Greeting Our Guests

The grandest section of the house, both in name and in stature, was saved as the finale.

The grand finale, one could say.

Ugh, that was so bad…Moving on from that…

At last, they came to the grand hall. Dreary light dribbled in through tall windows, catching in gleaming shards across polished marble floors. There was a small gathering of people here and there throughout—all of them guests, if their expressionless faces were anything to go by. They were all dressed beautifully, adorned in elegant dresses or posh suits; the clothes were measured in their elegance, no doubt consciously decided for an appropriate balance of displayed wealth and casualness.

And there—standing tall among the intimate crowd as if he owned the room, the house, and the world at large—was a man.

A man with a face. A handsome face, admittedly. Very handsome.

Marble skin was stretched taut across a strong brow and high cheekbones, sharp as arrows that led down to pink lips that curved into a faint, easy smile. He was speaking with another guest, but his presence filled the room like thunderclouds waiting to break. Tousled auburn hair tumbled across the nape of his neck and over the curve of his ears, the curls of his bangs framing his dark, heavily lidded eyes.

The man turned, just briefly, and that same gaze swept over to the two maids. They barely seemed to touch Coriander before they caught hers—and held them. It was unintentional, it had to be, but his gaze held longer than it needed to, longer than was comfortable.

His lips curved into a prominent smirk, just barely touching his eyes—whether in amusement or calculation, Cecilia could not say.

What she could tell was that it made her breath catch in her throat, a shiver shooting up her spine.

“Cecilia?” Coriander’s voice broke through her daze, bringing her back into the sea of pleasantries floating around them. Her black eyes met the other’s brown as Coriander asked, “Is something the matter? You looked startled.”

Cecilia tore her gaze away from the man, turning it on Coriander for just a moment to ask, “Who is—” By the time she glanced back up and toward him, finger already pointed, he was gone, disappeared in a matter of seconds. “That…?”

Oblivious to her heightened confusion, Coriander followed her finger’s direction with her eyes. Her eyes landed on the man’s previous conversation partner, already moved on and speaking mouthlessly with another guest. “Ah, I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t really tell from this far away. They all start blending together after a while, to be frank.” She looked up at Cecilia again, head tilted in question. “Why do you ask? Did someone stand out to you in particular?”

“Ah,” Cecilia mumbled. “I guess not. I must have just been seeing things.”

Something told her she would be seeing that face again sooner rather than later.

Cecilia would, indeed, be seeing his face in the near future, a reality she anticipated with bated breath and a beating heart.

She bit the inside of her cheek again, willing herself not to scream—this time in explosive frustration.

…

Later, as they slipped back into the servants’ corridor, Coriander allowed herself a warm smile as she gazed up at Cecilia.

“First mornings are never easy, but you’ve kept up and done so well.” She placed a reassuring hand on the other’s shoulder. “Continue as you have been. Keep your eyes and ears open, and learn from the others around you. This house has teeth, but it won’t bite you, not if you’re careful.”

Cecilia nodded—not too quickly this time, but with an unrushed confidence.

She had no idea what was in store for her going forward; she did not even know what the purpose was, if there was a way to naturally get through and out of this story. But regardless of any trial or questioning, she would not only endure, but progress.

…

Great hopscotching Christ, forget about progressing—Why were these chores so hard to just endure?

Cecilia followed Coriander’s movements as best she could—polishing the carved legs of chairs, shaking out draperies, and running a well-worn cloth along the gilded frames of ancient portraits she would feel too poor to look at in an art gallery, let alone touch with her thinly gloved hands. She supposed the recompense she paid was being glowered at by the subjects’ painted eyes, as each one—who she assumed were previous or even present residents of the manor—seemed to watch her with passive contempt. Every surface seemed to hold a memory, every corner whispering secrets of the house’s past—perhaps even its present, too.

She had expected the work to be demanding, but she had not quite anticipated how quickly it would beat her down. It could not have been much longer than an hour before her arms ached from scrubbing, and her apron quickly bore faint gray smudges. More than once, her grip slipped, causing her to nearly drop a vase or fumble a candlestick—considering the fate that befell the one in her room that morning, she did not want another waxen casualty. Despite her apparent ineptitude, each time she bumbled or stumbled, Coriander appeared at her side with a steadying hand or a soft word.

“Mind your grip, Cecilia.”

“Steady your breath, love, no need to panic.”

“Don’t look so tense, dear, you’ll get the hang of it in time.”

While Coriander was a great comfort, Cecilia found that, around them, the mansion felt both grand and suffocating. Each hallway stretched endlessly, staircases climbed into shadows beyond her eyesight, and every portrait seemed to lean closer whenever she passed. Perhaps she was just being paranoid, but the drawing room, as well as the house at large, seemed like a viewing case for any voyeur to peer into, and she was its contained centerpiece.

But with Coriander beside her—her laughter bubbling occasionally when some other maid cracked a quiet joke—the oppressive weight of the house felt more bearable, almost softening.

…

By midmorning, they paused in the servants’ corridor, catching their breath before the bell would ring, summoning them for their next round of duties. Cecilia leaned against the wall, brushing a loose strand of hair from her damp forehead.

“This is Hell,” she whined, the bell’s shrill call still shrieking in her ears. “And if it isn’t, at the very least it’s hellish.”

“You’re doing fine,” Coriander told her, passing her a damp cloth to freshen her hands. “No one is expecting from you perfection today. We just need your best efforts, and you’re doing wonderfully so far. You only need continue on your current pace.”

Cecilia managed a tired smile. “I think I’d be crumpled in that heap of wash cloths by now if you weren’t here.”

Coriander’s eyes twinkled. “It’s fortunate you aren’t without me then,” she said, half-jokingly, half-hopeful. With a determined huff, she pushed herself off of her seat and to her feet. “Well, we’d better get a move on; there is still plenty to get to yet.” She looked down to Cecilia, offering an encouraging, “It will be a long day, but I promise you that with time, it will get easier.”

Cecilia quirked an eyebrow with a small smirk, her demeanor both playful and challenging. “I think you just get used to the shit of the work.”

Coriander snorted, lightly smacking Cecilia’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t speak so crassly!” she exclaimed through giggles. “Though you’re not entirely wrong.” She gave a flex of her arm, and Cecilia noticed a faint yet visible bulge under the thickness of her sleeve’s fabric. “You certainly do gain strength in your labors. So, come on now; let’s see some muscle grow on your arms too!”

With that, Cecilia heaved a relenting sigh before standing up, straightening her apron, and following Coriander back into the labyrinth of the mansion, drawn to her voice like a lost moth to a lone flame.