Since my old maid was let go when I turned seven, I have never had a maid longer than a year. That makes about eight faces I was powerless to save.
By now, I should have learned to refrain from bonding with them. They leave me one day. There was never a warning or goodbye, just a new face.
What should make it harder to remember all their names is that they all look alike.
Between twelve and fourteen, untrained but lovely to look at. Their complexions were always pale, with long brown hair standing out in contrast. My father preferred hazelnut colored. Doe eyes.
Once, a maid named Richa had green eyes so deep in color that she could have hidden a whole forest in them.
She lasted the year until she was sold.
When they first arrive, they are also skinny to the bone. I have been told stories of hunger that made the picky old me look twice at their poverty. It was clear that my definition of being poor differed greatly and that, try as I might, I would never be able to relate to them. I try to be grateful for what I have, but the daily stale bread I'm getting tastes like ash.
Other girls of my standing eat pancakes with fruit for breakfast.
A stupid situation I once again can't change. I vowed years ago that one day no one working for me would have to eat stale bread ever again.
I always become attached to my maids, no matter how hard I try to be indifferent.
When I lean forward to apply lipstick, I catch the eyes of my new maid. She moved to stand next to the door, waiting for orders.
Out of self-preservation, I can't care that she's younger than me, that her dove colored eyes are hollow underneath the gloss of tears, that she hides more bruises underneath the uniform that swallows her frame, that at least five maids wore before her. Right now, is she biting the inside of her cheek to keep the pain at bay?
Asking her would make me want to act. Her name could make me break. It could make me do something irrational that will get me into trouble. The last thing I need is for my father to discover my plans.
She would be another cut into my soul, another victim I can't save. Her name would ring like an oath to avenge her. Do right by her. I have no fantasies that I could save her, but if I hold out, maybe I can save all those that would have come after her.
My fingers shake violently with conviction and anger. Putting the lipstick down, I give up on my makeup. „Help me with my gloves."
My Maid moves silently and helps me with the buttons above my elbows. I hate these ghastly gloves because they feel like another stab in the wound. My hands feel confined in the stiff, snug golden fabric.
As she draws away from me, I once again see her bruises. I sigh inwardly. Now that I have seen them, I won't be able to ignore them so easily.
I force my gaze to break off from them. I can't do that, not again. Her predecessor, Maija, was choked to death because she fell pregnant. I almost puked onto the carpet in my father's office when I read about my father's thoughts three days later.
If I want to bring about meaningful change, then there is only one person I need to care for right now.
Myself.
I examine my eyes in the mirror. I keep the tiny fire that livens up my lilac eyes hidden with a veil of apathy. The dancing flames are my most precious treasure. They are fragile like candle lights, as if they go out in smoke if you blow too hard.
No one else but me will stroke the flames with every breath I take, no one else will. And if the fire goes out, what will be left of me?
I will become a shell on the beach, easily broken when stepped on.
Standing up, I scare my maid with the force I turn my back on her. My Maid. I keep referring to her in that stupid way. I push all thoughts aside. I need to be as hard as steel, or better, a snare with sharp teeth no one wants to step on.
Unfortunately, by turning, I come face to face with my mother.
Of course, my mother is long dead, but that does not mean that she does not influence my life.
What I am looking at is my third most precious treasure. My Mother's portrait.
I have a very unladylike tick when it comes to keeping it clean. As soon as I could balance on a chair to reach the top of the frame, I insisted on polishing it myself. Since then, no one has touched it.
Mother was a stunning woman. Blond hair that shimmered silver in direct sunlight and lilac eyes. She wears a deep green robe.
With delicate brush strokes, the painter had frozen her in time.
She was eighteen then and freshly graduated from the Grand International Royal Academy.
Mother had caused quite the excitement at the end of her third year when she won the Scholar of the Year award. She had won the award in the category of middle-class nobles each year of her enrollment. Her career as 'Doctor (International)' was short-lived. She died when she was but twenty-one. I know I'm biased, but in my eyes, she is the most important person in the world. I always emphasize that when I bring Lilies to her grave.
I come after her in looks. What a blessing in the dark of night.
I had no say when it came to my looks. It's a lucky roll of the dice that I haven't inherited anything from my father. But what about her character?
Most people would say that how a person behaves is more important than their looks. Only fixating on how pretty I am would be unwise for me.
A frame without a picture is forgettable. A bathtub without hot water is useless despite its fine exterior.
Who are you kidding?
Estella?
Who is Estella again? Oh yeah, it's me.
When I am dressed in red and gold, it is hard for me sometimes to recognize myself.
I take a deep breath and clasp my hands together over my heart. The sensation of my lungs expanding and collapsing is freeing. Resolve floods my brain, making me feel lightheaded. I breathe out all the tension and turn around to face my maid.
„What is your name?"