Marie-Antoinette

Chapter Seven: The Chambermaid

The storm broke out while I was sketching in the garden.

Nothing in the clouds' sullen, pearl-grey dance had distinguished that morning from any sunless other, and when the sky tore up, letting loose sheets of chilly rain that hammered on the ground with a deafening noise, I was caught unawares. I pressed my notepad and pencils to my chest, offering them what little protection I could against the mad elements, and hurried out of the wood of creaking, dancing, rustling trees. I had not covered ten metres when the wind ripped the hood of my cloak from my head, allowing the torrential rain to drench my hair and whip across my face with surprising force. The wild flapping of my robes and cloak hampered my progression as I struggled to get back into the shelter of the house, and by the time I had reached the terrace, I was already soaked to the bones.

I made a very wet and messy entry, leaving pools of water on the black and white tiles as I stumbled into the hallway. Shivering and out of breath, I leant my shoulders against the glassy door, slamming it shut at the same time as the wind tried to force its way into the house. The glass panes rattled angrily against my back.

"Is Mademoiselle all right?" Lali shouted, in French, as she burst out of the kitchen and ran across the hallway as fast as her little legs could carry her. Pomy was close behind, tugging on my elf's midnight blue toga in her attempt to beat her to the living room. Seeing the two house-elves race one another was now fairly common, since Lali carried out my orders to not let Pomy do any work whatsoever with remarkable zeal. The strain of forced idleness was already taking its toll on James Potter's elf: large bags were forming under her bloodshot eyes and her ears drooped like those of a dog caught under the rain.

"I'm fine, don't worry about me," I called back.

"There's an owl for Mademoiselle," Lali said in her strident voice, still struggling to rip her toga out of Pomy's clutches. "In -- ouch! In her bedroom!"

Pomy tripped Lali, and both elves fell in a heap barely one metre away from the living room door. For several minutes there was a great confusion of high-pitched screeches, bare feet kicking in all directions and small fists swinging about; I finally took out my wand, checked no one stood in the staircase that loomed over the hallway, and aimed a Banishing Charm at the white half of the heap. There was a bang, a shriek, and Pomy found herself thrown backward into the air. She crashed on the floor and, carried away by her momentum, slid across the black and white tiles all the way to the entrance door -- which stopped her progression with a very satisfying thud.

By the time the elf had staggered back to her feet, cross-eyed and tangled into her white cloth, Lali had rushed into the living room and locked the door behind her. I had long put my wand away and was now busying myself with the fastenings of my sodden cloak, affecting not to pay any attention to the defeated house-elf.

Pomy ran over to the living room and, after she failed to open the door, started banging on it with closed fists, her skinny little body wrecked with sobs of rage. I was smiling slightly as I walked past her to hang my cloak on the coat rack; water dripped from the hem of the garment onto the floor with a sad little sound, already forming a puddle in which the flickering torches were reflected.

"Someone will need to clean that," I said, speaking loudly to cover the elf's wails. Upon hearing the word clean, Pomy hiccoughed and wheeled about, eyes wide and hopeful -- then she caught sight of me, standing by the coat rack in my wet clothes. She drew herself to her full height.

"Pomy... is not... cleaning your mess," she sniffed, her voice broken by sobs.

I turned my head in a slow, purposeful motion to stare at the distraught creature, taking care to keep my features blank, as if I was noticing her for the first time. Then my gaze glided over her as it would over a piece of furniture, and I called out, "Did you hear me, Lali?"

My elf's muffled voice reached me from the living room, speaking a heavily accented English. "Yes, Mademoiselle! Lali will clean up the hallway!"

Pomy's large round eyes slowly filled with new tears of despair. I flashed a smile at her and turned to climb the stairs to my bedroom.

I found a ruffled-feathered owl perched on my desk chair, a scroll of parchment dangling from a small string tied to its leg. I relieved the bird of its burden and offered it my closed fist, wrist bent. With a soft hoot of approval it hopped on my arm, closing its talons on my wrist lightly enough for it not to hurt, obviously used to being carried that way -- the old-fashioned way, Aimée would say. I carried it over to my bedroom door, smoothing down the feathers on its back with a light finger, and sent it to the kitchen where it would find food and shelter for the duration of the storm.

I took the time to dry my hair and clothes before I sat at my desk and finally picked up the letter. I did not recognise the seal, an embellished M, but the parchment was of superior quality and my name was written on the scroll with a round, very tidy handwriting.

Malfoy Manor,

November the 9^th, 1983

Dear Mrs. Potter,

How are you doing in this awful day? Surely you must be thinking of your native country with some nostalgia, given the absolutely dreadful weather England has been treating you with since your arrival. I've been to France myself a few times when I was a girl, and my memories of it all include a bright blue sky and warm weather. I must say, it is a pity you had to get married in October: autumn and winter are not very pleasant seasons here for a Frenchwoman. Spring, on the other hand, is a delicious time of the year. I do hope you'll be able to come and admire my gardens then; they are my guilty pleasure, I spend nearly all my time there in spring and summer, although I know next to nothing of gardening.

I spent a truly lovely evening talking to you at Rodolphus and Bella's, the other day. I've talked to my friends about you a lot, and they are all most eager to meet you. Would you like to come and have tea with us at the Malfoy manor, Tuesday of next week? My husband Lucius will be away on the Dark Lord's orders, so we'll have the house all to ourselves. Bellatrix won't be there, either; her duties as the Minister's wife keep her insanely busy these days. So in the end we'll be five or six, no husbands and no children, and of course, no politics talk. Just a fun tea-party between girls. If the weather is fair -- one can only hope -- we might even have our tea outside, on the grass.

My dear Mrs. Potter, I cannot say how impatient I am at the idea of introducing you to my friends. I do hope you'll be free to come Tuesday, but if you aren't, please write me back and set a date yourself. We'll settle something. I am determined to give you one afternoon away from your duties at your home; I remember how tiring my first weeks as a newlywed were.

Hoping to see you very soon, and with my best wishes,

Narcissa Malfoy.

I put the letter back down and stared out of the rain-slapped window, torn between conflicting feelings. An afternoon with the charming Mrs. Malfoy would be a much-appreciated break from my dreary day-to-day existence, and even though I was a little nervous at the thought of meeting her friends, who would undoubtedly be all considerably older than I was, I found the prospect of seeing more of the pure-blood English society very exciting.

However, this was the second invitation I had received, and it was from the Minister's sister in law. No matter how gracious and understanding Narcissa was, I could not afford to delay in returning her invitation any more than the Lestranges'. Unfortunately the house wasn't ready to receive anyone, the garden was still a jungle -- and I still lacked a human servant.

I supposed the unfinished house would not be such a problem since the living and dining rooms were almost completed; I was not expected to take them for a tour around the first floor, after all. As for the garden, the season and dreadful weather gave me an excellent pretext to keep it away from outsiders' eyes.

The absence of a decent servant who would attend to the guests' needs and serve at dinner, on the other hand, was unforgivable.

With a resigned sigh, I opened a drawer of my overlarge desk and picked two parchments from its insides; they had initially been rolled into tight scrolls, but I had read them so often over the past two days that they were now quite flat. One of them was Bellatrix Lestrange's uncharacteristically helpful letter. The other was from Stan Rocade, the guardian of the Muggleborn Village 4, to whom I had written the day before. His reply had aggravated me enough to make me consider giving up on hiring a chambermaid: not burdening himself with even the most elementary courtesy, he dryly informed me that, should I want to choose a servant among the inhabitants of his village, I would be able to do so between 9 a.m. and midday any day of the week, but that I would have to visit the entire village on my own. His duties didn't give him the leisure to help me in any way, and certainly not to select candidates for the job. I would have to do so myself.

Anger still made my blood boil as I reread the letter. Aside from the lout's utter lack of manners, it was painfully obvious that the name 'Potter' had not impressed him, despite its antiquity; I was starting to get used to this kind of reaction, and could hardly find it surprising after Narcissa's revelations on the part my husband had played in the last war. The burden of bearing his sullied name was growing heavier as days passed, and I thought with some bitterness that Lestrange hadn't made my task any easier.

I didn't have a choice though; I had to go through those first humiliating steps if I ever wanted to take my revenge on them.

I checked my watch; it was 11. I still had time before me.

My mind made up, I got up and grabbed my handbag from under my armchair, dropping both letters into it before sliding the strap up my arm to rest on my shoulder.

"Lali?" I called as I walked out of my bedroom. From downstairs, a shrill old-fashioned curse in French answered me, followed by Pomy's bellow of triumph. I rolled my eyes. God knew where the two house-elves were wrestling now; what was certain was that neither of them was bound to hear my call. I didn't have the time to separate them now, and wasn't feeling inclined to -- this was, after all, part of my and Lali's plan. Let them sort it out between themselves.

Taking a right turn, I hurried along the torch-lit corridor that led to James Potter's room.

I must confess I wasn't feeling particularly comfortable at the thought of confronting him again. We had not had a single conversation since our evening at the Lestranges', which had occurred two days before; I had avoided him for the most part, settling for a neutral 'hello' when our paths crossed by accident. The shameful weakness that had made me long for an affectionate gesture from him, like that of a lovesick puppy kicked around by its master, had sickened me enough that I now made a point in excluding him from my thoughts. He was a vault at Gringotts, a name attached to mine like a useless limb, and that was it.

Of course, that line of thoughts, as reasonable as it was, would be hard to maintain if I had to speak to him face to face again. He was the only human face I would have seen in the past two days, after all.

I resolved to make it quick. I paused outside his door, knocked once, and entered before I lost my nerve.

"Yes...?"

He was half-turning to look at me over his shoulder, having apparently been caught in the middle of examining something on his desk. His robes had been discarded on a nearby chair and he stood in just his shirt and trousers, seemingly indifferent to the cold of the room; his fire wasn't even lit. His shirt was crumpled, the collar undone and creased, his hair stuck up in all directions and the shadow of a two-day-old stubble covered his cheeks and chin.

He raised his eyebrows at me, making me suddenly aware of how unceremoniously I had barged into his room, and this just to end up staying immobile on his doorstep and staring at him. Under his politely confused gaze, I fought to keep my hands from smoothing down imaginary wrinkles on my robes.

"I'm going out," I said quickly. "And I'm not sure I'll be back before Mr. Rumfold is done with the dining room, so... would you mind paying him and sending him on his way?"

He blinked. "Mr. Rumfold being?"

"Our architect," I replied through gritted teeth. My old resentment at his lack of interest for what I was doing for us rose in my throat again, with the bitterness of bile.

He turned his back on me once more and bent over his desk, resting his palms on the wooden surface, his head hanging as if in weariness -- or annoyance. His slightly sharper tone told me it was the latter. "Why don't you ask one of the house-elves? You usually don't need me for that kind of thing."

"They're both busy. Besides, your house-elf is the one managing my accounts, and she won't take any orders from me." I paused before I added, with more venom than I had intended to show, "As you well know."

"I don't have time for this," he grumbled, more to himself than to me, it seemed. He straightened up and raked his fingers through his hair, leaving it more dishevelled than ever. I was almost squirming on the spot with an impatience that soon turned into full-blown anger; the man had a talent for making me absolutely irate with little effort. I wanted to hex something.

"So?" I finally prompted him.

"I'll do it if I have to," he ground out with a visible effort. "But try to come back before he's gone, all right?"

A dozen replies came to my mind, some of them scathing enough to issue from the mouth of a bickering fishwife. I finally settled for a banal, "Thank you", which, admittedly, contained more than a healthy dose of sarcasm.

As I turned to leave, an impulse made me take out my wand and point it at the fireplace. A roaring fire sprung to life, spilling light and warmth into the darkened room.

"Do try to shave someday," I added. "You look like a mess."

I might have slammed the door a little harder than necessary on my way out.

The hallway, I discovered as I took my cloak off its peg, had already been cleaned up. The door to the unfinished dining room was ajar, and amidst the noises and flashes of the workers' spells I could distinguish snatches of Rumfold's usual lamentations. I passed the door in a tearing hurry, praying that none of the workers would draw the old architect's attention to me, and opened another door dissimulated behind a large tapestry hanging in the furthest corner of the hallway. A flight of steps led me down to the kitchen, which had been built in the basement below the dining room.

The house-elves were there, once more busily grappling on the red-tiled floor, and did not even realise I had entered the room. I had no intention to disturb them and walked up to the far wall, which was mostly taken up by the chimney -- a huge medieval fireplace in which one could have roasted an entire bull. The hearth was cold and chock-full of ashes. The jar of Floo powder sat on the stone mantelpiece.

I departed.

The spinning green flames dropped me off into a much humbler fireplace, too narrow for two people to stand in it, and so low I had to crouch down in order to emerge into the room beyond. It was a sad, bare-walled little room, at the centre of which a coffee table groaned under the weight of accumulated newspapers, used plates and cutlery, and -- oddly enough -- a single mud-stained boot. Around the table huddled two squat armchairs that looked as if they came from the same shop as my living room's original furniture. Two windows let in a pallid, avaricious light. The exit, a door with peeling white paint, was on the wall facing the fireplace.

I had taken two steps away from the chimney when that door opened abruptly, and a stout man sporting a red, impressively dimensioned nose pushed his way through, looking rather flustered.

"Mrs. Potter?" he inquired as soon as he caught sight of me.

I nodded once, rather stiffly. The remarkably uncouth letter was still on my mind. "You are Mr. Rocade?" I asked. "I hope it's not too late to--"

"Dear me, dear me, it's not too late, no, not at all," he stuttered. "You can come in any time you wish, yes, of course... Er, I'll, I'll take your cloak now -- well, only if you want me to, obviously -- and, do you want something to drink, or eat? I, er, I can make tea, and, well, if there's anything else you want..."

"No, thank you," I managed to say, although from the way he kept babbling, whether he had heard me or not was unclear. My initial wariness had gradually given way to bewilderment. I didn't know what stunned me the most, of his maladroit deference, the constant stream of words he kept up, or the wriggling and twitching of his nose as he spoke. The appendage seemed to have a mind of its own. All in all, I was finding it hard to believe the near-insulting letter enclosed in my handbag came from the very same man.

"All right, all right, then, then I'll just take your cloak now... Here... Make yourself at home." He had a jerky little gesture towards one of the stone-hard armchairs. "I'll tell my wife to bring you tea and biscuits while I'm gathering the women... All are good persons, Milady, all of them. Clean and well-mannered. Not greedy, either, no, not at all. Couldn't have come to a better place to find a good servant. Yes. I'll, I'll be off now. To get them."

He bowed in a clumsy little salute. "S'a pleasure, a pleasure to serve you, Milady," he mumbled one last time before retreating towards the door, never daring to turn his back on me.

The door closed behind the man's considerable backside. I sat in an armchair, completely dumbfounded.

I was just taking out my notepad with the vague idea of resuming my sketches when the door opened again on a middle-aged, spherical woman, wearing a large apron and carrying a trail loaded with a cup and saucer, a kettle, a sugar bowl and a pitch of milk. She walked into the room with tiny, pattering little steps, and put her trail on top of the piles of newspapers covering the coffee table. I returned the notepad to my handbag and rose from my seat.

"Don't mind me, Milady, don't mind me," the round little woman immediately tweeted. "I don't want to disturb you."

"But you're not disturbing me at all," I said. "Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Rocade... Aren't you having some?" I added, noting the single cup on the trail.

The woman's face split in a wide smile. She straightened up, wiping her hands on her apron, and spoke with such eagerness I wondered if she had been hoping for such an invitation. "Oh, well if you insist, Milady, I'll get a cup for myself. I see I've forgotten the biscuits anyway, silly me. I'll be right back then."

Mrs. Rocade scampered out of the room again; within a minute she was back, carrying her own cup and a large earthenware bowl that turned out to be full of tiny biscuits.

"I must say, Mrs. Potter, your visit is an honour for us," my hostess said as she poured the amber-coloured tea into the cups. "I am absolutely thrilled to meet you. My husband and I are happy to serve the Dark Lord by guarding the village, of course, but it does get lonely sometimes."

"Don't you ever leave the house?" I asked.

"Well, where would I go? Obviously I can't socialise with Muggleborns. I mean -- not that they aren't nice, but it's better if they all stay between themselves, isn't it? Most of them used to have wands, you know. They feel they have a right to do magic. It's quite unreasonable, but you can't blame the poor fellows for dreaming, can you? They don't have very happy lives now, after all."

Mrs. Rocade took a sip of her tea. Out of politeness, I brought my cup up to my mouth and tipped it slightly, then put it down before the boiling-hot liquid had the time to scald my lips.

"Of course," Mrs. Rocade went on, "when the village is finished and they all have a job, they'll forget about this wand nonsense. The Dark Lord decided to implant a huge factory halfway between the villages 3 and 4. That should keep them busy; and as long as they're busy, they're happy, because they don't have the time to wish they could use magic."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Rocade, but I'm not sure I understand," I interrupted. "Are all Muggleborns living in villages such as this one?"

Cut off in the middle of her tirade, Mrs. Rocade seemed to lose the ability to speak entirely, and for several seconds she stared at me with a blank look on her round face. "Mrs. Potter..." she said at last in a slow, careful tone. "It's been so for quite a bit of time."

"I've only just arrived to England..."

"Oh, sweet Merlin, I knew it!" Quite evidently, Mrs. Rocade could not be shocked into speechlessness for long. "I spotted your accent. Not that your English isn't good, of course, in fact it's excellent, but you do have a little accent... A charming accent, too. Oh, but I had no idea you were newly arrived... Well, you see, Muggleborns aren't rightful wizards. They can't be, since they didn't inherit their magic from anyone. Most of them even prefer Muggles' company to wizards'! I ask you... Anyway their wands have been taken, and they've been gathered in villages like this one, so they could stay between themselves. It's all better this way, isn't it?"

While Mrs. Rocade babbled on, my thoughts wandered back to my school days. I had known a few Muggleborns in Beauxbâtons, and had they not told me about their Muggle parents, I would never have been able to distinguish them from my other classmates -- except for their occasional ignorance of the magical culture in which I'd bathed since my childhood. They did not seem inferior to my purer-blooded classmates, talent-wise, but they were different in other, subtler ways.

I thought of Mélanie, with whom I used to share a dormitory. She was Muggleborn. I imagined her deprived of her wand and forced to live, without magic, in a nameless village.

A frisson ran up my spine and I set my tea back on the trail, for fear my trembling hands would spill it all over my clothes.

"...as the Minister said. He's a remarkable man. Such charisma! By the way, Mrs. Potter..." Mrs. Rocade's chirping voice suddenly was very serious, almost urgent. I looked up and put on a smile. "I... I wanted to tell you how sorry Albert is about that letter he sent you. You'd be right to be furious at us, of course, but I swear we had no idea who you were. How distraught he was when Mrs. Lestrange herself mailed him to say you'd be coming... He left at once to see if there were suitable candidates for you. He was out all morning!"

The plump little woman was now peering at me expectantly; her benign smile was gone, replaced by a strained, uneasy look, and she wrung her hands in her lap in an apparently unconscious gesture.

So here was the explanation for Rocade's sudden change of attitude. Mrs. Lestrange had taken it upon herself to write to him and tell him to expect my visit... How... strange.

"I will tell Mrs. Lestrange you were most gracious to me," I reassured Mrs. Rocade. As she had probably commanded them to be. Indeed, what an admirable solicitude from the Minister's wife.

Mrs. Rocade beamed with gratitude. "Thank you, thank you, that's a huge weight of my chest! Poor Albert was so scared of offending you... If there's anything we can do for you in the future, don't hesitate! It's an honour for us... Mrs. Lestrange's friend ..."

We were interrupted by shuffling and trampling sounds coming from behind the door. Mrs. Rocade's smile, if it was possible, went even wider.

"Right on time!" she trilled. "Albert's back. Now, before you choose your new chambermaid, can I be so bold as to give you a word of advice?" Her eyes narrowed a bit, her smile turning conspiratorial.

"Go on," I said, laughing despite myself at the woman's theatrical behaviour.

She leant towards me and put her hand before her mouth, like a schoolgirl trying not to get caught talking in class. "If one of the candidates is a single mother, choose her without hesitation," she whispered. "Single mothers are always concerned about what might happen to their child. You won't find a more obedient servant. Plus, they are less likely to go gallivanting around with men, if you don't mind me saying that."

I slowly nodded, my smile fading from my face. "I see..."

Again, the advice about single mothers. That was... intriguing. And certainly a bit too much to be a mere coincidence.

The door opened and Rocade's massive silhouette, soaked and covered in mud up to the knees, appeared on the threshold. He had another clumsy little salute in my direction.

"The candidates are here, Milady, if you wish to see them. I haven't told them your name, of course."

"Why not?"

"The less Muggleborns know about the Dark Lord's court, the better, dear Mrs. Potter," Mrs. Rocade intervened in a low voice. "Mrs. Lestrange warned us that only the woman you choose to hire should know your name. It's very important."

Rocade had an approving grunt. "Now, Martha, take that trail elsewhere and leave the lady in peace," he said gruffly.

"Your tea was delicious, Mrs. Rocade," I said as my hostess cleared the coffee table. I was rewarded by another bright smile and a little curtsey. As Mrs. Rocade scurried out of the room, her husband stepped back and, looking to his right at someone I couldn't see, barked, "All right, you can get in, one by one. You first."

And so the first woman was ushered into the room.

The door closed and we were left alone.

There was a long pause during which the strange woman and myself stared at each other in silence. If I felt a little timid, the Muggleborn was livid with anxiety; she was tall and too thin, with damp coppery hair that she had tied back in a poorly-made bun, harmonious features -- if a tad too sharp -- and large green eyes, too big for her pale, hollowed face.

"Well, take a seat," I said, gesturing to the second armchair.

She nodded. "Thank you." Her voice was strong, deeper than mine and a little brusque; I was reminded of Bellatrix's voice, although contrary to the Minister's wife, the woman spoke without a trace of malice or mockery in her tone. She moved to sit down and in doing so revealed a little boy, no older than two or three, who was striving to hide behind his mother's legs. I raised an eyebrow; the child shot at me a terrified glance and gripped his mother's skirts more tightly, causing her to stumble.

"Shh, Harry," the woman cooed, taking the little one's hand.

"And... this is?" I asked, taken aback by the child's appearance.

The woman tried to smile. "This is my son, Harry," she said. "I hope you don't mind if he stays with me, he'd be terrified to be left alone..." Her voice trailed away as she looked at me hopefully.

A mixture of pity and self-consciousness tightened my throat.

You don't know anything about the real world... you have no idea what people less privileged than you are going through.

I slightly shook my head to dissipate the disturbingly clear memory of Potter's words -- why were they ringing so forcefully in my mind now, when I had not thought of them in days? -- and composed my face into a distant expression. It was better to keep this as professional as possible. "I don't mind," I said without warmth. "How old is he?"

"Three years old."

"And his father?" I asked without thinking.

The woman's face went blank; averting her eyes, she settled in the chair and heaved the boy up to seat him on her lap. "My husband is dead," she said without looking up.

"Oh... I'm sorry."

She acknowledged my answer with a nod as she smoothed down the hair of her child, who was curled up against her and stared at me with wide green eyes from under the wild black locks that covered his forehead. I held his gaze for a second before returning it to his mother.

"So, what's your name?" I started brusquely, wanting to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Lily... Evans," she said. Her voice was bizarrely strained, as if uttering her name cost her a great effort of will, but it had not quivered. Her arms tightened around her son, rocking him gently.

"Lily," I repeated, calling her by her first name as I had done with every human servant I had ever had. "Have you ever served in a house?"

She met my eyes steadily. "No, I haven't. But I'm capable. I've kept my husband's house for several years, and I'm familiar with all household tasks."

"I won't ask my chambermaid to scrub the floor or iron clothes," I said. "Her tasks will be simpler: take care of guests, serve at meals, that kind of thing."

"I've never done that," she admitted without batting an eyelash. "But I've seen it done before. I also know that there are different customs in each household, so if you want to tell me exactly what you expect from me, I believe I will give you satisfaction. I'm a quick learner."

Her voice was firm and well-modulated, like that of someone used to speaking in public; I recognised how cleverly she made her inexperience sound like an advantage, and the subtle blend of confidence and simplicity in her tone of voice, suggesting rather than asserting her competence. The way she talked and held herself made me feel she was as educated as I was -- in fact, since she was older, probably more than I was -- and certainly enough that she could hope for better than a chambermaid's position.

I regarded her for a few silent seconds. Her act was, all in all, very good. An inattentive eye would have missed the involuntary contraction of her hands that betrayed her nervousness.

I put down the notepad on which I had been scribbling while she talked. "Why do you want this job, Mrs. Evans?" I asked brusquely. "It's a thankless work, and I'm afraid I can't afford to pay my servants as much as any other pure-blood would."

She laid her cheek on top of her little boy's dark head. "It doesn't matter to me. This village isn't a place to raise a child... Milady," she said in a low voice.

I nodded, my eyes irresistibly drawn to the window behind her, but the rain that trickled down the glass blurred the view of the village beyond into a blend of brown and grey. I hesitated briefly then stooped and rummaged into my handbag for my purse. Drawing it, I picked five Galleons from it -- about all I could spare -- and held them out to Lily. She took them, staring at me enquiringly.

"I'm sorry," I said, very gently.

Lily, from pale, went paper white. "But... why?" she stammered.

"You aren't suited for the job." I rose and smoothed down my robes. "I'm afraid that's all I can do for you at the moment."

"Wait -- what's the problem? Is it Harry? You won't see him, I swear. I'll feed him with my salary, I'll--"

"No, Harry isn't the problem. You aren't the kind of person I'm looking for, that's all." I walked up to the door and halted there, my hand on the doorknob, then turned to face her. From her seat she stared at me, mouthing words that would not come out of her throat, then I saw her horrified, supplicant expression ebb away, as if eroded under my own gaze. She got to her feet.

"Then you can keep your money," she said in a toneless voice. "I'm not a beggar."

"And I can't send you back without giving you something," I countered. "Goodbye, Mrs. Evans." And meeting the cowering child's eyes again, I added, "Goodbye Harry."

Eager to end the unpleasant scene, I opened the door. Lily Evans didn't spare me a glance as she walked out, straight-backed, her son's small hand in hers.

"Next please."

***

I left the Rocades an hour later with my new chambermaid. Anne was a fifteen-year-old girl, homeless and underfed, her skinny little body covered in grime and scabs. She was meek and well-mannered, though, and I had not hesitated before hiring her. She probably needed the job more than any other candidate, Lily Evans included.

Lily had been the only single mother of the lot of candidates, and considering Bellatrix Lestrange's repeated suggestions, I now strongly suspected I had been expected to hire her specifically. The solicitude and advice from the Minister's wife rang false; I could not believe her intentions were completely innocent. This, however, was not the main reason why I had rejected Lily's application. In truth, my motives were more down-to-earth: the young woman was closer to my husband's age than I was. She was also prettier -- or more striking, at any rate; I wasn't blind or vain enough not to see that. Proud, determined and poor as she was, she inspired compassion. All this made her very attractive in numerous ways, and my situation vis-à-vis my husband being anything but ensured, affectively speaking, I would have been a fool to let her inside my house permanently.

Despite this logical reasoning, however, the memory of little Harry's wide-eyed gaze was uncomfortably tugging at my conscience. All matters considered I was relieved to finally depart from the sinister Village Number 4 and rejoin the shelter of my own house.

For the rest of the day I undertook to turn poor, filthy, starving Anne into a presentable servant. After she had eaten, washed, and changed into some of my old clothes -- which would have to do until I could afford to buy her a uniform -- we discussed of her wages and days out as I installed her in her new quarters and showed her around the house. Her quiet nature matched well my own, I found, and she was nimble and eager to please. I was very happy about my choice.

I pushed the red-haired woman and her baby boy out of my mind. I had done all I could for them, after all.

The next morning, I pushed open the kitchen door and was surprised to find Anne standing up very straight near the table, her hands behind her back. She met my questioning gaze and instantly dipped into an approximate curtsey.

"I wanted to make your breakfast," she said very fast, stumbling over her words in such a way I could barely understand her, "but the... the little... the little big-eared creature yelled at me and did it herself."

I glanced down at the table, where my coffee and toasts waited, as usual, neatly spread on a napkin of the midnight blue and silver colours of Syrnac house. I looked up at Anne again, who had turned an unexpected bright shade of red. She looked so crestfallen I had to bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from smiling. I did not quite manage to keep the amusement out of my voice.

"Cooking my breakfast is Lali's prerogative," I explained. "And she's rather fierce about keeping her advantages... Why would you want to cook my meals, anyway? I thought I had told you it wasn't part of your duties."

She hung her head, blinking rapidly. "I -- I'm sorry Mistress. It won't happen again."

I suddenly lost all desire to smile. She looked ready to burst into tears.

"I wasn't reproaching you anything," I said, a little startled by her reaction. "You've never served in a mansion before, I wasn't expecting you to be perfect on your first day. Here, where's Lali now?"

"Ici, Mademoiselle! Lali arrive!"

My elf's squeaky, high-pitched voice made Anne jump and back off against the wall, her panic-filled eyes darting left and right. When Lali appeared with a loud crack in the middle of the kitchen, halfway between the girl and me, Anne let out a little squeak and pressed herself harder into the wall, as if trying to sink right through the solid stone. My elf wiped her hands on her midnight blue toga and glared at the terrified chambermaid before levelling on me a disapproving look.

"Mademoiselle should eat," she went on, still in French. "The coffee of Mademoiselle is going to cool."

"In a minute," I answered in English. "Anne, this is Lali, my old house-elf. Have you met a house-elf before?"

Anne shook her head, her grey eyes very wide.

"They're creatures in service of a family," I said. "Lali is my family's house-elf and always wears blue. You will also meet Pomy, in white, who is from my husband's family. The house-elves clean up the house, cook the meals and take care of the laundry."

Anne looked up at me, frowning in confusion, but visibly unsure as to whether she should interrupt me or not. I relieved her from her uncertainty by answering her question before she had the chance to ask it. "Your own tasks will be to serve at meals, go to the market, help me with whatever I ask from you..." I hesitated for a second here. "...And ultimately, when children are born, you will take care of them. Is it clear now?"

She nodded thoughtfully, then caught herself and hastily mumbled, "Yes Mistress."

"Good," I said, venturing a smile in an attempt to reassure her.

If anything, she blushed more deeply. I gave up.

"You can go back to your room, I'll ring if I need you."

Anne curtseyed again and disappeared through a side door of the kitchen, which led into her quarters. With a sigh of relief, I sat down at the table and seized my cup of coffee; it was black and still steaming, and the delicious aroma tickled my nose, awakening my ravenous hunger. Lali watched approvingly as I started devouring the pile of lightly-buttered toasts she had prepared for me.

"So the skinny girl is Mademoiselle's new chambermaid?" my elf said after a few silent minutes, easily slipping back into French.

I nodded into my cup. "Her name's Anne," I said after taking a sip. "She's fifteen and has never served before."

"Mademoiselle did well to choose someone younger than herself," Lali said with an appreciative nod. "Lali would not have liked an older woman, oh no. She prolly would've been an arrogant beast. This one, Lali likes."

"Perfect," I said with a grin. "I hope Pomy will be just as accommodating."

Lali made a face. "I is doubting it, Mademoiselle. The English elf is a rude and filthy creature, she is. She won't be nice to anyone but her Master. But that is okay, Lali will be nice and kind to the new girl. Put her on our side."

I frowned as I turned to look at her. "You think we need to put her on our side?"

The elf bowed deeply. "Lali dares think Mademoiselle needs an ally in this house. Poor Lali can't protect Mademoiselle and fulfil her mission at the same time, impossible, Mademoiselle. This girl already wants to please Mademoiselle; Mademoiselle needs to make her love her, too. Lali thinks that's what Madame would have done."

I slowly laid my cup of coffee back on the Syrnac napkin and pensively stared down into the opaque liquid. Lali would know more about the past relationship between my mother and her servants than me -- even in the times of my childhood, my mother was a remote, beautiful, delicate creature, who sometimes would take my hand and walk with me through the sumptuous gardens of Syrnac manor, speaking of society, of manners, of lineage and history, while I listened in awed silence. I had never seen her deal with servants. It seemed a task too trivial for my mother to ever have bothered with.

"Did Mother choose her servants herself?" I asked Lali.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, of course. Madame knew that all her servants must be devoted to Syrnac house."

"Of course," I murmured. I lifted my cup of coffee to my lips again and drank deeply. Social interaction had never been my forte; people who were friends with me were people who tried to. I found little Anne quite endearing, and I did not mind developing a mistress-servant relationship that would be closer than most conventions allowed -- but the problem was, I had no idea where to start.

I rested my elbows on the table and leant my forehead against the cup held in my clasped hands. "How do I do it, Lali?" I mumbled, my eyes closed.

I felt my elf edging closer and nudging my side with her pointed nose in an affectionate gesture. "Let not my Marie trouble herself so," she said. "Lali will keep the girl busy all morning, show her the house in detail and the cutlery and Mademoiselle's bedroom and clothes. Lali noticed it's not raining, for once in this wretched country, so Mademoiselle should go gardening. After lunch Mademoiselle should take the servant girl with her, to help her with the gardening." I dropped my hands from my face and turned to throw at Lali a puzzled look. The elf had a wide, slightly toothless smile. "Trust Lali, Mademoiselle. It will work."

I did not voice my thoughts, but I highly doubted it.

***

Halfway through an afternoon of gardening with Anne, I doubted it even more.

The first hour was difficult. We were working in the field of brambles, cutting and uprooting -- I used my wand, although more often than not I found myself tugging at the most recalcitrant plants with both hands, and Anne worked with a heavy pair of rusty secateurs Lali had dug up God knew were -- and at first the task was visibly too new and too hard for the British girl to allow her concentration to waver. After I heard her grunting in her effort to uproot a particularly vicious bramble, which I had frozen beforehand to prevent any retaliation, I straightened up and called for a break.

The frail girl gladly released the bramble and sank to the earthy ground. Her old, tattered clothes were covered in mud up to the waist, as were mine, and we were both breathing hard and sweating from the exertion. As I made my way to her I wondered if a passerby would have been able to tell the mistress from the servant.

I sat on the ground next to Anne. "It's worth it, you know," I said after looking into her red, sweaty face. "I intend to make a beautiful garden here, once we've got rid of all the brambles."

"Can't we... get rid of them... with magic?" Anne panted, obviously too tired to be timid.

I shook my head. "Plants have a resilience to magic of their own. We could make them disappear with magic, but they'd grow straight up in one night. The only solution is to uproot them one by one, by hand if we must, then cast a charm on the ground. Have you never had --" I searched around for the right words, "-- classes about magical plants, at school?"

"Herbology," she confirmed with a nod. That was the word that had been escaping me. "But I only went at school for one year."

I waited, but she didn't elaborate. Circling her folded knees with her arms, she rested her chin on top of them and dropped her gaze to the ground, seized again by her usual shyness.

"Why didn't you stay at school?" I asked at last.

She glanced sideways at me, looking perplexed and a little wary, as if wondering if I was trying to trick her. I was irresistibly reminded of a skinny, muddy rabbit eyeing a fox. It felt a little odd. I wasn't used to being the fox.

"Well... because then the war started," she slowly said. "M-my parents got killed, and the Death Eaters took my -- they took the wand I had before. And then I lived with other Muggleborns, in one village, then another." She nudged a little heap of damp earth with her foot. "I never really got to know much about magic."

I played distractedly with my wristwatch. This was, I felt, the moment when I needed to tell her a bit of myself, in exchange for what she had just told me. The idea repelled me, and not only because I wasn't naturally prone to heartfelt confidences and comforting hugs. I had been quite miserable in the past few weeks, but I felt uncomfortable comparing my predicament with Anne's own misfortunes. It sounded a little indecent.

You don't know anything about the real world...

The silence stretched. I struggled to find words to say; Anne stared down at the ground. Finally, we got back to work. Not another word was exchanged between us for the next two hours.

The daylight weakened fast under the trees. Around four, it was already difficult to distinguish the thorny branches which crawled across the wet ground in crisscrossing patterns, tripping us at each step. After such an occurrence, which nearly caused me to dive head-first into a bush of tangled brambles, I decided we had worked enough for the day. Exhausted, aching, covered in sweat and mud, Anne and I edged our way back to the house, a biting wind on our heels.

Lali's industrious hand had already lit the torches in the hallway; the six flames were reflected in the polished tiles as in a pool of very still water, and the six spectres of flames, glistening palely on the floor, curiously enhanced the feeling of deep loneliness laying heavy on the quiet hallway. The silence was total, and a little eerie. It took me a second to realise why it innerved me so: no sound or light came from the dining room. Rumfold's workers were gone. The room was finished.

I straightened up from where I had been leaning on the wall in sheer fatigue, threw my hood back, and undid the fastening of my well-worn cloak with numb, clumsy fingers. I was just about to take it off when I felt small hands tentatively grasping the material of the cloak at the shoulders.

I froze and glanced behind me. Anne was chewing on her lip and cast at me nervous looks from under half-lowered eyelids.

"Thank you," I said, allowing her to take my cloak off. She nodded as she folded it neatly over one arm, a gesture Lali had probably practiced with her this very morning, then tiredly walked up to the coat rack and rose on tiptoes to hang the garment on its peg.

"Here," I said, following her and helping her with the too-tall coat rack. My new chambermaid was even shorter than I was. "We really need a new coat rack," I said in a mild tone.

"Yes, Milady," Anne mumbled.

I let my hand slide along one side of the cloak, smoothing the frayed rim. Next to me, Anne tried to brush the mud off the material with the edge of one hand.

"I lost my parents too, three years ago," I murmured suddenly, without looking at her.

The grandfather clock on the far wall ticked off several seconds in the still air of the hallway. Anne ran her fingers over the cloak, her gestures only serving to smudge the dirt all over it.

"One gets... lonely," I said. "It lasts a time. Then, eventually, it becomes more bearable."

I traced the edge of the cloak with a light finger. I felt the presence, in a far corner of my mind, of the fourteen-year-old who, one day, had been pulled out of school to stare at the remains of her parents, still and wax-faced on their death bed, before she watched as the coffins were lowered into the earth of the family graveyard. She was always with me, wide-eyed and cold and shaking, her throat too tight to even let through a sob, loneliness, fear, incomprehension and despair crushing her heart until it threatened to break. She was a constant, quiet company. But eventually, I had grown out of her.

I closed my eyes for a second, then opened them again. They were dry.

"You're dismissed until dinner," I said in one breath.

"Thank you, Milady." Anne's voice was as low as mine, and I distantly registered something in it that I had never perceived before. It sounded calmer, older, and weary.

I hardly saw my chambermaid slip past me to disappear through the hidden door leading down to the kitchens, and I doubt she was paying me the slightest bit of attention, as well. We were both lost in memories of our own.

***

Thunder rumbled, a distant growl that slowly grew louder before bursting in a deafening explosion. The ground shook with it, and the wind howled in answer. Sheets of icy rain swung before my eyes, drenching me even through the Impervious charms worked into the fabric of my cloak, turning the ground to mud around my feet. Flashing lightning pierced the pitch-black night, throwing a harsh light upon the soaked fields on either side of the country road. There was not a soul in sight.

Understandable. No one in their right mind would venture outside in this weather. I absentmindedly reached for my wand -- I would have welcomed a heating charm -- before remembering that any spell performed in this isolated area would attract Voldemort's spies like as much flies on a dragon's dung. I cursed and shoved my hands back inside the pockets of my robes.

No one was coming. Was it possible that I had missed Remus? I was more than an hour's late; I had had a hard time shaking off the Death Eater that dogged my footsteps, day and night -- although I doubt he knew I had noticed him. In all likelihood, he was cursing himself for his clumsiness -- possibly in more senses than one -- while I stood there freezing in the rain. The thought cheered me up a little.

"Dear me," said a thoughtful, terribly familiar voice, sounding just behind me. "I feel quite bad for pulling you out of bed and making you wait in this weather."

I spun around and staggered backwards, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs, my eyes wide in shock and incredulity.

Before me stood a man I had long thought dead -- sharp blue eyes sparkling behind half-moon glasses, long silvery hair and beard fluttering in the savage winds, midnight blue robes flapping about his tall silhouette.

"No, James," Albus Dumbledore told me with a smile. "The fight isn't over."