He walked through the streets of downtown Halmist with an air of grace, his white lace parasol held just so over his shoulder. His chin was pointed and his hair was liquid gold, shimmering past his knees to rest at mid-calf. Of course, it was in a heavy braid. Wearing it loose would have damaged its gloss.

Nobody in the port city gave him any odd looks or second glances, though it was indeed unusual for a young man of his age to have such long hair. They were more disturbed by the girl beside him, dressed all in white robes. At least he was a weirdness they could cope with. She was ominous and fierce, forbidding, like a nun. Her chest was completely flat, and her black hair was tied back with a thin strip of leather. She looked out of place, and the snowy white of her clothes hurt the eyes.

“You’re so prudish,” complained the male, his effeminate face serving to backdrop his pout. “I can’t believe you didn’t like anything at the shop. Really, it wouldn’t hurt you to buy something pretty every once in a while.”

The female’s eyes narrowed, and she clenched her jaw. “I am a servant of the sacred fire. I do not buy frivolous things,” she grumbled, fingers curled tightly into fists. She was holding, in one hand, a rather large clothes trunk, with an air of quiet embarrassment.

“It’s a good thing you have me, then,” he replied flippantly, tossing his head and giving the parasol a cheerful spin. “Do you remember the yellow dress? It’s for you. I got it while you were moping in the corner,” he said, smugly, his free hand planted on his hip.

“What?” the girl whined, a look of panic entering her eyes. “No!”

“Are you refusing my gift? Do you hate me?” the boy asked, his voice hurt and accusing.

“I humbly accept your offering,” the girl said, hurriedly, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. She glared daggers at the boy. “That was low, master Amos.”

Amos looked over at her, his wounded expression replaced with a smirk. “It worked, though. And must you always be so formal, Kida?”

‘Kida’ gave him a smoldering look. “It would seem that master Amos has once again forgotten that my name is Zukida,” she said, every word clipped.

“Yes, yes,” Amos said airily, waving a gloved hand, “it’s a very pretty name, but it is rather a mouthful, isn’t it? Can’t blame me for wanting to give you a nickname. How about Zuki? Do you think it sounds too much like ‘zucchini’? Hey, I could call you Keenie! From zucchini. Only-“

“I find it hard to believe that you are one of the Chosen!” Zukida snapped, eyes flashing.

“I find it hard to believe that you bind your chest in this heat,” Amos countered evenly. He fanned himself delicately and switched his parasol to his other hand. Beside him, a muscle in Zukida’s jaw twitched.

“Remind me where we are going?” Amos added pleasantly a few minutes later.

Zukida narrowed her eyes and shifted the clothes trunk to her other arm. It was rather heavy. “We were supposed to be asking around for gossip on the haunted mausoleum. We were supposed to find out where it is and what the ghosts are like. But then you saw the dress shop. And the blue velvet suit jacket, with the lace trim-“

“-And the gold buttons,” Amos added dreamily. “And the lace ruff that came with it. And the boots – ah, the boots –“

“And so we’re going back to the inn, now, to put this with the rest of your ridiculous luggage,” Zukida finished. “And then we will be going directly to the local tavern and you will not bring the parasol –“

“- And I will bring the parasol, excuse me –“

“And we will be speaking with the nearly unconscious drunk people and the waiters and the bartenders, and not the nobles,” Zukida said narrowly.

Amos gave his parasol another irritating twirl. He examined his glove fingers. “What time is it now, do you think?”

“Midday,” Zukida responded curtly.

“And about how long will it take us to get to our inn?”

“About an hour and a half.”

“Hm. That’s cutting it close, I think.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, she said it would take at least three hours to get to her country manse by carriage from where we were staying. Hold on, she gave me a written invitation, I’ll check it.” Amos drew a white square of paper with a pink ribbon tied to it out of his shirtfront and gave it a cursory glance. “Ah. The dinner party begins at five. I’ll only have half an hour to get ready while you call up a carriage,” Amos said, his eyes wide and fearful. “Oh, heavens. I hope I manage it.”

“What are you talking about?” Zukida said with rising suspicion. “Who invited you to a party?”

“Madame Lillian did.”

“Who in the nine circles is Lillian?” Zukida asked, growing a bit frantic.

“Oh, you remember, Kida. At the dressmaker’s shop. That Madame Lillian. She was wearing such a distinctive peach frock. It had those ribbons of a slightly darker tone – bordering on orange, I daresay – affixed to her undershift, and the frock had silk ruffles cut on the bias down both sides of the parts in front, and the bustier had some absolutely enchanting white embroidery; I think they were chrysanthemums and roses-“

“Oh, gods,” Zukida groaned.

“I know! Wasn’t it adorable, though, the decoration on her sun hat?” Amos chirped. He smiled in a friendly way. Zukida held a hand to her forehead in despair.

“That Miss Lillian,” she said grimly. Then she blinked. “Hang on, who said I was going to call up the carriage?”

“Your plan was silly, anyway,” Amos said, in an attempt to be comforting. Zukida merely blanched as the carriage speeded over a pothole. From his pillow, Amos sighed. He had re-done his hair in a more fancy fishbone braid and changed his overcoat, vest, and trousers. Now he was wearing a summery dark gold color, with a thick band of black cloth for trim. He had also added pearl drop earrings and a gold ring on his right hand’s ring finger, over the white gloves. He had explained all of this in excruciating detail to Zukida, who had been bored sick.

Zukida was wearing a maid’s cap and scowling ferociously.

“I know you don’t like it, Kida, but you wouldn’t wear any of my clothes or the dress, so you’ll have to pretend to be a servant. Look on the bright side. You’ll be able to get gossip from the other maids and menservants. I’ll be trying to find out what’s going on in the mausoleum, too. I’m sure someone will have a scary story about it.”

Zukida sighed and adjusted the hat. “It’s just that this seems like such a terrible thing for heroes – er, Chosen – to do,” she said worriedly. “I’ve never heard of a hero saving the day by attending a fancy dinner party or traveling in rich circles.”

Amos’ brown eyes darkened, and he looked out the window. “Sometimes,” he whispered, “you have to forget what you learned from fairy tales.”

“Hm?” Zukida asked, cupping a hand about her ear.

“It wasn’t important,” Amos said, smiling again. He moved his folded parasol between his knees and looked intently out of the well-cleaned door window. The air was thick with darkness, but he could still see the bracken and the stunted trees flying by.

He had met Zukida on his travels. Being the youngest son of an extremely wealthy extended family left one with very little responsibility, and an indulgent allowance of money. Amos had always loved to travel. Whenever he returned to the family home, he usually came back with several trunks more clothes than he had started out with. It was a passion of his, actually; that had been the main reason he had visited Zukida’s shrine, to acquire a set of the well-cut robes so that he could have his seamstress lift the pattern.

Amos hadn’t known that his arrival had been expected for some time. It had been seen in a prophetic dream that Zukida would meet him and become his ‘fighting companion’. They were both …gifted. Anyway, according to the native religion, his and Zukida’s unusual gifts were a sign that they had been chosen by the gods to combat the forces of evil within Man. Amos had found it all splendidly charming. It was all so quaint, and rustic.

“What do you see, master Amos?” Zukida said, interrupting his train of thought.

“Oh! Oh. Nothing much, really. It’s getting a bit dark outside. Good thing we have a light in here, eh?” Amos said, wincing a bit at the formality.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Zukida asked in irritation.

“Doing what?”

“Whenever I use an honorific you cringe, but you have no trouble using them for everyone else you’ve met. Except me, of course. Why?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Amos admitted honestly. “You’re from a very rural country, you know. In my homeland, the religious people don’t use honorifics at all. They use words like, ‘my son’, or ‘my daughter’, no matter how old they are compared to you. They’re generally acknowledged to be quite wise, and sagacious. It seems like a breach of etiquette to be deferred to by a priestess.”

“And how do you address the holy people of your land?” Zukida asked, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. Amos smiled.

“We call them Uncle and Auntie,” he said, his face glowing. “If we know them personally, we use their given name.”

“I see,” Zukida said with a grin. “It’s a good thing you didn’t call the High Priest ‘Uncle’. He would have thought you didn’t understand the language. In our religion, the holy people are very humble. We view ourselves as the holy servants, and we must care for mankind, for it is precious to us. We use honorifics for each other and for outsiders. We only call little babies by their first names without an honorific. For example, the suffix –skad is used for priests and servants.”

“What honorific would you use for a friend?”

“It would depend on how close you were. The honorific for your closest friends is –kit. You would be Amo-kit. It signifies trust and respect for the other’s personality and beliefs, basically. Beyond ‘master’, ‘mistress’, and such, our system doesn’t translate very well.”

“What about, you know, drinking buddies?” Amos asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Zukida glared at him. “That’s not a question you would normally ask a priestess. …It’s –bun.”

“Like a pastry bun?”

“No, a longer u. Buuun.”

“Buuun.”

“Right.”

Amos grinned. “Thanks for telling me, Kida-bun.”

Heroically, Zukida restrained the urge to smack him about the head with his parasol.

Amos was having a delightful time entertaining the ladies. His outfit had been foreign enough that it was instantly popular, and he had taken great care to lie that it was perfectly normal for people in noble families to carry parasols where he came from. He also managed to steer the subjects of conversation away from details about his home.

“Another glass of the red cordial, would you, fellow?” Amos said, raising his voice and waving at the serving boy in the corner. The boy turned pink and scurried off, which made Amos feel like giggling. In these parts, everyone had dark or red hair. His blonde tresses were quite a spectacle, and he had given more than one young lady discreet instructions for dying one’s hair in his color.

“You’ll get yourself tipsy, and then what’ll happen to you?” Lillian chided, giggling from the sofa. She was quite tipsy herself.

Amos sat down gracefully between her and her friend, Meredith, and raised his hands up. “I shall leave such questions to the philosophers,” he said reverently.

“You’re very smart,” Meredith said adoringly. “Most of our brutes couldn’t tell fuchsia from chartreuse. Not that Timothy doesn’t try, of course,” she added hurriedly.

“Ah, yes, Timothy? I believe we were introduced during dinner, Miss Meredith. He’s quite a handsome gentleman,” Amos chattered, his hands moving to take the glass of cordial he had requested from the shy servant boy’s tray. He gave the boy a wink, and turned back to the circle of admirers.

“Do you think so?” another girl asked, sitting by the tea table. “I always thought he looked quite –“

“Masculine,” Meredith said primly.

“That wasn’t –“

“He is, isn’t he?” Amos pondered. “He has a very strong jawbone, and a wonderfully straight nose. If he had a better sense of fashion I’d be unable to court any of you lovely ladies – I’d be far overshadowed.” Meredith smiled proudly.

“Now, surely you well-to-do ladies know the latest gossip about town,” Amos began, taking a long sip and quirking his eyebrows at a redhead named Valerie, sitting across from him in front of the fireplace. He swallowed and cleared his throat. “To tell you the truth, I’m dying to take a tour of the infamous places. Where should I go? Are there any mad old hermits? Any haunted houses?” He smiled and batted his eyes charmingly.

Everyone chuckled a bit at his question, but the atmosphere had grown darker. The group fell into a pause of the conversation. Finally Valerie spoke up. “There’s the mausoleum,” she said quietly, her hands folded in her lap. “Damien Stolger went in there yesterday night on a bet. He’s not yet come out.”

Lillian scowled. “Don’t be such a gloomy cloud, Valerie. Mr. Amos, don’t bother with her. She’s always been a bit creepy.”

“Yes, I remember she used to catch snakes and toads,” Meredith added, sneering. “Always came home with mud on her clothes – and she wore breeches, too.”

There was a general snicker. “Anyways, the temple attached to the crypt is what you really want to see. It’s best to go there early in the day and ask one of the priests about a tour of the chapel,” Lillian said, gesturing a bit too strongly in her state of mild intoxication. She went on to list the ships that were in port and worth seeing, and that the governor’s extravagant rose gardens would be open for the holidays for the next week, and Amos nodded and pretended to listen. But he did notice that Valerie, no longer the focus of the group’s attention, had slowly turned back to the fire.

Amos sipped his cordial, and twisted the handle of his parasol in his free hand, and he waited.

As the evening wore on, Meredith claimed exhaustion, and she and Timothy and the elderly Mr. Bradfordshire retired to their respective rooms. Lillian spent some time acquainting herself with a certain Mr. Edward, and then handed out invitations for the ladies, regarding an outdoor picnic to be held in three days, weather permitting, in the Governor’s rose garden; she had gotten him to let her reserve it for the one day before it was opened to the public. Not all of the flowers would be in full bloom, but none would be dying, which, all things considered, everyone found to be preferable. “And the priest gave me a holy heart charm, enchanted specially to keep away flies and bloodsucking insects,” exclaimed Valerie cheerfully. “It’s for the veranda in my summer house by the swamp, but I don’t intend to open it up for at least a few more weeks.”

“Thank heavens; you won’t have to keep the windows closed any more,” Lillian said while one of the girls made a face at the mention of the swamp. “It can get so hot and stuffy.”

Amos smiled widely. “I shall hope to see you about town, ladies,” he said truthfully. “But now I must be on my way. I have a long ride in the carriage ahead of me.”

“Oh, do drop by on the picnic,” Lillian said, smiling brightly, and handing Amos a pink token. “Show the doorman this, and he’ll bring you over. You’re such a charmer, Mr. Amos. It would be a shame for this to be the only time we got a chance to socialize. Good night, everyone. I am going to retire now – we ladies must get our beauty rest.”

With that barely-concealed order to the other girls, she traipsed off, the taffeta ribbon in her hair bouncing airily as she went. The other young ladies took the hint.

Amos left his empty glass on a servant boy’s tray, and wandered off to the carriages. He slipped the pink token into his left pocket. It would not do to approach Valerie now, but the tea party – or was it a picnic? seemed like an excellent excuse. He was planning his conversation openers as he was bowed into his carriage, and was so engrossed that he almost didn’t notice Zukida’s eyes, wide and frightened, staring at him in the dark. The door shut behind him, and he stumbled into his seat warily, his shoes scuffing on the grit on the wooden floor.

“Kida? Why do you have the lantern on so low?” he asked, turning it up with fumbling fingers.

She was a sorry sight in good lighting; hair had worked loose from her ponytail, her skin was pale, and she was sweating visibly. She bit her lower lip and shook her head. Amos grew alarmed.

“Kida, what happened to you?” he asked, as the carriage rolled out of the drive. She was beginning to frighten him.

“Later,” she croaked. Her voice was dry and cracked, coming from a tight throat. Her pupils were wide and dark. “Ask later. When we’re…” she looked outside of the window, and Amos followed her eyes to the lit windows of Miss Lillian’s estate. Amos nodded.

When they had passed the stone gates, Zukida let out an audible sigh of relief. The tension in her shoulders left, and she flopped back against the seat limply. Amos offered her a handkerchief, and she took it gratefully, using it to wipe her face.

“It’s horrible,” she whispered.

“Did you talk to the servants? What did you find out?” Amos asked eagerly, sliding the ring off of his gloved hand. Zukida shook her head.

“I didn’t,” she said, and her eyes widened, “and I couldn’t, because none of them have tongues.”

It wasn’t standard for the rich to mute their servants; from the girl who had mimed things out for Zukida, she had learned by yes-or-no questions it was a local thing, and only for house servants. Field hands and the head cook were left as they were, because they never had the opportunity to watch their employers. It was supposedly used to prevent the telling of family secrets and to prevent spying; none of the servants could read or write, so it effectively rendered them useless as sources of information, should someone be looking for it in order to harm the family.

Nevertheless, it was gruesome.

“Who does it? The actual … mutilation,” Amos asked, awkwardly.

“The local country doctor; he has a private practice for rich clients. It’s very discreet.”

“Were they surprised that you weren’t, you know…”

Zukida glared at him. “Yes,” she said. “They were. But then I explained I was with you, the weird one.”

Amos had his gloves off, and was touching the pink token and the invitation Lillian had given him, one in each hand. “She definitely wrote it, because the servants can’t write,” he pondered aloud. “So someone else made the token… but she’s had these for a while, I can feel her in it.”

Zukida watched, curious. They had never really discussed their talents with each other. It was a topic they preferred to avoid, so they didn’t ask each other about it. For Zukida, at least, her talents were a subject full of awkwardness and unhappiness. She could only assume it was the same for Amos.

He was absorbed in the token. “She spent more time with the letter than this,” he said, finally, and put it back in his pocket regretfully. The carriage went over a rut, and they were both jostled around as the lantern flickered. Zukida clung to her armrest.

Amos put both of his ungloved hands on the letter and looked at it intently.

“She… not doing anything strange… wait… no, back farther… yes, in the bag… and now she… “ Amos mumbled incoherently and then fell dead silent. His brows furrowed in concentration. Despite the heavy atmosphere, Zukida could have laughed. Deep thought merely made Amos look less like a serious person and more like a stubborn child having difficulty tying his bootlaces. Not, Zukida noted, that he ever really looked serious at all. Respectfully, she kept as quiet as she could, until another jolt – the roads were in pretty poor condition out in the country – prompted an involuntary grunt. Amos started, his face startled. Then he came back to himself, and gave Zukida a reproachful look.

“Do you mind?” he said, adopting an injured voice.

“I am sorry, mister Amos – I did not intend to… to…” Zukida trailed off as she saw the impish grin blossom across Amos’ face, and then scowled at him. “You faker.”

Amos shrugged, and leaned back into the pillows he had brought. “The doctor is involved,” he said decisively. “I think the priest gets his magical items from him – or Valerie was lying about getting her heart charm from the priest. But I’m not sure how that ties in with the mutilations of the servants. We’ll have to root around. Maybe visit the doctor.”

“Under what pretext?” Zukida snapped. “To have me muted?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of developing a case of nerves, but your idea is good, too,” Amos said, smiling. “We’d get information and we’d shut you up for good.”

“Shut up yourself,” Zukida snarled. “I’m not the one who runs at the mouth.”

Amos bristled. “I was joking,” he said, tone as cold as ice. “But thanks for trusting me. And thanks for telling me what you think of me.”

“Ugh,” muttered Zukida, scowl etched deeply into her face. “It’s not about you. I’m really, really nervous right now. And you – you always act like, like you’re one of them. One of those people like the ones who had their servants’ tongues burned off or cut off or whatever it is they do.” She grimaced; it looked like she was in pain. “I hate those people.”

Amos was silent and stiff. He looked away, and for a time they rode on in silence. But then he broke it. In the moonlight outside the carriage, the trees gleamed silver and grey.

“I can understand that I make you nervous,” he said, quietly. “I know you aren’t used to a nobility. Your country is very small, and I don’t think it has one; I mean, other than the royal line.” He looked back at her. “I do come from a noble family, Kida-bun,” he said, with a cracked smile. “Please try not to hold it against me.”

Zukida smiled hesitantly back. “No promises,” she said, but her eyes were calmer and kinder. The silence that settled after that was more comfortable. It was comfortable enough that Amos dozed off. Zukida, who was not accustomed to riding in carriages and had not brought any pillows, eventually gave up and took one of his.

He was awake enough to notice, but he wasn’t bothered enough to care.