The House of Beardsley

Chapter Three

That night, after the seven masters finished their dinner, we were sent to the drawing room to introduce ourselves. Rhiannon looked as emotionless as ever, Clo smirked in anticipation of it, maybe planning something, and Beth kept wondering out loud whether or not they were good-looking.

I seemed to be the only one stepping on my skirts and trembling. When we went up the stairs, I realized my hands had been in fists the whole time. I loosened them only to see imprints of my nail in my palms. It hurt.

"It's fine," Clo said, noticing me frowning at my palms—I must've looked stupid. "They might be your employers, but it's hard to find anyone willing to work here, so you have them in your palms."

"Really?" Beth asked, slowing down to catch up with us. "I wish we could talk to them though."

"We can't, Mister Kupka said we had to stay away from them," I said. "And it's not that I'm afraid they would be bad people, nor do I want something to hold over their heads—I just don't know. I've never had a home."

"And this won't be your home."

The cold voice surprised us. We looked up at the source—Rhiannon.

Her blue eyes were cold. Distant.

"This isn't your home, Shuyan."

I didn't know whether I was more surprised that she would talk to me or that she remembered my name. My real name.

"We aren't talking to you," Clo hissed. Rhiannon only turned away, and we continued walking through the hallway until we reached the parlor room.

It was even gloomier at night, with the curtains closed, only three lamps turned on, and a fire blazing in the fireplace.

The light casted tall and ominous shadows on the drearily dull floral wallpaper, and then Mister Kupka turned to us.

"Here they are," he said. "The four new maids we hired. Girls, line up."

At his command we lined up like we practiced before, Rhiannon, followed by Clo, then me, and lastly Beth. It was the order Mister Kupka had made, from tallest to shortest. We stared ahead and our hands were on our sides.

"This is Rhiannon Daugherty, who worked as a lady maid before for Miss Madison Granville, and her reference had high praise for her."

I peeked around the room, and was surprised to see the seven masters all facing us, staring at us as though we were on exhibition.

It was something I should be used to—in the orphanage people who came to adopt children always inspected me and questioned me like I was a creature—but there was something different about them.

Then I remembered: they had always lived without women. With the exception of three of them, the rest of them probably saw all four of us as equally curious.

"And the girl next to her is Miss Clotilde Hutchinson," he said, gesturing to her, "new to the service industry but she has work experience at a factory in Voxhollow."

"Why did you leave?" a little boy, with brown curls like a terrier, asked. He was wearing a dark blue suit, even as home, with trousers reaching his knees, knee-socks, and loafers. Even at home they dressed as though they were going to the royal theater.

There was a period of awkward silence before Clo cleared her throat while staring at Mister Kupka. Sighing, he nodded.

"You can speak if they ask you a question directly, Miss Clotilde."

"It's Clo, but thank you." She turned to the little boy and her face softened, into an expression I had never seen. "It wasn't a very nice job because people there were prejudiced against people of my kind."