Sand-pelting plastic and the high-pitched whine of a small handheld vacuum reverberate off the enclosed interior of a shiny black Mercedes, feeding my low-grade headache. Hunched over the back seat, vacuum in hand for the past thirty minutes, it's a battle between my head exploding, my back giving out, or basic dehydration that will finally push me to vomit. I swallow back some bile and push a damp strand of hair out of my eyes, refocusing on the task at hand. The last thing I need to deal with is the mistress's disapproving, yet dead, gaze if she spots a single grain of sand in here upon her next ride. Neverminded that it's in here because of her. I never seem to be able to pick her up from her mother's house on the coast without bringing half the beach home too.

It is the sound of breaks, a soft sequel of those that need to be replaced, that finally pulls me from my mindless, tedious task. Flipping the vacuum off, I stand, stretching out my back with a groan. My eyes immediately land on the red van parked out front of the house—my stomach drops. I walk stiffly down the driveway and stop at the gate. The first to exit the back of the van is the Aunt in her dull brown coat and long skirt. Pressed and neat, the cotton-wool blend doesn't cease as the plump woman moves around. That getup has got to be hot as hell in this heat. Reaching up, the Aunt takes a small red case from a pale hand that's appeared out the back of the van and steps back. I know what comes next, wish like hell I didn't, that this wasn't happening at all.

A figure steps gracefully down onto the street despite the height from the back of the van to the ground. Red fabric catchiness on the breeze, sending one of the panels floating around her. A hand goes up to hold the ridiculous white hat called wings, in place as she reclaims her bag from the Aunt. She's a red smug against a blue sky. While I'm too far away to make out specific details about this woman, it's impossible not to notice the womanly curves of her figure.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath. I had prayed that this day wouldn't come, but the ways of men are not the ways of God, so I also knew it would be naive to think otherwise. I had hedged my bets and prayed that when the inevitable did come that God would send a woman with a boyish figure or gangly limbs...the homelier the better. My eyes follow her figure as she makes her way up the stairs, her hips swaying with feminine swagger, I groan and turn my eyes to the sky. "Fuck! Really!" grind out in frustration. I guess the Commander's prayers are louder than mine.

The aunt and the handmaid disappear through the front door, but I stand rooted to this spot, my mind running a million miles an hour but screaming only one message over and over again, "Protect this one."

"Nick?"

Turning reluctantly from the view of the red center van, I walk towards the voice. Rita, the households Martha, stands at the top of the stairs that lead down to the driveway, a hand on one of her hips.

"The kitchen sink is backed up again," she states matter-of-factly.

I give her a curt nod and duck into the garage to retrieve a drain snake. When I come back out I find her still at the top of the stairs, leaning against the fence.

"They sent an even prettier one this time," she mutters, her tone hard.

I pause on the top step and take the woman in for a moment. "It was inevitable, he's got too much pull. He was bound to get the cream of the crop" I say under my breath. These are treasons words, but this is Rita, she knows what I know, and lives what I live. What are a few words of treason amongst two conscripted workers anyway?

She shuffles her feet and looks down at the pavement. "It's just…so soon," she says.

I nod. "No amount of time would feel right," I counter.

She crosses her arms over her chest and sighs heavily.

"Is the sink really plugged," I ask skeptically?

Rita rolls her eyes, "Yes Guardian Blaine, it is."

I can't keep the corner of my mouth from turning up a bit. Her tough-as-nails persona doesn't fool me.

Tossing her head back a bit, she turns for the back door, "I got some lemonade for you when you're done. You look like you're about to pass out," she states over her shoulder.

I full-on smile at her retreating form. "Well, Praise be."