You are straightening a stack of folded towels outside the upstairs hall bath when they come running around the corner in matching house slippers and mismatched moods. The older one, maybe nine, has black curls tied with a blue ribbon and the fierce eyes of someone accustomed to deciding things for other people. The younger, no more than six, clutches a stuffed rabbit by one ear and looks as if she is never entirely convinced a room will be kind to her until it proves it.
They stop when they see you.
Children in rich houses learn the hierarchy of workers young. Some treat you kindly. Some treat you like furniture with hands. These two simply stare.
You smile first. “Good morning.”
The older girl lifts her chin. “You’re the new maid.”
You hide your wince at the word. Not because it is inaccurate, but because accuracy can still bruise depending on how it is handled. “I’m Clara,” you say. “And you must be the young ladies of the house.”
The younger girl presses closer to her sister. The older one studies you with open suspicion. “How do you know?”
“Because only girls who live here would run through the hall like they own the place.”
That earns the smallest twitch at one corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile. More like a crack in a fortress wall.
“I’m Valentina,” she says. She jerks her chin toward the younger child. “That’s Sofía.”
You nod. “Nice to meet you, Valentina. Nice to meet you, Sofía.”
Sofía says nothing. She only peers at you from behind the stuffed rabbit’s limp body, eyes wide and dark.
“Are you going to leave too?” Valentina asks suddenly.
The question lands with enough force that you almost show it. Instead you ask gently, “Too?”
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