Page 62 of These Immortal Truths
He swallows, nodding jerkily. His voice is shaky. “Yes, Miss Anne.”
“Good.” She smoothes his jacket, giving his shoulders a comforting squeeze. “Now let’s go before James starts worrying after us. You know how fragile his poor nerves are.”
The Hastings Estate is large enough for any family to be proud of. They boast a generous garden and the house is beautifully furnished and well staffed. Unfortunately, Anna is well aware that many of these luxuries come at the expense of the tenants occupying the vast amount of land Mr. Hastings lords over.
While she enjoys her work, she can’t say she enjoys working forhim. Not when she hears the stories about the people under his care going hungry to meet his ever increasing demands. Not when she knows her salary is in part paid at the expense of their suffering.
If it weren’t for Seth, she’s not sure she would have stayed.
Anna’s needle punctures the cloth, thread sliding through the fabric as she stitches the hem of a pair of Seth’s trousers. He’s gone through a rather substantial growth spurt over the summer. Anna watched as the hemlines she had adjusted just last spring creeped shorter and shorter. There was hardly any fabric left for her to let out, a sure sign that the Mistress of the House would need to take him to a tailor to have some new ones made soon.
A body falls into the cushion next to her, elegant arms draped over the arm of the settee. Anna doesn’t bother to look up from her sewing, but she does frown when the action causes her next stitch to go off center. Sighing, she pulls it out. “There are less dramatic ways to make an entrance.”
Khiran hums, long blonde hair pinned up and secured under a laced maid’s cap. He pulls at the tight collar, loosening a button. “I’m certain I could make the case for the opposite as well,” he says—his voice, but not. Underneath the higher pitch and accent, she can still hear a thread of his true form.
Finishing her stitch, she straightens her spine, joints popping, and leans back into the seat. She lets her head loll to the side just in time to see a pale groomed eyebrow rise challengingly. She fights a smile. “You’re insufferable.” She glances at the clock behind his head. “You also can’t stay long. The young master will be up for his French lessons soon.”
The hand he waves her off with is fine and elegant, entirely too clean of any calluses to ever make a convincing maid. At least not with the others. The face he wears is handsome, though—featuressmall and feminine in ways that are in style. It’s the face of someone the Master of the House would hire, but the rest of the staff would hate.
“How is his French going? Last I checked on you, you seemed ready to pull your hair out.”
“His frustrations have moved onward. It is now his piano instructor the household pities.”
He chuckles, the sound light and airy. “You’ll be pleased to know Mr. Collins is far less composed as you were. Poor man will probably be bald before he’s successful in getting the boy to playFür Elise.”
Anna can’t say she doesn’t believe it’s deserved. She saw the rap marks on Seth’s knuckles after his first lesson, saw the bitter stubbornness in his eyes. She has no doubt that he’s purposefully being obstinate just to push Mr. Collins to the farthest reaches of frustration.
“And you?” she asks, resuming her stitches. “What corner of the world have you been hiding in?”
“Here and there.” He raises his hand, dainty wrist giving a quick flick—three doughy looking balls skewered on a thin piece of bamboo and covered in a sticky looking sauce. “Dango?”
Anna doesn’t hesitate to reach for it. This has become a bit of a tradition for them as of late. A little game they play between themselves. She takes a bite, chews and makes a show of evaluating the flavors. “Japan?” she guesses.
His answering grin is wide with approval, and she knows she’s right. “How’d you guess?”
“The texture is similar to those little cakes you brought. With the rice dough and bean paste?”
“Mochi,” he supplies. “You’re right to notice the similarities.”
She takes another bite, cupping her hand under the treat to avoid dripping any of the sauce. “That was only a few months ago. Is there something happening over there?”
“They’ve been going through some interesting changes.” His lips thin, looking so much like a stern governess it would be comical if she weren’t concerned.
Anna regards him closely as she finishes her bite. Her worldviews have always been so molded by the local ones. Most of the world news doesn’t reach her, the stories that do are printed with a bias so skewed she struggles to trust any of it. Meanwhile, he has the luxury of being anywhere in an instant where he can learn first hand for himself. “What about these changes is troubling you?”
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “The government is looking outward, taking inspiration from the western world. I’m worried they’ll eventually follow suit in expanding as well.”
Anna openly winces, not needing further explanation. For years, he’s confided in her the atrocities happening to the lands the bigger world powers deemed fit to colonize under the flimsy guise of spreading salvation.
“Let’s hope they don’t,” she says, even though the optimism is weak at best.
The scoff he makes is deep, saturated with his skepticism. A cup of tea appears in his hand, the porcelain as delicate as the fingers that hold it. “And you? Anything worth noting around these parts?”
Anna’s lips thin, the flesh turning pale and her appetite faltering despite having one more ball of dough left. “There have been murders lately. In Whitechapel.”
“I’m afraid that’s hardly new,” he sighs, taking a sip. “Regardless of the blind eye they cast it.”
She shakes her head. “Not like this,” she murmurs, shivering. “This is … It’s not like anything I’ve seen.”
