CHAPTER ONE: 38 DAYS REMAIN

The end of my contract on the last day of the month stained the air between us with apprehension. Sable, always chilled by certainty and protocol, seems to burn frenetically in the days leading up to our journey. Her eyes skimmed the left and right pages of an open commentary before flitting back to the start, only half aware of losing the path again and again. The prayer beads, too, are an indicator of discontent. Clack, clack, clack, constantly running her fingers over the set of five onyx beads and murmuring. Though, in her current state I doubt she made it past the first prayer. For a radical allegedly bent on the dissolution of law and order itself, Sable certainly hated change.
The train crested its final hill, signaling my next move: get the bags. Sable crammed her book and beads into her leather satchel and flared out her skirt. A twinge of warmth made its way to my face as her skirt flared across her upper thighs before settling at its typical modest length. Seeing the Lady in states of undress was not new to me, but something about the hasty, surreptitious glance put shame in me. Maybe it was the knowledge that such glances would soon become a rarity.
“Rory, please ensure that my kit from the bathroom is not forgotten.”
Right. Her kit.
I shuffled clumsily into the compartment's bathroom, banging duffel bags against the sliding door. They already packed, the cosmetic kit–and its fruit shaped perfumes and animal shaped soaps–posed a problem for my navigation from the train. The problem was both in its bulk and in the fact that it left me with no free hand for a weapon. I forced the space distribution to mental patterns and ultimately attached the case with claps to another bag.
“Is everything all right in there?”
“Yes, my Lady.” I bungled out of the cramped bathroom. “Just ensuring efficiency.”
Those were the words she liked to hear.
“Well, come on then,” she said, attempting a small, wavering smile. “The escort awaits.”

The bustle around Lady Sable was constant, from the balding man in formal vestige giving a tour of the tiny Port Town, to the caterers buzzing for dietary restrictions and wine preferences. None of them asked a word of me, nor would I expect them to. I often faded into the background, despite leaving large shadows. By the time we touch down in the hotel room, the straps of her bags had dug in dents into my shoulders. Lady Sable flung her satchel on the bed.
“We shouldn't have too long of a day left. They want me to speak today at the temple, but since the ship blessing can't be done until sunset, we should have a few hours between the temple ceremony and then to relax. Afterward, I'll want a bath drawn, and to continue our previous night's reading. Understood?”
Sable bristled when adding the last part, and as though to make it up to me, met my eyes. Her gaze was snow: crisp, cold, and clearing.
“Understood, my lady.”
Our usual breeze had clicked into staunch formality. I prayed the bath would ease her.
She reached for one of her bags and I supplied it. As I did, one gloved hand flicked across my sleeve. The chill from her eyes shot through my wrist, plunging my entire upper half into cold shock. Why did it affect me so?
It was the first time she had touched me since the radio call. And yet, she wanted me to draw her a bath tonight?
Her motions were stiff as she brought a lace veil over her dark hair, just missing the small streak of gray in the front. She had told me when we first met that the gray was the result of a strange and frightening accident, though she'd never elaborated on details.
With the veil positioned, she retrieved the other objects of import–a few sticks of incense, a blessed oil, and a few portable prayer scrolls–and beckoned me to follow.
My body passed me by but my mind retreated into the same cold I'd felt in my arm moments ago.


The first day of the month, I knew that my days were numbered. Since I'd earned a uniform, I'd kept the slip of paper heralding the end of my service in my breast pocket. At fifteen, I’d worked out the amount of days remaining in my service and kept count. Thirty-six hundred days had dropped down to just forty, a ludicrously fathomable amount. I had kept my eyes trained on auspicious numbers: twenty-four hundred, nine hundred and ninety nine, nine hundred, four hundred, ninety…
Today, forty.
Lady Sable, on the other hand, needed the reminder. I had overheard the radio call she received from the Guard House. In between garbled static, her voice cut a serrated edge.
“Forty days?”
More static.
“I haven't even begun to ask that of my guard.” The creak of her chair interrupted the garbled silence. She began to pace. “We have no contract extension, no. No, don't send a replacement yet. I'll sort it. Yes, thank you for letting me know.”
The soft buzz of the line told me the Guard House had hung up.

The shift in Sable's behavior would have been unremarkable to an outsider. At the temple, she lit candles and doled out blessings with the tempered ease of a mother ladling soup to her children. Her gait, once choppy and meandering in our hotel room, had gained back it's trademark glide. Her voice was rich, rich with the security and generosity that came along with ample divine favor.
But I noticed. What does a decade teach you, if not all the ways that stress radiates outward like steam? Her hands never shook, on the contrary she seemed to be making every motion deliberately, as though she knew that if a single finger were to act automatically it would give her away. Her voice never warbled, but it sat further back in her throat, as though to speak with her full voice would break it. Lady Sable was masterful at hiding her anxiety, but she couldn't hide from me. Despite how seldomly she met my gaze.

How could I tell her? How could I confirm the worst things that she thought about me? That I was disloyal. That a decade, no matter how formative and enduring, could not stop me from returning home. That her love wasn't enough.
During the boat blessing, as she chanted and wafted the incense around the bow, two stealthed tears dampened the bottom of her veil.
A decade had taught her about me as well.