After Kitties

Enasshi’s new assistant gardener tugged at the sleeves of his coat. “This is…” He coughed.

“It is,” agreed the head gardener, a fox moddie who was wearing breeches and nothing else. “The good news is, when you’re in the back yard, the gardens, or anywhere but the front yard or the public spaces, just wear the pants – and the shirt if you want it. The rest is for public places.”

The assistant gardener looked down at the pile of clothing in his arms. “So she knows we get it dirty, ‘cause there’s seven changes of clothes here. But there’s seven changes of clothes here. I think that costs more than she spent on me.”

“Let’s be honest.” The head gardener smirked. “She doesn’t spend all that much on us.”

The assistant gardener looked up, startled. “…Us?”

“Oh, come on, kid, you didn’t think you were the only one, did you? No, this is on purpose. Here, sit down, put those clothes down. Nobody does yard work at noon, anyway. No.” The head gardener tucked his tail around a stool as he sat down. “She found out about the moddies that don’t work out. ‘Unsuitable’ moddies. Don’t you dare tell anyone I told you, but Helena, the chatelaine, she was first. And after that – there’s not an unmodified staff member left in the house.”

“We’re… all ‘unsuitable?’” Suddenly the assistant gardener looked frightened. “But isn’t that dangerous?”

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There had always been something a little strange about the Baroness Enasshi ni Firanne O Tertia’s household.

To be fair, the entire O Tertia household had been strange right from its founding, and their little barony, barely more than a town and some fields, drew more attention than something its size had any right to.

But ever since Enasshi – and what sort of name was that? – took over from her mother Firanne (speaking of names) on that worthy’s seventieth birthday (speaking of anomalies; most Baronesses had to wait until their mother died, not just until they turned seventy; seventy was nothing to the children of the gods), the little Barony’s little household had gotten even stranger.

Lady Enasshi had spent three years in Great Britain when she was in her early twenties, something that was not unheard-of but not all that common, and there were those who suggested that it might be a British influence. Others suggested the two years in Japan, the year in France, or even the six months she’d spent touring Africa. As a rule, it was generally agreed that, for a Californian noble, she’d spent far, far too much time overseas.

Which might be what they could blame for her staff, almost all bred moddies somehow unsuitable for Agency service. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with having genetically-modified staffers. It wasn’t even that there was anything wrong with having them as your butler and maid, your cook and your groundskeeper. (There was something a little questionable about having one as one’s Consort, but the Lady’s choice and the Consort’s were sacrosanct in that matter, and absolutely nobody was going to tell Lady Enasshi that she couldn’t have a dapper, well-turned-out cat-boy as her Consort.) It was just that, in addition to the oddity of a staff that was almost entirely moddies, from the chatelaine down to the pot-boy, in a rather well-appointed household, Enasshi insisted on dressing every single one of them in beautiful and elaborate livery that wasn’t now and had never been the style in Tír na Cali.

Most Californian nobles dressed their slaves simply- khakis and shirts with the household monogram was common – saving the frou-frou and ornamentation for their companions, their butler (only sometimes) and fancy-dress parties. Visiting their houses, even the house of a Countess, was like visiting a friend. Everything was casual. With Lady Enasshi, not so much.

“I don’t know what to wear,” bemoaned the youngest daughter of the Baroness Stasia ni Ysabet. “The last time I went to a lunch at Enasshi’s, the boy trimming the weeds was better dressed than I was. And I was in couture!”

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begun here., continued here

There was so much askew with the world and Trevor’s life had gone completely mad. The only thing he could do was focus on the facts.

He had been stealing – pick-pocketing mostly – and then he had been captured. He’d been given new pants and a collar, his shirt taken away, and then a rich-looking woman had stopped what she was doing to stare at him. He’d been taken home and fed, strange food but tasty, and that had somehow gotten the rich woman in trouble.

And now a maternal-acting woman had fed him even more food. “Her timing is a little bad,” she fussed, “but that isn’t your fault. You’re a skinny thing, aren’t you? Here, have another tart. Herself won’t eat things like this, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make them even when She’s visiting.”

The fussing went on. Trevor took in what he could and filed the rest for later study. He was fed, he was given a place to sleep, he was given clean clothes for the second time in two days, and he’d been admonished not to run off, as if they’d done anything to suggest he ought to. If anything, they’d given him too much to keep him there.

When Elva, the matronly woman, found him an hour later, he was naked save for the collar – which, it turned out, didn’t come off – and napping on a large cushion at the foot of Lady Catherine’s bed. “What?” he asked, at the raised eyebrow Elva gave him. “It’s her birthday, too.”

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begun here.

It hadn’t been Cathleen’s intention to disrupt her staff and throw a monkey-wrench in her own birthday party. She liked her staff; many of them had been transferred to her house when she came of age from her Lady Mother’s home, and thus had grown up with her. Her landscaper, Cahir, had played tag with her in the labyrinths behind the Baronial manor. Her chatelaine, Elva, had been her nanny when she was little. She wanted to take care of them all; she wanted to protect them from her Lady Mother, as much as she could.

And now Elva was giving Cathleen a look much like she had when Cathleen was very young and had gotten herself muddy and bloody just before a big event. Cathleen looked up at her chatelaine, sighed, and looked back at the boy. “It’s his birthday too,” she tried, and it was; that had been what had caught her eye.

Elva just clucked. “Wash your hands, my Lady. I’ll make sure the birthday boy here gets plenty to eat – and a bath. Tomorrow you can tell me what you’re going to do with him. Today…”

Cathleen sighed. “Today,” she allowed. “I’ll deal with my Lady Mother today.”

And then tomorrow she could do as she’d always done, and get all muddy and dirty in her own private unbirthday celebration. By then, the Baroness would have moved on to other things, and Cathleen – and her new co-birthday acquisition – could celebrate in peace.

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So lilfluff sent me a bunch of prompts for my birthday in 2014. *cough* This is from Tír na Cali.

It was the Lady’s birthday, and the house was in an uproar. The Lady herself was not all that demanding — but her Lady Mother was, and that meant that everything had to be absolutely perfect: the Lady might own them, but the Lady Mother was still Baroness, and she could make their lives miserable and their Lady’s life horrible.

The cakes were divine and adorable, the house was scrubbed till it gleamed. The landscaping was trimmed until everything was level and bright and lovely. The household slaves were all in their absolute best uniforms. Even their collars were gleaming. In five minutes, Herself, the Lady Baroness, would arrive.

And their Lady Mistress was sitting on the veranda, happily sharing a tray of hors d’oevres with a scrawny teenaged boy who was still in slave-raider pants and the bright orange slave-shop collar.

“What?” she asked her chatelaine, when the patient woman found them. “It’s his birthday too.”

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