Chapter Text
The sound of cutlery clincking against plates was the only thing echoing in the too-big dining room, bouncing aimlessly against the precious mahogany furniture, against the priceless marble flooring, against the gorgeous yet heavy golden candlesticks — bouncing against everything before stopping at the paintings that ate up entire walls, as if it was scared to offend the display of the generations of aristocrats that came well before it.
Miles was also on one of these paintings. He was on the one all the way down to the hall, actually. On this one, his mentor sat in a golden throne-like chair, fifteen years younger but his burning aura all the same; at a respectable distance from him and layered in the most refined dresses were his daughters and wife, a show of flowers going from bud to a full bloom. The only one that stood close to the patriarch was a boy. He was almost the center of the piece alongside the man, and yet, somehow, a keen eye would have sensed that something made him not belong with the others. Maybe it was the way Duke Von Karma's hand sat heavy on the boy's shoulder, covering it not in a pretense of closeness but possessivity.
Miles blinked as he realized he had managed to loose himself in his thoughts. The dining table was so long and the meal so quiet, he could have forgotten about where he was if not for the sounds of the cutlery, or the quiet chewing and drinking.
He absentmindedly took up his fork and knife and started cutting his meat again. There was veal on his plate today. Fattened up to the point of art and bound to his mother until the fateful moment, it now let out a most tasteful blend of blood, oil and herbs. So easy to cut through with a push of silver.
He was internally reviewing what his duties were for the next days (he had many things to do: attend to meetings, oversee the situation in some parts of the dukedom... What about this party to attend..?) when he heard the clearing of a throat. Low, deep. Polite, but only on the surface: the kind of sound that signaled that he had no other choice but to interrupt what he was currently doing. As etiquette asked of him, Miles stopped and waited for the head of the house to speak first.
“I heard your personal servant quit again,” the duke announced. Miles's breath halted in his throat.
“I do not need a servant, Father," he let out slowly after a second. "His Grace knows how much I value my independence.”
“Nonsense!” his mentor replied, suddenly pointing at him with the knife that was previously on his own meat. He did so with a precision and an ease Miles could only wince at. “No son of mine will be left servantless, do you hear me? It is a disgrace already that all your former valets left only after a few months!”
Uh-oh. He seemed quite angered this time. Miles's hand secretly gripped his pant under the table but kept his gaze steady. As a true Von Karma should.
“I prefer to be alone than being assisted by incompetents.”
“None of them were incompetent, as I had all picked them by myself. Are you doubting my judgment?”
The way he hissed out his last words, Miles instantly knew he had crossed the thin line that kept the Duke collected enough to have a sensible conversation with. Recognizing his error, he finally bowed his head and said no more.
“I have hired a new valet for you. He shall come into your service tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And do not chase away this one too. Or else...” He shook his head in annoyance, as if he was dealing with the most disrespectful brat. “I think you know what will happen if you disobey my order.”
“Yes, Father.”
The Duke smiled – no, smirked in contempt – and returned to his meal. All came back to normal, silence smothering any attempts at making another objection.
But... Even if Manfred von Karma was being as self-assured as ever, something seemed... off, about his demeanor. Why did Miles feel this way? Maybe was it because his voice seemed to have been missing a certain edge he was all but used to, or that the tense crease in his brows had yet to dissolve into satisfaction after winning the argument. One look at Franziska was enough to tell she thought the same, as she looked at her father with the slightest confusion her dignified poise could allow.
Not a word was uttered about it, though.
Phoenix Wright was looking intensely at himself in the glass mirror, checking if there was even a speck of dust remaining on his new uniform. Grey waistcoat, black trousers matching his equally black blazer, a white shirt with a Windsor cut, and a red silky tie (What a dreadful lack of blue, he lamented). His shoes were shining as they should, them newly polished and with clean, neat laces. The outfit had a firm yet soft quality to it, indicating the use of excellent fabrics to make it; and it was overall very fancy — maybe fancier than any other places he had worked at before. The only fantasy he allowed himself to keep was his hair, for even if his cut clashed a little with his new outfit he decided to let it as it naturally positioned itself: swept back and too spiky for anything elegant. Brushing it into a perfect hairdo would just be a battle he wasn't brave enough to fight.
Although, if his new master wanted him to, he would have no choice but to take on the challenge.
“A new master...” Phoenix murmured to himself while adjusting his cufflinks. Leaving the Debeste house for this position had been a risky move, but the pay here would be much, much higher, especially for a young valet like himself. Why is the pay this high anyway? he'd wondered the first time he saw the ad for the job.
New valet needed at the Duke Von Karma's main estate. Needs to be proper and clean, to be familiar with men's fashion, to have previous experience as a valet for a respectable family. Will be paid 120 per year, if seen as fitting the position.
120, when the average pay for a valet was 50? Why was nobody rushing in like a madman to take up the offer?! In fact, Phoenix had seen all week the same ad in the newspapers, clinging to the white pages for too long despite its elegant writing and mouthwatering offer. When he had asked around him why this was the case, he was told it was because the Von Karmas were a lost cause. The mansion was in perpetual demand for servants, either because they kept changing their staff or because said staff would quit only after a few months; the Master of the house was rumored to hold every one on a tight leash thanks to his money and influence, the Lady to abuse all who crossed her path with a tongue as cruel as her whip, and the Demon Heir to make even the most courageous servant flee with his terrible mood and arrogance; and many more claims were made about what dark secrets were truly hiding underneath the prestigious facade of the Von Karmas.
Did Phoenix really care about gossip, even when it convincingly predicted hell on earth to the damned souls who didn't listen to it? No, not really. What he really cared about right now was money. The Debeste family might be nobles, but that didn't mean they paid the best. Only 35 per year! As the head of his own family Phoenix had a duty to fill at home – that is to say, to provide for his poor mother, whose own long years of service left her old, with sore hands and knees and a broken back. He couldn't wait any longer: even if the Debeste promised him a raise if he worked longer and harder for them, he didn't have the time — nor the will — to toil his life away for a household that never managed to earn his respect.
He checked his pocket watch. 2 pm. After his interview with the Duke, he was told to come at 5 pm so he could have the time to get acquainted with the staff and the building where, from then on, he would work and live.
The Duke... When he had first met him, the Duke seemed to be eager to confirm all the nasty rumours brewing about him. Throughout the interview he revealed how deep arrogance ran into his veins, how awfully contemptuous he was of anyone below his rank (meaning, almost the entire population of this forsaken country!). Normally, Phoenix would have run away as soon as His Grace began tearing his entire life experience apart, every reference letter he ever got, or the skills he had painstakingly acquired during his years in service; after all, who in their right mind would accept to sustain such treatment for a mere interview? But in Duke von Karma's ruthless smile also shone the promise of this big, how-so-beautiful salary. That was the only reason why, in this day in particular, Phoenix chose to be especially patient, enduring each assault with a professional smile plastered on his face while he quietly cringed at the force of the barely-veiled vitriol poisoning them.
In the end — and to his great surprise! — he was hired. For a duke to personally conduct the interview of a servant was already unusual (perhaps was he so fond of his son, that he preferred to choose himself the valet that would serve him?), but the most peculiar thing was for him to deem Phoenix utterly worthless, unfit for the position, to then hire him the next second. Maybe was it just his character, or that he liked to play with people's minds; but in Phoenix's opinion, Von Karma also seemed kind of desperate, profoundly ticked under his mask of hard confidence. Maybe that's why he chose to hire him – desperation. Somehow, something was starting to smell fishy with this whole job interview, but he couldn't quite put a finger on why exactly. He got the job, great; but after being the direct witness of the Duke's behaviour, he wasn't so sure if he should still ignore the dark aura shrouding the Von Karmas' reputation.
But then again, the salary was too good to ignore: and that's why he chose to bow, to thank the duke for this “incredible opportunity” with the best polite smile he could still muster, sign the contract, to then be told to come to work next Monday. To work? Without even a week's trial before to test if he performed well enough for his new role? Well, they must be in urgent need of a valet.
In truth, he didn't care if he got mistreated for a while. His new master might be an insufferable prick, but he had handled enough nobles, gentry, and jealous servants in his life to know how to take the looks, the remarks, the “pranks” upon himself. He would stay for a year, pocket his salary in full, and then leave to rejoin the mass of workers who gave up before him.
2.10 pm. Time to grab a horse bus. He checked himself out one last time in the glass, went upstairs to hold his mother in a last tight embrace, and then left the modest lodging to burst onto the busy streets. His stride was strong and unwavering, but the grip that held onto the worn carpetbag that contained all his belongings was maybe a little weaker than he wanted it to.