Cinder-saster

Chapter 3

Upon the dewy grey of a chilled six a.m my body had worked on its own to make me proper and priss.

My bag hung stiff on my shoulder, my hair picked up and still completely whipped about letting it vibe in a coiff left sweep.

I didn't look like me.

Great.

"Miss Harley time to--"

"Already up and ready," I hollered to the surprised maid. "Oh and I'll just make myself a smoothie."

On my way to open the door I shamefully bumped into what I was still learning was a wider doorframe.

Mrs. Nellie Hannigan raised her brow, the stern aura of a wiser much more indominable woman forcing me to falter.

"I don't want to-- put you out?" I tried to lie.

"Nonsense, none of that now dear girl," she snapped. "At the table post haste or you'll see a nuisance yet."

"Yes ma'am."

I dashed in her wake, smiling all the while.

Spry for her sixty-five there was still the fatigue of a worked woman. Twenty-two years with the Forcetts spazzed her rigid bun of red hair, now colored in rinds of grey. Sometimes back pains would keep her hunched over an entire day.

Not that my step-siblings cared.

I remained dutifully settled in my seat and marveling to the spread before me.

Something about her food, maybe the presentation or continued sounds of work in the kitchen, just warmed my soul.

Back in my Dad's house the staff he hired were... colder. Cut of a stock image.

Cook, set, repeat.

From each and every corner I nabbed hot, buttery croissants, jelly spread beside butter, sausage, a generous helping of veggie bacon, and sunny side eggs.

Devouring each bite my cheeks swelled to that of a chipmunk.

And then the sound of the juicer stopped.

"Miss Harley," hummed a cheery falsetto. 

Uh oh.

"By any chance are you," she prodded Scottish accent rough and thick, "avoiding the Masters Fred and Clarissa. Know I can't have that now do you? A happy home is a full home and besides, you're going to choke and give poor me a heart attack eating so sloppily."

I spilled the mound from my mouth, utensils down. I'd lived here long enough to know.

Never. Cross. The. Accent.

"Just remember, manners are one of the less diatribe parts of high society life."

I'd rested my head in my hand, a sleepless night of seething and mental shopping filling the hours.

"Huh? What?"

"Look it up Miss," she said feigning passivity yet sounding just a little haughty.

By that point any reprieve I had was cruelly shattered by Clarissa and Fred.

Both strutting about in Winmeinster Day uniforms. Only they looked the part of Trust Fund babies.

"Nellie no juice? Ugh and I was counting on that weight loss blend." Clarissa simply clicked her tongue. "Oh well."

I paid Fred a glare when he flopped down on the chair beside me, looking more than a little disgusted. 

"Morning Harley," she squealed hugging me tight, and ruining my silent gobbling showing off an open mouth of mashed food. "Hmm well I mean except that hair. Ugh so, so drab. Not fit for a girl like you. At. All."

"Stop. It."

Stiff I combatted her attempts to pull away the pins and band. 

I continued to whine at no avail as she simply tangled me within her embrace. 

"None of that now," Hannigan commanded. 

Clarisse bit her lip realizing she had put her hands up. 

"There now. Eat young masters and please Clarissa," her voice then turned soft, "hands to yourself dear."

"Fine," and then she turned dangerously gleeful eyes towards me. "Now that complexion. I have just the palette just for you my sweet little sister--"

"No," I insisted firmly. 

"But--"

"No way," I repeated. 

"Harry be a pal," Fred chided long and annoying. "Can't have the snobs at school figuring out all the rumors were true. I mean a Forcett at a Convent?!" He shuddered at the idea. 

"I would be so humiliated. Everyone is already going to be vicious for new details. So what do you say?" Clarissa added tag-teaming her brother. 

"Thank you for your concern," I said coldly and curtly. I wanted to punch her. "But I am perfectly secure so if you will please excuse me, I forgot something."

The mild, placid smile fell from my face, stomping up the stairs.