Listen. Listen. If you give me grief about me using the singular they in the comments for this story, I'm going to McFreakin' lose it. We have important things to get to, take your barely-literate ass elsewhere. Speaking of,
This story will contain child abuse of every stripe. Proceed with caution.
Feel free to message me if you would like a detailed trigger warning.
Link swallowed the urge to cough as smoke drifted down around their head, smelling of tobacco and wildflowers. With a gentle 'tink' of the quill against the edge of the inkpot, they pressed on with their notes; forty pounds each wheat, salt and pork. Two different prices for the lot already crossed out.
The visiting Mr. Verdale blew another long stream of smoke from his nostrils. He was a businessman out of Tabantha, who was steadily growing displeased with the negotiations. "Do you have any intention of being reasonable today, Regiold?"
The man he addressed was Regiold Sunderland, current head of house. A tall hylian man with broad shoulders exaggerated by a set of gold pauldrons. His red hair was slicked back flat, over a face that was sharp from chin to cheekbones to brow. And at those words, that sharp face split into a patient grin.
Mr. Verdale turned his head and smoothed his mustache to try and distract from the roll of his eyes. "Very well then."
Link, in turn, struggled to hide their relief that the meeting would soon be over. The price was finalized and the two men began moving through their pleasantries.
Lord Sunderland plucked the box of cigars from his desk and pressed them into Mr. Verdale's hands. "Do feel free to return for dinner."
Mr. Verdale raised the cigar box, its lid intricately decorated in flowers and vines, and gently shook it. He crinkled his nose and said in a stage-whisper, "I think I've quite over-indulged in your gratuity already."
The men shared a laugh.
Regiold saw his business partner out with a kindly hand between his shoulder blades, blessedly leaving the door open. Only when the sounds of their boots had become distant, their voices only murmurs, did Link let out a heavy sigh, fanning smoke away from themself with spare parchment. Only for a moment, though; with the sound of the front door shutting, he would be on his way back.
They finished dotting their 'i's and crossing their 't's with tension shaking their arm from the battling forces of 'speed' and 'accuracy'. One ear twitched as he crossed the loose board in the hallway, and they grabbed another paper to quickly fan a thick spot in the ink.
Lord Sunderland reentered and took their notes before they'd had the chance to finish. Link winced as it smeared under his thumb, but he either didn't notice or didn't mind. They sat straight as a board as they traced their own handwriting, visible through the back of the paper. Only when they began to worry that something was wrong did he return the parchment to the top of the stack.
"Come." Was his simple command as he turned on his heel.
Link scrambled to return the quill and inkpot to their proper places, gathering the documents to their chest and skittering along after their master like a mouse. They had to walk twice as fast just to keep a step behind him.
The walls of the long hallway were painted white on the top half, covered by fine wood paneling on the bottom half, and brightened by several large windows adorned with heavy cream curtains; outside, hedges bursting with pale pink camellias knocked at the panes. Late afternoon sun danced along the top of the paneling and flickered through the top of Link's golden hair.
Before the pair reached the foyer, the lord turned his head so he could just see Link from the corner of his eye. "Deliver these papers to the desk in my quarters, would you?"
A single curt nod was all the answer he needed. When the two reached the foyer, Lord Sunderland continued on toward the west wing while Link made for the stairs, which occupied most of the width of the room; shallow-stepped and adored with plush red carpet, the banisters ending in wooden sculptures of a simplified version of the family's crest.
The manor was divided evenly into eastern and western halves - or northeast and southwest, more accurately, given its position in town. On the first floor were libraries, studies, and drawing rooms used for business meetings. The dining hall was tucked under the stairs, with narrow passages to the kitchen and laundry hidden away on either side. On the second floor were the bedrooms, laid out in two rows with a single hall between, which of course meant no windows in the hall. Link had seen very little of the bedrooms; pages were not allowed on the second floor without purpose, and were to stay no longer than necessary.
At the top of the stairs Link, too, turned to the west wing, little boots padding softly on the rug. Idly they worked their thumb into the palm of their writing hand. Without windows, the only light came from candles placed next to each door and whatever light could seep out under the doors.
Lord Sunderland's quarters were all the way at the end of the hall, behind a pair of large doors with brass ornamentation. Turning the key hanging from the lock, they grunted softly as they pulled one open and slipped inside. The first thing they saw was the bed, large enough for three people and neatly made up with a blanket so heavy, Link wasn't sure they'd be able to get out from under it. Framed perfectly by a single tall window and accompanying velvet curtains.
To their right was the desk they sought, sturdy as a fortress and with every drawer locked. Atop it was a quill made of glass resting upright in its stand, pots of ink in different colors, spare envelopes with wax and seal at hand. They laid the papers square in the middle of all these things, having to stretch themself over the arm of the overstuffed chair.
Then its back down the empty hall.
As they were about to step off the landing onto the first stair, Link startled when an unfamiliar voice called to them, "Say, boy, could you help me a moment?"
Their head snapped around to see a man standing in the east hall. Conventionally handsome if pale, and as well-groomed as any guest or resident of the manor. In his hand was a candle stump he had taken from the holder on the wall, a replacement held to his chest by the stump of his wrist.
Link had never seen the man in the manor before - but the door just behind him was open, and all the bedrooms required keys, so he must belong. Their manners caught up to their surprise and their head snapped down in a nod as they hurried to his side.
The strange man handed them the old candle, a funny sort of smile creasing his face when they held it in both hands. He slotted the replacement onto the spike and rummaged in his coat pocket.
Up close, they could see he had the same sort of sharp cheekbones that Regiold did. His hair was thin and a washed-out kind of yellow, his eyes a sharp grey set in deep sockets. The crimson coat he wore was clearly expensive, if a tad old; some seams were worn around the collar and buttons.
He frowned, gestured back to the open door and said, "Could I perhaps accost you a moment longer? I seem to have misplaced my matchbox."
They nodded once more, in no position to refuse a guest.
"Thank you."
With a sweep of his hand, he gestured them inside, bowing a little like they were a welcome guest themself. Hesitant to enter a room the master had not approved of, Link's eyes flickered between the man's face and the open door, but curiosity eased their way.
It was nothing as grand as the lord's quarters, but nicer than their own; a double bed with fresh, tightly-tucked linens, a desk made of some dark wood and absolutely littered with papers, a wardrobe made to match the desk, and a pair of orderly, if dusty bookcases. Link crossed to where the bookcases stood side by side and started scanning the lower shelves for the matchbook. They ran a hand across the tops of the books too, in case it had been stashed there.
The man loitered close by, and all while they searched Link could feel his eyes creeping up their back. Suddenly he bent down and offered them his hand. "You'll forgive my manners, I'm Harnel, former head of the house."
Their heart leapt up into their throat and they stood a little straighter, gripping the front of their tunic. "A-A pleasure, sir. My name is Link."
Harnel laughed and laid his hand on their shoulder instead. He had a smile that was almost as much gum as it was teeth. "No need to be so tense, I'm not looking to punish any pageboys today. Perhaps I knocked it under the desk?"
Glad to escape the moment, Link obediently ducked under it. Fortunately, it wasn't as dusty as the shelves. Unfortunately, it was quite bare.
Harnel hardly even acknowledged that they came up empty-handed when they stood back up, instead asking, "So, Link, how long have you been with us?"
"This is my second week…"
"Two weeks! I don't know how we've missed each other. Though I suppose you can tell from my complexion that I don't see enough sun…" He touched his cheek with a mournful expression, then reached out and ghosted fingertips across the hair hanging next to Link's cheek, "Though I'd gladly change that if it meant seeing your sunny face."
Link giggled uncertainly and took a half-step back.
Barely even turning his head, he reached out and took a matchbox from the shelf on the wall, like he'd known it was there all along. "Ah, there it is, silly me."
Before they could think on that any further, he was ushering them gently out the door. "So sorry to have kept you, best not be late for dinner."
Link stumbled a single step. Hesitated a moment, confused at the sudden shift, then did as they were told, hurrying down the stairs.
They did not hear his door click shut until they knew they were out of sight.
Anyway Happy Halloween, I hate myself for writing this \o/