“Well, well, I see you are good for something,” Cristyne sneered as she returned to her room. I was replacing the grate and putting fresh logs down at the moment. My movements were quick and jerky; I didn’t want to be near Cristyne. If Margarete was bad, Cristyne was pure malevolence. If Margarete made my blood boil with anger, Cristyne made it run cold with fear. If Margarete was a thorn in my side, Cristyne was arsenic down my throat. The very thought of spending one more second in her room made me shudder.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss?” I asked quietly before I left. I was holding onto my cleaning supplies for dear life, hoping that I was dirty enough for Cristyne to want me out of her room.

“Oh my,” She gasped. “Look at your face! Look at your stupid face! You look like a blackie!”

I wanted to know what she meant, but I didn’t ask. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t stupid, but I didn’t say anything. I wanted to ask her what a “blackie” was, but I knew that would only confirm my stupidity.