They were not commoners.
Despite the white aprons, the simple ribboned hairstyles and the manners rehearsed in front of the mirror, none of them were commoners. Each, in their childhood, had attended spring dances, piano recitals, family dinners in carpeted drawing rooms where silence was considered a virtue. But as they grew up, their names - beautiful, but not powerful enough - began to disappear from the inheritance records. One by one, they became what they were now: young ladies who would inherit neither a family name, nor a fortune, nor a future.
And yet they smiled.
They had arrived at the main mansion at different times. The oldest had been there for five years. The newest was barely a year old. Isolated from the outside world, guarded by protocol and prestige, they lived under one roof, sharing tasks, secrets, and the hope - vague, ethereal - that something would happen. Something stronger than the weight of destiny written by others. That is why they all, without exception, claimed to have chosen this life.
Koharu Minase, for example, had fingers always stained with ink. He liked to write letters that he never sent, and he wrote down in his notebook everything he heard, even phrases he didn't understand. He said it was 'in case one day he should write his memoirs'.
Odette Blanche, blonde and pale as a porcelain doll, was French on her mother's side and used to talk to herself in her native language while scrubbing the floors. Sometimes she laughed for no apparent reason. The others said she saw things.
Sumire Kanzaki, the most meticulous, always carried a pocket watch inherited from her grandfather. She wrote down the schedule for each task and was distressed if any of them were late. She was the one who controlled the rhythm of the day.
Misaki Hayashi, on the other hand, lived with her head in the clouds. She had been betrothed to a man she never loved and took refuge in the mansion to escape her fate. She believed in impossible love and slept with a different novel in her arms every night.
Iria Fontaine, half Japanese, half Italian, was the quietest. She always seemed to know something the others did not. She had a strange habit of muttering ancient prayers when she passed in front of certain paintings.
All of them, guided by the old maid, the only one who knew the mistress of the house personally.
They had never seen the mistress. Only her daughter, who appeared with the precision of a bell, without giving explanations or allowing questions. And yet none of them dared to complain. They were under the protection of the main family, and that gave them immunity from the marriage pressures of their own lineages. It was a limbo - but a golden limbo.
-Tomorrow the guests arrive,' Sumire said, laying out the tablecloth perfectly.
-How many? -Koharu asked.
-They didn't say. But the pantry was stocked like never before,' Misaki added, looking out the window.
It was late afternoon. The sun was beginning to turn copper. The maids were finishing the general cleaning of the main hall. Tomorrow, that spotless carpet would be trampled by foreign footsteps.
-Why now, why so many people all at once? -Odette muttered, sitting on the back of an armchair, which she was not supposed to do.
-What if it's a secret wedding? -Misaki ventured, glowing with excitement.
-Or a meeting to decide the succession? -Iria opined, in a low voice.
-No one knows,' Sumire interrupted, closing her watch. So let's not make things up.
They spent the rest of the day in rumour and speculation. What did it mean that the silverware had been taken out? And that the oldest guest room had been dusted? Why hadn't the young lady given clear instructions yet?
That night, the staff dining room was quieter than usual. Only the cutlery and the muffled voices of the kitchen service could be heard in the background. The old maid did not speak. That made everyone nervous.
-Do you think she... the mistress... is ill? -Koharu dared to say.
No one answered. A question hung in the air that no one wanted to utter: Is the mistress of the house still alive?
That night, as they lay, one by one, in their beds lined up like glowing coffins, some of them heard footsteps in the hallway. They were not loud. Not fast. Just... strange. As if their feet didn't quite touch the floor.
-Don't go,' Iria said to Misaki, when Misaki got up to look out the door.
-I wasn't going to,' she replied, though her hand was already on the doorknob.
By dawn, the air already smelled different. There was anxiety in the corridors. The girls got ready more carefully. Breakfast was more sober, more quiet. The chandeliers were polished, the curtains checked, the protocol greetings reviewed. In their minds, today was not just any day. It was the day before the change.
-Perhaps a young nobleman will arrive...' sighed Misaki, as she fixed her hair with a new ribbon.
-Or a raven-faced old hag,' Odette replied, laughing.
The old maid announced, at last, in her grave, expressionless tone:
-"They will not leave the servant's wing today. Only when called. Keep yourselves ready.
And so they did.
Not knowing that, the next day, they would meet the first of the guests. One who, unwillingly, would become the sun around which their most hidden illusions would revolve. But for now, he was but an absent name on a list none of them had read.