Chapter Text
One of the nighttime roomGirls rapped lightly at Jensen's cubby doorway, startling him into dropping the book he was reading. It was past hours; Jared was sound asleep, had been asleep for some time—what could it be?
"Lucky," the girl whispered, "Mistress wants you in her office immediately." She stifled a small yawn—judging by the crispness of her uniform, she must have just come onto her shift. She crossed her arms, fought down another yawn. "C'mon, Lucky, no time to waste."
"Oh, yes, coming—" Jen jumped up and rummaged through his clothes cabinet, quickly changing from night shirt to fresh uniform. He scooped a little cold water from the wash bowl in the corner and rubbed sleepiness from his face as best he could. In seconds he was presentable enough, considering how late the hour was, and ran to catch up with the roomGirl, their footsteps muffled by their night shoes.
To be called to attend after hours always made him nervous, and as he followed the roomGirl—Maddy, he thought—he was running the day's events through in his mind, wondering where he'd gone wrong, how he'd offended.
Maddy tapped at the office door and ushered Jensen inside. Before dropping his eyes, he caught sight of the Mistress behind her writing desk, several notebooks spread across the top. Some on that pile belonged to Jensen; he froze when he saw the dark blue cover topped with the gold line. He wished the floor would rise up and swallow him...what had he done wrong?
Mistress pointed at a chair set in front of her sofa. "Sit."
She rose from her desk, the silk skirts of her gown flirting around her calves as she moved. She took a few moments to adjust the tone of her audiocon. The familiar sign-on, "This is the private station of subscriber Patricia Padalecki" whispered into the air, before a beautiful string arrangement became a subtle backdrop to what was to come—whatever that might be. Jensen sat quietly, stiffly; barely breathing so as not to move or do anything to accidentally annoy the mistress.
"Lift your head, Jensen—and breathe, for all the gods' sake." Mistress settled delicately on her sofa, lit a slim black cigarette, pulling delicately on the gold filter as she considered her property. "Jensen...I'm told your school work is excellent. Jared's instructors have no complaint with you."
Jensen blushed. In a thrall's life, No complaint was the equivalent of high praise. So far, so good.
"You're well liked, Jensen, by all the staff at Cyprus Wood Academy. You're well liked by the staff here, as well. You are in fact," she crushed out her cigarette in the little cloisonne ashtray, "rather the pet on the estate."
Jensen froze in horror. Had he overstepped in some way—he'd never tried to make people like him. In fact, he tried to remain unnoticed...had Jared complained? Was he about to be punished?
"Relax, Jensen," she murmured. "It's not your fault you're a...you're rather a treasure, aren't you? I've never had cause, in all these years, to regret choosing you as a companion for the young master. You've been a friend and a guide to him. You've helped to...aim Jared in the direction that I wish him to grow. He's a dear, sweet child, but he can be impetuous, and…" She stood, moved to her audiocon again, and lingered over adjusting the dials, giving Jensen a little breathing space.
"Well. He has, unfortunately, inherited a bit of his father's temper. He has a good heart but...you've seen it," Mistress Patricia said. "Without guidance, Jared could be a colder person. A harsh person. He loves you, Jensen, and you seem to love him, and for that I'm grateful."
Jensen sat like a stone until finally Mistress turned back to him, a sardonic lift of her eyebrow giving way to puzzlement, and then an irritated kind of understanding. "You may speak, Jensen, whenever we are alone, you are to speak freely."
"Yes, Mistress," Jen replied, so quietly that she had to lean forward to hear him. She may have given him permission to speak, but Jen was not a fool. He concentrated harder, trying to figure out what it was she wanted to hear. She walked around Jen's chair, came to a stop facing him, and slapped him lightly. Not painful, but certainly startling.
"I know what you're doing and stop it. Don't vomit up pointless nonsense that you think I want to hear. Observe the time." She pointed to her desk, at the gold and glass confection of a clock perched on it and said, "It's past twelve, past the witching hour," she said and graced Jen with a small, thin smile. "No one here but you and me. I have given you permission to speak—no. No, what I mean to say is...please...Jensen, speak to me as you would to Jared—" She held her hand up. "No, as you would to masterCook."
Jensen, for the first time in fourteen years, stared wide-eyed and slack-jawed at a master. Speechless, like he hadn't been since toddler-hood, since his fourth year, when he'd gotten a few switches to the soles of his feet for responding, 'What?' when Master Patrick had given him an order.
"I—I—I ask your pardon, please, Mistress! I…." He was trapped; he had no protocol to deal with falling into a situation like this.
"I expect you'll have plenty of time to get used to this." She actually laughed, and turning to a sideboard, poured Jensen a small glass of wine. "'Cook sent this up today...not as sweet as I was afraid. Take this." She pushed the glass towards him. "You'll have to know wines, eventually. Also foods, fabrics...when you are masterHouseboy, Jensen, you'll have to know a great many things, and also, make sure that your staff is very knowledgeable as well. It's not just what you are capable of, it's who you surround yourself with and how capable they are. Never make the mistake of thinking that you are a party of one."
Jensen nodded vigorously and sipped at the wine. It was good. Fruity but not heavily so, more crisp, and with a touch of sweetness. He wondered if it came from the estate. The thin cracker topped with a creamy cheese that she also gave him was good; the cheese had a slightly nutty, slightly sweet taste, offset by the pepper-dusted cracker.
"Good?"
"Oh yes, it's a very nice Malbec; a nice bite of spice. Master Patrick generally prefered Manchiaggo with it and so did I, but this cheese has nice texture and a good fla-fla…."
He stuttered to a stop as Mistress peered at him over the rim of her glass. She put it down, gently but firmly. "Jensen. We will talk again. About everything Master Stewart taught you. It seems you are more knowledgeable than I assumed. You are...eighteen, am I right?"
Jensen nodded. "Yes, Mistress."
"You know, I was thinking about letting you train with Jim a few years from now, but I think you should be working with him sooner. Mark is excellent at the day-to-day affairs, but you…" She took up her glass again, twirling her glass and watching the way the electric candles made the liquid in the glass glow ruby, burgundy, blood, as it swirled. "At your young age, you already understand what makes an estate great. You are exactly what Jared needs in his future." She drained her glass and set it down, lit another thin, black cigarette.
"So, let us speak of education. Jared will be going to university in just a few years."
Jensen nodded and when she asked him what he thought of that, he hesitated before speaking, and actually considered what he thought about that information, personally. Instead of saying what he thought she wanted, he spoke the truth. "It scares me. I don't know where I'll be. I know you have said I'm to apprentice to Jim—I mean masterHouseboy, but I'm afraid that if Jared stops caring for me, I'll be open to others taking advantage. Not that you'd let that happen, Mistress...I mean, as long as you knew about it."
Mistress Patricia looked fierce. "Not on this estate. I won't stand for it. There are places—" She stopped and took a deep breath. "Would you like to go with Jared, to university?"
Jensen realized that he probably was gaping like a guppy again, and shook himself. "But...yes...but...how? Where?" He froze. "As his body thrall, you mean?"
"Gods no, Jensen. What is wrong with you? Do you want to be a body thrall? What is this fascination with sex, for all the gods' sake?"
Jensen shivered—his face going red, then white with fear. He'd overstepped. Of course. For once in his foolish life the chance to speak up falls in his lap, and what does he do? He ruins it—
"You really are quite vexing, Jensen. Quite vexing. And I apologize. Of course that is your main fear. I was unthinking enough not to consider that. You. Need. Never. Fear. Understand? You are my thrall, only my Geld and wish can free you, only my word can damn you. Fortunately for you, I have decided that you are a treasure. Now, you will certainly attend university with Jared, yes. And that's not possible in Columbia, no. But...Albion, Francia, possibly Espania; all these are good possibilities. I would sugggest Acadia to Jared, but you'd never be allowed that. The other countries look down on us for our thralls, but they do obey our laws—Acadia refuses to do us the honor of obeying our laws, so...."
She shrugged, a quick flash of annoyance darkening her features. "The options I've mentioned do come with some problems, such as language. That is a barrier to be considered. Jared has been taking classes, but you have…"
She eyed Jensen, and he wished fervently that right this moment, his worthless molecules would disperse into the air. "Have been listening in and taking your own classes, am I right? Of course I am."
She flipped her hand at him, like she was sweeping away an annoying insect. "Vexing, Jensen. Now, off to bed. We'll speak another day."
* * *
Jared threw himself down on the bed next to Jensen, kicking off his boots and tossing his jacket—followed by his tie—into the air. Jensen watched it flutter to a landing on one of Jared's bookcases, took note of where his boots landed.
"Jen, Jen," Jared poked his arm.
"Yes, Jared, I'm right here. I hear you and feel you just fine, thanks."
Jared giggled for a moment, his dimples adding that spark to his smile that Jen loved. "No, really, Jen, I have something to tell you—a secret." His voice dropped down to a whisper not much quieter than his speaking voice. "We're going to the capitol—the Great Capitol!"
Jensen felt a quick, barely there flash of envy, squashed automatically and ruthlessly. "That's wonderful, Jared. When will you be leaving? Do you know what you want me to pack for you? What about school, shall I do your notes, or…."
He stopped. Jared was looking at him in an odd way. His master shook his head and said, "Jen, We are going to the capitol. You and Mother and me. I. You know what I mean!"
Jensen stared at Jared, shook his head carefully. "No, not really."
"Jensen! Don't be thick! We are all going—in a private airship—you as well, Jen. We're going to have a weekend holiday together. Mother thinks it will be good for us, plus this is a trial run for when you travel with me to wherever I go to university. You know, quite a few thralls travel with their masters. You'll like it. I'll like it. And Mother thinks you're positively a good influence on me. You're to keep me on the straight and narrow when we go—"
Jared prattled on and on, and Jensen went into automatic-pilot, answering when he needed to, lifting an eyebrow when called for, or giggling along with Jared when that was called for...and all the while he marveled, light-headed and euphoric at the thought. Travel, real travel, not trussed neck to neck with other thralls in a truck, not locked into a travel-box, something he had only the vaguest memories of from toddler-hood, he and his siblings (he was pretty sure that it had been his siblings) crowded in tight together, crouched on splintery wood. As far as Jensen was concerned, he'd just been gifted with a miracle. He thanked the goddess for his luck.
* * *
Mistress officially informed Jensen at their next night-time tête-à-tête. She had an appointment in the capitol. He'd managed to glean from kitchen gossip that it was a very important meeting with very important people, but no more than that. Jensen honestly wasn't interested in the reason for the trip, what mattered was that she'd assured Jensen that he would be traveling with her and her son to Columbia's great Capital of Philadelphia, in the state of Pennsylvania.
Philadelphia!
Pennsylvania!
Since the moment Mistress confirmed it, Jensen was besides himself with excitement; he had no memory of any place outside of the Stewart estate until he'd become part of the Padalecki estate. Columbia, he knew, was a beautiful country-- last year, he and Jared had attended weekly showings of the series, 'Columbia, from Sea to Shining Sea' at the Lawrence Cinema, and it had been an amazing experience. The thought of seeing some of this great land he lived in thrilled him. But the most exciting aspect of it all, the most magical part of all—he'd finally be able to ride an airship.
Jen shivered. An airship! To take to the skies, soar through them high and free, just like the Mighty Dirigible Captain—an excited laugh broke free at the secret thought, and Jensen blushed in embarrassment; here he was in public, losing control so openly he felt like a toddler. It was just...the Dirigible Captain. Mark, the assistant 'Houseboy was full of those stories. Jensen loved hearing him recount the exciting tales, loved how his voice deepened, dipped and rose and fell in the rhythm of those stories, exciting and funny and heroic....
As though Jensen thinking about him called him up, Mark came strolling along the kitchen-garden path—where Jensen was currently absolutely not hiding in the arms of the shrubbery, just to take a breath or two for himself—a crate of estate-brewed ale balanced on his shoulder. The sun struck highlights on his bristly blond hair, along the scruff that outlined his jaw. His very blue eyes fixed on Jensen as he came to a stop, his slow, sardonic curl of a smile brightening a bit. Jen could see spots and stains on Mark's shirt, his pants...he wanted to shake his head. Mark's lack of regard for his position must vex the mistress quite a bit—how Mark could get away with it was testament to her patience and the kindness she showed her thralls.
"Well, well, what the fuck do we have here?" Mark set the crate down and rubbed at his neck. "Whew, that there is a heavy bitch. I swan, my shoulders are about to break clean off. As I was saying, what have we here, Lucky? Why this lounging in the shrubs?"
I'm hiding from my master for a blessed moment of peace. he thought, but out loud of course, he said, holding up his notebook, "I'm marking out pathways and mocking up recommendations for possible changes. For efficiency. That's...that's what my paper is…is..." He dropped his head and blushed deeper. "I...I...Mistress said…."
His voice faded. He was afraid to meet assistant masterHouseboy's eyes. He was startled by a loud, deep, very pleased laugh.
"Oh, Lucky, don't think you're taking something from me! I'm rooting for you to pass all the courses with flying colors. When you take this position, I'm free. Or as free as a slave can be."
Jensen tipped his head. "Sl-ave? Is that Anglo? What does it mean?"
"Ah, you poor little shit," Mark murmured and dropped to his knees. He took Jensen's free hand. "Slave is...it's a forbidden word. An old, old word, which means, well, what we are. Most of us. Listen, Lucky, you know there are things that masters mustn't know?"
Jen nodded. Of course, everyone knew what not to share: Master Foolish stories. The Dirigible Captain. Loki's tales. Taking the way to Shining Sea….
"Slave is a thing like that. For a sla—a thrall to be really free, and not in the sense of being dead, they must know their history—" he stopped, huffed impatiently. "Well, anyway, when you are doing this gods-forsaken job, I will be attached to masterHusbandman, and I will be damn glad of it. The whole outdoors, all the air and sun you could want, and no one looking over your shoulder all the fuck of the day. That's where I belong. And you, you are pretty and smart and deceptively willowy-looking. Because underneath, I’ve seen, you're fuckin' hard as nails," Mark laughed.
"I am not!" Jensen was absolutely offended by what Mark said. He was not hard—he was as close to a gentleman as a thrall was allowed. He was...Master Patrick had referred to him as delicate, delectable.
He raised his hands, turning them this way and that. He had no callouses, no scars. His hands were nearly as smooth as Jared's. He was not hard.
Mark leaped to his feet, still chuckling as he tapped Jen's cheek. "You'll understand one day. Thank the gods and all their vassals you don't know what I mean. One of the blessings of my life in this place," he said, his ever-present smirk gone, "has been that you don't know, praises on the Four Gods."
A second or two went by before Mark shook his head, and the odd, rather somber mood that had struck him was gone like smoke—winking at Jen, he shouldered the crate again and took off for the kitchen's cold room, whistling as he went.
Jensen stared after him, chewing the cap of his pen as he watched the assistant 'houseboy walk away.
The thing about being a young, unassuming thrall was that people tended to forget he was in the room. They freely dropped little nuggets of gossip, and spit boast-talk. And what he'd overheard, sitting quietly on his stool near the kitchen hearth, made him certain that Mark was a member of the Dirigible Captain's service.
Unless Jensen was directly commanded to speak, he'd never mention his suspicions to anyone, not Mistress Patricia, not Master Jared. Even if ordered...well, he’d like to think he would not speak, even if the masters demanded it. The thought made him shiver, his stomach turn unpleasantly. For some reason, he had a faint flash of memory—his brother, whom he'd not really thought of for years. Odd. Odder still, instead of feeling any kind of nostalgia or melancholy over a person he barely recalled, he felt anger—quick as a knife slash and as sharp, before it disappeared.
He picked up his notebook, rifling the pages, holding it close until all he felt was gratitude that, despite there surely being candidates more suitable, Mistress chose him.
Jensen shook his head and smiled, picked up his pen and began to trace new pathways from garden gate to service entrances.