The Twin Who Out-darkened Heaven
Copyright© 2026 by A. K. Veyron
Chapter 13: The Servant’s Secret
Kael lay awake that night and went through the corridor scene from every angle, the way a merchant goes through a bad deal.
“She saw me cross eight paces in a blink,” he said to the dark ceiling. “A maid with a tray of plates is not an expert on cultivation, so she will not think I am a cultivator. She will think something strange happened and she will want to tell someone.”
Most people would, said Maltherion. A strange thing is a heavy thing to carry alone.
“The question is who she tells. If it is the cook or another maid, the story will turn into gossip and die within a week. If it is someone else, I need to know.”
You assume it will be someone else.
“I remember her face. She was at the garden party, the one who kept looking at the clock on the wall with both hands tight on her tray. At the time I thought she was nervous about her work.” Kael turned on his side. “Now I think she was counting the minutes until she could leave and tell somebody what she had seen.”
That is a large conclusion to build from a clock.
“It is a small thing, but it keeps coming back. A servant who stares at a clock during a party is waiting for something, and servants do not usually wait for anything except the end of their shift.”
Then what is your plan? You cannot threaten her. She will either panic or run straight to her contact.
“I am not going to threaten her. I am going to be kind to her.”
That sounds even more dangerous.
“It usually is,” said Kael.
The next morning, Kael walked into the laundry yard carrying two cups of tea and a plate of honey cakes he had taken from the kitchen while the cook was busy shouting at a pot.
Mei was alone at the washing line, pinning wet sheets with the quick, practiced hands of someone who had done the job for years. She was about nineteen, with a narrow face, a braid that came loose at the ends, and the careful posture of a person who had learned to take up as little room as possible.
She turned, saw him, and went still. “Young master.”
“Good morning, Mei. I hope I am not interrupting.” Kael held out a cup. “I wanted to say thank you for yesterday. I made a fool of myself in the hall, and you were kind enough not to laugh.”
Mei looked at the tea as if it might bite her. “I was not going to laugh, young master.”
“That is very polite of you, because I would have.” He set the plate on a barrel and took a honey cake for himself. “I have been clumsy my whole life. I trip over rugs, bump into doors, and step on cats. Yesterday I tried to catch your plates and ended up on the wrong side of the hall. It was very embarrassing.”
“You were not on the wrong side. You were...” She stopped and bit her lip.
“I was what?”
“Nothing. It was nothing.”
Kael smiled and took a bite of his cake. “Did I look like I had flown across the hall? I hope not. My brother is the one with the talent. I only have the clumsiness.”
Mei let out a short, nervous laugh. Some of the stiffness left her shoulders. “You did move fast, young master. That is all I meant. But I was falling, and everything looks fast when you are falling.”
“That is exactly what I told myself,” Kael said warmly. “People see strange things when they fall.”
Gently, murmured Maltherion. Do not push the explanation too hard.
I am not pushing. I am giving her a way to let it go.
They stood in the sun and drank their tea. Kael asked about the laundry and the other servants and whether the cook was always so loud, and Mei answered in short, careful sentences that grew longer as she relaxed. He learned that she had been in the Voryn house for three years. She had a younger brother in the city who worked as a clerk’s assistant. She shared a room with two other maids, one of whom snored.
“The snoring is the worst part,” she admitted. “Last winter I almost slept in the pantry.”
“The pantry has a snake now, I heard.”
“That was a rumor.” She hesitated. “It was a very large lizard.”
“Even worse.”
She laughed again, more easily this time, and Kael noticed that she had put down her pegs and was holding the tea with both hands. He asked a few more small questions about her brother and the market, about what was good to eat and which stalls were cheap. She told him about a pickled radish seller near the east gate whose jars were the best in the city, and who gave a free spoonful to anyone who stopped by on Tuesdays and Fridays.
“You go every week?” Kael asked.
“Almost always. It is on my day off.” Her eyes dropped to her cup. “I like the radishes.”
“They sound excellent.”
“They are.”
It was a perfectly ordinary answer, and she had given it very slightly too quickly. Kael let the conversation drift on to other things, finished his cake, thanked her again, and said he would leave her to her work.
As he walked away, he felt Maltherion stir.
You are certain, the voice said.
Not certain. But there was a gap in her story. She said it was her day off, and nobody asked. She said Tuesdays and Fridays, and nobody asked that either.
A nervous habit.
Or a schedule. I want to see which.
For the rest of the week, Kael did a series of small, ordinary things that nobody noticed.
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