Tricks of the Trade

Cecilia and Coriander soon joined the line of maids in the main hall, all armed with dusters, cloths, and brooms. The two hurriedly scuttled into formation, blending into the long row of identical frills and aprons before the head steward. Finally taking full count of the whole crew, the steward gave a curt nod, causing the group to disperse. Each woman vanished down one of the long, shadowed corridors, scattering like mice determined to divide and conquer the house in systematic silence.

Thankfully, no one caused a fuss over Cecilia trailing behind Coriander like a shadow; most fortunately, Coriander seemed glad for it.

“Stay close,” Coriander murmured, leading Cecilia into the first of the drawing rooms. As soon as the door opened, Cecilia was wrapped in an elegant air, the velvet curtains half-drawn against the pale light and the breeze that was allowed to sneak in bringing a cool, faintly perfumed stir with it. Dust motes floated like tiny sprites in the shafts of sun that pierced the gloom, dancing and catching the limited light just long enough to catch the corners of her eyes.

“I feel the need to warn you before the situation arises,” Coriander said. She expertly set aside small knickknacks and bric-a-brac to survey the cumulated collections of dust and debris nested on and around them. “The lord is hosting his annual ball in a week’s time. That means our regular workload will be increased tenfold on a good day. Between juggling our guests’ needs, ball preparations, and the general wills and whims of the festivities, you will need look out for yourself alongside everyone else.” Looking up from the countless shelves in need of wiping and polishing, she reached up to Cecilia’s face, tucking away a stray hair that had escaped the confines of her cap. “Everyone will judge you on your personal neatness before the quality of your work, so keep that in mind.”

Cecilia nodded quickly.

“Try not to nod too fast,” Coriander added, lips twitching into something between a smile and a smirk. She tried to hide it behind her hand, but the mirth in her eyes were not so hidden. “It makes you look like a scolded child. It’s better to appear steady, unaffected, even if you’re about to erupt inside.”

Cecilia nodded again, slower this time.

“Perfect,” she said, a full smile stretching her lips now. “Now come—I’ll show you what comes next.”

…

The hall outside smelled faintly of polish and candle wax. Coriander led her along narrow servants’ corridors, her shoes making no sound on the stone floor.

“The other staff will find you soon enough,” she said as they walked. “Some will test you with small cruelties, others will ignore you altogether. Don’t rise to either. Keep your head down, let your work speak for you. The ones who last here are the ones who learn when to pick a fight and when to be invisible.”

They passed another maid in the hall, one whose suspicious, narrowed eyes glanced at the new girl before whispering something under her breath.

What the hell is her problem?

The young maid wilted under the scrutinizing gaze of her more seasoned, judging colleagues. Any sense of belonging she had clung to was crumbling swiftly in such a dry, unrelenting environment.

Cecilia grit her teeth, threatening the fragile enamel between her grinding molars. God, she wanted to swat DMV’s voice like a pesky fly.

Coriander’s hand briefly touched Cecilia’s elbow, steering her onward without a word. Only when they had turned the corner did she murmur, “Don’t pay her much mind, she’s harmless, just thinks a sour tongue makes her more important. Don’t give her the satisfaction of flinching.”

Cecilia took a steadying breath, gave a slow nod, and they both continued on their way.

…

The kitchen was a fervor of clattering pans and rising steam. Each cook slaved away over burning ovens and bubbling pots, the whistling kettles and clashing saucepans building a deafening symphony. One of the cooks, back hunched and forehead pouring sweat, barked orders at a scullery boy who looked close to tears, all while another maid carried a tray heavy with silver cutlery. Cecilia stood dizzied in the doorway, overwhelmed by the catastrophic build of noise. It was a miracle that the cacophony stayed contained rather than resonating throughout the entire house, if not across the lands outside.

“Keep your shoulders straight,” Coriander said, voice raised yet barely audible over the commotion. “Even when you feel small or uncertain, labor through it. They will only question you if you question yourself first. If you look like you belong, they will believe you do.”

She guided her to the washing basin, showed her how to scrub the fine china without leaving streaks, how to stack the plates so they would not topple. Cecilia’s fingers burned in the hot-hot water, vapors floating up and away in thick puffs, but she said nothing.

Coriander nodded. “It’s good that you don’t complain. That will serve you well.”

…

When the bell rang upstairs, sharp and insistent, Coriander pulled Cecilia away from the basin—a welcome abduction.

“Now, listen closely. This is where your temperament matters most.”

They climbed the servant’s stair, a narrow spiral of stone that smelled damp and dank; no doubt their own quarters could use their dedicated touch if ever they had the time or energy to do so. At the landing above, the light changed; they were no longer swathed in the warm flicker of the kitchen, but showcased by the pale, cold glow of chandeliers and mirrors. The air itself seemed heavier.

“This is the guest wing,” she murmured, her tone hushed as if the walls themselves were listening.

Cecilia did not blame her; the hall seemed to stretch into infinity, hosting more rooms than she could count on both hands, and Lord only knew how many guests were presently hidden behind those doors. She felt uneasy at the thought of anyone waiting on the other side, ear pressed to the door, crouched in wait for any opportunity to make a dramatic appearance—perhaps even a sudden, unexpected “gotcha” confrontation spurred on by some honest frustration overheard and ready to be abused.

“Walk with your eyes lowered, but not too low. You are here to serve, not to vanish. Some of them will pretend you’re not here, an object only as necessary as a supportive chair or table. That is a kindness. Others…” Her nose wrinkled, forehead creased in an emotion Cecilia had not seen overtake her yet. It left as quickly as it appeared, though, dismissed with a shake of her head. “Others will enjoy making you feel seen. Those are the ones you must handle carefully. Just remember—Remain polite and calm; never fluster, never give them a reason to pay closer attention.”

…

Down the wing’s spiraling hall they walked, Cecilia glancing through the line of crosshatched windows as Coriander straightened sporadic collections of medieval statues, ornate vases, and foreign souvenirs. Before Cecilia could move to peer closer through the hazy glass, perhaps even give the windows a thorough wiping while she was at it, the quick creak of a door cut through the comfortable silence, making the two women immediately snap to attention.

From the room closest to their position, just a few paces in front of them, a gentleman stepped out. Cecilia could not help but stare, wide-eyed and forcing herself to blink just to make sure she was seeing things correctly. The man was well-dressed, his pants neatly pressed and velvet waistcoat whimsically embroidered with gold thread. Even his blond hair was coifed in a lovely curl atop his head, leading to bushy sideburns that framed his face.

But his face…

It was blank. There was nothing that made his face a face—No eyes, no nostrils, no lips, no nothing; absolutely nothing that made it more than a mannequin, that made it definitively human.

Coriander glanced between the guest and Cecilia, a growing ghost of concern creasing her brow as the other stood frozen in place.

Cecilia’s lips hung parted, limp, unspeaking. What was there to say? This could not be real.

Well, it wasn’t, was it? This was a story, after all. But while DMV said it was a romance, this could not be more clearly a horror beyond her own comprehension.

The man, if it could be called that, rested his hands on his hips, shoulders pulled and chinned tilted upward, questioning. His eyeless gaze slid lazily toward the new maid, and Cecilia felt her stomach twist.

She could not tell if she was going to scream or throw up.

Before Cecilia could escalate the interaction, Coriander stepped half a pace forward, dipping into a perfect curtsey.

“Good morning, sir,” she said smoothly. “Your breakfast is being prepared. If you’ll give us but a moment, we would be so grateful for your continued patience.”

Said sir hummed, the sound reverberating from somewhere in his chest, though Cecilia could hear it so clearly in her ears and around the room. He seemed to linger on the taller maid for a beat, for a second, for another, before eventually turning away.

Once he was gone from view, Cecilia could not bite her tongue any longer, her eyes glued to the bend behind which the guest had disappeared. “What…” She blinked, shaking her head in a vain attempt to vanish the man’s appearance. “What on earth was that?”

“It’s overwhelming, I know, the guests are not always pleasant. But please, don’t let them get to you. With time, you’ll be able to answer questions they hadn’t known they had, cutting down on any possible snubs, intended or otherwise.”

Coriander gave her hand a firm squeeze, the pressure managing to tear Cecilia’s focus away from the shadow-veiled hall and back to Coriander’s presence.

Even so, Coriander did not meet her eyes. “Let them pass through you, without offering the resistance they would need to cling to you. Whether they are calm or contentious, they will move on so long as you do not give them a reason to stay.”