The job listing just happened to catch Raven's eye. Tacked to the Friends of the West Vale Library corkboard, it was the low-cost sort, printed out on eight-by-eleven printer paper with the lowest inch or so perforated to make tearable strips. The listing advertised an open hiring call for a live-in personal assistant. Applicants were advised to send in a resume and cover letter, then await a call from the offices of an Ozpin Head.
Raven tore off one of the strips. She had been out of work ever since she moved home. Between rent and personal expenses her savings were reaching the point where Raven had begun to stop visiting supermarkets while even slightly hungry. There was little work for paralegals out here in West Vale. Assistant work wasn't Raven's preference, but neither was starvation.
She sent in her resume and cover letter an hour later. The process of tweaking both had been strange. She had never realized how vague and undefined the work of a personal assistant was until forced to preen her resume into something attractive for such a position. In the end, she had downplayed the martial peculiarities of her military service in favor of a focus on discipline and sent it in.
The next morning, her usual breakfast of skim milk and unsweetened oatmeal was interrupted by a call to her cell phone. She picked up on the second ring.
"You've reached Raven Branwen," she said. "How may I help you?"
"Good morning, Ms. Branwen." Raven picked up a stray pen and took notes on the newspaper. Taking notes whilst people spoke had been a life-saving habit in her work as a paralegal, and it would likely do her favors to keep it up. "I am Ozpin, the man to whom you sent your resume last night. I would like to meet you in person today if possible. I'm terribly sorry about the sudden notice, but I found your application fascinating. Could a time be arranged?" Raven smiled a little, scribbling a few notes.
Polite.
Grammarian; likely well-educated.
Impatient.
"Certainly. How about eleven 'o clock?" she suggested.
"Perfect," Ozpin said. "Will you need the address?" Raven did, and he told her where it was. The street name sounded familiar, but she would have to wait and see it. In the meantime, she thanked him for his consideration and hung up the phone. Then after a moment's reflection, she finished her oatmeal and began her morning routine. By ten, she had exercised, showered, and dressed.
Before leaving, Raven inspected herself in the mirror. Her attire was strictly business casual; a pencil skirt and a peach blouse, a small silver necklace, shoes with a little heel. She was wearing the sort of makeup that fooled men into thinking the wearer wasn't wearing makeup. Raven wore this primarily because most of the men she had met both appreciated a made-up woman and criticized makeup heavily, without ever being asked to supply an opinion. Unfortunately, this group of men included her brother (whose success with women was only matched by his pathological tendency to drive them insane) and a good deal of the professional men Raven had met. It was an unfortunate reality of her world.
She drove to meet Ozpin at eleven thirty. He lived about twenty minutes away by car, and she enjoyed being early. After a while, she found herself driving past large, stately brick buildings with names. It seemed to be a university campus, but the buildings were defunct, and the parking lots cracked and empty. The air conditioning units in the windows were the precise brown color of oxidized apple flesh.
The house at the address Ozpin had provided was an opulent brick and stone affair with granite pillars in the front and a circular driveway that looped around a small island of grass and shrubbery. Raven parked on the street and walked up the driveway, pencil and notebook in hand. Her prospective employer was waiting in a golf cart, an engraved silver cane leaning against his leg. He stood up to meet her and extended a hand. Raven shook it firmly.
"Ozpin Head," he said, by way of introduction. "Lovely to meet you, Ms. Branwen."
"Likewise," she said, nodding her head.
"I was hoping we could talk during a brief tour of the grounds," he said. "This is hardly my usual policy, but as I hope you will be living here, I thought we could accomplish the dual purpose of familiarizing you with this area and enjoying this fine August afternoon. Is that alright with you?"
"Of course," Raven said. In truth, she would have preferred to be inside, but now was as good a time as any to acquaint herself with the quirks of her soon-to-be employer; for he seemed to be intent on hiring her, for reasons of his own. Raven stepped into the golf cart, and Ozpin did the same, setting his cane between them and driving them out on to the road.
"This was once a college campus," Ozpin said. Raven opened her notebook and began to write.
Doesn't like to talk business.
"Beacon College, it was called. A private liberal arts school. The endowment ran out when I was a teenager. My father, the last President, loved this place so much that he bought the entire campus when the school closed, and a Head has lived here ever since." Raven watched the buildings move by.
"Are all these buildings being maintained?" she asked. It seemed a waste of money.
"Oh, no," Ozpin said, with a small laugh. "In fact, I have been selling them off over the years. The core of the grounds is all I really want—my home, the library, the chapel, the recreational field and gardens. Everything else I've found to be disposable, especially as very few others can enjoy it. I am told I don't look it, but I am a very old man, Ms. Branwen. Frivolities don't suit a man of my years." He parked the golf cart next to a stone path leading to a distant gazebo. "Shall we walk?"
They began to walk along the path. Raven noticed the way Ozpin used his cane immediately. Most people who had canes thought of them as "walking sticks" because they did not truly need them, making silly mistakes like not putting their weight on the cane or using it for their strong leg. But Raven, a veteran herself, knew many other veterans who needed canes for the types of injuries therapy couldn't help, and knew disability when she saw it. Ozpin was not of the "walking stick" sort. Fancy as his cane was, he truly needed it.
Ozpin seemed determined to speak of everything under the sun except the terms of Raven's employment. By the time they reached the gazebo, Raven's feet and head both hurt, and she had entertained the thought of strangling the man twice. They took seats opposite each other.
"So, Ms. Branwen. What is your ideal salary?" She was taken off guard by the question.
"Thirty dollars an hour," she replied promptly, aiming high. "Your listing suggested that health and dental care benefits were available as well, and your list of preferred skills was fairly complex."
"Fair enough," he said. "But I will be frank with you, Ms. Branwen. I do not really need a personal assistant. I took interest in your resume less because you will be good at arranging travel itineraries and more because you are a middle-aged woman of experience. Your military service, college education, world travel, multilingualism—these are traits I want in a companion, not a wage slave."
"Sir?"
"I am a fairly solitary man who needs company. I will not put a price tag on that. I have been through five personal assistants of this type in the last year; some stayed on for a trial month at exorbitant rates, then left. Others did not enjoy my company. You may do whatever your like, but for at least one month, I implore you to give it a try." It was the strangest job offer Raven had ever received.
The next day she had moved in.
"Ozpin."
"Mm."
"Ozpin, please." It was two-thirty in the afternoon, and Ozpin had not gotten out of bed yet. In quiet protest against the beams of sunlight that his window allowed through, he had put a pillow over his face. It muffled his voice as he spoke.
"Raven, I am a profoundly tired old man with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome and clinical depression. To use the modern parlance, please let me live." Raven leaned against the door, smiling faintly. For such a dignified old bastard, Ozpin could be surprisingly babyish in the morning.
"Ozpin, I did not tell your chef to prepare a sumptuous breakfast for your birthday just so you could sit up here and ignore the will of nature that humans walk around in the light. You will get up or I will make you." The pillow rose up, and Ozpin's hand shot out, snagging his glasses from his nightstand. He looked her dead in the eye with a sudden acuity that was almost humorous, juxtaposed with the sloth of a moment ago.
"You have children," he said, sharply.
"It's been six months and you're only now realizing that?" she asked, a little teasing. He shook his head.
"It was the tone of authority. Only mothers can use that." He wiped his glasses on a pillowcase. "Is it alright if I come to breakfast in my nightshirt?" Raven smiled.
"I won't tell if you don't," she said.
"So, what are their names?" he asked, a few minutes later as they ate. "Your children, I mean." Raven chewed and swallowed a piece of plain toast and washed it down with a sip of freshly squeezed orange juice.
"I only have one. Her name is Yang Xiao Long." Ozpin looked up, eyebrows raised.
"Her father?"
"Taiwanese," Raven clarified. That was one of the more annoying things about Ozpin. Intelligent he might be, but he was still old white Southern gentry. The idea of a pale-skinned Welsh woman marrying and having children with a man who was not at least as pale as beige carpet made Ozpin's mind sit up and say "miscegenation" three times fast. Fortunately, he said nothing aloud on the subject, simply nodding.
"What is Yang like?" Raven pondered the question.
"Judging by her social media presence, I would say the only things she's into are girls, motorcycles, and Roman history." Ozpin quirked an eyebrow.
"Don't you know her on a personal level?"
"She and I aren't exactly close," Raven said. "I spent most of her childhood on tours, and when I got back I divorced her father before going back to school. She hardly knows me, and I hardly know her. It's my fault, of course. But I actually moved here to West Vale to be closer to her."
"That's interesting," Ozpin said. "You're here for her, but you never leave the campus, nor do you speak of or to her where I can be made aware of it. If you desire intimacy with your daughter, you may want to employ methods beyond wishful thinking."
"What are you suggesting?"
"Call her up," he said. "Invite her here." Raven stared openly.
"Excuse me?"
"Ms. Branwen. You're my personal assistant, yes?"
"Yes."
"Are you familiar with a girl named Yang Xiao Long?"
"Yes."
"Call her and invite her here. I want to speak with her." Raven sat there, fork halfway to her mouth. "After breakfast," Ozpin amended, and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "For now, I am going to go to the kitchens and deliver my compliments to the chef."
The growl of Yang's motorcycle in the driveway was a better signal of her arrival than any knock or doorbell could have been. Raven stepped outside to meet her, and watched as Yang put down her kickstand. Her daughter had inherited her thick, unkempt hair, and it looked good coming out of a helmet. But her hair was blond now; only her dark roots showed hints of Raven. They stood facing each other. Raven thought of hugging Yang, but in the end decided against it.
"You called?" Yang asked, a bit too loudly.
"Hello, Yang. Come in." Yang shoved her hands in her pockets, despite the fact that her jeans were so tight that Raven would have thought quarter wouldn't fit. Yang pushed her sunglasses up over her forehead and entered Ozpin's house looking straight ahead, trying not to seem amazed by the expensive architecture and interior design. "I'll show you to Ozpin's office." They navigated corridors and flights of stairs in silence. Yang seemed confident now, but still so angry. Raven's only consolation was knowing her daughter had gotten that anger from her.
When they reached the office, the door was already open. Ozpin sat behind his desk, on which a glass chess set had been placed. A single chair sat opposite him. He stood up, grabbing his cane, and walked over to Yang.
"Ms. Xiao Long. A pleasure." Yang inclined her head to him sharply, and gave his hand a perfunctory shake. "Please sit. Do you like chess?" Yang shook her head.
"It's for smart people who really want everyone else to know how smart they are," she said. Ozpin chuckled.
"I agree—like boxing, for the frail and pretentious. Still, I find it makes a wonderful conversation aid. Shall we indulge our mutual pretensions and share a game?" Yang almost smiled, but she held it in.
"Sure."
"Raven, could you go get my annotated copy of The Sorrows of Young Werther?" Raven got the message and left.
Ozpin's personal library had once been the library of Beacon College. Apparently, his father had loved living in a place students used constantly, and was well known to deliver coffee to students in the stacks during final exams. Raven was well-acquainted with the organization of the library and quickly located the book in question, but of more interest was the surrounding area.
Namely, that a transparent glass dome looking down into Ozpin's office was right next to the shelf. Shaking her head at her boss's machinations, she leaned in to eavesdrop.
"Let's wager," Yang said. "If I win, you'll give me some of that rum in the corner over there."
"Alright," Ozpin said, even while Raven swore from her hiding place. "And if I win, you'll take me on a drive on your motorbike." Yang, on the black side of the board, made her first move.
"Deal. So, Raven told you to talk to me?" Ozpin chuckled.
"Knowing your mother, if she knew I wanted to talk to you about her she would not have left us alone." Ozpin moved one of his knights. "Ms. Xiao Long, you really are so much like her. You probably tire of hearing that, but it's undeniable. Her stubbornness, her stern demeanor, her hidden anger—I see them all in your face. You aren't as good at hiding it as she is."
"She doesn't have feelings," Yang muttered. "She's got you fooled. She doesn't care about anything but her career and her feelings." Raven thought that was fair enough. "Or. At least I don't think she cares about me. Maybe she likes you okay." Yang took his knight, and Ozpin considered the board for a while. A few moves passed in silence.
"Yang, you're familiar with Goldilocks?" Yang snorted, and Ozpin pressed on. "I think you may face the same dilemma as the titular character of that fairy tale. Your mother's true emotions are too hot, too intense for you to handle. But the self she displays to you is too cold. And I would wager that the same goes for how she sees you."
"That's cute," Yang said, "but I don't even know what "just right" feels like."
"Well...maybe you should try blowing on your porridge some time," Ozpin replied. Yang moved a pawn with her thumb.
"You lost me with that metaphor," she said. Ozpin smiled.
"It's the pedant in me. I'm suggesting that you call her. Just once a week. Parents are a precious thing. I lost my father decades ago, but I will never forget him. Check." Yang smiled. She moved her bishop all the way across the board, pinning Ozpin's king down perfectly. Ozpin gaped down at the board.
"Checkmate," Yang said. "For a pretentious old man, you're pretty bad at this game." Ozpin looked up at her, reached for a crystal bottle, and poured out two shots of rum.
"Don't tell your mother," he said, and they both drank. Yang wiped her mouth with her sleeve once the rum went down. "I have a reputation to uphold. Really, I should have disqualified you. You don't play like some with no interest in chess. I suspect you have made a study of it." Yang put her sunglasses back over her eyes, apparently ready to leave. "Oh, Ms. Xiao Long—same time next week?" She looked at him in blatant disbelief.
"You're a bold old freak, you know that?"
"But you'll come, won't you?" Yang grunted on her way out the door, but it was only to hide a laugh. And up from her hiding place, Raven saw Ozpin pour another shot of rum for himself, toast his invisible watcher, and drink to her good health.