[ Monday ]
Monday sleeps.
Denizens do not dream, at all. There is no satisfaction to be gained from his constant sleep, except the relief from the lethargy that plagues him when he is awake.
He did not know that running the Lower House would be so much work. There are so many little things that go wrong, and the Denizens lack the initiative to put them to rights without his guidance. It is so very tedious, and dedicating his few waking hours to their inconsequential concerns is a vexing prospect.
His Noon used to tell him how many Denizens awaited his attention in the Atrium, whenever Monday woke up. Monday wakes so seldom now that Noon does not even bother anymore.
Monday does not mind; he prefers it this way. Knowing how many tiny, irritating things there were to deal with would only make him less inclined to do it, he imagines.
Monday sleeps, and he does not dream, and times passes.
Crying wakes him; great, screaming sobs the likes of which Monday has never heard. His limbs feel heavy, his mind slow and foggy. For many minutes he lies in bed, stares uncomprehending up at the ceiling. What is that racket? Why has Noon not dealt with it? Or if not Noon, his siblings? Sneezer?
Has everyone in the Lower House been stricken by those petty problems that even his most trusted servants do not fulfill their functions any longer?
Surely Noon would have woken him before this if that were the case.
Monday pushes aside the heavy coverlet; his hands tremble faintly. They are thinner than he remembers, skeletal; his whole body is diminished - not that he was ever muscular to begin with, not like Tuesday or Thursday.
His legs protest when he puts his slight weight on them, but he ignores it. How irritating that his own body is rebelling like this, attempting to burden him with such minor problems - as if to mirror the state of the Lower House. Loosely knotting the tie of his robe takes longer than it should.
Part of the steam baths have been partitioned off by a folding screen when he exits his bedchamber. Monday frowns faintly; he cannot recall authorizing such a thing, but neither had he forbidden it. The screaming is coming from there.
The steady heat of the baths eases the ache in his body as Monday makes his way to the corner. Neither his Times nor Sneezer appear to be in evidence; he wonders briefly what might have drawn his principle servants away, then dismisses the thought as inconsequential.
A small child is lying in a miniature, railed bed. Its face is red, eyes squeezed shut as it wails. Its tiny fists and feet are raised in the air as it flails about, the blanket half-hanging off one of the railed sides.
"Quiet," Monday says, scowling down at it.
The baby pauses briefly, blue eyes slitting open, before it resumes its irritating bawling.
Something hits his bare foot; Monday looks down, sees a garish yellow thing on the floor before him. He picks it up and the baby screams, hands reaching out towards him.
Monday steps closer, presses the yellow thing into its hands. The baby snatches it away with surprising strength and sticks one of the floppy protuberances - limbs, Monday realizes a moment later - into its mouth.
Monday stares at the baby for a second longer, then turns to walk back to his bedchamber.
The baby makes a sound, not quite a wail - more like the promise of one.
Monday turns back, eyes narrowed. The baby is staring up at him, gnawing absently on the stuffed animal's limb.
"What do you want," he demands, the words fading into a jaw-cracking yawn. He is so tired.
The baby keeps one hand fisted around the animal and reaches out to him with the other.
Monday frowns and puts the blanket in its hand. It tosses the blanket aside, keeps its hand raised expectantly. Monday gives it the blanket again. And again.
The fourth time, the baby latches onto his thumb with an unexpectedly strong grasp; after a couple of attempts to extract his finger, Monday gives up. It's too much effort.
"No screaming," he tells it, slipping his free hand behind the baby's back. "No crying. Do not wake me again."
The baby looks up at him quietly, its blue eyes seeming too large for its small face.
It occurs to Monday to wonder where the baby came from, and why it is in the Lower House of all places, once he has settled himself and the baby into his bed.
It does not matter, Monday decides, adjusting the baby so it is lying on the centre of his chest. He pulls the coverlet up so it covers everything but the baby's head, then settles his laced fingers atop the baby and its stuffed animal.
The baby lies quietly, one hand stubbornly curled around Monday's thumb, until Monday falls asleep.
"-should wake him," Dusk is saying, his naturally low voice pitched even quieter than usual. Not quiet enough, as far as Monday's concerned. Perhaps if he pretends to be asleep, Dusk will go away.
"He does not know about Arthur," Noon hisses back.
"Arthur is still missing," Dawn says. "With the First Key, perhaps our master could locate him."
All three of his Times are present? Monday would roll his eyes, if they were open. Of course they would show up now, when he has no need of them. Where were they when that baby was screaming its head off earlier?
The baby in question shifts on his chest, makes an inquiring sort of noise.
"Arthur!" Dusk says hoarsely; though his footsteps are muffled by the thick carpet, Monday hears him approach anyway.
"Dusk. Noon. Dawn. What are you doing," he says, opening his eyes.
Dusk halts, a guilty expression crossing his features; his hand is outstretched, clearly intent upon taking Arthur from Monday.
"Looking for Arthur, master," Noon says, approaching as well; Dawn is a step behind him. "The baby."
Monday shifts, so he is sitting against the headboard with Arthur cradled against his chest. "Yes. The baby. What is he doing here?"
"The Morrow Days have decided to raise a Rightful Heir," Noon says. "To spread the influence upon Arthur evenly, the Demesnes take care of him on rotation. He spends Monday in the Lower House, Tuesday in the Far Reaches, and so on."
"He was screaming and crying. He woke me."
Dusk winces. "I apologize, master. It was my duty to watch Arthur before, but an urgent matter arose that needed to be taken care of. Arthur was sleeping when I left him, though he does wake sometimes in the night."
Monday frowns. "It has been dealt with?"
"Yes, master."
"Fine. In future, he may sleep with me when he stays in the Lower House," Monday says. "I do not want to be woken by that wailing again."
"He does seem quiescent with you, master," Dawn agrees.
Monday yawns. "I assume he is to journey to the Far Reaches now. You may take him." He hands Arthur to Dusk, then rolls over and pointedly tugs the coverlet up to his chin.
"At once, master," Dusk says.
Monday doesn't bother replying; he has already closed his eyes, intent upon resuming his sleep.