[It's murder mystery time! So warnings concerning blood and death and all the foul language you'd expect when faced with these kindsa things.]
The worst of the season was upon them. Even the forest of architectural wonder that was Reajh could do little to quell the sheer violence of nature that rattled shutters and whipped banners, the dull thud of rocking signs barely discernable over the cracking of thunder. Early into the evening though it was, most had taken to their homes or otherwise hunkered down in the nearest ale house, content to call the rest of the day a wash and keep where it was warm and dry.
Of course, this didn't really mean much if you lived where you worked, and all your duties were indoors anyway. It just meant that you had to deal with entirely bored children at the same time, and for a young maid like Petra with absolutely zero maternal instincts to speak of, this was a punishment far worse than a few wet clothes.
The bombardment of rain gave the air a kind of ethereal gloom, and coupled with the kind of cold, quiet politeness of an upperclass home, every room felt downright spooky. Like they were full of ghosts lingering in dark corners and waiting to strike. Not that Petra was afraid of ghosts— or at least, not here. The Wartenbergs were good, decent people, and while this home had been in the family for generations, Petra couldn't see any one of them doing something so... unsavory like haunting a house.
Ghosts, after all, belonged to those without direction or purpose. And everyone in the Wartenberg manor had both in spades. A little bubble of pride welled in Petra's chest, and she set her candle down on the long bureau with the kind of finality that, if there were any ghosts (which of course there weren't), they would surely see in her body language that she simply did not have the time for nonsense, and if they were so keen on frightening someone they'd best take their ghostly business elsewhere.
She had windows to clean, after all, and the Wartenberg manor was a very large home indeed. Petra shook out the curtains, thick and perfect for keeping out winter chills, brushed them free of dust and, somehow still, evidence of fluffy ginger cats that had not lived in the home since the days of Mr Wartenberg's great aunt. Petra and the other maids often complained that they'd each be old crones by the time they finally cleared the place of fur, and considering Mr Wartenberg's great aunt had at least ten of the spoiled creatures, that complaint seemed to be very realistic indeed.
Tying the curtains back once more, Petra took up her rag and set to gently and methodically wiping each individual pane, pressing her thumb in just so as she ran it along the circular grooves in one. Streaks were not acceptable, and so she took her time,squinting against the constant storm of raindrops on the other side of the cold glass. It was always a little more difficult to tell if the glass was truly clean like this, but as this was one of many guest rooms that hadn't seen use in the past week or so, Petra was secure in the belief it would turn out spotless.
A particularly noisy gust of wind blew up and rattled the panes, and somewhere down on the city road something toppled over with a splintering crack. It was loud enough that even Petra heard it on the second floor, and she squinted out the window to see if she could spy just what had taken a fall.
It looked, at first, just like some poor bastard caught in the rain. But something didn't seem right. Too tall, too shadowy, and too keen on kicking a foot free of a wooden bucket, Petra squinted harder as the figure finally got loose and took off down the gloom of the street, movements hurried and quick and a bag clutched tight to their chest.
Well, whatever that was about, it was none of Petra's business. She'd done enough daydreaming, and so ran her cloth along the bottom edge of the window to finish it off. Another gust of wind, and then, mercifully it seemed, it died down to a low lull. Those were always the strangest moments in the storm, when it got so quiet it almost felt too quiet, and Petra was struck again with the sensation of lingering ghosts. She looked out the window, watched the flicker of rain in the dim light, and settled on the manor across the way. It belonged to a new family, not the original owners by even a mile. Petra had heard the older servants gossiping about the brewing magnate and his young wife and their newborn child. Sudden, new wealth and an unknown lineage tended to bring about nastier rumors than usual, but that was usually just pointless vindictiveness from those who felt envy too close in their hearts.
Still, reputations were reputations, and Petra had heard enough of those rumors to be very glad indeed that she worked for the Wartenbergs and not these... Brandts. And wherever their sudden influx of fortune came from. Petra certainly didn't know anyone who had gone to work in that house, either, but every now and again they could see shadows moving beyond the windowpanes, unknown servants going about unknown work for a relatively unknown man— which was just as unsettling as anything else. She squinted even further still, with some thought of maybe trying to catch sight of one of these shadowy housekeepers going about their potentially nefarious business.
It was a far sight more likely than ghosts, after all.
But the rain was still such that it was hard to see much of anything at all, and the dim candlelight from the Brandt estate's windows didn't do much to alleviate that problem. Petra was about to give up and go home, when a sudden peal of lightning struck high and loud in the sky, illuminating everything in a bright white-blue wash of elemental fury.
It was in this brief moment that Petra saw it. Her eyes widened, her heartbeat drummed fast, and her breath caught in her throat. But no, it couldn't be, that wasn't—
Another crack of lightning and boom of thunder, and this time when the light dimmed, it was to a long shriek of horror, Petra's finger pointing wildly out the window even as her screams drew every other member of the household to the guest bedroom. At first there was only confusion, peppered with annoyance at a young girl letting the weather and her imagination get the best of her.
But the weather and her imagination weren't responsible for the violent vibrant splatter of red against the third upper window of the Brandts' home, thick and far too plentiful to mean anything good. Suddenly, everyone was moving, boots thudding against the hard wooden floors as Mr Wartenberg and his teenage son ran down and across the street in the rain: suddenly there was movement everywhere, even in the Brandt estate, as the doors opened to confused servants and shouted words were lost to the stormy winds.
It was only after Petra had been pulled away from the window and down into the kitchens, and only after her third mug of hot tea that they got the news:
Martin Brandt had been murdered.