This piece was a study in characterization as well as a fun little project for some friends of mine to enjoy. [hider=Better Left Unsaid | Nov. 2020] “And just what the hell are you doing?” Mira just about jumped out of her skin, almost dropping her duster as she whirled around to the source of the yelling. When her vision cleared, she was greeted with the unnerving sight of a tall blonde man looming over her, sharp blue eyes slicing into her like blades. “I-Uh, dusting, Mr. Starag!” she hurried out, clutching her duster in front of her as evidence. When the Majordomo didn’t reply, she shifted nervously on her feet, adding, “I mean, Nathan assigned me to straighten up the rooms in the east wing, so I’m--” She was cut off by a weary sigh, the Majordomo closing his eyes and rubbing his temple with two white-gloved fingers. “And did he by any chance assign you to scrub out the chimney before this?” he asked, clearly exasperated. “Um, no, sir..?” “Then what on earth am I looking at?” Aaron snapped, gathering up a fistful of Mira’s apron. She had the instinct to pull away, but fear kept her rooted in place; even in her short time here, she’d already seen what happened to mages who resisted their superiors. Aaron lifted the apron up in front of Mira’s eyes, almost too close to focus, though she could still clearly see the black and brown smears marring the otherwise pristine fabric. “I-- well, I did lend a hand to Horace in the garden for a few minutes earlier…” Just like that the apron fell away, revealing a hard-eyed Mr. Starag behind it, glaring daggers into Mira. She wasn’t sure what exactly made the Majordomo so intimidating, be it his authority or his height or that sharp tone he could take when he was angry, but Mira had always been most chilled by those [i]eyes.[/i] They were often weary and trimmed by dark circles, as if the man survived on the barest amount of sleep, but despite the fatigue they were always sharp and clear and focused, like a hawk or some large cat. She’d never quite given breath to it, but the idea that anyone could stay so severe under such stress and exhaustion was downright scary. But, like a cloud drifting over the moon, the tension of the moment left again, Aaron shaking his head with a disapproving [i]tsk.[/i] “Ridiculous,” he scolded her, “You’ve been here nearly a week and you still can’t seem to wrap your head around the simplest things. It’s been a long time since this household had to contend with help as [i]thick[/i] as you.” Crestfallen, Mira let her head fall, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She’d hardly worked under this man a week, and yet his disapproval twisted her heart like she’d betrayed her own father. Was this how he kept everyone in check, then? “I’m sorry, Mr. Starag, I’ll try--” “Don’t bother,” Aaron cut her off, looking to the door. “Dawson!” A wiry, flaxen-haired man who happened to be walking past the doorway stopped in his tracks, looking shocked to have even been noticed, let alone addressed. “Yes, sir?” “Get this one cleaned up,” Aaron ordered, gesturing for Mira to step forward. When she haltingly obeyed, he took her arm and nudged her forward, the sudden speed making her stumble. “And make sure she’s reassigned somewhere out of sight until she learns how to compose herself.” Dawson rushed forward to catch Mira before she fell, the maid burying her face into his chest in shame. Dawson, on the other hand, simply nodded to Aaron, dipping his head. “Right away, Mr. Starag.” “Indeed,” Aaron drawled boredly, casting a last serrated gaze over the pair of them before sweeping down the corridor. Mira was too ashamed to lift her head, but Dawson’s gaze followed the Majordomo until he was out of sight, brow knitted in confusion. When he finally looked back down to Mira, he took her by the shoulders and stood her steady, concern written all over his face. “Are you okay?” Mira couldn’t bear to look at him, dabbing at tears and running mascara with her apron. “Y-yes, sorry, I-I’m fine,” she insisted, pushing past Dawson to the door. “Let’s just go, okay?” [hr] Dawson tugged absently at one of his suspender straps while he waited, leaning against the door of the servants’ bathhouse with his free arm crossed patiently over his waist. He wasn’t sure why they called it a ‘bathhouse’, given it was more like one of those big communal shower rooms at sports stadiums and incorporated deep into the basement level of the servants’ wing, but no one really questioned things on estate grounds. He supposed one difference was that they weren’t segregated by gender, but Mira wasn’t used to [i]that[/i] yet, hence his leaning. His job was to stand guard and make sure no other men tried to get in before she got dressed. He sighed, head lolling back. So particular, this one. He knew she’d been a transfer from another House or somewhere - moon only knew why, she certainly couldn’t have been a gift with all her bumbling and the Lord wasn’t in the habit of purchasing ground-level staff - but the profundity of her ignorance of Sinnenodel ways was astounding. Dawson might not have believed it if he hadn’t witnessed it himself. No surprise then that she got into hot water with Aaron - the older servants often compared him to an icier version of Malek, if such a thing were possible. Still, something wasn’t adding up. Dawson squinted at the floor, going over what he’d witnessed in the study for the tenth time since he’d been sent down here. Mr. Starag was not known for his leniency by any means, but he wasn’t [i]cruel[/i] either. Dawson had never seen or even heard of him laying a hand on an underling before; usually the cold weight of his glare was more than enough to send even the most stubborn of servants on their way, and his presence commanded respect even from the mages’ children. There’d been no shortage of problems - big ones - in the estate during Dawson’s time there, and no matter how egregious the offence or devastating the incident, Mr. Starag [i]always[/i] had things under control. Above all, Lord Varis didn’t approve of violence; Aaron didn’t even manhandle people when they were being sent off to the Dancer. So what on earth could Mira have done to earn a shove from the Majordomo himself? The door swung inward, and Dawson was met with a high-pitched yelp of surprise as he pitched backward, wheeling his arms to regain his balance. He wasn’t quick enough, bumping into Mira where she’d been standing to open the door, but luckily for her, she managed to get out of the way before Dawson dragged them both to the ground. “Ah! I’m sorry!” Mira squeaked, scuttling back a few steps like a frightened animal. Dawson winced as he stood, waving the girl off. “No worries, that’s what happens when you lean on a door,” he insisted, though he still rubbed the sore spot on his bottom where he’d landed on the tile. “You ready?” “Um, yes, I think so…” Mira nodded in a small voice, clutching a bundle of fabric to her chest. Her damp hair spilled over her forehead and shoulders, still managing its wild curls despite the weight of the water. She’d changed into a blouse and a plain skirt, probably from the shelf of spares given the awkward fit, but it would probably do well enough. “Yeah, you’re fine,” Dawson agreed, giving her another appraising look before curiously prying the bundle out of Mira’s hands. It was her previous outfit, dirt and all. Dawson quirked an eyebrow, jutting his thumb to their left. “Laundry chute is over there, remember?” Mira’s cheeks reddened, and she scrambled to get the clothes back with clumsy fingers. “Yes, right, I’m sorry, I…” she hurried to deposit the clothes into the chute, but didn’t return, stubbornly facing the wall the chute protruded from. Dawson peered over expectantly, hands in his pockets. Great Anastasia, this girl was weird. “You… coming?” Mira’s curls shook with frantic nodding, but she didn’t turn. “Yes, yes, just…” Her voice shook. “You go on, I’m right behind you!” Dawson debated taking her word for it and leaving, but after weighing the pros and cons and remarking that Mira was a terrible liar, he sighed, sauntering up behind her and putting a hand on her shoulder. “Mira.” Mira turned reluctantly, eyes getting puffier by the second. She met Dawson’s eye only for an instant before squeezing her eyes shut, pushing fresh tears down her cheeks. “I’m sorry…” Dawson resisted the urge to drop his head and groan. Anastasia’s tits, was there any end to this? She wasn’t much younger than him, probably a year or two out of Awakening, but he felt like he was babysitting here. “You’re fine, relax,” he pressed, a tone of warning in his voice. When that failed to calm the girl, he softened a bit, stooping to meet her eye. “Hey, calm down. We’ll get you figured out. No harm done.” Mira didn’t seem to believe him, but she eventually nodded, wiping her tears with the handkerchief Dawson offered her and following him quietly back up the hall. [hr] [i]“Psst.[/i] Hey, wake up.” Mira went stiff, like a jolt just before falling asleep, but resisted the urge to whirl around. “Go away, I’m trying to sleep,” she whined, doing her best to make her voice sound groggy. “No you’re not,” the voice behind her drawled in a whisper, unconvinced. It sounded like... Dawson? “C’mon.” Mira turned over to see Dawson’s muddy hazel eyes peering over her pillow, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Then why’d you say ‘wake up’?” Mira questioned irritably. [i]“Shhhh.”[/i] Dawson rolled his eyes, apparently unfazed by her tone apart from its volume. “Professional courtesy?” he hissed, shrugging. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Half the people in here only pretend to be asleep, either crying or shitting their pants or thinking up new and creative ways to fuck with each other.” Even his whispers sounded impatient, the footman bouncing on his legs like a big pair of springs. “Now get up, you’re coming with me.” Mira debated turning over and ignoring him, but after all the help he’d been that night, she couldn’t very well refuse him. Besides, he was right; sleep wasn’t coming to her anytime soon. “Alright.” Not to say she wasn’t tired. The muscles in her arms and shoulders complained as she hauled herself up out of bed, a remnant from all the potatoes she’d hauled, peeled, mashed, and scooped once Dawson managed to find her a task she couldn’t screw up. She fumbled blindly for the cotton dressing gown draped over a post of her bed - servants of the Sinnenodel estate were expected to look presentable even in their nightclothes - and searched the floor with her feet for her standard-issue slippers as she fiddled with the tie. “Where are we going?” Dawson popped up off the floor like a jack-in-the-box, not waiting for Mira to finish tying her gown before half-leading, half-dragging her to the corridor. “For a walk,” he answered simply, not looking back. “Mind the step.” Mira’s steps were clumsy until they got out into the soft glow of the gaslit corridor, Dawson closing the door to the servants’ dormitory carefully behind them. She was grateful for the light, but still a little uneasy being out of bed after curfew, even with someone experienced like Dawson. “You got me out of bed for a walk?” she questioned, reflecting one of Dawson’s trademarked eyebrow-raises back at him. He didn’t seem convinced. “You weren’t sleeping,” he reiterated, setting off with his long legs down the hall. Despite her discomfort, Mira hurried after, more comfortable at his side than alone. He was still in his working clothes, a pair of black slacks held up over a white dress shirt by a pair of stylish leather suspenders, absent only the jacket he usually kept slung over his shoulder. Did he just get off? “What time is it?” Mira asked, squinting down the seemingly endless corridor. “About ten,” Dawson replied, voice muffled as he clutched his cigarette in his teeth. He slowed a moment, hunching to light it, but the acrid scent Mira expected never came; instead, after a long drag, the smoke curled neatly into passing air ducts, moving like an organized line of ants rather than the messy clouds she remembered from her grandfather. Right, Dawson was an air mage; this was probably how he got away with smoking inside the manor. Moon only knew the Majordomo would probably have his head for that, if not the Lord himself. But that was one of the many things that fascinated her about Dawson. He grew up in a den of snakes, but didn’t seem afraid of getting bitten. “And you just got off?” Mira asked, a little freaked out at the prospect of working… oh, it must have been a sixteen hour night by now! “Nah,” Dawson replied, leaving his cigarette in the care of his teeth and hooking his hands into his pockets. “I got off just before sunrise, but nobody goes to bed [i]that[/i] early.” Maybe, but when your night started at four before sunset, you didn’t tend to stay up this well into the day either. “Where are we [i]going?”[/i] She asked again, getting less and less comfortable with slinking around the manor after curfew in her nightgown. Great Anastasia, if they crossed paths with someone important… [i]“Shhhh!”[/i] Dawson repeated, punctuating his order with a turn and a glare. “You want someone to hear you?” Mira’s face twisted into a pout, and she threw her hands up, turning on her heel. “I’m going back to bed.” She barely got a step before Dawson stopped her, clamping a large hand around her arm and rooting her in place. “Oh no you don’t,” he told her, sounding awfully casual for a man dragging a woman on some ill-advised little adventure. “I need your help.” “What?” Mira softened a bit in surprise, and that was all the give Dawson needed to resume pulling her along down the hallway. He took a sharp turn and then another, then brought the two of them up a flight of stairs and down another, much more richly decorated corridor. Mira was a little too caught up in wondering what on earth Dawson could need from an obviously hopeless maid like her to realize it at first, but it soon dawned on her that the corridor looked uncomfortably familiar. “Where are we [i]going?”[/i] she hissed, yanking her arm from Dawson’s grip and standing her ground. “What do you need me for?” Dawson looked back at her incredulously, no doubt wondering what happened to the shrinking violet he’d rescued earlier that might. Mira herself wasn’t sure; she just knew something about all this felt very very wrong. “Not much,” Dawson insisted, gesturing for her to follow. “And I’m doing this for you, so quit your whining and keep up.” For her? Mira rushed along to follow, fears momentarily forgotten. “What do you mean?” “Good lord, you ask a lot of questions,” Dawson groaned, stopping suddenly at a heavy wooden door. “Why couldn’t do you that with Nathan? Maybe then you’d finally find your way around a duster.” The comment was just cutting enough to shut Mira’s mouth for the moment, even if Dawson didn’t seem like he was actually trying to hurt her. Instead, he knocked sharply, and Mira turned her attention to the door, stepping back from the threshold. A few seconds passed with no answer. Dawson seemed to think that was a good thing, looking excited as he reached for the knob. Mira wasn’t sure what could have him so interested; It was the same as every other door in the corridor, solid, dark wood carved with stately lines, but Dawson curled his hand around the silver handle like he thought it might bite him. As Mira looked on, Dawson turned the knob slowly, painfully slowly, angling the rest of his body away as if the very door might explode any second. Mira shrunk behind him, the pair’s tension as thick as the smoke from Dawson’s cigarette as they waited. But the latch simply clicked, and the door cracked open obediently. Dawson took a deep breath through his nose, and glanced back to Mira with a sort of awed excitement she might expect from someone who’d just cracked a safe full of treasure. “Nice,” he seemed to congratulate himself, leaning into the doorway as he gently swung the door inward. “What was tha--” Mira’s voice died in her throat as she followed Dawson’s gaze. Inside appeared to be an office, the walls lined with shelves filled with identical books and folders labeled by hand; estate records, probably. There was a small cart along one wall holding a crystal carafe filled with golden liquid and a few upturned crystal glasses on its top shelf, an untouched plate of dinner resting on the shelf below - Mira recognized the potatoes she’d mashed. Along another wall was a small table and two antique chairs, but dominating the room was a frighteningly familiar, massive walnut desk, trimmed in silver. This was Mr. Starag’s office. [i]“You--”[/i] Dawson whirled around before she could yell at him, clamping his hand over her mouth and twirling her around so her back was pressed snugly to his chest. Not unlike a kidnapper, she thought bitterly. [i]“Shhhhh!”[/i] he repeated once more, stinging her ear with his hissing. “Would you relax for once in your life?” Relax?! Despite whatever sketchy methods Dawson used to keep his cool, there was no “relaxing” on Sinnenodel property; even her scant week at the manor had taught Mira that much. And there was [i]especially[/i] no relaxing when they were [i]breaking into the Majordomo’s office![/i] “Do you want him to kill us?!” She hissed back when Dawson finally elected to let go of her. “You saw him tonight! What do you think he’ll do if he finds us sneaking around his office?!” “That’s the thing!” Dawson whisper-yelled, stooped over like an animal about to pounce. His usual expression of apathy was long gone, replaced with a wide-eyed anticipation Mira would say bordered on deranged. He seemed to realize how crazy he was making himself look, taking a moment to school his face into something more serious before continuing. “What happened today was [i]totally[/i] out of character for him,” he explained, voice barely louder than a breath. “I’ve [i]never[/i] seen him lay a finger on anyone before, and certainly not for something so trivial. On top of that,” his eyes flicked dangerously over to the desk, “I saw him in here three times after I dropped you off, and every time he was reading the [i]same[/i] letter.” It took a concerted effort on Mira’s part not to bolt down the hall and back to the dormitory, anxiety written all over her face. “So?!” Dawson straightened and pitched his head back, doing an exasperated little circle as if pleading with some heavenly body. [i]“So,”[/i] he went on slowly, as if talking to a child, “Mr. Starag doesn’t [i]do[/i] that. He reads letters once, deals with them, and gets rid of them. I’ve only heard of him reading a letter twice when Lord Varis was working out some huge important deal, and he read this one [i]three[/i] times.” Mira struggled to understand what any of this had to do with her. “Your point being?” “Whatever’s in that letter, I guarantee you [i]that’s[/i] why he’s acting so strangely,” Dawson concluded, crossing over to the desk. There was a worrying glint in his eye. “And I want to know what it is.” “Dawson, wait!” Mira pleaded, reaching for him only to be met with one of his fingers, like a disapproving tutor. “You won’t stop me,” he informed her, stalking behind the desk like he thought Mira would jump him if he turned his back to her. The desk was painfully organized, neatly arranged papers, pens and envelopes illuminated in the soft yellow glow of a glass kerosene lamp. The manor was full of things like that, a mishmash of furnishings from cutting-edge to antique, and Mira couldn’t help but notice the contrast seemed reflected in the Majordomo himself. What didn’t add up, though, was the single item on the desk not neatly put in its place: an envelope addressed to Aaron Starag with its top torn open and one corner of the otherwise pristine paper wrinkled, like it had been repeatedly crumpled and carefully smoothed out again. Mira backed up a step, like an animal withdrawing from a fire. “Dawson, I [i]really[/i] don’t like this.” “That’s fine,” Dawson didn’t even look up, gingerly emptying the envelope of its contents. It was a single rectangle of thick, off-white cardstock, and Mira could see from the reverse that it must have been embossed with a crest she couldn’t make out. “Just stand watch by the door and start coughing up a lung if you see anyone coming.” Brow knit with worry, Mira reluctantly did as she was told, backing slowly to the door before turning her back on Dawson. She could hear him rustling around, and heard the distinct sound of cardstock being turned over and over, until finally Dawson let out a huff. “This doesn’t make any sense!” Curiosity getting the better of her, Mira turned back around, peering over at the card. “What is it?” “Look,” Dawson crossed the room and held the card out for her to see. [center][i]To Family and Friends, His Excellency Lord Benjamin Eve cordially invites you to the handfasting of [h3]Lilie Lyra Dionne & Noah George Luscin[/h3] To be held at Pierce Manor on December 3rd, 20--. Your presence on this joyous night will be most celebrated.[/i][/center] Mira squinted down at the card, puzzled. The whole thing was written very precisely, most likely printed en masse, but at the bottom was a clearly handwritten addition in hasty, uneven script. [i][center]Please attend. We’d really like to have you there. - Ben[/center][/i] “A wedding invitation?” Mira wondered aloud, handing the card back to Dawson. “Ben… wait, no, surely not [i]Lord[/i] Be--” She was cut off when all colour drained from Dawson’s face. “And what [i]business[/i] do the two of you have here?” Mira whirled around like a Lycan was on her tail, but the sight of a tall blond man in the doorway was far more terrifying than any ancient beast. His usually cold, blue eyes were glassed over with glowing gold, just bright enough to illuminate the red trimming his eyes. Mirabelle Arden was going to die. “Was that all?” Mr. Starag looked up from his desk expectantly, though the weariness of his expression and the way he cradled his chin in his hand made him look like he was just waiting for the two of them to go away. It was kind of weird to see; the Majordomo often looked like he hadn’t slept, but he rarely looked [i]tired.[/i] “Oh, um…” Mira fiddled with the hem of her sleeve as she wracked her brain, suddenly a little confused. It must have been the late hour jumbling up her thoughts; she’d forgotten how late it was, but this was business that couldn’t wait till nightfall. Even if she found herself struggling to remember just which business that was. “Yes, that's all Mr. Starag,” Dawson covered for her in his confident way, though despite his tone he looked like he’d gotten up to fetch something from another room, only to forget what he was looking for when he got there. Mira felt the same way. “Then it's settled,” Aaron concluded, scrawling his signature on a form and stuffing it in an envelope. “Mirabelle, you'll apprentice with Dawson until you've gained your footing here. Dawson, I'll adjust your duties so you have time for tutoring.” He handed the envelope to Dawson. “Give that to Nathan, it details the changes I've made to your schedules.” “Yes sir,” Dawson replied, putting the envelope in his pocket. Aaron nodded, seemingly satisfied, and spared the two just one more glance before looking back down to the papers on his desk. Before they left, though, he caught Dawson with a sharp look, almost as an afterthought. “And Dawson, the next time I catch you with a cigarette in this manor, I'm going to take a few teeth out with it. Understood?” Dawson looked a little wan, but nodded stiffly. “Understood, sir.” “Good.” Aaron nodded, waving them out. “Good day.” “Good day, Mr. Starag,” the two answered in unison, bowing and curtsying in turn before turning back out into the safety of the corridor and closing the office door behind them. “Well that's settled, I guess,” Dawson muttered through a stretch, sounding a little worse for wear. “Yeah…” Mira muttered, eyes unfocused. For some reason her head felt so foggy. Had mashing potatoes all night really done such a number on her? Dawson looked a little out of it too, staring off somewhere down the hall and fiddling with a cigarette half-out of the pack, but soon stuffed it in his pocket, looking to Mira with fresh, slightly irritated confusion. “...What are you doing up? I told you I could handle this. You work early tomorrow,” He reminded her, jerking his chin down the hall. “Get going before someone catches you up past curfew.” “Oh, yeah, right,” Mira replied haltingly, putting her thoughts in order. Yes, right, she had to be up early. “Good day, then.” “Good day,” Dawson replied, offering a lazy wave as he turned. “See you bright and early.” [/hider] Lest you think I had a stroke, keep in mind that the Aaron in this piece is proficient in mind magic.