He chuckles. “Right. I’m away, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, Rosie Ryan.”
My sense of calm leaves with him. Facing Bianca, I sigh loud and long for her to hear, and she shifts her feet. “I’m wore to the bone, Bianca. Now’s not the time to unload your troubles on me.”
She’s not the kind of girl to wait, and I’m well aware of it. She blocks the door and lifts her chin. “Did you speak with Mrs. Evans yet? Did you put in a good word for me?”
“Honestly, Bianca. I’ve only been working a month, and you’re still not seventeen.”
“Next month I will be. What’s the difference?”
I don’t know, but I will not rock the safe, comfortable boat I’m on. She thinks I’m being proud when I don’t answer. Maybe I am. I’m not sure. I’m very tired.
She leans in. “Are you better than me, Rosie? Is that what you think? That you can get a job and I can’t?”
“You have a job. Quit acting the maggot, would you?”
“I’m not taking care of screamingbambiniforever. Come on. Speak with Mrs. Evans, why don’t you.”
It’s exasperating the way she keeps on. “You’ll not move me on this. Now, step away. I’m going to bed.”
I feel her glaring at my back as I go inside. If she thinks this is the way to get me to do her a favour, she’s not too bright. I’m not sure what to do about Bianca, if I’m honest. I’ve known her my whole life. She’s a sweet girl, truly. Granny calls her a Gypsy, even though she’s Italian, not Romani. Mind you, she’s gotten into trouble in the past for taking things, but nothing much, and haven’t we all? When a person gets hungry enough, they’ll grab an unguarded loaf of bread. That’s the way it goes. As long as she’s quick, she gets by. So far, she’s been fairly quick.
The apartment is cool in its concrete shell, but it’s summer, so that’s all right. A benefit of working hard is that I sleep like a log. I wake up hours later in the exact same position. When I get to work, where we have a mirror, I see lines from where the pillow pressed into my face. But I’m young. I have seen much older people live with these kinds of hours.
Kiera is not in the chambermaids’ room when I arrive, and Deirdre is subdued.
“Is Kiera not well?” I ask.
Deirdre shakes her head. “She was fired. She told Mrs. Evans something about her guest, she says. You remember when she asked us that in her office? Kiera said something, and Mrs. Evans let her go on the spot.”
“?‘No one wants a gossip around,’?” I quote Mrs. Evans, but I am a little shocked by the severity of the punishment. Kiera’s family needs that income.
When I think of Kiera, I’m reminded of what a talker Bianca is. If I do get her in to see Mrs. Evans for an interview—and since Kiera is gone, I know we are one chambermaid short—she will have to obey that rule. The trouble is that Bianca likes attention. She likes to talk. A lot. And that is not what Mrs. Evans wants in an employee of the Dominion Hotel. I’ll have to think on it some more.
As a chambermaid, I am usually on my own, but sometimes I see other staff during my daily rounds. A week after my raise, I finish my morning rooms, then happen unexpectedly onto Mrs. Evans. You could have bowled me over with a feather when she invites me to her office for a cup of tea.
“How are you enjoying the Dominion Hotel?” she wants to know.
I can see that she’s comfortable sitting in her nice chair. I am not. I have the heebie-jeebies and am sitting stiff as a board, waiting to be fired. For what, I have no idea. I can’t even touch the tea sitting in front of me. I tell her it is a grand job, and I am grateful to have it.
“Have you met other members of the staff?”
“Not really, ma’am. There’s a lot to be done, as you know.”
She smiles. “It’s all right to be human as well as a good worker, Miss Ryan. Do you have a few minutes to spare? Come with me, and I will introduce you to some others.”
“Ma’am?”
Sure, I’m knocked sideways as she leads me toward the front lobby, a place I’ve never been before. I freeze at the entrance, astounded by the beauty of the space. The room feels rich and welcoming to anyone who can afford to be there. White marble pillars stand around the room, holding up a second storey, and that has an indoor balcony, painted in… well, I’ll say nothing more, for I’ve no words for it. The walls are dark oak, and the area shines with polished bronze, all lit up by chandeliers so grand I couldn’t have dreamt them. The oak-paneled ceiling might as well be the sky, it’s so high. And under that? The thick, dark carpet sinks under my shoes, and I’m careful where I step. Flower-and-crown emblems are woven into its fibres, like the provincial coats of arms in the ceiling panels, and I do not want to leave a mark. Scattered among plush armchairs and tables are little trees with long, thin leaves on top.
“What are those trees?” I whisper, afraid to make a sound in this place. It feels almost sacred.
“Palm trees,” she replies, but she does not whisper. “They grow naturally in tropical climates. The hotel brought them here specifically. Come along, Miss Ryan.”
I follow her blindly, my attention on the splendour of the room.
“This is Stan Miller,” Mrs. Evans says, introducing me to a pimply-faced boy in a red-and-black uniform. He wears a little round cap on his head.
“Stan is a bellboy. Good morning, Stan. This is Miss Ryan.”
