I look at each of them in turn. "I have faith in you. Not because you are Fey. But because you are the masters of this world. Now... stop trembling. And start creating."
There is a long silence. Then, Merovech takes the dagger. His grip is firm this time. He looks at the hilt, really looks at it, not with fear, but with a narrow-eyed calculation.
I hear Merovech mumbling to himself. "If I use a darker vein of marble for the shadows... and polish the high points with diamond dust..."
Dominico moves to the doublet, touching the metallic threads, before he looks up at me, "I will need pigments from the eastern kingdoms. Lapis lazuli. Real cinnabar. And oil... thickened oil to build the texture."
Holger is already sketching on a scrap of parchment, his eyes darting around the room. "The light... if we curve the glass, just slightly... we can bend the light around the corners. We can make the shadows disappear."
I step back, taking Kenric’s arm. The air in the room has changed. It is no longer heavy with defeat. It is electric with ideas.
Kenric whispers to me, "I think you just set them on fire."
I smirk, "Good. Fire purifies. And it forges steel."
Holger looks up from his sketching, at me. His voice is sharp and commanding. "Princess. We will need more paper. And charcoal. And wine. A lot of wine."
I laugh and wave at Melina, "Melina? Get them whatever they need. The masters are working."
I stop Melina for a moment, “Make sure that they eat, too. All that wine. They’ll need food, too. Perhaps hire them a maid to look after them?”
Melina nods with a grin, “A babysitter, more like.”
I smile at her, “Someone strong enough to bully them into taking care of themselves, but meek enough not to do anything truly disruptive. A few cleaners, too, who can come late and clean up. Laundry, dishes, debris, whatever needs cleaning.”
The Blue Bowl Trust occupied a sprawling old warehouse in the lower quarter of Dobile, a building that had once served some forgotten commercial purpose before the Fey Bank claimed it as their subsidiary for the working classes. The conversion had been done with characteristic fey efficiency. The cavernous space had been divided into banking stalls, a lending office, and a comfortable sitting area where a perpetual service of tea could be found.
This was the only bank in Dobile where women could open an account in their own names. The tea was good and the atmosphere welcoming, and that combination of banking access and hospitality had created something of a gathering place for the women of the lower classes. Melina had chosen a quiet corner table near a window, positioned well enough to observe arrivals without appearing to hold court. She had arranged a small sign, hastily lettered, carefully casual, that read "HELP WANTED: LIVE-IN COMPANION" and propped it against a teacup where the desperate could see it if they were looking.
The first candidate arrived just after the midday tea service had wound down. She was thin as a rail, perhaps forty, with the kind of weathered face that came from years of labor and worry. Her name was Margaret.
"I can clean," Margaret said immediately, settling herself into the chair across from Melina with the manner of someone who'd been interviewed before, many times. "Been doing it for thirty years. Don't mind cooking, neither. Can mend clothes, keep a house running smooth."
"The position requires someone to live in the household," Melina said. "There are... particular challenges."
"How many in the household?"
"Seven. Possibly eight, depending on the week."
Margaret's eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of household?"
Here was where it always got difficult. "Creative types. They tend to be disorganized, eccentric. The house is never entirely quiet. There are unconventional hours kept."
She could see Margaret calculating, weighing the hours and the chaos against her need for a roof and a wage. "I can manage."
"There's something else you should know," Melina said carefully. "Some of the residents aren't entirely... typical. Humans, mostly, but not all humans. You would need to be discreet. And unflappable."
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Margaret stood abruptly. "Not for me, then. I don't want any truck with anything strange." She was gone before Melina could say another word.
The next arrival was younger, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, with the kind of desperate energy that came from poverty and youth and the belief that one's fortune might still change. Her name was Celia. She knocked over her teacup within the first five minutes of sitting down, sending pale liquid across the table and into Melina's lap.
"Oh, I'm terrible sorry, I'm so clumsy!" Celia said, leaping up to help dab at the spill with her handkerchief. But she was already laughing, unflustered, already signaling a Blue Bowl attendant for more napkins. "I'm always like this. But I work hard, I do. And I'm not bothered by nothing. I worked in a theater once, you know. All sorts came through there, and I never batted an eye."
"Why did you leave the theater?" Melina asked, noting how quickly the attendant had responded to Celia's gesture.
"It closed up. The owner ran off with the money, left us all standing there wondering what to do next." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "But I've seen things. Magic, I think, though the manager said it was just tricks. I'm not the type to be scared off by a bit of strangeness."
Melina found herself warming to her slightly. There was something honest about the girl's chaos. "The work would be difficult. Cooking, cleaning, mending. And you would be managing the household, keeping things running smoothly despite... despite circumstances that might challenge you."
"Like what? Are they dangerous?"
"Not to someone kind and respectful toward them," Melina said carefully.
Celia grinned, untroubled. "Then we'll get along fine. When would you want me to start?"
Melina hesitated. "I'd like to meet with a few more candidates before deciding." But something in her had already shifted. Celia's fearlessness, or perhaps her obliviousness, was appealing.
The afternoon wore on. A woman named Iris arrived next, severe and competent, but she wanted to dictate the terms of every aspect of the position before she'd even heard the full scope of the work. She gathered her things and left when Melina mentioned the possibility of magical residents, moving with the rigid dignity of someone who'd made a pronouncement.
An older gentleman named Thomas came by, a former soldier with a scarred face and quiet eyes. He sat down, listened carefully to everything Melina had to say while nursing a cup of tea, and then nodded slowly.
"I've fought things that weren't natural," he said. "In the war. You learn to keep your head and do your duty regardless. But I'm looking to be done with strange things, if I'm honest. I just want to tend a garden and not wonder if it might bite me." He rose, shook Melina's hand politely, and took his leave.
A succession of others followed. A widow desperate enough to accept anything, but clearly not suited to manage a household of creative temperaments. A young man whose calculating eyes moved around the Blue Bowl's interior in ways that made Melina uneasy. A woman named Dorothy who had managed a large estate and would likely do fine, except that she found every mention of anything unconventional increasingly distressing.
As the afternoon light slanted lower through the warehouse's high windows, Melina was beginning to think she'd made an error in choosing this place and method. None of them seemed quite right. She needed someone who could manage the chaos of artists, who wouldn't be frightened by the presence of things that weren't entirely human, who could handle Víl?'s occasional imperious demands with grace, who could cook tolerably, who could mend, who could organize. It was too much to ask of one person.
The last candidate of the day arrived just as the Blue Bowl's attendants were refreshing the tea service. She was a woman of indeterminate middle age, neither young nor old, with dark hair streaked with gray and the kind of face that suggested she'd seen difficult things but hadn't let them defeat her. She wore practical clothes, well-mended, and she moved with the economy of someone who wasn't given to wasting effort.
"I'm told you're hiring," she said simply, and sat down without asking permission or hovering nervously.
"What's your name?"
"Ethel."
"And what sort of experience do you have, Ethel?"
"Everything. I've worked in grand houses and small ones. I've cooked and cleaned and managed servants and managed chaos. I've worked for normal people and for people who weren't entirely normal, if you take my meaning." She folded her hands on the table and met Melina's eyes steadily. "I don't ask questions about things that aren't my business, and I'm not given to judgment. But I will speak up if I think something's wrong or unsafe, and I'll keep your household running smoothly. I'll work hard. I won't steal. I won't gossip. And I won't complain about long hours or unusual circumstances."
"Why should I believe that?" Melina asks.
"Because I'm still here," Ethel said simply. "Other people quit. Other people run away or tell tales in their village. I'm still here."
There was something about her certainty that was settling. She reminded Melina of the house itself, solid, reliable, with depths that suggested a lot of practical knowledge about how to manage difficult situations.
"Can you start tomorrow?" Melina asks.
"I can start now, if you need me to." Ethel smiles.
"No," Melina said, and found herself smiling slightly. "Tomorrow will be fine."
Melina pauses for a moment, "Unless you need to start now…"
Ethel nods, "It might be best."
Melina gestures to Celia, "We'll need someone to come in the evenings to clean. Dishes, debris, send their laundry out, that sort of thing. If you need more help, let me know and I'll see that you get it."
Melina turns back to Ethel, "Ethel, you have the job. You are now the official housekeeper for the Embassy Renovation. You’ll have cleaners for the debris, but your main task is the men. Before you start, we need to be very clear about the supplies. Specifically, the wine."
Taking a deep breath, Melina plunges in, "Princess Víl? has granted these men an unlimited budget for wine. They claim they need it to 'unlock their vision.' Your job is to make sure they unlock the vision, not the floor."
Ethel grins but nods, so Melina continues, "You hold the key to the cellar. You pour the wine. Never, under any circumstances, leave the bottle on the table. If they ask for the bottle, tell them it is 'breathing' in the kitchen. Start the day with the good, strong vintage they requested. By mid-afternoon, if the work is slowing down but the thirst isn't, switch to the 'special reserve.' That is code for wine mixed with one-third water. If they complain about the taste, tell them it is a sophisticated Fey blend that requires a refined palate to appreciate."
"Got it," Ethel says.
"Princess Víl? also wants to be sure they eat. They will be distracted. They will be rambling, but if you give them things like meat pies, hard cheese, and bread, they can eat and work."
Ethel nods, "It all seems manageable."
- Artists reborn like phoenixes with chisels,
- A speech that could rally armies,
- Melina quietly losing her mind,
- A job interview gauntlet I want to adapt into a musical,
- And Ethel, who is clearly the only person capable of keeping the Fey Embassy from burning down through sheer competence.
What's your take on the artists?
How's the noon US Central time working out for everyone?