When he finally approached the outskirts of Greyhill, where even the lamp posts stood straighter and the air smelled less like piss and more like roses, Veyn looked the part, or at least a passable version of it.
He wore a slightly off white cotton shirt, a frayed collar hidden by his posture, charcoal wool trousers, and a dark vest that might've been tasteful a decade ago. His shoes, a little torn but clean, clicked politely against the cobblestones.
And atop it all, a new bowler hat. He tipped the hat off to admire it, then spotted a tear near the brim.
"Damn it," he sighed, and tossed it into a decorative hedge.
He patted his left pocket. The forged letter was still there. 'Yep.'
He shook his suitcase with his right. 'Not a sound. This thing's definitely empty.'
He hadn't exactly prepared for this interview the usual way. The flyer turned up too late for a polite introduction, so Veyn did what any cold, homeless, and highly resourceful street rat would do. He went hunting for passed out drunks to steal clothes from.
Frostpoint was generous that night.
His first target was snoring into a crate of dried fish. Coat too stiff.
Second one had pissed himself. Pass.
Third time's the charm, trousers only slightly stained, boots intact, shirt passable with a little tucking.
But Veyn didn't stop there. He kept going, stripping the insensibly drunk like it was a sport. He'd toss the ruined outfits into alleys and move on. He even nabbed one man mid urination. That one had been wide awake, but he couldn't exactly stop him.
"What the hell hey!" the man shouted as Veyn yanked his coat right off his shoulders.
"Sorry, urgent formal occasion," Veyn said, backing away with a polite nod.
By sunrise, he was dressed well enough to blend into any manor staff line up, assuming no one looked too closely at the frayed buttons or the slightly different shade between left and right shoes.
The suitcase, not something he needed, but would make him look more the part, came next.
He waited for dawn's elderly parade, the noble approved crowd who could barely see their own feet. The perfect prey. He spotted them near one of the city's parks, a pale, hunched man with clouded eyes, and beside him, a woman with a face that reminded Veyn of a basset hound.
"Sir, ma'am, let me help carry your bags," Veyn said, voice sugary as fudge.
The old man blinked blindly and said, "Huh!?"
"This fine young gentleman is offering to carry our bags!" the woman barked back, already ramming her suitcase into Veyn's arms.
The old man leaned closer to his wife's mouth, confused. "Huh!?" he repeated, louder.
The woman glared at him like she was ready to beat him with her walking stick, and Veyn had to stifle a laugh.
A few thanks and a mint chocolate candy later, Veyn walked off with both bags, not even sure if they knew they had just been robbed. He tossed the candy into a puddle.
'A smart man takes free stuff, but even a devil worshiper wouldn't take a bite out of mint chocolate.'
He ditched the woman's bag halfway down the block, emptied the man's in a quiet alley, and took a moment to sniff the lining. Lavender oil.
'Old money, dying traditions, and a suitcase that didn't smell like fish? Jackpot.'
Then came the letter.
Veyn didn't know anyone respectable enough to write him a real recommendation. But he had met someone who looked the part, Gideon Brackett. The Bath Guy. Clean uniform. Polite tone. Everything Veyn needed.
To Whom It May Concern,
I, Gideon Brackett, do hereby recommend Halden Crowe for any position within your esteemed household. During the time I have known him, Mr. Crowe has shown himself to be trustworthy, hardworking…
He signed it with an elegant little flourish, sat back, and admired his work.
"Flawless," he muttered. "Truly, a masterpiece of shameless fraud."
Back in the present, Veyn approached the servant's entrance of Aldergrave Manor. Greyhill was quiet at this hour, its gaslamps burning low and snow blanketing the hedgerows in waves. The manor loomed above the district, its windows shuttered, its chimneys puffing like breathing animals.
The servant's wing was tucked around the side, built from older, duller stone. He reached the oak door. Its iron handle was cold. He lifted the knocker and rapped three sharp times.
'Time to meet the rich.'
After a short wait at the rear entrance, rehearsed smirks flickering across his lips, the door creaked open with deliberate precision.
A woman stood before him, severe and polished. She wore a grey dress with brass buttons, her iron grey hair scraped back into a bun so tight it looked like it might snap.
She regarded him like a stain on her clean doorstep. "State your business."
Veyn adopted the polite posture of a young man who had definitely not stolen his vest from a drunk.
"Here for the temporary domestic position," he said with practiced ease. "Per the Aldergrave posting."
Her sharp eyes gave him a quick once over. He held her gaze, chin high, breathing calmly through the nerves jumping in his chest.
After a beat, she gave a tense nod and stepped aside. "Follow me."