Green Rider

Miss Bayberry rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Bunch, sometimes one must go beyond the bounds of propriety and speak her mind.” She jabbed her cane at Karigan. “Child, use your brain. Think on your feet. Being polite and reserved is how we were raised, but we learned the hard way that the rest of the world isn’t that way. I’ve perceived from conversation that you comprehend such things, like that swordplay with whatsit . . . that Titmouse, or whatever his name was. In other words, child, propriety has its place, but don’t let your guard down. In real life, you never know who the players of Intrigue really are, or what they stand for.”

The words echoed in Karigan’s mind as she followed Miss Bunchberry and the glow of the oil lamp up the stairs to the second story. Weren’t Miss Bayberry’s words much like what Arms Master Rendle had told her one evening after sword practice, as she repaired fighting gear at the field house? “Do not make the mistake you made withTimas, lass,” he had said, pipe smoke curling above his head and up to the rafters of the field house. “Never assume the enemy is down and then turn your back on him. You will pay for it with your life.”

In other words, expect others to play dirty. Miss Bayberry’s words, and Arms Master Rendle’s, hung heavy with her, but every time she thought of Timas as “Titmouse,” she was reduced to giggles.

“This is the east gable guestroom,” Miss Bunchberry said. “You will see the sunrise from here and the morning sun will fill your room with warmth.” She lit another lamp for Karigan’s use. “Letitia has aired the place out and put fresh water in the pitcher next to the wash basin. She will draw a hot bath for you in the morning, as well.”

“If I could see your Letitia, I’d thank her for her delicious cooking and all the details she has seen to.” Karigan thought it rather odd she had seen no signs of servants, especially the often talked about Letitia.

“We will pass your praise on to her—if she hasn’t heard already. Now—”

Karigan put a hand on Miss Bunch’s wrist before she could go on. “Why can’t I meet Letitia?”

Miss Bunch brushed a gray curl from her face and looked at Karigan in surprise. “You want to know why . . . why you can’t meet Letitia? Isn’t knowing that she is here to serve enough?”

“No. In my clan, the servants are practically part of the family. It only seems fair to thank Letitia in person.”

Miss Bunch clucked her tongue. “Dear, dear,” she muttered. But when she saw Karigan’s look of resolve, she said, “We are not fond of relating painful stories, child, especially when one’s father is at fault. It was an accident.”

“An accident?” Karigan’s brows drew together in a perplexed line. “What was an accident?”

Miss Bunch’s eyes shifted and she plucked nervously at the hem of her apron. “Letitia’s invisibility was an accident. Oh, dear.” Miss Bunch drooped into a chair as if overcome.

Karigan’s mouth hung open aghast. “Invisible?”

“Very invisible. Far beyond what you are able to attain with your brooch, child. Completely, irreversibly, transparently invisible. She is more akin to an energy, or a ghostly presence, for we cannot hear her either. But we know she’s there, for the house is tidied when neither my sister nor I have lifted a hand, our meals are prepared for us, and so on. We know when she is less than happy, for she starts sweeping up a tumult like a great dusty tempest. And it’s not just Letitia.”

“Not just . . . Letitia?” Karigan looked all around her, wondering how many invisible servants might be in her room this very minute. It made her skin crawl.

“Well, there’s Rolph the stableboy, and Farnham the groundskeeper, too.”

“And you said they are invisible by accident?”

Miss Bunch nodded mournfully. “Indeed, child. You see, Letitia was forever nagging Father. He tired of her pointing out the mud he tracked in from the garden, or the coating of magic dust he left in the library which she had to wipe up. He was consumed by his scholarship, and scraping off candle wax from tabletops, or leaving papers in orderly piles were not foremost in his mind.

“One day, as Father was in the library hard at work studying some form of magic or another, Letitia stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. At it again, eh Professor? she said. A spill of that vile liquid in yon beaker will ruin the finish of your fine table and then where would we be? And after Herschel refinished it for you last month.”

“Uh, who’s Herschel?” Karigan asked.

“Herschel was our handyman. Was with the family for a hundred years, it seems. We believe he has passed on. . . . Things break now and then, and no one fixes them.” Miss Bunch emitted a sad sigh. “If he were lying dead somewhere, there was no way for us to see him.” She paused for a few moments, then continued her story. “Letitia nagged at Father until he commanded her to silence. I need quiet, woman, he said, not your endless nattering.”

“Letitia is not one to just sit quietly while the chaos of clutter, dust, and bubbling fluids threaten to overwhelm her sense of domestic orderliness, but she had pressed him too far this time. Sir, she said, waving her dust rag in emphasis like a law reader about to present some crucial evidence to an arbiter, may I remind you that you threaten the sanitary concerns of this household, and you with two little daughters under your roof? She followed up that reproof with a tsk, tsk, tsk. And that’s when it happened.”