Victor dreamt of when he was young and would pick pink flowers down by the stream beside the cabin he called home. In the dream, he went to lean over the pebbled bank and look down at his reflection, but when he gazed into the water, he saw a dark hound with bright yellow eyes towering over him. It felt as if all of the light had left the Earth, and Victor had been cast into an endless darkness, alone with the hound. Before he could react, the dog let out a deafening bark and lunged for his throat. 

. . .

Victor awoke with a start, shooting upright. He sighed with relief when he saw the familiar floral wallpaper of his room. He was lying in his bed back in The Castle but hadn’t a clue how he’d gotten there. Something cold tingled across his skin, and when Victor reached toward his face, he realized a cold compress had been placed across his forehead. 

Nicholas walked into the room carrying a tray with a pot of tea and a steaming bowl of stew. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” he said, setting the tray aside. “How do you feel?”

“I–” Victor couldn’t seem to make the words form in his mouth. His heart was still racing from the dream, preoccupying his mind. Something glimmered, catching his eye and breaking him away from his thoughts. He turned and found that Nicholas was holding out a spoon. 

“W-What is it?” Victor asked, sniffing at the air. 

“Just some stew,” Nicholas answered. “My mother used to make it whenever I fell ill.”

Victor took a deep breath and held his mouth open, allowing Nicholas to feed him. He chewed thoughtfully, letting the tastes of roasted chicken, potato, and rosemary linger upon his tongue. 

“Is it good? It’s not like I can taste the food I prepare, so I’m never sure if I’ve seasoned anything properly.” Nicholas grumbled. 

Victor reached out and touched his hand.

“It’s perfect. Thank you,” he said, leaning back onto his pillows. 

“I-It was nothing,” Nicholas stuttered, blushing. “You must have caught something since the seasons are changing and the temperature’s dropped,” he added, glaring out the window. 

No one had ever made soup for Victor when he’d gotten sick or carried him to bed when he was tired. When he really thought about it, Victor realized that for most of his life, he’d taken care of himself, relying little on others. He let his body sink into the mattress, relaxing his muscles. 

“Could…you feed me a little more?” Victor asked. “My arms feel too weak to hold even a spoon.” 

Nicholas perked up in surprise but then softened his features and smiled. 

“Of course,” he said. 

Victor felt a twinge of guilt as Nicholas gathered a spoonful of the stew, knowing that his arms felt perfectly fine. 

. . .

Victor blinked open his eyes and realized he’d accidentally fallen asleep. There was the light of a new morning in his window, which insinuated that a day had passed. The fever had subsided, but Victor’s body still felt weakened and sluggish. With a slight groan, he got out of bed and shuffled to the door. He was surprised when he found one of the skeleton butlers standing right outside of it. 

“Good morning, Mr. Vertigo.” the skeleton said. 

“G-Good morning,” Victor returned, caught off-guard. 

“Mr. Strange wanted me to inform you that he will be gone on a job for the rest of the day, and that he wants you to stay in bed and rest.” 

“Nicholas is gone? Will he be alright?” Victor inquired. 

“Do not worry.” The skeleton returned. “He is very capable when he needs to be.”

“Do you know of his–?” 

“His affliction?” the skeleton finished for him. “Yes, all of us who reside in The Castle know what he is. You’ve probably noticed by now, but that’s why we ensure to leave the halls come sundown. But that’s unimportant: how are you feeling, Mr. Vertigo?”

“Much better, thank you,” Victor said. “I know Nicholas wished it of me, but, honestly, I don’t feel much like resting.”

“Then perhaps you could help me with the housekeeping?” the skeleton asked. 

“That sounds lovely; I like to keep busy,” Victor said, smiling. 

As they were walking down the hallway, the skeleton turned and said, “You seem different. I saw you the first day you arrived here, and excuse my bluntness, but you looked more lifeless than us, and we’re all dead.”

“It’s this place,” Victor said, admiring the elegant manor. “And him.”

“Yes, Nicholas has a way of bringing out the best in everyone.” 

“Forgive me, but what was your name?” Victor inquired. 

“Reginald.” the skeleton said. He held out his bony fingers, and with a hint of apprehension, Victor reached out and shook them. 

Throughout the day, Victor helped with the chores, dusting and scrubbing whatever needed to be cleaned. Toward the end of the afternoon the manor was looking spotless. Eventually, Victor found himself in a quaint tiled room folding the linen. 

“What was it like…dying?” he asked. 

Reginald was standing a foot away, ironing a sweater on a board extending out from the wall. 

“...Uncomfortable,” he answered. 

“I suppose that makes sense,” Victor said. “Well, what about when you were alive?” 

Although he had no eyes, Victor could tell that Reginald was staring off in daydreams, thinking. 

“When I was alive, I only cared about the big things. I grew up in a wealthy family and became a businessman like my father. I looked down on those who were smaller than me. I never did anything that I didn’t have to do or that I had deemed unworthy of my time.” Reginald explained. “But when I was dying, all of the big things I had thought were so important–power, success, money–suddenly seemed so trivial. That’s why, when Nicholas found me and asked if I’d like to come work for him, I said yes–so I could finally enjoy the little things. And I’ll tell you, walking in the garden, making a cup of tea to watch the snow or rain, even folding the linen–it has all given me a sense of content that I never had before.”

Victor took in his words, savoring the feeling of warmth radiating off the clothes held in his hands.

Reginald walked over and handed him a basket of folded blankets.

“Could you take these to the guest bedroom down the hall?” he asked. 

Victor nodded, taking the basket and hurrying down the hallway, past golden-framed portraits and glowing sconces. After he’d put away the blankets into their proper drawers, Victor rose and saw something moving outside. He leaned against the window, feeling the cold seeping through the glass. Nicholas was standing down in the courtyard wearing a faux fur coat. Reginald was waiting for him, his hands folded behind his back. He said something to Nicholas, but Victor couldn’t make out the words. Nicholas nodded bitter-sweetly and held out his hand to the side, opening a crevice in the earth. Victor watched as Reginald walked down into the ground, the dirt sealing shut behind him. 

Victor darted out the bedroom door and down the stairs, bursting outside. He nearly slipped on the icy steps of the porch before running over to Nicholas. 

“What are you doing out here?” Nicholas asked. “You should be warm in bed. You’ll get sick all over again.” 

“Reginald, why did he–?” Victor asked. 

“Oh, he told me a few weeks ago that he’d be…retiring soon,” Nicholas explained gently. “He’s worked for me for five years now, and he told me he’s enjoyed it very much but that he was ready to move on.”

“But he…” Victor began, his eyes filling with involuntary tears. “He spent his last day–his last hour–with me. And all we did was fold laundry…I’m not very good company, you know, he should have–”

Nicholas reached out and grabbed his hand, offering a reassuring smile. 

“I think you’re splendid company,” he said. “Besides, he told me that this is what he wanted for his last day–just a quaint afternoon to get a few chores done before he left.”

Victor recalled his and Reginal’s conversation in the laundry room and smiled softly. He hefted a rock from the garden and placed it where the earth had opened. Nicholas picked a rose off a bush by the porch and gently put it atop the rock. Victor leaned into Nicholas as they both stared down at the little grave on the outskirts of the courtyard.