#servant will

Dominion Chapter 7: The Maiden of Sherwood Forest

Like clockwork, Mike’s bell rang. 

Will weaved through the clamor of bodies and made his way to the staircase. 

Lord Roane called his hunting dogs with a whistle. The clicking of their nails and barks echoed down the stairwell. Will remembered seeing them as a child, the way they bounded back to the man across the length of the green field south of the house.

A pet, Troy had said. Was Will really all that different? Was he to be commanded like an animal, but expected to curb his lesser impulses with the piety of a monk?

The window in Mike’s bedroom was thrown open, and the perfume of overripe fruit and vegetation from the pear trees blew in from below. 

“Ah. Will,” Mike rose from his writing desk, tucking a book of papers into the back shelves and closing the lid. 

“How can I be of service, sir?”

“It’s the damn summer weather. My hair can’t cope with it. I would appreciate it if you could make it smart again for me.”

“Now, or before dinner, sir?”

Mike stopped at the looking glass next to his wardrobe, frowning. Mike’s hair could never lay flat in the heat, it had a natural curl that didn’t always yield to styling.

Will could still remember how it looked in the summer, soft like cotton wool curling around his head and shining as the feathers of a raven in the summer sun. 

Mike lifted his palm to smooth down his hair, then glanced nervously at Will, seeming to only then realize he had spoken. 

“Now. I will not be at dinner. I am once again summoned to Mirkwood, for what matter I do not know. Brenner is determined to settle even the most trivial matters.”

Will extracted a small case from the bureau, opening it and setting out a glass jar of pomade, a comb, hair oil. 

“I understand, sir. You want to look well for your fiancé.”

Mike sat down heavily in his chair, rolling his head back and scrubbing his face. 

“It will be important that you get to know El,” Mike announced.

“I’m sure I will in time.”

“Yes, but you must understand, she is a good woman.” Mike lowered his hands to his lap and stared at Will intently, watching him as he opened a jar of pomade and rubbed it between his palms. He felt as though there was some intent in Mike’s words that he was not quite picking up on.

“She’s an English rose,” was all Will said. 

Will ran his fingers through his hair, and Mike tipped his head back gently, closing his eyes as Will’s nails raked against his scalp. Will worked the product into his hair, weighing it down and slicking it back against his head. Mike’s breathing was slow and measured in a way that appeared almost unnatural.