Clara hummed a pop tune as she danced her feather duster around the glittering chandelier. Honestly, she wouldn’t mind being stuck cleaning this mansion forever.
Millie, on the other hand, was scrubbing an antique clock with the intensity of someone trying to settle a score. She polished the wood until it gleamed, the steady tick-tick filling the room—a quiet nudge to stop daydreaming and keep moving.
They traded the occasional smile, both secretly enjoying this gig more than any of Bert’s usual grimy jobs.
Then the doorknob jiggled.
Sheila swept in. Her uniform was so crisp it looked like it might crack if she dared to smile.
“Clara, Amelia! Are you two done with the library?” Her tone was unexpectedly pleasant, given how stiff she looked.
“Just a sec, Sheila!” Clara called, hopping
