A Nightcap

Finally, after a day that felt like an eternity—or more accurately like a handful days—her first day as a trapped maidservant in a mysterious mansion came to a close. After her exciting taste of rebellion, the sky itself seemed to decide that chapter needed to end, as the sun finally set and a glowing sliver of moon took its position. The servants’ quarters hummed with a quiet rhythm after the house settled into a tender silence. Boots lined the walls, aprons hung to dry, and the air smelled of soap and coal. Trudging through the entryway, Cecilia all but fell onto the bench near the hearth, exhausted both physically and spiritually.

There was a soft rustle of fabric from beyond the shadow of the hearth. Cecilia rigidly snapped to attention at the sound, but when her eyes landed on the source, her stout body wrapped in a nightgown and blanket while her black coils hung loose from its capped confinement, her body melted.

She groaned. “Coriander, thank whatever God exists, it’s you.”

Coriander smiled softly, radiating empathy. “I take it your day wasn’t quite easy, was it?”

Cecilia barked a humorless laugh. “Yeah,” she said, a bitter excuse of a smile stretched across her face. “You could say that.”

“I heard a bit about it from the others’ gossip,” she murmured. With light footsteps, she crossed the room to stand in front of Cecilia, offering her a mug from beneath her blanket. “Here,” she encouraged. “This will warm you up. That could bring some sense of comfort, at least.”

Taking it, Cecilia peered inside, raising an eyebrow at the clear liquid. “What is it?”

“Water,” she said simply. “It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing, which is what you’ll typically be offered.”

Cecilia chuckled, genuinely, at that. “Well,” she said, raising the mug enough to let the vapors of steam curl around her cheeks and fog her glasses. “I can’t argue with that.”

The other nodded, satisfied, before asking, “May I sit with you?” Upon the easy gift of a nod, Coriander took her seat on the bench, smoothing her gown as she sighed, her own shoulders sacrificing their tension in front of the hearth. “Now, I hate to bring up unpleasantries when you have only just begun your evening, but I also heard…” She glanced away uneasily, lowering her voice as she asked, “You crossed paths with him, didn’t you?”

Cecilia blinked. “Lord Olrin? You were there for that.”

Coriander shook her head with a snort. “No, no, the other one. His younger brother, Lord Peregrine.”

Of course there were two of them.

She leaned closer, her tone indulgent to share gossip in the fireplace’s shielding crackle. “He’s like a thundercloud that never breaks. He broods and snarls, and if he smiles at all, it’s only to sneer.”

It was Cecilia’s turn to snort. Removing her glasses, she wiped the lens with the cleanest inch of her apron as she said, “You make him sound more beast than man. Though perhaps more brat than beast, too.”

“It would be funnier if it weren’t so sad,” Coriander added. “He’s lived in his brother’s shadow all his life. Some say it’s driven him half mad—Or perhaps perpetually half drunk. Always second place, always overlooked. He was rarely seen until only a few years ago. Some say it was foreign schools, others that it was military stints, but all claim it was anything to keep him occupied and out of the way.”

Cecilia quirked an eyebrow. “Was he this much of a tyrant before?”

Coriander folded her arms, resting her chin in her palm. “He returned bitterer than he left, apparently. And he takes it out on the likes of us. Especially the new ones, what few appear.”

“Like me,” Cecilia stated the implication aloud.

“Yes,” she sighed. “Like you.”

Cecilia frowned, slowly twirling her glasses between her fingers. “Why does he hate us? We haven’t done anything to him.”

“Because he can,” Coriander said simply, eyes sad even in the orange glow of the fire. “Because it makes him feel bigger to make us small.”

Cecilia huffed. “He can’t make us small,” she said. Her eyes narrowed once again, staring blearily at her eyeglasses. “Not if we don’t let him.”

Coriander looked up at the other woman, features soft with admiration.

Or perhaps it was with pity.

“You’re braver than me, Cecilia,” she murmured. “It’s best you keep out of his path, though. He can’t harm you proper, but he’ll try to chip at your spirit. After all, it’s not really about you or me or anyone else in this house. It’s about him.” Her hand rose from her lap, gently taking one of Cecilia’s hands in hers. Their fingers slid together, seamless and without gap. “But you are right—He can’t diminish us, not if we keep hold of that power.”

The fire crackled, reflecting in warm colors against their skin, and the two of them settled into a comfortable silence as they stared into its flames. It was a pleasant minute, a reprieve in a world she was not sure really existed. But it felt real, at least in this moment, with her.

A board creaked in the passage beyond.

Goddammit.

The two women turned sharply. The shadows at the doorway shifted, and just for a breath, Cecilia thought she saw the glint of eyes. Then, as quickly as it was shattered, the silence settled again, broken only by the hiss of the fire.

Coriander laid a hand heavily on her chest, heaving a deep-seated sigh. “Eavesdropping,” she moaned. “Perhaps it’s best we watch our tongues.”

Coriander tried to force a smile, to force the comfort back into their silence, but the air had grown heavier. Cecilia said nothing, though her skin prickled with the knowledge that Peregrine may have heard every word.

But—Well, you know what? Whatever! Let him hear; let him listen; then, maybe he would take in what an absolute ass he had made of both her and himself. It was the least he could bear, since he seemed to be such an advocate for brutal honesty.

Somewhere in the house, a clock tolled midnight, and the sound carried like an omen.