“The grass framing the manor is golden, tall, littered with wildflowers. The land is mostly hills so the wind is free to dance, and it does most days. The wild wheat turns to waves, and from the balconies ( many as they are ) the home looks to sit in a sea of gold. It’s enviable, that house, and many do envy it. I did, brief as my stay was. Tending to the child left me plenty time to admire it ( His care was out of my hands. Any hands, even. I’d tell his father he was beyond help, but there isn’t a shred of doubt he’d have my head. Best to accept the coin and look busy, though there was nothing to be done. ).
You’d swear they had the monstrous amount of children they did just to fill these empty white walls. I’d walk the halls when the lord left with his hounds to hunt the hills, and you’d hear my footsteps echo long after I’d gone. The manor was as lonely as it was beautiful, and I could only imagine how miserably they all lived in it.
But, really, with a home like this, who wouldn’t mind a little misery? The libraries ( two of them, one for each side of the manor ) hold every piece of literature you could dream of - shit, probably more. I’ve been visiting thrice a week for a month now, and I still swear I’ve yet to explore the whole house. There’s got to be a wing for each child, a dedicated room for each of their fickle interests, enough portraits to fill a gallery, a blooming plant of what I’m sure is from some exotic faraway land on every corner. They’ve more wealth than they know what to do with. You know half of the lord’s kennels are larger than my entire home?
But there’s beauty in this vanity too. Many of the children play music, or they sing, and when you walk the halls you can hear them echo just like my steps. It’s haunting, sometimes, when the songs drift and mix together - ringing off these tall ceilings. Sometimes, I see the other children. Some are older, and it shows. But not in wrinkles or maturity, but instead in the statuesque way they smile in this polite, empty way, the way they greet me in this genteel tone. If it weren’t for their markings, I swear I couldn’t tell them apart. They’ve lived in this house for years, and it’s turned them into soldiers for the court.
The younger children are all docile, for the most part, their knees without scrapes and their coats unmarred by dirt. I wonder if they ever have time to play, with the amount of tutors I see flitting about this damned place. The manor staff don’t pity them, but I do.
The child doesn’t have long left, I’m certain, so I will be seeing you soon. How is my nephew?”
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