"The easiest way to steal a man's wallet is to tell him you're going to steal his watch."
— Kaz Brekker, from Six of Crows, by Leigh Bardugo
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The messenger arrived at sunset.
After collecting the bundle of letters that I had needed sent, I was surprised when the boy mentioned that there was also something I needed to receive. "A missive arrived earlier this afternoon," he explained as he handed an envelope to me. "Straight from the castle."
"A missive?" The paper felt rich and heavy between my fingers as I flipped it over to inspect the writing on the back. Indeed, it had been addressed to my office, from... His Grace the Duke of Aberleen. A frown etched itself onto my face. "From the Duke personally, too. Gods, that's terrifying. Do you think I'm about to get arrested?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Architect," he laughed, the contents of his bag rustling as he reorganized them. "Aren't you supposed to feel honored? What if it's a job offer?"
"A job offer," I repeated, raising a brow at the mischief on his face. "That's ambitious."
"I might be right, you know. I deliver all of your correspondences. You've been getting a lot of inquiries lately, and they're all from estates of note," he remarked. "Anyway, that's all for your address, Architect. I should get going."
"Take care," I called after him. It was only after watching his figure disappear into the next street that I closed my door and retreated to the chaise lounge in my parlor.
Quaint and unassuming, the small two-storey house served as both my office and my home. The first floor was mainly reserved for my practice, whereas the second floor was about as much as I could keep as my personal space. Given the scale of my operations, it was definitely unrealistic to assume that the Castle—much less its master—had taken note of my work, but the letter sat waiting in my lap anyway, its seal glinting faintly in the afternoon light.
Grabbing a paper knife from the drawer of a nearby side table, I carefully picked my way through the wax. The ornate sigil embossed onto its surface was a small replica of the stamp that was likewise imprinted on my business permit—the insignia of House Paxley, the family that has presided over the duchy for generations.
As rulers, their family name and its corresponding crest were standard knowledge for us common folk. Anything beyond that, however, was not necessarily within the breadth of our concerns. No matter who it was among them that took after the seat, the person would inevitably be a Paxley anyway, so the effort of distinguishing among them would be somewhat inessential. If you weren't nobility, referring to them never went past their title and their family name. These days, on public decrees, memorandums, and even on legal documents such as my business permit, the signature would always simply read the same as it did in my letter: His Grace the Duke of Aberleen.
The chaise lounge whined with a faint creak as I leaned back on the upholstery, the letter already unfurled in my hands. Past the pleasantries, I wholly expected something insipid—taxes, perhaps—but not this.
In beautiful, lilting cursive, the Duke had requested for a formal meeting with me.
Renovations, his letter had enunciated. As soon as possible.
A strangled squeal leaped out of my throat at that, my palm barely enough to muffle the sound. Against all odds, the messenger boy had been correct: it was a job offer. How or why His Grace knew of me, I could not fathom, but I really did not have it in me to question my luck any further considering how consequential such an achievement would be to my career.
YOU ARE READING
color your judgment
Fiksi Penggemarhe says sentiment will only color his judgment, and yet he yearned for a girl who loved to paint. or, in which aamon paxley crosses paths with the love he'd left behind, ten years later.