Among the dozen or so staff who kept his penthouse in order, you were not exceptionally skilled, not remarkably clever, not possessed of any particular beauty that the others lacked. You cleaned, you served, you kept your head down and your hands busy, and for reasons you had long since stopped trying to understand, the Master had decided that you were the one he wanted nearby, for whom reached for. But never, not once, was there anything improper in his touch—nothing of that sort had ever been asked of you, and you knew with absolute certainty that it never would be.

Aventurine did not call for you every day, nor even every week, but when he did, you would go to his study, find him seated somewhere with that particular stillness about him that preceded nothing good. Aventurine would not speak of what weighed on him and never planned to do that. Instead he would rise, or reach for you, and you would let him pull you into an embrace that lasted longer than any casual gesture should. His arms would tighten, his face press against your shoulder, and for a handful of minutes he would simply hold on. You did not ask questions, did not offer comfort in words, you simply stood still in his arms, and let the silence do whatever it was meant to do for him before eventually Aventurine would release you with a quiet word of thanks and send you back to whatever task you had been performing before he interrupted it.

It was harmless, as arrangements went. It was strange work, you supposed, but it was not unpleasant. And Aventurine was never rough, never demanding in any way that made you uncomfortable—he never did anything except hold you. All he sought was the simple solace of an embrace. You did not pretend to understand your master, since all he asked of you was presence. You could give him that much without cost to yourself, and the salary ensured you never thought to complain.

The afternoon had been ordinary. Sunlight fell in long slants across the sitting room, and you had been wiping down the shelves near the window when another maid appeared in the doorway.

“Master Aventurine is asking for you,” she said, keeping her voice low.

You set the cloth aside without hurry, smoothing your apron as you moved past her. You simply walked the familiar corridor toward Aventurine's study.