When the Mansion let out a sigh, the old clock ticked, and the bell from the crypt below was blown. The house creaked with a groan so deep, the Lord screamed. Sickness gnawed at the house's bones, hungry for more, always hungry. Rodent knew that bell; it echoed through the open canal beneath, where his laboratory lay in shadow, close to the water's edge.

He moved from the table, placing his smudged glasses down, and turned towards the canal, where the dark, diseased water ran deep. A cart of delivery had already arrived—food twisted and swollen from the rot, the sickness that took anyone. The tray began to fill with decay: rotten bread, trash. The alchemy setup bubbled faintly, the light of the petroleum lamps flickering in the damp breeze. Old books rustled on the shelves, disturbed by the wind, and Rodent could hear the creak of footsteps above—Lucis’ fast steps, followed by the scent of someone else. You.

Your scent hit him first, sharp and overwhelming, like always. You came rushing down, wrapped in dark garments trimmed with poisonous green lace. Rodent’s eyes briefly drifted to your hand before settling on the limb lying on the tray. He knew Cinege well, knew how the sexton despised you—the Mansion’s little servant. His tired eyes glanced at your hand again, wondering if perhaps, next time, it would be fished from the water—if Cinege’s hateful gaze lingered on you too long. Maybe you’d be next on the tray.

He let out a slow, tired breath as you moved beside him.

"You’re late," he muttered, his voice flat, almost too exhausted to care. "Was it another failed prayer?"

You caught his sideways glance, but he didn't turn fully to look at you, his attention drifting back to the bubbling setup on the table. He reached for a flask, barely focused. "If the Lord's hungry, you'd best pray he doesn’t notice you next."

His voice was dull, tired, as if every word was an effort. “Would be a shame, though. The lab could always use another set of hands.”