THE SICKNESS.

The girl

She was a small scrawny thing. Jagged in the way a knife would be if it was abandoned in a place without light for a very long time. She didn't meet Lucille's eyes as the caretaker introduced her to Mrs D'avencourt.
"This is Kettle. She's the girl I was telling you about Your grace. I think she'd make the young mistress a suitable companion."
The caretakers voice was sickly sweet, each word cloying around Lucille's head like aging molasses. Her tone was that awful subservient lilt that everyone took on when they spoke to her mother. Mrs. D'avencourt barely glanced at the girl in question before turning to Lucille with a slight impatience that only those who knew her would recognize,
"Well? What do you think? she is to be your servant after all."
Lucille turned to properly look at the girl and was met with a look of such intense disgust that it briefly took her breath away. The hatred in her eyes was just barely disguised by the practiced blankness on her face. Lucille felt her heart speed up with an awful unfamiliar excitement.
"I think she'll do just fine mother. Just fine indeed."
The girls eyes darkened in momentary surprise before the curtain of trained indifference fell over her expression once more.
"If she would have me, I would be honored to serve the young lady."
Her voice was as plain and uninteresting as the rest of her. That seemed to satisfy Lucille's mother and the purchase was made. She cost about 70 faras. Cheap in those days.

In the garden of her mother's ancient house, Lucille watched the girl stir the pale pink contents of a tea cup. She added honey and the juice of half a lime to it. Every movement she made was steady and careful. Her face remained impassive and unreadable while her determined movements caused whatever was in the porcelain cup to become floral in its scent. Like roses left too long in a vase until they died. Her skin was the dusky rusted tone of all the serving classes. It looked dull and ruddy against the dark green of the maids uniform she wore. Her hair was full and curly, the color of a ravens wings, even while it was held back in a severe bun at the top of her head by a cheap looking black ribbon.
"Tell me your name. What are you called other than Kettle?"
Lucille asked. She studied her own hands while waiting for an answer. They shimmered with the alabaster whiteness she'd inherited from her mother, a stark contrast to the velvet darkness of her upturned sleeve.The only thing mother and daughter had in common. The only thing that showed that Adelaide D'avencourt was related to her in any way.
"Nilou is the name I was given at the farms."
The girl said. There was no evidence of emotion in her voice but beneath the obedient response was a delicious curtness that Lucille savoured at the back of her throat. The girl's eyes were as black and fathomless as the intention Lucille felt stirring deep in her heart. She wanted to reach with her hands into the girls chest and feel her heart, warm and wet with life, fluttering between her fingers.
"Do you know, Nilou , that I may do anything I wish to you? Anything at all...and you wouldn't have a say in it?" Lucille was unsure exactly why she said it. The girl's name felt foreign in her mouth. She wanted to see what other expressions the girls face could have. She wanted to see her eyes light up with something other than that awful blank serval look. The girl trained her eyes on Lucille, or rather on Lucille's Hair. She wouldn't meet her eyes.
"Yes young miss. I am aware."
Her voice gave nothing away. Disappointment fluttered along the walls  of Lucille's stomach like a dying moth.