Into this house we're born.

In the chair Stelon had sat in only hours earlier was now a scribe, scribbling every word that was being spoken to him on a sheet of paper with a special quill that needed no ink bottle to accompany it. The gadget was a gift to him from the one for whom he was writing. It had made his cheeks red to receive it and he felt he had not shown how grateful he truly was, but he would do no wrong and make no mistake – not that he ever had. He was still being called on to take notes from his majesty, fingers intact.

“I will not be attending funerals. Have my regards sent.”

Being first to hear of the future exhilarated the scribe. To be here, in the presence of this man, serving a function for him filled with self-importance. He kept his eyes politely on the paper, having glanced only once at Larkin’s condition, one that would be shameful for any other man. This man, however, would let neither disability nor nakedness shame him. He displayed both, proud instead.

“An announcement will be made at each funeral: no heir or replacement of any kind will come into power. All will be taken care of directly from the Galesing castle. Explanations will be given in time. All that was said the night of the ball is still in order. With minor changes, of course.”

At the mention of the ball, the scribe looked up. Larkin sat against the velvety red pillows, hands clasped over his bandages. His eyes were tired and it was obvious that his state would not allow for anything absolute. The doctor had been exiting just as the scribe arrived. The man’s expression was that of continuous worry and little sleep. The scribe could not believe Larkin had been out of bed and walking, though he had seen it briefly. It impressed him enough that he recalled back outrageous rumors of Larkin’s physical feats and began to reconsider them.

“Aurora Complanse is my second in command. Her word is my word if I am not reachable. Make a request that she attend the funerals in my place, relaying these messages to the people.”

“Governor Aurora, sir?”

“No, that title has been removed from her. Mourning will commence for three days, during which I will have no official appointments, yet remind me of these things and write them as I say them to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The girl Stelon is in my care and not to be disturbed by anyone. There is a boy – these are minor things, you will see they are taken care of personally – a servant boy that has been pert with me, the one who brought in wine and entrée earlier. Have him assigned to this room until further notice. Also, have the Lune priests see me in the morning, after the doctors have come and gone. Have my tailor come early, as well. I would like to be fitted for attire that will conceal this.”

Again, the scribe looked up. Larkin’s fingers traced along the stark white bandages, his lips parted to show his teeth. His eyes were not pleased with what he was seeing, or with what he was feeling. Inhaling was quickly becoming a constant pain, and Larkin feared his condition might worsen.

“That is all,” he whispered.