The final meal afforded to him before they arrived on their destination would have consisted of a plain salad, soggy lettuce and limp sliced carrots. Nothing less, nothing more, had he not taken matters into his own hands. As the gazette could seemingly not be bothered to make arrangements for the trio to get an assigned time to eat at the restaurant, they’d opted for surviving purely off room service. By the time Nikola made it to any meal—no matter how early he was—their private buffet was nearly empty.
He had his suspicions, and those suspicions involved Benjamin’s recent weight gain. It would have been comical, had the greens not been far too foul to actually consume. He wondered how likely it might be that the staff hadn’t bothered to check its freshness.
Nikola tried not to think much about it as he slipped into the cafeteria that catered to the third class passengers. It was brimming with activity at all hours, and the odors were only slightly pungent. It didn’t hurt that he’d been sneaking down here almost every day, and not once had he been admonished. Luck, it seemed, remained firmly on his favor, and he once again succeeded at fending off starvation.
Here, they served salted pollock and fritters, which was just fine by him—it certainly beat the dubious meals his boss and workmate indulged in. Soggy salads were hardly a redeeming quality. He had no qualms about this food of supposedly lower caliber, not when it kept his belly full and grumble-free.
“What troubles ya, boy?” an elderly lady took the seat next to his, cramped as this dining area was. She smelled of fish and of the flowery perfume that failed to drown the first scent out. Having to sit this close to strangers would have been his only complaint about this particular cafeteria. “Hmph! Ya look as though ya’ve sucked on a lemon.”
“That’s just my natural appearance, I’m afraid,” Nikola assured her, though he had an inkling his expression of disappointment was not particularly convincing. “My mother did always bemoan I did not turn out as handsome as my brother.”
“She should get her eyes checked, then,” the woman shrugged, biting into a whole fish—skin and all—as her frail hands gripped it. She eyed his outfit, which bore The Adianoeta Gazette’s pin, and scowled before speaking between bites. “Ya’re one of those reporters disembarking in Adia, are ya not? The ones that announced the visit to the Adianoetas?”
Considering this for a moment, Nikola nodded. There was no harm in confirming it, as an avid denial would likely have the opposite effect.
“Terrible,” the elder shook her head. “Ya lot should go literally anywhere else, boy. There are tales everywhere, and ya needn’t risk life and limb for this one.”
He watched her carefully, unsure as to whether she struck him as a madwoman or simply superstitious—plenty of people still held on to the archaic belief that the whole of Adia was a land of ill omens, and she was starting to sound like one of those types.
“Ya should know,” she leaned closer, her next words a whisper. “Yer boss’s family are monsters. Monsters, say I, and say all.”
Those were the last words she spoke, and neither made an effort to resume the conversations or exchange names. Nikola left—he was as nonplussed as he was curious.
How had she known?
John Adianoeta was the type to bring publicity to every action he took, but the knowledge that even random individuals in third class knew about their trip caught him off-guard. Nikola himself had been instructed to keep quiet, as the news that one photographer would be allowed in might tempt others to try their luck.
As for the Adianoetas themselves, they were popular among the upper classes and disliked by common folk. Such was the nature of old families, those so deeply ingrained in society that they were seen as something closer to monolithic entities than groups composed of individuals.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Their age was a factor in the planning of this trip—the 200th anniversary of their first patriarch’s death was upon them, and a celebration was scheduled to take place the very night of their arrival. Though their fortune came from the sale of their family’s most tightly-kept secret—their recipe for longevity—none save the family themselves had benefited enough to have both witnessed his death and still stand here today. It was said they somehow had access to a veritable fountain of youth.
Fifty years had passed since the last such event, and the camera had not been invented, then. This was the first time this would even be possible, and for all his faults, Benjamin did have the capabilities that befit one who would be the first to not only capture the family’s dealings, but to commit them to a format the public would see. It helped that The Adianoeta Gazette was among the few publications that could easily support the inclusion of images. There would be some editorializing on John’s part, no doubt, but this had all been arranged far too neatly for the family not to intend to use the gazette’s reach to their benefit.
The newspaper’s founder was among the youngest of the family, a mere forty years old compared to its supercentenarians, but he must have had his uses, or so Nikola supposed. That was how that kind of people saw each other—in a transactional manner, despite the shared blood.
There was something about such families that felt oddly sanitized to him. From an outside perspective, they looked more like businesses than anything else. Having had the misfortune to be left to interview one such group two years ago—albeit from a much more minor and forgettable family—Nikola was all too aware of that.
By some miracle, he was not saddled with the task of unloading the luggage upon their arrival. He momentarily wondered whether his boss and workmate had forgotten he had been under orders to come along for the ride.
He found them near a convoy of carriages, where John stood speaking with a woman who carried an embroidered umbrella. Her dress was voluminous, its sleeves long, and not a single ray of sunlight was allowed to mar her skin. Rouge colored her lips and cheeks, her expression one that would have belonged in an editorial cartoon.
He would not have expected to see Maria Adianoeta, of all people, greeting them upon their arrival. As their founder’s widow, she was all but officially their matriarch—only their oldfashioned views kept them from acknowledging that. “Ah, you’ve a photographer solely in your employ so soon?”
“Benjamin is a man of many talents, grandmother,” John explained. “But for our purposes, he will suffice.”
“Oi, boss,” the older man actually appeared offended. “None save me have managed to earn the certificate.”
“That much is true,” their boss conceded.
“And who would this young man be?” Maria Adianoeta turned to face Nikola, and as she flashed him a smile, a chill ran down his spine. She appeared to notice this. “Jittery, are we?”
“A pleasure to meet you, madam,” Nikola replied, as she had addressed him directly. He’d have avoided speaking until someone introduced him, otherwise.
And that was exactly what Benjamin Best did next. “Ah, that’s Zuzen. Young buck, a columnist with us. He’s here to help me with my notes—my time’s going to be better spent elsewhere.”
“Aye,” John Adianoeta agreed with an uncharacteristically light tone. “This will be a night to remember, I believe.”
“That, it will be,” Maria Adianoeta nodded, stepping closer. “Grandson, dear. Bring your men to the estate before sunset, so that we may have not the need to guide anyone after dark. I would very much prefer not to stretch the staff thin at a time like this.”
“I shall, grandmother,” John outright bowed to the other woman, the gesture one out of time.
Nikola couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen anyone use that traditional bow to an elder.
“Benjamin, dear,” Maria Adianoeta started, allowing the photographer to kiss her hand under the shade. “Stay close to my grandson. I’ll have the details reach you soon—everything must be perfect, and the sooner you’re ready, the better for us all.”
Nikola couldn’t help but notice that had not been a request—it as an order.
The matriarch’s eyes landed on him next, once again triggering those shivers as their gazes met. “Zuzen, was it? You seem educated enough, dear. My youngest is an aspiring novelist. You will attend to her, and advise her in her work. Once the time comes, you may join the celebrations.”