Three hours.
That's how long I've been inventorying my room. Jenkins has been surprisingly helpful, though I catch him looking at me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. Or possibly a target he's assessing. With assassins, it's hard to tell.
Current inventory:
- Socks: 47 pairs (why 47? who needs 47 pairs of socks?)
- Shirts: 23 (all expensive, all boring, all in various shades of "I'm too rich to care about color")
- Pants: 12 (including something called "assassination slacks" which Jenkins assures me are "very practical for discrete murder")
- Weapons hidden in furniture: 7 (I found these by accident. Jenkins found them by professional expertise.)
- Secret compartments: 4 (one contained poison, one contained gold, one contained a very concerning diary, one contained... cheese?)
"Jenkins," I hold up the cheese. It's been in a hidden compartment for who knows how long. "Why is there cheese in my wall?"
"Emergency rations, Young Master. The previous occupant believed in being prepared."
"The previous occupant?"
"Your uncle, Young Master. He died twelve years ago."
I look at the cheese. I look at Jenkins. "This cheese is twelve years old?"
"Aged to perfection, I'm sure."
I set the cheese down very carefully. "Note to self: do not eat wall cheese."
Jenkins makes a small notation on a pad of paper he's been carrying. I don't know what he's writing. It's probably something like "subject is dangerously unstable" or "recommend immediate termination."
But here's the thing—I don't feel threatened. Maybe that's the crazy talking. Maybe that's the part of me that died choking on a hot dog and thought "well, that tracks." But Jenkins feels... safe? In a weird, murder-butler kind of way?
"Jenkins," I say, "how long have you worked for my family?"
"Forty-seven years, Young Master."
"And in that time, how many people have you killed?"
He doesn't hesitate. "I don't keep an exact count, Young Master. The Guild requires quarterly reports, so I maintain estimates for tax purposes."
Tax purposes. Of course. Licensed assassins. Very respectable.
"And have you ever killed a family member?"
The question hangs in the air. Jenkins looks at me with those unreadable eyes.
"Young Master," he says slowly, "the Thornwood family has a saying: 'We kill for the Crown, we kill for coin, but we never kill our own unless they ask nicely.'"
"That's... oddly specific."
"Your great-aunt Gertrude had very particular standards."
I file this information away. Family of assassins. Butler who has definitely killed people. Aged wall cheese. This is my life now.
"Jenkins," I announce, "I need to meet my family."
"Dinner is in three hours, Young Master."
"No, I need to meet them now. One by one. I need to assess threats, understand dynamics, and most importantly—"
"Yes, Young Master?"
"—figure out which one of them pushed me off that balcony."
Because here's the thing I haven't mentioned, dear readers. The "falling accident" that put Vex in a coma for three days? That wasn't an accident. Someone in this house tried to kill the fourth son.
And now that I'm wearing his body, I should probably care about that.
Probably.
Mostly I'm just curious.
---
My first family meeting is with my mother, the Duchess Cordelia Thornwood.
She receives me in her private chambers, which smell like expensive perfume and subtle poison. Everything is purple. The curtains are purple. The carpet is purple. Even the teacups are purple.
"Vex, darling," she says, not looking up from her embroidery. "You're awake. How wonderful."
"Mother," I say, because apparently that's what you call the woman who gave birth to your body. "I have questions."
"Of course you do, dear. Sit. Have tea."
I sit. I look at the tea. I look at my mother. "Is this poisoned?"
She finally looks up. She has the same violet eyes as me, but hers hold decades of secrets and what looks like genuine amusement.
"Vex," she says, "if I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be sitting here asking questions. You'd be dead."
"Comforting."
"Isn't it? Now drink your tea. It's not poisoned. Today."
I drink the tea. It tastes like flowers and impending doom.
"I want to know who pushed me," I say.
Mother sets down her embroidery. "Do you now? And what makes you think you were pushed?"
"I—" I pause. Because the real Vex might have known. But I don't. I'm working on instinct here. "I have my reasons."
"Mm." She studies me. It's uncomfortable. It feels like she's looking through my eyes and seeing someone else behind them. "You've changed, Vex. The fall, perhaps. Or something else."
My heart stops. She knows. She has to know. No one can be this perceptive unless—
"You're more interesting now," she continues. "Before, you were... forgettable. The fourth son. No prospects. No personality. Now?" She smiles. It's terrifying. "Now you have spark."
"I... thank you?"
"Don't thank me yet, darling. Interesting people don't live long in this family." She picks up her embroidery again. "But they do have more fun. Now, about your question: I don't know who pushed you. If I did, they'd be dead. Not because I care about you particularly, but because attacking a Thornwood is an insult to the family. And we don't tolerate insults."
"So you'll help me find them?"
"I'll help you survive them. There's a difference." She pulls a small vial from her sleeve and slides it across the table. "Antidote. For when, not if, someone poisons you. Keep it on you at all times."
I take the vial. "Mother?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Why do you have antidote just... ready?"
She smiles that terrifying smile again. "Vex, darling. I'm your mother. I've been preparing for your inevitable poisoning since you were born. It's what mothers do."
I leave her chambers with more questions than answers and a vial of antidote in my pocket.
This family is insane.
I think I'm going to fit right in.