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<\/p>\nwritten and illustrated by Iron Eater<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Hugh had known for a very long time that the only thing he was capable of doing well was hurting people.<\/span><\/p>\n Some gentlemen among his peers had only found this out when they started along the staggering, fawn-legged road that led from a boy’s years to manhood, but not Hugh. Hugh had learned swift and early. He had fallen in with patrons who were understanding of his shortcomings and found good outlets for them, ones that didn’t cause trouble with the constabulary, which meant that on days like today when he sat on the opposite side of Mr. Clifford-Smythe’s terrible desk it was with unbound hands and unsullied clothes. Not everyone could say that.<\/span><\/p>\n Mr. Clifford-Smythe himself regarded Hugh with dispassion. This was not unusual, as Mr. Clifford-Smythe was what you would get if you exhumed a corpse and loaned it the face of a young lord, with a matching temperament. He was not without emotion, but as those he tended to exhibit erred on the side of frustration, anger, or disgust, those who worked for him strove to never see more than his statue-serene resting state. It was safer. More predictable.<\/span><\/p>\n “What seems to be the issue today, Mr. Wainwright?” he asked, tapping one long nail against the wood with the steady precision of a clock.<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh had trouble meeting Mr. Clifford-Smythe’s eyes where they hid behind their tidy little spectacles. He lifted a hand so it was easier to see. “They just keep growing back, sir,” said Hugh.<\/span><\/p>\n They,<\/span><\/i> in this situation, meant the little clawed digits that branched off of his hand and forearm like stray roots on a carrot. Some of them nudged against the interior sleeve of his frock coat with the eagerness of puppies, distending it in curious ways, which had prompted Hugh to conceal it beneath a wrapped blanket and a handful of books on his trip out from the lodgings he currently kept. They were not <\/span>his<\/span><\/i> books, and he had no plans to reclaim them. Their previous owner was in no state to complain.<\/span><\/p>\n He concentrated enough to ease the claws back into stillness. Doing this too much gave him a headache; he felt it unwise to say as much to Mr. Clifford-Smythe until prompted. Lack of self-control was looked upon poorly in his line of work.<\/span><\/p>\n “Hm, yes,” said Mr. Clifford-Smythe, who did not rise from his desk. “It seems we will be sending you out into the evening sooner than previously expected.”<\/span><\/p>\n “Sir?”<\/span><\/p>\n Mr. Clifford-Smythe steeped his fingers, which was worse than when he’d simply been tapping them. “I have seen this sort of symptom before,” he said. “You could say it is a form of immunodeficiency reaction particular to those of your nature. When a man is anemic, he becomes pale and fainting until this weakness of the blood is addressed with deed and diet. When a man is dehydrated, he is dizzy and unwell until his thirst is slaked over an extended period of time. When a monster is insufficiently monstrous, he consumes himself inefficiently, and like the hemophiliac, he cannot scab over his wounds properly; these issues must be addressed at their source. This was the same hand you injured three assignments prior, is it not, Mr. Wainwright?”<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh racked his brains. Too many years in his field of work meant that incidents tended to smear together like lumps of jam on bread. His cravat felt tighter than he knew he’d tied it.<\/span><\/p>\n “A rhetorical question,” said Mr. Clifford-Smythe. He gestured towards a ledger sat on the edge of the desk, covering one of the not-quite-cleaned-away stains that mottled the wood. “I reviewed your records earlier this week, so the date is still fresh in my mind. You returned from the night city with need of urgent medical care, which you received in full before you were permitted to return to your warren, with subsequent follow-up sessions after assignments to evaluate its progress. It would seem that the metaphorical scab has begun to flake.”<\/span><\/p>\n “What shall I do to fix it, sir?” asked Hugh. None of the answers he could imagine were ones he liked very much. His focus faltered and he felt the digits wiggle again, their claws rustling against his clothes.<\/span><\/p>\n Mr. Clifford-Smythe leaned forward far enough that the firelight failed to catch his spectacle lenses. People who were sufficiently perceptive\u2014whose number most certainly included Hugh\u2014might have noticed how his eyes sometimes seemed to teem with smaller ones, a veritable nest of frog’s eggs all shoved into a single sunken socket. It took everything Hugh had not to reel back. He had never been comfortable among his own kind.<\/span><\/p>\n “You would be well-advised to not view this as something that can be <\/span>fixed,<\/span><\/i> Mr. Wainwright,” he said, his voice the uncaring evenness of an epitaph. “But there is treatment of a sort available. Come eventide tomorrow you will return to the night city to work, residing in lodging we provide for you, and you will remain there until you are sent for again. A handler has been arranged.”<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh’s skin prickled with goosebumps. They felt he needed a handler? They’d already <\/span>arranged<\/span><\/i> for one? He’d thought he’d hidden himself well up until now. “Should I get my affairs in order before then, sir?”<\/span><\/p>\n “It might be wise.” Mr. Clifford-Smythe leaned back in his seat once again. “A flush to the system such as this may take quite a while. We never take for granted that a man will return from where we send him in the same condition in which he left.”<\/span><\/p>\n When Hugh had joined the society, as much as one in his position could be said to join anything, he had known he was being accepted as a nail in a horseshoe, a vital member with vital work whose absence or injury could throw countless lives into jeopardy, yet still an ultimately expendable asset should he show the slightest sign of weakness. It was a special sort of precarious; even with all the benefits he reaped from his tireless service, Hugh never had the impression that his trade was a secure one. Mr. Clifford-Smythe made for Hell’s own farrier.<\/span><\/p>\n “Will there be trouble with my quarters, sir? I was given them with the understanding I would be responsible for keeping them in good condition. I will be unable to clean while assigned elsewhere.”<\/span><\/p>\n “That is not your concern,” said Mr. Clifford-Smythe. “I suggest you pack thoughtfully.”<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh bowed his head meekly. “Of course, sir.”<\/span><\/p>\n “Is there any other business that needs my attention?”<\/span><\/p>\n “No, sir.”<\/span><\/p>\n “Then when you next hear from me it will be by post in the night city. I suggest you become friendly with your courier, Mr. Wainwright.”<\/span><\/p>\n “Of course, sir.”<\/span><\/p>\n “You are dismissed.”<\/span><\/p>\n The entire trip back home, Hugh found himself wondering if that would be the last time Mr. Clifford-Smythe would dismiss him so.<\/span><\/p>\n -x-x-x-<\/span><\/p>\n “Can I have your shelves?” asked Jonathan, still damp with sweat and panting for breath. Hugh did not particularly <\/span>like<\/span><\/i> Jonathan, but they were in the same line of work and found each other suitable enough for their respective needs, so they frequently entertained one another’s company. Jonathan lived in a different part of the same manor that housed Hugh, giving them the advantage of proximity whenever the mood struck. The news of Hugh’s assignment had inspired the mood to strike hard and fast. It wasn’t like the other lodgers would be willing to see to Jonathan’s needs in the interim; save for a smattering of vestigial camaraderie, they loathed his presence, and would find excuses to avoid his company with the manic fervor of cockroaches avoiding the light.<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh wiped his mouth on his handkerchief. “No,” he said. “I’ll need them when I get back.” He tried to ignore the rudeness of the question. Jonathan had terrible manners; Hugh had dallied with porters and fishermen with better presence of mind, even if those affairs had ended badly.<\/span><\/p>\n “You know you’re not coming back,” said Jonathan. Hugh scowled. Their truth didn’t make those words go down any easier.<\/span><\/p>\n “The maester told me my quarters would be seen to,” Hugh said as he sat himself down on the pile of rumpled quilts tossed across his too-small bed. He felt he was getting better at reading between the lines when speaking to Mr. Clifford-Smythe.<\/span><\/p>\n Jonathan smirked. “Told you or implied?”<\/span><\/p>\n It felt like a good time to lie. “Told. I just have to clean everything up before I go so they can send someone in while I’m gone.”<\/span><\/p>\n “I still want your shelves when you leave.”<\/span><\/p>\n “There’s an entire study that nobody’s been assigned to, use some of those.”<\/span><\/p>\n “Those got stained when we were handling the previous infestation. I want <\/span>nice<\/span><\/i> shelves. Ones that haven’t had an animal bleeding and slobbering all over them, to be clear.”<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh had been present for the infestation, as well, and felt Jonathan was overreacting. He made a pointed gesture of scratching the side of his face with one of his temporary extra fingers. “I don’t know why you’d want mine, then,” he said. “You know where they’ve been.”<\/span><\/p>\n “Doesn’t mean they aren’t nicer than the firewood in the study,” grumbled Jonathan. Hugh felt a foul little thrill at the way his hand clearly upset his caller, though not so much they hadn’t thought to go at each other a bit once Hugh proved he didn’t have any extra teeth or tongues hiding on the other side of his cheeks. “I still say you aren’t cutting those off right. You should let me do it.”<\/span><\/p>\n “I’m not letting you do it, Petticote.”<\/span><\/p>\n He harrumphed. “Then enjoy spending forever in the night city until you change your mind,” he said. He swiveled his legs off the bed and stood up, the cast bronze of his right foot clunking against the small rug Hugh kept in his room.<\/span><\/p>\n Jonathan, in spite of his age, was a man who favored the older practices of the society, which meant foul-smelling incense and mortification of the flesh and the adoration of certain specific alloys he insisted were alchemically divine; it was one of the many reasons the others in the house hated being around him. He was extremely loud about it in the manner of any young man emboldened by tradition. The longer Hugh was around him, the more he suspected he tolerated Jonathan’s presence purely because Jonathan tolerated his own. It was easy to encourage people to tolerate you when your more socially acceptable urges had you down on your knees with your lips folded over your teeth.<\/span><\/p>\n They said their farewells, Jonathan all the while speaking of what things he wanted to scavenge from Hugh’s room upon Hugh’s inevitable death, and then Hugh was left alone with unpacked luggage and a storm lantern for company.<\/span><\/p>\n While he had been to the other side of town plenty of times, Hugh had yet to stay there so long that he was expected to bring a change of clothes. He’d slept there before, usually in the odd unlocked attic or blocked-off alley, so hearing that this time he was to have an actual base of operations was new. Hugh wondered if it would be a nice one. Then again, anywhere he didn’t have to sleep with one eye open would feel nice to him.<\/span><\/p>\n He drifted through the motions of packing away his necessities and let his mind wander. He’d heard of the valets the society employed; whether said valets were actually <\/span>people<\/span><\/i> he couldn’t say. What sort of man did you need to keep a beast in line? To whom would they answer? In theory a handler was meant to provide medical and spiritual assistance to one in need, the attending seraphim of the society’s upper echelons dispensed to their lessers as deemed fit. He had yet to meet anyone who had been aided by one other than Old Timothy, and the less spoken of Old Timothy the better. He hoped whoever they sent to him had advice other than cutting off his offending hand with a hacksaw. Hugh knew from experience that that was only a temporary solution.<\/span><\/p>\n Packing at least meant he had an excuse not to attend supper with the others. Hugh didn’t <\/span>dislike<\/span><\/i> them. The problem was that he wasn’t sure if he liked them all that much, either. They had all worked together at one point or another, and the lot of them had been responsible for acquiring the house in the first place, and none of them seemed the sort to wish ill on the rest of their lot (with the possible exception of Jonathan). Hugh knew their names but did not use them much. Colleagues, he might call them. Peers, certainly. People like Hugh did not have friends.<\/span><\/p>\n Even if he loved them all as brothers he likely would have skipped supper if given the chance. Suppers brought out the worst in them, and their worst meant a litany of bravado and tales woven about what work they’d done recently. Hugh didn’t like thinking about assignments during his personal hours. He did what was necessary, then went home. That others might dwell on a job afterwards struck him as ghoulish.<\/span><\/p>\n Someone knocked at the door. When Hugh peered into the hallway no one was there, but the visitor had left behind a tray loaded with a little plate of steamed vegetables, two slices of roast something, a bowl of vague and starchy whiteness, and a glass of merlot. He took the tray into his room and sat at his desk to eat. He was going to miss the food here.<\/span><\/p>\n The sound of his knife scraping across the plate was the only sound save for the distant chatter of the other lodgers. He tried to treasure the silence. The night city was busier and stranger, a place where the air was never all the way still, and quiet places there meant you frequently had stepped into the domain of something nasty. The noise made it hard to bed down there. If Hugh didn’t suspect it would be more dangerous for him in the long run he would have considered packing sleeping draughts in with his things.<\/span><\/p>\n Near the tail end of his meal Hugh realized that his extra digits were attempting to help hold his silverware. He flexed them. They moved comfortably, their movements as natural as though he had been born with them. If they had the courtesy to only make themselves known when he desired their presence he might have found them charming. The human body was a source of countless wonders, even one as blasphemous as his.<\/span><\/p>\n Once finished with his meal he wiped his mouth on his napkin, rinsed the dishes in the sink they’d installed for him, and placed everything back on the tray on the floorboards just outside the door to his room. He did not expect the housekeepers to miss him when he was gone. Even still, he did not want to cause anyone any more trouble than he already had, so he was always particular about keeping tidy. It made his personal quarters that much more of a safe harbor for him. His colleagues, bless them, seemed to revel in being foul.<\/span><\/p>\n Now fed, he rummaged for the tools of his trade in the various places he’d stored them. The way Mr. Clifford-Smythe had spoken, Hugh had the feeling he would be on call for who knew how many tasks, and of who knew what variety, for who knew how long. This was all assuming it would be the usual sort of society work; once more Hugh’s thoughts turned to the handler, and he had no reason not to assume they would have tasks for him of their own. Perhaps he would need to exercise in certain ways, or only eat certain foods. He vainly hoped anything else they might have him do would be similarly benign.<\/span><\/p>\n A book on the art of perception caught Hugh’s eye, which he supposed was an appropriate thing for it to do. He leafed through it. He’d read it cover to cover several times before, each time coming away enlightened; the nature of learning to perceive was that you could potentially learn something new by returning to familiar ground. This time his interest was piqued by a passage next to an illustration of a figure with a many-taloned hand that was an aesthetically perfect version of Hugh’s own. He read on.<\/span><\/p>\n Eyes within and eyes without <\/span><\/i>(said the book)<\/span> are methods by which we seek the truth, but one must be aware of their unwelcome presence as a symptom outside of mere praxis. The learned man on the brink of enlightenment may manifest physical oddities as his mind strains to make sense of the things which lie beyond his senses, creating eyes without. The man who has embraced falsehood in the name of truth, and clings to it thusly, instead finds a more subtle change to his person which may not always be noticed by his brethren. In this case it is regarded as a form of manifested eyes within. While the former is a physical matter, the latter is a plague of the mind and spirit, and is no less concerning than a transfigured corpus….<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n It went on in this manner for several pages, but that first passage stayed with Hugh. A man of reason had no time for superstition and spiritualism. A monster of reason, on the other hand, kept his mind open. He placed the book reverently atop his ritual bag with the rest of his things and finished his packing.<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh closed his trunk with a <\/span>thunk<\/span><\/i> and pushed it in front of the door. He locked both. Nobody would need to see him until after he slept, and he preferred not to risk the whimsical nature of one of the other lodgers with such an important day coming up. Judging by the distant laughter from the dining room they were whipping themselves into quite a bit of whimsy.<\/span><\/p>\n He stripped down to nothing but his society emblem and stretched to his true height. The extra claws moved with him. The others didn’t sleep in the nude, but Hugh insisted, claiming it was better for the joints when a man spent a little time each day not constantly sewn up inside a too-tight skin, and he refused to budge on the issue; not even Jonathan would tolerate this quirk of his, unfortunately, and so Hugh slept alone. While all too aware it was an outer reflection of an inner vile nature, Hugh liked to stretch. In the safety of a private room with a lock on the door he felt far more at ease when he wasn’t folded up awkwardly.<\/span><\/p>\n Duly unfettered, Hugh scrubbed himself clean in the washtub he kept behind a screen in one corner of the room. He neatly folded each piece of skin he shed and placed it in the basket the housekeepers had given him for that purpose. His peers thought it was wasteful to use tooth powder while he had an excess of mouth; while Hugh agreed on some level, the nature of his work encouraged him to be thorough, and so he carefully cleaned all along his muzzle with the little pick and brush he’d acquired for that purpose, taking pains to not leave any scraps behind. A proper gentleman did not rely entirely on comfits to keep his breath agreeable.<\/span><\/p>\n Something shattered upstairs, paired with barks of laughter. Hugh ignored both.<\/span><\/p>\n He went down the list he’d written for himself as a way to make sense of how quickly he was expected to be up and out. All his clothes, even the few left unpacked, were clean, the laundry having been done the previous day to his great fortune and relief. He had managed a final tryst with Jonathan, as he suspected there would be few opportunities to engage in such during his treatment. The books and curios in their shelves were all neatly arranged, the floor swept, the furnishings dusted. He had told the rest of the fellows in the house where he was going. The luggage was ready for the carriage. Once he blew out the lamp and made his bed in the morning there was nothing else left for him to do.<\/span><\/p>\n With his affairs in as much order as they were going to be, Hugh curled up beneath the quilts and drifted off to uneasy sleep.<\/span><\/p>\n -x-x-x-<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh kept his cloak and hat turned against the rain as he shivered on the doorstep of the address the man from the society had told him. The storm had washed away the sweat foaming on the carriage-horses’ hides as he had stepped out into the wet, but even a junior member of the society knew how to see the pall of fear hanging over something as basic as an animal. He had heard once of a horse that had died of fright simply from crossing into this part of town. He wondered how often that happened.<\/span><\/p>\n The greening bronze knockers guarding the doors leading inside were shaped like ram-horned birds of prey with rings clenched in their sneering beaks. Like many things in the night city, they were overly ornate, to the extent that they might have seemed out of place on such a simple abode if the whole of that part of town wasn’t built to similarly baroque standards. The lamps flanking the doorway guttered. Hugh glanced around warily, then took one of the rings in hand and knocked again. This was where he had been told to wait, and so here he would be. To entertain the thought that he might have been left abandoned in the rain in the depths of the city was unacceptable. The society looked after its own.<\/span><\/p>\n He had just begun to consider knocking again when the door’s latch clicked open without the guidance of a human hand. Hugh was familiar with such things; there was a sort of weight and pulley system on the other side, a novelty favored by those who accepted visitors but preferred not to leave the comfort of a study or workshop to actually receive said. No matter how dark it looked indoors it had to be better than slowly drowning in what was sure to be a raging thunderstorm soon. Hugh needed no more prompting to drag his things inside and shut the doors behind him.<\/span><\/p>\n Inside was the sort of receiving room he’d been in countless times before. He wiped his half-sodden boots on the scraping mat next to the door and shook some of the water from his cloak. A mechanism built all around the archway ground its elements together, and on cue the doors locked behind him, paired with the boom of a deadbolt. Hugh approved of sleeping in this place already.<\/span><\/p>\n “Hello?” he called into the darkness. “It’s Hugh Wainwright, from the society. I have papers from the maester identifying me if you need proof.”<\/span><\/p>\n Another mechanism rumbled in the wall and an interior door slid open, revealing a room with lit fireplace that glowed like the sun in the darkness of the house. Hugh was drawn to it with the single-mindedness of a moth. He left his trunk where it lay and dripped his way into what he assumed was the parlor.<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh’s assumption was correct. Aside from the fireplace there were a few lush-looking chairs he dared not sit on until he was drier, paintings on the walls he couldn’t quite make out, and assorted curios that were no doubt fascinating in better light. The carpet underfoot was one of the intricate foreign kind with patterns that looped like lichen in and out of themselves before giving way to a fringe of tassels. Curtains hung heavily across barred windows. The furnishings were exactly the sort he expected to see in a well-heeled night city home.<\/span><\/p>\n What he did not expect to see was a man\u2014a <\/span>normal<\/span><\/i> man, not one of the skin-shifted monsters he and his peers denied they were\u2014waiting for him there next to the fire, hands clasped at the small of his back.<\/span><\/p>\n “Good evening, Mr. Wainwright,” said the mystery man. “My name is Mr. Ward. I’ve been tasked to assist you. May I take your luggage up to your room?”<\/span><\/p>\n “Yes, thank you,” said Hugh. His eyes darted over Mr. Ward’s smart black suit and neatly-groomed hair, worn fashionably long. He couldn’t spy anything outright suspicious; his insightful nature failed to find anything lingering strangely upon Mr. Ward’s person. He only noted the usual number of eyes. This was probably someone safe. “When last we spoke the maester said I would be assigned a handler. Would that be you, or is the duty someone else’s?”<\/span><\/p>\n “I am the full package, Mr. Wainwright,” said Mr. Ward, and this got a chuckle out of Hugh, the first he’d had in days. Mr. Ward nodded to him. “Please take some time by the fire, Mr. Wainwright. Once you are more comfortable I will fetch you something to eat.”<\/span><\/p>\n “Do you need my papers?”<\/span><\/p>\n “I will have plenty of time to review them later. First we must care for your physical well-being.”<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh had been born to a life of comfortable means, ones comfortable enough that when his nature had become apparent it prompted hushed conversations and quiet relocations instead of treachery in the dark, and his time at the old house had been one made convenient by servants, yet he was at something of a loss how to handle being waited on personally. He held still while Mr. Ward peeled away his outer garb and spirited them away to some other nook or cranny. He held still while Mr. Ward carefully wrung the excess water from his hair. He held still for quite a bit, only moving when coaxed closer to the fire before Mr. Ward disappeared back into the foyer to deal with his luggage.<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh watched the fire crackle. He held his many-fingered hand up to the light and marveled at how strange a silhouette it made, sometimes nothing like a hand at all when viewed from certain angles. The warmth of the fire and the rich blackness of the rest of the parlor lulled him into a sort of trance. It was only broken when Mr. Ward stepped directly into Hugh’s side vision, causing him to yelp in surprise.<\/span><\/p>\n “I said, I have put your things away, Mr. Wainwright,” Mr. Ward repeated, “and I would be pleased to tell you more of your treatment once you have had a chance to recuperate from your trip. If you do not mind dining out here, I will bring a tray for you.”<\/span><\/p>\n “Thank you, you’re very kind,” said Hugh.<\/span><\/p>\n Mr. Ward waved off the compliment. “I am a professional, Mr. Wainwright. I would expect nothing less from myself were I in your place.”<\/span><\/p>\n Thunder roared outside in time with the rising wind. Hugh, now pleasantly desiccated, still turtled into his cravat reflexively, as though he was half convinced he had left part of himself outside in the storm. Mr. Ward gestured wordlessly towards one of the wingback chairs that huddled by the fireplace. Hugh seated himself and nodded to Mr. Ward, who disappeared again. Mr. Ward seemed to have a knack for doing so.<\/span><\/p>\n When Hugh thought of someone bringing him a tray, his mind presented him with the image of something much like the help used at the old house: honest food on an honest plate with an honest drink to pair it with. What Mr. Ward returned with was a little wheeled cart, upon which was a tureen of steaming soup, a smaller bowl with paired napkin and spoon, two pieces of buttered bread, an empty cup on a saucer, and a samovar. On most days Hugh was generally not much of a tea drinker. The weather promised to make him challenge that preference.<\/span><\/p>\n “No wine?” he asked. He hoped he didn’t sound like a surly child.<\/span><\/p>\n “We will be receiving some with the next acquisition of supplies,” said Mr. Ward. “For now, however, I advise that you keep your wits unmulled. At any rate, Mr. Wainwright, you will be best served by steeling yourself against catching cold.”<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh placed the napkin in his lap and waited while Mr. Ward filled his bowl and teacup with a creamy leek soup and some sort of souchong, respectively. The tea warmed his belly in a way he’d previously assumed only came with brandy. He grimaced against the taste and drained his cup before turning to the soup. Thinking of it as medicine helped.<\/span><\/p>\n The soup was much better. As much as Hugh disliked tea he could really get behind a good soup or stew most any day of the year, and this one was <\/span>quite<\/span><\/i> good. He polished it off with the speed of a starving dog. Mr. Ward refilled his bowl without commenting on Hugh’s manners; Hugh, now self-conscious, sampled the second serving with better composure. Mr. Ward spoke to him as he ate.<\/span><\/p>\n “From what I have been told, you only eat minimal meat for a man of your temperament, Mr. Wainwright. I took this into consideration when preparing your meal for this evening. I hope it is to your liking.”<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh nodded. He didn’t <\/span>not<\/span><\/i> eat meat, but save for the rarest of occasions or the usual necessities of the profession he never thought about it much. He had once overheard one of the housekeepers saying it was a small gift how easygoing he was about his portions.<\/span><\/p>\n Mr. Ward continued on. “At the behest of the society we shall be keeping track of your meals. You will find a personal ledger in your quarters, which I request you note down what you have each day. My duties include providing both advice and dishes that I believe would align best with your recovery. You are free to act as you please, including ignoring these entirely, so long as you keep record of your actions.”<\/span><\/p>\n It was a reasonable request, especially for an organization so in love with notes and numbers. Hugh daubed at some dregs of soup with a bread crust and let Mr. Ward speak.<\/span><\/p>\n “It is my understanding that you will continue your work for our mutual employers during your stay here. I will see to it that this house remains a secure base of operations. Tomorrow you will be shown the ways in which you can enter the building from the outside, as for obvious reasons it is usually kept closed up against roving city-folk. I was told you are particularly fond of rooftops. We will begin there after your breakfast.”<\/span><\/p>\n Another bowl of leek soup gradually disappeared as Hugh listened. Mr. Ward spoke with similar flourishes as Mr. Clifford-Smythe, and with a similar air of professional impassivity, and in spite of both these things there was still a subtle warmth to his manner that kept the orientation from feeling clinical. Hugh suspected it might have been the effect of a warm fire and an increasingly full stomach. One could forgive a lot in a man so long as they were comfortable at the time.<\/span><\/p>\n “A parcel drop has been arranged in your name. Any letters which arrive for you while you are out will be left in the basket by your door, and in the event you have yet to open them come the new day I will gather them up so you my review them with your first meal. Again, Mr. Wainwright, you are free to act in accordance with your own wishes; my duties are simply to ensure that your tasks are not left forgotten in light of an unfamiliar environment. Any mail you do not wish me to handle for you may be placed directly in the dumbwaiter connected to the parcel drop for delivery.”<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh had assumed that he would be going about his business the same as ever during his time across town. The more Mr. Ward talked the more foolish he felt for his naivet<\/span>\u00e9<\/span>. It really <\/span>was<\/span><\/i> like a hospital stay, from what little Hugh remembered of his own. Mr. Ward’s continued insistence on how many personal freedoms Hugh still possessed was starting to concern him.<\/span><\/p>\n There was a <\/span>lot<\/span><\/i> Mr. Ward had to say to him, ranging from certain quirks of the mechanical house to where Hugh was to leave the laundry, and it was quite honestly enough to make a man’s head spin. It felt like the better part of an hour before the tone of things began to change, ever so gradually, towards winding down.<\/span><\/p>\n “Your more intimate preferences have been made known to me, Mr. Wainwright, and thusly I was also requested to inform you that while it is expected that you might feel the needs of a man during your stay, you are advised not to deal directly with the people of the city, in the interest of your continued health.”<\/span><\/p>\n Hugh nodded. He’d suspected that much; you heard stories about people who went looking for love in the darker streets, and they never ended well.<\/span><\/p>\n “Should you need to address such needs, I have been assigned to aid you with relieving them in the manner of your choosing, and with both proficiency and understanding. It is for the best you not deny yourself your simpler instincts unless otherwise advised. Do not hesitate to ask if you require assistance in this or any other matter, Mr. Wainwright. I take this post quite seriously.” Mr. Ward’s expression was as serene as ever.<\/span><\/p>\n “The full package, was it?” said Hugh, still half off his guard.<\/span><\/p>\n “Indeed,” said Mr. Ward. He collected the dishes and Hugh’s napkin and put them back on the little cart. “Now then. If you have finished eating, I will show you to your room.”<\/span><\/p>\n One guided jaunt up the stairs later and Hugh was alone again, now sprawled on his back to stare at the shadowy woodwork that spiderwebbed across the ceiling. The rain hissed outside. Save for the lamp Mr. Ward had lit for him, which itself had a sort of greasy orange glow that looked ever so slightly unreal, the room was quite dark in a way you only really saw in the night city. It should have been an eerie sight, one that set teeth on edge and hair on end. Hugh found it comforting.<\/span><\/p>\n He laced his fingers across his stomach and closed his eyes to take in the sounds of the house. Mr. Ward moved with the light and subtle tread of a career manservant, betrayed only by the warped cry of the occasional floorboard. Muffled clinks and rattles eddied up from the kitchen as Mr. Ward tidied up. Different rattles sounded from inside the walls as unseen devices moved against one another. In the very far distance, nearly drowned out by the storm, Hugh thought he could hear the wails of the locals as they toiled beneath the weight of their own wildness, but perhaps that was just an old habit coming home for one final roost. Here, at least for now, he could sleep safely.<\/span><\/p>\n Mr. Ward had insisted he act in accordance with his own wishes, so Hugh decided to do exactly that. He stripped and stretched. The room, curiously, still felt properly proportioned to him when he stood with an unbent back, which he took as a good sign. He sat at the desk, opened the ledger (which was exactly where Mr. Ward had said it would be), took up a pen (which his extra fingers cradled deftly), and began to write his first litany of leeks.<\/span><\/p>\n