It is not my job to pay attention to anything else. There are other servants, fewer of them than in the past, it’s true, but they take care of the linen, the kitchen, the… waste, and everything else, I assume. In the forty years of my employment it is undeniable that standards have degraded: There are unmended holes in the curtains, strange smells from the lower levels, heaps of rotting things in the corners, dust omnipresent.
          My master’s grandfather was a virile man, and this castle, the entire island, was correctly maintained to the strictest standard. How it glowed! The torches held aloft as the impassive footmen greeted the disembarking guests—the ballroom lit by a thousand candles, the proudest days of my life—the guttering fire pots as the selected guests were led down the stone steps into the secret halls—the pinpricks of light that were allowed to penetrate their cells. They mewed to me, please help, but I am only a timid servant who plugs his ears, I cringe from their entreaties. I do not steal the keys and help them escape, although sometimes we pretend at it. Regularly I light the candles, illuminating the holy chapel carved by claws and dedicated to the god of my master’s family. Sometimes on clear autumn nights when we have removed ourselves to the coast, I am allowed to light the pyre, and from a discreet distance I watch the family as they carouse.
          What a man he was! His son was diligent, respectful, conservative, a good steward, he rationalized the ceremonial occasions and further insulated the family from the attentions of the mainland. For his pains he was murdered by his brothers, every one of whom met with bad ends on the shore and in our bottomless caverns, until at last those of us who were left propped up the late master’s weakest stupidest son and told him you are the master now, and patiently instructed him in the details.
          He’s young, and more interested in the family money, and he spends much of his time dancing and drinking in foreign places. But he honors the holidays and always brings a troupe of delicate young things to spend the weekend, and correctly escorts them down to the holy grottos carven with their delicate grotesqueries, and the servants—perhaps I should call them my servants as I am now the eldest—assist in the particulars. I have reached an age where I am confident in delegating the details. What happens outside my sight I am certain will happen correctly. In my old age I am content, and proud, merely to light the candles.
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