Emily
The moment my father's back disappears into the dining room, Victoria shows up from the doorway to the kitchen as if she was called by the blank space his absence leaves behind. She holds a piece of old sheet in her hand, holding it delicately between her thumb and forefinger like it's a particularly offensive insect.
"Ah, there you are," she says, her voice a sweet, poisonous honey. "I was beginning to worry you'd floated away in the night. One can hope." She offers a tight, bloodless smile that doesn't come close to reaching her eyes. Those eyes, the color of chips of ice, sweep over my simple night gown with hatred. "Get dressed, you have a busy day. The house won't clean itself, though I'm sure if it could, it would do a more thorough job."
She doesn't wait for a reply, she never does. She walks over to the large oak table that dominates the entrance hall and lays the piece of old piece of paper in her hand down. It's not just a list , it's a declaration of war. Her handwriting is a thing of beautiful, cruel precision, each loop and swirl a perfect, elegant insult. The list is so long it rolls out from the table's edge and kisses the floor.
My own two stepsisters, Flora and Primrose, drift into the hall, drawn by the scent of drama. They are two years older than me, and they move with the lazy, entitled grace of those who have never known a moment of hardship. Flora, the elder, is sharp and angular, with a wit to match. Primrose is softer, rounder, and her cruelty is of a more passive, dismissive sort. Today, they are dressed in matching gowns of soft blue silk, their hair already styled into laborate braids.
"Goodness, Mother," Flora says, looking at the list with pretend shock. "Are you having her build a second house?"
"Don't be silly, darling," Victoria replies, patting Flora's cheek.
"She's merely tidying the first. A task that seems to be a constant challenging battle."
She turns her gaze back to me, her smile gone. "The floors in the great hall need to be scrubbed. With lye soap. On your hands and knees. I want to see my reflection in them by noon. Then, you will polish the ceremonial silver. All of it, after that, you will find a mountain of mending in the sewing room. Your sisters are in desperate need of repairs to their finer things."
"My green lace gown has a tear," Primrose adds, her voice a soft low voice. "I was so distressed. I may have wept." She dabs at a perfectly dry eye. I know for a fact that the 'tear' was caused by her trying to squeeze into a dress a size too small after an extra-large slice of cake.
"Of course, my sweet," Victoria Whispers softly. "Emily will make it right as rain."
The first task is the floors. The great hall is a very large, empty space with a black and white checkered marble floor that seems to stretch for miles. I carry two heavy wooden buckets of water, the handles digging into my palms. The lye soap is harsh, and the fumes make my eyes water. Down on my hands and knees I go, the cold of the marble escaping slowly into my bones through my thin trousers. I scrub until my back screams and my knuckles are raw. Flora and Primrose make a point of walking through the hall several times, their slippers somehow finding the one patch of floor I have just finished drying, leaving a trail of wet footprints.
"Oh, clumsy me," Flora says with a giggle, not looking back. I just bite my lip, grab my rag, and scrub the marks away. Arguing is pointless. It's like trying to reason with the rain.
Next is the silver. It's kept in a locked chest in the dining room,a bunch of polished artifacts that see the light of day perhaps twice a year for Victoria's grand parties. There are fancy platters, impossibly delicate decorative goblets, and enough cutlery to feed an army. I sit at the long dining table, the scent of beeswax polish thick in the air. I work carefully, rubbing away the stain until each piece shines with a blinding glare. In the curved belly of a water pitcher, I catch my own reflection. A stranger stares back at me, a blurred, strange version of a girl with tired eyes and unkept hair. It is a lonely, thankless job, surrounded by a fortune I'll never use, making it beautiful for people who see me as less than the dirt I scrubbed from the floor.
Finally, the mending. The sewing room is a small, stuffy chamber filled with lots of fabric and baskets overflowing with clothes. My stepsisters' dresses are piled on a chair, a mountain of silk, lace, and velvet. I find Primrose's green gown. The "tear" is a massive rip down the seam, a proof to her battle with the dress after a large slice of cake. My fingers, clumsy and stiff from the scrubbing and polishing, struggle with the delicate needle and thread. As I work, their laughter echos from the parlor next door, a constant, mocking chorus that follows me throughout my day. It's a sound that says, we are here, living, while you are here, serving.
By late afternoon,My body hurts in many places at once. My stomach growls loudly and keeps making noise. I haven't eaten anything since yesterday's small lunch. With the mending finally done, I am sent to the gardens to weed. The sun is beginning to set, casting long, dramatic shadows across the perfectly and well kept lawns. Victoria's shadow, as she stands on the veranda watching me, is a suffocating force, a physical presence that presses down on my shoulders. Her fault finding eye scans for any imagined flaw, any sign of laziness.
I work my way along a low stone wall that borders the rose garden. My fingers pull at stubborn dandelions and spreading vines. And then I see it. Pushing its way through a tiny crack between two large stones is a single wildflower. It's a bold splash of deep purple against the dull gray of the wall, its stem thin but strong. It has no business being here, in this garden of cultivated, perfect blooms. It is an intruder, an outcast, just like me. And yet, it thrives. It has found a way to grow in the forgotten spaces, to push through the cracks. For a moment, I stop, my fingers hovering over it. I feel a strange kinship with this tiny, resilient weed. It's a quiet symbol of my own stubborn refusal to be completely broken.
The moment is shattered.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Victoria's voice is not loud this time. It's cold, sharp, and cuts through the quiet evening air like a piece of glass. I flinch and look up. She is standing right over me, her arms crossed, her face a mask of contempt.
"I was just... looking at this flower," I stammer, my voice small.
"Looking at a flower," she repeats, her lip curling. "Lazing about, more like. Daydreaming. While there is still work to be done." She gestures faintly at the perfectly clean garden around us. "I see now. You are not just useless, you are disobedient."
I want to scream that I have worked all day, that my hands are bleeding, that my stomach is eating itself. But the words die in my throat. I just stare at the ground, at the little purple flower.
"There will be no supper for you tonight," she announces, her voice filled with a gloomy satisfaction. "Perhaps a bit of hunger will remind you of your place in this house."
She turns and walks away, her back straight and rigid. I am left there, kneeling in the dirt, the evening air growing cold around me. The ache of hunger is a familiar companion, but tonight it feels sharper, a final, biting reminder of where I stand. I look at the wildflower one last time, a silent promise passing between us. They can starve me, they can work me to the bone, but they cannot stop me from growing in the cracks.