Before morning light, hardly a few hours after they’d retired, Philomena, Victoria, and Constance drew water from a well at the edge of the garden. Victoria would turn the crank to bring the bucket to the surface, Philomena would pour it into one of many basins, and Constance would carry them to the house. It was a routine they all found they enjoyed together, while the rest of the house were busy inside cleaning what they could and preparing for the day.

They had an unusual arrangement, some might say. There simply weren’t enough people to go around, so even the head gardener, Mister Wilferd, and the stableboy, Thomas, would lend a hand with chores another maid or steward might assist with.

“My arms hurt,” Constance whined, returning to the garden for her fourth basin of the morning. Being sixteen, and the newest member of the staff, she also tended to feign a fragility even crystal glassware couldn’t compete with. It was almost impressive.

Philomena hefted the bucket from the well and poured it into another basin, giving Constance a withering glance.

“You’re not wearing your kerchief, Connie. If you’re so tired, you may as well tie it on and go about cleaning the fires. I’m sure Mrs. Pragajh and Mister Grady wouldn’t mind,” she said in a sickly sweet voice. There was a rule in the house that one had to be ‘done up proper’ if their morning outdoor chores were done. Constance’s fiery red mane was a mess of unkempt curls. It was a luxury all three of them enjoyed, letting their hair breathe before getting to work.

Self consciously, Constance put a hand to her head, “I never said I was done helping, I just said my arms hurt. There’s no need to be mean about it.”

“You’ve got the easiest job!” Philomena snapped. Of course, she was lying. She only had to walk a few feet with the bucket from the well to pour it, but she enjoyed a good morning fight.

Victoria tried to ignore the pair, instead choosing to focus on turning the crank of the well again once her friend had allowed the bucket to slip back in. This well was one of the most beautiful parts of Sommer Steppe, she often thought.

The Baron’s great grandfather was so fond of gardens, he’d specially imported a french artist to design it. That was what Mister Wilferd had told her once, anyway. It was made of stone, and rather than a simple round wall, it had a lower lip resembling a doorstep, and a lovely saddleback roof with four columns supporting it. Above the roof was the shape of a vase.

Sometimes, Victoria liked to imagine a fairy coming out of the well from some mystical land beyond the veil. Silly, she supposed, but a little imagination made the morning hours a little easier.

“Do you know, Philomena,” Constance began, preparing for what would likely be an exceedingly sharp barb, “a woman of your age should be married by now. Perhaps you should focus more on courting a husband and less on lecturing.”

Philomena gave an unladylike squeak of rage, slamming an empty basin on the ground. Victoria was careful to keep her feet safe from her friend’s impotent rage.

“I am all of twenty, you nasty little shrew!” She snapped.

Constance hefted up a full basin and smiled sweetly, saying nothing and haughtily marching back into the house.

Smart enough to hide her smile over her shoulder, Victoria leaned against the side of the well and braced her hands against the stone behind her back. It wasn’t entirely easy to manage, as stiff as her stays forced her to be, but she managed the artform of sloth well when she’d a mind to.

“I’m astonished,” Victoria began, carefully choosing her words, “if twenty is old, I must be standing in my grave. I’m twenty-six.”

Philomena smiled thinly, selecting one of the larger basins to fill next. She did not look back at her as she spoke, “well. Time is growing short.”

“You are so very lucky I don’t have your temper,” Victoria replied, drawing one hand through her hair, which fell halfway to her waist. “Come,” she nodded to Philomena, “I brought the brush and pins in my pockets. You can braid my hair before we get back to work.”

Her friend positively squealed with delight, bobbing on her heels and reaching forward, “let’s have it, then. I’ve a mind to do something a little different today. I heard there’s this wonderful sort of twist that’s become quite fashionable in the ton.”

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“Where on earth did you hear anything about the ton? Save your fairy tales for Constance and get to work,” Victoria directed impatiently, shaking her head in disbelief even as she turned back so that Philomena could have access to her hair while she reached under her quilted petticoat to grasp at her pockets. She retrieved the brush and several pins, alongside a ribbon to hand over to Philomena in one disorganized lump.

“At market,” Philomena retorted, “there’s a girl or two with family in London. Then there’s the gossip papers they’re always banding about.”

“You can’t read,” Victoria pointed out.

“I can still listen,” she insisted, setting the pins and ribbon on the lip of a well wall so she could get to work brushing Victoria’s hair. “You ought to try your hand at it too,” she suggested.

Victoria laughed, replying, “reading? I already read.”

Philomena sharply rapped her friend’s shoulder with the wooden brush. “Listening!” She scolded, “you should try listening.”

She made fast work of Victoria’s hair, tying it smartly into two long but intricate braids, pinning them close so that they could be easily hidden by her kerchief. Then Victoria set to work on Philomena’s finer locks, which were better suited to a simple bun atop her head. On their short days they were allotted apart from their tasks, they would take turns sharing an iron by one of the fires to experiment with curls. Philomena’s rarely held for very long, but Victoria loved how her hair seemed to shine with so little effort.

“Am I next?” Constance chirped, returning for another basin just as Victoria finished.

“I don’t know, my joints may be too stiff to help you,” Philomena replied with an arrogant turn of her head. Even as she did so, she still helped wrangle the younger girl’s hair into an acceptable style. There was no real heat to their fights. They simply enjoyed having something to bicker about. To Victoria, it seemed almost like a routine. The morning dance between two sharp tongues that always ended before any real damage could be done to each other’s pride.

They resumed their morning chores, finishing up with gathering the water for the household as quickly as they could manage. Then they set about helping open the windows throughout the house to air it out for the morning, and both Constance and Philomena parted ways to tend to the fires while Victoria checked to see that Lady Elmira was still resting soundly. By the time they were ready to break their fasts, they were ravenous.

“You know,” Philomena remarked as they made their way together through the corridor that led to the kitchens, “I could swear I felt someone watching us this morning.”

“You can’t feel eyes, you ninny,” Constance retorted, rolling her eyes.

Philomena scowled, clasping her hands in front of her, “yes,” she insisted, “you can. I swear, there was someone out there in the garden. I have a sense for these sorts of things.”

“Don’t start on that again,” Victoria said with a long-suffering sigh, “you don’t see spirits, and you don’t have any extra senses beyond an exceedingly tiresome imagination.”

“I do see spirits!” Philomena snapped, walking faster than the pair of them to stride swiftly through the kitchen door, “how else do you think I found Mrs. Pragajh’s in the larder when it went missing?”

“You’re not on that old chestnut again, are you?” A snide voice interrupted them. Gordon, the steward, was seated at the large kitchen table already with his shoes propped up in front of him as he nursed a large mug of hot ale. He was a master of ruining anyone’s good mood if he’d a mind to it.

“Feet off the ruddy table!” Mrs. Pragajh bellowed, her back to the lot of them while she deftly handled a pot hanging over the cookfire. If anyone could feel eyes on them, Victoria had her money on the cook.

Mrs. Pragajh was sturdy. Gordon, alternatively, was just a little too thin. One would hardly believe that the cook, a woman well into her late fifties by now, ate half of what Gordon might consume on any given day. Rarely had Victoria seen him without a bit of bread in hand or a drink when he wasn’t fast at work painting himself the gentleman upstairs he most certainly was not downstairs.

“Mrs. Pragajh,” he very nearly cooed, placing a hand on his chest in mock offense as he lowered his feet to the ground as quietly as he could manage, “I would never do something so ill-bred as soil your lovely table.”

Lovely was certainly a word to describe the large ash-wood furniture. Years of surface had left it pockmarked, burnt, scratched, and scarred.

“You’ve a nerve,” Mrs. Pragajh scolded him, hefting the cooking pot deftly with thick towels to support it so she could place it on the table. “Porridge with a scrap of bacon for the lot of you,” she nodded towards the girls and Gordon, “now eat fast before the rest of those lot come in to finish it off. Lot o’ animals, they are.” She nodded at Gordon, “and that’s your drink for the morning. You’ve already polished off twice your share.”

She turned back to the cookfire to reach above it and snatch up a heavy serving spoon, side-eying Philomena, “you see anything funny in the garden, girl? Cracked three eggs afore you lot showed up, all of them rotten. Bad luck, that. Best say our prayers tonight.”

Victoria politely took her seat at the table, biting her tongue. Everything was bad luck in their cook’s point of view. She was convinced the devil had come to the county years ago and never left. Sometimes it was best to just say nothing.