January, somewhere north of London.

It had been weeks, no, months, since Schmidt had been outside the big house.

Schmidt knew she'd had a life before the big house, but it was somehow overridden, leaving her with a ghostly collection of ghostly images and faces… like she'd been returned to 'factory settings'.

Whatever that meant.

Parking the breakfast trolley, Schmidt discreetly knocked on the mistress's bedroom door before entering, neutral smile unwavering, eyes carefully averted as she entered the chamber, parked the little cart with its little covered portions of kedgeree, paper thin slices of estate ham, scones dripping with butter, and dainty portions of hothouse melon and grapes on fine china beside the banked fire, and tiptoed to the tall windows and their heavy velvet drapes.

Halfway through swishing them open, Schmidt caught a glimpse of her own hand in the sudden white light of winter and paused, staring down at it.

Dark.

She turned it over.

Dark with a light pink palm.

She flipped it back so that the dark back was all she could see blossoming from the lace of an unfamiliar but immaculately ironed and starched lace cuff.

Dark.

Dark was inferior. Dark was born to serve. Dark was disposable.

Dark, black, had no choice.

Black did what it was told or faced the consequences.

("Sounds like a crock of shit to me!" Said the voice in the back of Josie's head.)

Black was lucky when allowed into the Big House to serve its superiors. Black could be casually disposed of if it ever… refused.

("Oh for fuck's sake, can you believe this?")

Shaking, Schmidt dropped to her knees on the fine Persian carpet, rocking. What would happen if she refused?

("I-I s-s-say" a new voice interrupted, "I remember this p-place. Horrible. Pretty spoons, though. Shiny, not rusty, though. The one time I was invited in for tea, I took one because they had so many, while I had none – didn't think they'd miss it. The thrashing from the gardener I got when the Glassmother found out!")
Would Schmidt be left to die alone in the cold far from the big house, starved, back a mass of raw scars simply for saying no?

(Smack! "Shut UP, Tommy!" )

Schmidt rocked harder, the fine wool carpet grinding into her heavily stockinged knees, thinking about what the animals would do to her body if left out in the open, cast off, discarded…

("Was only trying to help our gel!" The other voice sounded hurt. "Posh don't care…about the likes of– ow, why'd you hit me?")

Whimpering, Schmidt bit down on her knuckles. She'd had enough – she would say "No!" Risk everything, walk away, let it happen and then… "Ow!" Schmidt squeaked, a sudden, sharp pain stabbing through her head, silencing the soundless roar of raw panic.

The dark maidservant rose, serenely adjusting her immaculate black skirts, starched white lace apron, and cap before walking misty eyed past the mistress's bed with its richly embroidered curtains and fine linens, laying out the mistress's fine silk housecoat and warm woolen slippers to warm beside the fire after stirring it up with the brass poker and adding a log or two as snow fell silent outside the tall windows with their fine velvet curtains.

Not that any of it mattered, the bed was still laid out unslept in as it had the day before, and the day before that.

Breakfast would be thrown away uneaten at six a.m. sharp.

As it had been the last three months.

Not that anyone cared. Phantomhive Manor had been like this for a very long time.