Your Cup Of Absinthe (M X M)

Chapter 1: Arrival

One night, you said you found a solution to the debt we had.

I poured out that emerald poison to make a toast.

The morning after you were gone. A week later, I received my first letter from you, written in your messy handwriting. Three months later, the letters stopped. Four months later, the lads at the pub treated you like you never existed.

Last week, I found the same solution as you. Today I added sugar and water to our last drink. That was how rich folks drank it, according to the men at the pub. You were not like me with an insatiable sweet tooth, but you had dreams of being fancy. That drink was the closest either of us could get to a taste of luxury.

I will find you.

My eyes gazed out that window, searching for anything to stave off this horrid boredom. Alas, all that greeted me was the pitter-patter of the rain as it splattered against the windows. I clutched my coat to my body as the chill managed to leak into the well-insulated carriage. The wet, musty stench of mud and livestock of the moors was enough for a city rat like me to gag. The city, however, was more overbearing; the nauseating scents were of rubbish and smog. I quit working in the factories because living in clouds of smoke was enough. I despised being sick every single day due to that kind of work.

My glare shifted from the window to the equally dreary sight of the coachman. An older bearded male, probably a few years older than myself, and unfortunately already filled with old man-ism. He kept his eyes on those pitch-black horses and the muddy land ahead of him.

"Are we there yet, sausage?" I intentionally whined, and like before, I received no response from the bloke. Probably had gotten sick of me with my constant questions and chatting.

Like they all did, but I was bored.

I tugged on my suspenders that held up my best brown trousers and repositioned in my seat. I would have given this job one thing. Despite being forced into these gas pipes, the coach's seats were much better than that wooden box the public transport forced me to sit upon.

These trousers were my only pair not completely in patches, and the boots did not have a single hole in their soles. So my only other choice was the lady who had a nice place for me to stay and was willing to help me out in exchange for me doing her errands. As much as that harpy of a woman annoyed me, I would have to thank her for the new outfit she helped me get. An odd, cold girl, but I had to admit, tea with her was not that bad. She listened, and I would hear her out in turn during my stay with her.

I would never say any of that to the bint's face; she would receive none of that. However, I was dressed like I was heading back to that bloody factory rather than be a butler to some old rich guy in a disgusting marsh. I saw what the interviewers wore, well-pressed and expensive cotton and linen. Standing in front of them, my hands in my dirt cheap moleskin trouser pockets. I should have sent some letters with a good old "fuck you" to her.

I stared at the vastness of the land, from the once fresh and green rolling hills of flowers of all colours to the flooded brown and dull green of the bogs. The squelching of the wheels and the horses' hooves were the only sounds I heard the further we ventured from the city limits. I found my fidgeting finger tracing the name of my employer on the fogged-up window.

Asbjorn.

Everyone in England knew that name, the deviants at the pub and the Queen alike. Powerful, rich, and had more branches than a corkscrew willow tree. Merchants, owners of various industries—such as their grip in all things metal—and iron factories. You name a prominent position and they had their grubby mitts in it. This branch, all out in the middle of nowhere, was an oddity. As far as I knew, the only one who lived there was a retired old miser.