I awoke early, changed into my suit, and sat at
my desk to create my own schedule and a schedule for
each employee—the cook, the gardener, and the two
maids. My lord’s late wife had left a contact list with
their names, but neither details nor schedules, so it
was up to me. As I dressed, I looked at myself in the
mirror and saw my mother’s face there, her proud
cheekbones and blond tufts of hair. Nostalgic, I added
“write to mother” at the bottom of my list.
I opened my curtain to let the light in, but was
surprised how grey the sky was. Looking down, I
could see the winter primrose only starting to close,
with little streaks of sun slicing through the clouds.
As soon as enough morning light emerged to
brighten up the room, I went to the kitchen to prepare
some tea and leftover scones, thinking to leave the
tray outside my lord’s bedroom.
I heard a voice from inside the bedroom: “Is
that you lad? Come in, come in.”
I did. The ceiling seemed higher in this room
and I saw the four-poster bed and the heavy red
tapestries covering the walls and the floors. There
were two large mirrors mounted on the wall, which
struck me as unusual—not that I would ever judge my
lord’s taste. He sat in the bed naked from the waist up,
that same red hair speckled with white trailing down
his thick chest. He patted the bed between his legs.
“Here,” he said.
“My lord, you wish for me to—?”
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