Skeletons and caramel

Need for knowledge

He was standing at the window, again.

All that week Frankenstein had been stuck in that strange, semi-abandoned mansion. You come in the morning, he's already there. Whether the wind blows through the cushioning of his blouse, drizzles fall on the window sill, he doesn't budge.

Frankenstein had tried to be obliging for a few days, pretending to be a real butler, but he soon realized that his master did not care whether the oak banisters on the stairs were dusty or the curtains had been washed. There was no one to visit the ballroom on the first floor, the guest beds stood musty, untouched. Frankenstein changed his sleeping quarters every time, in case some noble thought of an attempt on his life, the life of the enemy. He found out that the bedrooms weren't used for a very, very long time.

The world is full of bastards, that much is clear. The challenge is just to spot every skeleton you meet - before the bony hand of that skeleton rests on your throat. Cadis Etrama di Raizel, unfortunately, couldn't be analyzed even slightly. The young man did exactly nothing - and the nobles feared his wrath so much that they abandoned the pursuit, at least so it seemed.

Of course, the clan leaders would still try to settle scores for their murdered subordinates. They don't care about the antics of those very subordinates among humans, do they? Frankenstein's concern, however, was something else entirely.

That in the hands of di Raizel his fate would be even worse.

Very soon Frankenstein selected several activities for himself. to show di Raizel his diligence as a servant. He would now and then scrub a section of the corridor near the secluded sitting room chosen by his master for contemplation, then stop by to dust one or two bookshelves. Di Raizel did not turn around, but he could hear it, couldn't he? There was a kitchen in the mansion - in a similar state of disrepair. The landlord didn't seem to need food to sustain his strength, but the new butler had to prove himself, didn't he?

And he did, by digging out a box of black tea from one of the innumerable cupboards. The leaves were bland, as time had not spared them, but there were also tiny glass jars of cloves and saffron. That's what saved the day.

- Frankenstein... What is it?
- That is tea, Cadis Etrama di Raizel.

Even the young noble's tone was confusing to the human. The speech was not indifferent, but Frankenstein could not characterise it. Something reminded him of those notes, but he couldn't remember, nor did he want to for some reason. Very much he didn't want to.

The tapping sound of the porcelain.

- Frankenstein...
- Yes, sir? - keep bowing, lower, lower.
- Bitter.

No anger, no caprice. Only... wonder?

Sugar, oddly enough, was found in the pantry by the kitchen, and also flour, lots of flour, a product that hardly spoils. Mice and vermin had apparently been expelled from Lukedonia, so the flour proved suitable, and Frankenstein now ate simple bread with water and homemade sourdough made with the sugar. Not the worst thing that had happened to him since he became an exile.

Things were going too well, he understood that. And understanding - he was getting ready for when the skeleton finally jumped out of the wardrobe.

After all, the house wasn't always lifeless. Someone had delivered tea, flour and spices, even though they weren't being used. Someone installed candles in the lamps. Once upon a time, in the foreseeable past for the nobility, di Razel's habits were different - or else another master owned a huge mansion that found room for a ballroom, a grand piano recital hall, multiple bedrooms, and...

- Frankenstein...
- Yes, sir?
- More tea.

It didn't sound like an order, more like something obvious. Tea must be here, full stop. Tea is a proper thing. Nothing like this smooth assurance Frankenstein had certainly never heard before.

Because of all the fuss, Frankenstein only had time to fully explore the first floor. Dozens of rooms, nooks and crannies and alcoves. Some were connected by passageways, others could only be reached by a set of stairs in the lower hall. The staircases were intriguing for Frankenstein, because they were arranged in no obvious system. It was as if they had been rebuilt several times. He dared not sketch a plan of the building, relying only on his memory. If anyone saw the scribbles, he'd be in a peril.

- Frankenstein...
- Yes, sir?
- Still bitter.
- I beg your pardon. I'll add a spoonful of sugar to these three.
- Three more.
- Sir?
- Three more spoons.

"Maybe he's scoffing me," Frankenstein pondered as he stirred the sugar. - "Maybe he's playing, like a cat with a mouse... What for? Pleasure, enjoyment of his power? Or..."

Or possibly he needs Frankenstein's knowledge.

Just like everyone else who didn't immediately rush to kill the rogue doctor, to rid the world of an unclean creature, a traitor and a rival.