1800
The alarm silently buzzed on a dark figure’s wrist, causing him to shift awake, completely at peace in the silence of the room. The room was pitch black; even with the curtains drawn, the daybreak orange seeped into the room. Escaping the bed with minimal disturbance, he tossed the sheets back in perfect order. With a practiced, lavished flair, he flipped on the light and grabbed his prepared wardrobe off the hook. Black slacks crisper than paper, a red undershirt covered partially by a two-button suit. Checking the watch, a calm sigh escaped his mouth as the green blinking 3:50 flashed.
Gently, the click of the lock on his room reverberated through the gilded hallway. The luxurious art adorned walls that ran for a perceptive infinity. The man took his white glove and tested the wall next to his neighbor’s door. The trace of dust from the meeting of the doorframe and wall invoked a defeated look on his face. His shoulders hunched, and his ungloved hand rose to meet the bridge of his nose.
“If she didn’t do so well with the young master and the cooking, she’d never survive this job.”
The figure straightened up and walked down to the kitchen to prepare his own meal.
It was a simple meal: a slice of synth-ham and rice, heated on his plate as he glided across the room. The fresh grapefusion juice didn’t even move in its cup. All the pans and appliances were cleaned and returned to their proper place. To anyone who walked in, it would seem as if the breakfast had willed itself into existence for him. It was at his last bite that the sound of scurrying feet started to echo into the kitchen. 4:15, the watch displayed to its master. The sight of the rosewood-framed watch brought a smile to his face. With a quick wash and rinse, the plate and cup sat in the drying rack, sparkling.
“Showtime.”
The small group of butlers and maids stood in a row ready for their daily task.
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The loud alarm of a Pandoramic radio station boomed to life. Reaching for her temple, she willed the music away. The room’s occupant rolled hard to the right across the bed, missing the nightstand. Her momentum carried her, and she remembered too late that she needed to move the furniture last night. The “THUD” of her body meeting the floor echoed once throughout the room.
“Ow, oh sh—” her hands covered her mouth as she remembered the last time she was punished for being too loud in the morning while getting ready. She reached over, struggling in the dark to find the light switch. Her maid’s gown lay sprawled over a chair back next to the light switch. Yawning, she sluggishly tossed on the uniform before looking back at the unmade bed dismissively.
“No one’s gonna see you but me.”
The second alarm of the morning distracted her thoughts as she gasped at the time. 4:12! Fixing her name tag onto her shirt, she gave one last look in the mirror. A short-haired woman in a mostly wrinkle-free uniform looked back at her. The raven hair glistened, working in contrast to her light complexion. The name tag displayed “Emma,” angled at a 15-degree tilt, pushed askew by her ample chest. Her black Maury Junes had seen better days, as a close inspection revealed scuffs and slight dirt.
“Alright girl, dressed and ready! Let’s go make a difference!” She high-fived the mirror gently before starting into a full sprint toward the meeting room.
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“With that said, everyone knows what they have to get done today? I’ll be making rounds to check on everyone and support those who need extra help. It’s just the young master and the Lady of the house today, so let’s show the Master he can leave everything to us!”
The man’s pacing left him in the doorway as the crowd cheered at the rallying call, beginning to disperse. The loud clicking of heels could be faintly heard coming down the hall. As Emma cornered the doorframe and slid a few inches into her spot in the lineup, it became apparent she had missed everything.
“Miss Emma, kind of you to decide to work today. I’m sure the young master would be downtrodden to not see your efforts and antics on full display around the home.”
She didn’t have to look at his face to feel the scowl. She knew he would be looking at her with as calm a face as he could muster. Most people would even be tricked into thinking him apathetic. But she knew his green eyes would be mostly shut, and the left corner of his mouth would twist and quiver after each sentence, betraying his emotions.
“Patrick,” she began before his killing glance stunned her into a correction.
“Mr. Holland, I’m on time, see?” She lifted her arms, hovering over her form as if the action could justify itself, only for him to turn it so she could also see the rather large antique grandfather clock; 4:18.
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The silence took over the room. It crept into every moment and owned it, not letting a second go by without feeling like an hour.
“Miss Emma, this is one. Today you have the yard and the laundry for next season’s bedding, since no one wanted those. I’ll be around the yard at 1400 to check on your work. The garden should be weeded and watered by then. At 1800 I’ll check that you have completed the laundry before supper. Are there any questions?”
He stood squared up to her, looking slightly down into her eyes. She knew he was studying her, looking for any sign of confusion.
“Good, see you at 1400.”
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It was hard work, and she loved every minute of it. Each weed was captured in Emma’s hand as she rooted their underground bodies out. She took gentle care not to disturb the Lady’s flowers or the cook’s private vegetables, which she couldn’t name if she tried. Each plant had its leaves touched as she weighed how much water they would most likely need. Her watering can expertly drizzled exact amounts of water onto each patch of flowers. It wasn’t until she was almost done when a bright red ball rushed past her and landed on the muddied turf.
“Em-MA, toss my ball back! Please!”
The little boy, about ten years old, stared at her as if his brown eyes could see her soul. His smile was so bright it revealed a missing back tooth to the world. She had gotten into so much trouble for that tooth—his cavity was clearly partly her fault for sneaking him extra sweets whenever she was helping in the kitchen.
“One moment, little one,” she said, starting to reach over the flowers. She strained, her fingertips brushing against the surface of the rubber ball.
With all her focus on retrieving the ball, her Aug’s 13:58 alarm startled her. The sudden noise made her muscles tense, and she began sliding face-first toward the mud. She braced herself, waiting for what felt like minutes for the cool dirt to meet her face. When she finally opened her eyes, she was barely an inch above the ground.
“Well, grab the blasted thing so we can be done here.”
That wasn’t the Young Master’s voice. Quickly, she grabbed the ball and rolled it back to its owner before addressing the person who had saved her from a mud bath.
“Hello again, Mr. Holland. Fancy meeting you here and now.” Her smile threw him off balance, forcing him to take a moment to regain his composure.
“Your uniform has become dirty, Miss Emma. That’s two.” Sure enough, her gown was streaked with mud along the bottom. “We do not work in dirty clothing, Miss. See to it that you take care of this immediately. We must always remain presentable while doing the Master’s work.”
He took a moment to glance at the smiling boy and then at the garden. “It seems that, aside from your inability to stay neat, I wasn’t needed, and you’ve kept up quality work. I expect to see similar results by 18:00.”
With that, he reached into his pocket and handed her a pocket swath. “It seems I may have slipped up as well—your nose, dear. I suppose that’s a strike for me too,” he whispered before heading back into the house.
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Emma swiftly escaped into the laundry room, knowing that her current clothes were her last clean uniform. Have to take them to the refurb later, she thought. Carefully, she disrobed down to her shaw and apron. “Okay, you first, and then the bedding,” she muttered, starting to separate the comforters from the underclothes. She laughed quietly at how fluffy and resilient the pile of comforters became.
“Well, this is three. Now, what are we going to do about... well, whatever this is? Do you think being attractive is a reason to do your chores in the nude, Emma?”
Her face turned redder than a tomato or and gave off more heat than of the neon signs left on all night. The voice had come from behind her, though she didn’t need to turn around to know who it belonged to. The air froze, and her skin prickled.
“Hurry now, woman, before you become ill,” the firm voice demanded, coaxing energy back into Emma’s limbs.
Emma pivoted with the grace of a drunken ballerina, slamming the door in Mr. Holland’s face. “I... I was changing, like you asked, before starting on the beds,” she called out, her voice catching as the tightness in her throat warned her of inevitable tears.
Her eyes scanned the room, searching for something, anything, that could arm her with an excuse. Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she shuffled to her next outfit and dressed quickly, mentally preparing herself for the berating that might send her back to the Redeemer’s.
The cool metal of the doorknob felt comforting, her last protector, her last shield against losing everything.
“Ms. Emma.”
Or not.
“Do you know why we are here instead of a few Handy-sir robots?” The voice on the other side of the door was gentler than she expected.
“Because we’re more versatile? We can learn the Master’s wishes and predict them?” she offered, turning the knob and opening the door.
The naïveté of the girl softened Patrick’s face. “Oh, gods no.” He let out a singular chuckle before quickly tightening up again. “It’s the same reason we have the grandfather clock in the foyer—we are a symbol of status.” He grimaced and reached down, straightening the uniform in front of him.
“And when we stop being that, we start being replaced.” Satisfied with her now-presentable uniform, he stepped back again. “Once one of us is replaced, it’s only a matter of time before we all are.”
He shifted his eyes left and right down the hall. “You work in a museum, an art piece dedicated to the Lady’s extravagance. And once one of us, pieces, dulls, it’s only a matter of time before the collection is replaced.”
With a huff, he turned his back on her, shoulders hiking up slightly. “Now dry your tears and get back to work. We’ll pretend the door was unlocked and I made the mistake of opening it without knocking this time.”