An hour passed before Mikolaj was sure Lord Wiech would not be coming back to drag him to entertain his family. A servant brought him clothes and a pitcher of water, a smaller bottle of imported Ardunese wine that was capped and tied with a little ribbon, and a set of keys for the inner chambers of his new apartment.

The wine came with a cute little card, the corner punched with a heart-shaped hole where the ribbon looped through. He saw Lord Wiech's name written in large letters on the front and didn't bother turning it over to read the apology that likely came with it. Mikolaj did shove his legs into some trousers, gurgled water before nudging open the latches on the windows and spitting it out to the manor grounds below, and decided to explore the elegant cage the Wiechs built for him. 

Mikolaj was in no mood for alcohol. He didn't suspect he would be for a long time. He still carried the bottle as he spun the key ring around his finger. It was pretty, the glass was crystalized, and it sparkled and caught the light in an array of colors. A small thing, but it served as a distraction from the impending shame of his own stupidity now that the fog from the night before had cleared and his memories bubbled over him like waves. 

He told Olaf he was Ulra.

All doors in the room were exactly like the one to the hallway. They blended in perfectly with the wall panels. Faded artwork still showing evidence of brush strokes, panels lined with polished wood. The doors only noticeable when he looked closely and saw the tiny knobs sticky out of the wall almost shyly. As if they didn't want to disturb the general aesthetic. The keyholes were impossibly small and easy to miss if they didn't gleam with bronze. 

Mikolaj nudged the first door open with his knee, peeking in at a round dressing room. A metallic tub sat on a raised platform, a plush sheet hung over the side, one whole wall was lined with mirrors and he snorted as he saw himself, looking bedraggled, staring back. 

He told Olaf he was Ulra.  

There was a draft in the dressing room. When he pressed his hand to the wall he shuddered as he felt a whisper of the wind. The outside only laid beyond a thin layer of construction. It seemed so like the Wiechs. Lord Wiech wanted to drown him in gifts, riches, niceties and luxuries. Lady Wiech put as much as firm hand as she could manage on her husband's spending habits. So even Mikolaj's apartments in her lavish house would be located in the worst spot in the home. 

The next room was empty but Mikolaj guessed it was from his wardrobe. The walls were lined with wide shelves and racks. Empty shoeboxes, oblong mirrors, a glittery vanity.

Mikolaj made his way back into the bedroom and greeted his naked portrait by slightly raising the bottle of wine in his direction. 

There weren't enough windows. The air was going to stifle him when it got stale. He liked having a balcony, liked hearing the sounds of Jelberok leak in through the walls. The Wiechs were so far away from anything. What was about being rich that made people want to seclude themselves to the outer edges of society? It just seemed lonely. 

Perhaps it was a Highlander thing. Everything in the Highlands was so far away from each other. Miles of snow, rock, and trees. Always traveling in small, dedicated groups with controlled supplies of food and water, paths that didn't exist on maps, maps that were too outdated to be of any use. People in the Highlands fought to be packed together, even if it was just for warmth. Lowlanders loved their space. 

He sat back down on the bed, falling to the mattress with a huff.

He told Olaf he was Ulra. 

Mikolaj closed his eyes. 

Wolves. Mountain people. Savages. 

A woman with a missing finger who braided her hair mindlessly whenever deep in thought. She had scarred, muscular arms. He barely saw them beneath all the layers and furs, but he used to hang from her biceps as a child. She'd flex and he'd swung as she playfully tried to shake him off. She taught him the dances, the language fire speaks, how to avoid getting lost in the mountains, what to do when it inevitably happened, about the gods and the wolves, about the Saints and how to believably pass as a Santivian. 

How to pass as a Gegraen. 

Mircea 

Mikolaj opened his eyes. Three knocks rapped at the main door and he craned his neck, lifting himself on his head and straining his eyes rather than rolling over or sitting up. He saw everything upside down.

He expected a servant. He expected Lord Wiech. 

But when the door swung open without so much as a word from him, he saw a gloved hand settled on the hip of drab brown skirts, tightly knotted hair causing a forehead to wrinkle, small, sharp eyes. Lady Wiech. Róza, as Lord Wiech called her. 

She was a tall woman. All narrow and slight, harsh edges, long, knobby fingers and joints. Her fingertips drummed on the edge of the door as she held it open. She lifted one eyebrow as she stared at him, thin lips pressing together as her expression soured. 

Mikolaj greeted her with a flicking gesture of his hand. "My lady. What service do you require of me?" 

"None that you offer," she said with vehement disgust and Mikolaj did nothing to hide his smirk. 

Lady Wiech did not hide it. She didn't bother.

She hated courtesans. 

She hated the whole industry. 

Perhaps it was because it was where Lord Wiech blew all of his money and if he spent just as much and as frivolously on something else she'd hate it with equal measure. Perhaps it was because she was a stringy, unattractive prude, uncomfortable in her own skin and demanded the same of everyone else. 

He didn't know. He tried not to care. He'd like if they could be allies, both carried along by the whims of her husband but if she was going to go out of her way to be rude and judgemental, Mikolaj wouldn't waste kindness. 

Mikolaj pouted. "Pity." 

"My husband wants your company in the yard. Dress properly."

"I'm afraid I'm in your charity, my lady. I have no clothes of my own at the moment although I'd be more than happy to accompany him in the nude if you could only spare a coat." 

"What's wrong with what you have now?"

Mikolaj lifted his legs. "I have no boots. Or a shirt. Or—"

The door slammed shut, not before Lady Wiech snorted with an obnoxious roll of her eyes. But when the door opened again, in came a flurry of options. Servants holding up elegantly crafted shirts made of linen and lined with colorful threads and decorations, elaborate kaftans, real leather boots. None made for his exact size, but for once Mikolaj did not want to be caught underdressed out in the cold.  

Lady Wiech waited in the hall as he got dressed, only sparing him a glance and a displeased click of her teeth when he met her. She started down the hall without saying a word and Mikolaj had no choice but to follow her. 

This was a strange arrangement.

He wondered if the others would think him so lucky for having a Keeper if they knew how awkward it could be to walk in the shadow of a wife who disliked him. If any of them would prefer to wake up to a naked portrait of themselves in a bed that wasn't even very comfortable. Or perhaps Madame Kubas just put so much stock on having a constant stream of money that to all of them, to everyone except for Mikolaj, the benefits outweighed the discomforts. 

Lady Wiech's hair greyed at the roots. Her neck was flushed pink and bruised under the strain of her heavy necklace. She glanced over her shoulder, darting her eyes away quickly as if ashamed when they met his.

"My daughter is here dinner tonight. Can you do your best not to embarrass me?"

His stomach rumbled at the thought of dinner. He covered it up by coughing idly into the crook of his arm. Mikolaj couldn't be so much of an embarrassment.  No one else had such a problem with his role. None that he knew of. Of course, there was a minority. Sometimes the monthly pamphlets would ease in little jokes about people who protested outside of brothels, screamed at common prostitutes in the street, demanded Madames close their doors, accosted obtorskys who were just trying to do their jobs.

Lady Wiech's distaste was never the violent type, just a bit biting like the pinch of a dog who was just growing his teeth and needed something to gnaw on. 

"My lady, if you'll allow me I could very much return to Madame Kubas." If anyone even wanted him back. Madame Kubas was likely happier with him in close quarters with his Keeper. She was likely buzzing with giggles as she sipped spiked beet juice and bragged about it to anyone who would listen.

And the others?

If Olaf told them he was Ulra, if he even believed it, would they look at him the same way? 

Mountain people. Savages. 

"You shouldn't tell them who you are, Mircea. They wouldn't understand it."

He knew that. And what was his identity other than another thing to sell or something to be ostracized? He'd either be outcasted or asked to exploit it. 

She made a thoughtful humming noise. He imagined her pursing her lips, staring straight at the hall ahead. "We shall see."

It wasn't up to her.

Each hall in the Wiech estate was a different color. Changing from pale blue, various shades of orange, green, the paint and wall panels still looking fresh and new even if some of the furniture was dated. End tables with stripped, bare wood, dull frames around their paintings, busts so old that the intricate details were faded. Their floors were made of mismatched black and white tiles, but each hall was lined with a long rug to muffle their footsteps and likely to add more eye-catching color.

They had no sense of decoration or wanted to assault the eyes of everyone who dared step inside their home. Or maybe Lady Wiech liked the great contrast of her dreary attire to her outlandish interior design. Mikolaj could throw out a million guesses, but all that mattered was he had to squint his eyes as he followed her otherwise he'd get a headache. 

He'd been in a few of their homes and Lord Wiech seemed to pick the one he spent the night in based on mood and what he wanted to do the next morning. This one, so far from the main life of Jelberok, was clearly for hunting and privacy. They had another for parties, one for relaxation, their daughter's favorite, and another house purely to store Lady Wiech's collection of books. 

Mikolaj slid his hands into his borrowed pockets, pinching his own skin so he wouldn't snort. How nice it must be to be exceptionally rich. Rich beyond any means of common sense and spending large amounts for the smallest comforts. If certain people were as rich as the Wiechs, maybe Mikolaj would have never ended up here. 

The yard was not as humble as its name. It sat at the cusp of the garden fence, past their neatly trimmed maze of hedges, and towering greenery, the tips of pine needles covered in flakes of frost even as the harsh weather dipped towards summer. Beyond the squealing fence, laid tall grass that sloped down a short hill towards the blockade of trees. A line of small huts held barking hunting dogs, an armory, and a place for Lord Wiech to rest if his feet were too tired to carry him the rest of the way to the house. 

A crisp breeze greeted them as their shoes crunched the cobblestone path. The wind tickled his short hair, the hem of his clothes, and stung his face until he felt his cheeks tighten under the strain. 

Lord Wiech stood in between two of his large hounds. Their faces were wide and fat, skin sagging, and when they opened their mouths to pant the sunlight gleamed on their huge teeth. Mikolaj shuddered. 

Wolves listened to no one but themselves. To each other. They worked as a family and a team. Dogs were slaves and slaves didn't think before their owner told them who to bite. 

He had a rifle leaned against his hip and he beamed with a wide grin with Mikolaj approached. Lady Wiech stopped at the gate, feet jerking to a stop as if a secret barrier kept her from going any further. 

"Little Bird!" Lord Wiech stretched out one arm, sweeping into a wide, open gesture. "I hope your mood is better." 

Mikolaj patted his stomach. "I'm hungry." 

"You would not be if you'd accepted my invitation for breakfast. Come, we'll have lunch afterwards." He beckoned Mikolaj closer with a jerk of his fingers, but gave no hint as to what he planned besides his cheerful smile.

It was almost automatic. How easily he curled his arms around Lord Wiech, bending his knees ever so slightly so Mikolaj was short enough to rest his head on his shoulder.

"I'm not very fun on an empty stomach."

"Soon, alright? Soon. Just shoot a few rounds with me."

No use in pouting. He was the one who threw a temper tantrum in the first place. Mikolaj gave Lord Wiech's arm a squeeze. "Did Madame Kubas send word?"

Did anyone? Was anyone in The Night Court thinking about him at all? By now, Stefan would just be rousing himself from his sleep, eyes crusted over and mouth dry. He'd complain to anyone who had ears to hear, even if they begged him to stop talking about his headache and bottomless stomach. Hugo would have toiled away in the kitchens, fixing his famous hangover cure while Klaudia chided everyone for putting pleasure and fun before business. 

Justyna and her pretty little life. Olaf's boasting and teasing. The surprising tense of lean muscle on his arms.

Or did any of them remember him at all? Why would they? Marian Zych was there now. A real prince and he wore what he was on his sleeve. Mixed heritage, bastard, an explicit fan of sex work. He couldn't hide it. He didn't seem to want to. And Mikolaj was certain he couldn't face him, or maybe any of them, without his gut begging him to run away. 

Saints, he never really did spend enough time with any of them. 

Lord Wiech's servants got to work. They pinned freshly painted targets to the trees, letting the dogs out to stretch their legs but keeping them confined to the grass and away from where any stray bullets might fall. 

Mikolaj smelled the polished metal of Lord Wiech's rifle floating in the wind. The burn of gunpowder eased down his throat, tickled his lungs when he coughed. 

He knew a woman who used to hate guns. Who hated the trail of smoke they left, the flash, the loud bang, the smell of something sharp and acrid in the air. Something about them always made his gut prickle too. 

But Mikolaj swallowed it. Lord Wiech only used them for sport. Nothing serious. Nothing to let his mind spiral out of control about. 

"Why would she?" 

"I just—"

Lord Wiech kissed the top of his head. "I know this is sudden, Little Bird. Perhaps I was too quick with forcing this change on you. Stay with us for the weekend and we can discuss moving in later. Just promise me you won't be cross again." 

The whole weekend?

"I didn't mean to upset you, my lord."

Lord Wiech politely shrugged him away to take aim with his gun. Mikolaj's body went rigid on instinct, fingers plugged in his ears.  The rifle aimed high, Lord Wiech curled his body into position, squinting one eye as his finger eased onto the trigger. 

"I know, Little Bird. I gave you time to cool off. I see you're in much better spirits now." His mouth fell shut after the last word and with no warning, the gun went off. Mikolaj knew what he would hear, knew the smoke and the spark of light that would follow, but he still jumped. Lady Wiech's snicker carried over to his ears. 

"Yes, my lord." His face flamed as he stuttered. "I'm feeling much better." 

The servant waved a little blue flag and a chorus of polite applause followed to congratulate Lord Wiech for hitting the target. He took aim at the next one. 

"Good. You'll stay for the weekend, then?"

Another shot. Mikolaj bit his tongue rather than jump or look visibly disturbed. 

Few people in Jelberok likely saw guns used for their initial purpose. Or they didn't ever think about how powerful they could be in a region of the world where they were rare and the people who had access to them sometimes meant harm to those who did not. 

Gulping, he shoved his fingertips further into his ears. If he could, Mikolaj would scratch his own brain. Chip away at whatever part held most of his memories of the Highlands or whatever curse Marian wiggled beneath his skin to disturb him since they danced. 

He wanted it to go away. Saints, he'd admit it. He wanted Marian to go away. He'd been just fine the morning before their eyes ever met, before the auction, before Madame Kubas had been taken by him and was willing to part with Mikolaj for the damnable bastard prince. 

"If my company still pleases you, my lord, I'll stay." 

Lord Wiech dropped his hand from his fun momentarily to ruffle his hand through Mikolaj's hair. The force of his touch rattled his whole body and he felt his boots sink in the hard dirt. 

"Osh!" he roared. "You have no idea how happy you make me!" 

Mikolaj shook his head. "No, my lord. You'll have to show me." 

***

Lunch came in the form of decadent pies and hefty flutes of champagne. Lord Wiech was a man of indulgence after all. Mikolaj sat on his lap, sipping more than he ate because his stomach rumbled at the sight of so much sugar without anything of substance to eat. 

They ate in the sunroom, but the light flooding through the tall, wide glass windows was so dull as the sky turned dreary and grey. Lady Wiech left them alone, if Mikolaj could call her spying and rare snide remark giving them privacy, and Lord Wiech regaled him with tales of business and dinner. Places he wished to travel to, things he wanted to buy, construction and home improvements.

It wasn't hard to listen to him. Mikolaj only had to nod and smile at the right moments, lean his body into his and purr, ask the right questions with the limited amount of information he retained.  

After lunch, Mikolaj continued to follow him around. His head now a bit bubbly, his stomach still empty, but his act so solid he couldn't complain. Not even when they trekked through the first mile of land beyond the yard, Lord Wiech laughing as his dogs raced after any signs of wildlife and Mikolaj denying that he flinched when one beast snapped his dripping jaws.

They didn't go back inside until early evening and didn't sit down for dinner until Mikolaj had a bath and had properly moisturized. 

One day gone.

Mikolaj sank deep into the water until his chin was submerged. There was still a draft in the rooms the Wiechs so graciously built for him, the air whistling through the cracks. The tub itself felt warmed by the water, he felt it easing into his flesh from beneath the cloth he sat on. 

He only had one thought as the soapy water swirled around his head.

Could he live here for an extended time? A weekend was one thing. Mikolaj could bite his tongue, be pleasant, flirtatious, and generous for a couple of days. 

It was the break he needed. The time to really breathe and make himself comfortable, sink into a bed that felt like his and have Tiny Teresa prattle on about something nonsensical when he got a back massage from Stefan. 

Perhaps he never weighed it. What if it wasn't the Wiechs in particular that chilled him, but the idea that he'd never get a break again if he truly lived with his Keeper? 

Mikolaj dressed in borrowed clothes once again and was guided by a servant down to the dining room. It was a dark room, the walls all wood, the floor blending in with the panels. A long table split it down the middle, far too long for Lord Wiech's small family. He sat on one end, Lady Wiech on the other, and their daughter smacked in the middle.

"Over here, my dear!" Lord Wiech spoke too loud, eyes peeking out from over the brim of his wine flute as he waved Mikolaj over to the seat directly beside him. 

He tried not to pay attention.

But he felt the weight of their eyes as he passed them. 

Lady Wiech was one thing. Her distaste radiated from her. He saw it in the way she clenched her jaw and hands pinched around her fork.

But their daughter?

He couldn't be much older than her if there was any difference in their age at all. She looked just like her mother. Long, stern face, tightly wound brown hair, rounded eyes, and thin lips with a penchant for frowning. Mikolaj didn't know how she felt about this arrangement. He never had the chance to ask her. 

With or without their silent protests, Mikolaj slid into the seat beside Lord Wiech. Immediately, his hand clamped down on his shoulder and his eyes lit up with something akin to pride.

"This is all I could ask for," he announced to the table. "For all of us to have dinner together." 

A plate was placed in front of him and once the cover was removed, Mikolaj jerked back so the steam from the meat didn't undo the treatments he just smoothed into his skin moments earlier.

Lady Wiech cleared her throat, dabbing her decorated silk napkin around her mouth. "Somehow, I've lost my appetite." 

"Róza," Lord Wiech began to sneer. "Do not act this way at the table." 

"How can I not? Parade your whore around in public if you must but in front of family. It's crude."

Mikolaj caught a sympathetic glance from the servant who poured his glance, and all he did was secretly nod at them in return as he lifted it to his lips. 

"Aleksja doesn't mind, do you, sweetie?"

Aleksja seemed more surprised that either parent even acknowledged her. She opened her mouth. Lady Wiech held a finger up to silence her.

"Don't answer that, darling. Do not let him drag you into this."

"I have every right to talk to my daughter and ask her for her opinion on family matters."

"This is not a family matter! This is between me, you, and your whore." 

Mikolaj grabbed his fork and knife. The meat cut like butter. A side of soft carrots and potatoes waited in the pool of combined juices. Larger plates lined the middle of the table, full of sausages and warm bread, cabbage rolls, and pastries. Some close enough in reach for Mikolaj to serve himself, others he had to ring a little bell for and have a servant add it to his plate. 

Well, Saints. If they were going to argue he might as well eat for the first time that day.

"Then why must you bring it up during family dinner?"

Lady Wiech scoffed. "You threw that concept right out the window when you invited him here!" 

Aleksja stood abruptly, her chair scraping the wood as it likely tripped on the tassels of the rug. Her ladies emerged from the shadows to curtsy behind her and stand with their heads bowed, waiting to be called on. 

"If it's alright with the both of you, I'll retire early."

Lord Wiech turned red, lips wrinkling with rage. "It is not alright with me!" 

"Look at what you've done!" Lady Wiech roared at the same instant he did. "She can't stand to be around you."

"She can't stand to be around you."

Mikolaj wiggled his empty glass. "More wine?"

"Fine," Lady Wiech snapped. She stood, slamming her palms down on the table to make her point. She was too far for the tremors to reach them. Her own ladies rushed to her side. "I'll leave." 

Lady Wiech stormed out without another word, the candlelights shaking as the door slammed behind her. Footsteps echoed down the hall. Mikolaj watched her ladies scurry out, heels tapping loudly until they disappeared. 

Defeated and deflating, Aleksja sat back down with a huff. 

Lord Wiech gave his shoulder another shake. "I'm so sorry, my dear. She can be such a handful sometimes." 

Mikolaj's eyes were on Aleksja. She brushed her fork mindlessly across her plate, pushing her food around and looking blankly at the air in front of her. 

He nodded. It would be rude not to respond. "I'm not bothered, my lord." Just hungry, and that was quickly remedied. Mikolaj sipped more wine and piled food onto Lord Wiech's plate. "You should eat. Saints, you look positively pale."

And if he was full, he wouldn't have a mind tuned on sex and Mikolaj could eat his full without worry. He could sleep through the night and get back to work for the rest of the weekend. But now his stomach growled and demanded to be fed, and he would not ignore his hunger for the sake of performance. 

After a few minutes, Aleksja spoke up again. "Father, may I please leave?"

"No, dear." 

Whatever this was, it was undoubtedly worse for her.