The nightmare woke her again, she had been thrashing and sweating profusely. Her mattress was soaked, and she was breathing heavily. But now, the silence of the night crashed in around her and she sat up straight. It was dark in her room in the basement, she could barely see a few inches in front of her. But light flooded her room when the door was opened and an elderly woman poked a lantern inside. She rose her hand up to block out the light streaming in.

“Clarisse?” Her rickety voice rang out. “Having another thrashing fit, are we?” Clarisse grimaced, it was Rene the head maid.

“I’m fine, leave me alone!” She snapped, perhaps a little too aggressively. The old woman’s wrinkled visage contorted into a deep scowl, and her eyebrows knitted together.

“You watch your tone, wench!” She shouted. “I’ll have no more of your insolence! If you step one single hair out of line, I’ll have you reported to the lady of the house!” The old crone slammed the creaky wooden door, and the darkness came back. Clarisse threw the covers from herself and swung her legs over her bedside. She stood, padded over to a hanging lantern, and stroked it to life. Again, light filled her dingy basement dwelling, flickering and dancing along the cold stone of her room. Dipping her hand into the bucket of water next to her bed, Clarisse washed her body of sweat and stink. She stared up at the mirror just in front of her, watching her brown curls bounce and bob around her head. Her face was clear of blemish, and her eyes a deep brown. After washing herself, she sat back down in her bed and stared out the window. It was still dark. She wondered what time it was, it was no use trying to get back to sleep. All she could do was sit in bed in the darkness and hope that the sun would rise soon.

Clarisse sat on a stool, a bucket of hot water in front of her. She held in her left hand a leather coat. With her right, she scrubbed at it with a heavy brush. The mad crone had put her on this duty for most of the day. With tired eyes Clarisse stared down, watching the soapy water shift and lap at the edges of the wooden tub. This was the third night in a row that she was tormented by those strange dreams. A burning city, the bite of steel in her stomach, the taste of blood on her lips. She hung the coat by the fireplace to dry, wiping sweat from her forehead and sitting back down. Washing the Lady’s clothes was usually seen as grunt work, and sometimes even beneath higher-class servants. But Clarisse didn’t mind it. It’s why she usually didn’t mind getting into trouble because she could admire all of the pretty clothes that the Lady picked out. She would sometimes imagine herself as someone important, wearing those clothes. Picking out an outfit for the day and having her servants dress her. She imagined looking in the mirror and seeing herself in a beautiful emerald green dress, flowing all around her feet, the signet of House Eloux on her breast.

The Lady of the house was largely a mystery to Clarisse. Ember Eloux, the black-haired demon. That is how most people knew her. Apparently, she was a war hero, assisting with the toppling of an entire empire that had a deep grip on the land. That was ten years ago. Things didn’t seem much different though, the Empress largely has a tight grip on the land and everyone in it. She never spoke to Lady Eloux directly, but occasionally they would exchange a glance. Sometimes she would be charged with serving wine at dinner. She would stand dutifully in the corner, holding the large pitcher, and staring on as they ate. At times, however, she would catch the quick gaze of Lady Eloux, who would quickly look on. One night as they dined, Clarisse studied the lady closely. At dinner, she kept her black hair in a tight bun and wore robes suited for dining. She would eat one section of the meal at a time, usually starting with the meats (if there were any), and moving on to the greens or side. Clarisse would watch her graceful movements as the fork traveled up to her mouth. “A servant shouldn’t stare,” she then said, not looking back. It was the only direct thing that Lady Eloux had ever said to Clarisse, and she felt her face turn bright red as she looked ahead.

Ever since then, she felt awkward around the Lady. It was as if she had wronged her in some major slight that had affected how Ember viewed her character as a whole. Clarisse felt her face reddening again thinking about it. She tried to focus on something else and looked down at the article of her clothing she was currently washing with her brush. She hadn’t even noticed she was holding the Lady’s black panties, dripping wet. This only made her blush further. Thought of these too invaded her imagination. But instead of her wearing them, it was Lady Eloux, half nude otherwise. Clarisse imagined her adjusting the elastic around her waist, and doing up her bra. Her heart beat faster and faster, pounding as if it was about to leap from her ribcage.

“Clarisse!” A sudden voice pulled her from the thought. “What are you doing?!” The voice asked, appalled. In truth, Clarisse didn’t know what she was doing. It was only until she processed this that her eyes widened. She had the panties pressed firmly against her nose, and was inhaling the scent deeply. She dropped them back into the soapy water, and they disappeared with a splash. She turned to look toward the door. It was Helena, a fellow servant of the same rank and respect as Clarisse. Clarisse opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Helena made a face as if she knew what was going on but did not want to say. Awkwardly, she took a step back. “The kitchen has requested your assistance,” she said. “The Lady is having visitors tonight.”

“Who?” Clarisse asked. Helena regarded her and sighed.

“Her mother and father,” She said.

A fire roared and blazed as Clarisse stepped into the kitchen. It was chaotic, and hectic, with servants running this way and that. Some placed dutch ovens into the fire, others chopped manically at vegetables and meat. Clarisse looked around awkwardly, her purpose not exactly known to her. A cook thankfully noticed, however, and pushed her over to a free cutting board with a bucket of freshly washed vegetables just next to her. She didn’t usually do this kind of work, so she awkwardly grabbed a thick carrot and placed it down on the board. With her other hand, she gripped the handle of a knife and positioned the blade on the tuber. Gulping, she looked up at everyone else. A scarred man stood just across from her chopping an onion like a royal chef. Another woman was dicing the carrots. So, Clarisse began slicing along the carrot, making round circles. Her hands were shaking, and the incessant cacophony of shouting and voices was overwhelming. That wasn’t a problem for her for much longer, however, as suddenly someone bumped into Clarisse. The knife sliced clean through her flesh near the knuckle of her finger. After a moment, blood began to pour out of it.

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“Oy!” The head cook shouted. “Get her out of here! She’s bleeding!”

“It hurts…” Clarisse said softly as blood dripped onto the floor. She felt a pair of arms grace her shoulder, and looked up to see Helena, a grimace on her face. “Helen-”

“Come,” she said tersely, shoving her out of the kitchen door. Helena led Clarisse down the hallway and through an old rickety door. A basin of water was inside. “Wash the wound,” Helena demanded.

“I’m not a child,” Clarisse retorted. “You don’t have to speak to me like you’re my displeased mother. We’re equals.” Helena folded her arms across her chest and glared down at Clarisse.

“Oh? Equals?” Helena said. Clarisse rolled her eyes and reached down for the basin. Helena knocked the basin over and swept a foot under Clarisse’s leg. She toppled to the ground, landing on her back and shouting in pain. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m not equal to some panty sniffer like you! I’ll talk to you however I want. And if you don’t like it, maybe I’ll let slip to the Lady that you were disgracing her undergarments!”

Clarisse didn’t answer, staring up at Helena with her brows furrowed. “Clarisse!” A muffled voice called through the wall, getting closer to the door. Finally, the door opened, and Rene poked her wrinkled head through. “What happened to you two?” She asked.

“Clarisse hurt her hand in a nasty fall,” Helena lied. “I was helping her clean the wound.”

“Oh,” The crone said. “You’re wanted up top. You will be serving wine tonight around the table.” She was looking at Clarisse, who slowly and shakily stood. Serving wine? She hadn’t done that in months. Not ever since the incident. Picking herself up, she stormed past Helena and the Crone, now she had to get ready. She started by changing her clothes so they were something more presentable and less blood-stained. After she had gotten dressed, she looked in the mirror to admire herself. Black leather boots, with pants to compliment, a laced shirt with a black overcoat, and a cowl around her shoulders. The Lady of the house usually chose the make and color of what the servitude wore in their house. Lady Eloux was a fan of pure black, so that is what the servants usually wore. The entire time she looked, she panicked internally. She had no idea how this evening might go. Was this some ploy to embarrass Clarisse even further? She sighed, tightening the laces on her shirt, she supposed she would find out.

The candlelit room was warm and comforting. Decorations adorned the walls, mostly weaponry and armor. But occasionally there was a painting of Lady Eloux that graced the wall. Even then, the painting was usually of her in a triumphant pose as a warrior, a burning city behind her. Clarisse always thought that city looked familiar, but could not quite place where she had seen it. Perhaps it was in an illustration of a book she read about the fall of the last empire. Clarisse stood in the corner silently, clutching the pitcher of wine close to her chest. She stared ahead, focusing on where her gaze went. The Lady sat at the head of the table. Her hair had been curled, it was the first time Clarisse had not seen it straight. She wore a poet shirt, with a long black overcoat over it. On her head was a crown of black roses. She wore black lipstick, and her eyes were heavily shaded. Across from her sat two elders, a man, and a woman. The woman looked like an older, tight-lipped version of Lady Eloux. This was Mademoiselle Eloux, the matron of the Eloux family. Her graying black hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her jaw seemingly crackled as she chewed. Across from her a man sat, auburn hair shone in the candlelight. He timidly ate and sipped at his wine. He looked nothing like Lady Eloux or the Mademoiselle.

Clarisse did her best to keep all of her toes in line. She tried her best not to eavesdrop, but they were just next to her. Snippets of the conversation kept boring their way into her ears. Before long, she gave up.

“Now really, Ember,” Mademoiselle said, her voice deep and commanding. “You’re nearly twenty-eight years old, and you’re telling me not one suitor has turned your head?” Clarisse drummed her fingers on the wine pitcher, and Lady Eloux calmly took a sip of red wine.

“No man or woman has ever interested me,” She replied matter of factly. “In any case, I have a home to maintain, and a public image to uphold.”

“Your public image could do with a marriage, girl!” Mademoiselle spat out after this. “Think of the benefits, Ember,” her voice adopted a more calm tone after this as she attempted to reassure her. “It’s not as if you have to love them, you just have to combine your incomes.” Ember chewed on a piece of steak, thinking about it.

“I’m done talking about this,” she said, wiping her mouth. She then pointed to a servant across the room from Clarisse. “You, out!” She snarled. He bowed his head respectfully and made for the door. There was an opening. Obviously, they wanted to be alone to discuss something privately. Clarisse set the wine pitcher down on a nearby end table and began to creep for the door. Without even looking up, Ember spoke; “I did not give you permission to leave,” she said flatly. Clarisse froze up and felt a blush creeping across her cheeks.

“Many apologies, My Lady,” she said, giving a small curtsy out of respect. “I assumed that-”

“You assume nothing. You go nowhere, and you do only what I say. Is that clear?” Clarisse felt her heart thumping in her chest, and she gulped.

“Y-yes, M’lady!” She bit her lip.

“Where did you grow up, a cave?!” Lady Eloux spat out. “My Lady, My Lady, not M’lady!” Ember mimicked her speech in a mocking tone. Clarisse did not answer. “More wine,” The Lady commanded after that, holding up her wine glass.

“Ember, haven’t you had enough?” The Mademoiselle protested.

“More.”

Clarisse picked up the pitcher from the end table and approached Ember slowly. At the edge of the table, Clarisse leaned over to pour the glass. Before she could reach it, Ember slowly pulled it away further. Luckily, Clarisse had not poured any yet. She leaned her torso over the table and began to pour slowly, making sure she spilled none. She could feel her hands tingling, Ember’s commanding presence just inches away from her. She could not control the blush across her cheeks. For a split second, she lost composure and looked directly over at The Lady. She just caught her grey eyes traveling up her form. When they finally met hers, she looked away. The glass was nearly full. Pulling away, Clarisse slinked back into the corner.

“Well? Finished with your display, daughter?” Mademoiselle asked. “Perhaps now we can get to the real business?”

Clarisse heard nothing of the rest of the conversation. She just stood and stared dead ahead, cheeks blazing red with hot fury.