Magan wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled his knees up tightly to his chest. The cooling early autumn wind whistled through the grate, teasing strands of his dark hair. The sun had risen, but his skull throbbed from sleeplessness. He wrapped his arms even tighter around himself as he lay on the wooden bench. In this stony room, buried beneath the ground there was no other warmth to be had. No water, no blanket. At least he had clothes. They had proven they could take that away before. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine something of comfort.

Comfort.

When was the last time he had slept in a warm bed, or treated himself to a bath? The notion of drinking hot cocoa while wrapped in a blanket seemed a peculiar one. Even slippers, or a scarf were strange ideas. A day spent walking the mountains or relaxing on a beach were concepts beyond comprehension. He buried his head deeper into the crux of his arm, tugging his hoody up and over his face to block out the wind. There was comfort in that. To his disappointment his mind went to his first night here. Desperately he tried not to think about that. He tried to think about nothing, blanking his mind from all reason. Exhaustion turned into a short but fretful sleep, unconscious that he was actually dreaming, while fleeting faces faded before his eyes. They revolved like a carousel caught on a grainy film from ancient times.

A click broke the rhythm. Magan's eyes opened, the irises retracting instantly in the bright light. He knew what that click meant. He knew the consequences of failure. Instantly he slid his aching body off the bench and down onto the ground, kneeling on the cold stone floor. The door before him rattled in its hinges as the key made its way through the levers. Magan bowed his head. In many ways this was the sound of freedom, albeit only from this room, but in others, it was the day beginning anew of hard labour on little sleep and food.

The door opened with a clunk and revealed a pair of tartan slippers trimmed in fine fur. Magan knew these slippers well. He had seen them from every angle, had pressed his face against them, and in turn had had the sole pressed against his. They had stamped, kicked, and sometimes stood there, as now, in disappointed silence.

'Forgive me, master,' he croaked, his voice dry and cold.

'Forgive me, forgive me,' the master mocked in a high pitch. 'Always forgive me. And how much more forgiving do you expect me to do?' The slippers took a step forwards and suddenly all Magan could see was the walrus moustache and beady black eyes of Stobal Hutz. 'What do I do when I can forgive no more?'

Magan's mouth drooped open. 'Master... I' he choked, looking for the words that can save him.

'Ah, hold your apologies, as I know that it is the wife from whom you should be seeking the forgiveness. What was it this time?'

Magan's eyes slipped to one side with uncertainty as he tried to formulate a response. Too long for Stobal's satisfaction, who reached out and slapped him across the face. He flinched in return, wincing with one eye shut as the redness crept over his pale skin.

'I didn't smile, master,' he grimaced.

Stobal rose to his feet and shrugged his dressing gown back into a comfortable position. 'Well, you know how you can fix that.'

Magan agreed by pressing his head with solemnity against the stone floor. Stobal gave him a little tap with his foot. 'Now shift it, and bring me my coffee. It is a pleasant day, I'll take it by the pool.'

♦♦♦♦

He stood on the pool edge, the toes of his boots hovering over the tile lip before the sudden drop into that perfect blue. The wind felt calmer here. It was almost relaxing, balancing on the precipice between safety, and a deep plunge. With his hands tucked neatly behind his back, he rose up on his toes, arching his calves, his normal morning routine, as he settled in for another day of performing this very duty: standing still and observing his betters. Across the pool, his better reclined in a deck chair before the conservatory doors. His dressing gown slumped open, revealing a rotund, hairy chest. He balanced his coffee there, slurping noisily between glances at his newspaper. Magan raised his head to look up at the rest of the house, built from creamy sandstone with a slate roof and sash windows painted in a soft eggshell. The curtains upstairs were all closed still despite the sun shining on the glass so brightly they sparkled like mirrors. It was just his master and he, a perfectly relaxing Friday morning, by all accounts.

'It's our anniversary today,' Stobal announced, his eyes still lowered to the newspaper. 'Seven years since I first stuffed you into the boot.' He stopped to provide a large grin at Magan from across the pool. 'Time flies, doesn’t it?'

A cold tingle crept along Magan's limbs and he lowered his feet back down to the tiles with a thump. 'Yes,' he replied simply.

Stobal lowered his newspaper. 'Something wrong?'

He shook his head as he leant forwards over the ledge. Before him was nothing but the deep expanse of crystal blue water, swirling with enticing sparkles as the delicate waves tremored in the sunlight. 'Everything is fine, Master,' he replied. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded eerily distant. He could fall right now, and be readily consumed. 

'Gan,' Stobal said firmly.

He looked up to see his Master's dark eyes glaring at him intensely. His finger was pointed downwards at the ground by his feet. There was no question in the instruction. Magan rolled back onto his heels, and with his head down, quickly made his way around the pool and dropped to his knees beside the lounger. He felt a heavy hand rest upon his head like a brick. It was designed to be comforting, but instead it felt like a physical manifestation of the weight that was already pressing down on him. He thought Stobal would say something. A snide comment, a reminder of his duty, but there was only silence. The hand remained there as the other one audibly turned the pages of the newspaper and lifted the cup of coffee off his stomach to take another slurp. He felt his body tense up as he tried to hold the hand still upon his head, fearful a shift in his weight would dislodge and cause his master to become upset. In time, the hand would move, but it must move when his master wanted it to.

Stobal sighed, and retracted his hand, leaving his slave still knelt on the patio, his narrow frame as rigid as a board, hands clasped before him as if trapped in a prayer. His beige clothes, though neat and clean as their quality would allow, fitted him poorly. His tunic’s neckline had slipped down revealing the crude ink of a number tattooed on his neck. Further down his spine the skin was crisscrossed in streaks of blue: belt marks that had broken his skin, behind which a bruise, the colour of a stormy cloud, had risen. They could look so human sometimes, these Ananans, and then they'd bleed, and prove they were not human at all.

'Are we all ready for tomorrow?' Stobal asked.

Magan didn't move from his position. 'Yes, Master. The truck should be arriving today for the rest of Mister Aidan’s possessions.'

'Is this why you're sad? Are you sad to see him go?'

He turned his head to look at his master now, but the face remained expressionless. 'Mister Aidan's a nice person, Master. I'll be sad to see him go. But I'm proud of him.' Magan's jaw became lax as a shimmer of fear swept across his pale blue eyes. 'If I'm allowed to say that, Master,' he whispered.

Stobal raised one eyebrow. 'Are you implying there will be no nice people left once Aidan leaves?'

Magan's narrow shoulders shot up to his ears. Urgently, he turned on his knees and placed his head down on the ground. 'I'm sorry, Master. I would never care to think such a thing, let alone imply it, and if I did, it was not my intention, and I should have been more careful with my words.'

'Well, I'm glad you can recognise your failures. That's an improvement. What about our bags? Are they packed?'

Still with his head bowed, Magan informed him that while Stobal's bag was completely packed, Mrs Hutz's was still in the process. Stobal grumbled something in response. Cautiously, Magan raised his eyes, only to see the coffee cup being thrusted in his face. 

'Go on, take that. I got a call from Errol last night. No doubt you overheard the conversation. Anyway, he's coming around today, likely when the moving van is here. We've got some things to go over on this project. I want you to greet him, alright? Properly. He's an important Nightwalker. Don't just bow your head. Show him the proper respect, alright? He likes seeing you, and more than that, he likes seeing how your training is coming.'

Magan placed the coffee cup on the ground beside him. 'As you wish, Master.'

Stobal sat up on the lounger causing Magan to shift back suddenly. 'Ahem, look at me. It's not as I wish, its you getting it through that silly skull of yours what your place is in this world. Well?' he kicked his foot against Magan's knee. It was not hard, but it was enough to make him shirk away.

'I'm the bottom of the food chain.'

'Right. Now, Mr Errol Flinter is a Magi and a Nightwalker. I have to bow to him. If I have to bow, what do you have to do?'

'Kiss his boots?'

Stobal slapped him smartly across the face. 'You wear boots. Mr Errol Flinter wears the finest Malagalese leather shoes. I don't think he'll appreciate your filthy face being smeared all over them.'

Magan gulped the sting in his cheek away. 'I should touch my forehead to the ground.'

'Very good. Here ends the lesson. Take that cup inside, and get on with your duties.'

He rose to feet, cup in hand, and bowed his head towards his master, thanking him for his education. He used to refuse. He used to spit in his face and call him horrid names. Looking back now on those early days, seven years ago, he felt so angry. The thoughts he had at the time sounded like a thousand bees buzzing in his mind, and every word and touch made him want to scream. Perhaps those bees were still there, he had just learnt how to silence them. 

♦♦♦♦

Magan stepped quietly into the dim room. It was dark and musky, the kind that only comes from warmth. He placed the tea tray on the bedside table, then pulled open the drawer below, retrieving a box of pills. The Friday-marked dose clattered onto a small plate beside the glass of water. Task complete, he crossed the room to the window, hidden behind heavy tartan curtains. He turned to look behind him at the bed. A long lump stretched across the centre. It could have been just a pile of cushions, if it didn’t occasionally breathe. Magan turned back to the curtains and poked his head through. Outside he could see Stobal still sat on the lounger by the pool, now on his phone. He removed his head to check the clock on the desk. One minute to eight. Magan gripped the curtains tightly in his hands so that they were taut, and rested his head against the soft woollen fabric. He heard the grandfather clock on the landing whirl its way into the hour. It was time. With a deep breath, he flung open the curtains and raised the sash window, casting the room into fresh light.

The lump in the bed stirred and wiggled. Magan waited patiently. A mop of golden curls emerged, followed by a loud yawn. A pair of arms stretched out, releasing him from his cocoon and revealing the figure of a nineteen-year-old boy.

'Morning, Gan,' he greeted, smacking his lips together sleepily. 

Magan bowed in silent response.

The boy yawned again. 'Huh! You alright, Gan? Did you sleep well?'

It was all he could do but to blink. 'Sir?' He began, after cautiously looking around the bedroom. 'I'm meant to ask you that question.'

'Me? Not great to be fair. I keep having bad dreams.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, sir. What of?'

'I wish I knew. Do you have bad dreams Gan? What do you do when you have a bad dream?'

He shrugged. 'I don't know sir, I just try to put it out of my mind and go back to sleep.'

'So did you?'

'Did I what, sir?' he asked patiently.

'Did you sleep well?'

Magan inclined his head to one side. 'As well as I could, sir.'

Aidan smiled back at him and then turned to his bedside table to study the plate of pills, pushing them around individually before leaning his head back and pouring them in his mouth along with a swig of water. The smile faded as he looked around his bedroom. Where there had once been pictures, there was now sun bleached lines, and furniture had left deep grooves in the plush carpet. Every surface there was a ghost of the room he had once had, and instead of all those visual comforts, there was only a stack of cardboard boxes in the centre.

'I'm not liking this,' he muttered.

Magan glanced at the boxes behind him and bowed his head. 'I'm sorry sir. The moving van will be here this afternoon to take the rest away.'

'I don't mean that. I mean... this is my last day... my last night as a resident. From tomorrow morning, this will no longer be my home. It just feels so... final,' he breathed out.

'It's not final sir. You'll return for holidays and weekends. You know your father would always be happy to see you.'

'As a guest. I'll only be here temporarily from now on.' Aidan pulled his knees up towards his chest and rested his head against his knees. 

Magan rocked back and forth on his heels, his hands behind his back as always. 'There's a lot to be said for setting out on your own, though. Surely that's exciting. And I'm sure sir, when you do come and visit, your home in Esprite will feel like your home and you'll find yourself keen to get back, almost as keen as you were to visit.'

'You ever lived by yourself, Gan?'

'No.'

'Not even with just a servant?'

Magan opened his mouth to say no, but the answer caught in his throat. Instead, an image surfaced of a house down a wet and windy cobbled street. It smelt strongly of kippers, and in the dark and stormy evenings, of which there was many, he would sit at the old wooden table in the sitting room, next to the roaring fire, lit by simple candlelight, listening to the endless squabble of the radio and the sound of shelling offshore.

'I've been on my own for some periods, I guess.'

Aidan's eyes flashed with excitement. 'Oh! Dad told me something interesting last night. You've lived in Esprite.'

Magan frowned. 'He knows that?'

'I can't believe you never told me this. Apparently, you went to university there.'

Magan wrapped his arms around his waist and looked from side to side. 'Why... erm... why did he tell you that?'

'Is it not true?'

He bit his lower lip and moved awkwardly from one foot to the other still hugging his waist. 'I... I don't know sir.'

Aidan knelt forwards on the bed causing the covers to slip down. 'What do you mean you don't know? How can you not know that?'

Magan’s cheeks tingled, turning rigid. His chest became stone, his heart a burning coal. 'Well... it was... it was years ago, sir, and my education is probably void now. I mean, it is void.' A small sound escaped his throat, somewhere between a yelp and a laugh. 'Who heard of a slave with a degree leastways. Anyway, sir, is there anything else I can do for you?'

With eyes wide and his lips pursed to one side, Aidan shook his head no. Magan bowed, and bowed again, thanking the young master, and went to pick up the medicine tray, but Aidan stopped him with a gentle rest of his hand on Magan's forearm. 

'Are you okay, Gan? You seem... stressed, more stressed than normal. You should relax. You're going to wear yourself out otherwise.'

'I'll keep that in mind, sir,' Magan replied in a straight and even tone.

♦♦♦♦

Stobal was sitting at his desk drinking his second coffee of the day. The latest film script was laid out across the table before him and he was on the phone to his assistant and director. The gardener had arrived, and Magan had directed them to the hedge, and then had taken a call himself with the moving company who said that they would be an hour later. Aidan was in the livingroom, lying on his stomach on the sheepskin rug as he sketched away in his notebook. All was in place. All he had to do now was knock on the door to the second bedroom.

He pressed his ear to the wood first. Inside, he heard the sound of movement, the very thing he'd prayed he would not. He took a deep breath and knocked at the door, then waited for three counts. The rattling immediately stopped. Three counts over, he squeezed the handle and entered. It was a light and airy room, decorated in pale creams and silvers. Compared to his dingy bedroom in the cellars, when he was not locked away in the cell, this room felt uncomfortably clean, and every step and touch and breath in its presence would render it filthy.

Sat on an upholstered bench of soft grey velvet was a slender woman of thirty years. Her even skin was a perfect glow of warm sun while her dark blonde hair, lined with highlights of pale gold, twisted and flowed over her shoulders. A silk gown, the colour of champagne, was draped around her, only just revealing a chemise of the same fabric beneath. She pursed her lips at the mirror as she pressed her morning creams into her skin. Magan could see her eyeing him cautiously in the mirror on her dressing table, and he hung his head, looking down at his own clothes. Dull, raggedy, and far too large for him.

'You have something to say to me, slave?'

She was still annoyed with him. When she was happy, she would wait for him to see her, then have him apply her daily skin care regime and make up while she chattered away and giggled like a little girl as her hands would dance across his chest. When she was annoyed, she would do it herself, which in turn would make her angrier.

'I say slave, but I'm sure slaves are meant to serve, and yet here I am, serving myself. Always the same, slave, serving me when it pleases, you, but when it doesn't,' she flicked her hand behind her dismissively. With anyone else, Magan knew this as the signal to leave, but with Mrs Laniesti Hutz, it was often the opposite. 'You know, I find it most upsetting. I love you, and you're supposed to love me, but you behave as you did last night, and I wonder if you're just lying to me.'

He wasn't lying, but he preferred happy Laniesti over angry Laniesti every time, and so he dropped to his knees and slinked down across the floor, stretching his arms out wide while keeping his feet together. He had tried every approach to this conundrum before: acting with tenderness, speaking to her, reassuring her, holding her, apologising, pleading. Seven years, he had tried every single position to prove to her his earnest in his submission, until he discovered that prostrating himself on the ground before her while remaining silent was the only guaranteed way to satisfy her displeasure. He knew very well now that she hated to hear him speak. She hated his Ananan accent, and the way he would stumble over his words. 

She huffed and returned to her ministrations in the mirror. 'I want to do some filming soon. I would have started earlier, but you neglected to come and see me. Where’s that kohl? You know, the one that smudges easily.'

He was forgiven, and so as she continued, he rose to his feet and opened a drawer at the far end of the table.

'My darling little boy is leaving for Esprite tomorrow. It's the end of my show, and so I want to create a little intimate moment for my fans and cry over his departure. Oh good, you found it. Nice and thick on my lower waterline.' She tilted her head back to allow Magan to apply it gently to the base of her eye as she blinked and stared up at the ceiling above her. He could plunge the kohl into her irises, blinding her forever, and leave her to whirl in pain across the bedroom floor alone. Neither Aidan or Stobal would check in on her. His hand tightened up at the notion of such an idea.

'Hurry up slave, I've other things I want to do today.'

With a smooth glide, he applied the rest, drawing an even line across the top of her eyelid to complete. She looked in her mirror, twisting her head from one side to the other. 'What do you think of my clothes? Someone commented the other day that I was too sexy to be the mother of Aidan. I'm still upset by that. What a horrid thing to say. Do you think I'm too sexy?'

He stared at her, and then quickly averted his eyes, conscious that a blue bloom of blush was building up on his cheeks. 

Laniesti folded her arms. 'You may speak, slave.'

He didn't want to. Of all the times he wished to speak to her, this was definitely one of those moments where he would have happily remained silent.

'I... I think you're beautiful, Mistress,' he croaked.

'That doesn't answer the question,' she replied, her voice becoming increasingly sharper.

Magan gulped. 'You can't be too sexy. That person was probably just jealous.'

She rose to her feet and draped her arms across his shoulders. Her touch sent a chill down his spine that he had never learnt to soften. 'You really think I’m beautiful? I knew it. You do love me, my sweet little slave. But only when it suits you, hmm? Last night, you weren’t in the mood, but this morning, you are. Always on your terms. But how can I deny you?' She ran her nose up his neck. The chill swarmed into a heavy weight deep in his stomach. She pulled away to look at him. Quickly he mustered a smile.

♦♦♦♦

It was dark by the time Magan finally made his way back down the stairs to the cellar. He had left Stobal and Aidan sat in the living room as Stobal continued to educate his son in the fine art of whisky appreciation. Laniesti was on her phone, playing the filming she had done earlier back and forth as she tweaked the tragic piano music to match her tears, and increase the contrast on the black and white effect. They had quarrelled briefly, as always. Laniesti wanted Magan to stay, and Stobal wanted him to go downstairs and have his tea. The moving van had collected the rest of Aidan's possessions. Errol Flinter had arrived to discuss the film in more detail, and as requested, Magan had immediately dropped to the floor in front of him and pressed his head to the ground. Errol had beamed and complimented Stobal on what a good job he had done with this Ananan slave, and after Errol had left, Stobal had told Magan how pleased he was. It was a rare moment, but precious, and where his stomach had felt like a dark hole, now it was shining gold and filled with a warmth that was undeniable.

He lowered his head through the narrow stone entrance to the cellar, and smiled at the scene that awaited him. Nina was sat at the small kitchen table positioned halfway between their rickety wooden bed and the state of the art fridge freezer Stobal Hutz had installed. His little boy, Lucian was sat on her knee drawing on a pad on the table, his small sticky hands griping the crayon in a fist, while his eldest, Gita, was sat on the bed playing with the dragon toy Magan had made for her.

'Did you have a nice day?' she asked.

'It got better.'

'Hi Pappan,' Gita waved at him.

Magan waved back and stepped into the cellar. Even at just under six foot, his head crested the arched roof. He ate his bowl of rice and vegetables, the same meal every night, and listened as his children regaled stories of what had happened at school while his wife smiled with that same delicacy that she had never lost. He would look at her some evenings and think with dread about that day they were running for their lives in the mews behind the house, and Stobal had saved them. He would think about all the horrors and the pain, and they all seemed to fade when he looked upon her. She was always there, at the end of every day, his perfect constant, and she would reach across the table as he was eating his food in silence, even when trapped in a pit of frustration, and with a loving touch, that instantly bloomed his body into fizzing joy and celebration, she would say, 'I love you, Hannan Magan Marisa.'