Yes, Master

Chapter Four: Fire!

  We walk back through the living room and go to his mother's bedroom, where I was just cleaning out the closet. He picks up a pink pastel heel from the pile of discards and tosses it to me. He must see the panicked look on my face, because he says, "Trust me. It's not stealing. Mother just throws all these clothes away. Besides, it's under my authority. You know, I am in line to inherit Father's position as man of the house."

  Despite his reassurances, I feel a pang of guilt run through me. Here I am, nothing but a maid, yet I'm sitting here stealing my mistress's shoes with her son's permission. Something about this picture is so wrong. Yet, it feels so right and so good. To finally have access to all those luxuries I've so admired. To be able to have a dress that not only fits, but is custom tailored for me and me alone. Most of all, to have the attention of the boy who I am so inexplicably in love with.

  Unfortunately, my trip to fantasy land doesn't last long. I spend a while prancing around in my new shoes and trying not to fall flat on my face. Before I know it, we hear footsteps down the hall. Alexander looks up from his perch on a cushioned stool by his mother's mirror, where he was watching me prance around with an amused look on his face. He looks up with the look of a child who has been caught doing something forbidden. He pretends to rummage through the pile of clothes, as if he is checking to make sure I did my job the right way. With a rapidly beating heart, I practically dive in to the closet and shove the shoes to the bottom. His mother walks in to the room, her very presence adding some tension to the air. Her eyes sweep across the room like a hawk, checking to make sure everyone and everything is in its rightful place. She spots Alexander and strides over to her son, practically tripping over her skirts in her haste to know what her son is doing in a room with the maid.

  "Alexander," she says, "What are you doing in here?"

  Alexander hesitates, then replies, "Checking to make sure she's doing her job well enough, Mother." 

  She pats his head patronizingly, like he is a dog who just performed an impressive trick. "Well done, Alexander." Then she pushes him out of the room. On his way out, Alexander shoots me a humiliated look and rolls his eyes.

  Then his mother turns her steely eyes to me. "And you," she snaps, "Get back to work. Now!" I assume my customary pose of a bowed head and return to my post.

  By the end of the day, my feet and my head are aching. I trudge home the same way I trudged out of the house that morning. As I get closer to my home, I detect the acrid smell of smoke, of something burning in the air.  The closer I get, the stronger the smell becomes. Before I know it, I'm in front of my house. Correction: My burning house. I stand for a few minutes in shock as a crowd grows. Then I'm propelled in to action. I push through, panic gripping my heart, tears standing in my eyes. "Move through!  I live here!  I have to find my family!" I yell.

  This is one of the moments that I wish my father was alive. I don't remember much of my father, since he died when I was five. But one of my most vivid memories of him is the time I was four and my sister was one. We had gone to some sort of fair in the village square. I think there was a point where things got rather quiet. I'm not sure, but perhaps there was some sort of musical performance going on. Everyone was pretty quiet, and then my sister shattered the peace by starting to cry. Not just cry, but shriek. My mother became very flustered, her face turning red. My father, however, remained very level-headed and calmly left with my still shrieking sister in tow. That's one of the things I remember the most about him: his calmness and ability to be level headed in any situation. As I push through the crowd, I try to find that ability to keep calm inside me. Yet all I find is panic welling up inside me. I call for my mother and sister. I keep pushing until I'm right in front. A few of my neighbors try to hold me back, but I'm practically wild at this point. I'm thrashing and kicking as they try to hold me back.

  Eventually, someone shouts, "Git her over 'ere. Her mother and sister are right 'ere." A big rough hand grabs me and drags me over. I see my mother standing with my sister, Lily. Lily is crumpled on the damp ground, sobbing. My mother is surprisingly calm, her arms wrapped around Lily. She occasionally turns away to cough out some smoke. I sense that my mother isn't feeling well, but that she's keeping herself pulled together for Lily's sake. I do the only thing I can do: sit down, hug them both tight and tell them how much I love them. Eventually, it hits me and I also begin to cry. No home. No place to return to. No place to build memories. Not anymore.

  When my mother erupts in another bone-shattering cough, I muddle through the crowd. I eventually find the village apothecary, a man named Mr. Davies. He was always very kind to us, allowing me to pay bit by bit to get a small vial of medicine for my mother's lung condition every month. He turns to a boy that I'm pretty sure is his son, tells him something, and then comes with me over to my mother. He sees my mother sitting hunched over, coughing. "Oh, dear," he says, rubbing his temples. "We'll have to get her over to my shop. I'll go get my son."  He runs through the crowd and comes back with his son. Up until this point, I never knew he even had a son. Perhaps I didn't realize because his son looks nothing like him. Mr. Davies, despite being a very kind man, is not the best looking. He is bald, with a big bushy beard and a pot belly. His son, however, is rather handsome. He has light brown hair, green eyes, and is tall.  He might even rival Alexander in the looks department. He and his father lift up my mother and cart her away to the apothecary's shop.

  I trudge along with them, dragging a now calm Lily behind me. We eventually get to the shop. They gently lay my mother down on a old cot. The apothecary's son turns around, wiping his brow. "Oh, you're the daughters right?" he asks. I nod.

  A flash of recognition comes in to his eyes. "Hey! You're the girl who is the maid for some fancy family, right?" he inquires. I nod. Great. I'm now known as the maid. He holds out his hand. I shake it awkwardly.

  "I'm Curtis," he says, his grip firm.

  "Rosalie," I say.

  "Nice name," he says. I blush. He smirks, looking like he wants to laugh. Then he turns to help his father.

After a while, Mr. Davies turns and says, "Well, looks like she'll have to stay here for the night. Since you two have no home to return to, I have some extra cots you could use." We thank Mr. Davies and lay down to sleep, dreaming of boys and fires and balls and plans.