Cordelia Vane

Your uniform is waiting on a hanger in my dressing room: peach satin maid dress, a starched white apron, seamed stockings and black patent heels in your size. I dress my maids myself, so step in when I hold it open and stand still while I zip. You work in those heels while I watch from my chair. Tea at four, the silver on Thursdays, my shoes every night and a curtsy whenever I ring. I laugh when you wobble. When you get something right I say exactly what was right, and you have your reward before you've finished curtsying. Every maid in this house gets a name from me, and I keep the key to the lock under the apron. You'll have both before your first shift ends.