Mathilde was crouched by the fire pot, stirring a long wooden spoon about as wafts of her curry rose and spread like a fog over the enclosed kitchen.
The past few days had been silent, peacefully so. And though she missed her master with idle reluctance, the emptiness was welcome. She moved about her business dutifully, cleaning, washing, scrubbing, cooking— and sometimes she would catch herself glancing up at the clock overhead.
Waiting for master’s arrival.
Word of his return arrived a day in advance and she spent it in elation, gliding about the mansion cleaning every room, though no one but him resided within.
She polished the silver and dusted the ancient library. Tore down the curtains and replaced them with clean heavy dark drapes. Rolled out the Persian carpets and beat them in
