| Status | hiatus |
| Tags | m/f, f/f, d/s, scifi |
| Warnings | nc, slavery |
Hey! Are you awake yet?
Servant Nine tried to groan and open its eyes. It managed to open its left eye slightly - far enough to see a blinding white light - but no sound came out. It had a pounding headache, and it... couldn't seem to move? It felt panic starting to rise as it tried to flex its hands, then raise its head, both to no avail. It became aware of a steady pressure on its chest, too, and the horrifying sensation of being unable to breathe for itself.
Ah, you did survive. Do not try to move. You've been given a
paralytic. A drug.
It did not know what a paralytic was, but it had been drugged before, and sometimes felt sort of like this - heavy, distant, disconnected from its own body. At least it wasn't in much pain, so it couldn't have been given anything too bad. In fact, it realized, even the pain it usually lived with was absent. It shut its eyes and tried not to think about anything. The machine on its chest seemed to be expanding and compressing its lungs for it in a steady rhythm, and it tried to focus solely on that constant in-out motion.
Looks like over ninety-five percent bonding success,
the same
voice said, a bit more distantly. Self-tests all passed, control
system is responsive. Want to do the integration test now, or wait until
the paralytics have worn off?
Better do it now,
said another voice, deeper, harsher. If we
have it moving during, we'll need to pull all the IVs and strap it down
and all that.
Sure thing, doctor,
said the first voice - female, the Servant
guessed. Won't the painkillers dampen the response?
It'll still be enough to tell. Remember mechanisms of action - we're
tied directly into the brainstem here.
Servant Nine didn't know most of the words being spoken, but that was as it should be. It thought that it was being talked about, but it wasn't being addressed, so it didn't need to and wasn't expected to understand.
Okay, getting baseline readings...
the first voice trailed off,
and Servant Nine waited in apprehensive silence.
Give it level one, to start,
the second voice said. A moment
later, it felt... heat? A prickling on the surface of its skin, but
across its entire body, and then the feeling bloomed into a painful
itching. It reflexively tried to scratch itself with its nails, but
couldn't - couldn't even writhe to scrape its skin against the table it
was lying on.
Looking spot on,
the second voice said. Skip straight to five,
we don't have time for the full workup.
Now the pain seemed to soak in from its skin, burning through muscle and sinew and leaching into the Servant's bones. Its entire body was ablaze with it, and it tried to curl itself into a ball, but it was still absolutely helpless. The pain chased all thoughts from its mind, and the Servant could do nothing but lie still and hope for it to end.
Perfect elevation profiles,
the first voice said.
Agreed. Back to baseline for a moment to let it settle.
The pain suddenly ceased. Servant Nine would have exhaled in relief if it had any control over its own breathing.
Give it... let's say nine, for just a couple of seconds, and watch
the graphs closely.
A moment later, the Servant's every nerve was screaming, agony pounding through its veins with every beat of its heart. It was the worst pain the Servant - not a stranger to pain - had ever felt in its life. If it had any ability to at all, it would've screamed, cried, begged - done anything, everything, for the burning to stop. It seemed to come from within the Servant's own body, everywhere at once, and the Servant thought that surely its skin must be burning, blackening, peeling from the bones from the sheer heat it felt. Its vision, even with its eyes closed, dissolved in a wash of white static. The Servant felt itself starting to go away from its body, as it occasionally did when things were very bad -
And then the pain abruptly stopped.
Perfect,
the second voice said. Strap it down and give it the
antitoxin for the paralytic. It should be ready to go in an hour or
so.
The Servant heard and felt one of the people near it depart, and the first voice addressed it:
You might have figured this out already, but in case you didn't, I'll
explain what happened to you and hopefully save an unnecessary waste of
a Servant down the line. Can you hear and understand me? Blink for
yes.
A command. Something, finally, to latch onto. The Servant forced an eye open - then the other eye - and blinked once. It still couldn't see much other than the brilliant white light, but it could move its eyes, it found.
Okay. So, we just finished putting a set of slave implants into
you. The person with the controller can hurt you like we just did, any
time they want. Do you understand? Blink for yes.
The Servant didn't understand, but it knew what response was expected, so it blinked.
Now. Here's the waste-avoiding part: every day, a person - a real
person, it won't work for you or any other Servant - needs to disarm the
controller. If they don't, the slave implants will start hurting you,
and they'll hurt you more and more until the controller's disarmed or
you die. In case you're one of the stupid ones, I'll spell that out for
you: If you run away, or get out of range of the controller for too
long, you'll get hurt until you die from the pain. If your owner decides
not to disarm the controller, you will die from the pain. If your owner
isn't able to disarm the controller, like if they come to harm from some
foolish Servant, you will die from the pain. It won't be a quick
death. You. Will. Die. From. Pain. Do you understand? Blink for yes.
Again, the Servant blinked once.
Great.
There was a brief pause, and the Servant felt metal shackles close over its wrists and ankles, holding it to the metal table it was lying on.
I'm neutralizing the paralytic now. You'll be able to move again
soon. Wait until instructed.
The Servant lay there, obedient, waiting, as the drugs burned out of its body.
Servant Nine was not given any time to recover once it returned to its owner's house. It was unsteady on its feet, and its headache had only barely started to abate, but its regular duties were still assigned and it knew well the penalties for failing to do them and do them well. They were posted on the wall of the common area in the servants' cells:
| ACCIDENTAL FAILURE | HUNGER |
| CARELESS FAILURE | TEN LASHES |
| DELIBERATE FAILURE | FIVE DAYS OF ISOLATION |
The Servant had experienced the first of these on many occasions - usually it was only forced to skip a single meal for a minor fault, but sometimes an entire day's meals for something more serious. The second it had experienced only once, and the scars on its back still sometimes ached months later.
The third it had never undergone, but it had seen one other Servant subjected to it. The errant Servant had been locked in a transparent cage in the common area of the Servants' cells for five days, without food or water, bound, gagged, blindfolded, and deafened. Its only contact with the outside world for that entire time - the only thing the other Servant had felt at all - had been the guards shocking it with their stun batons whenever they felt the desire. Servant Nine had seen the look on the other Servant's face when it had finally been released, and had no desire at all to experience that fate itself.
The Servant gritted its teeth, pulled its apron over its uniform, and grabbed its broom, mop, and bucket. It had missed a few of the morning working hours and would now need to work late into the night to complete the day's tasks, which would not leave it time for eating. It tried willing the pain in its head away, but couldn't, so it decided it would just have to work through it.
Two hours of hard work later, the Servant was barely able to stand. Its headache had gotten worse, and it was wishing desperately for water, but water (like everything else the Servants received) was strictly rationed and given only at specific times. According to its watch, it had perhaps another thirty minutes until an opportunity to drink.
It pushed open the door to the Mistress's library. The name "library" wasn't quite right - the Servant had been in a real one before, briefly, and knew they had shelves upon shelves of books. The Mistress's library had few books, and instead had two forbidden computers (punishment for use: one day of isolation), a couple of reading chairs, and a large fireplace. Large windows faced northward, letting the setting sun light the entire room. The floor was hardwood, and thankfully not too badly soiled, since the Mistress only rarely used her library. The Servant left its mop and bucket by the entrance and started sweeping.
The Servant would normally have noticed someone creeping up behind it - not that it would have done anything in response - but this time it was distracted by its own physical misery, so the first warning it had was its hair being taken in a punishing one-handed grip. It didn't cry out. The only possible result would be trouble for creating a disturbance, anyway.
The attacker shoved the Servant roughly into a wall, knocking the breath from its lungs and making it gasp in pain. They spun the Servant around, and it saw the grinning, lustful face of one of the household guards. While the guards were supposed to protect the Master, the Mistress, and the house against intruders, they were also responsible for keeping the Servants in line. The Servant couldn't remember this one's name. It looked away from his face, instead focusing on one of the paintings hanging on the opposite wall.
He started undoing the sash that held the Servant's tunic closed. That was good - sometimes the guards simply ripped the coarse uniform cloth in their haste, and then the Servant would be punished for having damaged its uniform. Perhaps he wouldn't hurt it too badly in taking what he wanted. He tugged the Servant's underwear down its thighs and forced its legs apart. The Servant let slip a little squeak of pain as he shoved himself inside it with one brutal thrust. He grabbed its wrists in a crushing grip and flattened them against the wall - not that there was any need for that, since resisting him would have only led to the Servant being used by all of the guards in turn and then executed. The Servant felt itself start to drift away from its body, away from the guard, away from the pain and humiliation it felt, away...
After he'd finished using the Servant, he backhanded it across the face, spitting an epithet, a string of words the Servant mostly didn't know. The Servant fell to the floor, and stayed there until he'd left the room. It slowly got to its knees, then back to its feet, doing its best to ignore the aching bruises between its thighs and the hot, wet sensation there. It braced itself against the wall, re-tied the sash of its tunic, and picked its broom back up.
Servant Nine had just finished its assigned duties for the day, only about four hours late. It had missed all three meal times and was weak with hunger, but at least it had not failed. It was trudging back to its cell, nursing its aching head, when its wristwatch stung it. The wristwatch, apart from telling the Servant the time, served to let the guards know where it was at all times, and to get its attention via a painful shock when needed. Wincing, it looked at the watch face. The time display had been replaced with a symbol, surrounded by a slowly filling circular bar indicating how much time the Servant had to comply.
The Servant decoded the symbol instantly and felt tears prickle at the corner of its eyes. Please, it thought to itself. Please not tonight. It stared at its wristwatch for a moment, begging the symbol to change, but of course it did not. The Servant clenched the fist of its watch hand, angry with itself for even having the dangerous, stupid thought. It stopped in its tracks, turned, and started walking towards the Mistress's chamber.
When the Servant arrived at the Mistress's chamber, the guard on duty gave it a disdainful look. It raised its arm, displaying the glowing symbol, the almost-filled time bar. The guard smirked and the Servant's heart sank. Sometimes, the guards would deliberately keep Servants from responding to commands in time, presumably for the joy of tormenting them. In this case, though, the guard's expression softened and he stepped aside, allowing the Servant to enter the Mistress's room with moments to spare. When the Servant stepped through the doorframe, its watch blinked green and vibrated gently to let it know the command was complete.
The Mistress's room was dimly-lit and the Mistress herself was nowhere to be seen. The Servant already knew what it was supposed to do, though. It undid the sash closing its tunic, shed the crude garment, and folded it carefully on the floor by the door, trying not to see the ugly bruises at the apex of its thighs and along the side of its ribs. Atop its uniform it neatly folded its blood-stained underwear. Now fully exposed, it looked at the Mistress's bed, swallowing nervously. Atop the bed were a blindfold, a ball gag, and two pairs of handcuffs. The Servant pulled the gag tightly between its teeth and fastened it, wrapped the blindfold over its eyes, clamped one pair of cuffs between its ankles, and finally locked the other pair around its wrists behind its own back. Now helpless, the Servant sat on the edge of the Mistress's bed, waiting, hoping that she would find it acceptable.
Ordinarily, the Servant would be able to wait without being consumed by fear, but today it was still in pain and near fainting from hunger. It could feel itself trembling despite its efforts to remain still. Its stomach growled, and its headache seemed to be getting worse. Its previous visits to the Mistress had been mercifully few, but each one had been horrifying in a different and novel way.
Suddenly, the Servant heard one of the room's doors open - heard booted feet crossing carpet. It straightened, feeling itself shaking uncontrollably and loathing its own weakness. The footsteps crossed the room towards it, and then the Servant heard the Mistress's voice addressing it.
Hm. Legs apart.
The Servant couldn't, of course, but it crossed its ankles to allow it to spread its knees as far as possible. It heard a snap, then felt something cold and slick between its legs - the Mistress's gloved hand, it thought. The Mistress shoved two of her fingers inside it, making it wince.
You've been used today.
It wasn't a question, and the Servant didn't bother replying. The fingers inside it weren't painful, exactly, but they were distinctly uncomfortable and the Servant was trying its hardest not to let that discomfort show. It was a foolish Servant indeed that gave even the smallest appearance of not craving the Mistress's touch.
The Mistress withdrew her fingers, and the Servant felt something cold and sticky being wiped on its cheeks and across its lips.
Perhaps you'd like more? Shall I call the guards?
The Servant flinched, despite its resolve. One of the previous times it had been in this very room, the Mistress had summoned a handful of the guards and directed them as they... enjoyed using it. The Servant had been almost unable to walk for days afterwards, and the other injuries it had suffered at their hands (and at her orders) had left it in agony for more than a week.
It heard the Mistress's laugh - a harsh sound, like the cry of a
predatory bird. I suppose not, then.
It felt the Mistress's gloved hands brush over the peaks and valleys of its ribcage.
My, you're skinny,
the Mistress said, as though that was
surprising. You must miss a lot of meals. Do you?
The Servant nodded, failing to keep itself from shivering.
Is that because you're a bad, disobedient Servant? I can't think of any
other reason you'd be missing so many.
The Servant knew there was no other reason, and nodded.
Bad Servants deserve to be punished severely, don't they?
The Servant nodded again, miserable. It could feel its own tears starting to soak into the thick material of the blindfold. The Mistress was right - it was a bad and disobedient Servant, or it would be properly fed and people wouldn't hurt it all the time. It knew that, but it still somehow couldn't seem to be good enough.
Lie down, then,
the Mistress said. Face up.
The Servant did so. The weight of its body, skinny as it was, was uncomfortable on its bound wrists, and it could feel the metal cuffs bruising the skin of its forearms. It hardly mattered, though, since the Servant knew it was about to be much worse than merely uncomfortable. It felt the Mistress's gloved fingers between its legs, and then a cold, slick object was pushed firmly inside it. It squeaked into its gag, more in surprise than in pain.
I'm sure,
the Mistress said, that you're expecting me to hurt you
with my... toys, and I am going to do that if I feel your behavior
merits it, but first, I'm told that you received an interesting upgrade
that I'm going to try out.
A moment later, the Servant felt the same burning, itching feeling it
had experienced at the medical facility. It squirmed, trying its best to
stay still, skin alight. It could feel itself trembling in tension
between stillness and movement. The Mistress grabbed it roughly by the
throat, growling: Stop moving.
The Servant stilled itself, closing its hands into fists beneath it. The pain escalated immediately, and the Servant grunted into its gag, trying to make itself a statue. It did its best, but the pain kept building and building and eventually the Servant broke, rolled onto its side, and curled into a ball, sobbing into its gag. The Mistress forced it back onto its back, holding it down, and the pain escalated still further.
The Servant's muscles were clenching involuntarily as waves of suffering pulsed through its body in time with its heartbeat. It felt like it was inhaling fire each time it managed to draw a breath. Despite the Mistress's firm grasp - despite the orders - the Servant simply couldn't keep itself still. It curled into a ball again, shaking violently, every nerve screaming in agony. The Mistress shoved it down yet again, but the Servant, in its anguished frenzy, was too strong and it kept returning convulsively to its self-protective position.
Abruptly, the horrible pain ceased, leaving the Servant's chest heaving and its face soaked with tears. The Mistress - surprisingly gentle - pushed it flat onto its back again, caressed its cheek. The Servant's breathing started to calm, and then it felt the object stuck inside it start to buzz. It whimpered, afraid of the unfamiliar sensation. The Mistress's hand stayed on its cheek, and then it felt her other hand between its legs too, touching it softly in an unexpected way. It laid perfectly still, panting, while the Mistress stroked and teased it.
Gradually, the Servant became aware of warmth slowly building in the core of its body. It resisted the impulse to squirm, but it could feel its face flushing, the pace of its heartbeat picking up. The Mistress was... was touching it in a way that felt good. The Servant wished it could see what she was doing to it. The thing inside it felt pleasant also - it was uncomfortable to be filled, of course, but the buzzing was tickling the Servant in an enjoyable way. The Servant slowly let itself relax, let the defensive fear it always carried with it recede slightly -
And then the pain returned in an instant. The Servant cried out into its gag, just barely managing to prevent itself from curling up, but the Mistress's hand and the buzzing thing never slowed. The mixture of pain and pleasure the Servant felt was confusing, and it felt disoriented and somehow sick. Burning pulsed through it from every nerve ending, meeting a different kind of heat radiating from its core. Suddenly, the Mistress's hand was withdrawn and the buzzing stopped, leaving the Servant with nothing but its suffering.
It sobbed in despair, and then the pain, too, was taken away, leaving the Servant adrift.
You liked that, hmm?
The Servant knew the expected answer, and nodded. It was always supposed to like whatever the Mistress did to it, unless it was being punished.
Good,
the Mistress purred. Again,
she said, and the Servant felt the
thing inside it buzz to life again.
The Servant had no idea how much time passed. The Mistress drove it from pain to pleasure and back to pain again, over and over, until its entire body was ablaze and it was panting with both fear and desire. It felt lightheaded, even though it was lying down, close to passing out from hunger and exertion, and it could no longer feel its cuffed hands after lying on top of them for so long.
The Mistress grabbed it by one of its hips and flipped it onto its stomach. It flexed its hands, trying to encourage blood back into them. It felt the Mistress reaching between its legs, felt the object being yanked out of it, then the Mistress's fingertips at the buckle of its gag.
You will not speak,
the Mistress said, and the Servant nodded,
acknowledging the command.
The Mistress tugged the gag out of its mouth, and the Servant worked its aching jaw. A moment later, it felt something slick at its lips. It obediently opened its mouth, only to have it suddenly filled with something tasting of blood and... something else, something musky and foreign.
Clean,
the Mistress said, and the Servant did so, using its tongue.
Once it had finished, the Mistress replaced its gag. The Servant swallowed, trying to get rid of the strange taste.
Now,
the Mistress said. I told you earlier to stay still. Did
you do so?
The Servant felt itself starting to shake again as fear washed over it. It gave a halting shake of its head.
That's correct,
the Mistress said. And now I will punish you
for that.
The Servant tensed, biting down on the gag and waiting for the first blow to fall.
When the Servant was next conscious, it was being carried back to its cell by a pair of guards. The skin of its back, butt, and the rear of its thighs had been shredded by strokes of a cane. After she'd finished punishing it, the Mistress had rubbed an antiseptic into its wounds, which had burned it anew, but the Servant was still grateful for that - as it was grateful for the bandages wound tightly around it, even though they hurt its bruised ribs. It had once seen another Servant whose wounds had been deliberately left uncleaned after a punishment from the Mistress. That servant had gotten so sick it had eventually vanished for a few days and returned still weak.
The Servant was deposited on its bed, without even the usual jeers from the guards. It must truly look battered, it supposed, if the guards didn't even bother denigrating it. The guards locked it into its cell, and the Servant was alone in the dark. It gingerly rubbed its own wrists, feeling the marks left by the handcuffs, and felt tears return unbidden.
The Servant, exhausted and weak from hunger and pain, awoke without time for the morning meal. It forced itself out of bed, wincing, quickly scrubbed itself clean, dressed, and started its duties. Spots swam in front of its eyes as it climbed the stairs up from the cells, and it had to stop to rest, leaning against a wall, on the second landing. As it was resting, one of the other Servants brushed past it. It risked making brief eye contact. The other Servant's face was the usual blank mask, but its eyes flickered fearfully away when it saw Servant Nine looking at it. That was not surprising - the Servant had drawn the Mistress's ire, obviously.
It trudged up the stairs, consulted the duty board, and saw that it was assigned to the gardens today. It made its way outside and reported to the head gardener, who shoved a pair of gloves and a digging tool into its hands and pointed to an area of soil. Another Servant, on its hands and knees, was already laboring there. The Servant nodded silently, pulled on the gloves, and crouched down to join. While the gardens were punishingly hard work, the head gardener would not allow the guards to interfere with the Servants working for him, and it had never seen him be particularly cruel.
Somehow, the Servant remained conscious long enough to complete its morning work satisfactorily. It couldn't speak to the other Servant laboring alongside it, of course, but the presence of another was comforting nonetheless. The wounds on its back, still fresh from the previous evening, stung as it moved and it was fairly sure that it had reopened at least a couple of them despite the tight bandages, but there was nothing to be done about that.
After the Servant's watch buzzed, telling it it was time to eat, it nearly fell over trying to stand up. It had started the day famished and dehydrated, and a morning of labor in the sun had made things worse. It fell to a crouch, cradling its head. The other Servant it had been working with looked down at it for a moment, then gave a tiny shake of its head and walked back towards the house. The Servant grimaced, fighting sudden nausea, and was trying to stand again when suddenly it felt a hand on its shoulder. It went still immediately, looking at the ground, and behind it it could see the boots and trousers of the head gardener.
Drink,
he said, gruffly, offering it a canteen of water. It hesitated
- drinking outside of the specified times was forbidden, but disobeying
a direct order from a person was even more forbidden. The canteen was so
cold that it had beads of condensation on the outside. The Servant's
thirst won out, and it gingerly took the canteen and took a sip from
it. The water inside was crisp and clean, utterly refreshing, and the
Servant offered the canteen back only with great reluctance. The head
gardener shook his head. Drink more.
The Servant took a few more swallows of the water, then straightened
itself, wincing. It gave a grateful nod and offered the canteen back
once more. The gardener took it and clapped the Servant on one
shoulder. Go eat,
he said.
The Servant, with its stomach full of its first real meal in two days, returned to the gardens in much better spirits. It needed to work until evening, then it could eat again, sleep, and give its body more time to heal its wounds. Even the headache that had been tormenting it since the previous morning seemed to have abated a little bit.
The Servant worked steadily, and even found itself starting to enjoy the simple, methodical process of digging, planting, and smoothing, using only its hands and the small trowel it had. It was creating what would eventually be a row of some kind of bushes, it guessed from the spacing. The head gardener walked past it once, checking its work, and gave it an approving nod. The Servant smiled, happy to have done well.
After it finished its work, it was filthy, utterly worn out, and feeling oddly at peace. It scrubbed itself clean again and reported for the evening meal, already longing to go to sleep. The guard standing outside the meal hall frowned at it but let it pass. The Servant had just sat down with its tray of food - the same colorless mush it was usually fed, but nourishing enough to be much better than nothing - when the itching, burning feeling across its skin started.
It looked instantly down at its wristwatch in case it had missed an order, but its watch showed only the pale green icon indicating meal time. Puzzled, it looked up and around the room to see if the Mistress or one of the guards wanted its attention, but the Mistress wasn't here (of course) and none of the guards were showing any signs of caring about it. It winced as the pain slowly built, then set its fork down, hunched over, and clenched its fists, trying to keep from drawing notice. It gritted its teeth as the burning sensation soaked through its body, fighting to keep its breathing slow and steady. The pain suddenly spiked, and it let out a tiny squeak of shock before it could clamp a hand over its own mouth. It could see its own clenched fists trembling on the tabletop. It risked a look up, but fortunately none of the guards seemed to have heard, and the other Servants silently sharing the table with it were pointedly paying no attention.
A few moments later, the pain slowly eased, leaving the Servant panting and its body still shaking. It knew what had happened - the implants the doctors had put into it had been activated - but not why. It hadn't occurred to the Servant that they could be activated from far away like that, with no warning. It forced itself to keep eating, even though its stomach now seemed to be twisted into a knot.
The Servant stood rigidly at attention, eyes up and forward, focused on a point on the far wall. It was not support to understand, or even really hear, any of the conversation happening around it, since none of it was a direct order. A few feet from it, the Young Master, son of the Mistress and the Master and scion of the family, sat at a table with several of his friends, smoking something foul-smelling and drinking. His friends were much of the same type he was - young aristocrats (or they would have been aristocrats, in another society), wealthy, powerful, and used to having their every desire.
The Young Master was the most frightening member of a frightening family. The Master occasionally used servants, but usually in a perfunctory way suggesting that he considered it a duty expected of him. The Mistress, although terrifying and definitely capable of capricious cruelty, could be... compassionate, in her own way. The Young Master liked to hurt as well, but he liked to hurt for sport, while drinking and in front of his friends, while they egged him on and laughed. The Servant had been treated to his attentions only once so far - stripped, forced to dance for their amusement, then... passed between his friends. It suppressed a shudder at the memory.
Tonight, though, their attention was on the gambling games they were playing. The Servant couldn't follow the fast-paced exchanges of cards, nor understand most of what they were talking about, but it could see the tokens being counted out and swapped between players. The red tokens, it knew, were about a year's pay for a laborer; the blue tokens, lesser in value, were enough to buy a Servant such as itself. What the Servant could see and understood very well indeed was that the Young Master's piles of tokens were considerably smaller than he'd started with, and the tense lines in his body were obvious. That was very dangerous - when he lost at games of chance he was at his most angry and violent. The Servant swallowed, forcing its eyes back to the far wall.
Although it was trying to ignore the people speaking, the Servant couldn't help hearing one woman's voice - pitched high, as though to be deliberately audible.
Gosh, it really is frightfully ugly though, isn't it?
The Servant's eyes flickered to the speaker momentarily. She was pointing at it, giggling behind her hand as upper-class women were given to along with two of the other women sitting by her. The Servant felt its cheeks color slightly. It knew it was ugly and bad, but it still hurt afresh each time it heard it.
Then she heard the Young Master speak: It's not without its charms,
though.
The Servant saw the woman frown in the edge of its vision, despite its fixed gaze and fervent attempts to ignore the entire exchange.
It's so... battered, though. Look at those scars!
The Servant flinched. It knew it had deserved every one of the scars that marred its body, and it hated every one of them as a reminder of its own failure and unworthiness.
One of the Young Master's other friends - a taciturn young man the Servant did not know the name of - spoke up.
In lieu of the cash you've lost to me this evening,
he said,
addressing the Young Master, I'll take that thing from you
instead.
The Young Master turned and looked directly at the Servant, which averted its gaze immediately.
Have you been having too much to drink, Ev? It can't be worth half
that, looking like it does. I don't want you coming to me tomorrow
morning and saying I've cheated you.
The Young Master's friend grinned. It'll be worth more than that to my
father, you know.
Ah! Of course. He does like them... a bit roughed up, doesn't he?
Precisely how I'd have put it. So, what do you say?
The Young Master laughed. I'd be a fool not to, hey? Take it and we'll
call ourselves square.
He turned to the Servant, addressed it
directly.
You're to go with Evan here,
he said. You belong to him
now.
And just like that, the Servant changed hands.
The Servant followed at its new Master's heels as he left the gambling hall. The new Master was of the same age as the Young Master, but slightly taller, a bit more lightly built, and with strikingly dark hair, left long and neatly pulled back, as was the style. He did not look back even once, evidently trusting that the Servant knew its place and was properly trained. The Servant felt a flicker of pride in response, which it immediately snuffed, reminding itself that it was unworthy and bad and needed constant correction.
Its new Master led it out to a car, with another Servant waiting at attention, looking immaculate in a black uniform, accented with a crimson cap and gloves. The other Servant opened one of the rear doors, then got into the drivers' seat. The new Master gestured for the Servant to take one of the rear seats, then slid into the other rear seat next to it. The Servant folded its hands in its lap to keep them from visibly trembling, digging through its mind for any scrap of memory about the man.
Home, Bruce,
its new Master said, buckling his seatbelt and
leaning back. He gestured for the Servant to fasten its belt as well,
which it did. Absent any other orders, it watched the driver, who
perhaps was not a Servant after all? Its Master had addressed him by a
name, which was a privilege ordinarily reserved for people, but perhaps
he was simply unusually trusted. In fact, the Servant reasoned, he must
be, since he was driving in the first place.
The new Master exhaled heavily, sinking back into the seat (which was, the Servant acknowledged, quite comfortable, although it could not sit back without aggravating the bandaged wounds on its back). The car moved smoothly, clearly under precise and expert control. The Servant caught itself looking out the windows once or twice, but forced itself to look down at its lap instead.
Its new Master must have noticed its poor self-control. He touched it very lightly on the shoulder. It flinched away from his touch, but when it looked at him, his expression was gentle.
Look if you want,
he said. The Servant's puzzlement must have
been apparent, because he clarified: Out the window, I mean.
The
Servant gave a hurried nod and turned its head to look away from him and
out at the busy city streets.
The house they arrived at was strikingly similar to the house the Servant had previously been kept in. The style was the same, the expansive gardens were the same, even the laboring servants - and the watchful guards - were the same, albeit dressed in different colors. If the Servant was very lucky, it thought, it would be rejected by the new Master's father and sent to work as it had previously. It was not the happiest life, perhaps, but it was something the Servant knew it could tolerate, and that was much less frightening than the prospect of an unknown fate.
The new Master let the Servant out of the car, and it followed him into the house, hands clasped behind its back. It was torn between wishing it looked more presentable and less. It definitely did not want to be discarded, but it also was hoping not to be chosen for the special attentions of the elder Master. It drove that thought from its mind, and instead, as it had been taught, wished only to serve as well as it was able.
Take it upstairs,
the man said, addressing a Servant who had been
waiting by the door. Present it to father, I suppose, and do let him
know I took it off that fool McClintock's son at cards. He'll like
that,
he said, grinning.
Yes sir,
the Servant said, bowing deeply. I expect he will.
It
gestured for Servant Nine to follow upstairs, leading it through a wide
hallway to a pair of closed double doors. The Servant accompanying it
knocked.
Enter,
said a deep voice from within. The household Servant open
the doors and led it into the room.
The Master of the family looked much as his son did - trim, athletic even, although his hair was cropped short and shot through with grey. He was seated at a massive desk, with a Servant standing by his side holding an electronic tablet. He gave both entering Servants a questioning look. Servant Nine's escort spoke:
Compliments of your son, sir. He mentioned specifically that he won
it from Lord McClintock's son at a game of cards, sir.
The older man's face broke into a wide smile, and he barked a
laugh. Did he! Splendid.
He pushed his chair back from his desk and
stood, grabbing for a walking-stick. The Servant standing at his arm
started towards him, as though to keep him from falling, but he waved it
away with one hand and stood up straight, revealing that he was
impressively tall. He slowly made his way around the desk and walked to
stand in front of Servant Nine, looking it up and down.
Let's have a look at you,
he said. Turn around.
The Servant nodded and rotated itself slowly, head down.
Hm,
he said. Hmm. You're bandaged, aren't you? Under your
tunic?
The Servant nodded again. There had never been any chance of it concealing its flaws, of course - not from its new owner. It prepared itself mentally for the order it knew was coming, and sure enough:
Show me,
its new owner said, still studying it. It undid the sash
and slipped the tunic off, cringing, preparing for the blows - verbal or
physical - that were surely about to come. Instead, it heard the man let
out a quiet gasp and mutter something it couldn't make out.
Fetch Grace,
he said to the Servant that had escorted it in. The
Servant bowed and left the room quickly. The man stood back, watching it
and leaning heavily on his cane. The Servant by the desk, still holding
the tablet, had gone pale and looked a bit unsteady on its feet. Servant
Nine stood, trying to ignore the chill of the air on its now-bare skin,
focusing on keeping tears out of its eyes. It had expected... it wasn't
sure what. Either lust or disgust, it supposed - both emotions it was
very familiar with - but not shock or dismay.
A moment later, the escorting Servant re-entered with someone else. The Servant heard another gasp from behind it, feet rushing forward. It flinched away from a sudden gentle touch on its shoulder. When the light touch remained - an unspoken request for its attention - it looked sideways, into the face of a pale woman with a head of curly red hair, looking at it through wire-framed glasses.
The old Lord spoke: Can you help it?
The woman - Grace? - looked the Servant up and down, appraising. I can
try,
she said.
Grace led the Servant out into the hallway, walking quickly and not looking back. The Servant wondered if all the people here were like that - did they simply all trust their Servants to obey without being watched? What a strange place.
She led the Servant down two flights of stairs, which it guessed brought it back to the ground floor, and then into a small but comfortable-looking room. Sunlight streamed through the open curtains on a pair of exterior windows, making the pale wooden floor gleam. In one corner was a tall bed, piled high with blankets; the room also contained a tiny kitchen, a single overstuffed armchair, a small dresser, and a thick rug covering much of the floor. Through another door the Servant could see a larger room, with the same bright sunlight and light wooden flooring, with a row of a handful of beds lined up against one wall - a bunk room of some kind?
This is the infirmary,
Grace said, obviously seeing the Servant's
puzzlement. Sick people stay here - and sick Servants - while I help
them get better. You're going to stay here with me for a few days.
The Servant nodded, glad to know what was going to happen to it, at least in the short term. It still had no idea what would become of it after it was... better, in whatever way Grace decided to improve it, but that could come later.
Sit,
Grace said, gesturing to the closest bed in the bunk
room. The Servant did so. To its surprise, Grace sat on the adjacent
bed, facing it.
I...
Grace started, seeming a bit unsure of herself. Her gaze
flickered to one of the windows for a moment, then back to the
Servant. She spent a moment apparently gathering her thoughts, then
started again.
I'm going to explain a couple of things to you, because this house is a
bit different than what you're probably used to. There's one rule that
matters in this house - only one - and it applies just as much in my
infirmary: you must always give your best. Do you understand? The Master
wants your best, always, and so will I while you're under my care.
The Servant nodded, even though it did not at all understand. It would never imagine doing less than all it was capable of, anyway, but surely there must be many other rules to keep the Servants in their proper places.
Grace gave the Servant an appraising look. She went on:
As long as you are giving the best you are capable of, you will not
be punished, and nobody will be allowed to harm you. Nobody. Do you
understand that?
The Servant nodded again, understanding that she actually meant nobody,
except for any guard or other person who feels like it
.
On the other hand,
Grace said, if you do give less than you
could, I will not be very forgiving. I trust that makes sense?
The Servant nodded a third time. That, it was certain it understood; forgiveness was almost always in short supply for Servants.
Now,
Grace said, seeming to relax a bit, disrobe and lie down
on your stomach and I'll have a look at you.
The Servant immediately did so, folding its tunic carefully and setting it on the floor before it laid down with its arms crossed underneath its head. Grace carefully unwound the bandages binding the wounds on its back. The Servant gasped at the released pressure on its ribs, which allowed it to breathe all the way in for the first time in days. Grace pulled the bottom layer of bandages off and the Servant heard her mutter something angry.
Whoever did this cleaned the wounds up properly, it looks like, but a
couple of these really should have been stitched. You're going to have
scars - well, even more scars, I guess.
The Servant felt Grace's
fingers ghosting across the skin of its back, as if mapping out the
texture of its skin, the many layers of old injuries there. The Servant
tensed, expecting pain, but none came.
Stay still,
she murmured, rubbing a cold lotion into its back. The
Servant did so, wondering at the strange sensation. It'll make the
scarring a little less bad,
Grace explained. Once she'd finished, she
said:
Sit up and I'll re-bandage you.
The Servant sat up, and was surprised to see Grace blush and avert her eyes.
Do you - erm, did you not have a bra?
The Servant shook its head. It had never had a bra, just a tunic to hide its body when it was not wanted nude and some pairs of plain underwear.
Okay, we'll - we'll fix that in a bit. Um,
Grace said. Turn
around.
The Servant did, not surprised that Grace didn't want to see its nakedness. She wrapped new, clean bandages around it, firmly but carefully, and tied them tightly.
Do you have any other... any other injuries?
The Servant wasn't quite sure what to say. It was hard to tell which things about its body were injuries and which were simply facts of life. It raised its left arm and held it out.
What's - what's wrong? You may speak.
My - my arm was broken once, Mistress, and it... never healed
properly.
Grace took its arm gently and manipulated it a bit.
Hm, so it was,
she said. There's nothing to be done about that
now, I'm afraid. Re-breaking it so it could heal cleanly would probably
only make it worse.
Yes Mistress,
the Servant said, feeling bold enough to continue
speaking.
Grace let go of the Servant's arm and looked it up and down once
more. I'll get you a fresh tunic and some underclothes,
she
said. Stay here.
The Servant did so, but it thought it would probably be acceptable to look out the windows. Outside were gardens, far less lavish than those of its previous household but no smaller, and it saw a couple of Servants laboring there, dressed in what looked like very lightweight uniforms of the same black-and-crimson coloration it had seen on all the other Servants here.
Grace returned carrying a small bundle of dark cloth and instructed the Servant to dress in underclothes. After it had done so, she asked it to lie on its back and gently prodded at its bandaged ribs. She looked it up and down once more, apparently taking in its protruding bones and pale skin.
You haven't been eating enough,
she said, in a tone that brooked
no discussion. The Servant knew she was correct, and that it was
entirely its own fault. It nodded.
Hmm,
Grace said. That will change,
she said. I want you
healthy and you aren't going to get that way on whatever starvation diet
they've been feeding you. From now on,
she said, you'll eat with
me and I'll make certain you're properly fed.
Yes, Mistress,
the Servant said, frightened. Grace could do anything
she wanted with it, and she seemed to plan to... feed it? It hadn't done
anything to deserve that, which meant it had no idea what was going on,
and that was never a good thing for a Servant. Unknown rules and unknown
motives were always dangerous, and the Servant decided it had better
figure out what Grace wanted as soon as it could.
In fact,
Grace said, standing, we're starting right
now. Dress, then come with me.
The Servant, powerless to disobey,
did so.
Grace led the Servant, now wearing the black-and-crimson of its new house, back out of the infirmary, into a hallway, and down a wide staircase into the kitchens. The Servant did its best to memorize the layout of the place as they went. Grace didn't speak to it, nor pay it any obvious attention. Normally being ignored was the best the Servant could hope for but in this moment the Servant felt uneasy - it was in unknown territory, without any sense for who held power over it, and being unwanted or forgotten would probably be fatal.
The kitchens were cavernous, clearly sized for feeding a veritable army, and the Servant counted no less than six cooks in the same uniform it now wore (augmented with matching crimson aprons) laboring away. They were being supervised by an elderly man, dressed all in white, with tufts of snow-white hair peaking out around the sides of his cap.
Grace? What brings you down here?
Good to see you too, Julian. Can we get her,
she said - gesturing
over her shoulder at the Servant - a bowl of whatever's ready? She's
new and she's been pretty badly underfed.
The old man frowned and the Servant saw his gaze flicker to it
momentarily. Sure,
he said, slowly. We've got some oatmeal
we've been keeping warm which should do for a start, although I'm sure
you'll want to make sure it gets some protein as well.
Thanks,
Grace said.
Wait, the Servant thought. Had Grace called it her
? It tried to think
back - had it imagined that? Maybe Grace had been talking about someone
else.
The Servant was still puzzling over that when Grace led it to a small table in a corner of the kitchen, sat it down, and took the chair across from it. A moment later, one of the other Servants placed a bowl of hot oatmeal in front of it - garnished with some kind of fruit? The Servant stared at it fearfully. Fruit was generally not for it, and the previous times it had been given fruit were all... attached to bad experiences, usually at the hands of its previous Mistress.
The Servant looked up at Grace, who was watching it, apparently waiting. It looked down at the bowl, which looked delicious, felt its stomach clench, and looked back up at Grace.
You can eat,
the woman said, quietly. As much as you want, as fast or
as slow as you want. If you finish and you're still hungry there will be
more.
The Servant picked up the spoon carefully, glancing up at Grace. Was she going to snatch the food away from it? Was it about to be punished somehow? It definitely had not earned an off-schedule meal. The woman made no motion at all, but simply sat and watched it. Cautiously, the Servant took the spoon in hand and glanced back up at Grace again. She seemed to sense its fear, because she pushed her chair back away from the table and stood.
I'll get you water,
she said. You eat.
The Servant, having been given a very direct command, felt slightly more at ease. Still watching Grace from the edge of its vision, it started to slowly, spoonful by spoonful, eat its first hot meal in recent memory.
After the Servant had eaten as much as it dared to, even with Grace's gentle encouragement, she led it back to the infirmary and sat it back down on one of the beds.
You'll be staying here,
she explained, for at least a few
days. You're not in any shape to work right now, so your main job is
going to be to rest, eat, and get stronger, and I'll be keeping track
of your progress.
The Servant blinked, surprised. It had been working every single day for years and years, without any rest it could remember, so it wasn't sure how it could be the case that it wasn't fit to work. Still, Grace obviously knew best, so the Servant shrugged internally and quieted its doubts. Instead, it said:
Yes, Mistress.
Grace gave it an approving nod. She sat on the adjacent bed across from it.
Do you remember the cardinal rule of this House?
Yes, Mistress.
Repeat it to me.
I must always give my best, Mistress.
Grace smiled at it, and the Servant tamped down a flicker of pride at her obvious approval.
Now,
Grace said, I'm giving you two more rules that you're going to
obey when you're with me. I want you to listen carefully and remember
them, okay?
The Servant nodded.
First rule: if I ask you how you feel, I want the whole, entire
truth. When I'm - if I have to hurt you, I'll want to know how much I'm
hurting, and otherwise, I need to know if you're... in pain, or sick, or
scared. Does that make sense to you?
The Servant hesitated - in fact, it must have hesitated for too long, because Grace gave it a look of concern and explained further:
I want - I want you to be the best Servant possible. You understand
that, right?
The Servant nodded, immediately and vigorously. That was all it had ever wanted.
To do that, you need proper correction when you're bad, and proper
rewards when you're good. Does that make sense?
The Servant thought about it. It had certainly experienced plenty of correction, that was true, and it had sometimes felt like it was better as a result, so... yes, that did make sense. It wasn't sure what Grace meant about rewards, exactly, but that was alright - maybe it would find out.
It does, Mistress.
In order for the correction or reward to be proper,
Grace said, it
has to be - in line with what you did well or poorly, right? Doing a
worse thing should have a harsher punishment.
The Servant nodded. That too made sense.
So I need to know how - how harshly I'm punishing you, so I can do it
right and help you be better.
Aha. The Servant saw the light dawning. Grace wanted its help keeping it disciplined, so it could be better for her. That it could definitely do.
Yes, Mistress, I understand now. I'm sorry for being stupid,
Mistress.
Grace winced. Not having heard of something before isn't the same as
being stupid,
she said.
Yes, Mistress. I'm sorry, Mistress.
Grace gave it a look, not harsh exactly but not pleased
either. Anyway,
she continued, the second is that if you're - you
know, hurt, or sick, or hungry, I need you to tell me. I'm sure you're
used to feeling those things but I - I want to know when, okay?
The Servant gave a cautious nod. Yes, Mistress,
it said.
Grace gave it a final nod. Okay. Now, tell me: how do you feel
physically?
... fine, Mistress. I am ready to serve.
Grace frowned at it, and the Servant felt a wash of guilt. It had clearly given the wrong answer but it wasn't sure how.
Yes, well,
Grace said, if that changes, I want to hear
immediately. For now, come with me, and I'll show you around the
House.
The Servant did its best to remember what Grace was telling it as she led it on a whirlwind tour of its new House. The mansion turned out to be considerably bigger than its old House and more nicely appointed internally as well, which suggested a level of wealth that was beyond anything it had previously experienced. That explained, it thought, why there was a proper infirmary and why the kitchens were so much more expansive. Grace showed it the Servants' quarters, which were... very different from what it was used to. They were an open dormitory rather than individual cells, and the aesthetic put it in mind of the infirmary - lots of sunlight, gleaming wooden floors, and two rows of neatly-made beds, each with a wooden chest by its side.
Grace didn't say anything, but led the Servant through to a spartan but neat dining area, which she explained was where the Servants were usually fed, and then through a door out into the sunlight. Here there was a small courtyard, shaded by a couple of trees, with a young man reading a book underneath one of them. A pair of household guards, apparently off duty, were sitting and eating together at a small table. The Servant paid them no particular mind, but obediently remembered how to get here in case its presence was needed in future.
After that, the Servant was shown around the gardens, and how to get to the gates that led onto the House grounds. There were several, mostly humble affairs, although all watched by at least one vigilant guard. There would be no possibility of escape - not that the Servant would dream of doing such a thing, anyway. It had been given to this House and here it would stay until they sold it, gave it away or put it down.
That's probably all the areas you'll need to know at first,
Grace
said once they were back at the infirmary, finally breaking the silence
that had lingered between them. If someone directs you anywhere else,
you can ask them how to get there, or come and ask me and I'll show
you.
Yes, Mistress,
the Servant said, shuddering at the thought of
needing to ask for help in such a way.
Grace gave it a thoughtful look. You're going to spend the remainder
of the day resting,
she said, but it looks like perhaps you could
use a bit of sunlight, and I certainly can, so we're going to sit
outside.
The Servant said nothing. It was not its place to comment on Grace's plans for it. Grace perused the small bookshelf by her bed for a moment, then picked up a slim book and led the Servant back out to the small courtyard. The man who'd been reading earlier was gone, and Grace led the Servant over to the grassy spot he'd been occupying and gestured for it to sit. It did so, uneasy, and Grace sat next to it, leaned against the tree, and opened her book to read.
Grace sat in the sunlight, back propped against the tree behind her, reading her book. The Servant had no assigned task, so it simply sat still, posture rigid as it had been taught, and tried not to worry. Having no assigned work had never been a good thing, in its experience - no work meant it had no use, and no use meant it was not worth keeping. Perhaps it was here to wait on Grace if she wanted something?
Grace, a minute later, looked up from her book and saw how it was sitting. She frowned, so the Servant had erred somehow.
You're not supposed to be at attention,
she said, voice
gentle. You're supposed to be resting, which does not look
like... that. Come here and sit by me, and make yourself comfortable.
Slowly, the Servant did so, sitting on the grass by Grace underneath the broad-spread leaves of the tree. From here it could see the pages of her book, covered in neat rows of shapes. It leaned back slightly, trying to imitate Grace's relaxed posture, but it could feel that it was not doing it correctly.
Grace set her book aside.
You haven't gotten much relaxation in your life, have you?
No, Mistress.
Okay,
Grace said. Here.
She pulled herself away from the
tree a bit and sat cross-legged on the grass, facing the
Servant. Match my position, facing me.
The Servant did its best
to do so, folding its hands in its lap as she had.
Grace looked at it skeptically. Un-clench your fists,
she
said, and lay them on your knees like this.
When she saw that the
Servant had complied, she went on:
Now, let's focus on just breathing, okay? Close your eyes, and take a
deep breath in.
The Servant did so, fighting down the familiar surge of
panic at having its sight taken away from it. Even though it wouldn't be
able to do anything about it, it felt better when it was at least able
to see danger approaching. Still, it tried to comply. It held its breath
until Grace told it to breathe out slowly again, then did the same
several more times as she directed it.
Okay,
Grace said. Keep breathing at that pace and we'll move on to
the next step.
The Servant tried to keep a count internally of how long
it was for each in-hold-out cycle while listening to Grace.
Some time passed of the Servant simply sitting still with Grace, eyes
closed, and breathing in unison with her. She broke the stillness with
her quiet words: Keep your eyes closed, but focus a little bit on how
the sunlight feels on your face. It's nice, isn't it?
Yes, Mistress,
the Servant murmured, surprised to find that it was
speaking the truth. The warmth did feel good, and it was glad to
be... outside, in fresh air, but treating the sun as a gift rather than
something to be endured, as it normally had to when laboring in the
gardens. The Servant turned its face slightly upwards, toward the light.
Now let's take our hands,
Grace went on, and put them on the ground
on either side of ourselves, touching the grass. That feels nice to
touch, doesn't it?
Yes, Mistress,
the Servant said, nodding slightly, even though
Grace probably still had her eyes closed and couldn't see it doing
so. Actually, it reflected, Grace was probably watching it to make sure
it was complying with her orders.
Dig your fingers into the grass,
Grace said, and into the soil
underneath.
The Servant obeyed, not understanding why.
Now let's tear up a tiny bit of the grass with one hand
- the Servant
heard the soft ripping sound from where Grace was sitting across from it
- and bring the grass up to our faces to smell.
The Servant did so. The blades of grass, with a bit of soil still clinging to its roots, did have a pleasantly fresh, earthy smell to them. It realized that without really trying to it had kept its breathing in the same gentle rhythm Grace had imposed, and that it was... looser? A little bit of the tension it had always carried in its body seemed to have ebbed away, anyway. Just as the Servant was marvelling at that, Grace said:
Okay, let's open our eyes again.
It did, and saw that Grace was still sitting across from it, just as she had been before. She, too, looked more peaceful and happier.
Feeling any better?
Yes, Mistress,
the Servant said, actually meaning it for once.
Good,
Grace said, beaming. Now, come sit against the tree with me
again, and do the same thing: eyes closed, focus on your breathing, and
think about how the sun feels. Okay?
Yes, Mistress.
Grace picked her book back up and curled herself against the tree. The Servant sat by her, closed its eyes again, resumed the slow steady breathing pattern, and tried to think about the sun. It was surprised to find that it was distracted, but not by pain or fear or hunger like usual - instead, it was distracted, somehow, by the knowledge that Grace was sitting close by it. The sound of her turning pages, her tiny noises as she read, seemed somehow magnified, as though the Servant's senses were all attuned to her. That, it decided, was right and proper - it was alert for any sign that she needed something or was displeased with it, as a good Servant should be.
Slowly, the Servant sank into a... blank state, where it thought of nothing, but simply sat and breathed and enjoyed the warmth, the light, and Grace's presence.
Eventually, Grace tired of reading in the sun. The Servant might have slept - it wasn't sure - but in any case, it was closer to feeling peace than it had in a very long time. It was very surprised, when it opened its eyes, to see that the sun was low in the sky and to feel that the summer evening air had taken on a distinct chill. Grace stood, stretched, and gestured for the Servant to follow her.
She led it to the Servants' dining area, which was bustling - two dozen or more Servants were eating together. It was surprised to see the Servants chatting amongst themselves, apparently unsupervised. Grace led it down a line of stations where other Servants gave it various different foods. The Servant stared at its tray, unsure what to say, but fortunately its voice was not wanted currently and all it needed to do was follow Grace and obey her. She led it to a two-seat table and gestured for it to sit. The Servant did so, staring down at its own lap.
Eat,
Grace said, gesturing to its tray of food. The Servant had
been given a bowl of fried rice, what appeared to be grilled fish of
some kind, another bowl of salad, and a ramekin of cut fruit. It felt
somehow overwhelmed by the different colors and textures on display. It
knew all of these foods, and had served them to people often enough in
its time, but it had never actually... eaten any of these things
itself. Bizarrely, it felt tears gathering in its eyes.
When it risked a glance up, it saw Grace watching it, looking puzzled.
Are you having trouble?
It nodded, filled with the bitter feeling of failure. It had been given the simplest possible command and it had - it was just too stupid, it thought, or too broken, or just not good enough to obey even that. It wanted so badly to be good for Grace, and yet...
Thank you for telling me,
Grace said, voice gentle. Pick up
your knife and fork.
More orders. The Servant swallowed, blinked away its tears, and did so.
Now,
Grace said, start with the fish, then the rice, then the
salad, then the fruit.
The Servant felt its own tension ease a little bit. It was still worried about failing, but now it felt like it knew what to do and didn't have to make a choice. Slowly, but with determination, it obeyed Grace.
After dinner, Grace announced that it was time for bed. She led the Servant back to the infirmary, explaining that it would be staying here for a few days while it recovered and gained strength. She indicated the bed closest to the door, which looked... heavenly. The crisp white sheets were infinitely inviting, and the Servant felt almost like it was breaking a rule simply by sliding into them - but that didn't make sense, did it? Grace had expressly told it to sleep in this bed. It shook itself slightly, laid back with its head on the pillow, and stared at the ceiling. Grace turned out the infirmary lights.
If you need anything,
she said, I sleep right in here, so I'm always
in shouting range.
The Servant nodded in the dark, although it couldn't even begin to imagine a situation that would merit waking Grace.
She stared at it for a moment from the doorway, then said good night,
Servant,
and turned away.
The Servant slowly blinked itself awake, feeling groggy and disoriented. It was in an unfamiliar bed, and there was... a sensation of softness and warmth, and of comfort? It sat up immediately, looking around, and then the memory of yesterday came flooding back to it. It had been - Grace - Grace had told it to sleep, hadn't she? The Servant looked over towards the area where Grace slept, saw that she was still asleep, and relaxed slightly. It was assigned to serve Grace, so if she was still asleep, it probably wasn't late for anything. It looked at its wristwatch, which showed the usual blank face indicating no outstanding orders, but it wasn't sure whether that would even work within this House. Had the other Servants it had seen been wearing them?
As it was trying to think back, it became aware of a dull burning sensation that seemed to come from its skin all over its body. The implants, it immediately remembered - the person had said that if it was too far from the... the controller for too long, the implants it had been given would start to hurt it. The Servant curled up into a ball on its bed, fighting to control its panic.
It had - it should tell Grace, explain just how broken it was. Grace would send it back to its old House and then it wouldn't have to die. That was the right thing to do, surely? It glanced at Grace again, who was still asleep, fretting. It wasn't worth waking her, it decided; it would just wait until she was awake and then tell her.
The Servant must have drifted back into a fitful half-sleep somehow, because when it was next aware, Grace was leaning over it and shaking it awake. It groaned, suddenly aware again of the sharp, stinging pain rippling across its skin. It managed to open its eyes, blinking in the harsh morning light, and bit back a whimper. Grace's look of concern swam into focus.
What's wrong? Where are you hurt?
The Servant managed to catch enough breath to speak
coherently. Everywhere, M-Mistress.
Grace touched its forehead lightly and the Servant flinched away from the instantaneous jab of pain. She looked at it, seeming more shocked than anything.
Does this - is this a thing that happens to you? What causes it?
The Servant swallowed. It very much did not want to reveal to Grace that it had been modified. If it had simply been a better Servant in the first place, its previous Mistress wouldn't have seen the need to have the implants put into it. The Servant also, it admitted to itself, wanted a - a chance to do well here, in this House, for Grace, and to perhaps finally be good for once in its life. It felt a hot wash of inward anger and sternly reminded itself that if it wanted to be good, that couldn't include hiding the truth or lying now.
In between gasps, it managed to get out: My - my body was g-given an
'implant'
- rolling the unfamiliar word on its tongue - to h-help
me be a... a better Servant. It... it hurts me if I'm too far away from
my old M-Mistress.
The Servant cringed as Grace's face set into an expression of anger - fury, really. It forced itself to stay still, even though it was trembling, waiting for her to strike it.
Instead, Grace said, each word spoken slowly and with terrifying
precision: You were given implants that hurt you?
The Servant
nodded convulsively.
And they are hurting you right now?
It nodded again.
How do I make them stop?
M-Mistress?
If you're going to be hurt, Servant, it'll be because I think it's
necessary and not because of some computer
chip. How. Do. I. Make. Them. Stop. Is there a command I have to say? Do
you know it?
There's a c-controller, Mistress.
Grace swore. Of course. Those... ugh.
She drew herself up, shut her eyes, took in and let out a deep breath, and when she looked at the Servant again her expression was gentle once more.
You,
Grace said, are getting a painkiller, and then you're
coming with me and we are going to ask for help.
Yes, M-Mistress,
the Servant said, gritting its teeth. Grace
turned away, and a moment later was back at its bedside with a small
syringe. The Servant's swallowed, fearful, but it had no desire to
resist Grace, and in any case what it was afraid of didn't matter. It
did its very best to hold still while Grace injected it with a clear
liquid. After a few seconds, the burning pain washing over its body
receded a bit - enough for the Servant to catch its breath, at least.
Thank you, Mistress,
the Servant said.
Grace gave it a sympathetic look. That dose won't last all that long,
unfortunately. Dress and come with me immediately.
The Servant followed Grace as she rushed up the grand staircase. It wasn't even breakfast time yet and the House was mostly quiet, apart from a few uniformed Servants going quietly about their business. Grace led the way upstairs to the grand double doors leading into the Master's day office, which the Servant remembered it as the room where it had been initially presented to him by his son. Grace knocked twice on the massive door, waited for a moment, then entered. The Servant hesitated for a moment and followed her inside.
The elder Master, once he understood what Grace was talking about, immediately summoned the younger Master, who paled in turn when Grace explained herself again.
I'll call on the McClintocks straight away and ask about it,
he
said, already shrugging into the coat held out for him by another
Servant.
The elder Master nodded approvingly. Grace, I'll have you sent for when
he's back, hopefully with this... device.
Grace curtsied. Yes, sir,
she said. I'll do my best to keep it
comfortable in the mean time.
She withdrew, leading the Servant behind her. The injection she'd given it was still working, and it felt the pain as something somehow distant from its own body, or perhaps as though it was happening to someone else entirely. The world around it felt fuzzy and not quite in focus, as well - unfamiliar, but not entirely unpleasant. The Servant, dazed, followed Grace back downstairs to the infirmary, where she ordered it to lie back down.
How much do you hurt?
Not very much, Mistress.
Grace frowned at it. I don't know how much 'very much' is for
you.
I'm sorry, Mistress,
the Servant said, unsure what else to do.
If the pain isn't too bad, though,
Grace said, we might as
well eat breakfast. Lord knows you need the calories. I think it's best
if we... hm. You stay here lying down, and I'll bring you something.
Yes, Mistress,
the Servant said, shutting its eyes and
wincing. Despite the effects of the drug Grace had given it, the pain
was still definitely present and slowly getting worse. Grace touched its
temple gently, and it was too wrapped in drug-induced fog to shrink
away.
Poor Servant,
Grace said, sounding sympathetic. I'll be right
back.
She turned on her heel and strode out.
Grace returned with a steaming bowl of oatmeal, again topped with slices of a couple of different kinds of fruit that the Servant wasn't able to name, and this time drizzled with what could only be cream. The Servant's mouth watered, but the hunger it suddenly felt was matched with redoubled pain, and the Servant felt itself curl involuntarily. Grace set the bowl down on the small table by its bed and perched herself next to it.
I can't give you another shot of painkiller,
she said, because it
could stop your heart, which would not be good.
Despite the situation,
she gave the Servant a crooked smile at her own understatement, and it
found itself responding in kind.
Instead,
she went on, I want you to try to eat, and after that I'm
going to give you something to help you sleep, and hopefully when you
wake up this will be fixed.
The Servant nodded, gaze already fixed on the bowl.
Eat,
Grace said, voice gentle. The Servant sat up, picked up the
spoon, and managed half a dozen bites before the pain, even dulled by
the drugs, became too bad to stay upright. It curled up on its side,
feeling pathetically grateful for the painkillers, and wishing
desperately that it could eat more. Grace frowned, but made no move to
confiscate the oatmeal. Instead, she said:
Okay, sedatives for you. If you wake up again and you're hungry, you
tell me.
The Servant nodded, doing its best to stay quiet and whimpering despite it. The fuzziness it had been wrapped in was receding too fast, and it felt its blood burning in its veins, and the horrible sensation of being slowly roasted from the inside out. It groaned, and then it was aware of Grace pushing it firmly down onto the bed and taking ahold of one of its arms.
The last thing the Servant heard before darkness took it was: When
you wake up, everything should be better.
The Servant drifted in and out of consciousness, between agony and exhausting half-sleep. At least once, it thought, it had seen Grace standing over it looking very worried indeed, but perhaps that had been its imagination or some kind of fever dream. The pain mounted, seemingly without end; the Servant resorted to pressing its face into the pillow it had been given to keep itself from making a disturbance. Through the haze of suffering - through the fog of tears it can't keep out of its eyes - the only constant was Grace, sitting by the side of its bed. She briefly touched it, once, but its skin was ablaze and it flinched away from her, and she did not try again.
Eventually, a blessed darkness claimed it.
Some time - hours, or perhaps days - later, the Servant slowly came back to consciousness. Every inch of its body ached, but with exhaustion rather than the sharp, hot pain from the implants. It was intensely thirsty, hungry, and had the worst headache it had ever experienced. It opened its eyes, squinting in the early morning sunlight, and tried to sit up. It immediately realized it was restrained tightly to its bed, and could move none of its limbs more than an inch. It tensed instantly, looking around as much as it could, and spotted Grace sitting next to its bed, apparently dozing.
Mistress?
, it croaked.
The sound startled Grace awake, and she looked up at it. The Servant could now see her face clearly in the light. Deep, dark circles smudged the areas below her eyes, and her expression was drawn and tight. Then, her gaze moved to the Servant's face, and her mouth curved into a sudden smile.
You're alive!
The Servant considered this, then replied: Yes, Mistress.
Thank God,
Grace murmured. You started seizing, and we still
didn't have the controller, and I was so worried so I - I had to put you
into a coma. I didn't...
Grace looked away momentarily, ran a hand through her tangled red hair.
I didn't know if I'd killed you.
I'm still alive, Mistress.
Yes, I - oh, I'm just so glad. Here, let me take those off you.
With this, Grace started undoing the restraints. I had to tie you
down,
she explained, because you were moving around so much you
kept pulling the IV out. Sorry. I'm sure it's uncomfortable.
The Servant said nothing, turning over Grace's words in its head. It was
uncomfortable, but most of the things it had ever experienced had been
uncomfortable, or worse, and it had no idea what it was supposed to say to
Grace's apology, or even why Grace was apologizing to it in the first
place. Eventually, it settled on: Thank you, Mistress.
The Servant laid still in silence while Grace finished removing the restraints. Once she'd finished, Grace leaned over it, peering at its neck.
You did quite some damage to your neck with your nails,
she said,
frowning. Before I restrained you, you were clinging so tightly to
your collar that the metal was cutting your hands, and when I tried to
get you to let go, you... dug your nails in instead. I'll need to clean
and bandage these, but it can wait a moment.
She shifted slightly, looking down at the Servant from above. The Servant gazed back up at her, suddenly nervous again; Grace was so close, and looking at it with an expression of - of something. She laid a hand, tremendously gentle, on the side of its jaw. Her skin was warm and soft to the touch.
I'm glad you're still with us,
she said, softly, and gave the
Servant a smile. The Servant, despite everything, felt itself returning
it. Grace straightened, smoothed her dress, and gave the Servant an
appraising look.
Even though you're unrestrained now, I want you to stay there. You're
on bed rest for at least another few hours, Servant. I'll go fetch you
something to eat, and -
she momentarily sniffed the air - get
myself a shower as well. Stay here and rest. Okay?
Yes, Mistress,
the Servant replied. It let itself sink slightly
into the mattress and pillows, exhaustion dragging its eyes closed. It
heard Grace's footsteps moving away, and then, from by the doorway, her
soft voice:
Oh, Servant? Lord Carter has put me in charge of the... controller,
so I'll ensure you aren't hurt like that again. You don't have to worry.
Thank you, Mistress,
the Servant murmured, and it was surprised
to find that a tiny part of it believed Grace's assurance.
Grace returned after a little while, carrying a tray in both hands. She
set it down on a small table nearby, then turned to the Servant. Can
you sit up?
The Servant slowly and painfully managed to get itself partly
upright. Grace gave it a warm smile. Good.
She laid the tray
across its lap, revealing a small bowl of a thick red soup with steam
curling from it and two slices of a dark crusty bread. I'd like you
to eat as much as you can. You need your strength.
Yes, Mistress,
the Servant said, picking up a spoon in a
trembling hand. The soup was rich, salty and strongly spiced, and the
Servant had some difficulty swallowing, but struggled gamely through the
meal. As it did so, Grace tidied up around the infirmary, glancing at it
occasionally to ensure it was still eating. After it had eaten the soup
and as much of the bread as it could stomach, Grace smiled at it again,
then took the tray off its lap. She paused momentarily and bent over its
arm to pull the IV out, straightened again, then wrinkled her nose.
You need a bath,
she said. The Servant felt its breath catch in
its chest, and curled its hands into fists to control a sudden surge of
fear.
A - a bath, Mistress?
Grace nodded. You've been lying in bed and sweating for two
days. Doesn't your skin feel dirty?
Oh. The Servant understood now: it was dirty and Grace wanted it
cleaned. That was simple enough. It would do its best to stay still and
be good for her. Yes, Mistress,
it said quietly.
Alright. I'll run a bath; you stay right here.
Yes, Mistress.
The Servant swallowed, listening and forcing
itself to stay still as it heard the sound of running water. Surely
Grace wouldn't leave it in the bath, would she? She didn't seem cruel
enough for that, but perhaps... the Servant had been wrong about people
before. It dug its nails into its thighs, accepting the soothing spike
of pain, and felt its anxiety recede just slightly. The waiting was
agonizing, but it reminded itself forcefully to be patient; what was
about to happen would happen regardless, and in any case, there was
nowhere it could run to. It would simply have to hope Grace would be kind.
After a few minutes, Grace summoned it into the infirmary's attached
bathroom - a surprisingly big room, decorated with dark patterned tiles
and warmly lit. A large bathtub, in a matching dark color, filled much
of the room and was a bit more than half-full of steaming water. The
Servant had definitely been expecting something plainer - much more like
the showers where it and the other Servants were regularly cleaned in
its old home. Its surprise must have been obvious, because Grace blushed
slightly. It's, ah... I wanted it to be a bit less medical and more,
well, comfortable.
The Servant didn't know what to say, so it fell back on its training and
agreed with Grace: Yes, Mistress.
Grace dipped her hand into the water. Take off your tunic and you can
get in.
Shaking, the Servant stripped, neatly folding its tunic and laying it on a shelf. It stepped into the tub, not looking back at Grace, and after a second the shock of the water hit it. It was hot, almost hot enough to be uncomfortable but not quite. It gingerly sat down, curled up into a ball, and felt the water lapping just below its breasts and around its legs.
You can relax more than that,
Grace said, softly. And
you...
She laid a hand on one of its, rubbing its knuckles gently
with her thumb. Are you alright? You're clinging to the sides of the
tub. Are you scared?
The Servant sat still, paralyzed by her question. After a moment, Grace
sighed quietly and squeezed its hand. You can keep hanging onto the
tub if you want to, but you're safe here. I'm going to help you get
clean. I'd like it if you tried to relax a little bit more, though. Can
you stretch out your legs?
The Servant didn't want to do that, but it knew an order when it heard
it, so it did so. Grace laid a hand on its shoulder and gently tugged it
backwards until its back and head were resting against one side of the
tub. She leaned close to it and murmured: There. Isn't that more comfortable?
Yes, Mistress,
the Servant admitted. Having its back pressed
against the tub did feel good, and it felt its muscles starting to relax
slightly. It even let its grip on the sides of the tub loosen a little
bit. Grace stepped away from it, and returned a moment later holding a
large plastic bottle. Soap,
she explained. Hold out your
hands.
The Servant did so, and Grace squeezed a cold, sweet-smelling
liquid into it. It looked down at its hand, unsure what to do. Mistress?
Rub your hands together,
Grace explained. Then rub the lather
on your skin to clean it. You weren't given soap at your old home?
The Servant shook its head, and Grace made an unhappy noise. They
hosed down in a stall with cold water like an animal, I bet.
Yes, Mistress.
Grace didn't reply, but her indrawn breath betrayed her feelings, and
the Servant instantly knew it had said the wrong thing. Sorry,
Mistress,
it said, feeling ashamed.
No,
Grace replied. There's nothing to apologize for. I
just... I thought I was exaggerating.
The Servant had no idea what to make of that, so it focused on cleaning itself thoroughly instead. It rubbed the lather up and down its arms and across its chest, enjoying the faint floral scent. Grace took more of the soap and rubbed its back in slow circles; her hands were soft and gentle, and the Servant found itself gradually releasing a tension it had been carrying for so long that it had forgotten what it was like to be without it. It let out a soft sigh.
Does that feel nice?
Yes, Mistress.
Good.
Once Grace had finished washing its back - taking, perhaps, a bit longer
than was strictly necessary - she set the soap aside and picked up a
different bottle. Lie back a little bit. I'm going to wash your
hair.
The Servant, lulled by her gentle touch, simply nodded and did
as she said. Grace squeezed more liquid into her hands, then laid both
hands on the Servant's head, entangling her fingers into its hair -
Abruptly, the Servant was in a different time, a different place. Steel cuffs bite cruelly into its wrists, the bathroom is dark and silent, and the water is so cold the Servant can barely breathe. The hand in its hair belongs to its previous Mistress, and her grip is inescapable as she pulls it down, down, down under the cold dark water again. It thrashes around, struggling for a breath, lungs burning, but it's weak from hunger and exhaustion and restrained and the Mistress is so strong... darkness starts to close in as the Servant runs out of air, and right when unconsciousness is about to take it, the Mistress drags its head back above the water and it gasps desperately. It looks up and - that can't be right, that's Grace, not the Mistress...?
Servant? Servant! Come back!
The voice seemed to be coming from very far away, but it was familiar - urgent and with an edge of fear. The Servant tried to turn to look, and the Mistress who was Grace released her death grip on its hair, laid both her hands on its shoulders and shook it gently. That wasn't right either, but -
The Mistress' bathroom from its old home faded away, and it found itself back in the bathroom of the infirmary, looking up at a very worried-looking Grace. Its chest felt tight, and it found itself fighting for every shaky breath with tears gathering in the corners of its eyes. Grace put a hand gently on its collarbone, and the simple touch eased its crushing fear slightly. Gradually, it felt a bit more able to breathe, and it looked up at Grace, scrubbing its face with one hand.
Her voice was tender: Are you alright?
The Servant let out a shaky breath and nodded. Sorry, Mistress.
Don't be sorry. You had a flashback, it looked like.
The Servant frowned. A - a flashback, Mistress?
Grace nodded. Something reminded you of a bad memory, probably, and
you felt it like it was really happening. They're quite common for
Servants, I think. I suppose you... accumulate a lot of bad memories.
Yes, Mistress,
replied the Servant. In fact, it couldn't really
think of any memories that weren't bad. It didn't remember
much of anything from when it was little; it was raised in a Servant
school, in a seemingly unending cycle of deprivation and brutality,
until its training had finished and it had been sold off with the rest
of its classmates. After that, three homes, each with its own brand of
suffering... and now here, with Grace.
Grace interrupted its contemplation. Can you wash your own hair
instead? I think me touching it is what set off the flashback last
time. Take some of this and rub it into your hair, then we'll let it sit
for a bit and you can rinse it out.
Of course, Mistress,
the Servant said, although it was not
feeling particularly confident. It took a deep breath, squeezed some of
the shampoo into its hands, and got to work.
After Grace had finished bathing it, the Servant began to wonder if perhaps it had never really been clean before in its entire life. Its skin was almost radiant compared to its usual pallor and soft to the touch, and its hair had a silky, pleasing texture. Grace had also carefully brushed its hair out, which had been vastly more effort than could possibly have been worth expending on it, and now the Servant couldn't keep itself from running its hands through its own hair, gathering it into bundles and enjoying the feel. Grace caught it doing so and smiled at it, which made it conscious that it was behaving unusually and it stopped.
As Grace was finishing dressing it, there was a sudden commotion from within the infirmary - a couple of urgent voices, shouting for Grace. Looking alarmed, she pulled the belt tight on the Servant's tunic, then threw the bathroom door open.
What's going on?
A trio of the household guards were in the doorway, two of them
half-carrying one of their fellows, who hung limp in their arms. Grace
hurried over. Get him onto one of the beds. What happened?
The guards hurried to obey her, laying the unconscious guard down on the bed. Grace followed, beckoning the Servant to come along. She looked down at the guard and swore, seeing blood dripping down the man's face from somewhere beneath his cap. One of the guards winced at the sight.
Some fucking... some rabble scum in the crowd outside threw a rock or
something, then just melted away. Bastard!
Grace let out a frustrated breath. You should've called me. You
shouldn't move someone with a head injury like this.
We damn well know,
the other guard snapped, but - well, things
looked like they might get uglier still. You know how it is with
crowds.
He looked down at the bed, watching while Grace bent over
the man, gingerly removed his cap, and ran her fingertips across his
skull. The Servant could see his jaw muscles working as he fought to
keep his anger under control. He radiated danger, and the Servant felt
itself instinctively trying to shrink away.
Well,
the other guard said, the civic guard are here now
clearing them out, and I reckon they'll probably make a few
examples. Sorely needed, if you ask me - there's too much of this kind
of thing going around lately. Fucking rabble. They want hanging, the
lot of them. We ought to -
That's enough,
Grace said flatly, cutting the man off. Step
back and keep your mouths shut while I examine him properly. I'm going
to need - oh damn. Servant, bring me the plastic box over there.
The Servant did so, and Grace popped the top off the box, extracting a
pair of gloves. She pulled them on quickly, then went back to examining
the man's head. It appeared that she found what she was looking for,
because she swore again under her breath. I think it was a
slingshot,
she said, or something like that. His skull is
fractured here.
She straightened, looking grimly over at the other
two guards.
What does that mean?
, one of them asked, voice rising.
It means,
Grace replied, that he needs a real hospital and a
real doctor, unfortunately. If you didn't already, go let the old man
know what happened - he'll have to make the call. Quick!
Both guards turned and fled without a further word, and Grace looked
down at the unconscious man, mouth set in a hard line. Well,
she
said to herself, it was bound to happen eventually.
She turned to
the Servant. Put the box down and get a pair of gloves on. You're
helping me with this.
Yes, Mistress,
replied the Servant, as it did as ordered. She
took its gloved hands in her own and had it stand above the unconscious
guard's head, then place its hands beneath his head and neck.
Good,
she said, once the Servant had gotten its position
correct. That will keep him from moving his head any more if he moves
around while he's unconscious. Being out for this long isn't a good
sign, though... but there's nothing else we can do for him here. At
least he's breathing.
Her job done for the moment, Grace stepped back, giving the Servant an
approving nod as it kept its hands positioned below the man's
neck. Good job. Just keep doing that.
She then gave the Servant
itself an appraising look. How much do you know about what's going on
in the outside world, anyway?
Very little, Mistress,
replied the Servant. In fact, its only
excursion outside its two previous homes in more than a year had been
the car trip between them, and it had never really had occasion to talk
to... well, anyone at all, Servant or otherwise. It had probably talked
more with Grace in the past few days than it would have talked to
everyone, put together, in the entire month beforehand. The Servant
blinked, almost letting go of the guard's head, as the realization
crystallized for it. It stiffened slightly, turning the idea over in its
head, as Grace went on.
Well - hm. Do you know what a social class is?
The Servant frowned. It was sure its answer was at best incomplete and
would make it sound foolish, but Grace had asked it
directly. It's... whether you're a Servant or a person, Mistress?
Grace nodded. It's a bit more complicated than that, but
yes. Actually, there's four different classes. Nobles at the top, then
citizens, then rabble, then servants at the bottom. All the classes
above servants are what you call people. Anyway, there's... it's shaped
like a triangle, where there are very few nobles at the top, then more
citizens, then a lot of rabble, then some servants down below, but about
ninety percent of everyone is rabble. Me included, for that matter.
The Servant did its best to remember. Yes, Mistress.
So,
Grace went on. While rabble have more rights than
servants, it's still mostly a... not a very good life. For a lot of
reasons. The nobles and the citizens get the best of everything, and
there's never enough of anything left to go around. It's been that way
for a long time, and the - well, and a bunch of the rabble aren't really
having it any more. There have been protests everywhere, mostly
peaceful, but not always.
She trailed off and looked down at the face of the unconscious
guard. Lord Carter is a good man - a very good one, even - but that
doesn't really matter. For a lot of people, he's still a part of the
whole system, and just as much of an enemy as any other noble. It was
only a matter of time until something like this happened here.
The Servant paused, digesting what she'd said. It didn't know what it
was supposed to think or do with the information. Thank you for
explaining, Mistress.
Grace gave it an unreadable look for a few silent seconds, then
said: Of course, Servant. You can ask me anything you'd like, and
I'll try to explain. It's a difficult time we're living in right now -
unless you're a noble, anyway.
The Servant heard the sound of boots on the wooden floor, and then the
door to the infirmary was thrown open. Over here,
called
Grace. The Servant was hurriedly pushed away from the unconscious man,
and then a trio of medics loaded him onto a stretcher and carried him
off.
After a few more hours of rest and another solid meal, Grace declared the Servant fit for duty, although exactly what that duty was supposed to be was not yet clear. She enlisted its help tidying the infirmary, but things were already so clean that there seemed to be little real work to do. Over lunch, she merely picked at her own food, although she insisted that the Servant eat its entire meal once again. The Servant's anxiety grew and grew, and though it managed to choke down all the food it was provided, it hardly tasted any of it.
Eventually, the Servant's curiosity surpassed its fear, and it decided
to see if it was permitted to ask a question. Mistress, is everything
alright?
Grace looked over at it. Hm? Oh. No, it's... it's nothing. Just
thinking about what happened earlier.
The Servant had finished its meal, and set its cutlery neatly down on
its plate. Good work eating everything,
Grace said with a small
smile.
Yes, Mistress,
the Servant said. Are you finished eating as
well? I can take your tray.
Grace looked down at her plate, as though surprised by the
question. Oh. I suppose so, yeah. Thank you.
By the time the Servant got back to the table, Grace was already standing, and motioned for it to follow her upstairs. She led it outside and into the estate's gardens. The Servant blinked in the early afternoon sunlight, shielding its eyes; Grace walked into the middle of a large patch of grass, stretched her arms out, and took a slow, deep breath. She turned her face towards the sun and shut her eyes, and the Servant felt that it could see the tension melting away from her. She was beautiful, the Servant realized - radiant, seeming to reflect the sun in every aspect. Stray strands of hair, escaping from her messy bun, caught the light and cast a halo around her.
Servant?
Grace's voice abruptly reminded the Servant that it had been staring,
and it averted its eyes. Sorry, Mistress,
it said. I was
distracted.
Grace seemed to blush, although the Servant might well have been
imagining it. It's alright. Come, let's walk around the grounds a bit
together. I feel a bit better already just being in the sun.
The Servant obeyed, following a couple of paces behind Grace. She led it
through an exquisitely-kept flower garden, then underneath an arched
passageway through a tall hedge. On the far side, the Servant could
faintly hear the sound of children squealing and laughing. Grace peered
around a corner, then looked back at the Servant with a smile. The
kids are out! Come on, I'll introduce you.
The Servant followed her out into another grassy area ringed by high
hedges. Several children were indeed playing there, running about and
chasing each other in some kind of complex game. Grace made it less than
three paces before she was spotted and immediately swarmed by no less
than six kids, who gathered around her in a loose group hug. Laughing,
Grace greeted each child in turn. The Servant stood by, hands folded in
front of it, unsure what to do. Grace looked over at it, then beckoned
it over. Kids, this is a new Servant. It doesn't have a name yet, so
we're calling it Servant for now. Can we all say hello?
All the children turned and the Servant was greeted with a chorus of
enthusiastic welcomes. Grace smiled warmly. Good. Now, go run along -
I think you were all in the middle of a game, weren't you?
The children scattered again, laughing - all except for one small girl,
not even as tall as the Servant's waist, who stood looking at it. She
folded her arms across her chest. You're a servant?
The Servant made eye contact with Grace, but she just gave it an
encouraging smile and said nothing. The Servant hestitated, then
said: Yes, Miss.
My mom is a servant too.
The Servant looked at her, puzzled. Oh,
it said, trying to draw a
comparison between the girl standing in front of its and its own
memories of childhood. Rather than a uniform of rugged grey cloth, as
the Servant remembers all servant children being clothed, the girl had a
peach-colored dress, apparently finely-made and just the right size for
her. She also looked - well, perhaps a bit on the skinny side, but
certainly well-fed, healthy, and clean. Um,
it continued. Is
she here too?
The girl shook her head. She's busy working, so I get to - hey!
One of the other children thundered past at a run, brushed her with one
hand, and yelled something. She glared after the other child for a
moment, then shot off, sprinting after them. Grace watched fondly, then
turned back to the Servant.
That's Meridith,
she explained. I was hoping she'd introduce
herself, but - well, yeah. She's one of the servant children on the
estate.
Are these... all the other servant children, Mistress?
Hm? Oh, no. Meridith is, and that little boy with the blue shirt -
well, it was blue this morning anyway - is Tristan. His parents are both
servants, so he and Meridith are both also servants, legally at
least. The other kids are just kids of people who work here,
and... ah!
Grace gestured to another girl, sitting beneath a tree,
nose buried in a book. Another servant sat next to her, apparently at
ease, with a watchful eye on the children at play. That's Lord
Carter's youngest, Elise,
Grace explains. She's lovely, but her
health has never been good, and she's not usually up to playing with the
other kids. You'll probably see her in the infirmary pretty often. The
servant next to her is Brittany, who's usually the one looking after
her.
Yes, Mistress,
the Servant replied, and did its best to remember
both faces. It had trouble drawing any connection between the way it had
grown up and what it was seeing here. It had never really had any
occasion to play at all, never mind play with... with children who
weren't themselves servants. Its own upbringing seemed unreal to it,
like the sunlight and fresh air were slowly bleaching the colors out of
its own memories. It was only then that its mind caught up, and it
realized something.
Mistress?
Yes, Servant?
Do all the servants here have names?
Grace was silent for a moment. Well, yes,
she said, after
thinking. Oh - you used to have a number at your old home, right?
The Servant nodded. We should give you a name instead. Is there a
name you like?
The Servant stared blankly at her. A... name? It had never really
imagined having one before. As far as it had been concerned, servants
were always numbered, or simply called "servant" when
needed. I... no, Mistress. I will answer to anything you like.
Grace frowned. Okay,
she said, making a thoughtful noise. She
shut her eyes and stood still for a moment, apparently thinking
deeply. She opened her eyes and her face broke into a wide smile. How
does "Eve" sound?
The Servant reflexively opened its mouth to agree with Grace's choice
immediately, but Grace pressed a finger to its lips to stop it from
speaking. We'll try it on for a bit,
she said, and see how you
feel. Okay? I'll call you Eve, and I want you to call yourself that, if
you can.
The Servant nodded slowly. I... I will do my best, Mistress.
Good. Now, Eve,
Grace said, putting extra emphasis on the
name. How'd you like to go meet Elise and Brittany?
The Servant looked across the sunlit lawn, at the children playing, and
at the girl reading beneath the tree, and the servant relaxing beside
her. The world around it seemed brighter, somehow - newly made, or
remade, perhaps. By Grace. Yes, Mistress,
said Eve.