I glance up at Bayard as I eat. He sits straighter than a board, moving his spoon strangely deliberately. Yellowed nails gripping the utensil. Bony knuckles covered in flaccid skin. Then I notice something unusual: a cockroach clings to his shoulder. It’s so still, I wonder if it’s dead.
Bayard continues eating in silence. The cockroach sits there the entire time, until, it moves. It roams along his lapels as if it was trying to catch stray bits of food. Bayard’s eyes stay fixed on the bowl in front of him. He looks like an automaton, making no attempt to appear even remotely human.
But I can’t stop looking at the cockroach leisurely walking on his jacket. Is it a pet? Or is Bayard a reanimated corpse, secretly puppeteered by a thousand roaches?
Before he notices me staring, I look away and continue eating.
I know I’ll be working with this man for the next several months, but I have no interest in making friends. I don’t attempt to start a conversation, and neither does he. So we sit in silence, eating the flavourless slop. It makes me wonder: did he cook this himself, or are there invisible servants making these “gourmet” meals for us?
Once Bayard is done, he stands and washes his bowl in the sink, then he and his cockroach leave without a word. I finish my own food quickly and do the same. I’m still washing my bowl when I hear him return to the kitchen. He drops a large crate onto the freshly cleaned table and tips it over. A sea of seeds spills across the wooden surface, many tumbling over the edge and onto the floor.
“Peel them,” Bayard commands, pointing to the pile.
I force myself to look away from the cockroach and focus on his hands. He squeezes a seed between two skeletal fingers until I hear a quiet crack, then strips the skin off and drops it into the crate. I raise my eyebrows, seriously questioning this man’s sanity. But he just stands there, watching me expectantly, so I take a seed and peel it just as he showed me.
“I’ll return for supper,” he says, turning on his heel and leaving the kitchen.
I stare at the pile in front of me, each tiny kernel taunting me with its stubborn, papery skin.
“Whatever,” I mumble as I sit down to start this ridiculous task.
I hull kernel after kernel until my fingers are sore and my eyes ache from the effort. The only sound around me is the steady drop of seeds into the box. No other noise drifts in from the open kitchen door. The silence feels almost oppressive.
This place sounds deserted and feels abandoned.
Even with the sun shining brightly outside, little light penetrates the room, leaving it in a state of permanent twilight. An icy draft creeps through the thick stone walls. Even the wool of my livery fails to keep out the chill. I sit there until the scarce daylight dims, and I light a lonely candle left forgotten on the counter.
As I peel seed after pointless seed, I feel like I’ve accidentally stumbled into theTwilight Zone. Maybe I’m in a mysterious house that traps normal people, forcing them into endless busywork until they go mad.
Luckily, I’m not normal. And if boredom could drive a man mad, well…some might say it’s already too late.
By the time Bayard finally returns, he tosses dense bread and stale cheese in front of me. I’m so exhausted, I can’t muster the energy to take a single bite.
“Mmmhh.” His tone is so dry and judgmental, it cuts through the air.
I follow his gaze to the heap of seeds I was supposed to hull today. The dent I made is comically small, and despite a somewhat respectable pile of shiny, peeled kernels sitting in the crate, Bayard remains thoroughly unimpressed.
I down a glass of water in one gulp but misjudge the distance when I set it down, causing it to land with a loud thump. Bayard jumps at the sound and glares at me indignantly.
“I’m too tired to eat. Can I just go to sleep now?” My voice comes out rough, like I haven’t used it in hours.
“As you wish,” he says, already turning to leave the kitchen. I follow him through the castle corridors, suddenly aware that the cockroach is no longer on his shoulder.
When I catch glimpses of the darkness outside, I wonder what time it must be. I never wear a watch, and being this removed from any time-telling devices is quite disorientating. I nearly collide with Bayard’s back when he abruptly stops in the middle of the hallway. He walks away without a word, revealing the doorway to my room just ahead.
Tonight, my discomfort wins over my exhaustion, so I finally pull my toiletries from my backpack. There truly is nothing like using a new bar of soap for the first time: the waxy softness, the familiar smell of coal tar, and the same words carved on the back;perseverando vinces. I can’t help but roll my eyes at the motto. How very fitting.
I wash and change quickly, taking more time with my hair today. Even though it’s fairly low maintenance, it still requires some upkeep the longer it gets. I decided to let it grow until I could sit on it, and at this pace, I reckon I’ve got another year or two to go.
Even though my hair feels just as foreign as the rest of my body, I like having it long. It’s an unusual shade of faded taupe,one I’ve never seen on anyone else. It’s weird and unexpected, a secret hidden under my hats. Something only I get to see.
When I’m done brushing, I crash onto the bed, and for a brief moment, I fool myself into thinking that my exhaustion will let me sleep. But after who knows how long, I get too frustrated just laying there and leave the bed. Even though my body should be completely drained, I feel strangely restless, and I consider going for a walk.
I don’t remember hearing the door being locked, so I try and turn the knob. It swings open silently. I quickly pull the uniform’s coat on and, in my socked feet, quietly walk down the hall.
I have no particular destination in mind. Not that I know this castle that well at all. The places I’ve been to so far—the garden, the cold kitchen, or the damp cellar—seem completely unappealing. So when I pass a set of stairs climbing to another floor, I decide to follow them. This time, I pay close attention to the turns I take, counting the doors and memorising every detail. It’s a challenge since the corridors are dim, and the colours blend into each other. Like the house is following a description from an old Gothic novel, everything is kept in bleak shades of greys, browns, and dirty beige. The scattered gas lamps try their best to break up the monotony, but they fail miserably.
I climb up several flights of stairs, careful not to make each groan under my feet, hoping to reach the tallest tower. Unfortunately, I hit a locked door on the fourth floor before I can continue any higher. Still restless, I feel the familiar tingle of curiosity at the bottom of my core. I follow it and explore the top floor. This place seems built entirely of endless halls, making me wonder just how big it truly is. Finally, at the end of the corridor, I see light coming from an open doorway. I follow it until I stand at the threshold of a large room.
