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Adam
Storming into the servants’ quarters and banging the door open, the weak wood splinters and almost shatters to bits. Servants dressed in grey wool dresses, white aprons, and white hats all startle at the sound. Some of them stop washing over the wooden basin, looking at me wide eyed before swallowing so hard, their gulps are audible.
“Mr. Molotov,” they say in unison.
Pans clatter in the kitchen, feet hurry forward, and heads peep out into the room before joining the other servants there, curtseying and bowing before me. Their skins are red, along with mine. But their redness is followed by dilated pupils, trembling lips, and hands. My redness is followed by panting and clenched fists.
“Can one of you tell me why I’ve been sitting by myself at the dinner table for over an hour?” I roar.
They gulp together, turning to look at each other, shaking their heads like they’ve lost control of their movements and have become blubbering idiots before me.
“You little dimwit!” I point at Mark. The little boy’s skinny legs shake along with his cheeks.
“Y-y-yes, sir?” He sniffles.
“Did you tell her to meet me in the dining room at half past six, like I said?” I bark.
He nods.
“What is this bobbing of the head? Answer me!” I roar.
“Y-y-yes, sir,” he says as his mother reaches forward to put protective hands on his shoulders. I challenge her with my eyes, but she doesn’t remove her hands.
“Then where in the bloody hell is she?!” I ask.
“I-I-I …” he starts.
“Mr. Molotov. If I may,” his mother speaks. I swallow, freezing my lips and flaring my nostrils. “The boy’s only job was to inform her of the time. He did his job. You might ask the person responsible for getting her ready.” Her breathing becomes shorter, and she fixes her mouth at me.
The other housekeepers gasp at her bravery. But she has a point. I turn to Gloria. “Well?”
“Well, sir, I got her bathed and dressed by half past, just the way you asked. She said she’d be down just after.” She shrugs with both of her palms up, helplessly.
I scoff a mocking laugh. “She said she’d be… Need I remind you that she’s a prisoner?! Who cares what she said? Why didn’t you drag her downstairs? Very well since she’s incapable of following orders. Let’s see if she’ll listen to this.” I stalk toward Mark and pull him from his mother’s grasp. She cries out, and everyone gasps and murmurs amongst each other. “And since you’ve all seemed to have forgotten who I am, what I’m capable of, and what your actual jobs are, let’s hope she’ll follow orders this time.”
I pull the screaming boy, by his hand, out of the room while some of the servants intelligently turn their heads away. Others mumble their disapproval. Well, they best hope Olivia Primrose is in an amenable mood. Otherwise, this will teach them to enforce my orders or spare one of their own.
The little boy pulls against my tight grasp as we march up the stairs. “Keep pulling, and I’ll break your wrist.” I stare at him, and he whimpers.
Banging my fists upon the door I’ve allowed Olivia to remain in, is effective in getting her attention. She swings open the door, and I grab the boy before me, whipping out my blade and pressing it against his throat. I can feel his fear pouring out of his back and smell the urine soaking my carpet.
Olivia gasps and clutches her chest, looking up at me with her jaw slackened.
“Come to dinner right this minute, or I’ll kill him on the spot. Tell me, Olivia, do you really want to watch his blood splatter over this floor?” I say.
“You—you monster!” She reaches for the boy, and I press the blade even further into his skin.
“Okay, okay!” She brings her hands to her bosom, looking delightful, I might add. “I’ll come to dinner. I’m coming to dinner,” she says, stepping out of the room.
“Good. You may go,” I say, releasing the boy who runs down the stairs, crying. “Don’t push me, Olivia. You’ve forgotten your father’s life already but disobey me again, and you’ll have more blood on your hands. Understand me?” I step close to her, until our noses touch. She tears her head away, giving me her cheek, which I kiss and grin. She squirms and grimaces.
“Lead the way,” I say.
“I don’t know where the dining room is,” she responds, and that makes me laugh. Too hard. Even I’m shocked by my laughter.
“That’s right, isn’t it? All right. I guess I’ll lead the way.” I step off before her. “Remember, don’t try anything funny,” I say over my shoulder.
We make it down to dinner, and I pull her seat out for her, watching her hate every minute of it, and I twinge a little. I wouldn’t say I’m twinging from guilt. In fact, I’m not sure why her disapproval tugs at something within me. It’s my wounded pride.
