“You’re going to tell me everything, uncle. The whole story.”

Top Boy coughs uncomfortably, glaring back at the mansion.

“Let's focus on getting the rhythm of the security patrols.” He makes some notes in a pad. “They change up the routine regularly, so we’ll need to know which pattern they’re using when we come back and make our move.”

“You’re avoiding the subject.” Draken says. “I can’t stay here all day, I'm wanted back with Hood and he’ll figure out sooner or later that I dealt with the runaway spell and am just playing hooky.”

“Then go back, I can take care of recon here.”

Top Boy loses his footing and floats three inches off the ground.

“I swear to gods I will throw you into that guard and laugh when you get flogged.” Draken says as a fat guard rounds the corner.

“Alright, alright, put me down you ruthless little puke. I’ll talk!” Top Boy exhales in relief as he feels the ground beneath him again. Not for the first time he wonders what lunatic god decided to make Draken a mage. Looking wearily at his nephew he collects his thoughts.

“You really are the last person who should have access to magic. It’s my own fault for raising you as a delinquent.” He sighs. “I’ll tell the story but you won’t like it. Nobody comes off good here.”

***

My father was a baker, not the best in town by far, not even third best but his muffins were known to small circles of nobles. He made them differently than anyone else, adding fruits both sliced and mixed into the batter itself. I was too young to appreciate his skill but loved watching him work and longed for the day he’d teach me his trade.

My sister, your mother worked the counter and dealt with the customers while our father immersed himself in the world of bread and ovens. That was of course her downfall, for she was a great beauty and that alone drew in customers.

One day a noble entered, a man of perhaps thirty with gaudy taste in clothes.

“I would like to try one of your famous muffins.” He said, eyes aglitter with lust. He took a bite. “Delicious but I must admit I'm distracted from the taste by your beauty.”

She politely laughed, not unused to being flattered. He paid for his muffin and left.

That was the end of it, for a time.

A week or two passed and we heard nothing more from the noble and my father became busy making Harvest Day pies for the upcoming feast. It was the day before the harvest feast when a man arrived wearing the gaudiest livery any of us had ever seen. Satin and silk with gold and silver trim. He presented your mother with a sealed envelope.

“The Count of Monte Cristo invites you to his annual harvest ball.”

“What?” My father asked, incredulous. “The mysterious Count of Monte Cristo is inviting my daughter to one of his high and extravagant balls? You’re joking, right?”

Even my father had heard of Lord Tiberius Grisham, the man who called himself Count of Monte Cristo. He had arrived in town three years prior, they say in the dead of night. A lone man with seemingly limitless funds and extravagant tastes. Inside a fortnight he’d partnered in dozens of businesses and purchased the old High Wizard’s palace. No one ever really saw him but his people were popping up everywhere, buying the most expensive luxurious things and investing in the strangest places. Business, politics, art, crime before the first year was over his fingers seemed to be in every pie. Yet few people had actually seen him and fewer still knew a thing about him. The first part of that would change abruptly that year’s harvest when he sent exclusive invitations to the most renowned members of society to attend his first harvest ball. There the top of the top were treated to magics, delicacies and extravagances that even they could scarcely fathom and would talk about for months to come until he held his spring ball.

Count Grisham, it seems is one of those rare reclusive social bugs. Someone who loves solitude almost as much as he loves the company of others. As such, he’d expertly built a mystique around himself. So much so that simply being invited to one of his balls would elevate someone’s social standing to the stars and open tremendous opportunities even for the wealthiest people. To refuse such an invite would be seen as the act of a certifiable lunatic.

Which is why father was stunned when your mother handed back the envelope unopened.

“It’s our busiest day, I can’t leave you to bake for the harvest alone just to go wear a pretty dress and dance at some lord’s ball.”

My father pulled her aside, signaling to the messenger to wait. “He’s not just some lord, he’s a count and our bakery being associated with him will make us more popular with the nobles. Besides which, going to one of his balls will open up marriage prospects.”

“Marriage prospects?” She asked.

Father grinned. “Think about it. Everyone wants to know what he gets up to in that palace of his and what goes on in these exclusive balls. All the young men will want to talk to you, even highborns and once they see you they'll have no choice but to fall in love.”

“But the pies! Who will help you in the shop?”

He shook his head.

“Nevermind that, you’re going to the ball and that is final.”

With a sigh she relented and accepted the invitation, which among other things included a receipt from a tailor for an evening gown and an appointment for a fitting.

“Thinks of everything doesn’t he?”

Indeed he had thought of everything, he’d even called on her secretly under an alias.

He introduced himself as Tristian and had pestered, saronaded and wooed her as she ran her daily errands for weeks, all while claiming to be the son of a minor noble.

Imagine her shock and delight when she spotted her “Tristian” at the ball.

She told us that he smiled right at her, drawing her in with his dazzling eyes.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked, she was speechless to answer but was swept away in his arms nonetheless. In the swirl of movement and light it took her a moment to spot his portrait on the wall and she realized with whom she was dancing.

“Who are you really?”She asked, playing his game.

“Does it matter?” He replied looking at her with lusty eyes.

“It might,” she said , struggling to resist the pull of his charisma.

“I’m a very lonely man, far from home.” She could see past the lust in his eyes to a core of vulnerability and knew it to be truth.

“I love you.” She said, regretting instantly the power she’d handed him.

“I’d be a fool not to accept your feelings.” He said “You have a choice to make, come with me to my chambers and convince me that you’ll make a good bride or leave now and spare me the pain of seeing you again.”

In her excitement and naivete she took this for a proposal and eagerly followed him from the ballroom through the cool corridors and up the winding stairs to a chamber filled with incense and a bed with satin sheets.

Only after she’d surrendered to him and given him all he demanded did he reveal the truth, shattering her heart and every illusion.

“I can’t marry you, your little more than a beast.” He laughed. “Marry the smudge faced daughter of a local baker? I’m sure the family would react wonderfully to that when I make it home and I will make it home.” He tossed her from the bed with shocking force.

“Get out, you damned peasant whore!” He threw the fancy dress at her like so much garbage.

“Take your rags and be gone, I won’t be bedazzled or beguiled into going native and forgetting everything that matters.” The strange harsh words were like hands around her neck, choking the life from her soul.

“You said you loved me!” She rasped between sobs.

“I never said that,” he shot back. “It’s impossible to love such a lowly creature from the grubby mud pit you call a home.”

She was shaking when she made it home and father never knew if it was from fear, rage or simply the cold. She told him everything in vivid detail, her memory was like a steel trap heightened by fresh trauma. I heard the whole thing and being of the same stock recalled every word as if it had been written on my brain. That night I felt a creeping emotion that heretofore was alien to my young existence. I felt the first stirrings of hate.

***

“How could you do this?” My father asked after minutes of silence.

“He said he’d marry me.” She wept.

“What if you’re with child?” His voice was grave. “No one would marry you then.”

“I know.” She said.

“I’ll save some money and take you to a witch to find out for sure, with the festival it should only take a fortnight to build the funds. If you are in a family way I'll save for another month and pay the witch to ...”

“No!” She shouted. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“Consider it, none of your options will bearable if you are pregnant!”