Everyone, meaningthem.
Ellen turns to me, and I nod firmly.
I have absolutely zero plans of venturing anywhere near the Tate brothers.
Maybe I can avoid them altogether. They can’t stay here all the time.
I glance over my shoulder, and Ellen stiffens. “The doors are locked.”
When my eyes flash to her, she tilts her head. “In case you were thinking of trying to leave.”
The chains shake when I lift up my hands. “Where would I even go?”
Where could I run, when the whole fucking world is my enemy? At least right now, with my story splashed across the headlines. The thoughts tumble around in my head as Ellen leaves me to it, and I pull out the sweeping brush and mop.
Maybe… I could run. Eventually. Once they’ve forgotten my face, once they’ve moved on to their next piece of entertainment.
But for now, I’m well and truly stuck.
I shuffle back down the large, airy hall. The windows on either side of me stretch almost to the ceiling, and I’m already dreading trying to clean them later.
I start in the entrance hall. Sweeping first, working out how to place my feet to avoid tripping over the damn chains. I use the pan to sweep up the pile of dirt, placing it down on the table in the middle of the room with an apologetic wince. It’s not like I won’t be cleaning that too.
I carry the bucket down into the kitchen, filling it with hot water from the sink. Ellen watches me from her station as she chops vegetables, but she doesn’t say anything as I slowly drag the heavy load back up the steps.
The work might be physically hard, but it’s nothing new. My head empties as I work, methodically working from one end of the hall to the other. It seems like it’s been a while since theywere done at all, and I wonder absently what the other maid, Clara, actually does.
Not the floors, apparently.
It takes three buckets before just the one floor is done, and I glance up the small flight of stairs that leads to the longer hallway with a grimace. My stomach grumbles, and I take the bucket back to the kitchen, casting a hopeful glance in Ellen’s direction.
She sighs. “Sit.”
She’s stirring something in a pot on the cooker, and I watch as she ladles a large portion into a bowl. She slides it down in front of me, and I peer at the gray color. I can almost feel my appetite disappearing. “What… what is it?”
“Porridge,” she says briskly, covering the rest of the pot.
I take the spoon she hands me and poke at the surface. It doesn’t move. “Um. Does… does everyone have this?”
When Ellen shakes her head, my shoulders slump. Prison food.
Still, it’s better than what they gave me in my cell. The porridge is surprisingly tasty, and I work my way through the entire bowl. It’s an effort not to swipe my finger around the edges as I take it to the sink and wash it out. I could easily have eaten another bowl at least. Ellen pours me a glass of water, and I gulp it down before rinsing that out too and heading back out to work before she can tell me.
It takes me the rest of the morning to scrub the other floor. The dirt caked into the wood makes me wonder if anyone has actually cleaned it since the last time I was here.
This house used to be spotless.
By the time I’m done, there’s a large pile of dirt heaped into a spare bucket on the table, and the floor is gleaming wetly. I rest the mop inside the bucket and take it in, basking in the satisfaction of a job well done.
Now on to one of the hundreds ofotherthings I have to do today.
Sighing, I turn to take my dirty water back to the kitchen. Something sounds above my head, and I pause, glancing up at the cream ceiling.
Footsteps.
Swallowing, I move down a step, and then another, cursing the chains that stop me from racing back to the safety of the kitchen.
“Well. Whatdowe have here?”
