The Night Remains

But she had to stop. Her heart ached in her chest. There was something wrong. A tingle moved from her palms to her elbows, and she heard again a whisper—the voice of the house. It was gentle, soothing, and she felt powerless to obey it, even though her waking mind knew not what commands it gave.

Her mouth opened. She wanted to recoil from the book, but her legs pressed forwards.

She had to see it. Just one page. Her curiosity needed it, lusted for it.

She stood finally at the lectern, expecting to have its secrets flood into her mind, but it only mystified her further. The book was so black that it was like a hole in the universe, an empty spot that nature had forgotten to fill. Or perhaps it was a spot that had not been forgotten, but was one filled with something so terrible that it left a void which nothing ever could fill again.

Gasping, she touched the book, feeling with horror the warmth of its cover as it sat on the cool lectern. She glided her fingers over it, looking for a texture or bumps that might reveal something—a title, an author, anything! But there was only soft, warm leather inviting her fingers to open it.

She picked it up, surprised by its immense weight, as if she were lifting some great tome. Its paper edges were tinted red with a crimson pink, and she rubbed her thumb along them, feeling their softness.

"What is this?" a deep voice asked.

She jumped. The book thudded to the lectern with the weight of a forbidden stone tablet.

A man stood at the entry to the study. He wore a dark-black waistcoat, pleated black pants, and a black cape that hung down his back, its inside a dark, rich purple like a bruise. In his one hand, there was a thin black cane with a glittering many-faceted ruby for its handle, which he stamped hard on the wood, then rested both hands upon. His facial hair was formed into a dark goatee mapped attentively to the sharp features of his face, and the dark, full hair atop his head was swept back. It was impossible to say how old he was, but though there were no shortage of years on his shoulders, he wore them well.

Her stomach lurched. "I—I'm—I just—"

He held out his hand with a sceptical look. "You should not be here."

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I thought it was only the closed rooms I was supposed to avoid."

She crossed the study quickly, head down, trying to slip by him, but he raised his hand.

She stopped and held her breath.

He examined her more seriously than she herself had ever looked at anything. The emerald green of his eyes vibrated with his every breath, the fine spokes of blue that ran towards their centre like the stretched, flexing gills of some deep-sea behemoth. His hand shifted nimbly in front of her, as if appreciatively tracing the contours of her face.

She lowered her chin to her chest. "I am very sorry, sir. I did not mean to intrude."

His mouth opened, black and empty but for his rolling pink tongue that she could see only flashes of. She waited for him to speak, but he did not.

He only stared.

As if he had lost all sense of himself, finally his head gave a little shake. She had been ogled before, made to feel as if she were outside her body by leering eyes, but this was something else. This was a penetration to the very depths of her soul, and it filled her with a profound sense of shame. Yet she stayed there, unable to dismiss him, unable to even move.

"Your name?" His voice was gravelly, kissed with a French accent.

"Abbie." The weight grew even heavier in her belly.

His hand lowered from her face. "Your full name."

"Abigail Stephanie Morse." The words squeezed out of her.

His throat growled lowly, and she was not certain if that information pleased him or not.

She pointed past him. "I'll just—I'll go back to the kitchen."

"Where is your uniform?"

She looked down at the black pants and black shirt she had worn, not sure what to say. "Is this not okay?"

"Stipulations were made." Each word was uttered as if it pained him to speak it.

Her belly expanded with a big breath. She made a gentle shake of her head, like a sapling shaking snow off its thin boughs. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know about any stipulations"

He snarled. His finger curled, and he bade her to follow.

With her in tow, the man burst through the kitchen doors, taking Desmond by surprise. Desmond had a mixer in his hands, blotches of white sugar on his cheeks, and a heavy metal mixing bowl in front of him that was vibrating as some white cream undulated and folded over on itself hundreds of times a minute.

The man pointed a stately finger at her. "Why is she not dressed?" There was as much anger as power in his words.

Desmond looked between them. He swallowed. "I hadn't told her yet about the attire."

"Attire?" she asked.

"Where is it?" the man snapped. Desmond pointed across the room. The man moved towards a closed door. He opened it, then reached behind it. A metal hanger clanged off some unseen brass hook.

He returned to her, and Abbie made a face of pure bewilderment. On a metal hanger was a petite French maid uniform. It had puffy shoulders, with a detached stiff white collar that had a neat black bow laced around it. The front of the dress cascaded in darkest black down to a delicate white apron with scalloped edges. The apron was no more than the size of a tea saucer, and it was tied at the back with a thick white bow. Beneath the apron, there was a puffy, far-too-short black skirt that blossomed outwardly over a tangle of white lace, making it appear even shorter than it was.

Incredulously, she made a little gasp. There was no way it would even cover her knees.

The man held the skirt up to her, examining its fit with only his eye, then he nodded and shoved it into her hands. "Change."

"Change?" She held the outfit at arm's length. "You want me to wear this?" She looked between them. "Desmond?"

The man sneered. Desmond put down his mixer and came towards them, wiping his hands on a white cloth. The man spoke slowly, gutturally. "Is there an issue?"

"No—no. No issue," he said. "Give me a moment with her, please, Dr. Margot."

Dr. Margot eyed her, then he turned his attention back to Desmond. He pointed his finger at him. It was thin and sharp like a blade, his well-manicured nail visibly catching the light. "This dinner will go ahead, Mr. White."

"Yes, of course." Desmond bowed his head. The doctor blasted open the door from the kitchen with a hard strike, then he left them alone.

Desmond turned to Abbie. "I should have told you, I know. I suck. I was worried you wouldn't do it if you knew that they wanted you to wear... this."

"What the hell, man? Is this some kind of fetish club? Why do I need to wear this to serve dinner?"

"It's just... it's what they wanted." He threw his hands up, insulted she would even argue about it. "And frankly, Abbie? You haven't done a great job lately. You've been distracted—lazy. You're on your phone half the time, like you'd rather be anywhere else. At the last dinner, Mr. Reich even said you were rude to him and his wife, and I can't have you fucking this up. I need this to go well tonight."

She shoved it towards him. "You wear it, then."

"Please, Abbie. Please. This business... it's a nightmare. I have so many debts. I need the help, and they're paying fifty grand for this. For such a small event, without having to pay staff, that's huge."

She swallowed. Desmond ran a hand through his dark hair.

"Believe me," he sighed, "I tried to talk them out of it, but they were adamant. I swear, Abbie, I'm not trying to put you in a bad way, I just really need this." He put his hand on her shoulder. "And, like, it's twenty grand." He looked down at the maid's uniform, picking delicately at the puffy shoulder. "Are you really telling me you can't objectify yourself for three hours to make twenty thousand dollars?"

She looked more closely at the uniform. It was not some cheap Halloween outfit. It was made of real silks and other fine materials. Peering in under the collar, she saw a pair of white stockings, a strappy pair of high heel shoes, and a white lace bonnet.

"This is too weird," she said.

"Abbie, remember that time we came here? I got held up by the groundskeeper and you ran?"

"You told me to run."

"I got in big shit," he said. "Please. Just pay it back today, alright?"

The deadline was only a few days away. She really wanted to nail this assignment, to give her father's editor something that he'd never heard before about the Margot Estate. It was only three hours of work. Being dressed like this was surely worth an article that could kickstart an entire career. So she would have to dress like a French maid. It's not like she would otherwise ever have the opportunity to talk to the people here.

She gritted her teeth. Her head shook. "I swear to God, Desmond, if they weren't offering me twenty grand right now, I'd kill you."

He pressed his palms together as if at prayer. "And I'll never forget it. I swear." He touched her shoulder. "But, please, dress quickly. The others will be here soon."

She pulled her black dress shirt out of her pants and Desmond directed her to the servant's bathroom. Once inside, she took the shoes and stockings and bonnet out from inside the dress. The shoes were black, with thin, long heels and glossy straps that gracefully caught the pure-white bar of highlight from the bathroom lights, and the stockings and bonnet were an almost-as-white silk that was waxy in her fingers.

Up her pretty, pale leg, she unrolled the stockings bit-by-bit, enjoying their softness against her skin. They stopped well-below her hips, and she gave one last tug, desperate to cover as much of herself as she could. In the end, though, much of her vulnerable upper thigh remained exposed, and, looking at the outfit's skirt, she was doubtful it would even reach her stockings.

She considered what to do, but then simply sighed, glad she had shaved that morning.

Barefoot, she stepped into the outfit and pulled it up until it wrapped snugly around her. She turned side to side, admiring in the bathroom mirror the stitching that ran up the black bodice. The chest plunged in a V at her neck, exposing the snowy-white skin of her naked chest and the enticing arc of shadow between her breasts. With a grimace, she squeezed her boobs together, reaching into the outfit and adjusting them until they were positioned equally and at the same height. She pushed up under her chest, impressed at how the uniform made her breasts look so inviting.

As expected, the skirt puffed out from her body and did nothing to hide the tops of her stockings or her smooth thighs. It was amazing how well the outfit met her curves, though, as if it had been tailored just for her.

She opened the black bowtie on the collar, then pulled it off the hanger. Moving aside her ponytail, she wrapped the collar around her thin neck and began retying the bow. She swallowed, feeling the gentle pressure on her throat, surprised by how much she enjoyed its tightness.

The puffy shoulders covered the muscles of her upper arm, but they left the space on her back between the tight collar and her shoulders delectably bare. She took her hair out of its ponytail, replacing it with a messy bun, the dirty blonde of her hair streaking along the contours of the smooth ball as if it were a wavy wood, coloured light and dark. Lastly, she tied the bonnet to the top of her head, leaving her bun exposed at the back.

She returned to Desmond in the kitchen, and she saw the blood flood into his cheeks.

She swallowed. "What?"

He fumbled, gawking, but then he just shook his head and went back to his work. She stepped into the strappy heels, admiring the way they rounded her calf muscles. Bending down, she fastened the straps, then she flattened the skirt as best she could, but it still puffed out like an explosion of silk around her hips.

Putting the outfit on... did something to her. Her breath came faster. Her head was breezy, like someone had opened a door in her mind that was letting the heat of her body escape, leaving her empty-headed and light.

She pouted. She should have had a real job by this point in her life, but no, tonight she was serving rich assholes in a French maid dress just hoping that a local newspaper editor might look kindly enough on her nepobaby puff-piece to throw her more work in the future.

Dr. Margot burst into the kitchen once more. He stopped, paralyzed by her, and a sly smile edged the corner of his mouth.

"Much better." He curled his finger towards her, and this time, the way he did it, sent a shiver through her, as if his finger was only for her. "Come with me, please."

She started to give a little curtsy to Desmond, but when she realized what she was doing, she shook off the impulse. Why was she doing that? She stumbled in her heels towards his beckoning finger, walking clumsily like a fresh-nosed fawn.

In the hallway, he faced her, tapping twice his thin black cane to the carpet, then he held it up and invited her to hold it. Curiously, she took the black wood into her fingers. The ruby of its handle glinted distractingly in the light, and her eyes glazed over in submission, watching as its many finely chiseled steps turned hypnotically before her.

Dr. Margot reached out his long fingers towards her neck. The tops of her breasts felt hot, tingly, but he did not touch her skin. He tugged once on the tie at her neck, and it came undone so easily that it made her mouth drop a little more open. With her chin lowered, looked up at him with a glowing redness in her cheeks.

The guttural stone that was perched in his neck squeezed upwards into his throat, then dropped with all its weight back to its pit. Her lips opened wider, a light breath dribbling out of her. Deftly, his long fingers retied the fabric, then, satisfied, he tugged on the new corner of her bowtie, the motion wringing from her throat a single-syllabled note of gentle weakness.

"Our dress defines us, my girl."

"Yes, sir," she murmured.

"Monsieur." His voice dripped like delicious, thick honey. "If you please."

Her hands tightened on his cane. "Yes, Monsieur."

"Good girl." He drew a circle in the air with his upwardly pointing finger. "Turn."

She made little steps in her heels, her skirt bouncing as she spun to show him her back. His finger traced the line of her spine through the fabric of her dress, down to the white bow of her apron, and once more he tugged, and she held her breath. He stepped in, nearer to her body, and her lips parted welcomingly. As his thumb pressed against her lower back, her posture straightened, feeling the heat of him behind her as heavy as yesterday's summer evening.

Carefully, his fingers retied her apron bow. "You will feel the pull of this place tonight," he whispered in her ear, and she let out a little gasp at the sensation of his breath against her skin. "It will feel exotic, intoxicating. In the end, it will overpower you. But do not be afraid."

"Yes, Monsieur." Her chin turned, straining to look behind her, and she let out her breath as her little fingers squeezed more tightly on the cane.

Monsieur Margot said something quickly and quietly in French, and although she knew not the words he spoke, she knew intuitively her answer.

"No, Monsieur," she said tremulously.

She could hear the heavy, dry sound of the apron's smooth silk as it slid through the loop he had formed with its other end. All of her senses felt that way, aching to expand beyond the limits of the world, beyond feeling, beyond all comprehension. He tugged the bow against her waist, its force shaking her hips and skirt. His fingers pressed into her sides just above where the skirt of her dress puffed out, steadying her.

"You will hear things tonight," he said, "things you cannot explain. Things you do not understand. Perhaps you have heard them already. But you are a servant in my house, and you will obey what you are told, do you understand?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

He reached around her, his arm sliding over her shoulder. The heat of his body through his coat pressed against the vein of her neck, and her fingers trembled. Gently, as if he were removing the bowtie once more, his fingers overpowered her, and he took the cane from her. He extended the fingers of his other hand into her back, lightly pushing on the bare beauty of her skin that rested between her shoulder blades. Her body bristled with anticipation, his fingers making craters of her skin.

"Be a good girl now," he whispered. "Bring me your phone."

Still facing away from him, her face flushed. She hesitated, but then she snuck back into the kitchen as quietly as a thief. She took the phone from her pants pocket and, even before she realized what she was doing, she brought it back to him.

He took the phone into his hands. "Mr. White tells me you have struggled to remain engaged at your job, is this true?"

She tucked her chin in again, nodding shamefully.

He reached down with his long, dignified finger. He drew her chin back to level attention. "We speak and are heard in this house, do you understand?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Have you struggled to be engaged with your work?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"We should be proud of what we do," he advised. "No matter what it is that we do."

"Yes, Monsieur." Her voice sounded so soft and delicate, squeaking like buds of cotton rubbing together, and she almost did not recognize it as her own.

"It is an honour—a privilege—to serve. Even more so in this house. That is why I have insisted you wear this uniform. That you may perform at the height of your abilities tonight. Are you thankful that I should make you better?"

"Yes, Monsieur," she said weakly. "Thank you, Monsieur."

He smirked, then his finger touched the screen of her phone, bringing it to life. "As you do not have any pockets, I will hold onto your phone until we are done."

She held her breath. She didn't want him to hold her phone. She needed it for notes. And what if he saw the photos she had taken? Yet... her mind felt so mushy. It was probably better that he hold onto it. That sounded right. That sounded good.

"Yes, Monsieur."

"What is the phone's PIN?"

Her mouth opened. Dread sloshed in her stomach. Seemingly, he sensed her hesitation, and his hand came out, stroking her cheek. Her puffy skirt bounced, her toes pointing inwards in a desperate attempt to hide herself from his penetrating gaze. Her wrists bent, hands turning out flat at her sides, and her trembling fingers lightly spread.

"There are no secrets between a servant and her master," he said as his finger curled comfortably under her chin.

"1-6-8-4-4-8, Monsieur."

Her brain fizzed as if she were a can of Coke being shaken, the caffeinated bubbles in her mind pop... pop... popping so loudly that she could barely hear her own thoughts. Why... why was she being so compliant? She took a deep breath, eager to breathe in new resistance, but the air that filled her lungs only made her feel softer and weaker and smaller. Her chest rose and fell, and she saw the swell of his pupils as her chest pumped up with air. Her body strained against her black dress, then her chest fell, and she, too, was falling—falling into his tyrannical black eyes, swallowed up so willingly by the monster itself.

"Good girl," he whispered, and she smiled, forgetting what it was that he was even praising her for. All she knew was how good it felt in her belly to receive his praise.

He examined the contents of her phone. She licked her lips, her shame and doubt melting away as he rooted through the secret life of Abigail Stephanie Morse. A life of snooping, gossip, confessions, shame, sex—a life of sin. And all of it spilled out of her into him, and she was so grateful that she could be so open. She didn't even mind if he found the photos she had taken. More than anything else, she craved to be useful to him now.