Late Night

Petel hunched over a disheveled pile of reclaimed missives and incomplete ledgers built on second-hand accounts, his sea-toned eyes scanning one page to the next for discrepancies. He cursed the haphazard bookkeeping of the Pearte family. He ran a hand through his autumnal locks and sighed.

He glanced at the candle to his right, it had burned down to a nub in the time since he lit it. The sun had long since set, and the blanket of night left the counting house a dark place. Shadows danced away from the dim light of his dying candle.

Perhaps it was best to call it a night. Petel stood from his desk, collected the papers into a neater stack, and shuffled them into his desk drawer.

While he still had light from the dying candle, Petel fished a new one from his coat pocket and mounted it into his lantern. He placed his fingers to the wick and whispered. “Tispin…” He snapped his fingers and sparked the candle to life.

He closed the lantern and let it rest at his hip. Heading into the harvest season, he’d be spending more on candles and casting. He took out his pocket book and noted the casting.

Petel walked himself through the same steps he always took when closing up. He took stock of the entry and exit ledger. Skimming through the list, it seems Alberd forgot to sign himself out again.

He sighed. “Alberd!” He shouted. There was a chance that Alberd was still in the building. He waited a moment. “Alberd!” He called again.

No response.

Annoyed, Petel took out his pocket book and noted the discrepancy. He took the quill from the inkwell by the ledger, signed himself out, noted himself as the last man out of the building, and capped the inkwell.

On his way out, he thought on his note taking. The privilege of having a pen with a self-contained inkwell was not lost on him, but if it wasn’t stored just so, the ink would spill from the pen. He pondered if the luxury was worth the trouble.

Having said that, he felt obligated to use it regardless of any troubles. It was gifted to him by Prince Schyrel himself. It was a symbol of Petel’s accomplishments, awarded to him for the investigation of the Baron MacMeara Account.

MacMeara… it had been some years since those days. As Petel locked up and walked the road home, he recalled the details of his first major audit. His investigation had uncovered an absurd level of magical fraud.

The assets in the Baron’s possession had far greater amounts of magic contained within them than his transactions and spells should allow. The conclusion was that the barony had been embezzling crown funds meant for the upkeep of roads to and from the Duchy of His Grace Dormin.

Despite his success in closing the account, Petel couldn’t help thinking on the details of it whenever he looked at his pen. Something never quite sat right with him. The more time went on, the more he felt the urge to dig back through the archives.

It had been more than a decade since then, Petel no longer had the same enthusiasm and vigor he once possessed, but he still held firmly to the laws of the kingdom. He believed his contemporaries were far too lax.

Alberd forgot to sign out fairly regularly, then waved off the security risk as if it were nothing. Dostin would give whatever lady he was courting at the time a tour of the counting house. Euden made numerous mistakes on his accounts, mistakes that Petel would end up having to correct.

His vigor had been taken by the years, and now his strict adherence was viewed as an inconvenience by many. He had every right to elevate these grievances to the attention of Duke Briegt, but that would guarantee an even greater amount of red tape for everyone, including those not directly involved in his grievances.

Arriving at home, he stepped through the gates and into the foyer. He was met by the grumble and patter of his geriatric hound coming to sniff at his legs. Petel smiled and knelt down to pet and ruffle the faithful companion. “Kerbal… did Anidha forget to feed you?”

“Master Moratino, you wound me,” called the familiar woman’s voice. At the top of the stairs stood Anidha, his housemaid. She carried a lantern with her that dimly lit her dark hair and eyes. The light betrayed some strands of silver to her.

“Ah, Anidha, apologies for the late hour.”

“Think nothing of it, Master Moratino. We are well accustomed to your work habits. What is more worrying is your willingness to forgo your own health.”

“Yes… it escapes me sometimes that there is still someone who would miss me should I falter.” He rubbed along the side of Kerbal’s belly, eliciting some grumbles and tail thumps.

“I have taken the liberty of drawing you a bath. Welcome home.”

“Thank you as always.”

Anidha curtsied and took her leave.

He stood and went up the stairs after her. Kerbal tip-tapped his way back to the pillow by the door and swiftly fell asleep again.

Petel wasted no time once in the bathroom. He quickly disrobed and sunk into the bath. He took a deep breath in through the nose, noting an aromatic scent, and breathed out through the mouth. He wondered if the scent was from some imported salve, and if the budget warranted that expense. Ah, this was his own home, and yet he couldn’t help thinking in financial terms.

No… this scent, he remembered… it was the aromatic salts that his wife once used.

Dear Amalthea…

He finished his bath and donned his nightgown, then swiftly after was face down into his bed. He fell asleep, mind filled with thoughts of Amalthea. She laid beside him. His arms wrapped around her and pulled her close.

When he woke in the morning, the dream had passed. He looked at his empty hands. The only thing there was a ring bound to its long-buried pair, a cold golden band that offered no comfort.

Kerbal howled at the door. A visitor. Shortly thereafter, the bell rang. Petel sighed, pushed himself up from the bed, and readied for the day ahead. He could hear Anidha addressing the guest, but not any of the actual words. He could certainly hear Kerbal howling.

He made his way downstairs to see Anidha closing the door. “Anything of note?” He inquired.

Anidha turned to him. “A Lord Wilheld came calling, he requested assistance with an account.”

“Euden… that layabout… if he weren’t a relative of the Duke, he’d have been ousted last year.”

“You could leave him to his devices, Sir.”

“And let an account go with the wrong numbers? I’d rather be tarred and feathered.”

“I had an inkling as much, I accepted on your behalf, Sir.”

“Thank you, Anidha.”

“Breakfast is ready, Master Moratino.”

“Thank you once more. You may take the day at your leisure.”

“Too kind, Sir.” She presents a hand pie to him. He takes it and makes for the door.