I spend a restless night in my new room. When the clock reads 7:00, a knock comes at my door and it opens without waiting for a response. I glare and make a mental note to somehow get a lock.
“Ah! You’re awake.” The same woman who dressed me last night bustles into the room. “You’re already late, my dear.”
“Seven?” I ask, looking at the clock again. “Seven is late?”
“The household starts at five,” she says, coming over and starting to make the bed while I’m still in it.
When I head for the door in my pajamas, she makes a small noise of warning. I look back at her. “You’ll want to change, my dear,” she says. “This house dresses for its meals.”
No one is downstairs in the hall when, dressed in tight fawn-colored pants and a silky green sweater, I walk down the stairs. I hear some
