#broken leaf

Alyx screamed too, or rather yelped, both in shock and from the pain, pressing the heels of her hands as hard to her ears as she possibly could. To say the sound was piercing in the otherwise quiet tavern would have been an understatement: nearby a man spat out his ale in surprise and clapped his own hands over his ears. He roared curses in her direction, as did the barmaid who had dropped everything she was carrying, and Alyx prayed to any god who could hear her through this noise that her intended company was nearby.

“ROTHE!” She practically sobbed, even though she didn’t see him–but an errant mandragora in the Drowning Wench, especially one with such a recognizable voice, could only mean he was there already. Hopefully. 

And thank the Twelve for there he was, whipping around the corner and panting as if he had just sprinted up a flight of stairs. Alyx attempted to choke out the word “help” as he approached but it barely came out amongst garbled noises of pain.

The shrieking plant, alerted to Rothe’s presence, turned around and suddenly stopped: the silence that followed was deafening by contrast. He proceeded to scold it, though Alyx could not hear what he was saying through the high pitched whine that sang in her ears. 

“Are you all right?” Rothe finally asked her–he must have shouted it–with a peculiar mixture of horror and relief in his eyes. She winced and cautiously drew her hands away from her ears.

“Perhaps you should be asking your friend here,” she pointed to the mandragora, now seemingly pacified and completely innocent, “It seems to be extremely upset.”

Rothe sighed. 

“It isn’t,” he said, looking around the Wench sheepishly. “Or rather….it always is. I’ve no idea.”

“I don’t know how I managed to offend it so badly,” Alyx explained after they had finally obtained their drinks (and paid for everyone’s tab as an apology). “I barely even looked at it.”

“Please don’t take it personally,” Rothe said, “It might have even been happy to see you.”

Alyx cast a sidelong glance at the creature who was now nestled happily in a floral centerpiece. 

"It looked at me like I was going to tear its leaves off.”

“Don’t let it hear you say that!” He whispered nervously, and then laughed. “We can’t afford to break any more glass in here.”

Carlisle Jacquard was Butler of House Alderscorn and served as Steward in the absence of his lord. The manor was his ship, its servants his crew. He glanced at the tall grandfather clock near the entrance to the main dining room and double checked it against his own pocket watch. “Guests will be arriving in under an hour,” he called. “Why isn’t the hearth lit?”

He issued forth order after order, stopping servants in their place with a mere glance and redirecting them on a task. He walked about the room with ease, the servants giving way as they set executed their orders. In addition to the usual decor of grand room, it was tastefully accented with warmly colored tapestries and autumn flowers.

He approached the massive dining table, passing his white gloved finger along shelves and picture frames as he walked. Circumnavigating the table, Carlisle inspected each of the twenty table settings, making an occasional adjustment to the center pieces and straightening silverware. Something caught his eye and he stopped in his tracks, taking a slow step backwards. He scowled and ran his finger along the fine wood of the table until it met a gap where the table met the leaf.

The table was made to be lengthened to accommodate a larger or smaller party of people by the insertion of a leaf. It was meant to be a seamless joint but something was amiss here. He furrowed his brow and pulled the two sides together. The gap closed on his side but opened on the other, leaving a space barely wide enough to accept the edge of a coin.  It was warped.

He stood back and looked darkly at the hideous thing. The gaping maw that threatened his perfect room, the leak in his ship. He reached his hand out and snagged a passing servant and pointed. “What. Is. That?” he demanded. The other man looked to where Carlisle was pointing and back with a look of confusion. Carlisle lead the man closer to the table and stuck his finger into the gap, flicking his nail against it.

“O-oh. Yes, the leaf. Tis become warped with time. Long has it been since the Lord has entertained,” the servant stammered.

Carlisle glared at him and the man shrunk from the intensity. “These are things I know. Tell me something I don’t.”

“Ah, uh, well.  The woodsmith has been conducting a repair to the roof and, I um….well I suppose it slipped his mind.”

“Slipped. His mind,” Carlisle repeated. He continued to glare at the man, his finger never wavering from the monstrous divide, the inexcusable canyon of wood.

A bead of sweat trickled from the brow of the man, shrinking under the scrutiny of the Butler. “I...I shall fetch him?”

“Immediately.”

“Aye, ah...yes sir, of course sir,” he man said.

Immediately, servants descended upon the dining table, removing the perfect settings piece by piece and spread cloth to the floor in preparation for the woodworker who arrived within moments, tool chest in hand.

Carlisle returned to his post, confident that his orders would be carried out to the letter.