The lights in the receiving room kept flipping on and off, and on and off, and on, and off. He had been standing here for the last several minutes, watching this summer home that had apparently taken on a mind of its own – or more likely lost it judging by the on. and. off. He sucked his teeth, pulled on his gloves, and squared his shoulders as he went to solve this mystery.

Quietly, he trode up his paved path and up the cheery wooden stairs, though the rattle of keys was pronounced in the still night. The door eased open, and looming in it was the master of the house, mouth puckered like he ought have sucked a lemon.

Oh how delightful! Mr. Meijer was in York and wouldn't be back until tomorrow! And that terribly unpleasant woman, Miss Meijer was staying with a friend somewhere in Edinburgh and wouldn't be home for a full week. It wasn't her birthday, but it certainly felt that way. She felt so much more at ease when they were not around, and there was so much less work to do. It had been alright with just Mr. Meijer, who spent a lot of time in York. But Miss Meijer seemed to have moved in permanently and though Rose wouldn't have considered it possible before, she was worse than Mr. Meijer. Oh what a delightful break!

Rose knew she should go to bed, but she wasn't tired yet. Instead, she walked around the house, pretending she was a wealthy woman, ordering servants around, and all these rooms were hers. She owned a house with electric lighting. It continued to fascinate her. Rose stood still at the entrance of every room and switched the light on. And off. And on. And off. What a wonderful invention it was! She moved to the next room, and continue the same, delighted. And on and on.

And then she heard the key turn in the keyhole and she jumped. Rose rushed to the entrance hall, looking straight into Mr. Meijer's sour face with horror. Rose felt flutters of fear in her stomach. Mr. Meijer's displeased expressions were the stuff nightmares were made of. "Welcome home, ser. I didn't expect ye back until tomorrow, or I would have put a fire on in the drawin' room. Can I get ye owt?"

[CW: Sexism, morbid death fantasies]

The stuff of nightmares twitched further downward at fully laying eyes on Rose. So redheaded. So Wardish. So, abominably Simon Rose. How long was it going to take for her to have some ill-fated affair and blissfully croak in childbirth?

Preferably alongside Uriel's harpy, at the same time. Hardly physically possible (unless, dear God, the harlot lived to birth another!), but a man could dream.

"Rose," he deadpanned. "What was that?"

His eyes flicked to the light above them in disapproving emphasis.

Rose was trembling. So Mr. Meijer had noticed? Her mind raced, looking for an excuse, but it was hard to think while she felt herself turning red and sweating. "I-I was just inspectin' t' rooms before goin' in for t' night, ser. I thought I heard som't an' it might be a burglar." Her accent got thicker, as it tended to do when she was under stress.

Zechariah stared, lip curled in open contempt.

“You were,” he stepped to the switch and paraphrased: “inspecting for a burglar …” he flicked it off, and then on, and then off, and then on again, “like this?” Flick, flick. “And this?” Flickflick. “And this?”

Even in the dark, his gaze did not relent.

Rose could feel her face burning. Her knees felt weak and she did not dare to move, lest she should fall. She cringed every time he switched off the light. What was she to say to that?

"I..." she began in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. Thought it might frighten the burglar? That would sound as stupid as it did in her head. "I'm sorry, ser..."

“Of course you are,” he said, sounding precisely 0% convinced.

She was sorry. That she had been caught.

"Can I get ye owt, ser?" she tried to change the subject - unconvincingly, for her voice was barely audible.

Please don't fire me.

Actually, please do!

No! Please don't fire me.

He hated the local low-class accent. Even if he’d thrown himself drunkenly across Simon’s lap one night and told him to count the stars just so he could marvel at it.

“Get me what?” Zechariah deadpanned, just to watch her squirm.

Squirm she did. "Like tea, ser?" she said in an even smaller voice.

The slightest displeasure in his face or voice was enough to make her lose sleep. This was enough to give her nightmares for weeks.