A Mischief in the Woodwork - By Harper Alexander Page 0,1

their bodies.

For food, we had our own gardens. In those early days, they were somewhat neglected in the shadow of the dangers that lurked outside, but we learned to smooth our fears and do what needed done, and they always managed to sustain us. That was, of course, largely thanks to Letta's green thumb, regardless of our tending habits. The Masters would never think of it as anything but black (her thumb), but I knew better. The soil in these times was unruly. Crude and barren. She was a miracle-worker.

Miracle-workers were crucial in these times of survival. We were lucky we had one.

Others were not always so lucky.

News was scattered here, encounters scarce and brief, but we heard things. Bleak accounts of the mischief that took people.

It was the new testimony written all over this age.

Something vital had failed here. One could run his fingers over the stone left standing and feel it in the bones of the ruins: an element was missing in the foundations. This place had been built on faulty principles. The founders, bless their hearts, were the lords of great folly.

But they were dead. Long dead. And we were left to inherit the harrowing truth:

This place was forsaken.

O n e –

Manor Dorn

“Avante! The curtain!”

I paused just past the dusty ribbon of light streaming through the window and sighed, laden with dishes, before doing as I was bade. I set the rusty tray carefully across the corner of the nearby bookshelf so I could tend the lackluster curtains. The stream of sunshine bent onto my face as I stepped up to the window and wistfully snicked the peaking drapes closed again. The older slave that barked the order was only seeing that things stayed as they should, but as one who went into the city, I was not afraid of a little sunshine peaking through the window. Was a taste too much?

The room became dim again, but I could still see the floral pattern of the wallpaper where an angelic glow circumferenced the window. The edges still leaked.

It wasn't as if the room was a glorious thing to behold, by any account. But there was a hominess in the peeling wallpaper and crudely-patterned floorboards, the stained lacy tablecloths and bleached furniture fabric. And in the corner, of course, my pride: the handiwork of makeshift tiles – different shapes, sizes, patterns and colors – that were slowly replacing the diminished floorboards.

Hominess was not a luxury we afforded, though. It was part of Manor Dorn's religion in this time, to keep the curtains drawn – especially those where the shutters on the other side had been stripped away by the recurring winds.

I moved to retrieve my tray, and the dishes rattled as I raised them. Then I continued on my quest to deliver lunch to the Masters, where they stayed cooped up in their rooms upstairs. That was also part of the religion here at Manor Dorn; the Masters never came out. They stayed huddled amongst themselves behind closed doors, as if in a state of hibernation, waiting for the strangeness of our days to blow over. The rest of us held down the fort and scraped together the daily means of survival – essentially running the country, because it was like this everywhere. If the country had not been in ruins, we might have recognized the value in that very convicting point: that this land was run by slaves, and we could easily revolt. We could take it. We would remove the backbone from the ranks of the masters, and what was left of their reign would crumble into submission.

But there was nothing of value to take for ourselves. Who would fight for a sick land?

I would still just as soon leave the Masters to rot, but the others wouldn't have it – at least, not the ones with chocolate skin, from Serbae. It was not their way. Even after all they had been forced to endure, they would not act on resentment.

And so I took the Masters their lunch, because I respected the Serbaens and loved their ways, in general context. They were frightfully compelling with their code of kindness. I felt guilty if I didn't match it.

I tripped over the stairs as I hazarded their climb. They were nothing but a dark, creaking ascension. Soup lapped over the edge of a bowl, a warm glop on my knee. I cursed. We couldn't afford to spill what little we had. But never mind. It was out of