11. Kessara
KESSARA
Master Ramin arrives precisely at nine o'clock, his bony frame wrapped in a threadbare scholar's robe that has seen better decades. He carries a leather satchel that bulges with books and writing materials, his movements sharp and economical as he surveys the library with calculating eyes.
"You will address me as Master Ramin," he announces to the three children seated around the polished oak table. "I expect complete attention during lessons, and I will not tolerate fidgeting, whispering, or daydreaming."
Tobin's eyes widen at the stern tone, but Bran straightens his shoulders in that protective way he's always done when authority figures speak harshly to his siblings. Lysa simply nods solemnly, her small hands folded neatly in her lap.
I hover near the doorway, ostensibly organizing a stack of correspondence but really watching to ensure the children settle well with their new instructor.
The morning light streams through the windows, illuminating the dust motes that dance above their heads as Master Ramin unpacks his materials with practiced efficiency.
"We begin with an assessment." He places sheets of parchment before each child, followed by quills and small pots of ink. "Write your name, then copy the passage I will dictate. This will show me where your education currently stands."
Bran picks up his quill with confidence, but I notice how Lysa grips hers like a weapon rather than a writing instrument. Tobin immediately gets ink on his fingers, leaving small black smudges on the pristine parchment.
"The wise farmer tends his fields with patience," Master Ramin begins, his voice carrying the rhythm of someone who has recited countless lessons. "For hasty hands yield bitter harvests."
I watch Bran's careful script flow across the page while Lysa frowns in concentration, her tongue poking out slightly as she forms each letter. Tobin scratches out several words and starts again, his face scrunched with determination.
"Adequate," Master Ramin pronounces after examining their work. "Though you, young lady, hold your quill like you're planning to stab someone with it."
Lysa giggles despite herself, and even Bran's mouth twitches with suppressed amusement. Master Ramin's expression remains stern, but I detect the slight softening around his eyes.
"Now we move to reading comprehension. Open your primers to page twelve."
The children bend over their books, and I take this as my cue to leave them to their studies. The morning's scribing duties are complete, and the kitchen staff will be starting preparations for the afternoon meal soon.
I slip quietly from the library, closing the door softly behind me before making my way down the corridor toward the kitchens.
The air feels different today—warmer, with a gentle breeze that carries the scent of blooming fruit trees through the open windows.
Spring has finally decided to show itself properly, and I find myself walking with lighter steps than I have in weeks.
The kitchens bustle with their usual controlled chaos. Cook directs the preparation of bread while two assistants chop vegetables with mechanical precision. The head gardener has delivered the morning's harvest, and baskets of produce crowd the preparation tables in colorful abundance.
"Kessa!" Cook calls without looking up from her kneading. "Sort through those greens, will you? Pull out anything that's past its prime."
I roll up my sleeves and dive into the familiar rhythm of kitchen work.
My hands move automatically through bundles of leafy vegetables, discarding wilted leaves and organizing the rest by type and quality.
The repetitive motion soothes something in me that the careful concentration required for ledger work never quite manages.
"These strawberries are perfect," I murmur, lifting a particularly plump berry to examine its deep red color. "The gardens here produce better fruit than anything I've seen in town."
"Lord Zerion spares no expense on the grounds," one of the kitchen maids agrees. "Says there's no point in owning land if you don't make it flourish."
I arrange the sorted produce in neat rows, then gather several trays of the finest fruits to carry to the dining areas. The weight feels good in my hands—honest work that produces immediate, visible results.
As I navigate the main corridor with my burden, I become aware of footsteps that match my pace too precisely to be coincidental.
A glance over my shoulder confirms what I suspected: two of Captain Draven's guards maintain careful distance behind me, their armor catching the light from the tall windows.
When I turn left toward the formal dining room, they turn left. When I pause to adjust my grip on the trays, they pause as well, suddenly finding urgent need to examine a tapestry that depicts some long-dead Morvath ancestor hunting mythical beasts.
I pretend the guards don't exist, delivering the fruit trays to the dining room with practiced efficiency. Their silent presence trails behind me like an unwelcome shadow, but I keep my expression neutral as I arrange the strawberries in perfect rows across the silver platters.
"Lovely work," Cook declares when I return to the kitchens. "Take another basket and gather what's ripe in the west garden."
I collect a wicker basket and step back into the afternoon sunlight, breathing deeply of air that carries no whispered gossip or suspicious stares. Here, surrounded by orderly rows of vegetables and fruit trees heavy with produce, I can almost forget the precarious nature of our situation.
How long will this last? The thought gnaws at me as I kneel between the strawberry plants, my fingers working automatically to select the ripest berries.
Lord Zerion could change his mind tomorrow, next week, whenever the mood strikes him.
One word from him and we'd be back on the streets, carrying everything we own in patched sacks.
But at least now, if that happens, we wouldn't be a breath away from starving.
The children have gained weight these past weeks, their faces filling out and their eyes losing that hollow look that had haunted my dreams. Tobin no longer hoards bread crusts in his pockets, and Lysa's laughter comes easier.
Whatever else happens, they've tasted what it means to have enough.
"You seem determined to avoid the town entirely."
I don't startle at Zerion's voice—I've learned to sense his approach by now, the way conversations quiet and the air itself seems to still when he draws near. I continue picking strawberries, not looking up.
"The town has made its opinion clear enough."
"And you plan to hide within these walls indefinitely?"
My hands pause in their work. "I'm not hiding. I'm working. Besides, you've made sure I have plenty to do here—I only just finished scribing, didn't I?"
"We will not allow gossip to dictate our movements." His tone carries the significance of absolute authority. "You will visit town when necessary."
I straighten, brushing dirt from my knees as I face him. The afternoon sun catches the silver threads in his hair, and his pale grey eyes hold that familiar intensity that makes me feel like he can read thoughts I haven't even formed yet.
"Is this about the Lady who came to call on you? Did she bring the latest gossip of Lord Morvath's new whore?"
He flinches, jaw clenching briefly.
"And, by the way, don't think I haven't noticed the two armed shadows following your every step." I gesture toward the guards who have positioned themselves at the garden's edge, close enough to intervene but far enough to maintain the illusion of privacy.
"The escort remains for your safety, whether you approve or not."
"My safety?" I ask, a trickle of concern sliding down my spine. "What did that woman say to you?"
His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in the quality of his stillness. "The town's mood grows uglier by the day, and the children's school experience has clarified that for me. I want to be certain nothing happens to you, either."
"Then perhaps—"
"The matter is settled."
I watch his retreating form until he disappears around the corner of the manor, leaving me with my basket of half-picked strawberries and a mind that churns like storm clouds.
The guards remain at their posts, silent sentinels who pretend they're admiring the hedge maze while keeping me firmly within their sight.
My hands resume their work automatically, fingers selecting the ripest berries while my thoughts spiral backward to that night three weeks ago.
I can still feel the rough bark of the orchard wall beneath my palms, the weight of the stolen fruit in my sack, the cold terror that had seized me when his shadow blocked my escape.
I'd expected prison. Maybe a public flogging if the magistrate wanted to make an example of me. Death, even, if Lord Morvath decided one less thieving human would improve his property values. Instead, I'd found myself seated at his table, negotiating terms like I had any power in the situation.
"Employment," he'd called it. As if I'd answered some posting in the town square rather than been caught red-handed stealing from his trees.
The berry in my hand bursts between my fingers, red juice staining my palm like blood. I wipe it absently on my skirt, adding another mark to the collection of stains that document my daily labors.
What had I truly traded that night? My freedom, certainly—though that's a luxury I'd never really possessed. My pride? That had been battered long before I scaled his wall. My body and hands, as I'd told myself then, but even that feels insufficient now.
The children have flourished here in ways I never dared imagine.
Lysa no longer wakes crying from hunger pains.
Tobin runs through the corridors with energy born of proper nutrition rather than desperate restlessness.
And Bran—my serious, worried Bran—actually smiled yesterday when I told him Master Ramin would be teaching him here at the manor instead of having to go to school.
They sleep in warm beds with clean linens.
They eat three meals a day without counting every morsel.
They learn to read and write from books that cost more than we used to see in a month.
Everything I'd dreamed of giving them, everything I'd failed to provide through years of scraping and stealing, he delivered with a few casual orders to his household.
But what about me?
I shift to reach a cluster of berries near the garden's edge, my movements watched by four sets of eyes—the guards' professional assessment and something else entirely. Something that makes my skin prickle with awareness even when I can't see him.
Lord Zerion observes me. Not the way men in town used to look—calculating my worth for a night's work or measuring my desperation for exploitation. His attention feels different. Heavier. Like he's solving some puzzle I don't even know exists.
The basket fills slowly as my mind picks apart every interaction we've had.
His questions about my siblings, delivered with clinical precision.
The way he'd dismissed Captain Draven's concerns about housing humans.
The purse of coins for clothing, presented as a practical necessity rather than charity.
Even today's conversation—his absolute refusal to explain his decisions while simultaneously ensuring my safety.
I straighten, pressing my hand to the small of my back where the morning's scribing has left an ache. The sun has moved considerably since I began this task, and the guards have shifted positions twice to maintain their discrete surveillance.
None of it makes sense. I'm nobody—a human thief with three hungry siblings and a reputation for trouble.
Yet he treats my presence here as something permanent, something worth protecting.
The way he disregarded Lady Selmyra's visit, the careful neutrality in his voice when he mentioned the town's "uglier mood"—there are currents running beneath the surface that I can't read.
I know the value of things. I've had to.
Every scrap of food, every copper coin, every favor traded or debt incurred—I learned early to calculate worth and cost with ruthless precision.
But I can't calculate this. Can't determine what he gains from keeping us here, what return he expects on his investment in our welfare.
And that terrifies me more than any threat ever could.