Esther Urvine was the head agent of the Royal Investigators, or rather, the Invests, and she was determined to do her job.
She was sitting in her office very early in the morning when Judge Henrio Glasky knocked on the door frame. As he peeked into the room, Esther saw that he was wearing his official black robe and his gray hair was tied back with plain leather cords. He must have been fresh from a hearing or something.
"Agent Urvine," he said with a mildly concerned expression, "is this a bad time?"
Nudging a thick stack of paperwork across the desk's tabletop, Esther shook her head. "No, Sir. It's not. Did you get a domestic request?"
The judge moved his hand from behind the wall, and he revealed an envelope of plain leather, secured by a tan colored cord. "I have the forms right here. Someone is challenging Marquess Bram Masen's custody of his stepson."
Her fingertips rubbing into her temples, Esther muttered to herself, "Why, oh why, must every case be so fucking obvious?" Then she sighed, put her palms on the tabletop, and said, "Thank you very much for your help. I'd love to see the request now."
The judge entered the office and very neatly, as if there were expert measuring devices in his eyes, put the envelope in what seemed to be the exact center of the tabletop. He watched as Esther opened the envelope and cautiously slid the documents out. Her dark eyes scanned the forms, and she became even more bored ... yet even more angry ... if it was possible to have both emotions at once.
A middle aged woman, related to nobility but without any title, was requesting custody of Ismael Masen. Her name was Rotemna Dufan. She was actually Lillitu Masen's cousin. Her argument was that Bram Masen hadn't been an adequate husband, and most certainly was at fault for Lillitu's suicide. Therefore, he was in no position to properly raise the heir to the Kloen province, especially since he wasn't his child by blood.
How stupidly predictable.
The average amount of time it took for a domestic request to reach a judge's eyes was normally a week or more, no matter the status of the person sending the request. Lillitu Masen had died only a few days ago. Was this woman legitimately, clinically diagnosed as a person with an intellectual disability? It was the only way Esther could understand the reasoning behind the woman's actions. Rotenma Dufan might as well have put her naked body, whatever it happened to look like, on a great stage of gold and called out to law enforcement, "I did it! I did it!"
"Thank you very much, Sir," Esther said, slipping the documents back inside the envelope. She laid it flat on the desk, and she put the heels of her hands on top of that, her fingers weaving together. "Now, Dear Judge, would you be so kind as to close and lock the door? I'd rather not have anyone listen to us."
Judge Henrio Glasky nodded and walked over to the door. He closed it softly, and he locked it in much the same way. Then he went back to his standing position before the desk, folding his arms.
Esther spoke to him in an even tone, not wanting anything to be misunderstood. "Would it be illegal for me to ask you to refuse this woman's request without arranging a hearing?"
"Well," the judge said, "you'd have to tell me that you consider the applicant to be a suspect in a crime. Then it would be completely legal. Do you suspect her of a crime?"
"I do," Esther admitted, her face stern.
"That's fine, but what is the crime you suspect this woman of?"
"Murder, unfortunately."
The judge rolled his eyes. "That's just sad. I'll have to refuse her, then." He waved his hand at her as he went to the door and unlocked it. "Have a good morning, Agent Urvine."
Esther was wondering how the suspect would react to being rejected so quickly, and without a hearing too. Someone as apparently stupid as Rotenma Dufan would likely make herself appear even more guilty.
***
"Why do you want to pray by yourself?" Erdgar Adurant asked his wife on the cool, but comfortable morning.
With an uncharacteristically wicked smile, Danetta said she had a special prayer to give, and she'd join the family in their favorite pleasure garden after a short time. Unwilling to deny his wife much of anything, Erdgar kissed her lips very sweetly, and he dropped her off at the Lotus Shell.
Duchess Danetta Adurant hummed to herself, her gait buoyant, as she sought out a priest and purchased a charm from him. It was a small carving of bone, shaped like a pregnant woman wearing nothing but a chemise. She then gave the priest a gift. It was a small box of incense that was considered to be medicinal.
Time for a hopeful prayer, indeed!
The duchess floated on down a hallway and to a prayer room. She closed and locked the door as she entered. She knelt on a cushion, put the dorsa of her hands together, and prayed silently, grinning and vibrating with exhilaration.
She wasn't certain. She truly wasn't certain, but there were some signs in her body. There was definitely a possibility of a child.
***
Mr. Roiters' match was meant to take place in the evening, but it wasn't evening yet. It was the morning. Instead of the excitement of a sporting event, a different sort of excitement was in her nerves. Delma was praying, waiting, hoping to see Mr. Kuno. She didn't wait long.
He entered with a warm greeting. "Good morning, Angel."
"Good morning, Mr. Kuno," Delma said as she rose from her cushion and turned around. Her face was hot and her feet were oddly hotter. Her skirt nearly tilted as she curtsied.
Black leather fingertips drummed against a dish he held. "I had to whisk the eggs forever and a minute to make this. This normally requires several cooks, but I did it all on my own. It's a cake with white sugar, cinnamon, dried apricots, raisins, brandy, and rosewater. I think it's a fine offering."
Her fingertips going to her bosom, Delma said, "Sir, that's a foolishly expensive cake! It's fit for a wealthy man's wedding!"
Mr. Kuno held the dish out to her, and she took it in her hands. She untied the cord so she could peak at the contents. It was a little wheel of a cake, coated in pure white icing.
"Whisking the eggs was actually very good exercise," he said to her very proudly. "I'd do it again."
"Were you once a cook in a fine estate?" Delma asked, returning the lid and retying the cord.
His laugh was thick and soft like a fluffy cat's fur. "No, Angel. This is only a silly hobby."
Delma shrugged and went to a corner of the room. She put the dish on the floor and said, "It's too fine a gift. Accepting it would be unwise of me, but if I refuse it, you might feel slighted, and that would be even more unwise of me." She thought of Mr. Roiters, and a contrite exhale blew out from her lungs. "I should tell you that another man has given me rather interesting gifts, and I'm worried that he might want something from me." She bit at the inside of one of her cheeks. Then she said, "I think we both know what he might want."
"Have you declared your love for him?" He sounded like he was telling the punchline of a joke.
"Of course not. I don't know him well enough."
"Then you have no shame, Angel." The floor seemed to surge with his footsteps. Then his voice was close behind her. "So, won't you let me touch you?"
"What?!" She spun around so quickly that her skirts twisted for a moment. Her eyes focused on the gray mask. "You'll have to remove your gloves, won't you?"
She heard his knuckles and joints crack. "Turn around. Don't look back. Then, after a moment, I'll feel like a man."
Not sensing any sort of danger, but a nearly manic thrill instead, Delma turned around, facing the corner of the room. The statue of the God of Hope was behind both of them. Sometimes, people literally called that god Hope.
Hope ...
Hope was right behind them, as if it was waiting on them to do something.
Delma heard her skirts being gathered from behind. Mr. Kuno was going to touch her between her legs. She knew it. She wasn't an uneducated person. She knew what people did when lust shot through their veins.
Something fell onto the stone floor, something light that made a pat of a sound.
"Don't look back," he reminded her.
There was no reason to disobey, at least, none that she could think of. Her eyes remained nearly attached to the line where the two white walls met. The apprentice priests were very obedient. They had regularly scrubbed the stone with soap that was just gentle enough to keep the place tenderly white.
She gasped at the heat that grazed the little space between her buttocks.
He wasn't wearing a glove on that hand!
His skin wasn't fully smooth. There were rough parts to it. She imagined he probably knew how to build things, or garden, or something of that nature. Calluses could be surprisingly attractive!
And they felt so damn good against her fragile labia.
Inside her boots, the balls of her feet flexed and her toes squeezed together. Her fingers needed something to clasp. They went to her scarf, claiming little balls of the fabric.
The mask rubbed against the skin behind her ear. His voice was insistent. "You have hair here. Is it brown and curled?"
Why in the world that question sent liquid through her channel and moistened the bare fingers was beyond her thinking. All she knew was that she needed to answer him truthfully. "Yes. It's just like that."
