There was a maid in my room.

This was no low tier cosplay rent-a-maid either. Not a cafe maid or any of the other lesser maid hybrid offshoots. I could smell the specialization on her. This was a 100% pure maid, radiating that rare mix of competence and scornful deference that constitutes peak maid energy.

She had short cropped black hair, and one of those lacy hair band things. Her uniform was tasteful and of a classic styling, with an apron worked into the front and over her shoulders.

Maids are defined by their uniform, and every fiber and stitch communicated that the maid in front of me was a top shelf, illustrious maid with no doubt with a pedigree longer than any of the family trees I had to draw out for elementary school.

Her posture was, if anything, even more perfect. Every part of her frame exuded restrained elegance. She looked like she could easily be a princess from some fairy tale.

It was great. I mean, warping and being pseudo-reborn into a different world based off of manga is cool and all, but come on. Maid.

This was the stuff fantasy was maid of. Heh.

In different circumstances, I could imagine indulging in the sheer novelty of the experience. But unfortunately I was not in the most relaxing of situations.

The maid looked over my shoulder as I wrote out my sixth attempt at an acceptable report.

“No,” she said. “You forgot to introduce yourself by title in your introduction.”

I tried to put my pen down, but her gloved hand closed over my fist.

“None of the messages Claire sent me had to deal with any of this formal syntax.” I pointed out reasonably.

“Miss Claire is better than you and thus is not required to observe such niceties.”

“Better? You mean she’s of a higher class, right?”

The maid smiled.

“Alright. Look I’ll just add it here.” I penned a carrot between the words and above I wrote Titless.

The maid calmly took the paper and tore it into pieces.

“Again.”

I pulled out another fresh piece of paper and felt her gaze bore into my back.

“I wonder,” she said, in a tone that suggested she was not wondering at all, “Even the dullest of children can manage this much without error. Are you attempting to buy time?”

Damn. That was exactly what I was doing.

I had no idea where to even start on my report. How in the world was I supposed to justify my little urine related sidequest as a part of a plan to help Deck and Claire get together?

It made no sense.

“Write,” said the maid. “And no more dillydalying now. It’s uncouth to host a girl in your room at these hours.”

I placed pen to paper, working through the opening salutations as slowly as possible, hoping I could come up with something on the fly.

A part of my brain wondered if that was partly the reason so many of these high class rituals and etiquette rules existed in the first place. Not just to demonstrate insider social knowledge, but to give a bit of breathing room to think.

You bow and flourish and take three steps just so, and in that time you furiously rake through your brain trying to remember which family had a giant boar for a house sigil.

Miss Claire, you are probably wondering about the events that transpired earlier in your elevator.

I am, of course, referring to how I maneuvered to get Deck and Sarah stuck in the elevator, until Deck could not control himself and urinated into a bottle I provided.

I paused there. Because what kind of reason would possibly make sense?

There were many reasons I, your most humble servant, chose these course of events to advance your interests. Very convincing, reasonable reasons. Reasons that may very well look like strokes of genius once you are made aware of my perspective.

The maid coughed behind me. Somehow a broom had materialized in her hands. A broom she cracked against her open palm in a threatening manner.

Reasons I will list now.

I stared at the page.

You have a very charming maid by the way.

I felt the weight of the broom handle settle on my shoulder. I turned to see the maid smiling. The weight on my shoulder intensified.

I had not yet stress tested my body with the amount of physical abuse typically suffered in many harem manga scenarios, and was not super looking forward to the experience.

Reason #1 - The Suspension Bridge Effect.

Deck sees you as a bit of a standoffish presence. You are a distant rival, far off and ensconced in your Clocktower.

And now I had to connect it to the urination. I drew on all the pop psychology I could muster.

I sought to rectify this by making ample use of the ‘Suspension Bridge Effect’. I am sure you are already familiar with the concept, but please excuse my summarizing as I explain my reasoning.

The traditional example of the effect calls upon the example of two people crossing a bridge over a great height.

The two successfully cross the bridge with elevated tension and high emotions. Then, they face each other, and in the throes of emotionality, falsely attribute the raised sense of feelings to each other.

It is this principle I sought to use in the elevator.

Deck was embarrassed, flushed, and in a high state of tension and at the moment of resolution, the elevator doors opened to the sight of you, Claire.

By the principles outlined in the Suspension Bridge Effect, he will attribute in no small way, that sense of embarrassment and emotionality with your person, and become interested in you more than as a distant rival.

I heard a scoff. The maid was reading over my shoulder.

“You can’t actually believe this,” she said. “I can tell you right now, Miss Claire won’t accept this pseudoscience.”

I wrote on.

Reason #2 - Childhood Friend Sarah

I am sure you are aware of Sarah, the other scholarship student who entered Hielgard Academy at the same time as Deck. They are good friends, having spent the better part of their youth together.

In fact, even these days, it is rare to see one not in the presence of the other. This, I regret to inform you, may be a major obstacle to our future plans.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

No romance has blossomed between the two as of yet, but this remains a substantial risk factor.

What better way to alleviate this concern, than to have Deck urinate in the presence of Sarah, to engender a feeling of abject disgust? I am sure that now, Sarah will not be able to be in Deck’s presence without being reminded of this thoroughly unromantic experience.

“Better,” said the maid. “Still not sufficient, however.”

She tapped the broom against my shoulder again.

“Not that this hasn’t been entertaining, but how about we drop the pretense now, hmm? Miss Claire does not send me to collect excuses. She wants the truth.”

I laughed nervously.

“I’m telling the truth.”

“Look at me Hero,” said the maid.

I did as the maid instructed.

“What do you see?”

“I see a maid.”

“And what do maids do?”

There were many answers to that question.

“Clean,” I said. “And look pretty.”

“Yes,” said the maid. “Exactly. And while I am only moderately pretty, I am good, very, very good when it comes to cleaning.”

She began to pace around the room.

“You see, any fool can clean. But good cleaning, truly excellent cleaning, is really about thoroughness. You scrub not just above the table, but under the table. Every leg. Even under the base. You seek out every mite of dirt wherever it might hide.”

She placed a finger under my bed, it came up red, tinged with chip dust.

“Eventually,” she continued, “you get a knack for it. You understand where dirt likes to hide. Where dirt feels safe. Sometimes it is under the whorl or grain of wood. Sometimes it is at the edges or corner of a window.”

The maid giggled.

“Sometimes, dirt even manages to delude itself that it has somehow managed to fool me. It never does. I clean, and scour, and scrub away till every, single, little, thing is brought to light.”

She looked at me again. I noticed then, that my room was basically gleaming. Had she been cleaning while watching over my writing?

“Do you understand me?” she asked.

“You’re saying I’m dirt.”

“Write another reason,” said the maid. “Last chance now.”

She began tapping the broom handle on my shoulder again.

I couldn’t really think of anything else to do. I’d taken my shot, written a solid B+ answer given the circumstances, but it looked like it wasn’t going to work.

All I had left was the truth.

Reason #3 - Lene asked me to.

The broom tapping stopped.

“Is this a joke?” said the voice behind me.

I turned around. For the first time since I had met her, the maid had stopped smiling.

“Lene spoke to you?” She pressed.

I frowned. It was a strangely intense reaction.

“We’re talking about the same Lene right? Blue hair? Always hangs out in front of the GYMNASIUM?”

“Yes,” said the maid. “She spoke to you? Directly?”

Her posture shifted. She was leaning forward now and there was tension in the air. Like a coil unsprung. A cat preparing to pounce. A slap drawn back and at the ready.

“Not just to me,” I answered. “To Deck and Sarah too.” I paused, then continued, figuring I might as well tell the whole truth. “She sorta asked me for a urine sample.”

“Urine sample?”

“Yeah. I sorta took the bottle after the whole...elevator incident.”

“I see.”

Her brow grew furrowed.

“I see,” she said again, though this time with more finality.

She gave me a considering look. “I suppose Miss Claire did select you for a reason.”

“Thank you?”

She lapsed into silence, saying nothing.

I tried to parse what just happened. I would have to be an idiot to not realize that the conversation had shifted as soon as Lene was mentioned. Was Lene some kind of big shot? I was unsure how I felt about that little development.

I knew the whole Lene not talking to most people was a character trait, but that was like, a joke. A gag. One of those ‘haha’ look at this vaguely socially inept character tic that I guess some people find endearing. It wasn’t something to be taken seriously.

Now the worldbuilding was endowing that silly trait with actual narrative weight. It meant something that Lene didn't talk to most people. It meant something when Lene actually did talk to people.

The maid nodded, coming to some sort of determination.

“Well then,” she said. “I believe I will be off.”

She folded up my letter, idly placing it somewhere under her apron.

“Wait, we’re done?” I asked. “The report is okay?”

The maid paused by the door.

“Your report is sufficient,” she said. Then she turned, offering me the most sarcastic curtsey I have ever and probably will ever see. Still, it had an effect.

“It seems I will be in your service. I will see you later, Mr. Hero.”

And, just like that, she left.

I was left blinking after her. The whole ordeal was over as soon as it had begun. Abrupt to say the least.

Still, it was one problem solved.

I collapsed back onto my bed, happy that one of my problems at least was over.

*

The next morning went about as expected.

The trusty trio of Sarah, Deck, and myself once again took our daily trek to campus. Sarah was slightly distant, Deck was cheerfully oblivious, and I felt strangely optimistic, looking forward to a nice long uneventful day during which I could plan some actions instead of having to react to things all the time.

As I approached the campus gates, I was happy to see no suspicious behavior. Likewise, the GYMNASIUM was notably Lene free.

The longer we walked the more I felt my anticipation diminish. We passed the Clocktower without incident, and finally I stepped onto one of the generalized class buildings for what was sure to be a robustly normal and numbing day of school.

As soon as I stepped past the doorway, a hand shot out from inside and grabbed me by the scruff of the neck.

“Hey, sorry! You’re Hero right? There’s been a scheduling error, and you’ve been transferred. Gotta come this way!”

“Wha?”

“Don’t worry! You’ll still see your friends in homeroom. Come along now!”

The hand pulled with an inexorable finality. I felt like a puppy held by the scruff. My feet failed to gain any traction on the lacquered wood floor.

My traitorous friends just stood there. Sarah looked worried and Deck gave me a cherry wave as I was dragged off by the senior student.

I was dragged down an entire hallway and turned a corner before I finally managed to scrabble to my feet.

I turned around to see a familiar face.

“You,” I declared. “You’re the maid!”

“Maid?” The maid frowned, gesturing down at her uniform. “I am clearly wearing a student’s uniform. How could I be a maid?”

She was wearing a uniform, but it looked weird, oddly bulky. I squinted at her and saw the telltale scruff of lace poking out from beneath her collar.

“You’re just wearing the student uniform over your maid uniform!”

The student-maid sighed.

“Must we quibble, quibble man?”

She didn’t wait for a response, instead pulling me the rest of the way into an empty classroom. The doors closed behind us, then clicked shut.

I took in the surroundings.

Two desks and chairs were prepared at the center of the room. They were surrounded by wheeled white boards and cork boards. Against one side of the room was a table devoted to a variety of breakfast foods and a huge thermos thing of coffee.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Well,” said the maid. “Officially, it’s being marked down as ‘Independent Study’. You got a special permit from the faculty to pursue personal research after a lengthy presentation and report before a committee.”

The maid frowned, seeming to notice some speck of dust on one of the central desks. A handkerchief materialized in her hand.

“This is what you’ll be engaged in when you aren’t in class for the sake of appearances.”

She scrubbed away at the spot, then put the handkerchief away, seemingly satisfied.

“This being?” I asked.

I already had some idea. As I walked closer I could see pictures of Deck, Sarah, Claire, and Lene arranged about the table, each with their own pages of articulated notes.

“Your mission, silly.” said the maid in a tone that held not a hint of silliness. “What else?”

She pushed me, sitting me firmly onto one of the chairs, before seating herself on the opposite side.

“You’re, uh, staying,” I observed.

“Well observed,” said the maid. She put a hand to her chin. “You recall how yesterday I informed you I was to be your liaison to the Sutherland family for any Claire courtship related affairs?”

“Sure,” I responded cautiously.

“Well, that got upgraded. I’m your assistant now. Your own personal maid accomplice, so to speak. Everything you want to do, you tell me. Everything you need done, I help push it along.”

She leaned forward, mirth disappearing from her voice.

“Everything, you understand? Especially things like your little escapade the other day. Anyone talks to you, anyone gets in your way, you tell me, and I help.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Fantastic,” I replied.

“So,” she asked. Her smile radiated competence. “What’s our next move?”