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{ 𝚂𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝟷 }
Even in the deadest of Winter, the manor was warm, the large open fire always roaring beneath the hearth in the main hall, the iron guarding prickling against the heat. It was stifling, the very walls seeming to curve from the thick air, the floors creaking from the strain. And from the chimney top, cleaned once a year only, toppled thick pummels of smoke, joining with the remnants of the adjacent fire in the kitchens, and then with the clouds of black that drifted from the tiny, ground keeper's cottage.
The smell was awful, more like burning bodies than the fresh-cut wood from their land, which was stacked neatly in an iron basket in each room of the decadent house. The smoke seemed to seep in beneath surfaces, weaving into the fabrics of the clothes that were bundled away into grand wardrobes. Even Lady Sybil's silken nightwear was contaminated with the retched stench, no matter if they'd been washed more than twice already.
There was nothing she could do to keep her mind from cringing at the charred scent that radiated from her surroundings as Mrs Gardner, her Lady's maid, listed her chores and commitments for the week in the same drawling manner she always did. Sybil's nightgown, a pristine white again her deep and dark complexion, lay bunched in her hands as her slim fingers picked at the threads, the twisting, cream patterns far more interesting than anything the old woman could have to say.
"And tomorrow, an eight o'clock breakfast with the Earl of Canterbury followed promptly with an engagement with the foreign minister on your mother's behalf," Mrs Gardner read, her droopy eyes never lifting from the paper in her hands. "We won't have time for lunch tomorrow either, as you have a charity commitment with the football committee on behalf of your father."
Sybil sighed inwardly, her chest tightening with annoyance. It was always the same, useless things day in and day out, dragging through the hours. There was no volunteering at kitchens, no fundraising for schools, only boring, pretentious banquets with equally tedious, ancient men. Often, she wondered how successful her parents might have been, had they put the same time and effort into meaningful things as they did with their social-climbing schedules. But any thought on that would be little more than a wild, impossible dream.
"No, oh no," she shook her head, closing her eyes. Her resentment boiled at the thought of having to go along with it even for a single day.
"Your sister has scheduled a visit at four o'clock and then a dinner with your aunt and uncle who are visiting from Australia," Mrs Gardner said.
"No. I cannot!" Sybil shouted, throwing her head back against the pillow.
Her Lady's maid looked appaled. "Why ever not?"
"I can't do this anymore! Each day I'm used as a puppet. Why can't I put my time into something useful, something meaningful?" she wailed, hands running up and down her face. "Oh, I can't do it!"
