20 In 5 -- Vol. II -- Time To Retire

Time flies...
when it doesn't crawl.

The nattily-frocked man climbed the long spiraling staircase, the large silver tray balancing an equally-shiny teapot and a cumbersome heavy mug. Upon the narrow landing, the man stopped to look at the massive grandfather clock, of dark walnut and brass trim, the large ivory face with hands pointing silently and motionless to 9:34. The man had carefully set the clock last night, as he did every night, the last task before he retired.


Breathing a deep sigh, the man tread down the hallway and up a short staircase to the upper chamber's massive oak door, its grain almost glowing from the gaslight on the wall. Placing the tray carefully on the settee, the man knocked precisely, two taps, then two more.


"Come in!" came the muffled reply. Composing his features, the man opened the door, picked up the tray and walked into the room.


Upon the massive canopied bed lay Reginald Farnsworth IV, scion of a titled line that acquired it on the battlefield at Hawthorn. Some said the title passed hands after the battle, when the wounded were supposed to be sought for aid and comfort, not gain. The man thought about that ever so often.


Farnsworth was a wispy old man with cotton-white flecks of hair upon a mottled skull. His eyes were rimmed with red, a sharper crimson than his nose. His hands, crablike and stained, flittered on the double coverlet that smothered his withered legs. His voice was the pale echo of a rasp on tin. "Finally. Is that my tea?"


The man placed the tray on the bedside table "Yes, sir, as it is every night at this time."


A grunt. "You didn't forget did you? It is peppermint tea, right?"


Nary a flicker of face or eye. "Yes, sir. As every night."


A wet gurgle became a cough. "Two lumps then." The man nodded, an unspoken Same as every night lingering in the air.


Farnsworth sipped the tea with drooling lips, his wan cheeks flushing with heat. He barely replaced the mug on the tray before falling back limply on the pillows he'd piled days ago and hadn't let another hand touch since. "Morrison?"


"Yes, sir."


"How long have you been with my family?" An old question. Yes, indeed.


"Since the old Earl was a lad, sir. Your grandfather, Farnsworth the Second."


The red-rimmed eyes opened craftily. "Many years, eh, Morrison?"


"Yes, sir." Morrison let his thoughts drift for a moment, a moment of weakness he would later chide himself for.


"...old man's will, you are due for retiring soon. Isn't that right, Morrison?"


Slightly startled, Morrison glanced at the tray and then the mug. "Sir. That is correct."


Farnsworth IV sat up shakily. "Two years from now, if I remember correctly."


Morrison shook his head slowly. "My apologies, sir, more than that."


"Three?" grinned the old skull.


"Less than that, sir. Somewhat less than that."


The old man slumped. He heaved as if sobbing. "Take it away! Take that bloody awful tea away!"


Morrison nodded, grabbed the tray and began walking out of the room.


"What's to become of me when you retire?" cried Farnsworth IV, his ragged voice cracking.



--
 
Continued in Volume II of "20 in 5." Please purchase a copy today to finish "Time To Retire" available directly from Smashwords in a variety of e-book formats. Or you can purchase it from the Mis Tribus eBook Store. 


Included are the ending to "Time to Retire" along with 19 other flash fiction stories. Brought to you directly by Mis Tribus.