool. She wondered if she was going to have to pick them off the floor.

“I think it might be worth the risk, but I'm only human.”

“Hmm, true,” they looked up at her at last and it took everything to hold back the gasp that climbed up her throat. Their eyes were a startling shade of gold that seemed to be lit by firelight from the inside. She had never seen anything like them and all the tales of drowning in someone's gaze came back to her at once. She wondered if this was what they meant. It was bewitching. And, the deep black surrounding them only made them stand out more, to sparkle in the darkness.

Of course, it was at precisely at that moment that they slipped out of the chair and fell on their ass on the floor. Carline sighed, putting up what was left of the second bottle of whiskey. She waited to see if they'd manage to get themself off the floor. Not seeing the top of their red head peek over the bar after a couple seconds, she went to the end, lifted the bar and went around. They were still conscious, thankfully, but sprawled across the floor and leaning against the stool.

“I go too fast for him, you see? Everything I do is too fast for him... I have to stay slow and steady. Always slow and steady. Maybe in another 6,000 years. We've got all the time in the world, I can wait.” They seemed to only then realize they were no longer on the stool, blinking around in confusion.

“Do you want me to call you a cab?” Carline squatted down in front of them, hands on her knees, “I have numbers I can call.”

“Ngk, I don't like human drivers.”

“Well,” she pursed her lips and sighed, “you can't stay on my floor all night. It's gone midnight and I need to close.”

“I can pay my tab,” they grumbled, producing a wallet from their back pocket that clearly could not have held the wallet, “and then I'll make my own way home.” They opened the wallet, looked inside with a puzzled expression then shrugged and handed the entire thing to her.

She sighed and took it, going back around the bar to ring them out with the same credit card as before. But, when she pulled the card out and slip of paper came out with it. The paper was yellowed and creased with age. All it contained in impossibly loopy penmanship was a phone number. She stood staring at the number for a while, contemplating her options. She could call the stranger a cab and insist that they use it. She could guide them outside and leave them there- though she knew she wouldn't do that. She wouldn't sleep well knowing they were on their own, drunk on the street.

She peered over the bar, spotting the gravity-defying red hair in the same place that she'd left it. They clearly weren't going anywhere. She dialed the number on her mobile. At worst, the person on the other end wouldn't even know who she was talking about. At best, it was a friend who could come pick up the dark stranger and make sure they got home safely. Wayward souls, she was a sucker for a lost cause.

The line rang. And rang. And rang. Just as she feared no one would pick up, there was a click and then-

“Crowley? Crowley is that you?”

“I'm afraid not, sorry.”

“Oh.” The disappointment was so palpable through the one word that she was almost personally insulted, “well, the shop isn't open at this hour. Please call back during-”

“I'm sorry to call so late, sir, but there's someone here who needs a ride. They aren't in a fit state to drive themself anywhere.”

“I suggest you call them a cab, young lady. I have no idea where you got this number, but-” She cut him off before he could really start blustering and it sounded like he'd be able to really get going if she let him. It was too late, or rather too early, for that kind of thing.

“I got it from the person's wallet. Yours is the only number in here...”

“Wait, who's wallet?”

“I didn't get their name,” Carline sighed, “Look, I just want to make sure they get home safe, okay? They've been in here drinking away heartbreak all night. I won't sleep until I know they're safe.”

“What's the name on the cards in the wallet?” The person on the other end of the phone no longer sounded annoyed. He sounded hopeful.

“Hang on,” she picked up the wallet again- the credit card, why hadn't she looked at the name on the card? Maybe she needed a vacation, “Anthony, Anthony J. Crowley. Oh, I guess it is who you're expecting. Well, roundabout.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear. Yes. I haven't heard from him in days. Wait, heartbreak?” his voice suddenly had an edge to it that wasn't there even in his annoyance, “who hurt him?” She was suddenly glad she could say it wasn't her. That edge sounded sharp and protective.

“No name given there, either, only called him 'angel.'”

The phone went silent. She let it stretch on a bit, but her bed was calling her and she still needed to mop up and count the till.

“You still there?”

“Yes, er, yes. I'm terribly sorry,” now he sounded strained, almost like he was holding back tears, “Very sorry, dear, if you'll just give me the address I'll be by to pick him up as quickly as I can.” She thought she heard him murmur, distantly, “if he'll even want to see me” but it was hard to tell what people muttered over mobile phones.

She gave him the address and then they rung off. She went back around the bar, finding Anthony where she'd left him, gangly limbs sprawled in all directions. She expected him to be passed out, but he was still staring resolutely into the distance.

“Someone's coming for you, how about we get you somewhere more comfortable?” She squatted down and helped him up, guiding him to a booth in the back corner. Every one else had left at a decent hour. She could clean around him. Hopefully his friend wouldn't be long.

“Who's coming for me? I told you, I don't like riding with humans.” His eyes were drooping even as he spoke.

“I didn't get his name, but he clearly seems to know you. Was expecting you to call, even.”

“Can't imagine who that'd be...” She would've responded, but his heavy eyes had closed now and his face, creased since earlier in the evening, relaxed. He was kind of pretty, she had to admit. She wondered who it was his heart so desperately longed for- who was his angel.

As it turned out, her wait wasn't long at all. Some fifteen minutes later, a white-haired man stepped into her bar and looked around. He spotted Anthony in the corner and went to him immediately, worry etched in deep lines all across his face. He shook Anthony's shoulder softly and then harder. When that didn't work, he pinched the dark man's arm.

“Ow, hey!” Anthony batted his hand away and grumbled, sitting up somewhat straight. Carline wondered if the man could sit properly at all, even sober. He seemed to have bones made of rubber.

“Crowley, where have you been?” The white-haired man put his hands on his hips and stared Crowley down.

“Angel!”

Carline gasped and put her hand over her mouth, wondering suddenly if she had done just the wrong thing. Both men turned to stare at her and she made quick work of making like she was cleaning the bar instead of watching them. Too late, of course, but she didn't want to be that rude. Crowley, in spite of all he had told her this evening, sounded delighted to see this angel in front of him.

“Days, Crowley. Days. You were coming by every day like clockwork and then you just- just disappeared! I've been worried sick. I thought- I thought maybe they had come back for you.” The white-haired man's argument had started out strong, but by the last few words his voice sounded as it had on the phone: like he might give way to tears.

“Nuh, er, hurgh!” Crowley struggled for words, “I'm sorry, Angel... I didn't think you'd notice. Didn't think you'd think that.” He seemed to puzzle over his own words, but the ones he managed came out sounding genuine.

“Didn't think I'd notice! My dear boy, how much have you had?” white-hair wrung his hands, “you know what, it doesn't matter. I missed you and I'm glad you're okay and we need to get you home.”

“You don't...” Crowley stared at him in extreme concentration, “you don't drive.”

“Let's just get you outside and sober you up, okay darling?”

Carline thought it would take a whole lot more than fresh air to sober him up after two bottles of whiskey, but once he was out the door he was this other man's problem not hers. She polished glasses to continue looking busy.

“I don't want to.”

“Don't want to, what?”

“Sober up.”

“Why, in heav-er, why on Earth not?”

“Doesn't hurt right now.”

“What doesn't hurt?” but Carline had a feeling this Angel knew exactly what Crowley was talking about.

“Being with you.” Crowley looked away after the confession, poking at a tear in the booth beside him.

“Being with me hurts you?” the Angel's voice wobbled, going soft and revealing painful feelings of his own.

“Yeah... because I like it.”

“I don't understand that, Crowley.”

“I like being with you.”

“But it hurts you?”

“s'what I said.”

“But why?” “You know.”

“I'm afraid I don't.” And she believed him, the poor thing sounded utterly lost and confused. She half expected him to stamp a foot in frustration, but he just went on wringing his hands.

Dense, that's what she had said to Crowley earlier in the evening. Maybe his angel was dense. She was sure, now, that she had been right. This conversation was distressing to watch, let alone live in. No wonder Crowley had drunk himself silly.

“You don't feel for me the way I feel for you,” Crowley finally said in a burst, almost too fast to be individual words, “and-and that's fine, you know? It's okay, really. S'just that I love you all the same even if you don't feel that way about me. And, I- I'm not saying I was gonna be away forever, but I wanted a break.”

Carline lived in the moment of silence with Crowley, hardly believing that this was all taking place right in front of her. Really, she should have left them alone some time ago. This was none of her business. She'd heard and seen enough to know that Crowley and his Angel weren't going to physically harm one another. They had made no move to disturb her bar. She should give them privacy. But, she couldn't seem to make herself move. She had to know how this turned out. In disbelief, she realized she was rooting for them, whatever strange metaphor they were living.

“Budge up.” The angel swatted at Crowley's knee until he turned in the booth such that the white-haired man could sit beside him. Side-by-side they sat, both staring at the fake woodgrain of the table in front of them. Crowley was curled in on himself and the angel had left a bit of space between them.

“I think I've given you the wrong impression, my dear, all this time.”

Crowley said nothing, only picked at the at the edge of the table now.

“Because if you think I don't love you, the options are that you're blind or it's my fault. And, I know you aren't blind.” No, thought Carline, but it was entirely possible that they were both denser than lead.

Carline watched the words hit Crowley. Watched no reaction bleed into drunken wheels turning turn into confusion and then-

“Yeah, but you're an angel. You're meant to love everything.”

“Now, of all people on Earth and Heaven and Hell, I think you know the inaccuracy of that statement. Angels are meant to love, sure, but by experience we both know they're picky.”

“You love me, specifically?” Crowley was trying to glace at the man without actually looking at him and it made Carline's eyes hurt just watching.

“I love you, specifically. Not agape, not just philia. Pragma, ludus... Eros.”

“Eros.”

“Mmhmm.”

Crowley sat with this simple declaration for a time and Carline couldn't tell if he was going to smile or cry, lines etching deeper and deeper in his face as he turned it over in his head. The angel gave him the time.

“I'll be right back, my love, you stay here,” the angel patted his hand and got up, crossing the room to stand on the other side of the bar.

“Er, I'm sorry to keep eavesdroppin'.”

“It's quite alright. You want to make sure he's okay. That's a sentiment we share. I think he might come with me now, though, so I'll collect his things.”

“Oh! Right,” Carline reached under the counter and retrieved Crowley's wallet and sunglasses, handing them to the man.

“I'm very glad that he found you tonight, dear,” the angel smiled so warmly at her that it felt like a physical hug, “thank you for taking care of him for me.”

“Of course,” somehow she felt less tired than before, less stressed about everything- it was strange-, “Thank you for coming to get him.”

The angel's smile tipped into a rueful smirk, “I'll always come for him. And, he knows that even if he stubbornly wants to pretend he doesn't.” She wasn't sure what to make of that twisty statement but she nodded anyway.

The angel crossed the room back to Crowley, who somehow was sitting up straighter and looking far less intoxicated than he had a moment before.

“Ready to come home with me?” The angel offered his hand and Crowley took it, sliding out of the booth and standing before him.

“Eros?”

“Yes, dear, that's what I said.”

Crowley stepped closer, into the angel's space and reached up, touching his cheek.

“I've been an idiot.”

“Hmm.” The angel didn't agree, but he didn't disagree, either.

Crowley stepped closer yet, close enough that there was no longer space between them. He tilted his head and pulled the angel's face close to his and kissed him sweetly and gently before pulling back. The angel looked dazedly between Crowley's eyes and lips, biting his own.

“Yeah, let's go home so I can make it up to you.” Crowley took his hand and led him to the door. The angel followed, casting one last glace over at Carline and mouthing another 'thank you' just as he was pulled out the door.

She stood and watched the door for a bit, making sure they weren't coming back. Then she crossed the room, flicked off the light, and went upstairs to her flat.

No, she wasn't interested in a love like that. Eros didn't appeal to her. But, that didn't mean that she wasn't thankful that there were people in the world for those that it did. And that, sometimes, they got their perfect happy endings.

[diningpageantry]

Arrival

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343617/chapters/40805621

Chapter 1/11 of Of Wealth and Leisure

Word Count: 3477

Summary: Sir Simon Snow, the apprentice to Lord David, is sent off to stay at the Grimm-Pitch Manor for the next twelve months. While anticipating tension, he's met with a much stranger reality that unravels in his short time there.

As I arrive at the sprawling Grimm-Pitch Manor, I take note that it’s far more bleak in person as compared to what I had imagined.

Long, stretched halls and piped towers that streak the rainy Hampshire sky. The lush greenery overwhelms the land even upon closer observation as my carriage rattles on forward, drawing closer to the iron wrought gate. It takes three workers on each side to pull it open, allowing us to continue onto the private grounds. The leading horse trots us in as my eyes follow the grand walls through the small door window, curious as to the rumored mysteries that lies within them.

The fields rise and fall, dipping into acres of farmland with fieldworkers dotting among the crop. Ivy encompasses the statues and main fountain, delicately trimmed while keeping its natural composition. Of course, I’ve known of the Grimm-Pitch joint wealth, but I hadn’t quite anticipated such a luxurious land. While I’m accustomed to such a life, I’m aware the air of new wealth I carry as compared to their time-old privileges. Word has it, the Pitch money started back with Egyptian high society.

New clothes, fine-tailored and the best of London’s handmade luggage. My style, my way of speaking. It’s clear to me, and others of such a class, that I wasn’t always so well regarded in life. Of course, it causes my anxieties to twirl around in my stomach, unsettled by the fears of those holding an older status.

Alas, I was given a task, and thus I will fulfill it. What other choices do I have but to follow orders? Conformity, respect, and social stature. That’s all there is to have, and that’s all I have to lose.

The carriage jolts to a stop, and I turn my gaze towards the opposite window to peer up at the main building as servants pour out and begin to unload my belongings. They’re followed by none other than Baron Malcolm Grimm himself, trailed far off by his eldest son--the heir to the Pitch name--Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

A servant sweeps to my door and swings it open for me, offering a hand as I take a step down and nod at Baron Grimm. I take his extended hand firmly, briefly shaking it.

“An honor to have you here, Sir Snow,” he says shortly, grasping my hand before letting his fall to his side. His son doesn’t dare step closer, watching me from the landing of the front doors. He’s a tad unsettling from a distance; stone cold gaze and a tipped up chin to stare at me through his lashes. He stands at least a few inches taller than I, and clearly a bitter soul, judging by his expression. Despite the bitterness in my initial impressions, I take note that he is impeccably dressed and outrageously confident; a stark contrast to how I feel wearing my cream colored suit. His is a washed out purple, and the inside waistcoat is a soft yellow accented with the same violet stripes. He stands as the epitome of envy and the cause of any self-hatred when one is put beside him.

“Pleasure is mine, Mr. Grimm,” I reply, bowing politely before nodding my head to his son. He doesn’t nod back.

As the workers rush to bring in my belongings, Mr. Grimm waves me into the estate wordlessly.

It’s as lavish inside as out, and as equally showing of time’s wealth. Wooden floors, lined with foreign rugs and elegant, fresh bouquets on all surfaces. I’m hit with the scents of lilac and centuries-aged wood flooring, mixed with the mouth-watering smell coming from the kitchen as they prepare tonight’s dinner.

Various servants mill around us, rushing from one place to another as they carry fresh vegetables and stacks of linens. Somewhere off in the household, I hear the laughter of children, but it feels distant.

The entire estate feels distant. Drawn in. Untouched.

Perhaps it’s stemming from the brooding Pitch boy, standing a small distance away and staring daggers into me as I shift my weight forward and back.

“Your room will be in the same hallway as my eldest,” Mr. Grimm begins, sweeping me up the stairway. I listen back on the footsteps behind me, suddenly over aware of how exposed I feel upon these grounds. “Of course, it’s one of the best rooms in the house; it overlooks the sprawling gardens.” We stop inside the second floor parlor, just a small distance from the rooms.

I stay standing, gazing over the piano and resting violin as the breeze trickles through the opened windows. Thinned drapes slowly wave in the wind, haloing the loveseat that the elder Grimm takes a seat upon. His son sits nearby in an armchair, trying to busy himself with a book off the table.

“I hope your year’s visit will prove,” Mr. Grimm’s lip turns up in disgust, “interesting for you, Sir Snow. It isn’t too often we get friendly visitors of The Mage’s men.” His voice drips in mockery, something I seethe at but hold back my expressions for. Many joke over his eccentric actions, as well as his spirituality, but Lord David’s teachings are of a new and exciting stature. Thus, his Mage title has become one that’s recognized throughout the lands.

“If you don’t mind me saying, I’m not one of his men, Baron. I’m his apprentice.”

A sneer and turning of his nose sets my spine upright, breath nearly tumbling from my lungs as I catch Mr. Pitch’s eyebrow quirk in the corner of my eye.

“Yes, well…” Mr. Grimm rises to his feet, buttoning back up his suit. “I have business to attend to. See to it that you make it to dinner, six o’clock sharp on the daily. You’ve past tea, but that is at the typical time. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” He makes his way back down the stairs, leaving me with the intense gaze of his nearby son.

I try to gather a thought to express, but he’s much sharper than I.

“Don’t sink to the floorboards quite yet,” he hisses, eyes just lifting from the page. His voice is just as icy as I’d anticipated; slices like a shard of glass and as dangerous as poison. “I know what your precious Mage expects of my family, and I’ll personally see to it that you don’t get the information you’re seeking so pitifully.”

My mouth falls to a gape, hand resting at my hip to where my sword would typically rest if I was training. “I don’t quite understand what you-”

He gets a kick out of my blubbering, teeth showing in his smile as his chin tips up. “Ah, seems as you’re truly stupid as they say.”

“I’m not not a common moron,” I hit, taken aback by his blunt rudeness to a guest. “I simply don’t understand what you’re suggesting.”

His book snaps shut, sending minuscule flecks of dust swirling into the air around him. Slowly, his fingers drum against the cover as he looks me up and down like a show pony. “Let it be recorded, Sir Snow, that we don’t take too kindly to spies in this residence. If you don't wish to see trouble, I'd expect you to limit the length of your nose. Sniffing for clues will lead you nowhere but down.”

I follow his movements as I lock myself in place, hand staying frozen to my hip. I have nothing to do but stare, watching him stand, bow his head, then brush past me back down the staircase.

My hand ghosts up to my pocketwatch, fingertips trembling as I flick it open as unsteadily try to read its face.

With time to spare for dinner, I make my way to my bedroom, which the door is hanging slightly ajar as a servant finishes putting away the clothes. They glance up to me, nod promptly, then finish smoothing the clothes before running off.

The room doesn't lack in the appeal of the rest of the house. It stands as much of a master bedroom as compared to a guest’s (which makes me curious as to what the master room must look like). Baron Grimm was quite right; the view is breathtaking. I unlatch the windows, letting the blooming flowers float into my chambers easily.

I remove my hat, settling it gently atop the table of my vanity as I take an eyeful of my figure.

I’m starting to suspect I look a tad drab in comparison to Mr. Pitch. He clearly has an affinity for fashion, making me feel undeniably inadequate in my monochromatic ensemble. If I were of a lower class, I might even make the remark that he owns this very fashion. It’s a divine unfairness that he wears himself so well.

I locate my sword, unsheathing it and practicing a good whirl to occupy my mind.

If I were to follow The Mage’s wishes, I’d be strolling the grounds about now. But, alas, the rain should be sweeping in within the hour.

Of course, Mr. Pitch was not wrong. Not that I’ll admit it, for I know the consequences of such dirty business, but I cannot deny my quest to myself. To spy upon the Grimm-Pitch family; get them comfortable, make them think I’m not intruding upon their hushed whispers of secretive alliances for Lord David’s advancements. While it doesn’t bring me joy to do so, and I’m still confused as to why I was picked away from all of his men to do this job, I still serve The Mage without a doubt. After all, he saved my life once. My debt belongs to him.

My entire life, past, present, and future, is in his debt. My sword, my wealth. It all belongs to Lord David.

And I fear I may never escape that.

As I return my blade to its sheath, the dinner bell chimes through the corridors and beckons me to the dining room. I’ll wholeheartedly admit that I don’t take my time to get there, excitedly taking my spot at the table as the older family members file into the room. Wordlessly, I nod to Baron Grimm and Mr. Pitch, then briefly introduce myself to Mrs. Grimm. I know it’s unspoken of, the remarriage, but she does seem like a stark difference as compared to the tales of Mrs. Pitch.

Iron fist but a heart of gold is what those who knew her say. She ruled the house, as the rumors were told, but the dynamic clearly shifted. Baron Grimm holds the power now, and it’s only time until Mr. Pitch takes his title.

Speaking of the son, he sits directly across from me. Eyes narrowed and head bowed, he glares at me through his brow and sneers whenever our gazes meet. I’m not quite sure what it means for us, but I’m definite it’s not friendly.

A rivalry won’t prove anything, but it seems to be the only option on our parts. There’s no forced kindness radiating from Mr. Grimm onto his child, as I’m sure they both hold the same sentiment over my staying. It seems as though only Mr. Pitch has the nerve to speak his mind, rather than bite his tongue.

Dinner proves quiet but plentiful. The servants seem rather impressed by how much I pack away, and how often I send off for more, but they’ll grow used to it. I do the same when at home.

As the clock chimes at seven, everyone begins to untuck their napkins and settle them beside plates. I follow in fashion (despite wanting to protest in hopes for more food), nudging my plate forward after laying my fork and knife on the china. Once done, I glance around at the family in hopes for guidance in my next actions. They disperse, seeming uninterested in any further interactions between each other. While I’m not entirely surprised, I’m not afraid to be rather disappointed. While at home, Lord David spends quite a bit of time away from me and visitors, I still make an effort to stay active with others around me.

I rather miss Penelope, and Agatha too. While I have not decided upon whether or not we wish to be engaged, I know that Lord David sees a possible union of our families as beneficial (and so does Doctor Wellbelove). Wealth on both sides are balancing, and it’s good to be allied with medical families. The wedding would not be unexpected from others, either. I’ve been seen with Miss Wellbelove about town a few times, as per Lord David’s request. Sometimes, I fear he uses her to make me seem more “human” to calm the rumors of my temper.

I’d rather not fan those, but I don’t refute them either. I’m aware I can become aggressive, but I’m more grown now. I don’t have such a spark to fight others as much as I have a drive to be seen as normal.

Perhaps, that’s why I wished for a communal time following the meal, but then grew mildly disappointed as they instead went off to their own spaces.

In efforts to occupy my mind, I find myself wandering off to the stables. I peer around curiously, strolling down the half full animal lodging.

As I walk, and on the occasion stop to pet a foal, I see a friendly face pop out of the stable house at the end. The person comes more into view as she walks up, grinning cheerfully at me. At first, I nearly mistake her for a man, due to her clothing, but upon closer inspection I see that she’s a woman who’s possibly ten years my senior.

“You must be Sir Snow,” she pipes, coming up and offering me a carrot for the animal in front of me. “Words’ been floating that you’d arrived.”

My cheeks pull as I grin back, petting the horse and feeding her happily. “Why, yes I am. No need to address me so properly, I really feel quite odd with that title. Address me privately as Simon, please.”

She looks at me a little funnily then nods. “Fair enough, Simon. I’m Ebeneza Petty, but I usually go by Ebb. Ebeneza feels a bit too posh for my liking.”

I laugh, hand slowly stroking down the animal’s face and eyes glued onto her as I speak. “Why such a posh name then?”

I can hear the smile in her laugh as she speaks. “Come from a sort-of posh family. Not as posh as the Grimm or Pitch families, dear me, but I was a close friend of the younger Pitch daughter. I’d served under Mrs. Pitch as her assistant until her death, too. Poor woman died so young.”

Her hand reaches out, running down the other side of the horse’s face as my gaze trails back to her face.

While it seems as though everyone else in the castle is taking extensive measures to ignore my company, or even avoid it, Ebb seems to welcome my presence. I’m thankful that she does.

“I’ve heard about it. Such a shame.”

It’s not a complete fib; I’ve heard rumors of Mrs. Pitch’s death, but never the full tale. There’s a number of ghastly stories, some including vampires, but in the end, it usually boils down to an attack that left her dead and her son injured. While he seems quite well now, I can’t help but remain curious as to what effects it had on him.

Ebb nods her head, sighing in a short breath as her walking staff lifts then gently settles back onto the ground. “Do you want some tea, dear?”

“If it’s no bother,” I say, tucking my hand into my pocket.

She wrinkles her nose, waving her hand. “Not at all. Come along.” She nods towards the stable house and leads me inside, settling me at her kitchen table. She runs the kettle, poking the fire and she grabs some hours old pastries, settling them on the table for us to have.

She settles across from me, taking off her hat and settling it on the tabletop. “Cook Pritchard slips me what’s not had at teatime. She usually serves an assortment, but these are her specialty.”

“What are they?”

“Scones,” she says, nudging them forward. “Go on, try one.”

I reluctantly reach out a hand, raising my eyebrows to her a I gasp one. I’m not one who’s too keen on scones, since they’re typically raisin filled or boringly plain. “What’s in these?”

“Cherries. Tart ones at that; Mr. Grimm gets them shipped from the East.” She grins. “Just eat.”

Despite my hesitation, I sink my teeth into the slightly hardened outside and chew curiously before blinking in confusion. “Well I’ll be…”

She laughs a hearty, comforting laugh as she watches me. “See? Not awful.”

I shake my head. “Not at all, ma’am,” I say, crumbs spilling out of my mouth. I go wide eyed, covering myself as I chew and swallow, shoving half the treat in right after. Ebb keeps laughing, standing as the kettle boils.

She settles a steaming cup in front of me, the dried leaves steeping inside a small strainer. I watch as she blows upon hers once, waiting for hers to steep. “How long are you here for?”

I swallow the rest of the scone, patting my mouth with my sleeve. “A year. I’ll be heading off next spring.”

She nods thoughtfully, settling down her drink. “Haven’t you got someone at home waiting for you? A year’s a properly long bit of time to be staying with a family, especially at your age and as a handsome young chap.”

“Sort of. Not entirely.” I shrug, looking off around the room. She has a few knicknacks; things that seem like they’re from travel. I wonder how truly close she is to the Pitch family. “I’m not exactly betrothed; not yet. I have friends, but only two. I care for them deeply, yet it was understood by both of them that I’m to be spending time apart to stay here.”

Her gaze follows mine, smiling as we both settle on looking at the fireplace. “Well, it’s good to keep that open mind, then.” I feel her head turn to me, and I turn with it. She looks somewhat sad. “Don’t let the family get to you. They seem like a cold people, but they’re just guarded.”

I nod my head slowly, attention turning back to my drink as I carefully pull out my steeped leaves and take a sip before thanking her for the tea. She grins in return, drinking her own and slowly drawing some stories out of me. I tell her a bit about home; about living within newly acquired wealth and confirming that yes, I’m not quite sure who my real parents are, but I was raised by Lord David. I tell her of my knighting, I tell her own our land, then make her promise to not share the information. She says she wears on her favorite mare’s grave.

As she lounges back, I yawn.  Her eyes narrow as she tuts, sending me back off to the main building to sleep after I promise to return sometime within the next week or so.

I wander my way back up to my room, getting lost twice before I find a familiar portrait in the correct corridor. There’s only a single lit lantern in each hall, so I struggle to find my immediate way. When I do, I have to count doors to find my room.

I silently close my window and strip down to change, a bit scared to take out my quill and notebook at first, but coax myself to sit down and write after I light my candle.

My quill drips ink as I purse my lips, staring down at the blank parchment before pressing down and scrawling out my first night’s entry.

“Lonely. Not overly so, of course, but there is a clear distaste from Baron Grimm and his son, T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch, who will be henceforth shorthanded to Mr. Pitch. There is one benefit to this stay, and that is the stable keeper, Ebeneza Petty. Seems to be an ally and friend here. Will keep updates on the daily.”

I mark the date at the top, letting the paper dry before I stash the book amongst my other personal belongings. After blowing out the candle, I crawl under my blankets and try to relax, fearing that I cannot disregard how unsettled I feel inside the house. There’s little to no comfort in this bedroom; the glamour does little to distract from the emotionless cold seeping through the walls.

But, alas, knowing I have no other choice but to suffer for the next twelve months, I fall into a deep sleep anyway.