Morning Preparations

The uniform felt like a costume, like she had stepped into another woman’s role, another woman’s skin. The fabric was stiff, starched to dollish perfection, the lace collar scratching faintly at her throat. Each graze tickled her neck and chin uncomfortably, and it took everything in Cecilia not to tug on the delicate fabric until it stretched or tore away from her skin. Instead, as she stood restlessly in the back of the servants’ wing, she let it sit loose around her throat, saving herself from its elegant strangle.

My, oh my, look at you! DMV’s voice rang through the air, physically untraceable, simply omnipresent. You are finally leaning into the part. What a relief it is to finally have forward momentum to your first adventure.

“Scrubbing chamber pots and silver spoons isn’t exactly my definition of an ‘adventure’,” Cecilia countered monotonously.

It would benefit to show a bit more optimism in your position, he said. It almost sounded like scolding, though it was fringed with amusement. It is not a luxury someone of your station will find in abundance.

Cecilia rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to be sarcastic, you can put a cork in it,” she muttered, tugging at the cuffs of her sleeves. “I certainly don’t appreciate the patronizing.”

I believe it would be more appropriate to put a cork in your whine, if you want to make any progress. Now, DMV’s voice took a sing-song rhythm. You had better get to those chamber pots, Miss Cecilia! As your sister in arms warned, there is plenty to do.

God, what a prick.

Suppressing a guttural groan, Cecilia took a deep breath, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a tone of finality before releasing it and stepping through the door.

…

The corridor smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender polish, the hush of the great mansion pressing in around her. Despite the steadfastness she had shown in the not-face of DMV, at the top of the servants’ staircase, Cecilia could not help but feel a certain uneasiness in this uncertain reality before her. She found herself lingering in the transitionary limbo of the stairway, her hands knotted together as if she was not sure whether to stay or flee like the other servants before her, as Coriander had mentioned.

From a side door, another woman, donning an immaculate maid’s uniform herself, emerged carrying a stack of neatly folded linens. Between the dark hair tucked beneath her cap and brown skin glistening from sweat and exertion, Cecilia recognized Coriander easily, her step brisk but light.

It took only a moment for Coriander to notice Cecilia in turn. She neutral expression brightened before she set the linens aside, offering a kind smile like before, one so soft that it even softened the strictness of her uniform.

“Miss Cecilia, hello!” she greeted. “Did you find your uniform fitting? I do hope it’s not too restricting.”

Cecilia gave a small nod. “Yeah, it’s not too bad,” she answered. “It is pretty scratchy here and there, though.

Coriander laughed lightly. “Yes, unfortunately, that is the norm for outfits such as these. The layers can be quite constraining. There is not much we can do to combat it, but I have picked up on a few tricks myself.”

The seasoned maid’s hands were deft but gentle as she rebuttoned the stiff bodice of the uniform, fixing each misaligned lace and smoothing the fabric so it laid neat and proper. Coriander’s fingers moved with surgical precision, almost mechanically, as if she had performed these adjustments countless times. It was as though she was guiding the new maid through a ritual rather than a chore.

Yet, even still, with Cecilia she still maintained an air of patience and care that eased her tangled thoughts alongside her tense body. Cecilia watched the process closely—or rather, she watched Coriander, how her eyebrows sat at ease and her lips rested in a natural state of ease.

“The collar will feel tight at first,” she said softly, tugging it into place. From the pocket of her apron, she pulled out a small silver safety pin, easing it carefully in the fabric just off of the bob of Cecilia’s throat. “It always does. But don’t fight it, work with it. In fact, you should think of it as an armor. It reminds you to keep your chin high and your posture straight. You will need that confidence and strictness to thrive in this house.”

Cecilia gave a small chuckle. “You make this place sound like a battlefield.”

Coriander held her breath for just a heartbeat; it would have been indiscernible if not for the miniscule sigh she breathed afterward, only noticeable due to their physical closeness, the air ghosting warmly against the exposed skin of her neck. “You’ll get used to the collar biting your neck,” she said, tugging it straight and pinning the lace.

The sudden downturn in her tone made Cecilia’s chest clench, a painful pang resounding in its cavern. She had definitely misspoken, stuck her non-slip clogged foot in her mouth and said something wrong.

“It is meant to remind you where you stand,” Coriander continued, buttoning the last pearl on Cecilia’s collar. “Neat, upright, always present and silent.”

Cecilia’s expression lost a touch of its tenseness, mirroring Coriander’s empathy. “That sounds…”

Infuriating. Arrogant. Rude. Dehumanizing.

She bit her tongue, considering her words more carefully.

“It sounds like hard work.”

Coriander’s eyes were soft, sad, but the corners of her lips quirked upward. “It is a thankless job, but never underestimate the power of that same silence. It will save you more than cleverness ever could.”

By the time she finished retying the white apron neatly around Cecilia’s waist, the two could hear the house really begin to stir. From somewhere down the vast hallway systems came the muffled thump of heavy boots—footmen shifting furniture in preparation for the day’s routines—and the low murmur of voices in the kitchen around another couple of corners carried the chaos of clattering pans and the mouthwatering scent of freshly baked bread.

As a finishing touch, Coriander adjusted Cecilia’s cap with a quick, practiced tug. “There we are!” she chirped, taking a step back, eyes running over the woman from cap to shoes before her brown eyes met Cecilia’s black ones again. Her smile held such warmth that Cecilia felt steadier on her feet. “You look just the part now, Miss Cecilia.”

Cecilia blinked. Her collar may have been tastefully loosened, but she felt a strange tightness in her throat. Between Coriander’s careful ministrations and offered advices, managing to be simultaneously encouraging yet honest, Cecilia felt emotional in a strange, almost uncomfortable way. What was stranger, though, was how she did not entirely dislike it. “Coriander, I—”

The young woman, unshackled by the expectations of her newfound caste, did not easily accept those reflective assumptions from her seasoned peer.

It took everything within Cecilia not to visibly jump at the voice that rung all too clearly and far too loudly past the depths of her eardrums. While her mouth pulled into a tight grimace, she only managed to instead grind out, “You don’t have to keep calling me ‘miss’. Cecilia is just fine.”

Coriander nodded, her shoulders curling in on themselves slightly. “Very well,” she acquiesced, “If that is your preference, I am glad to oblige.”

Cecilia wanted to growl, both at herself and the miserable phantom of a voice haunting her from what felt like the corners of her consciousness.

Coriander, meanwhile, glanced to the side with a resigned expression, releasing a resolute sigh while her thoughts visibly buzzed about. “Well, now that that is all settled, we had better get a move on. It won’t be long now before the others grow too antsy at noticing our tardiness.”

Before Coriander could walk away, and before she could second-guess herself, Cecilia’s hand shot out to catch the other’s wrist. Coriander turned to face her again, surprise clear across her face, giving her a puzzled, concerned. “Cecilia?”

Cecilia swallowed, clearing her dried throat before speaking. “I wanted to say thank you,” she said quietly, voice softening. Her grip loosened from Coriander’s wrist, and she forced her arm back to her side. She looked to the side awkwardly, her fingers curling to rub against one another instead, offering herself some sense of grounding through this embarrassment, maybe even an uncomfortable kind of vulnerability. “It’s only been one morning, and it’s barely started, and I’m still feeling all confused and muddled and…bleh,” she muttered emphatically.

Coriander muffled a tiny giggle behind her hand, and the sound somehow managed to put Cecilia more at ease. “But,” she continued, dragging her gaze from the wall peeling with paint to the girl in front of her, “You’ve just been really patience and kind, even when I haven’t been the most receptive. So, really, thank you.”

The young woman’s eyes were misty, and she looked like she was holding back tears. Thankfully, her wide smile touched those fawn-brown eyes, and with a draw of a single finger under her lash line, she brushed away a threatening tear and beamed like the outside’s missing sun. “Of course!” She reached out to take Cecilia’s thin hands gently in her own. Her palms radiated warmth, their long-healed calluses a comforting quilt around her fingers. “It is our job to clean up messes, to keep things orderly regardless of difficulty. I will be here to help you, whether those problems be others’ or your own.” She weaved her fingers between Cecilia’s. “I will be by your side when you are in need.”

Cecilia found her own fingers following in Coriander’s lead, letting the digits wind easily together. Had the attic’s stairwell always felt this warm? She hoped her face was not as red-hot as it felt.

“Well, thank you, again!” Cecilia blurted, ears burning—visibly, no doubt. “I want to help you, too, however much I can,” she continued, squaring her shoulders, feeling the maid’s uniform stretch snugly against her frame. “I’ll follow your lead, so please take care of me in the meantime.”

“Gladly.” Coriander squeezed Cecilia’s hands in her own, holding them tenderly for another moment, sweetly long yet not close to long enough before she released them from their intertwinement.

While not as intimate a hold, though, she hold on to one of Cecilia’s hands, pulling her forward and toward one of the meandering hallways. “Now,” she said finally, “Let’s do our best today.”

Cecilia followed close behind her work senior, quietly drinking in Coriander’s balance of ease and determination, the practiced lightness of her footfalls, and the baby hairs at the base of her neck and curve of her ears.

In that moment, Cecilia decided.

For her and for the both of them, she would do her best, whatever that entailed.