Inside, the temperature dropped, not in warmth, but in atmosphere. The entry hall was somber, wood floors varnished long ago, now scuffed from generations of servants boots. A pair of oil lamps hissed faintly, casting a yellow light.
Veyn took it all in with darting glances.
Expensive, old, drafty, probably overstaffed. A tapestry's edge was unraveling. One of the lights had a dead moth inside.
He was led to a narrow parlor room, clearly a waiting area for the "lesser sort." There, she gestured to a simple wooden chair and vanished through a side door, leaving him alone with the distant ticking of a grandfather clock.
He didn't have to wait long.
After about ten minutes, the door opened again. This time, a man entered, mid fifties, thick sideburns, spectacles, and a ledger tucked under one arm. His coat bore the seal of the Aldergrave household. He walked with the air of someone who remembered when Frostpoint was ruled by real nobility.
"I'm Mr. Hask, the steward," he said crisply, not sitting. "Temporary candidates begin with an interview. If deemed satisfactory, you'll serve one week under probation. Uniform provided. Room and board included."
Veyn brightened a fraction at that last part, though he showed mild interest.
Mr. Hask sat across from him, flipped open the ledger, and clicked a small silver pen. "Name?"
"Halden Crowe," Veyn lied smoothly, flashing the name he'd spent hours deciding on for maximum mundaneness.
The man paused, eyes narrowing. "Identification?"
Veyn's stomach did a triple somersault.
'Identification?! Since when do servants need papers?'
But he didn't let it show. Instead, he blinked with mild offense.
"Oh! Of course, I had it, uh, but I left it in my travel trunk… which is, funny story, currently locked in a storage room at the Inn I was staying at last night."
He gave a sheepish chuckle. "Misunderstanding with the innkeeper. I offered to pay him in advance, but-"
The steward's expression didn't move.
"No matter," Veyn continued. "I do have a backup form of identification, just not... on my person. See, back at my previous post, well, actually between posts, I'd taken a bit of time to assist my cousin, a traveling pipe tuner, and while we were aboard a ferry heading south-"
"Mr. Crowe," the steward interrupted, voice stern, "You either have your documentation or you do not."
Veyn tilted his head thoughtfully. "Would a birthmark shaped like the county of Elowen count?"
After a long pause and deep stare, the silence was broken by a sigh and the words.
"...Previous household?"
'Hell that worked? Guy must be desperate.'
"Baroness Tilbrook, sir," he replied, eyes darting upward in fake recollection. "Her summer estate in Ketterwick."
The steward didn't even blink. "Duties?"
"Cleaning, polishing, meal service, fire tending, library cataloguing, hoof trimming on special occasions, and once I organized her entire spice rack by region and pungency."
He'd been homeless twelve hours ago. Now he was explaining spice racks like a lifelong butler.
Mr. Hask scribbled something. "Duration of employment?"
"About four years," Veyn said smoothly. "Though I had to take a break after a little accident involving a platter that had a habit of falling out of people's hands and the young master's favorite feathered hat."
Mr. Hask blinked, eyebrows coming together. "You were fired?"
"Technically," Veyn shrugged with a smirk, "I resigned, for the sake of the kitchen staff. And the hat."
Mr. Hask didn't laugh. He turned the page.
"Are you familiar with the customs and expectations of noble households?"
"Deeply," Veyn nodded. "Sir, I believe that a household should run smoother than a royal parade. And without the trumpets."
The steward moved on to scenario questions.
"A superior gives you conflicting instructions. What do you do?"
"I find out which one has more authority, flatter them, follow their order, and make sure the other believes it was their idea."
"Suppose a guest drops a ring down a floor vent?"
"Remove the vent, retrieve the ring, polish it, and return it with an apology, and a fabricated story about the time I once rescued a bracelet from a wild goose during a picnic."
"Your views on theft?"
"Unforgivable," Veyn said without hesitation. "And tragically common. I pride myself on my integrity and moral rectitude."
More scribbling. More frowning. Veyn could feel the rejection forming in the lines of the man's face.
Until he calmly reached into his coat and laid the recommendation letter on the table.
The steward glanced at it, uninterested, until his eyes caught the name at the bottom. Gideon Brackett.
He straightened ever so slightly. His gaze lingered longer now, brows inching up.
"A reference from Brackett?"
Veyn allowed a modest nod. "You know him? We're... acquaintances ."
The steward tapped the paper once, gave a low hum, and finally, finally, offered a stiff nod.
"You'll report to the underhousekeeper, Mrs. Keene. You'll begin tomorrow. Lodgings are shared. Meals at prescribed hours. Uniform will be issued."
After a little more details he remarked calmly, "Any misconduct and you'll be removed without ceremony. Understood?"
"Crystal clear, sir."
The steward paused at the door, giving him one last glance.
Left alone in the entry once more, Veyn's grin finally returned, not wide, just a quiet twitch at the corner of his mouth, smug and dangerous.
'A roof, a steaming bath, and an entire manor full of things worth nicking.'
He adjusted his collar, patted the left side of his neck as if checking for a birthmark, the one shaped like the country of Elowen, then chuckled to himself.
"Birthmark," he muttered under his breath. "Should've said it looked like the Queen's profile. Might've scored extra points."
With a light shake of his head and the bounce of someone who'd just lied his way past a locked door, Veyn stepped back into the pale morning light.
The game was on.