There came a pounding on the door to the Serval Manor one fateful night, when the sun had long set and most had gone to sleep. Farryn hid away the scrap of newspaper she was reading, tucking it beneath the boning of her corset, and rose, latch sticking as she tried to unbolt the back door with the incessant banging.
When it was opened Serval spilled in, stole slipping off her shoulders as she did. She tossed it off, not looking to make sure that the girl caught it, and entered the house, shivering madly.
"Stupid girl," she muttered, but did not specify what exactly she found stupid about her that night. Farryn watched as she stalked away, leaving her brand-new shoes there in the kitchen. It was much too expensive to use the front doors anymore; the heat just flooded out. Unless, of course, Serval had guests over. But now she was reduced to traipsing through her own cold kitchen to reach her chambers. What a tragedy.
Farryn picked up the shoes, tucking them and the stole in a corner, in her line of sight so she could have them cleaned before the morning. The simmering pot of stew behind her bubbled, and she stirred it, lighting another stove top and filling the cast iron kettle that hung above the stove with water. Though it might be a wine sort of night.
She checked on the ham roast; stewing away but almost done- and wiped down the already clean counters. Outside she could hear a cricket searching for its mate. How lonely he must feel. Though she wasn't sure she wanted him to find her.
The water boiled and the kitchen remained silent. Had she gone off to sleep? But the bell connected to the upstairs chambers rang all too soon, and Farryn grabbed the larger, bubbling flask in the corner of the kitchen and hauled it upstairs.
Serval waited in her linen bathing gown, as she did every evening, as Farryn filled the tub with hot water. Her bones ached in the heat blazing from the fireplace.
Serval bathed herself, thankfully, and Farryn waited in her chambers; standing- of course, looking at the drapes of the postered bed and matching light blues of the wallpaper and accents. She wiped away a stain in the corner with a rag from her apron as Serval entered from her bath, hair and dress still dripping.
Farryn wiped her hair down, brushed through the short, frizzy mess and then hurried down the stairs when Serval dismissed her, taking off the soup and getting out the meat. Her stomach grumbled, but she put them far away from her, wishing she could open the door to be free of the smell. "I count every bean, every grain of millet, every pound of sugar." Serval had warned her.
The bell dinged again, and Farryn took the tray up the stairs, bumping the door open when she arrived. "I am tired of this cheap meat." Serval snapped. "Are you too much of an imbecile to make good use of my money?"
Farryn didn't answer, shrinking out of the room. Serval didn't give her enough money for the expensive beautifully cured meats she so desired. But of course, that was her fault.
Back to the kitchen again. The night grew darker, the cricket silent. Had he found what he searched for, or had he given up? Farryn waited as her eyes grew heavy and the unlit chandelier swung dangerously above her. Perhaps one night it would fall and kill her.
Her eyes snapped open. Not the plan. She muttered to herself, pulling herself to her full height in the chair and pushing her knees against the table, the pain keeping her awake. Just follow the plan.
It wasn't long before Serval called for her again, this time in her study, wearing her pearl-rimmed spectacles. "A glass of wine." she muttered, snapping when Farryn hesitated just a second. As Farryn raced down the stairs, trying to pace herself, she reminded herself to not get too excited. Just follow the plan.
The wine; thick, honeyed, a dark red in the flickering light of the half destroyed chandelier, the cup, sparkling and new, the spout slippery in Farryn's hands as she held it for a moment, swishing the drink. It smelled like berries and slightly of tomatoes. Sour tomatoes. Farryn added more wine and swished it.
Up the stairs. Through the empty, darkened hallways. Into Serval's office, the cup on her desk. She didn't look at it, poring over whatever document she had in front of her. Farryn left the room, heart pounding.
No sound. The door was still wide open, the light from Serval's candle leaking into the hall. She peeked in. Serval had picked up the cup, swished it, and took a swig, gulping down almost half of it.
Farryn entered the doorway, Serval looking up at her. "What are you doing here, girl?" she hissed. Farryn could not respond, couldn't trust her voice. Serval's eyes lit up, angry, excited. She was always excited when she got to do something cruel.
She stopped as she stood, and then she lurched over, clutching her heart. Farryn gasped, still frozen to the spot. Serval choked, spat onto her desk, soiling her document with wine and spit, as she clutched for support.
She cried out, voice garbled, as her head jerked back sharply, putting her off balance. She fell backwards, slamming her head on the bookcase that stood behind her desk, falling to the floor screaming incoherently.
Farryn moved, hurrying to her Mistress. Serval continued to spasm, arms and legs flailing uncontrollably, eyes wide and bugged, clutching for her throat and her heart. Farryn knelt at her side, and with all her might,sent the knife through her aunt's chest.
The old woman gave up easily, a shocked expression on her face as her breath hitched, never to start again. Farryn retrieved the knife, hands shaking, the dead woman's eyes rolling to the back of her head. Froth bubbled out of her mouth. She looked horrible, ugly. Her outside finally matched her insides.
Farryn tucked the bloody knife into her apron, wondering if she had even needed to use it. The nightshade had worked faster than she had expected.
Carefully, pulling out the pair of Serval's gloves that she had stolen, she cleaned up the mess the wine had made, took the dirty rag and cup to the kitchen. She threw the glass on the ground, shattering it, and dumped the dirty rag in the still-boiling kettle of water. Then, she blew out the lanterns that hung in the kitchen, settled onto her measly mattress in front of the dying flames of the hearth, and went to sleep.
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