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Washing windows was tiring, but satisfying. Just as Tress’s meager funds had a job in providing for her family, her job was to be useful. Even ordinary objects such as rags could be elevated by purpose.
The duke’s mansion loomed over the rest of the town, a towering mess of stone and glass that avoided the black grime of mining smoke by the duke’s insistence on weekly cleaners. Tress had been fortunate in securing him as a client. For days after her first cleaning, she could indulge in baking richer fare—pies that felt solid rather than hollow, leaving her and her family feeling much the same.
Now she stood at the back entrance of the mansion, staring at the tall glass doors leading inside. There was a portrait of the duke hanging on the far wall, scowling at anyone who entered. She ignored it, instead sitting down by the door with her supplies. After rolling up her sleeves, she grabbed her scouring rag and set to removing the dead spores that had collected between wood and glass.
Tress’s mind wandered as she scrubbed, mostly about her plans for the rest of the day. She was just beginning to think through her grocery list when she heard yelling from inside the mansion. Her eyebrows raised at the booming voice. It was undeniably the duke, who was just as undeniably in a bad mood. But why?
Tress squinted through the door. Only the painted duke was visible in the entryway, so she couldn’t see his unfortunate conversation partner. Brushing her hair behind her ear, she pressed herself against the glass. It was hard to tell the difference between footsteps and her own heartbeat.
Finally, she heard something. The words were muffled, but no less clear for their volume and irritation. “Go do something useful for once!”
Tress sat back in thought. Who could the duke be talking to? After noticing the smudged glass she’d left behind, she grabbed a clean rag. She muttered, “What a noxious man. If someone poked him with silver, would he wither like a spore?”
There was a laugh behind her. Tress squeaked and dropped her rag, spinning around to find a boy who looked to be around her age. “Ah,” she said. He’d heard her, surely. Would he tell the duke?
“Hello,” said the boy, traces of laughter still lingering on his face by way of a soft smile.
Tress fumbled to return the greeting. “H-hello,” she replied, then added, “How long have you been there?”
“Not long.”
“Did you, um, hear anything?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t hear anything you said about the duke being a spore.” Then he blinked one eye. It took Tress a moment to realize he was winking.
Her heart rate began to slow, even with the rather startling realization that this boy looked and sounded just like the ducal heir, Charles. It was surprising—but no, she was at the duke’s mansion. It would be no more odd to find salt in tea.
She had no clue what to do next. Surely Charles wouldn’t want her interacting with him. Then again, were nobles allowed to wink? Was that a sign that she was supposed to say something back?
Charles’s smile had gotten smaller as Tress’s thoughts raced, but she got the feeling that it was less due to her being a terrible conversationalist and more that his facial muscles were tiring. “Um,” she said, breaking through the silence, “thank you, my lord.”
“Please, no need for that. I’m…” He looked around, eyes roaming and then focusing on something in the distance. “I’m the groundskeeper.”
Tress paused, then turned to follow his line of sight. There stood a lone tree, one that she could only slightly recognize as alive. It drooped to the side, dead branches stabbing into the soil as if digging its own grave.
“You don’t believe me,” said Charles, even though Tress had said no such thing (aloud).
He raised a hand to his chest. When he bowed his head, looking most forlorn, Tress started to feel bad… but then noticed a glint of gold. The signet ring of the duke’s family sparkled at the base of his finger.
He saw her staring and looked down. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Well, you see,” he said, pulling off the ring and stuffing it into his pocket. Tress eyed the fine fabric of his trousers, the bespoke tailoring of his shirt. There wasn’t a speck of dirt on his person. He looked rather more like a groundskeep-away-er. “Well.”
“You said that already,” Tress mumbled, even as a part of her screamed to be more polite.
“I did, didn’t I?” Charles leaned against the window. “I know what it looks like, but really, I’m the groundskeeper.” When Tress didn’t reply, flicking her eyes once more to his pocket, he chuckled. “I’m holding on to the ring as a favor.”
“A favor?”
“Yes,” said Charles. “The duke’s son often wears scented oils. He imports them from far, far away. The bottles are stacked in a tall cupboard, where they shake and rattle every time the duke speaks.”
Tress didn’t know if she was allowed to laugh at the absurd image of the duke yelling and knocking down a tower of bottles, so she just nodded.
Charles continued. “When the duke’s son uses the oils, it makes his hands slippery. Imagine trying to shake his hand! It’s like trying to grab a fish.”
The more Charles spoke, the more convinced Tress became that he was the ducal heir and this was all just some elaborate story. She didn’t call him out on it, though. Instead, she asked, “How does this relate to the favor?”
“Well, one day, the duke’s son was walking along and his ring slipped off and fell in a pile of spores. They ate up all the oil, trapping the ring within a bramble.”
Tress shuddered, imagining prickly, grasping vines. For all that it was a lie, at least it was interesting. “And how did he get the ring back?”
“Oh, you know,” Charles said with a shrug. “Called on his trusty groundskeeper to cut it free.” He sliced through the air with an invisible sword. “I went hah and hyah and killed those vines dead! After that, he entrusted the ring to me.”
“Seems like it would be simpler for him to just wear gloves,” Tress said, “given the dangers of slippery hands.”
“Good gloves are hard to find,” Charles replied. He stood, leaving behind a smudge on the otherwise clean window. When he wiped at it with his fine sleeve, it only smeared further.
Tress sighed at the mess.
“Wait,” Charles said, “let me fix it.” He bent over to pick up the dirtied rag that Tress had dropped. Wiping with that only made things worse.
“You have to wash it out first,” Tress explained. Surely that was common sense? She reached out for the rag, but Charles seemed hesitant to hand it back. “Sir?”
He grimaced. “Sir?”
This was getting silly. “What else am I supposed to call you?” she asked.
“I’m Charl…ie,” he replied, pausing far too long between syllables.
“Short for Charles, I presume?” Tress said. While he was too stunned to reply, she deftly plucked the rag from his hand, dunking it in sudsy water then wringing it out before wiping the window clean. The glass caught the green reflection of the sky.
“You’re good at that,” Charles—or Charlie, she supposed—said. There was no condescension in his tone.
“Thank you.” She let down her pinned sleeves and began to gather her supplies. With the last window washed, her mind turned solely to the market and what she would buy.
Charlie suddenly spoke. “Would you like something to drink?”
Tress nearly refused outright before she noticed the dryness of her throat. She’d been cleaning for most of the morning. She couldn’t impose, not when she was about to leave. But…
Something must have shown on her face, because Charlie gave a quick nod before scurrying off into the mansion, avoiding touching the clean glass as he yanked open the door.
Who knew ducal heirs could be so… Tress tried to find the right word, somewhere between “nice” and “odd.” He was unlike anything she expected from her vague impressions of the boy during the duke’s speeches, or from the grumblings about the duke and his family she heard around town.
By the time he’d returned, Tress had poured out the dirty water, wrung out her cleaning rags, and wiped away the remaining moisture from her buckets. Charlie waited until she had set everything down to offer her hot tea. It was served in an exquisite white cup with a thin handle.
“I can’t take this,” she protested.
“Why not?”
“It’s too nice for me.”
“What do you mean?” said Charlie. He looked at the cups, bringing one up near his face to give it a sniff.
“I’m just a window-washer,” she said.
“Well,” Charlie replied, face split with a mischievous grin, “I’m just a groundskeeper.”
Tress wanted to object, but that would be its own sort of imposition, wouldn’t it? Besides, she was curious about the cup. It spoke of refinement, of the luxury of a life filled with little chance of chips and dings. She took it, brushing against his soft hands. There was too much temptation to remark upon yet another aspect of his obvious nobility, so she hurriedly took a sip of her tea. It was sweet and floral.
“Oh, shoot,” Charlie said. Tress watched his eyebrows crinkle as stared down into his cup. “It got cold. Good thing I’m not the duke’s son. He would’ve been mortified.”
Tress stifled a laugh. “I like my tea lukewarm.”
“Really? That’s lucky for him.”
“I suppose.” Tress took another sip, then added, “My compliments on the cup.”
“The cup?”
“Yes,” said Tress, lifting said cup by its handle, taking care not to spill any tea. She pointed to the thin lines of blue at the base. “It’s lovely. Elegant, but subtle.”
Charlie stared at his own cup. “Is it really all that special?”
“Of course!” Tress replied. “This style is typically only found in noble houses. The ceramic is prone to breaking. The glaze is expensive and is said to repell spores. See the sheen?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s silver mixed into the glaze! I’ve only seen its like once before, and even then, the handle had broken off.”
“Huh.”
Tress suddenly realized that perhaps nobility didn’t want to hear about cups. “Pardon me, please ignore—”
“That’s neat.”
She blinked. “Neat?”
“Well, you know. I like that you notice things.” He raised his cup as if toasting her.
“Oh,” Tress said faintly. She wasn’t used to so much praise. It was making her face all warm and her heart thump oddly.
“It’s been nice talking with you,” he said. “Normally, people yell at me…” He trailed off and gave a sheepish grin. “Uh, I mean, the duke’s son is a real blabbermouth, you know?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Tress said, returning his smile. “I’ve never met him before.”
He laughed. (Earnest, that was the word she’d been looking for.) “I’d introduce you, but he might get his smelly oils all over your dress,” he said.
They finished the tea, trading remarks back and forth until Tress realized that she really ought to go. The sky was beginning to darken, and vendors would soon leave the market. She was sad at the thought. It was unlikely she’d sit with the duke’s son again, which was natural, given his station.
“So,” he said as she returned the cup. His grip was delicate on the handle. “Will you be back to wash the windows?”
She nodded. “Weekly, to start.”
“Then I’ll see you next week.”
Tress ducked her head. The pink of her cheeks was hidden behind a curtain of curls. “Of course,” she said.
Refusing him would be impolite, after all.