The tall man’s gaze swept the room, sliding over the servants, looking closely at their thinness, their pale and sallow skin, the sunken set of their eyes, the hollowness of their gaze. Their clothing was old, several had dresses and skirts that were torn and worn away in places, or ripped, or stained and unwashed. His gaze found Ahma, and she saw the anger boiling behind his eyes.

The Master spun upon the still sneering Steward. His hand suddenly closed around the man’s fat neck. Though the man was overweight, the Master showed no strain or effort as he lifted the pudgy and thoroughly terrified Steward till his fat feet dangled some two feet above the ground.

“Tell me, Steward. Why is it that I ordered my servants and workers to be well cared for and treated with respect and humanity, yet they seem to have wasted away while you have doubled in size in the months I’ve been away?”

Ahma’s breath caught, as did nearly all the servants. She could hardly believe what she heard. The steward tried to gasp out a reply, yet could force no words past Methaniel’s iron grip.

The Master shoved him away when the man began to turn a sickly shade of purple, sending him sprawling across the floor. He stared down at the coughing, stuttering Steward and spoke with a voice of calm. He sounded dangerously emotionless.

“You will tend to these servants, give them proper garb and clothing, and make sure their lodgings meet my satisfaction. And you will now eat only after the servants eat, or you will not eat at all. Am I understood?” His tone left no room for argument. The Steward nodded meekly, his body shaking at the consequences of his actions and a suddenly dangerous Master.

“See that each and every man, woman, and child serving my house is better cared for and lighter of heart before the week is out, or you will be cast from the Manor. Even then, your position as Steward will be tenuous at best. The happiness of my servants will decide whether or not you keep your job from this point on, and if I hear too many ill words from them, you will be gone from this place. Mark my word well, for I will not hesitate to make good on this threat. I suggest you start making friends. Now.”

Methaniel jerked his hand in a motion of angry dismissal and the Steward fled the room in a panic.

Ahma felt her heart leap within her. The Steward was being punished! And they were being given reprieve from his cruelty! She let out a heavy breath and tried to contain her excitement. She glanced at Methaniel, unable to view him quite as she had. All this time her impression of the man had been shaded by his negligence toward his servant. She should have known the Steward would have been behind the entirety of the suffering he had inflicted. The Master had sought to keep his people well provided and cared for, but that had apparently been too much for the Steward to bother with.

Methaniel crouched suddenly, reaching for a rag and wiping at the blood on the floor himself, stunning the servants, who froze at this unexpected behavior of the Nobleman putting himself on their level.

“I did not know this was happening to my folk,” Methaniel swept his silvery gaze across the crowd of servants. “Had I known, things would have been corrected immediately. I did not know I had entrusted my folk and my home to such a man. I swear to you such mistreatment will not happen again.”

He held their eyes one at a time, and all could see the sincerity in the silvery depth of his eyes.

“I would speak with you all of on another matter. I have found myself bereft of my personal attendant…he fell at the front. Would that I could simply do without one, as I would prefer, but you know that would seem unbecoming of me, and there would be…talk.”

The servants held their tongue, though it was clear that most found the annoyed and bored expression on his face at once amusing and mortifying.

“Therefore, I must find another attendant. I will likely find a replacement trained for the duty at a later time, but for now I do not have the patience to seek a properly trained and schooled attendant out. I think any attendant will suffice. So I ask if anyone here would be interested in taking up the duty.

“It is a large responsibility,” Methaniel continued when no one spoke. “And it is a duty and a burden I will force upon no one who does not wish it to take it on.”

He stood slowly, his armor creaking softly.

“I want no one who does not wish this position willingly. None of you will be faulted for saying nay, so do not accept grudgingly. Will anyone accept this duty?”

Ahma teetered on the edge of uncertainly for a moment. For months she had disliked this man and cursed his name silently. She had believed him responsible for all the woes and misfortunes that seemed to be heaped upon her and all the servants of the Manor. She had believed him negligent of his responsibility, war or no war. She had believed him a coward. But in an hour all seemed different. She had seen him punish and rebuke the lecherous and cruel Steward, and placed him in a precarious and humiliating position deserving of his poor behavior. He had shown a level of compassion and care toward the slain servant boy and those servants that yet lived that was nearly unheard of from a Noble. And he had been so very brave and skilled, defeating six men with his own blade…Ahma had little doubt they would have hesitated to slaughter the servants when they had finished with him.

She stood slowly, gripping her hands nervously in front of her. “My lord, I would…that is…I would be honored to serve you.”

She gazed at the Master for a few moments, then realized she was staring and dropped her eyes. “If it would suit you, Lord.”

Ahma glanced up shyly a moment later, unable to help herself. The Masters eyes were upon her, studying her, considering her. She suddenly felt a blush creep into her cheeks. She fancied she saw something akin to recognition flicker in his eyes. He nodded slowly. The women around her let out a sigh, of relief or of envy, Ahma couldn’t be sure.

“You feel yourself up to the task?”

“Yes, sir, I have some experience and will give any task all my energy.”

Methaniel nodded once again and glanced about the group of servants. “Finish cleaning here, then cease your duties for a few hours and go rest and get some food. You may resume your duties later tonight, or wait till tomorrow, whichever better suits each of you. We will speak of what has happened today sometime in the next several days. For now, I wish all of you to feel safe and recover from the rigors of your lives over these hard months. I thank you, all of you, for your loyalty. You have all been wronged, and I apologize for that, and thank you for your patience.”

The servants crouched there on the floor, mouths agape, scandalized. For a noble to aplogize and thank a servant! It was positively unheard of! The maids and servants slowly recovered their wits and bobbed their heads, thanking him humbly for his kindness.

Master Methaniel turned his eyes upon Ahma once more.

“I want you to go to the house seamstress…is it still Rema who sees to that task?” Methaniel asked.

Ahma nodded and glanced up at him, smiling softly. “Yes, my lord. She cannot walk without a cane these days, but her fingers are as clever with a needle as ever.”

“Good,” Methaniel mused. “Well then. Go to her and procure a more comfortable and less worn dress. Tell her to begin making new clothes for all the servants. She has my permission to get as many assistants to help her with this as possible. I want some new dresses made for you quickly, dresses befitting your new position and responsibilities.”

“As my lord says,” Ahma replied.

Master Methaniel looked slowly at the servants. He said nothing, but his eyes and stance seemed to say that all would be well. He turned and glanced over his wide shoulder briefly, catching Ahma’s eye, then suddenly froze. He turned back to face her. He walked closer and motioned for her to step away from the other servants.

Ahma swallowed and nodded, following him a few feet away.

Methaniel looked down at her, his eyes searching her face for a moment. “You are Wingling,” he said after a moment.

Ahma suddenly suspected the man was daft. “Yes, my lord,” was all she could think to say.

“Your wings. What is wrong with them? All Wingling I have known display their wings proudly. Why are yours beneath your dress?”

Ahma was surprised that he had noticed. She was surprised he had even said anything. She was also surprised by her own boldness when she looked up into his face. “The Master…that is, your father…he never had my wings clipped. He allowed me to use them and fly as I would. The Steward did not like this, but did not seem to think it was worth it to have them clipped. He ordered them bound to my back, always.”

Methaniel stared at her wordlessly, meeting her eyes without reproach. “Go remove your bindings immediately. Take some time to stretch. If you are not ready to start your service, then take some time to let your wings adjust to being free again.”

He reached out a hand and squeezed Ahma’s shoulder. She wondered if he could feel the way she trembled at his words. “He will be punished,” Methaniel murmured softly, that only she could hear his words. “I will not stand for this. He will pay for the dishonor he has done to so many.”

Master Methaniel released her shoulder and nodded, briefly, then starting up the sweeping stairs to his quarters.

All the servants watched with open mouths as their Master left the room, ascending to the family rooms. As he disappeared from sight, a few began to chatter among themselves. They had waited for this. Some had lost faith that Methaniel would be a good man, the kind of man his father had been, but now there was no question. Already their hearts were lifted and they went about scrubbing the floor with more energy and drive than they had had since the Steward took over the running of the house.

Ahma felt the tumult of emotions swirling through her as she hastily made her way toward the leftmost rooms of the Manor where Rema the seamstress sat in her chair, sewing and fulfilling the Manor’s clothing needs. A year ago, she had been busy mending clothes and making new ones for the servants and workers of the Manor. Over the last several months, however, her talents had been confined by order to swelling the Steward’s personal wardrobes. As she headed down the hall to excitedly tell the old seamstress the exciting news, the Wingling girl’s step was lighter than it had been in six months.

To be continued...

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