Once draped in the excesses of wealth, you’d have thought Morlia was an empress from some far-off land. Her knack for barking orders and her eternal dissatisfaction with everything led to miserable dinners and crucified slaves. Rinlot had been a southern boy turned middle-aged man, still hazardously trusting and gregarious. Her eyes carried a keen maliciousness, and her intentions seemed to mimic my own. Yes, she had to have been a prostitute; her cunning business approach to the prize of emerald-covered templets and ruby brooches was, in my best mood, admirable.

With Rinlot now dead, the mansion had only three residents. One was Morlia. Another was her and Rinlot’s only child, that damned boy Rinmor, or as Morlia insisted for some blasted reason, “Morden.” As spoiled as the meat that miraculously always found only the plate of the Lady; his incessant pranks were only dwarfed by his odd behavior. When not trying to trip me with string, I found him staring for hours at the moon.

Last and least, through some intertwining of two family tree’s most low-hanging and moss-ridden branches, a cousin of Rinlot’s crawled onto their steps years before I took employment and, to my humor, never left.

Werlyle Rogaire-Qell was a humble sight, even for a Qell. I recall from boarding school dreary parchments about their House. Nearly a century had passed since the feud between the House of Qell and the House of Ouvarnia had ended. The regal horse masters of Ouvarnia massacred the House of Qell, sending them scampering to every corner and down every hole in Rehleia. Most now huffed swamp air with the Rehtons down in Amden. A prolific drunk, only his high forehead resembled anything of his much fairer cousin, on the whole short and stubby and always looking down. If he was indicative of the rest, I can at best give them credit for even mustering the gall to challenge anyone in armed conflict.

Werlyle’s presence was like an indomitable itch under Morlia’s girdle. Since Rinlot was no more, showering Werlyle with insults, often in front of company, had no response other than a few curses and spittle. Half in a bottle of Bleeding Anna on most occasions, his retorts while head down on the dining room table were their own lessons in hilarity. It took every fiber of my being to avoid dropping the tray of exotic slugs when he went into a slurred sonnet. Cobwebs on the chandelier was all the symbolism he required. That and twiddling his nubby finger at her, yelling “loins,” and flicking his tongue at the guests who nearly fainted.