Fantasy Dealing In Magick

[Stickdom]

London, 190X
​

For several decades, the air has buzzed with the clatter of machinery and the scent of coal smoke, heralding an age of unparalleled industrial advancement. The skyline is dominated by towering factories, their brick facades streaked with soot and awash with steam vents, while the River Thames teems with steam-powered vessels, each vying for dominance in the bustling trade routes. Now, innovation has transformed the city, bringing forth further marvels like pneumatic tubes and electrical streetcars; however, beneath the surface, the elite manipulate these developments to consolidate power, their fortunes built on the backs of the laboring class. Whispers of discontent simmer among the workers, who toil in grim conditions, while the aristocracy indulges in opulent parties, cloaked in a veneer of respectability that hides their insatiable greed, and the air thickens with the cries of revolutionists and suffragettes, whose tireless efforts for equality clash against a system determined to silence their demands for rights and recognition. Yet beneath this engine of progress, a hidden world flourishes in the shadows—an intricate web of magic interwoven with the fabric of everyday life. While the regular citizens bustle about, unaware of the enchanted threads that bind their reality, a clandestine society of magicians and faeries deftly manipulates the forces of nature, shaping events from behind the scenes.

In the dimly lit corners of opulent ballrooms and the murky depths of forgotten alleyways, spells are cast with the flick of a wrist, and deals are brokered with whispers carried on the wind. Faeries flit between the bustling crowds, their delicate wings cloaked in glamour, ensuring their presence goes unnoticed as they influence the desires and dreams of mortals. The city’s elite, draped in the latest fashions, remain blissfully ignorant of the magic that whispers just beyond their perception, believing their fortunes arise solely from their industriousness. But for those attuned to the arcane, the shimmering essence of this hidden world is an ever-present reminder of the delicate balance between innovation and enchantment, where the hum of machinery harmonizes with the quiet pulse of ancient spells.

Magic, once a vibrant force in the city in ages long since past, has been driven underground by the oppressive hand of the mortal nobility, some of whom still fear the threat it may pose to their fragile control of the city. Even the very mention of enchantment and sorcery may be met with disdain and suspicion. In this oppressive atmosphere, those who dare to practice magic do so in secret, navigating a treacherous landscape where betrayal lurks behind every corner. The faeries, once esteemed as fickle but powerful advisors and benefactors, now dwell hidden in plain sight, cleverly disguised as everyday citizens or ethereal shopkeepers, weaving through the bustling streets with a subtle grace that belies their ancient power, their true forms masked by mundane disguises, watching the unfolding drama with a mix of curiosity and sorrow.

Amidst this tumultuous backdrop, a young suffragette named Flora finds herself at the crossroads of rebellion and revelation. As she rallies her fellow women for the cause of suffrage, she stumbles upon a hidden world where magic still flickers in the corners of London, intertwined with the very fabric of the city. With her interest in a job of one eccentric Mr. Ephraim Blevitt ^esq., she will begin to unravel her own latent abilities, discovering that she holds a power capable of challenging the oppressive norms of her society, bothwith political and magical prowess. As tensions escalate and the divide between the magical and mundane threatens to erupt, Flora must navigate a perilous path where courage, rebellion, and the remnants of a forgotten magic may be the key to reshaping her world.

SkyGinge

 

[Stickdom]

Standing outside of the borders of London city proper stands the Hawkesmoor House, once a grand and meticulously maintained estate, now shows clear signs of neglect, though its former splendor is still evident beneath the wear. The once-pristine cobblestone pathway is now uneven, with patches of grass and weeds pushing up between the stones, leading up to the manor’s front portico. The ivy that once elegantly framed the house has grown wild and unkempt, overtaking large portions of the stone walls, climbing higher than intended, and obscuring some of the arched windows. These windows, once gleaming with polished glass, are now clouded with dirt and grime, some panes cracked or missing altogether. The tall columns at the entrance still stand firm, but their once-white surfaces are now streaked with moss and lichen, giving the manor an air of faded grandeur. Even the great iron phoenix weathervane atop the roof, once a proud symbol of the estate, seems to have stooped low with the tarnish and rust that have covered it over with time, its once-majestic wings now sagging and slow to turn in the breeze.

The grounds, once the pride of the estate, have fallen into noticeable disrepair. The formal gardens, once a riot of color and precision, have been overtaken by nature. Boxwood hedges that were once carefully trimmed into elaborate shapes are now overgrown and uneven, their once-sharp lines blurred by unchecked growth. Flower beds, which once bloomed in perfect harmony, are now choked with weeds, with only a few stubborn roses and chrysanthemums fighting for space among the tangled greenery. The marble fountain at the center of the garden, which once provided a tranquil splash of water, is now tinged green with lichen and a single stagnant puddle sits in the bottom of the basin.

Once whimsical guardians of the estate, even the stone statues of mythological creatures scattered around the grounds seem weary, their surfaces are chipped, their faces streaked with dirt and overgrown with vines. The majestic griffin, its wings unfurled and gaze fierce, once stood prominently on the front lawn, though now its grey stone wings are softened with moss and ivy, the whispers of wind making the green feathers flutter in a nearly-lifelike manner. Nearby, a playful satyr reclines against a boulder with a lyre to his shoulder, mid-pluck of the granite strings, his jovial expression and intricate details inviting passersby to revel with him, while close by, a pair of small goblin-looking fellows hold hands, their prancing dance frozen in stone to the satyr's inaudible tune. The final stone sculpture, at the very back of the gardens, an imposing dragon, coiled around a crumbling pedestal, looms with a fierce visage, its scales richly stained with the patina of age. It's clawed hand rests on the back of a unicorn, elegantly posed in a galloping flight from its scaled pursuer, though its eyes and mouth are both wide with a fearful expression. Once the pride of the estate, these statues compose an enchanting menagerie that hints at the magic that once thrived within the grounds.

Farther from the house, the estate's wilder areas have become even more untamed. The once well-maintained gravel paths that wound through the woods are now barely visible beneath a layer of fallen leaves and moss, with the surrounding trees and underbrush encroaching further each year. The hedge maze, once a source of amusement and challenge, has grown so dense and wild that it’s nearly impassable, the thick yew branches intertwined into an impenetrable wall. The lake at the rear of the estate, once a clear and reflective surface, has become murky, with algae covering much of the water. The stone bridge leading to the island is still intact, but vines and brambles have overtaken its railings, and the gazebo on the island, once a peaceful retreat, is now dilapidated, its roof sagging, with chipped columns and rotting wood. Though Hawkesmoor House retains an air of haunting beauty, its slow descent into disrepair is a poignant reminder of its lost grandeur.


The wrought-iron gate creaks ominously as Flora passes it by, though it was flung wide before she ever arrived here. As she stepped onto the uneven cobblestone driveway, overgrown weeds poked through the cracks, evidence of years of neglect. Towering oak trees lined the path, their gnarled branches arching overhead like protective sentinels, casting dappled shadows on the ground.

On the approach to the manor house, the gardens unfurl before her, a wild tapestry of nature reclaiming its territory. The once-pristine hedges sprawl untamed, their shapes softened and blurred by the passage of time. The patchwork of vibrant red roses fighting valiantly to bloom amidst the chaos, their fragrance mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil. The granite griffon stands guard alongside the path, and Flora would have to walk under its watchful eye in order to approach the front stoop, its fierce gaze dulled by age but still commanding attention, half-hidden beneath a curtain of ivy.

Upon reaching the step, the house is safeguarded by a heavy oak door was adorned with intricate carvings and tarnished golden inlays. Though the patches of peeling paint hinted at the years it had withstood the elements, it still seemed an imposing guardian, as if the wood itself had a will to safeguard what lay behind it. As if to agree with this thought, a large brass lions-head knocker sat mounted to the center of the door, though instead of a ring hanging from its mouth to knock with, a large paw hung from beside its mane, as if the creature was preparing to leap out of the door itself and pounce on any who dared trespass.
SkyGinge

 

[SkyGinge]

Flora Ravensden​

Twas a blustery, overcast day, a duvet of grey clouds enshrouding the London skyline, thin slithers of sunlight breaking through the cracks like long, skeletal arms. Beyond the western border of the city's ever-expanding suburbia, far from the scraping of industrial steel and the stream of heavy footsteps as constant as the ticking of a grandfather clock, down an obscure and winding path that lead from one of the ancient well-trodden Roman roads, through a dense forest wherein the resounding echoes of morning birdsong sounded like the vacant cries of ancient spectres, there stood a great old estate, wherein there stood a great old manor. A carriage approached its rusting gates, its rider yanking at the reins of his horses to bring them to a halt. The horses whinnied obediently, startling a flock of nearby starlings into flight.

From within the carriage, a pair of wide, curious eyes stared out at the mansion. A delicate hand brushed away a loose strand of blonde hair from her brow, drawing her gawking open mouth into a scowl. Were mansions always this big? Had her home once also seemed this towering? Or was this an effect of her nervousness?

Oh yes, she was nervous. There was little point in lying to herself. After all, this was to be her first day at work.

The rider dismounted from the front of the carriage, giving one of the horses a congratulatory pat on the neck as he passed. The man unlocked the carriage door and extended his arm chivalrously to assist his passenger. Instead of the hand of a fair maiden, he found his hand filled with a pouch of ha'pennies, as Flora Ravensden disembarked very much on her own thank you very much, ignoring the disorientated flail of her arms as she caught her balance upon planting her second feet upon the earth.

There must have been a conversation afterwards - her mother had taught her too well for her to completely forget any semblance of manners, after all. But Flora could scarce remember it - as far as her perspective was concerned, no sooner had she left the carriage had the carriage trundled off back down the path, leaving her alone with her emotions.

Come along, she scolded herself internally, there is little gain in second doubts here. The empty jangle of the purse in her dress pocket was proof enough that she had little choice but to press on.

Pockets were one of the few positives about her outfit. Under the advice of a friend, she had borrowed a traditional maid's costume - a black, formless dress with longs sleaves 'complimented' by black tights and a white overdress apron, and finished off by a white frilly headdress which looked more like a napkin than a proper fashionable hat to Flora. Said hat was currently scrunched up in her clenched fist - the thought of somebody she knew catching a glimpse of her dressed as frugally as this was ghastly. London was impossibly big, and yet there were always familiar faces to witness your most embarassing moments, as her short time in the city had already taught her. Then again, the thought of her dear father's jaw dropping to the earth in shock at finding his precious, valuable daughter bedecked as a common maid was enough to bring a smile to her face even now. You simply must look the part, Emily had told her, Not only for your sake, but for his as well.

Looking the part, however, was only half of the battle. Actually playing the part was another challenge entirely.

Steeling herself, the young lady pulled the headdress onto her head with an audible sigh, and then strode purposefully through the open gates.

The path to the manor doors was uneven and ripe with weeds and rogue wildflowers, lined with tall oaks with long, crooked branches. The general impression was one of grandeur lost to time. The gardens, which opened up before her as if emerging from an open book, were wild and unkempt, statues of peculiar beasts hidden under a thick layer of moss and disregard. The air was a battleground of wild fragrances, the sweet scent of a patch of rebellious roses fighting on amidst the floral discord against the scent of wild lavender and the musk of wild garlic. If Eden itself were to have a smell, Flora imagined it would be something like this - peculiar, yet full of life. Still, with every step, the garden seemed to unfold further, new statues growing visible under anarchic vines and hedges, as if these impossible creatures had entered a long hibernation and been swallowed up by the earth herself.

This Mr Blevitt had better not be expecting me to make much of a dent out here, she mused, a smirk curling its way onto her lips. If Father came back from one of his foreign jaunts to a garden as wild as this, I should think he'd have the gardener shot!

Flora approached the mansion doors with long, purposeful steps, passing a giant overgrown statue of some winged lion creature, the purpose of which she neither understood nor cared to understand. The doors were immense, with an intricate gold embossment and the knocker constructed to give the impression of a lion emerging from the woodwork, its outstretched paw in the stead of the traditional ring knocker. What would a man with a door this fancy and a garden this wild expect from a maid?

She gulped, closing her eyes as she ran through the advice she'd received again. Obey without question - sure, she could give that a go. Appear weak enough to elicit sympathy, but strong enough to be considered dependable. That sounded easy enough - it couldn't be too much harder than that one time she'd fluttered her eyelids at a gentleman to earn herself a free drink. Her family's maids were uneducated gossips, but they'd coped well enough - how hard could it be? Finally, stay silent, and speak only when spoken to.

"I s'pose there's always room to learn on the job," she muttered aloud.

Then, with one final big breath, Flora delicately knocked on the door. Silence. She rolled her eyes - what a great start. She knocked again, this time far louder, the ancient wood rattling angrily against its hinges.

"Mr Blevitt!" she boomed, her regal pronunciation undercut by a lazy volume and ruggedness. "Would you care to open this door?"

Stickdom

 

[Stickdom]

The bluster of wind through the garden hedgerows seems to Flora as if it whispers to her, like a language heard in one's dreams; so clear when it is heard, but fading quickly from your mind after. All through the grounds, the grasses bent their long necks in the wind, as if eager to catch the words, and a few flowers even seemed to turn their heads to watch as Flora made her way along the path to the house.

At the touch of Flora's hand to the door, she felt a slight tingling in her fingers, as of a faint chill or perhaps a light kiss of electricity. It might have been nothing, but the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise, then the sensation faded into nothing. On the second set of knocks, however, the door creaked open, revealing the entry hall of the lavish mansion. Standing behind the doorway with his hand on the interior handle stood a gentleman in a lavish silk waistcoat and vest, tall and bearded, with a keen glint in his eye, but a warm smile across his lips. "Ah, Ms. Ravensdon, I presume," his voice was rather cheerful and belied a youthful excitement, "How good of you to come, please don't stand about in the cold, do come in." He pulled the door wider and swept his other hand back in a gesture of welcome, giving her a half-bow as if he had been introducing a duchess to the court rather than allowing his new employee into the residence.

The entrance to Hawkesmoor House opened up into a grand foyer with high ceilings and an air of faded opulence, golden candelabras hanging from the ceilings and a few gas-light fixtures protruding from the walls. The marble floors radiated a sense of cold, and appeared to be cracked and uneven in several places, with intricate patterns barely visible under the wear of time. To the left and right are the hallways, branching off from the foyer, paneled with rich brown wood, oak or mahogany, hung with once-rich tapestries that drape, faded and frayed, almost down to the floor. These halls appear to lead to the side rooms, such as the parlor or the sitting rooms, while directly opposite of the front door was a hall that lead into the main house. On either side of the main hall rose wide staircases that rose up to the second story, their bannisters carved with intricate details of vines and wooden fruits, though many of the carvings are now worn smooth with the touch of years worth of hands. The staircases converge on the upper level where a railed balcony overlooks the foyer below, and seems to split to the left and right again, forming two distinct wings of the house split in half by the meeting of the wooden stairs. Large, colored-glass windows filter the light into the front hall, each depicting pastoral scenes and vivid landscapes that are faded with the dust of ages caked onto their colorful panes, casting long, rainbow shadows across the walls.

After Flora entered the room, he shut the door behind her and stood beside her, looking her up and down in an appraising manner, not in the least bit rudely, rather as if he had been inspecting a piece of equipment. After a moment, he puts a hand to his chin, as if thinking very hard, fingers extended up over his mouth, and Flora realizes that he is trying not to show her that he is smiling, and doing very poorly at hiding it. "Well Miss Ravensdon, I..." he clears his throat and now it is apparent that he is attempting to hold back laughter, "I am quite sure that you shall do a fine job here at Hawkesmoor." He takes his hand from his face, the corner of his mouth slightly upturned in the only remnant of amusement on his face. He offers her his hand politely as a gesture of introduction, stating, "As you may know, my name is Lord Ephraim Blevitt, but you may please call me Mr. Blevitt."
SkyGinge

 

[SkyGinge]

Brushing off the strange sudden chill as just a quirk of her nervousness, Flora didn't have to wait long before the door was swung wide open and she found herself face to face with her employer for the first time. She flinched slightly at his warm greeting - she wasn't expecting somebody so young! The man oozed sophisticated ease and luxury, with a nice waistcoat that her father would probably have liked, though this bloke wore it better. He's actually quite the looker, the young woman admitted to herself. And yet there was something a little strange about the man's eyes, or at least the way he looked at her, a gaze which seemed older and heavier than the rest of his appearance suggested.

Oh, fiddlesticks! She'd been staring so hard that his invitation into the house had passed through one ear and out of the other. Like a startled hare, she blurted out a quick "sorry". Quite what she was apologising for she didn't know, but in that very English way it felt like the appropriate thing to say nonetheless.

Right foot first, then left foot. Flora was inside her new workplace for the first time. The opening was grand and wide, the type of impressive entrance her father would have waxed lyrical about. All her time spent being carted around various manors in the North had familiarised her to such settings though, so instead of being wowed, she found herself simply examining to see what state of disrepair the house was in, as if to prepare herself for her job to come. The interior was certainly better kept than the grounds outside, but the stained glass windows above the front door were visibly darkened by grime and dust. If Mr Blevitt deigns cleaning up there to be my first task, I shall be ruined! How does one even get up there? And how does one even clean a window? If only she'd paid a little more attention to the servants back home - curse the naivety of her upbringing!

The door slammed shut behind her, and her new employer took the opportunity to visually appraise his latest tool. His searching gaze made her skin crawl, yet she endured it, the words of her mother ringing through her head. A servant's lot is not is not to speak, or to question, but to obey. As nonsense as she found the sentiment, she'd have to at least begrudgingly follow it if she didn't want to lose her job immediately.

"Well Miss Ravensdon, I..." the young master began, seemingly stifling a giggle. What are you laughing at, mate? thought Flora, cockney spunk overtaking her usually refined inner monologue. Had she already tripped up? "I am quite sure that you shall do a fine job here at Hawkesmoor." I wish I shared your confidence. Blevitt extended his hand for her to shake, and Flora found herself with another conundrum. This fellow was clearly laughing about something - was this a trap, designed to out her poor decorum? After all, father would rather be seen dead than shaking hands with a servant, much less touching one at all. Yet to deny a genuine greeting would be catestrophic. So, tentatively, as if touching a stray cat, Flora extended her own arm, shook his outstretched hand with a single rapid movement, and then brought her hand back, visibly wincing at how awkward her nervousness was making her. Maybe vulnerability isn't the worst thing for me, she consoled herself, After all, perhaps coming off as a poor, feeble woman will earn me additional sympathy.

The man continued, introducing himself properly. Ephraim, she mused, her nervous lips curling into a slight smile, now there is a 'proper' name! "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Blevitt," she responded, her intonation prim and proper. She then waited for him to guide the rest of the conversation, not wishing to overstep her new station as a servant.

Stickdom

 

[Stickdom]

Flora's timidity was noticable. Poor thing, she's shaking like a leaf, he thought to himself, and immediately regretted his lack of self-control. However, he found it intensely amusing that she had arrived already dressed the part of a typical maid. His correspondence with her had been brief, a simple response to her letter stating acceptance of her application to the position, but it only now occurred to him that he had overlooked the details regarding her position and expectations. Despite being seen as a noble of some local repute, it was only recently that he had need of taking care of the estate himself, so he had not much cared for the daily upkeep and appearance of the manor. However, having a maid was outside of his usual realm of experience, he had been in tending towards a sort of housekeeper instead, a more elevated and, at least in his eyes, a more dignified position. Of course, the work to be done did not change based on who was performing the duties, and this girl seemed eager or desperate enough not to leave agt the sight of the place, so he let the smile gracefully face from his face and left it at that.

"Right this way, Ms. Ravensdon," he released her hand and began to walk with her down the main corridor, walking rather beside her than leading the way. "We spoke but briefly of the position before, yet you seemed most eager to accept the position. Do tell, young lady, what are your expectations for this position?" He gave her an expectant look, hoping that he would be considered appropriate for asking. Social graces were hardly his forte, and this young lady seemed to be brimming with them. "Do you feel you will be able to keep up the dailies? I want to be sure you fully understand the task ahead, as well as fairly discuss your compensation." He waited politely outside of the dining room door, both waiting her response and studying her face to deduce her reaction.

SkyGinge

 

[SkyGinge]

The man lead her down one of the corridors. Christ, how am I ever going to remember where goes where? Notably, Blevitt had chosen to walk alongside her, as if conversing with a friend. He clearly wasn't the kind of noble to treat his servants like dirt, and this subtle action helped calm her nerves somewhat. His tone and expression had been generally kind so far, but Flora still found herself somewhat on edge. After all, eccentricity is a common symptom of wealth. This could all be a test of her decorum, proof of her capability behind her enthusiasm.
The young master asked her a couple of searching questions as they walked, his gaze lingering on her expectantly. She paused momentarily in contemplation, mouth slightly open in thought. Expectations? Oh my. Truth be told, the young woman had barely considered what the job might entail. She'd almost intentionally decided against letting her imagination run away with things. After all, she was just here for the money. Work was to be a necessary evil, at least until she'd decided what she wanted to do with herself; none of the servants back home had looked like they particularly enjoyed being there.
Oh, confound it all! Flora exclaimed internally, closing her lips decisively. There was little point in lying to the gentleman - even in the unlikely event that she managed to convince him she was someone she was not, he'd suss her out eventually.

"Well, to be honest sir, I am not sure what to expect! But whatever you so deign to delegate to me, you have my word I shall endeavour to complete with the upmost diligence. What I may lack in prior experience, I certainly make up for in enthusiasm!" She laughed sharply, as if in defiance of her nerves. Then she continued, speaking almost before the words had even formed in her thoughts. "I suppose I should like to enjoy a certain amount of respect between the two of us. It would be improper for a servant to rise above the station of their employer, of course, and yet... I have found that for some noble families the ground-staff are treated as little more than cogs in a machine." And by 'some nobles', I refer of course to dear mother and father, she added internally. "I suppose I could survive should an employer wish to enforce the philosophy that a servant ought not be seen or heard, though I can only imagine that would make things terribly lonely for both parties. I should hate to feel as though my life and work have the same value as that of the grandfather clock, which diligently dings upon each hour serving of course a grand purpose, and yet has no dreams for itself, no existence beyond mere ornamental purpose. I am no ornament, sir."

Aware that she was beginning to babble, she inhaled sharply, blinking her eyes a couple of times as if startled by her own words and refreshing her thought process. "Of course, that is not to say that you are the kind of employer who thinks in such ways. I am truly grateful for the opportunity to serve you after all and I shall commit myself wholeheartedly to this station, sir! Though... are you that kind of man, sir?" She cast a sheepish glance his way, her head tilted inquisitively. She was aware she was playing with fire, and yet too stubborn to change her approach. If he finds me talking like this to be an offensive, this weren't ever going to work out anyway, she consoled herself.

Before he could voice a proper response, she cut in again: "Well, regardless, I am here to serve! And I am certain I shall be able to carry out whatever 'dailies' you so demand. At least, I shall be giving it a jolly good go." A small pause, and then: "What sort of 'dailies' did you have in mind, if you'd pardon me asking?" If he asks me to fix that garden up, I'm in for a proper bind.

 

[Stickdom]

Ephraim's face remained steady as Flora spoke her piece, listening to each word with obvious focus and care. When she laughed, he smiled slightly, and when she finished, he nodded solemnly, but the smile was still on his face. "Well done, Ms. Ravensdon," he stated, "I could not have said it better myself. I had a premonition when we corresponded that your personality is precisely the kind I wish to employ, and the way you speak for yourself is only confirming my convictions on the matter." Seemingly pleased with his selection of house staff, he quickly ran the palms of his hands past each other, as if attempting to shake his own hand for some reason. He took up a more appropriate position ahead of her in the hallway, now prepared to lead on through the house, turning back to announce, “I think you shall do very nicely, and your outlook on your own value and dignity is rather refreshing, and as you mentioned, I cannot have such delightful discussions with the ornaments.” He reached out and tapped the glass of the mentioned grandfather clock, the wooden frame rattled slightly, and Flora might feel for just a moment that it groaned in what sounded like a slight sigh of relief, but Ephraim continued on cheerfully, “So, if you agree that the work to be done is acceptable, then I shall be glad to take you into my employ. Now!” He turned with a slight stamp of his foot for emphasis, “On with the tour!”

To start,” he said, again laying a hand against the grandfather clock’s burnished frame, “The clock will need polishing weekly, usually of a Friday afternoon, it seems to like that. Just a cotton rag with some of the furniture oils you will find in the pantry later on, and the brass-works, the hands and the pendulum will need a dry cloth. Do be careful though,” he lovingly ran his fingers over the intricate details inlay in the mahogany, “it was, after all, my grandfather’s.” He looked at it as if it had some deeper significance, but did not elaborate, and then strode onward through the house. Ephraim led the young maid to-be down the wide, dimly lit hallway of Hawkesmoor House, his boots echoing against the polished floors as they walked. The halls of the manor loomed overhead, tall and brooding, as if the whole of the house was looking down at the new arrival with an air of inspection and inquisition. Everything seemed faded, as if the house had been lying dormant for many ages; deep crimson and burgundy wallpapers clinging to the walls, thick oaken beams protruding from the ceiling overhead, and delicate chandeliers softly tinkling with a thousand crystalline raindrops suspended in mid-air.

Leading young Flora to the Eastern Wing first, the grand halls of the estate unfolded before them like chapters in a dark, intricate book: Each passage drew them deeper into the manor’s storied depths, every corner steeped in an unspeakable mystique. Each room and hall told silent tales of grandeur long since past, a style of living that seemed to be both ancient and modern: a quiet, restrained elegance., a silent testament to the generations who had lived -and perhaps still lingered- in the house. It seemed that if the house was haunted, it would by the spirits of societies long gone and histories never written. “Here in the East Wing, Flora, contains the guest rooms, the living quarters, and the kitchens, pantries, and cellars.” he spoke, leading her through a set of tall doors, each carved with swirling patterns of oak leaves and acorns where small effigies of animals peered out through the oaken-carved leaves, the wood having a dulled, aged finish long in need of polish.

As they passed each room, he paused a moment to allow Flora the chance to look into each room, inspecting her future duties. The gentleman’s voice was gentle but firm as he pointed out various rooms and corridors, his manner almost fatherly, firm yet not unkind. "You’ll begin your rounds here," he instructed, gesturing down the long hall with heavy, arched doorways that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, “you’ll be responsible for keeping the guest rooms in this wing pristine.” Inside, Flora glimpsed cozy low-ceilinged chambers, with canopied beds draped in rich dark velvet, the walls adorned with tapestries depicting faded pastoral scenes. In one of the rooms, a brass candelabra stood beside a dark walnut wardrobe with doors slightly ajar, revealing hints of old-fashioned suits and dresses within. The scent of lavender and aged leather wafted faintly from the furnishings, a hint of past visitors still lingering in the air. Ephraim continued, “I expect since they are seldom used, you might find dust in every corner, but they will keep their shape after you’ve had your way several times through here.” He chuckled before moving on, “Of most importance, here and throughout the entire house, ensure you keep the drapes tidy, and make sure the windows are cleaned daily - light is a precious commodity in this house, and it would do the rooms good to see it given every opportunity to filter through."

At the very last of the guests’ quarters, the rooms became much plainer as Ephraim guided Flora through a small, unassuming doorway off the main passage, leading them into the servants’ quarters. Though the ceiling was lower here and the décor simpler, the air felt warm and welcoming, almost as if the house itself recognized the comfort these rooms were meant to offer. “Here we are,” Ephraim said with a small smile, stopping in front of a door near the end of the hall. “This will be your room, Flora. I trust you’ll find it to your liking.” He pushed the door open, stepping aside to let her in. It was larger than she had expected, with a tall window draped in soft, golden-brown curtains that let in the late afternoon light, and a charming view out onto the albeit-dilapidated garden topiaries. The walls seemed to be freshly painted a warm cream color, and there was a sturdy wooden bed, neatly made up with a thick quilt that looked as though it had been crafted from hand-dyed fabrics, each patch a different shade of autumn reds and browns and golds. A wardrobe smaller than the ones in the guest rooms stood in one corner, along with an oaken dresser that had clearly been polished recently, its surface gleaming in the warm light. There was also a delicate wooden vanity tucked into the corner by the window, with a small, oval mirror framed in brass. Ephraim’s expression softened as he glanced at it, as if it held fond memories in some way. Then, he cleared his face and turned to watch Flora’s expression as she surveyed the room, a quiet pride in his eyes.

“I ensured the previous tenant made special arrangements to get the room in order before you arrived,” he explained, his tone softening. “I asked her to place a bit of lavender in your wardrobe as well.” He nodded toward a small sachet peeking out from one of the dresser drawers. “For a restful scent - it should help you sleep more comfortably at night.” He bent down, pulling out a small metal pan with a long handle, its surface polished and waiting to be used, “You’ll find this warming pan tucked under the bed, as well. The night can be quite chilly, even in spring.” He replaced it carefully and readjusted the bed skirt to cover it up, “Just fill it with embers from the kitchen stove before bed. It should warm you through the night.”

SkyGinge