Post by Moira ap Eiluned on Feb 18, 2014 13:49:46 GMT -8
Maggie wasn’t entirely sure, but she was pretty certain that she’d died and gone to heaven while she wasn’t looking.
After so long with too little to do but watch her meager savings drain away, she now had three households to maintain. Well, two and a half – ironically, the one she’d originally been hired for was proving to be the least of the three. Cleaning an empty house was hardly work – one solid day had put things in order, and with no one but herself to disarrange it…well. But true to her contract she was staying there. The talk of war made her a little nervous, but she couldn’t honestly digest the truth of it. She’d never been in a war zone before. She’d found a seemingly ideal room in the basement, steel lined and solid with huge heavy locks, and her first though was to make that her bedroom. But thankfully she’d been confused by the sign on the door, and after calling Nissa and getting an explanation as to what a “frenzy room” was… Well. She certainly had no intention of waking up to a psychotic possum-blender on full power. On the other hand, the room next door had some limited reinforcement as well, with all the windows covered and a simple bedroom suite inside. Another consultation revealed that this room had been Steven’s “crash pad” back when he was a vampire. Now that he was human and had no need for it, Maggie felt no guilt in taking it over. It was as secure as any place, she supposed. But she made sure to keep the Frenzy Room locked, just in case.
It looked to shape up into a nice routine. Nights at the old Countess’ place. At five, get up and make the trip over to Baron Sheila’s house to fix breakfast for the household. Clean, bake, work on improvements until around one. Travel to Count Friend’s house, work and clean there, fix dinner. After dinner, do shopping and work on whichever projects were ready for the next step. After all, it didn’t matter how fast you could paint, the paint still needed the same length of time to dry. Alas. And then…then the masseuse. Every day, after she finished up work there, Count Friend had a truly skilled masseuse standing by to work the knots out of her. Maggie hadn’t felt anything so fantastically good since… Well. Never mind since. This was here, and now, and wonderful. And after that, a short drive back to the old Countess’ place to prep and wrap supplies for the next day, a quick cleaning of whatever messes she’d made, and an early bedtime. Short sleep was a Wilder’s game, and she’d long ago passed the point where she could live on four hours’ sleep, a Coke and a candy bar. Staying busy was a pleasure; working with a sleep debt was not.
Best of all, she was doing this with a real budget. Count Friend set up a generous stipend, and then Baron Sheila handed her a Black Card for additional expenses. She’d never even seen one of those before, she’d thought they were a myth. Pretty solid myth, though, and so far had been accepted at all the small hardware shops and farmer’s markets she’d tried it at. Nice. No need to scrimp on quality, or make do with second-best. She could give these people the very best she could do, and it felt heavenly, like flying, or dancing on stars. She felt needed, and appreciated.
And if that wasn’t heaven, what was?
After so long with too little to do but watch her meager savings drain away, she now had three households to maintain. Well, two and a half – ironically, the one she’d originally been hired for was proving to be the least of the three. Cleaning an empty house was hardly work – one solid day had put things in order, and with no one but herself to disarrange it…well. But true to her contract she was staying there. The talk of war made her a little nervous, but she couldn’t honestly digest the truth of it. She’d never been in a war zone before. She’d found a seemingly ideal room in the basement, steel lined and solid with huge heavy locks, and her first though was to make that her bedroom. But thankfully she’d been confused by the sign on the door, and after calling Nissa and getting an explanation as to what a “frenzy room” was… Well. She certainly had no intention of waking up to a psychotic possum-blender on full power. On the other hand, the room next door had some limited reinforcement as well, with all the windows covered and a simple bedroom suite inside. Another consultation revealed that this room had been Steven’s “crash pad” back when he was a vampire. Now that he was human and had no need for it, Maggie felt no guilt in taking it over. It was as secure as any place, she supposed. But she made sure to keep the Frenzy Room locked, just in case.
It looked to shape up into a nice routine. Nights at the old Countess’ place. At five, get up and make the trip over to Baron Sheila’s house to fix breakfast for the household. Clean, bake, work on improvements until around one. Travel to Count Friend’s house, work and clean there, fix dinner. After dinner, do shopping and work on whichever projects were ready for the next step. After all, it didn’t matter how fast you could paint, the paint still needed the same length of time to dry. Alas. And then…then the masseuse. Every day, after she finished up work there, Count Friend had a truly skilled masseuse standing by to work the knots out of her. Maggie hadn’t felt anything so fantastically good since… Well. Never mind since. This was here, and now, and wonderful. And after that, a short drive back to the old Countess’ place to prep and wrap supplies for the next day, a quick cleaning of whatever messes she’d made, and an early bedtime. Short sleep was a Wilder’s game, and she’d long ago passed the point where she could live on four hours’ sleep, a Coke and a candy bar. Staying busy was a pleasure; working with a sleep debt was not.
Best of all, she was doing this with a real budget. Count Friend set up a generous stipend, and then Baron Sheila handed her a Black Card for additional expenses. She’d never even seen one of those before, she’d thought they were a myth. Pretty solid myth, though, and so far had been accepted at all the small hardware shops and farmer’s markets she’d tried it at. Nice. No need to scrimp on quality, or make do with second-best. She could give these people the very best she could do, and it felt heavenly, like flying, or dancing on stars. She felt needed, and appreciated.
And if that wasn’t heaven, what was?