Page 5 of The Silent Princess

Laundry. Empty the dishwasher. Vacuum the entire house and wash the floors. Clean the windows, and by that, I mean all twenty windows in the house. By the time I'm done, my arms ache. I yawn silently, watching a little squirrel dart across the lawn before leaping into a tree. The swimming pool is covered. Summer hasn't started yet. It's only January. Not that I could use it, since I don't know how to swim, but…it must be nice.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I notice a new message from the cleaning company I work for. Opening the little envelope icon, I read the message from my boss.

Tom: New assignment tonight. You'll be paired with Anja at the Ashford Building, floors 31 and 32. The security guard will let you in.

I answer right away.

Me: Will be there. Thank you.

I've never been there before, but if I remember correctly, it's the building next to the one I was assigned to last time. At least it'll be a change of scenery. I hope they're happy with my work and let me continue there. Around eight p.m., I go back to my room for a quick change and check the envelope hidden beneath a loose floorboard under my bed. Only one plank can be lifted, and that's where I hide the money I earn. It's the only place the twins would never think to look. There's two thousand dollars. It's not enough. Not even close. I still need so much more to go back to university next year.

The lights are already off throughout the house as I slip out through the kitchen door. I haven't even seen the twins today. Lucky me. After a fifteen-minute walk, I make it to the bus stop and sit there for thirty minutes, the only moment of mental rest I get all day, listening to music through my earphones and watching the city unfold before me. One of the earphone only work when angled in a particular way. Another thing I wish I could fix.

Our house is on the outskirts of town, where wealth doesn't whisper or hide, but proudly displays itself through sprawling mansions, over-the-top estates with wrought-iron gates bearing family initials, endless lawns, and tennis courts. My parents used to live in a much smaller house in the countryside when I was younger. Dad's company grew and he sold it when Mom died. I guess it didn’t feel right to keep going with what they had built together. He was planning to build a new one, but he got sick, and that’s when Mara insisted we move here. Into this soulless giant mansion. Anyone who knew I lived here would think I thrived, eating from a golden spoon every morning. The irony slaps me in the face whenever I think of my little room upstairs, with barely enough space for my bed.

I clutch my purse in my lap, an old brown leather one with a hole in it that Mara threw in the garbage last year. When you can't afford nice things, you find a way. A soft piano melody wraps around me through my headphones. My uniform is folded neatly inside: a white blouse that falls to my hips, wrap-style with long sleeves. It isn't the prettiest garment, but at least the cotton fabric keeps me warm at night. An elderly woman sitting beside me is reading a book while I watch the view through the window, houses slowly giving way to office buildings and the city's restless rhythm. That's the one thing I'll never get used to after growing up in the countryside. How time feels different here. Rushing for some, stretching endlessly for others. I'm not even sure the man crossing the street is actually in that much of a hurry. Why does it always look like an invisible crocodile is chasing everyone? The moment I step off the bus, I get the same feeling. I, too, need to hurry. As though I have to keep up with the rhythm of it all. Out of the bus and into the street, aiming right at the giant tower of Ashford Holdings. I pass the transparent doors, a piano melody accompanying me like a soundtrack.

“Miss?” I shake myself back to reality as a tall, slender black man eyes me from head to toe, his mouth curled into a polite smile. “Ella, right?” He's wearing a navy two-piece concierge uniform with a cap and a name tag that reads Ronny. I nod, glancing past him into the pristine lobby behind him. Everything is grey and metallic, with soaring ceilings, a sleek reception desk, and two elevator doors at the back. White orchids decorate the counter. “Um...” He studies me as though I'm too young, or perhaps too out of place to belong somewhere like this. After checking my ID, he beckons me with a wave of his hand. “Follow me.” I do, clutching my bag over one shoulder, breathing in the soft scent of lavender diffused throughout the lobby. Mara would like this.

“Wait—” I hear the familiar voice of one of my coworkers behind me as Anja comes into view. She's around forty, a nurse during the day and a cleaner at night, with two kids and a long-gone ex-husband who went for a walk one day and decided he didn't feel like coming back. She's got the confidence of a woman who's seen it all and still manages to stay funny and light about it while carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. My personal definition of Wonder Woman. She's been with the company for years, and we instantly clicked when we met in autumn after I started. Ronny blocks the closing elevator doors with one elegant movement of his hand.

“Anja, I presume?” Scanning her curly black hair, sharp neon blue eyeliner, and rom-com-inspired outfit with low-rise jeans and a red off-the-shoulder sweater.

“The one and only,” she pants, out of breath. “Goddamn it, thought I'd never make it.” She exhales as the elevator doors close, Ronny standing beside the control panel.

“Looking good, Ella, as always.” She winks at me, squeezing my shoulder. I answer with a warm smile before exaggeratedly glancing toward the concierge behind her. When I'm with people who don't sign, I always try to make them understand me without words. You'd be surprised how much people understand when they're genuinely trying to get you.

“Yeah,” she murmurs with a whistle. “Looks like we got upgraded, huh?” she remarks, chewing her gum, her hair piled into a messy bun. Her thinly drawn eyebrows remind me of sitcoms from the nineties along with her perfect press-ons, shiny and orange with seashells on.

“Which one d'you want?” she asks, and I close my fist, offering her our favourite decision-making tool.

“If I win, I get thirty-one. If you win, you get thirty-two. Alright?”

I nod as she mirrors me, and we pound our fists in the air three times. I throw paper. She throws scissors.

“Argh,” she grins, snapping her gum, “thirty-one it is.” The light indicating the floors keeps climbing as the doors open onto the thirty-first floor. Anja sighs and steps out, looking back at me with a backward smile. “If I get this done quickly, I'll come see ya. Got chocolate bars in my bag.” I give her a thumbs-up, and the doors close again. A few seconds later, the elevator opens onto another floor. There are fewer cubicles and more private offices than the one Anja got: several meeting rooms and a large lounge with long leather couches and designer chairs in the middle. The floor is illuminated by a few sanguine lamps in the lounge and by the city lights streaming through the windows of the offices.

“The cleaning cupboard is on your right. Should you need anything, my direct line is 00100 on any office phone.” I nod to Ronny as the doors begin to close again. “Miss.” He remains perfectly stoic before disappearing from view. I'd bet my necklace he can keep everyone's secrets in this building. Dropping my bag in the corner beside one of the couches, I remove my coat. A navy one with just enough padding to keep me warm. It belonged to my stepsister Valeria a few years ago. I doubt she even remembers it. It has seen better days, but as long as I have something to wear, I won't complain. At least it isn't bright pink like the rest of their clothes. I roll up the sleeves of my white cleaning blouse, my name tag pinned to my chest.

In one motion, I gather my long black hair into a high ponytail, its length brushing the middle of my back. A few strands still dance around my face, but at least they won't get in the way. I swap my Converse for the company's plain white sneakers, which I only wear inside the buildings I clean. Once I'm ready, I head to the cupboard Ronny told me about and grab everything I need. Vacuum. Spray. Clean cloths. It looks like I'll have to tackle around twenty rooms. I swallow a yawn and put my earphones in. Listening to an audiobook while I clean. Pressing play, I slide my phone into my back pocket and begin dusting the lounge. From the leather couches to the glass tables, the crystal ornaments, and the steel handles, I make sure everything is spotless before tackling each office individually. Having a system eases my mind. I can wander through my thoughts while my body moves automatically, blinking away the fatigue. Within the next few hours, I clean, following the same routine every time. Dust. Windows. Details. Floors.

Resting my palms against the small of my back, I try to ease the ache from being hunched over. I still have one office left—the large one at the end of the floor, where the view seems best. Come on, Ella. You're almost done. My stomach grumbles, and I ignore it as I open the door, stopping to appreciate the generous space filled with even finer furniture than the other offices. Whoever owns it knows what they're doing. The desk is large and sleek, facing an enormous photograph of a sailboat that stretches across the entire wall. There's a chess set that looks more like a collection of jewellery than game pieces, surrounded by thick, expensive armchairs. The bookshelves are almost empty. No rugs. No curtains. Perhaps this person doesn't like dust. If there's nowhere for it to settle…why does it feel so…clinical? I could close my eyes and picture the owner standing by the window, dressed in a luxurious black suit, hands buried in their pockets. Alone. Standing in this vast, almost empty office. Is this really what people call success nowadays? I'd rather live in a little cottage, writing books, singing with the birds while baking a chocolate cake. That would be a success. A dream out of reach because I'll stay by my father's side for as long as he's here. Not everyone gets a chance at happiness. Maybe some of us are simply meant to give it to others.

After vacuuming and dusting the room, I take my cloth for one last pass over the details, checking that I haven't missed anything. There isn't much on the bookshelves behind the desk. One metal ornament. A few books on the French Revolution, the Civil War, and chess strategy. A signed baseball. And a framed photograph. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I step closer. The glass first reflects my own face before my eyes focus on the picture. The city lights through the windows, combined with the small lamp I'd switched on in the corner, are just enough to make it out. It's a photograph of two men and one little girl. They have the same eyes. Tall, broad-shouldered men in navy suits. One has short brown hair and a tightness in his jaw that reminds me of fighters in movies. Cold and intense. I can almost picture him fighting in a cage, covered in blood. A certain violence misplaced in what should have been a happy photograph.

The other has slightly lighter brown hair and a half-smirk, one hand protectively resting on the little girl standing in front of him. She can't be older than six. Smiling with all her teeth, wearing a pink dress, white butterfly wings strapped to her back, and holding a fairy wand. The contrast between her and the two men behind her is almost funny. I don't know any of them, but I'd bet the man on the right, the one with the serial-killer stare, owns this office.

I can picture him pacing slowly, looking over contracts and barking orders. If he were an animal, he'd be a shark. If he were a sound, he'd be a rocket launching. For some reason, I keep holding the frame, staring at it a little longer. His hand hangs at his side, clenched into a fist, as though he's constantly trying to keep the beast inside him under control. A strange urge comes from nowhere to place my hand against the back of his neck and massage away the tension. To show the machine it can break. It can stop. The world will keep spinning. My index hesitantly traces the outline of his suit jacket, up to his neck, imagining giving him a little relief. A little comfort. Why do I have the feeling he really needs it?

“See anything you like?” A rough voice sounds behind me, and I jerk in surprise, dropping the frame onto the floor. Glass shattering into dozens of sharp fragments. There's a man—no. It’s the man from the picture. Standing in the doorway, examining me. Cursing every word I know internally, I drop to my knees, desperately trying to clean up my mess. In months, I haven't made a single mistake. The one time I'm being observed, I break a frame. I gather the shards as quickly as I can, but some sink into my palm, slicing through my skin. Red blooms beneath the surface before a thin crimson line spills across my hand.

Without a word, a hand closes around my wrist and lifts me to my feet. His eyes travel to the cut in my palm. Time stops as his gaze settles over me.

I'm sorry, I keep saying in silence.

Please don't fire me.

Tristan