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As the bell rang the hour, you broke the accustomed routine, and did not gesture dismissal for Cliopher to rise and sort his papers and pens into their places in his leather writing box. Efficient as he was, he was already on his feet, and he met your eyes fleetingly in surprise, as always just a too-brief moment before he dropped his gaze back to the floor where you stood.
“We wondered if you had noticed the date,” you said, careful to keep your face serene as ever, though anticipation thrummed in your gut as it did so rarely these days.
Cliopher’s brow furrowed just slightly. You could practically see the whole of the Imperial calendar flashing behind those sharp eyes—appointments, deadlines, holidays. At last he merely said, “My lord?” Politely questioning, his face neutral.
You were pleased to see it was indeed possible to catch him unawares. You waited a few moments to respond, just to savor that look of faintest confusion, but at last you took pity on him and smiled. “You have accomplished a feat heretofore thought impossible by all Solaara, Cliopher: you are the only secretary ever to last a full year in private service to us. We thought a small gift would be appropriate to mark the occasion.” You gestured to Conju, who approached Cliopher with a gleaming tray. Oh, you longed to give it to him yourself, passing it from your hand to his, without intermediary. You wanted— I wanted—him to know it was from me.
You watched him take the writing box from the tray gingerly, uncertain, but his expression turned to interest and then to something like wonder as he examined it.
It was exquisitely crafted, as all objects that passed through your hands were, carved from the finest Xiputl rosewood, with gleaming brass fittings molded in gentle whorls. It was not flashy—flashy wouldn’t do, not for Cliopher—but it was breathtaking in its simplicity, a polished deep red. Its superiority was subtle, understated, easy to miss at a glance. Cliopher, sharp-eyed Cliopher, did not miss it.
“My lord,” he breathed, “this is not a small gift.”
“It is small in proportion to the services you have done me.” I did not allow my tone to slip into your formal cadences of court, a rote assurance, a dismissal of any true meaning. This is true , I said to him, though I did not say. This means.
He had been brushing his hand abstractedly across the smooth surface of the writing box, but stopped in surprise when his fingertips found the border motif. He peered at it, then held it up to catch the light. The carved border was so fine it was nearly invisible to the eye, only revealing itself to touch. You knew that in the Vángavaye-ve each family had its own artistic patterns, but you had not found enough reliable information in the Archives to identify what was appropriate, nor had you had time to discreetly eke the information out of Cliopher himself. Instead, you had chosen a flickering flame motif on one side, and furling waves on the other.
“It is beautiful, my lord,” Cliopher said, with the truthfulness you rarely heard but from him. He bowed deeply over the writing box, then straightened and looked me in the eye, deliberately this time. “Thank you.”
I smiled at him, holding his gaze for a few extra moments. “We are pleased you like it.”
At last he dropped his eyes again, and you gestured him to transfer his pens and papers and inks from the old box to the new. Watching his face carefully, you noted the moment when he laid the one beside the other and discovered that the new box was perhaps half the depth of the old. A flicker of dismay, quickly hidden behind a courtly facade.
“We have observed, Cliopher, that the writing box you are accustomed to using is not sufficiently sized for your volume of work.” Indeed, you had often noticed the difficulty he had fitting all his documents inside at the end of a session, and the way they slid out haphazardly when he opened the lid in the mornings. “The box is enchanted to hold more than its outer size suggests.” You did not tell him who had enchanted it, let him believe it had been done by some wizard under your employ. You did not tell him how you spent the last month sweating over that enchantment, fighting through tangles of Schooled magic to accomplish even this simple task. The first time casting that spell had taken me months of study and experimentation. With the power and knowledge at your disposal, it should have been a simple task, but the tightly woven mesh of Empire held you fast even now.
The court face melted away, to be replaced by what you considered his Radiancy-face—infinitesimally different, but different all the same. “A most useful enchantment, my lord,” he observed, a smile in his voice, as he began to file his papers away neatly into the new box.
“Beauty and function are not necessary enemies. We know our secretary well enough to think better than to give him an impractical gift.”
“Indeed, my lord.” His eyes flashed with real humor now, and he paused to marvel at the ample space left in the box when he was done.
When you dismissed him at last—wishing, as you always did, that you could keep him with you only another quarter hour—he gathered his things, the old box and the new, and made his obeisances again, thanked you again, with the pretty court language that you knew did not come naturally to him. Then he smiled at me, better thanks than any words.
I smiled in return. “Use it well,” you said—a hope, not an order. He bowed once more, and you watched him return to his duties, the writing box tucked neatly into the crook of his arm.