“We’ll start with tea, as all the best things begin!” Mr. Didymus the butler announced, when Rose arrived the next day.

  Rose had been highly skeptical of coming again, not unconvinced that the whole interaction had been a bread-scented dress and ibuprofen-overdose-induced dream. At last, the curiosity, and the promise of progress and relief that doctor’s couldn’t guarantee got her out of bed, and re-buttoned in her blue dress. Three weeks and the so-called two-week dissolvable sutures were still going strong in some places. So, though she managed to put her hair up in a low ponytail—a new record for range-of-motion.

  The rain of the blustery Fall season still hadn’t let up. She hustled a little faster than yesterday through the back gate, over the garden weeds and cobbles, until she reached the front door. It seemed rude to go through the kitchen now that she knew there were people not-living here.

  That is, if they’d been real.

  Hesitantly, she knocked, and then entered to wait in the foyer as she’d seen other guests do when weather was this bitter, and then yelped.

  “Ach!” she cried at a sharp pain in her ankle. “What was—”

  By the time she brushed her skirt away to look, something had skittered out of sight and into the shadows under the flamingo umbrella stand. Four tiny teeth marks imprinted in her skin, not deep enough to draw blood, but very, very close.

  “Rats? This time of year?” she puffed.

  Something in the shadows snickered.

  She was about to throw the umbrella stand to the ground to have a better look at the thing when Mr. Didymus pranced into the room.

  “Welcome, welcome, Miss Rosalie! Do come in! We have anxiously awaited your return!” He greeted her with a gallant bow befitting a noble lady come to call, not a word about her lateness, and not a word about the bandages still covering her face.

  “Thanks,” she said, rushed. “Mr. Didymus, I think you might have rats. I just heard something behind here.”

  She indicated the umbrella stand, and moved toward it, but her pace was still far too slow to beat Didymus. He reached it first, and threw the piece aside to reveal—nothing. No scurrying, no footprints in the corner dust, no glimpse of vanishing tail or feet.

  “We shall of course keep a wary eye, Miss Rosalie!” he declared steadfastly, without a hint of doubt for her claim, which she appreciated. She was already doubting her own senses. “For now,” Didymus beckoned her further inside. “For now, I fear that Gearson is fretting fit to burst his suspenders at today’s schedule. Forward march, and all that!”

  Didymus walked her to the formal parlor—the one Master Dross and Mrs. Kettleburn reserved for upper echelon guests. Some of the furniture had been uncovered for her visit. Green velvet-upholstered armchairs and fainting couches that used to match the carpet sat arranged around a glossy, dark wood baby grand, whose lid was mercifully closed. Odd as it was, Rose knew she would be content never to hear or look at the innards of a piano as long as she lived.

  The dark gloss of the piano, and subtle detailing on the emerald-green wallpaper glittered in the warm light of the old-fashioned candle sconces on the walls. Twisting gold patterns veined across the paper that Rose had never noticed before, reminding her of wild foliage, and labyrinthine paths. Heavy velvet curtains protected the room against the cold view of outside, the primary lights coming from the sconces, and modest chandelier, covered in round glass baubles shaped like pomegranates and peaches, and other fruits of temptation in the dusty old fashion. A cozy fire burned in the gargoyle’s-head fireplace, and a kettle hung already over the tiny flames in its little decorative wrought-iron claws.

  Ghosts can light fires, then? Rose wondered inwardly.

  “We’ll start with tea, as all the best things begin!” Didymus announced, when Rose had taken her seat, as far away from the piano as possible.

  “We absolutely will not, you dolt!” Making that proclamation, Mr. Gearson strode through the far wall without so much as a greeting, tapping his pocketbook, and looking generally fussed.“Tea is for after singing. I want to get a grasp on where Miss Rosalie’s skill really is without the aid of tea.”

  “Afternoon, Mr. Gearson,” Rose said with a petulant, shallow smile. She was still somewhat winded from the stairs, and being winded, like most of everything, hurt.

  Gearson huffed unsympathetically, and gestured to the piano. “Come along, come along. We have a schedule to keep.”

  Rose did as she was bid, and edged toward the glossy grand, though no closer than was absolutely polite. She doubted very much she’d ever want to touch one of these things again. An annoyed tick of Gearson’s mustache told her that he’d noticed, but he did not comment. Instead, he began barking orders.

  “We’ll begin in the key of C major, as everyone does. Give me a nice clear tone to match each note. I want to see exactly how far we’ve got to go.”

  It was over quickly, which was the only good thing to be said about the vocal paces Gearson put her through.

  “Can you not put more power into that note?”

  “I can barely breathe enough to hit that note at all,” she said breathlessly.

  “If you can produce sentences like that, then that’s clearly not true. Try harder,” Gearson barked. “Again.”

  The second try through was even shorter. Rose was winded in just a few, very long minutes. Seeming to sense her discomfort, Didymus came to her aid before Gearson could order a third round of torture.

  "Oh, pish, Gearson! She’s a bit out of practice, that’s all.”

  Gearson scoffed. “OUT of practice? More like never in practice! Again!”

  Before Rose could give it another weak attempt, Didymus did a little flourishing kick, and began to sing her notes, terribly out of tune. If possible, worse than she had. He bellowed. He hollered. He howled.

  “Shut your trap, Didymus!” Gearson snapped at last, slamming the key cover down with an angry crunch of notes. “We’d like to avoid scaring the birds—in Switzerland.”

  Didymus sighed, and draped himself over the back of a piano like a winded damsel. “The voice is the spirit's herald—one must let it soar! In days of yore, knights would sing from the heart, even when wounded!"

  Gearson badly disguised his ire by adjusting his monocle, his elbows resting heavily on the piano key cover for a ghost. “Yes, well, those same knights likely had no formal understanding of pacing oneself after a terrible injury, did they now, Sir Didymus? Remind me, how did you die?”

  Didymus’ head popped back up. “Pacing is for tortoises. I do not pace. I peruse! I step! I prowl! I strut!”

  “All the way to a young grave. Tragic.”

  Rose took the time they spent bickering to catch her breath, sinking into one of the green velvet armchairs.

  “Am I as bad as he was?” she whispered to Gearson when Didymus was at the furthest point of his pace.

  Gearson rose slowly from the piano bench, cleaning his monocle for the dozenth time in a fit of post-mortem agitation. “No. Congratulations. Day one and you’ve managed to become better than a dark-age fog-horn simply by merit of not being able to breathe properly…ugh.”

  “You seem stressed, George,” Didymus preened, strutting his way back behind the piano an giving the kettle over the clawed fireplace a jaunty poke. He grinned as he gestured to the vessel with an air of victory. “Tea?”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Gearson sighed. “Tea.”

  Didymus made a show of producing a pot and cups from a covered cabinet, and even more of a show of steeping, shredding of leaves and accouterments, and spooning the perfect amount of sugar into a ceremonial bowl.

  “Help yourself to sugar and the like, Miss Rosalie! Pardon, but we’re fresh out of the fresh ingredients.” Didymus announced, handing a delicate shell-blue cup to Rose.

  “Thank you, but I…” Rose swallowed, knowing that if she didn’t voice it now, it would be much worse later on. “I despise tea,” she said, a little hoarsely.

  She hadn’t had to sing more than a few minutes at most, but her lungs felt as though she’d asked them to run a marathon.

  Gearson only snorted at that proclamation, and went about preparing his own cup.

  “Oh, I’d be very careful with whom you share that information. You’d lose your head in certain circles, and your face in others.”

  “Horrifying,” she said politely, knowing full well that…she may have already accomplished one of those things.

  “Quite!” Didymus agreed with a smile. “So do try to enjoy it. Most do. Ah to be alive again to drink the refreshment of the home!”

  “Most are…. Well, I am not most,” Rose said awkwardly, letting the hot cup warm her hands.

  “No, indeed. Most have learned more self-control,” Gearson scolded. “Really girl. Does medicine have to taste good? From the looks of you, do you always go after taste before nutrition? Absolutely not. You’re young. You probably eat those disgusting faux meals, and supplements, and the like.”

  She paused. It was difficult to reconcile the idea of the middle-aged gentlemen, who, now that she considered it, was far older even than that, being aware of vitamin regimens and protein supplements.

  “I see I’ve struck a chord,” Gearson said, producing a packet of berries from within his jacket.

  “He is a musician,” Didymus snickered. Gearson ignored him.

  “So drink up. None of this will hurt you, and it will do you a world of good—as long as you don’t touch these, but I hadn’t planned on offering.” He gestured to a small sachet of dried berries.

  Rose blanched. “You’re putting nightshade in your tea? That could—could—”

  “Kill me?” Gearson finished dryly.

  “A truly marvelous garden we cultivate here at the manor,” said Didymus, taking a cordial seat across from Rose. He held his cup, wafting gently in the air, not drinking.

  “That’s not the issue here!” she exclaimed.

  “Wasn’t it?” Gearson asked dryly. “We’ll really have to work on your conversational direction. So many lessons… perhaps you were right, Didymus. Oh, do drink while it’s warm. If you’re going to survive a stroll in the elements with Didymus, you’ll need it. Don’t worry. Your cup isn’t poisoned. ”

  “And yours could kill a horse,” she shot back.

  “Several, actually!” Didymus added cheerfully.

  Gearson downed the cup like a monarch taking brandy, and moved to pour himself another. “Drink,” he ordered with the same sternness he had ordered her to sing.

  Slowly, tentatively, she sipped at the cup. A hot, flowery taste filled her mouth, and trickled down her torso as she swallowed. It felt marvelous, and tasted like lightly-purified swamp. She shuddered as it went down her throat, wincing all the while.

  “So very dramatic.” Gearson rolled his eyes, an elegant tipping gesture he made with his head more than his monocled eyes. “But since you’ve obliged I will answer your poorly phrased question. Poison is a spice only lightly tolerated by the living. For the somewhat-less living, it makes things far easier to taste.”

  “Perks of being a ghast.” Didymus sighed, swirling his cup. “One can still taste.”

  “I…see….” she said, forcing another sip. “And you’re feeling alright?”

  “Worried? How kind. We’ll have to cure you of that…” Gearson said, downing a third cup of tea. “Indeed, it seems we’ll have to cure you of many things.

  “Slowly but surely!” Didymus agreed, then at last, after some silent permission from Gearson, he tapped her shoulder once again, and the relief from the pain settled over her like a warm blanket.

  “It is easier to do when you’ve had tea,” Didymus explained. “I had wanted to start with tea, but… well, you recall.”

  With a sigh of relief, still careful not to disturb the sutures, Rose sank into chair, breathing freely at last.

  “Thank you,” were the first words from her mouth. “Both of you. I understand you’re trying to fix me, but if you don’t mind…and I’m certainly not complaining, but why?”

  “Why help you heal? Because it is the only noble course of action to assist a lady in need!” Didymus declared.

  “Because we have instructions, and you’re in no fit state to live through them.”

  “...Right,” she said. “You keep saying ‘instructions.’ What does that mean? Instructions from who?”

  “From whom,” Gearson corrected. “And, from the master, of course.”

  “Master Dross?” she asked. “Then is he still…around? Like you?”

  Hope welled in her, and she couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to her immediately upon meeting two real, and semi-tangible ghosts.

  “I believe Master Dross truly is gone.”

  She didn’t think her heart could ache like that again, but somehow, it did. The only good thing that could be said of the moment was that it had been long enough now, that it was a hollow ache, dispelled quickly by the warmth of the tea. Ignoring the taste, she drank deeply, finishing the cup.

  “Alright,” she accepted at last. “Then why follow the instructions? Why stay here and not go somewhere where ghosts tend to enjoy like…like a graveyard, or a battlefield for you, Mr. Didymus, or… or Japan?”

  Gearson snorted. “We’re dead, not insane. We’re not poltergeists, or specters, or shades, or shadows, or any other uncultured, undomesticated thing. Eternity is far too long to spend it unsettled.”

  “Here here!” Didymus toasted with his teacup.

  “Wrist down, you uncultured thing!” Gearson scolded.

  Rose swallowed, unsure if her question would be offensive. “If you’re not unsettled about anything, then why are you… here?”

  “By ‘here,’ I presume you mean in this drafty old manor, and not traveling the world to the destinations of the very unsettled such as, as you said, Japan.”

  She nodded.

  Gearson sighed. “I suppose this a conversation you’ll need to have eventually. Another cup?” The say he asked wasn’t a question. She accepted, and sipped again, slowly. Her mouth was already full of the flowery, swampy taste. More wouldn’t hurt much.

  “Unsettled isn’t the same is unbound,” Gearson said, as though that should explain everything. Didymus nodded unhelpfully.

  “Unbound,” she prompted.

  “Ever seen a man without purpose, Miss Rosalie?” Didymus sighed over his steaming cup. “Ruffians, vagabonds, vagrants, curs! Quite frankly useless to themselves and society. There is no honor without purpose! It’s no different for ghosts. We are human after all. We make oaths and promises that must be kept! Otherwise all would fall to ruin. Doubtless your past has been rife with stories of just such ghosts.”

  “It has,” she admitted.

  “That is because such specters never last. Most are up and puffed away with the wind, having no tether—no meaning,” said Gearson.

  Didymus moustache twitched over his cup. “Life doesn’t stop simply because you stop breathing, my dear!”

  “For a lot of people it seems to.”

  Gearson waved that notion away. “Yes yes, vagabonds. We’ve discussed this. Some of us seek gainful employment. Oaths and positions—as we have to the master of the house.”

  “People work to get paid. Do ghosts and ghasts even use money? Or is there something else that you need?” she asked.

  Didymus was the one to answer that question, as Gearson had gone oddly focused on his next cup of tea.

  “Pay,” Didymus scoffed. “Such a modern concept! You don’t have careers anymore. You have jobs. Hours in exchange for currency. In my time of breath, we had more than that! We had positions! We in the manor are not employees, we are VASSALS. It’s a different thing.”

  He and Gearson exchanged a look, for once, without squabbling. Gearson gave a subtle nod, and then something shifted in the atmosphere in the room—literally. Rose’s ears popped with the pressure change, as Gearson downed the last of his tea like a boiling shot, and both of them got to their feet.

  “What we receive, we have received from the master of time himself,” Gearson said, his mustache tilting in a motion of absolute dismissal. “And here we are wasting time, when you could be up and working toward something meaningful. There there, up you get!”

  With that, they ushered her up, and out of the house for the first of many, many walks through the property with Didymus.