The route down the corridors was just as dark and musty as usual. These Neo-Renaissance houses always seemed to accumulate so much dust without even trying. Something about a rustic aesthetic that made them so difficult to clean. It was even more difficult to clean when you weren't even the latest model, rapidly outclassed by more and more new ones, the end result of rooting around in a curiosity shop. He was not sure if the rustic aesthetic comprised literal rust, too. It was the only way it would have made sense.
The Fairhearts were a wealthy family, and could seemingly afford shortcomings like these. They could also seemingly afford to turn up their noses at the wealth of sleek new technology this decade had to offer, opting to live in a Romantic Era-time warp. They looked the part, too. The only giveaway was the inconvenienced look on the elder sister's face at the end of the hallway.
"Look at it," muttered Frances. "I hope the house will be clean in time. It's taking hours." Frances was tall, elongated, standing in the shadow. The most prominent part of her face was the slender nose angled down, the hallmark of a matured human- the one that the younger sister standing beside her didn't have.
"I'm sure it won't matter." For what she lacked in physical maturity, the younger Fairheart made up in smiles. "If he'll judge us solely on a bit of dust, I shan't like him, I don't think." Matilda, or Tilda as she was known, turned curious purple eyes to the cleaner down the corridor. "Bless him, look. He's been working for us for years."
"Yes, well." Frances began to turn away. "Perhaps we should just get a new model and paint it. This is getting irritating." The black cape she wore grazed the floor as she made her way towards the stairs. "Come on, Matilda. Come upstairs and pick a dress."
"I'll be there in a minute," she grinned. "We've got plenty of time, after all. It's only mid-morning."
The elder vanished up the stairwell with a muttered complaint about presentation. Matilda spared her the briefest of looks and padded away. She made the faintest of sounds on the stone flooring, as though she were only a housecat. "I think the clothes I'm wearing today are just fine," she said. "Don't you?"
A scan revealed the specific articles of apparel- lightweight material, white, possibly cotton voile. Comprised of capelet and dress. Embroidered with rosa floribunda. Subject does not like shoes. He didn't understand human hang-ups about clothing. It was a good thing she usually kept hers quite simple.
"Affirmative." The answer to the query was an easier task than cleaning.
"See, that's why I like you, Essie." The name, despite not being official by any means, always struck up an important flag. "They nitpick so much. They won't let me come down the stairs until I'm perfect, I bet. In fact, you know what? I'm not a big fan of this whole business. I don't want to meet him. God, it's making me so mad!"
Common symptoms of human anger were reddening flesh, increase in blood pressure, a change in diction, increased probability of violence and louder volume. Matilda never seemed to possess these things, but her word was veritable enough.
"Tilda." Controlling his own volume was difficult. "Ornamental horticultural therapy can reduce perceived stress levels. Presence of greenery can increase positive energy."
"Oh?" There was never a sharp edge to be found on her face. Her geometry was round, curved, soft- humans and robots were quite alike in this regard. The newer model was always smoother, easier on the vision. "Oh, Essie. You make me laugh! Is this your funny way of telling me we should go on a walk?"
'We'. A pronoun. A powerful variable.
"Affirmative."
"Heehee. If you say so. You mean in the garden, right?"
