Marigold carefully tucked the corners of the silky maroon sheets into the grand four poster bed. Typically, she would take a moment to admire the intricate carvings of the mahogany posts, indulging in a short break to live among the wood creatures she hoped to never see in person. Sadly, she was running a bit behind today due to the pitiful Young Master’s asinine questions and had to skip her daily ritual. Once the sheet was perfectly placed, she covered it with a soft woolen comforter blanket in the colors of the Forrester’s House, emerald and black.

Smoothing the comforter flat, Marigold checked everything in the room to ensure there was nothing else that required straightening or dusting. She may be in a hurry, but that did not mean that she could leave it imperfect. Once she was certain the room was satisfactory, she stood in front of the Young Master’s full-length mirror and appraised herself. ‘Mentally tsking’, since a proper maid is silent in all things, she straightened her mobcap and left the room to complete her next duty.

Checking her pocket watch, she hurried to the kitchens, her steps practiced and graceful. If a maid of a lesser household could witness her, they would be awed with her walk, as though she glided down the halls, silent. Her talent earned her the moniker “The Ghost of Rowan Keep”, but Marigold took no pride in it. After all, being silent is the least a maid should do, especially the personal maid of the heir of a Dukedom.

Assuming the Young Master is allowed to inherit… She thought ruefully. The Young Master’s chances were low before his ‘accident’, due to his aptitudes, but afterwards? More than likely the King will force the Lady Forrester to either remarry, or to adopt a new heir.

Passing a slightly ajar door, Marigold slowed to first check to see if it needed closing. Realizing the room was occupied, she attempted to ignore the two lazy servants’ nattering, but could not help but overhear as they whispered.

“Can you imagine getting amnesia? The child can’t even read anymore. At this rate, he really won’t have a choice but to become a thief. It’s not like he’ll ever inherit.” Marigold opened the door and gave the two surprised servants an unimpressed look before leaving just as she arrived, without making a sound.

“She’s so creepy! How is she so quiet in those heels on a marble floor!” One of the servants said in exasperation, but Marigold ignored her. If she was not clever enough to understand Marigold’s warning to them to stop speaking of such things, they deserved the punishment coming to them. If they are lucky, whoever overhears them next will be someone other than the Lady Forrester. The Lady certainly dotes on her infirm, amnesiac child enough to ensure a couple of loose lipped servants never work in a House again. Since the recovery of his ‘accident’, the Lady has been on a warpath against anyone or anything that is negative towards her cherished offspring.

Arriving at the kitchen, Marigold deftly maneuvered between the scullery maids, house maids, and delivery girls before arriving at the Head Chef. The Head Chef, a lithe woman seemingly too young at twenty-two for such a prestigious position, was dressed in her usual plain emerald green chef’s tunic and black apron. Before placing a final sprig of garnish on an immaculate plate of pork chops, the Head Chef grabbed a nearby rag and wiped the sweat from her completely hairless head.

“Here for the Young Master’s lunch Mari? Sorry. The sweet kid already came and got it himself. Poor thing was apologizing like a street urchin that stepped in front of a carriage for, get this, intruding! Kid’s got the clout to bury every one of us at once and no one would say a word in our defense, and he apologizes for intruding in his own kitchen!”

That could be because of his ‘accident’, but he has admittedly become far more demure since waking with amnesia. It’s strange how he forgot everything about his life and our country’s history, but seems to remember how to compute numbers in his head like some sort of university scholar. He’s also shown a lot of interest in things he’s never cared for, including reading… or at least attempting too, given he’s forgotten all his letters.

Raylin, the Head Chef, stretched her arms above her head like a cat and pointed to the door. “He said he was off to the library to practice letters. You should go help him. Half the staff has been talking about asking to tutor him. Seems some of the girls think they can become the next Lady of the House.”

A few of the girls had the decency to look away in shame in front of Marigold, but several others looked aghast.

“Eh!? Why do ‘you’ look so offended? You were one of the most vocal!” Raylin pointed a ladle at a petite delivery girl who puffed her cheeks.

“I never said I thought I could be the next Lady! I just hoped… maybe… a member of his side house?” The girl claimed before going still, the color draining from her face. She looked behind the other members of the staff and towards the warded door to the main house. Marigold laughed to herself. And people call me the Ghost. I am nothing before the truly graceful. Marigold smiled to herself and turned to bow before her master.

“It is warming to hear my son has admirers, but I think he may be a bit young to be concerning himself with such practices.” The Lady Forrester, in her afternoon gown, descended into the kitchen.

“Hey Pats! I was about to send this girly here to bring you your lunch. Do you just want to take it... Oi! Watch that table, you’ll get flour on your dress!” Raylin hollered at the Lady. Marigold forced her face to stay perfectly still. It didn’t matter how much Marigold disproved of the way the Head Chef spoke to the Lady if the Lady didn’t seem to mind. Such concerns were above her station. Even saying that, calling Grand Duchess Patricia Forrester ‘Pats’ is absurd.

The Lady Forrester mirthfully chuckled, her cheeks lifting as her smile blossomed, her straight chestnut hair fell softly over her shoulders, ending in gentle curls. The looks of horror that initially fell over the crowd of servants passed into a subtle flavor of bubbling anxiety. Would the Lady lash out? Is she laughing because she is relishing how she is about to unleash a searing hell upon the room? Working for the truly powerful is equal parts financially satisfying and emotionally scarring. Sure, the pay is great… but if, on a whim, the Lady decides to kill your family going back five generations, literally no one except his Majesty the King can stop it. Not that he would, given that he sits too high to clearly see the ants on the ground.

“Ah! Marigold, come with me please. I am off to see Syron. Raylin, keep the meal warm would you? I will be in the dining hall shortly after a few words with my son.” The Lady smiled warmly to Marigold and turned her back to the servants, sliding across the room as though someone were pushing her back on a frozen lake. At least for Marigold, people can see her legs move and it breaks the illusion of gliding. For the Lady, her dress covers past her ankles, and her steps are truly ethereal in appearance.

“Don’t be late Pats! This meal was perfection two minutes ago, and it is getting worse by the second!”

Marigold struggled to keep up with the Lady’s pace. For some reason, the Lady was moving far faster than was reasonably expected from one while maintaining their dignity. Keeping up her feverish pace, Marigold heard her own heal clack softly against the floor. This caused the Lady to spin in stride and turn to Marigold with a nearly stunned expression.

“Ah! Marigold, I had not realized how fast I was travelling. I do hope you will forgive me.” Marigold merely bowed her head in shame, redness beginning to color her cheeks. After all, being silent is the ‘very least’ that should be expected of a professional maid. To break that tenet is to throw doubt on her own worthiness. Marigold begged in her mind for her Lady to forgive her blunder, but the Lady merely pat her shoulder consolingly and turned back to her journey to the library. A few minutes of walking later, they opened the thick carved doors of the Grand Duchy’s Library, entering the huge space required to house the tens of thousands of tomes within its shelves.

The Young Master sat alone at a table in the center of the glass domed room, either too focused to notice his mother’s arrival, or too uncaring to look up from his studies. He struggled on every word as he checked a handwritten note to the side that helped him make sense of the letters. His chestnut hair looked fuller and healthier since Marigold had looked upon him the day before, though his face preserved the sickly gauntness it had developed due to his ‘accident’. His eyes, though cloudy enough to imply blindness or even death only days before, now shone with an aggressive brightness. They had returned to their standard hazel, and they darted from word to word, frantically trying to remaster the skill he had acquired when he was only four.

“Magic is real…” he suddenly said aloud, breaking the silence. Both Marigold and the Lady sucked in a shallow breath at his proclamation. This was not a conversation either wished to have with the Young Master. Peering over his shoulder, the Lady quickly scanned the page of the book he was reading and frowned ever so slightly. She placed her hands on his shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. He looked up sharply, startled, but softened his gaze when he realized it was his mother’s hands. The Young Master had not liked being touched since waking from his ‘accident’. He smiled warmly at her, then did the same to Marigold.

“Oh, good morning Mother. Miss Mari. To what do I owe the pleasure?” The grin on the Young Master’s face was alien to Marigold, who had been taking care of him for over six years. He simply never smiled like that before he went to sleep. In truth, he smiled very little once he learned and understood his fate. About his aptitudes. It was beautiful and refreshing to see such childlike innocence and wonder in the boy, given his dour and defeatist demeanor since Marigold had known him. His realization that ‘magic is real’ was truthfully the one thing that the Lady and Marigold wished for him to take his time on. Such painful topics could wait. Yet here he was, smiling like a child with a new toy, emitting that he was just happy to be alive. This topic… they truly wanted more time of his happiness before they crushed it.

His aptitudes… learning them would break him, just as they did before. The whole world knew that his was a shunned magic. Only charlatans, confidence men, and thieves used it. After all, what else could you use it for? To use it against monsters required a degree of mastery that few in history had ever attained. To use it against his fellow man… much easier. People with the Young Master’s same aptitudes would forever be untrusted and feared in society. No one would ever see the sweet, friendly boy learning about magic for the first time. No one would care that the Young Master never cast a single spell in all of Marigold’s time with him to avoid ‘tainting’ himself or his public image. Despite the yearning in his eyes to utilize what was given to him at birth. Because of its implications and his station, he never faltered.

The Foresters were an old family, dating back to the founding of the Kingdom. The Original King named Leon Forrester as his sworn brother, gifting him the hereditary title of Grand Duke, and his family the moniker “The Warden of the Woods.” This was not a gift given freely, however. It was earned with a sword and paid for with a sea of demon’s blood. The Foresters have always held the reputation of being the most martially powerful family in the kingdom.

Yet, what could they do with a child with a frail, sickly body? What could they do against an unending tide of demonspawn pouring from their eastern borders? How could the world possibly be protected by an Illusionist?