See end of chapter for notes.


"Riff, what's your form?" It was an old question and an old demand, and Cain had taken to asking at unexpected times, in the middle of conversations about accounts, or Merriweather's latest escapades, or when being dressed for bed. And Riff would ignore him and continue on as if he'd said absolutely nothing... and it was driving Cain to distraction.

Infuriating, that's what it was. Absolutely infuriating. And, unfortunately, unlikely to be successful any time soon. Cain wondered, sometimes, if Riff was perhaps on some sort of perpetual sedative. No one was that unflappable. Except, of course, he wasn't (and had actually laughed aloud at the notion, when Cain had absently suggested it).

"I don't understand why you don't use it," Cain added, crossing his arms and scowling. "And I really don't understand why you won't even tell me. Do you not trust me?"

For the first time, Cain earned a reaction. Riff stared for a moment, before sighing and folding his hands behind his back. "Master Cain, I have my own reasons for not wishing to use my form, and for not showing it to anyone, and they have nothing to do with a lack of trust for you."

"Is it something embarrassing, then?" Cain demanded, leaning back in his chair and abandoning the documents Riff had brought for him to sign. "I've been trying to think of what it might be. A giraffe? You're certainly tall enough."

Riff coughed, his cheeks flaring up briefly. Cain eyed the blush with amusement and decided he liked it-he'd have to provoke it again, at some point, but there were more important things to do right now. "No, sir. Besides, you know as well as I that there's a reason servants are termed 'domestics.'"

Cain scowled this time, deeply displeased. "Do not tell me you actually believe that superior blood bullshit, Riffael Raffit. You are not and have never been and will never be simply a servant. There's no guarantee whatsoever that your form is an easily domesticated one. And even if you did, you were once middle class! Again, no guarantee whatsoever. What is it? Tell me!"

Riff shook his head. "Master Cain, you've mentioned the reason yourself… My form… it is the form of a middle class man, a student and aspiring doctor, not the form of a valet. I am what I am now-my form is in the past, and is only a reminder of what I have lost… I have not told you what my form is not because I don't trust you, milord, but because I wish to focus instead on all I have gained."

There was a moment of thick silence. Cain had never really thought of that. Of course Riff had lost so much himself, of course he missed his family, of course he had had a life before finding a crying boy in the garden… But like a selfish child, Cain found it hard to actually believe Riff had existed before he'd met him, though he knew it in a sort of abstract way-the same way he consciously knew the earth moved around the sun, though he'd never felt it himself or seen it himself or had particularly cared. And the sudden reminder… Cain tried to not feel too guilty. He'd try to ignore the temptation to ask again. Riff was right, it didn't particularly matter.

Except it was a part of Riff that he did not know about, and he'd always been rubbish at resisting temptation.

"Those papers need to be signed by this afternoon," Riff added, reaching forward to tap one long finger on the desk.

Cain sighed, and slumped in his. Back to business as usual, then…

…But what was it?!


A/N: So, more as a reassurance that I'm still alive than anything else, I've cleaned up the punctuation and grammar in this little one shot and posted it. It ties into my shapeshifter universe, and gives a little bit of Riff's mentality towards forms and so on.

Read and review if you like, I suppose!

Also, note: I am in the process of writing the first chapter for Pretty Maids All in a Row, the sequel to Quite Contrary. Keep an eye on my profile!