59 — A New Start (7)

He meant to say anything at all. He simply wanted to savor this feeling a little longer. The sheets were white and clean. The priestess treated him wholly as a believer. A faint fruit scent drifted through the tent—the apricot from the tart he had eaten for dessert earlier.

He had thought he would never have a moment like this again. He had expected to die surrounded by vermin, rats, filth, contempt, disgust, that accursed darkness, and mold…

He had thought he had grown used to it—but coming here, he realized he had never adapted to any of it.

“Every day… every single moment.”

He would rather die here—now, in this instant. To walk back out and go on living—what a terrible curse that would be.

“Two years ago, there was a fire at the townhouse of the noble house I served…”

With eyes closed, Veracoche continued slowly. He did not say which house it was. He blamed no one. He only fumbled out his position and his feelings in dulled words.

When his short tale ended, he sighed and went on.

“I don’t know whether I was betrayed, or whether I was simply a fool; whether it was the wrong choice, or only my fate—everything is blurred. I worked hard, and in a single instant I lost it all. I’m at the bottom of a cliff I cannot climb by my own strength. It would have been better to die in the fall—but I didn’t.”

While Veracoche haltingly spoke of what had happened at the House of Noti, Lariana studied his closed face. He was a little younger than her father—perhaps an uncle’s age.

Lariana had often thought the same: it would have been better if she had died when her family fell. Surviving alone, the burden she bore was too heavy, and she could do nothing. She merely endured and survived—each day a struggle, like breathing in fog.

She understood exactly what he was saying.

“Suicide is not allowed. The goddess grants possibility to every life. As a believer, you are obliged to search that gift of possibility to the end.”

“…”

“And—if you are willing—may I offer you a job? Lodging is included.”

At that, Veracoche’s eyes flew open. Ah—of course. If it were the temple, they might not mind his hideous face. It was where the goddess’s daughters—or sons—dispensed mercy.

“Is it at the temple?!”

How wonderful it would be to lodge at the temple and do odd jobs. Hope shone in his eyes. Lariana shook her head.

“Not the temple.”

He deflated. If not the temple, there was nowhere that would take him. Lariana dropped a slip of paper onto his blanket.

“They’re hiring a steward.”

“…My thanks, Priestess. But with this face…”

He lifted the long fringe that hung down and revealed the twisted half of his face. Lariana flinched; seeing it, Veracoche gave a faint laugh. Still, being a priestess, she neither screamed nor recoiled—only squared her shoulders a little.

If even a priestess reacted so, how could ordinary people bear to live under the same roof with him? No matter how poor the household seeking a steward for little pay, this face would be hard to tolerate.

When he shook his head, Lariana said,

“The patron is… rather unusual. She already knows perfectly well about your face.”

This was true: Ana Rosa had seen Veracoche’s face herself.

“She’s interested in your abilities. She wants a trustworthy steward.”

“Whose house?”

“Oh—perhaps you’ve heard the name: the Trininad House.”

So a poor house meant to put up with his looks, he thought. He had never heard of it.

Veracoche hesitated. He could endure hard work. A small wage was fine. But he did not think he could bear bald ostracism and eyes of scorn. What should he do?

As he wavered, Lariana gently urged him.

“Why not at least sit for an interview? Since it’s in Saint Rosano, if you don’t go now—while the carriage is here—you may find it hard to get in.”

Saint Rosano?

Veracoche stared at her as if to say, “Which Saint Rosano? The Saint Rosano I know?”

Why bring up “Saint Rosano” in a tale about some poor house hiring a disfigured steward on the cheap? One person who didn’t understand at all, and another who understood him too well and could only smile—so they looked at each other.

At last Lariana smiled and patted his shoulder lightly.

“The Trininad steward, Mina Yu-jen, is here. I’ll ask her, and we’ll see. Please wait.”

When she left with a soothing smile that said “Don’t worry,” Veracoche murmured, still baffled,

“The priestess doesn’t know the ways of the world. What kind of place is Saint Rosano—to take the likes of me…”

Nonsense—unless that steward of “Trininad” got angry at the priestess. Surely she wouldn’t strike a priestess?

Worried the kind priestess might be assaulted, he pushed himself upright. Should he go out? What should he do? He fidgeted anxiously—when the flap suddenly opened and Lariana appeared.

“They said to come along. Please, follow me.”

The world—could it change this quickly?

“I’m Mina Yu-jen, steward of the Trininad House. Let’s get you aboard first.”

A townhouse in Saint Rosano was expensive no matter what. How was it he had never heard the name Trininad… Wait—the Duchy of Trininad. Trinina(d)… meaning—that princess who married into the eastern nation?

Veracoche carefully climbed into the carriage. He discreetly checked the Trinina(d) ducal arms on the door. He kept silent until the coach moved, then finally asked,

“Who is the master of the Trininad House? Forgive me—I’ve been… out of circulation, and haven’t heard society’s news.”

“Her Grace the Duchess of Trininad, of course.”

Ducal honorific—Her Grace.

Dukes were addressed either as Grace or Lord Duke: Grace for a duke of royal blood, Lord Duke for one not of the royal line. So the Duchess of Trininad was royalty. In other words: Princess Ana Rosa herself.

Had the princess returned?

While Veracoche had been away from the world of the upper class, the king had changed and the princess had come home. It felt like very strange timing. It had been just over a year since the king’s accession. And the princess had returned?

The king had no heir. Even as a homeless man, he would have heard if the king had one.

So the king had no child; which meant that not two years into his reign, he was watching—with eyes wide open—as his sister, first in line to the throne, returned.

He could imagine how hot society’s mood must be.

“First you’ll fill out a résumé. Then you’ll demonstrate a few skills based on it. After that you’ll interview with me, and then you’ll be received before Her Highness.”

“M-my face—what about Her Highness…”

“She knows. She doesn’t care. Nor do I—and likely most in our household.”

Veracoche nodded quickly. He did not easily believe it when people claimed not to care about his face—but Mina Yu-jen sounded credible. The woman from the East truly seemed not to care.

But a steward? An Eastern woman, a steward? How was that possible? A woman of color—and a woman at that. How could that be? Should he be surprised that she was a woman steward, or that a person of color was a steward? Weren’t women supposed to be “housekeepers,” not stewards?

He rubbed his clasped hands together. Taking a steward’s interview felt strange. He had served the House of Noti all his life and had never sat for an interview.

Naturally, he had never written a résumé. He knew how, of course; he had read hundreds that others had submitted.

Ah. He stared wide-eyed at Mina Yu-jen.

“I—I have no letters of recommendation.”

“I know.”

So she knew.

The count he had served all his life had not written one. In truth it was his legal right; had he demanded it, the count would have been obliged to write it.

But Veracoche had lost all will. After squandering the thirty peyen the count gave him on drink, he became a vagrant.

His heart thudded. What if this ended in disappointment?

He considered, then raised his head. If it did—so what? At least there would be proof that in all the world there was one person who tried to look him in the eye and weigh his value as an employee. If there was one, there could be two.

A new possibility had opened in his life.