The lady followed you with her eyes. You felt her gaze on your back like a weight, like a dangling, invisible sword.
You were not supposed to be noticed.
You did your very best not to be noticed. You stepped softly, you worked fast, you kept quiet, you avoided walking into the light. Yet, despite your best efforts, her eyes followed you as a magnet follows steel. You swallowed hard, and tried to focus on your chores.
She wasn't supposed to be there.
The mistress was a creature of habit and propriety, one that stuck to her appointments, enjoying the many small rituals of routine. It was an early Thursday afternoon, she should be at the Opera Hall, tutoring Miss Bela in her next musical fancy, and you should have an hour and a half to dust, sweep, mop and organize the upper parlor before the gardener refreshed the flowers and the ladies of the house reconvened for tea.
But when you entered and turned, right after closing the servants' door, there was the lady, sitting with an open book, smiling.
"Dear me, was this room scheduled for cleaning today? How careless, it must have slipped my mind," she said with the animation of small talk between acquaintances. Your stomach dropped to your feet just as your eyes dropped to the floor.
"Apologies, m'lady," you mumbled quietly, dragging your supplies back through the door you just crossed.
"Where do you think you're going?" She asked, with just as pleasant a voice. Your eyes snapped up and you caught her smiling wider before you lowered them again. "The parlor is on the schedule. Clean away." She ordered, as amicably as an order could be.
"Is my lady-" you started hoarsely, words having a hard time getting around the knot in your throat to come out. You coughed discreetly and tried again. "Is my lady going to… Stay?"
"Oh, don't mind me, I'll be very quiet, you won't even notice I'm here," she grinned, making a show of crossing her legs and fixing her spectacles, the very picture of a learned woman readying herself to get lost between the pages of a certainly good book.
She was there on purpose, you realized. You walked into a trap and didn't even notice. Your heart beat was wild behind your ribs, willing you to run while your head forced you to stay, to not give her a reason to chase you.
Caught in her snare, you decided it was best to do what you did best, making your lead-heavy feet move. The faster you were done, the faster you could leave. Cloth in hand, you started wiping the furniture and the delicate ornaments and knick-knacks as silently as you were able to.
Maybe if you stayed out of her way and out of her sight the lady would forget you were there. Maybe you'd forget she was there.
Sadly, her pretense of being engrossed in the words of some great poet or storyteller didn't last long enough to be even remotely believable, and she soon dropped the book on her lap in favor of watching you instead with her heavy, heavy eyes.
At first, you tried to ignore it. You had a job to do, and it wouldn't do to perform poorly. You dusted every item efficiently, taking the dead flowers away and changing the water in the vases, returning favoured books to their proper places. As the minutes ticked by in the grand clock, her stare seemed to weigh more and more on your back, adding a pressure to your chest, a sinking feeling, until breathing became one more conscious task, when every breath choked you on her perfume.
It was a shame the lady was bad at being quiet, and worse at being unnoticeable.
"You're a busy little bee, are you not?" She asked, amused. "Fleeting all around, so preoccupied with your little chores."
You risked a glance in her direction, avoiding her eyes, to find her hands fiddling with her glasses, folding and unfolding them, touching them to her chin or her mouth, as she enjoyed her brand new entertainment. You. "As my lady says".
"Interesting little creatures, the bees," she continued, conversationally. "A hive may have tens of thousands of workers, and yet it can only sustain one queen. A bigger, better, more beautiful and long lasting queen."
The analogy wasn't lost on you, nor was it subtle. Lady Dimitrescu styled herself after a queen in her castle in every way but for her choice of headdress, divine appointment included. "And the workers thrive under her rule, living and dying to protect and feed their queen and her children," she sighed happily. "There's much to be learned from nature".
You had no reply to offer, uncomfortable with the dangerous turn the conversation, if you could call her monologue as such, had taken. You wanted to point out bees also had their skin and entrails ripped off instantly when they acted in defense, but held your tongue. It would be wiser to heed your own counsel.
Step softly. Work fast. Keep quiet. The faster you're done, the faster you can leave.
Breathe.
The lady continued to spew convenient facts about bees every now and then, some you knew about, some you didn't, none you cared, contributing only with noncommittal responses at the proper cues of extended silence as you toiled on. The lady seemed to catch up on that, as her comments became more infrequent as time dragged its rusty cogs forward.
After half an eternity, you were finally done. The soft noises of her spectacles’ legs being toyed withwere gone. You assumed she had returned to her book as you proved yourself entirely uninteresting. You lifted your eyes as much as you dared. From that close, you couldn't see much of her upper half, but the book was gone from her lap. She must have picked it up again.
You sighed in relief, gathered your materials to take your leave, and made your way to the servant's door.
In a flash, much faster than she had any right to be, a giant hand darted forward and took hold of your arm. With a gasp, you let go of everything you'd been carrying, and it all came clattering to the ground. You became aware only of the lady's hand around your frail arm. It looked so thin and child-like encompassed as it was.
From your peripheral vision you could see her great shape bending towards you, stopping only when her red mouth reached your ear.
"I can hear your heart abuzz," she whispered, her warm breath fanning your face.
A kind of icy terror grabbed your heart, much like she did your arm. You felt your blood draining from your cheeks as if repulsed by her proximity, and despite the great shiver that shook your body, sweat beaded on the nape of your neck. Each and every one of your fine hairs stood to attention.
You could hear her smiling, the soft click of her cheeks separating from her teeth, and your breath tasted like hers.
You felt sick.
You felt like crying.
You felt you were going to die.
You felt her thumb caress a pattern on your skin.
"You should know by now how fond of little insects I am," she said, her velvety voice bouncing in your ear and echoing in the pit of your stomach.
You stood frozen, unresponsive, and unresisting as she brought your wrist to her mouthand pressed her lips against the frenzied beat of your pulse, inhaling deeply with her nose against your sweaty palm.
With a last, gentle squeeze, she let you go, smiling again when you didn't immediately run. "Fly away now, little bee. I'm certain you have much to do, and every one of us must play their part."
Released, you gathered your things, bobbed a courtesy and left, without another word. You stayed quiet out of the door and through the corridor, receiving a strange look from the gardener as she passed by you on her way to the parlor you'd just exited. The strange looks followed you down the stairs and out by the clotheslines, as the washerwomen watched bent over a tin of harsh soap water.
You hitched your sleeve as far up as it could go and dunked your arm in. You had to wash her off. You rubbed and rubbed the lipstick mark she left on you, and when it was gone, you rubbed the phantom feeling of the lips that had put it there. You had to wash her off. You scrubbed your arm until it was red and raw, but couldn't get rid of the feeling of pins and needles on the lines her finger had drawn. You had to wash her off, you thought while you fought the other women who tried to take away the scrubber with which you were rashing your skin bloody. You could never wash her mark off, you despaired, as you sobbed, already mourning your own death.