Maidens and Drakels
Edward set a huge stack of papers down on Conrad's desk with a thump.
"Here are the reports you asked for, sir. From what I've gathered, nearly a dozen of your employees have been the targets of gas explosions in the past two days."
Conrad took a long sip of coffee as he sifted through the reports, skimming briefly over each of the eye witness accounts. He jotted down in pen the exact time and place of each incident on a fresh, separate sheet of paper, setting things out chronologically.
"How many are dead?" He asked as he worked.
"Seven, and three more are injured."
Conrad tapped his pen against his chin "Okay, schedule the survivors to see me this week, but try do so quietly that whoever is responsible for this doesn't catch wind."
From his seat by the window, Conrad could see the entirety of Lux Lane laid out before him as he worked. It wouldn't be dawn for another few hours, but his was the only house with lights on. No doubt his neighbours were content to sleep well into the day.
Though he would have liked nothing more than to have joined them, his responsibilities meant that he could barely afford to rest for any substantial amount of time on a normal work week, much less in middle of a crisis, and he had learned to live without.
Edward nodded, "Right away sir. Just one thing." He reached into his pocket and produced a large, bulky looking envelope sealed with a wax imprint of a crown. "Apparently the palace is holding another party in Pentecost's honour."
Conrad growled and snatched the envelope out of Edward's hands. "Now of all times!" He ripped it open and unfolded the thin, glossy sheet of paper inside.
"Lord Conrad Faulkner," he intoned, pinching the letter between his fingers as he held it up to the light in distaste, "you are hereby invited to the annual Victory Day celebrations of his Majesty George Emmanuel Pentecost, by the Grace of God Emperor of Arcadia, Protector of the Realm, first Cardinal of the Holy Church, King of Leyland and Emestris, Duke of Honenberg, Count of Tahiti, Margrave of the Siles...."
He trailed off as the list of titles went on, letting out a tired sigh.
"That's quite a mouthful, sir." said Edward, with a quiet chuckle.
"There's more," Conrad said, inspecting the letter, "but I'll spare you. It goes on to say this: the festivities will begin with the lighting of the victory fireworks. Participation in many of the provided activities will require you to bring a slave. It's signed by the ugly old Lord Chamberlain, Rupert Neville. I'm always surprised when I find out he's still alive."
Conrad let out a snort of derision as he put the letter down and stretched. "God, I'm tired of these never-ending celebrations. It's been years, stop gloating and move on."
"Shall I send a messenger boy to inform his Almightiness you won't be attending?"
Conrad smiled with his eyes closed, "No don't. Nobody in their right mind misses the Emperor's parties," He glanced down at the papers on his desk. "and besides, it isn't for another two nights. If all goes well, I may have already caught our culprit by then."
Edward raised one of his eyebrows sceptically, but said nothing.
"Don't look at me like that," Conrad muttered, waving a finger at his butler warningly, "I'm in a bad mood right now, and you won't be in my good graces again until you prove that you can do your job as a professional, and not some gentlemanly pussy cat who'll go weak in the knees for some pretty girl shedding a few crocodile tears."
The butler winced. Despite the fact that he had asked May to keep it hidden, Conrad had still discovered the mug of cocoa Edward had slipped her out of sympathy the night before, and given him quite the tongue lashing for it. It was not an experience he was particularly keen to repeat: strokes with a real whip would have been almost preferable.
"Are you going to bring the girl to the party with you?" Edward asked, changing the topic. Though he doubted the defiant beauty would make a suitable companion at one of the Emperor's famously hedonistic dinners, he suspected Conrad would think otherwise.
"That depends," Conrad leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers as he stared at the ceiling, "I hadn't really planned to work on a deadline, so I don't know if we can have her trained right up to the way I would like, but you know, assuming we can all work together on this one, I can probably have her obedient enough to be seen in public in one or two day's time," he shot Edward a meaningful glance, "
Can
we agree to work together?"
Edward inclined his head. "I won't make the same mistake again, sir."
"Is that so?" Conrad smiled wryly, "Good. Then we'll start right away. Feed the slave and have her clothed the way we discussed. I'll see her at noon. You're dismissed."
- - -
As quietly as a mouse creeping under a farm cat's nose, May slipped off her bed and tiptoed to the far side of the room, pressing her ear to door and listening.
The hallway on the other side was silent.
Scurrying back to the bed, she yanked the brown, worn paper book out from out from underneath the mattress and plopped it into her lap, gazing at it apprehensively.
It was the morning after Conrad had raped her. The night previous, she had smothered her face in her pillow and cried until she had passed out from exhaustion. But with sleep had come escape, and she had awoken the next morning feeling curiously serene, as if all guilt and frustration had been washed out of her while she slept. Things were clear now. She had her plan, she had foe, and she had her purpose.
"I'll fight him," she had whispered to herself then, "I promised Sophia."
The sentiment came back to her now, and hand trembling in anticipation, she licked her finger and opened the book to its first page. Dark spots stained the yellowed paper, and the words were scrawled in handwriting that seemed to have been punched into the page.
This is the journal of Lydia Emilia Faulkner.
Today for my fourteenth birthday, I received this book as a gift from Marianne, my brother's concubine and probably the nicest woman in the entire world. I'm sure it would prefer to be the journal of somebody interesting instead of me, but life isn't always fair, not for books or girls. I am, on the whole, a weak and useless and stupid and cowardly and ugly and lousy disgrace to the family name. I faint at the sight of blood. I am literally allergic to processed gunpowder. My asthma is so bad I collapse after running just twenty feet. And last night, I couldn't even bring myself to utter a word of protest when my amazing, "too-good-to-be-true" prodigy of a big brother murdered both my parents right in front of my eyes.
