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 the back with a club until all dust vanished.

Last but not least, Mathilde prepared a bouquet of his favourite meal. It was hard to pinpoint which her master favoured, considering he ate with a neutral expression.

However, having lived with him for over a decade, she learned to pick up the subtlest of gestures from her master. The slight tilt of his full flushed lips as he bit into a soft vanilla loaf, the pleasant hum in his baritone throat as he lifted the fork of tenderized Wagyu beef to his mouth.

Yes, Master may have been a closed book, but sometimes the outer covers told enough of the story.

Mathilde spent her day kneading dough, chopping vegetables, soaking rice, hammering meat until tender— then the preparations began. She chopped and diced, tossed and glazed. Everything was finally coming in order.

Brazed lamb, tenderized beef wrapped in sizzling bacon, freshly churned cheese, warm baked bread still soft from the oven, charred vegetables, mushroom and pea soup and finally a bottle of chilled Chateau Lafitte.

The long dining table was set and she hurriedly scrubbed herself clean before dawning the white dress he preferred her to wear. The collar was high and hem swept well past her worn-out ankles.

Mathilde thoroughly brushed her hair and held it up into a severe ponytail, as he always liked, then pinched her cheeks to bring out a rosy colour on her otherwise pale complexion.

She glanced at the clock then moved towards the mansion’s entrance, slowly lowering herself onto her knees.

Mathilde waited.

An hour or so later, she heard the rush of a piercing scream. It was so loud, Mathilde leapt up, startled. Reaching for a lamp, she made to descend the front steps but held steady.

Master did not permit her to leave his confines. And so she stepped back, resorting to anxiously peer at the dark leering trees.

The scream came again, this time closer. Rushing towards one end, Mathilde clutched the wooden beam and held the lamp high as a silhouette formed in the distance.

“Master,” she whispered, stomach awash with relief. Her smile halted then dissolved, eyebrows pinching at the realization that he held something that was thrashing violently against his laps.

Or someone.

“Help me!” It was a girl’s voice.

Mathilde tensed as her master fluidly leapt off the horse, his grip tightened on the nape of a girl’s neck. She was small and rather petite, barely reaching his upper chest, and wore a dress stained with dirt and blood.

The girl’s face was ordinary, much to Mathilde’s relief, heart-shaped, muddy brown eyes now red from crying and her hair a mess. At the sight of her, the girl wailed even wilder— “Help me! He’s the beast! The monster!”

Perhaps it was the mere audacity to yell, let alone accuse her master of being something, that had her flinching away. Mathilde felt a dull flicker of anger and pity for the girl.

She would be punished, severely so.

Mathilde quickly dropped to her knees, hands poised over upper thighs, head lowered in deference and submission. “My master,” she whispered as he climbed the front steps and brushed past her with the screaming girl.

Mathilde quickly rose and followed suit, halting by the entrance as he released the girl and dismissively shoved her. She tripped and fell clumsily, doe-like eyes rising to the man.

Pointedly ignoring her, he moved towards the small glass table and twisted a bottle of whiskey, pouring himself a substantial amount along with three ice cubes.

She watched him drink— the powerful rise and fall of his throat, muscular jaw ticking as ice cubes crushed between his teeth patiently. All was silent save for him.

Eventually, he set the glass down and for the first time, regarded Mathilde.

“Have her showered and sent to my chambers.”

With those final words, he walked out.

Mathilde blinked after his retreating figure, then with a substantial amount of effort, dragged her eyes to the girl who still sat on the carpet. Stunned.

Mathilde’s mouth twisted down furiously. “Get up,” she snapped, “your filth is ruining the carpet.” Which was true. The girl had smudged her dirt and stained what took three days to wash.

When she didn’t move, clearly still in shock, Mathilde stormed towards her and stooped low. Fortunately for her, she was larger than the girl. A good inches tall and heavy set. Grabbing her bicep, Mathilde hauled her upright, ignoring the girl’s pained cry.

“Quiet yourself,” Mathilde hissed, dragging her down the long hallway towards the servants quarters.

The mansion was large, eight bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a parlour, library, dining room, kitchen and art room. The servants quarters were located away from the mansion, joined by a small trap door.

Despite the size, it had been Mathilde and master for ten years. Alone.

Now they had a third. A girl.

“Rid yourself of those clothes,” she released the girl and shoved her into the bathroom where a large bucket and hard soap was placed.

The girl stared wide-eyed at the wall, then drew her eyes towards Mathilde, still terror streaked. “I want to go home.” She whispered, broken.

Mathilde snorted, “enough rubbish talk, strip.” When the girl didn’t move, Mathilde reached for her dress and swiftly spin her, yanking the zip down.

The girl gasped, hands rising to hold up the dress but Mathilde was lightning first. She tugged it down to her ankles and forced each foot out before pressing her into the small cubicle.

Dipping a cup into the bucket, Mathilde scooped then splashed it on the girl. The water was cold, and she allowed herself a small knowing smile as the girl gasped, scrambling into the corner futilely.

“Wait—!”

Ignoring her, Mathilde reached for the soap and rough cloth, quickly lathering it she yanked the girl closer and like a child, proceeded to scrub her raw and clean. “Shut up.” She snapped at her whimpers, “if I so much as hear you make another sound—”

She threatened some more until the sounds died. Mathilde sunk lower, rubbing away the mud and dirt from her hands, stomach, back, thighs, using a rock to scrub under her foot. She was excessive forceful but hardly cared.

Perhaps this was her way of relieving the frustration of knowing he brought someone else. A female.

Once done, she dumped the whole bucket on the girl and dragged her out, quickly wiping her down with a thin towel. She was still shivering when Mathilde left and returned with a clean gown.

“Wear this.” She commanded and the girl timidly reached for it.

Afterwards, she brushed her hair, scowling at the thick, soft texture.

“Where are you taking me?” The girl whispered as Mathilde guided her down the hallway. “Please, I have to—”

Mathilde whirled around violently then, pressing up against the girl’s trembling figure. “Never speak to me or him unless instructed to do so. If you dare try and escape, he will have you chained to a tree and whipped mercilessly. Do you understand?”

The girl blinked then nodded but failed to speak.

Growling, she led her back into the mansion, towards the east wing where his room lay at the end of the hall.

Shoving her forward, Mathilde softly knocked on the door before opening it. Her eyes lowered instantly, knowing it was disrespectful to stare.

Nudging the girl inside, Mathilde shut the door and stepped away.