Zeebo's Alibi, Part 1
The chamber smelled of fresh-cut flowers, and Minwa could almost feel the soft texture of a rose petal on her tongue. It was dark, and slightly damp within the room but the smell, at least, was pleasant and sweet. She crossed to the small cafe table the Master took his meals at, and glanced at the heavy tapestry that served as a curtain covering the alcove where he slept. If she were lucky, he still dozed and she would be able to leave the tray and go before he woke. Even if he was awake, she might be able to get out before he noticed and got out of the bed. Minwa didn’t like the Master. He was old, and unnatural, and it frightened her. The smell of flowers was one of those unnatural things. She’d helped take care of her grandfather in his last days, and much as she loved him he smelled. Old people smelled, of sickness and infirmity, and so did their homes and rooms and beds. But not the Master. He was older than grandfather, but everything around him always smelled of springtime and sunshine and… and youth, she decided. There were no flowers in the chamber, but even if there had been Minwa thought it wrong that an ancient thing like the Master should be surrounded by the scents of life.
She set the silver tray down as quietly as she could, careful that the delicate coffee service didn’t clatter. She was still watching the tapestry when he spoke. “Good morning,” he said, voice as cheerful and lilting as a child’s. Another unnatural thing. Minwa shrieked, nearly upsetting the tray. He was seated at the table, sitting quietly in the dark. The level of light in the chamber slowly increased, not so much as to hurt the eyes, but both the Master and Minwa squinted at the change.
“I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He chuckled. His violet eyes twinkled. “I was simply gathering my thoughts. It helps, sometimes, to gather one’s thoughts in the dark. Too many distractions in this room, too much to draw one’s eye and lead the mind to other thoughts”.
Composing herself, Minwa poured the old Master’s coffee, adding fresh cream and sugar to his liking. Everyone in the tower knew how the Master took his coffee. It was the first thing you were taught, upon entering his service. The art of roasting and grinding beans, and brewing the coffee. Most of the time, the Master wasn’t high maintainance, but “proper coffee”, as he called it, was one of his quirks. Anyone could be called on to prepare it for him, at a whim, at any hour of the day or night.
The Master was standing now, shrugging out of his nightshirt. His back was turned, and Minwa stared at his pale flesh and the network of scars that covered him. She tried hard not to look at the shrivelled, vestigal growths between his shoulder blades. Flaps of skin clung to his back, reddish as if fevered, spotted with age. Wings. Dragon’s wings.
“Girl, help me get this on,” he said, fumbling into a dress shirt. “I don’t mind you staring at them, but the damned things make it harder to dress myself in my old age.”
She obliged the old Master, getting the shirt up over his shoulders so he could button up. She was embarassed that he knew she was staring, but he may have just assumed, or been used to it. The wings were one of the things he was known for. The tales were told over and over again. The wings were part of the story of why he was a hero. They were also part of the reason he was considered a freak but his own people, and chose to live in an old wizard’s tower.
“You’re a good girl. You can go now,” he said, waiving a hand dismissively in the air. As the light began to dim, she made her way to the chamber door. Glancing back, she saw him settled in his chair again, sipping his coffee with an expression of pure delight on his face. All of the old people she knew were miserable, in pain, tired of the world. But not the Master. He could be pensive sometimes, or nostalgic, but he was almost always happy. Another quirk. Another oddity that made Minwa uneasy.
Still, there were many who envied her position. Jobs were scarce, and she enjoyed a warm, comfortable place to sleep. Her servant’s livery were finer clothes than many could ever dream of owning, and she never went hungry. In spite of their reputation, most gnomes considered it an honor to serve House Kantelleki, and even more so to work directly for old Master Zeebo.
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