“You shall be sharin' this room with Greta,” she told me, accidentally dropping her `g,' not so superior in truth after all. “You shan't see her much. A kitchen maid works the longest hours.”
She turned her back to me, yet I heard her mumble, “And that's what you should be.”
I pretended not to hear, though I did it badly. I would become a master at it soon enough.
Greta's side of the room was bright and alive. A merrily squared quilt covered her bed, pictures hung from the wood rail circling the room painted pale yellow, a lovely, embroidered pillow sat on the chair. The other side looked barren and empty; my side.
“Put your things away.” She pointed to the chest and the closet. “I'll be right back with bedding and something decent for you to wear.” She looked offended as her gaze scra
