Thedra

A week passes with the master being home, but nothing changes for me. If anything, the bullying and the incessant chores from Evelyn only grow worse. I keep my head down and do as I’m told, enduring it all with stoic silence, praying that one day, if I put up with it long enough, the harassment will end. Perhaps that is naïve of me, but I know of no other way.

For his part, the master is polite but aloof. I grow accustomed to his footfall and the sound of his voice, but as Evelyn instructed I do not presume to look my betters in the eye. To this day I have not seen his face, though it’s all the servants gossip about.

Personally, I could care less whether the master is old or young, hideous or handsome. He said so long as we show industry and integrity, he would be a fair master, and I mean to hold him to that. Even if everyone else in this manor hates me, so long as I have Mr. Bentham’s approval, Evelyn Murdock can never dismiss me. I’ll take my plea to him directly if she tries, and I know he’ll treat me fairly. 

“You, girl,” Mrs. Agate’s gruff voice cuts into my thoughts and I look up from where I’ve been scrubbing the kitchen floor on my hands and knees.

“Yes, Mrs. Agate?”

“You’ve been scrubbing that floor all morning,” the cook says disapprovingly.

“Mrs. Murdock said to—”

“I don’t care what that old sow said, I’m giving the orders now,” she snaps at me with her hands on her hips, and I hurry to my feet.

“Yes, Mrs. Agate.”

“That’s better,” she grunts. “Now take this thermos of soup out to Mr. Agate in the stables. And don’t come back until he’s drank every bit of it.”

“But Mrs. Murdock—”

“I said don’t come back. Not for half an hour at least,” she says, then she hands me a second thermos of soup and a large chunk of bread and two apples. I stare at the food in bewilderment, and for half a moment, I see her fierce expression soften. “Take a break, young one. These chores will keep till you get back.”

My eyes well with tears. I want to thank her but Mrs. Agate shoos me with her ladle before I can get the words out. Brushing tears from my eyes, I run to the stables where Mr. Agate is working, and I give him the soup. He is as kind as his wife, and perhaps acting under her orders, he invites me to stay in the stable out of sight and take my lunch in peace.

I eat exhausted and grateful, not remembering the last time I had a proper meal. These days it’s all I can do to grab a bite on the way to my next chore. Finishing everything but the second apple, I rise from my bed of straw to go see the horses.

I like animals; they have no biases, and are far gentler with me than most humans have ever been. All the old horses I know, but there is a new one in the farthest stall, a snowy white mare. Her delicate features and large liquid eyes make me think of the horse from one of my favorite novels, Friend of the Stars.

“Hello, Mystic,” I say to her as Mr. Agate’s coming up behind me with a pitchfork full of hay.

“Did someone tell you her name?” he chuckles. “Or was that just a lucky guess?”

“Her name is Mystic?”

“That’s right.”

I’m pleasantly surprised. I guess the master saw the resemblance as well. But I never would have guessed he was the type to read fantasy novels. I don’t know why, but the thought brings a faint smile to my face.

Mr. Agate goes out the back door of the stable then, leaving me alone with Mystic. Glancing surreptitiously around, I pull the apple from my apron pocket.

“Don’t tell anyone I gave this to you,” I say softly, offering the snack with a flat palm. She munches it up happily and I laugh with delight. She nickers at the sound and I reach up to pet her forehead. She leans into the gesture, and for the second time today tears fill my eyes. It’s been so long since I felt a friendly touch. She puts her head down a bit and I lean my forehead against hers instinctually with a sigh, grateful for the animal’s warmth and silent understanding.

“What are you doing with my horse?”

A familiar voice splits my tranquil moment, and I back away from Mystic, horrified.

The master!

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Bentham. I only fed her an apple— I won’t do it again!” Before he can answer I run out the back door with my head down, feeling awful.

I was caught idling, when the master values industry so much. I’m ashamed of myself. And I handled his precious animal as well— of course he’d be angry with me.

I must work harder in the future to make it up to him, and never do anything so presumptuous again.

Roderick

I guess I frightened her. I didn’t mean to. Without even checking I can see Mystic is perfectly fine. I look at the floor in front of her stall and see bits of fresh apple that have fallen from the snack she shared. 

Saddling my horse, I make my preparations to leave for the city. I hadn’t planned on heading back so soon, but Horace insisted he’s laid me another golden egg, and he wants to show me his new invention as soon as possible.

It’s nearly a four hour ride into the big city; by the time I arrive, the sun’s already beginning to set. The days are getting shorter as winter draws on.

It feels strange, being back in civilization again. I’ve only been gone a short while, but already it feels so foreign to me. The noise and crowds, the grimy gray streets and buildings, the stink of refuse; the contrast from the quiet, peaceful life I’ve enjoyed recently is even more jarring than I expected.

“This settles it,” I say to Mystic as we narrowly avoid having a chamber pot emptied on our heads by a careless maid from an open window. “I’m relocating. That country house is no longer our vacation home— that’s home for real.”

My horse echoes my sentiments with a short whinny of approval as we arrive at Horace’s house. He’s a very wealthy man now, but he lives as he did before in the poor part of town, caring nothing for appearances nor comfort, pouring all of his vast creative energy into new inventions.

“It smells good in here,” I comment as he lets me in.

“I’ve been experimenting with a drip coffee machine.”

“Coffee machine?”

“It’s going to revolutionize the beverage,” he assures me, though I wonder if it’s really necessary. Coffee’s already so easy to make— you just pour the grounds right into the boiling water and do your best not to drink them when you get to the bottom of the cup. I’m too simple a man to think how the method could be improved upon. But then, I’m not the inventor.

“But that’s not why I called you here,” Horace says, fastening a startling contraption to his skull featuring tubes running from bottles strapped to the side of his head. “This is what I wanted to show you.”

“What in God’s name is it?”

“The hands-free beverage dispenser. Observe,” he puts the tube to his mouth and sucks water from the bottle on his head. “Now the hard working inventor no longer has to stop to drink, or even put down his tools. Instant hydration.”

“Instant headache, you mean,” I say, considering the weight of the bottles and the annoying tubes constantly dangling in his peripheral vision. “You made me leave my vacation and ride all this way just to see you in that ridiculous hat?”

“It’s not exactly fashionable, I grant you. But it could be! Hire a couple of good looking girls to wear them around town and they’ll be flying off the shelves in no time.”

I look at him doubtfully. “How many do you want made?”

“Ten thousand to start.”

“Ha. I’ll finance one hundred.”

“Rod! I’m telling you these will sell! Look, it even has adjustable straps to hold different sized bottles.”

 “One hundred, and consider yourself lucky,” I say, leaving his house in a mood somewhere between bewilderment and annoyance. “Write me when you figure out the coffee machine.”

“Rod!”

Since I’m here, I stop by the office to make sure things are running smoothly. I was hardly worried, my assistants are all capable workers, though they don’t take the news that I mean to relocate in the country permanently very well. But I am deaf to their protests. I’m well aware of what a hassle it will be, maintaining this business from four hours away, but to me, it’s worth it. I’ve only been back a couple of hours, and already I’m so sick of the city I can hardly stand it.

Finishing up late at the office, I take a room in the nicest hotel in town, where nobility and the king himself once stayed. I sleep uneasily with all the noise and lights outside my window, and wake before dawn to order my horse saddled for the journey home.

Bringing Mystic an apple from my breakfast, I think briefly of that girl who fed her yesterday. She was a little familiar, I think. The same maid who builds my fires in the evening. For some reason I can’t recall her face, but the fine hairs that curl at the nape of her neck come easily to mind. 

Patting Mystic’s neck, I lead her out into the street and climb in the saddle just as the sun is breaking over the horizon. I kick her into a trot and she starts readily down the road leading out of the city, perhaps already guessing our destination.

I think we’re both eager to be home.