Sleep did not come easy. My head was fastened to the pillow, but my brain refused to give way. Trying to surrender my thoughts, knowing my father might want me dead, was... difficult. A quiet death is what I would do if I were in his shoes. A few drops of hemlock stirred in some wine, and none would be the wiser. “He couldn’t make it, I’m afraid,” I would say mournfully, “Complications from his injuries. What a tragedy.”

I imagined him sitting at his desk, head hung, eyes closed, and weighing it in his mind. A part of me was certain Father wouldn't do it. When it came to him, I couldn’t rely on things like 'compassion' and 'sympathy', but I could always count on his ingenuity as a businessman. Twenty-something years raising, teaching, feeding, and clothing me. Throwing it all away now would be such a waste. I was, after all, his son. His own flesh and blood. I was sure I fit somewhere in a grandiose plan of his. Hopefully, my usefulness was not overshadowed by my recklessness.

***

Shortly before dawn, I heard rustling. I glanced to my right and saw Mica jumping from her sheets straight into the bathroom. I picked up the oil lamp and stood up, wincing as pain shot through my ribs. I mouthed a quiet curse, hoping I hadn’t torn anything and followed behind. Gurgles and gags quickly reached my ears.

She was kneeling on the floor with her head planted in a small bucket. The contents inside were unmistakable from the smell. She was shaking and shivering. She didn’t register the lamplight or me walking up behind her.

“Let it all out,” I said, placing my hand on her back. 

She was too thin; my fingers were practically rubbing against her rib cage. Her body shook more vigorously at my touch. She was about to raise her head when I stopped her.

“Calm down,” I whispered, sitting down beside her. “Your stomach is upset. Just let it all out.”

It took a few minutes for her to finish and lean back. Her trembling did not stop. Tears marked her face while spit and bile dribbled down from her chin. I kept my expression as gentle as possible, fighting to keep my disgust from showing. It would do no good right now. 

“I- I’m so–” 

“Shush.” My tone was harsher than intended. I took a deep and relaxed my posture. I was getting anxious, and the constant whining and whimpering were not helping. I shined the lamp on the bucket and sighed in relief. Not red, brown, or black, only last night’s dinner, ground and minced and died pink by the wine.

I grabbed a towel and, ignoring her protests, wiped her mouth. Her breath stank but only of vomit. She managed to stand on her own, and soon enough, each of us was back in bed. The rest of the night passed without hurdle. When morning came, she was already up and moving. She must have been eating more than she could handle. It was too much for her stomach. It brought me some comfort knowing I wasn’t getting poisoned… yet.

***

The more stress you accumulate, the greater relief you’ll eventually experience. And after three days of continuous worrying, I could not begin to describe how I was feeling right now. 

Mica was standing at the far end of the room, trying to make her presence least known. Fidel was just here moments ago, wearing a mournful and downcast face. He was the harbinger of my downfall. There was a trace of guilt in his voice when he announced, “Master wishes to inform that you... are no longer his heir… I apologize, Young Master.”

Oh, how I laughed hearing it. I laughed and laughed until the pain in my torso was no longer bearable. I didn’t even notice him leaving the room. His expression must’ve been priceless. What would Father think when he learned of my reaction? Nothing favourable I’d imagine. 

Well, that’s that then. Father unleashed his wrath. I lost a whole countship, my birthright, but I was free. He’d probably take one of my half-brothers as heir. Father’s unreasonable expectations were someone else’s responsibility now. “Mica,” I called out, and she jolted, “get me something to eat and a bottle of good wine from the cellar.”

She muttered an approval and bowed. Her steps were hurried as she rushed to the door, eager to get out of my sight.

I heaved a sigh and stretched my body. I wanted a few days of respite, but that might not be possible. A problem was solved, yet two more grow in its place. Being alone as a noble was essentially suicide. There were always eyes watching, studying, calculating. I was disinherited, but I still remain a count’s son.

Father had many enemies, and I certainly didn’t lack my own, half of which were in this manor alone. None of the staff, servants, or cooks wished me an ounce of goodwill. If they could do me harm and get away with it, they would not think twice. Perhaps, Fidel was the only exception. He was as loyal as a dog, but regrettably, his loyalty was not mine.

I needed someone to be my eyes and ears, someone who could come and go as they pleased, someone who would raise no suspensions and report only to me. I could buy out one of the maids, but I doubted I had enough money to outweigh their desire to hurt me.

A knock on the door broke my concentration. Mica entered, holding a tray with one hand and a bucket with the other. She put them on the bedside table and stood back. Without uttering a word, she bowed and went for the door.

I gazed at her weak back and an idea popped in my head. Suppressing a smile, I spoke, “Mica, where are you going?”

She froze at the door frame and mechanically turned around. “T-to do my chores, Young Master.”

“They can wait.” I waved her closer. “Come here.”

Terror was evident on her face. She glanced at the bucket with the wine bottle inside and back at me. The shivers returned to her body again.

“I want to talk. That's all.” I tapped the bed beside me. “Come.”

She took slow hesitatnt steps. I waited patiently until she finally reached my side. She kept her head down but stole quick glances at my face. Her eyes were full of apprehension and mistrust.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, have you been eating well lately?”

For the first time perhaps, she spoke with some confidence, “Yes, Young Mas-”

“Do not lie to me, Mica,” I said calmly. “I can tolerate anything but lying.”

“I–” She stuttered. Her lip trembled as she clutched her hands tightly. “No, Young Master,” she whispered. “The head cook said I’m not worthy of his food.” Tears stammered down her face. Realizing what her words meant, she waved her hands frantically. “But the maids are nice! They give me bread and fruit! I’m sorry I'm worthless, You–” 

“It’s alright,” I hugged her to my side and patted her hair. She became stiff as a board. “Tell me, Mica, does he know you’re my servant?”

She paused shortly then I felt her nod.

I rubbed my chin. “Well then, how about we eat together?”

“I can’t, Young Master,” she cried out, trying to untangle herself from me, “I’m only a servant! I'm not worthy!”

“You are my servant, and you’re ought to listen to my orders, are you not?” I released my grip on her. She did not reply with an answer. “Well, it’s settled then.”

I sat straight as she brought the table before me and stood awkwardly to the side. I moved over slightly and tapped the spot beside me. Wearily she sat further away. I tapped the same place, and she drew nearer, our shoulders almost touching.

I was so occupied that I could not recall what we ate. The meal was spent in tense silence. Neither of us spoke nor looked at the other person. Once done, she stood up and picked up the empty tray. Before she was out of the room, I spoke, halting her, “Tell the cook I’ll be having two portions of every meal from now. If he asks why, tell him it's for my training.” 

Mica bowed, lowering her head so far down that her brown hair covered the entirety of her face. I swear I saw a slight reddening to her cheeks behind the bundle of locks, but I couldn’t be sure.