Young Writers Society

Things were moving too fast. Obi had shooed Sefu away quietly, not uttering a word in response to his friend’s onslaught of questions until he got him to the door. As he opened it, he took Sefu firmly by the shoulders, pinning him down with an even gaze. “Have I ever hidden anything from you that you would benefit from?”

Blinking slowly, Sefu asked one last question in a soft murmur, “Have you gotten yourself into trouble again?”

Obi wanted to say no so badly but he merely led Sefu out the door and closed it. Mr. Fughi waited behind him.

“Are my services needed, Mr. Eshe?” He rose above Obi by about a head, and he was much broader. His size was one of the reasons Obi had hired him after he realized Conya had- perplexing Obi to no end- sacked the previous one.

Obi made for his office and replied as he was striding across the entryway. “Yes, Mr. Fughi. If you could before you prepare yourself, tell Lady Eshe that I went out with Sefu and will probably not be returning in time for dinner. She and her son should progress without me. Also, send my valet up to my rooms, I shall be there in five minutes.” He paused in the doorway to his office and looked over his shoulder, his hand free of the note gripping the molding. “And I suggest you be armed, Mr. Fughi.” With that, he slammed the door, wincing at the sound.

He just stood there for a moment, his breath coming in loud bursts from his nose before slowly relaxing his hand and staring at the crumpled paper like it was a decaying fruit. His mind grasped desperately at half formed plans, always nosing back to the idea that Princess Ihyna could be overreacting because she was so desperate to get away. The chance that this was going to be for some small slight almost made him not act, but he also knew that the girl might be completely sincere.

He couldn’t live with himself after promising to help her if something happened to Ihyna because he didn’t come to her rescue when she sent for help. There was no doubt in his mind that the note was from the girl. He had forgotten to take his robe from her when he took her back to the castle. No one else could have it… Unless this was a trap. Shaking his head, he grabbed his robes and stuffed the note in a pocket, hurrying up the stairs to his room where his valet waited, looking puzzled. He had no time to waste on what ifs. If it was a trap, he would deal with it. “Fetch a suit for me.” Holding up a finger to stop his valet for another moment, Obi added, “The one without the family seal on the pocket, please.” When the man hesitated, Obi raised an eyebrow slowly.

Soon he was being helped into a tweed jacket and straightening his tie. “Do me a favor.” He turned to look his valet straight in the eye. “I spilled coffee on that.” He pointed at the robes draped across his bed. “You know the law. Burn it and order me a new one. Be quiet about this, and I’ll add a gift onto the end of this week’s pay. We don’t need everyone knowing I’m getting to hold my own coffee.” He laughed until his valet nervously joined in and left, the rhythm of the tapping of the soles of his shoes on the stairs faster than normal.

Mr. Fughi waited in the entry way, his staunch butler’s uniform retired for the dark, understated garb of a bodyguard. While Obi could see no weapons on his body, he trusted that Mr. Fughi had many hidden. He didn’t have many, himself. Only a bad business man involved in the more questionable exchanges of society let his weapons speak for him.

“Let’s leave out the back. All of my neighbors don’t need to know that I’m leaving at such an ungodly hour of the day. I bet it hasn’t even started to cool down yet.” Obi led the way with Mr. Fughi a few paces behind him. Soon they were walking behind the houses on his street.

When they were far enough away from the big manors, their pace slowed. Mr. Fughi walked beside Obi, his eyes scanning the road and sidewalk for suspicious activity. Without even glancing at Obi, he murmured, “May I make an observation about the state of the household today, sir?”

Obi glanced up, trying to decide whether he truly heard the dry rasp of sarcasm in his butler’s voice. “Of course.”

“Very busy,” he replied, looking down to meet Obi’s eyes with a raised eyebrow.

Obi, who thought he had the arrogant smirk down to a science, marveled at Mr. Fughi’s before linking his hands behind his back with a nod. Clearing his throat, he shrugged. “I guess that depends on how much people know.” He kept his voice easy. “Anyone could say that the house really hasn’t been all that busy.” He kept looking straight ahead, smiling a little as if he were telling a moderately funny joke. “Couldn’t they?”

“I suppose, sir,” Mr. Fughi acceded, “that it takes a deep understanding of the house to catch onto those little differences.”

“And no one knows the house like you do, Mr. Fughi.”