A New Master

The edge of the low hills split the darkness and flushed orange, and brilliant light began to fall upon the earth. Dawn’s first rays did not hurry; they raced over the slopes with the wind.

Wherever the sunlight touched, living things shook off the night’s darkness and stretched with vigor. Dew still clinging to the grass blades slipped free; butterflies unfurled damp wings. Buds that had kept their mouths closed slowly opened and revealed their vivid colors.

Half-awake sheep moved their feet in slow search of young grass. From the distant village, smoke from the morning’s baking bread rose faintly, then melted into the sky and vanished.

Life overflowed across the beautiful land—except in one place alone.

Even beneath the radiant sun, Edenhurst Manor remained wrapped in darkness, as if that single spot still lingered in winter.

The servants who had opened their eyes moved swiftly yet quietly.

At this hour the masters of the house would ordinarily have been sunk in deepest sleep. Yet the butler cast sharp glares at anyone who made the slightest sound—especially when they passed the Countess’s chamber.

For months the Countess had been unable to sleep without medicine, and even with it she never achieved true rest. The least noise reached her sensitive ears, and she would dismiss the servants without mercy. Still, no one in Edenhurst dared grumble about her.

Their silence sprang partly from deep loyalty to the Lauderdale family, and partly from pity for a mother who had lost her only son.

Every servant wore black in mourning. Not a single face wore a smile. So long as their mistress did not smile, they dared not smile either.

The busiest place in the morning manor was the kitchen. Plump head cook Emma first prepared the masters’ meals. They almost never called for food at this hour, yet if they did, it had to be ready without delay.

Once the masters’ portions were set aside, she cooked for the servants. A great pot large enough for a person to climb into simmered with ingredients, and the kitchen maid who assisted Emma ladled soup into bowls with hurried hands. By the time she had filled even the lowest-ranking servants’ dishes, the pot had scraped its bottom.

Emma then brought a chipped bowl that had held vegetable peels, scraped the pot clean, and managed to fill barely a single ladle of soup.

“You there.”

Looking around, Emma called the young maid newly arrived that week.

“Set this over there.”

The girl took the bowl and went to the place Emma meant—a storeroom beside the kitchen where light never reached, stacked with sacks of potatoes. Beside them stood a tiny table that could hold two plates at most and a round, backless wooden stool.

She set down the soup plate, glanced about, and placed a nearby bread basket on the little table as well.

Emma saw it and shouted.

“What are you doing? Why put the scarce bread there!”

“But that’s Lady Anastasia’s…”

The maid’s voice sank to a mumble, as if she could not understand her mistake. Emma clicked her tongue and beckoned her closer.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Anastasia.”

Sharing a name was nothing unusual in Novgord. In a country barely two hundred years old, names were few; people with the same ones overflowed.

“You want to receive an Edenhurst name, don’t you?”

The maid nodded hard. Longing shone in her eyes at the words “Edenhurst name.”

“Then show some sense.”

Emma turned and looked at the corner table where the soup bowl sat. That place belonged to one person alone.

Ten years earlier the former Count Lauderdale had suddenly brought home a red-haired girl and declared he would make her his adoptive daughter. That day the Countess—always elegant, graceful, and never without dignity—raised her voice for the first time since coming to the manor. While the couple argued, the girl stood trembling, head bowed deep.

Days later she received the name Anastasia Lauderdale. The name carried the Countess’s iron will: she would accept her husband’s decision, yet give not even a fingernail’s worth of affection.

Those recognized as true members of Edenhurst received Ils-style names, never Novgord ones. The head cook herself had been Svetlana; here she was Emma. The butler Sergei became James within these walls. Everyone who earned the Countess’s approval and the right to remain—right down to the three dogs kept at the manor—bore an Edenhurst name. Only the girl the Count had brought remained Anastasia.

“Do you understand?”

When Emma asked again the maid nodded, then swiftly snatched the bread basket she had set down and moved it to the servants’ table. Emma felt relieved. The girl was not as dull as she had feared.

Servants who had finished their morning cleaning began to file down into the kitchen and take their places. Silence was required of them, yet here in the basement dining hall, beyond the eyes of butler and head maid, they traded light jokes while reaching for their food.

Near the end of the meal a sound of footsteps came from the inner stairs. The young maid, sitting at the table’s edge and tearing bread while she listened to her seniors, felt the presence and turned. A moment later a woman appeared.

Even to the girl’s eyes the clothes were years out of fashion, layered thickly one upon another. A thin muffler wrapped her hair so completely she looked like a nun, and a wide-brimmed hat hid her face as well. On the street one would have stared, then stepped aside.

Dragging her feet, she entered the kitchen and sat at the little table where the new maid had placed the bowl.

She was Anastasia Lauderdale.

When she came down, the servants at the main table fell silent a moment and looked at her. Then they turned away and took up their conversation exactly where they had left it, as though no one had entered. The young maid watched, then followed their example and turned her head. She had already learned the house’s rule.

Ignored by all, Anastasia looked at the food prepared for her: a single bowl of soup that filled the plate only halfway. That was everything. On the servants’ table a short distance away sat soup thick with ingredients, fresh morning bread, and yellow butter.

She gazed at their table a moment, then turned back. Clasping her hands over her own meager portion she prayed. No one else could see, but with eyes closed and lips moving she wore the expression of a devout monk.

The long prayer ended. Anastasia picked up the spoon that had been tossed onto the table; the traces of whoever last used it still clung to it. She wiped it on the hem of her skirt and began to eat.

The soup had long since lost its warmth, yet she was happy. Unlike days before, it held—however little—many different ingredients. The taste made her empty stomach clamor for more, but she moved her spoon slowly. While she ate, the servants nearby finished their meal and drifted into idle talk.

“The food’s certainly better these days.”

“True enough. A month ago you couldn’t tell if it was soup or water. They say a distant relative of the mistress in the capital learned how things stood here and sent help.”

At the word “help,” pity flickered across their faces. How had the Lauderdale family come to need another’s charity?

The Lauderdale counts had once been a family of real standing in Novgord. The first Count, a refugee from Ils, had kept the Ils name even after settling here—a wise choice in a land where royalty and nobility alike yearned for all things Ils.

A hundred years after the family’s arrival, their rising prestige collapsed overnight. It began five years earlier with the Count’s death. He had gone fox hunting near the estate, fallen from his horse, and dashed his head against a rock. Instant death at thirty-seven—far too young to end a life.

Grief struck them all, yet no one feared for the house’s future. The Count left a son, Edward, who would inherit everything. That same year war broke out with Schweik, and Edward was ordered by the Empress Dowager to the front to do his duty.

Everyone knew a noble’s “service” meant a safe post far behind the lines; they assumed Edward would return the moment the war ended and take his father’s title. But the war dragged on, and so did Edward’s absence.

Desperate to hasten her son’s return, the Countess flooded the imperial court with petitions and offerings. The townhouse in the capital, the other villas, the fertile lands beyond Edenhurst—all passed into imperial hands. From that moment the family’s decline raced forward.

Four years later, just as the long war neared its end, Edward was killed in a freak explosion at an allied powder magazine.

The winter before last the Countess received the death notice, fainted on the spot, and thereafter let every duty slip from her hands.

Income had already dwindled; the estate needed careful management more than ever. With the Countess withdrawn, nothing ran as it should. Worse, the man who managed the lands in her place secretly sold the family jewels to fund gambling and his own pleasures.

At last the house was cornered. Servants saw the bottom of the food stores for the first time. Wages that had once arrived punctually each month fell into arrears, and several left. After that hard winter, spring found the remaining staff watching one another, each wondering who would be next to go.

Then a stranger arrived claiming to have been sent by a distant relative of the Countess. Acting on that relative’s orders, he settled the most urgent debts. The few remaining sacks of potatoes and flour were replaced by full stores; butter and milk arrived fresh every day. The servants’ table grew abundant once more.

“But that man…” A servant in the corner spoke carefully. “I heard he isn’t a relative at all.”

Everyone turned; the words were new to them.

“What do you mean, not a relative? Then who sent the help?”

“Well…”

He hesitated, glancing at the others. He had been taught that a common servant must never speak of the masters’ affairs. Silence was safest—yet…

When he faltered, Emma quietly cut in.

“What of it? No butler or head maid here.”

As cook she ought to have hushed them, but the claim that the benefactor was no relative had pricked her curiosity too. With her tacit leave the man spoke again.

“While I was cleaning upstairs earlier I overheard the mistress and the butler talking…”

He beckoned them closer and dropped his voice to a whisper.

“A new master is coming to Edenhurst.”