“A’nallia, there is laundry out back that needs hanging.”

Maren had found that A’nallia was capable of four tasks; picking fruit and vegetables, washing and hanging laundry, light housework, and keeping the master content. The last task was the most important and occupied her most late nights and early mornings. It also drained her, so she usually had a reprieve from heavy manual labor.

At first she had been worried about how A’ldissa and U’sari would react to her taking their duties away, but U’sari was ecstatic after the change. She hadn’t hated her position, but she was a shy, nervous girl, and felt only relief knowing she didn’t have to try to please the master any longer. In exchange, U’sari helped A’nallia with her chores, sometimes sneakily finishing them before she could say anything.

A’ldissa, on the other hand, was jealous and bitter that she was no longer the master’s favorite, if she ever really was. There was little she could do about it, since A’nallia was the new favorite, and aside from I’liara, the only servant in direct contact with him. So A’ldissa avoided speaking to her, giving her icy stares when they passed, and every day she would create some small hindrance for her out of spite. She might accidently kick a full basket of fruit, or bump into the clothesline and drop a sheet into the dirt. She would misplace A’nallia’s favorite blue dress or leave her boots out in the rain. It infuriated O’rana, who exchanged snide remarks with the woman whenever she could, but to A’nallia, they were trivial things and she let them go. She tried to encourage O’rana to leave A’ldissa alone as well, but her friend enjoyed the drama. It made living in the house a bit less boring.

“Again!” Hands on her hips, with her brow wrinkled in disgust, O’rana scowled at the overturned basket of freshly washed linens. “What is that woman’s problem?”

A’nallia could only sigh. “Leave it be. She does it for a reaction. Stop giving her one and just ignore her.”

Righting the basket, she grudgingly filled it with the now dirty pile of wet linens. It was late morning, the sun blazing above, and she dreaded the thought of scrubbing all of these in the heat. It wasn’t that it didn’t annoy her. It had been over a month since duties had been reassigned and each day something happened to make her life a little more difficult. But for A’nallia, giving in and keeping the peace was better than creating bigger problems.

“Nasty tavern wench. I just want to shove my fist right through her face...” O’rana trailed off and her scowl softened to a frown as she looked at the basket. “Do you want any help with that?”

A’nallia chuckled and waved her back to the garden. She would rather do the laundry herself than have O’rana chattering away beside her about her grand plans for revenge. Sometimes it was an entertaining conversation, or a welcome diversion from work, but this morning she just wanted some quiet.

Leaving the basket on the back stoop, she headed to the well. She filled the bucket, took a quick sip, and then poured the rest into an empty tub. Slumping to the ground and leaning up against the cool stone, her eyes closed instinctively against the bright sun. The tub was large and heavy and she wasn’t very strong, so she just sat, wasting time instead.

If I had woken up earlier, this wouldn’t have been so bad.

A smile spread across her face at the reason she always woke up late. She pictured her master, lying motionless in the bed, with her tracing the lines of his scars and asking about each one. He told her about the Great War between the humans and demons, about his youth spent on the frontlines fighting Imperium soldiers, and about his encounters with bear and golem and snake monsters as he roamed Taryn’nati as a monster hunter. He didn’t give details. He kept each story concise and specific to the wound in question, but he still answered every time, and she used her position as his healer to learn about each mark - each burn and bite and slash.

Even from his short comments, she knew he was well over a century old, at least one-hundred-and-fifty years or more, yet without the scars he appeared to be less than forty. She knew demons lived long lives, but the thought shocked her just the same.

She learned he had been only a boy when he was sent to fight in the Great War, and she found these memories radiated the most pain. There were so few demons compared to humans that everyone able went to battle. It was the only time in history that all demon clans had been united, and every clan lost many of their young members to the fight. A fight which finally ended in a stalemate, an unequal treaty relegating them to the Wilds, and a fragile and uneasy acceptance of them in the Imperium. 

She knew that after the war, he had worked as a mercenary, paid to hunt monsters for the Imperium or capture Tower runaways. The idea of him chasing down her own kind had made her shudder, but working to survive was the way of the world, and there was no reason a demon should feel any compassion for a witch.

She also learned that most of his wounds were intentionally on his left side. He fought best with his right, so he always protected it by blocking blows with his left.

Still, there were so many things she didn’t know and hadn’t dared to ask. She felt comfortable as a healer asking about wounds and pain, but simply asking questions as a servant to her master was different.

One day at a time. Feeling the sun begin to burn her skin, A’nallia shaded her face with an arm. She had been sitting too long, lost in thought. I suppose those linens aren’t going to wash themselves.

She stood, hoisting the heavy tub of water with an undignified groan, and started back toward the manor.