The perfumes that Ilaria produced in her laboratory were not, typically, something that anyone would want to smell. In her first hundred years or so with the hobby, she’d made plenty of those. Cypress and lemon with a hint of smoke and spice had been her favorite, and she still wore that often.
Today, she was after something different. Scent unlocked memories like nothing else and she had in mind a particular battle of the Fourth Blight. She walked up and down the counter, daubing foul smelling mixtures on cards and then stepping away to reset her sense of smell. Biting into a lemon wedge tended to do the job. Ilaria ate the sour flesh and discarded the peels on a clay platter.
This batch was not turning out right.
The smell of the fire was present, burnt hair and charred lizard flesh. Something different about the soil here, perhaps? She ate another slice of lemon and licked the sticky residue off her fingers. A slave brought down a stack of letters and invitations on a tray and then departed as swiftly as they had appeared.
“Caesennia?” She’d have to order away for a proper sample. Perhaps she’d try cold enfleurage, next time. She'd not done that in some time: cover a layer of animal fat with her reagents, leave it to sit for a day. Clean with alcohol and repeat. It was not the most economical way to go about things, to be sure.
“Be a dear and read those aloud for me.” Ilaria turned her attention back to her samples.
The perfumes smelled... foul. It smelled of smoke, something else... and she watched as Ilaria repeatedly ate a lemon, before testing another vial of the stuff. She knew better than to ask questions, and had eventually moved to sit in a chair in a corner, watching. Curiouser, and curiouser.
And of course, this idle-time merely left her thinking about what her boss had said at the ball... Their preferences seemed to align.
"I feel you should know, I am not partial to men, either. Perhaps that will help you to serve me better."
And then, of course: "I want you to go home and think about it."
Her cheeks flushed with color, briefly, as her mind wandered to consider just what that might mean. She'd made no approach; neither had the other woman. And yet... as she watched Ilaria with her task, she could not help but think about her — she was pretty — in a light she'd never considered before.
Shaken from her thoughts, though, she stood automatically and approached, the desk where presumably a recipe of some kind was written down on parchment. She frowned at the piece of paper, picking it up with delicate fingers, as if it might crumble in her hands.
I... cannot. She responded, cheeks flushed completely, now, but not from curious thoughts. Rather, embarrassment. Tutor has not taught me to read. She held the parchment towards her mistress as she approached, biting her lip.
It was shameful, even a lesser noblewoman should know how to read. But the lines and squiggles meant nothing to her.
Ilaria turned slowly and frowned at Caesennia’s pronouncement. Couldn’t read? To think that a Tevene mage could not … Had she been trained in anything at all? How had she passed her Harrowing? Did they even still do Harrowing now that demons and spirits were common as cockroaches? Ilaria tilted her head and stared, otherwise motionless until the other woman was right in front of her, pressing a card into her hands.
“What could you possibly mean?” She snatched it away and crumpled it into her apron pocket, unread.
“Why not?” Ilaria began to circle the room, cleaning up after herself and halting various experiments as they were. There was nothing particularly rare or time sensitive to worry about here – beyond the fact that her favorite mortal was apparently dwelling in a perpetual state of horrifying ignorance. The perfumes could wait.
“How extensive is the issue? Do you know your letters and numbers at all?” Ilaria wafted out of the room, fully expecting to be followed. She led the long and winding way to the House’s main library, a cavernous chamber that servants and slaves rarely had access to.
“Tell me about this tutor. Perhaps we should employ another.”
Caesennia frowned, flinched when her mistress snatched the card from her hands, she'd not been expecting such a quick movement. And then the woman was circling the room, pacing, cleaning haphazardly. She was certain there must be some kind of rhythm to what she cleaned when, but for the moment, Casey couldn't figure it out.
I... I was a cleaning maid, b-before, uhm. Before her magic, and before she was a cleaning maid, she'd worked the kitchens — but the numbers she learned there were never written down; expected to be memorized. She cleared her throat, and hurried after Ilaria as she suddenly quit cleaning, to leave the room behind. Anxious, because she couldn't pick up what the other woman was feeling — her magic was still quite new to her.
Tutor teaches how to... be nobility. What kind of utensils to use, how to walk, dress... uhm, what style to wear, what not to wear. The library; she never came in here, before, and her eyes widened at the size of the room. At the amount of books.
She lingered in the doorway, as if waiting for permission. She never brought up letters or numbers. I'm sorry. She was sorry; she'd failed at something, that Ilaria expected her to know. It didn't occur to her to find it amusing, that the woman wouldn't know (or care) what her past position had utilized or not.
Cleaning maid. Ilaria supposed the holes in Othos’ education made sense, after all. That sort of labor did not call for any particular training, only persistence and repetition. (Though, being able to read a duty schedule would surely not have hurt.) What a dull life Caesennia had led!
The tutor, on the other hand … It was hard to imagine this woman, who taught new lady mages how to act like they belonged in high society. Was there not a blood component to it, to taste and etiquette and refinement?
Or was it only a matter of wealth? No matter. They would find out shortly. Ilaria motioned for Casey to join her at one of the study desks, producing a large sheet of parchment from a drawer. Sitting down, she mixed the ink and cut a set of cheap, goose feather quills.
And sat like that for a moment, wondering if hiring someone for this wouldn’t be better. Ilaria was no teacher – she could not begin to recall any of her childhood lessons. It wasn’t often that she was forced to contemplate a task that she was terribly unsuited for. How interesting. She set pen to paper and drew a large ‘A’.
“This letter is in both our names.” Just about every Tevene woman’s name, to be honest. She wrote them out in all uppercase, underlining the A’s. Then she stole a glance at Caesennia to see if she was following at all.
"The ends sound the same. 'Kay' and 'Ar' not so much."
Caesennia was attentive, even if she looked more confused than eurphoric. She was tracing the lines on the desk, mimicking the 'A' with just her finger.
She nodded slowly. How many is that? Finger tapped under each underlined letter. She knew her numbers in theory; when setting a table each person had a specific number of utensils that did specific things, but it was much more practical than being able to count in any other instance.
Good. She was paying attention – though how well any of this might take was still up in the air. Language supposedly came easiest to the young, and while Caesennia was still that …
Oh, fuck. Could she not count, either? This was swiftly adding up to more work than she had bargained for. An hour or two here and there was charming. More than that became infinitely less so.
“It is four, Caesennia.” Ilaria was going to find this useless tutor and skin her alive. Venting a deep sigh, she took the next sheet of paper and wrote out the rest of the alphabet in large capital letters.
“Would you like to have a real teacher? Or, perhaps …” Ilaria finished writing and set down her quill, scooting back so Caesennia could have the run of the desk.
“A mind mage could share their knowledge with you. It might not be pleasant, but it would be quick. You simply cannot persist as you are now, my pet.”
Caesennia tilted her head slightly. Mind mage. Because that sounded like it would please Ilaria far more quickly than if she learned with a proper tutor. Quickest is best, she nodded, and traced the letters with her fingers. For the moment, these letters fascinated her. But would they continue to fascinate her once someone's knowledge was forcibly imparted upon her?
She glanced over her shoulder. I want to better serve. She added, with a firm nod. Keeping her mistress happy... well, it made her happy. She didn't like when she disappointed or frustrated Ilaria.
“Very well.” Ilaria very nearly purred with satisfaction. Was this bravery or simply Caesennia’s lingering urge to please at work? Most would not be so quick to volunteer for experimental magic.
“Good girl. We will have to choose our donor mage very carefully.” Mind manipulation was not a school that Ilaria was much practiced in. Its use against darkspawn during her youth had been debatable – when fireballs and lightning showed immediate, dramatic results. In the centuries that followed … Well, it couldn’t be said she didn’t have the time.
But weren’t loyalty and devotion more delicious when they were freely given?
Of this donor, no one in House Obsidian would do. Magic and information might well flow both ways in this. Ilaira would not stand to risk any of her family taking note of peculiarities in her own behavior by seeing her through Caesennia’s eyes. Other nobles might seek undue advantage – hmm.
Perhaps it would be amusing to let them.
“I will begin searching for the right person. Please, continue practicing your letters for now.” Standing, Ilaria stroked Caesennia’s hair fondly and began to stride away.
It was, in fact, a lingering need to please. But there was another part of the young woman that realized this was a shortcut, that doing this would help her be a better noble, be a better mage. And she smiled at the praise, as Ilaria promised to find a good donor. She imagined the donor would need to be someone with the knowledge and skills that Ilaria most preferred her maid to have.
A few days later, a donor had been plucked from the masses. Caesennia didn't know much about them, except that they were not from the slave class, nor were they from House Obsidian. But they were hand-selected, and she trusted they'd know what they were doing. They even had similar magics to her, and would share the knowledge about those magics and how to use them.
Truly, they were cutting corners.
The ritual happened late at night, the donor let themselves into Casey's mind, by force. They got a sense of who she was (and glimpses of what she knew), before they began to funnel everything they knew — even remotely — to the girl. They'd warned Ilaria, she might die. Had warned her, too.
But she'd insisted with a practiced smile. She was bound to a chair, so that she couldn't interrupt the process. It'd be painful, they'd said. And it was — she was rigid in her chair, silently crying, sometimes whimpering.
And eventually, she fell into silence, as if she couldn't figure out how to make a sound, overwhelmed by the knowledge being forcibly imparted upon her. Her breathing slowed, and once or twice her heart stammered.
A few hours passed, before the mind mage was done. They cleared their throat, addressing Ilaria, She cares for you, quite a lot. You were what she guarded the hardest. They don't elaborate, or indicate if they'd broken past those defenses. They don't clarify what type of love they thought the girl held for her mistress, either.
She should wake up tomorrow. You may notice personality changes, bits of mine might have rubbed off on her. But it shouldn't be severe. With those words, the donor left Ilaria with the bound lady's maid, who was slumped against her restraints, wrists bruised from when she'd struggled. But for the moment, she was fast asleep.
