After Kitties

Enasshi’s new assistant gardener tugged at the sleeves of his coat. “This is…” He coughed.

“It is,” agreed the head gardener, a fox moddie who was wearing breeches and nothing else. “The good news is, when you’re in the back yard, the gardens, or anywhere but the front yard or the public spaces, just wear the pants – and the shirt if you want it. The rest is for public places.”

The assistant gardener looked down at the pile of clothing in his arms. “So she knows we get it dirty, ‘cause there’s seven changes of clothes here. But there’s seven changes of clothes here. I think that costs more than she spent on me.”

“Let’s be honest.” The head gardener smirked. “She doesn’t spend all that much on us.”

The assistant gardener looked up, startled. “…Us?”

“Oh, come on, kid, you didn’t think you were the only one, did you? No, this is on purpose. Here, sit down, put those clothes down. Nobody does yard work at noon, anyway. No.” The head gardener tucked his tail around a stool as he sat down. “She found out about the moddies that don’t work out. ‘Unsuitable’ moddies. Don’t you dare tell anyone I told you, but Helena, the chatelaine, she was first. And after that – there’s not an unmodified staff member left in the house.”

“We’re… all ‘unsuitable?’” Suddenly the assistant gardener looked frightened. “But isn’t that dangerous?”

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There had always been something a little strange about the Baroness Enasshi ni Firanne O Tertia’s household.

To be fair, the entire O Tertia household had been strange right from its founding, and their little barony, barely more than a town and some fields, drew more attention than something its size had any right to.

But ever since Enasshi – and what sort of name was that? – took over from her mother Firanne (speaking of names) on that worthy’s seventieth birthday (speaking of anomalies; most Baronesses had to wait until their mother died, not just until they turned seventy; seventy was nothing to the children of the gods), the little Barony’s little household had gotten even stranger.

Lady Enasshi had spent three years in Great Britain when she was in her early twenties, something that was not unheard-of but not all that common, and there were those who suggested that it might be a British influence. Others suggested the two years in Japan, the year in France, or even the six months she’d spent touring Africa. As a rule, it was generally agreed that, for a Californian noble, she’d spent far, far too much time overseas.

Which might be what they could blame for her staff, almost all bred moddies somehow unsuitable for Agency service. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with having genetically-modified staffers. It wasn’t even that there was anything wrong with having them as your butler and maid, your cook and your groundskeeper. (There was something a little questionable about having one as one’s Consort, but the Lady’s choice and the Consort’s were sacrosanct in that matter, and absolutely nobody was going to tell Lady Enasshi that she couldn’t have a dapper, well-turned-out cat-boy as her Consort.) It was just that, in addition to the oddity of a staff that was almost entirely moddies, from the chatelaine down to the pot-boy, in a rather well-appointed household, Enasshi insisted on dressing every single one of them in beautiful and elaborate livery that wasn’t now and had never been the style in Tír na Cali.

Most Californian nobles dressed their slaves simply- khakis and shirts with the household monogram was common – saving the frou-frou and ornamentation for their companions, their butler (only sometimes) and fancy-dress parties. Visiting their houses, even the house of a Countess, was like visiting a friend. Everything was casual. With Lady Enasshi, not so much.

“I don’t know what to wear,” bemoaned the youngest daughter of the Baroness Stasia ni Ysabet. “The last time I went to a lunch at Enasshi’s, the boy trimming the weeds was better dressed than I was. And I was in couture!”

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