The House of the Cadell family was a large mansion of pristine black stone and darkened wood. There were large windows on every floor, allowing the decadent morning light into the maze of hallways and rooms that filled the mansion. Usually, it was occupied by the large Cadell family, who had a history of having at least three generations of the large family living under the same roof at one time. In recent years, however, there were only two Cells residing in the ‘Dark Mansion’ as tourists liked to call it. The two residents, our Master and Young Mistress were Lord Cassius Cadell and his daughter Young Lady Almana. The two had lived here ever since the death of the Former Master Cadell, the current Lord Cadell’s father, and the early passing of Lady Cadell, the young lady’s mother who passed during childbirth.

The two were very close, the child hardly ever being far from her father’s side and the father is always near his darling daughter. The household, though not very full of people, was always full of bright smiles and laughter from the two of them. The Young Mistress made the servants day every day that she graced them. The Master is kind and soft-spoken, giving simple orders and respecting the way things are done here. As the Head-Butler, I am very proud to serve under him, and more than happy to serve any of her whims.

The Cadell house is one of many patterns, from the floor tiles to the wallpaper and lush carpets to the way that things are stored and the order in which chores are done. Everything here follows a pattern, almost as if the house itself does so and all that live within it simply follow along.

Every Sunday morning she stands by the largest window in her bedroom. The tall arching glass is crossed by delicate wooden beams that create patterns with shadows on the floor. The young mistress stood there, after hours of care were taken on her hair and dress. She barely touched the breakfast made for her, quickly dining before rushing back to her quarters. She would just stand there after the maids had left and the nannies had quieted themselves in the corners of the room. The simple silk gown she wore went to the floor and was decorated with emerald beading along the hem, a sign of her newfound maturity after her coming of age.

Every Monday morning she would sit in the foyer. She is always dressed in her best gown with her long black hair curled and pinned. She has a small tiara set in her hair, amongst the pile of curls that rests around her head. There sat there on the leftmost couch in our best foyer, staring blankly at the delicate book in her hands or out the foyer window as the day went by. The book remains unopened on her lap, her hands gently clasping it as the sun rises and sets. Her eyes remained bright and hopeful and would shimmer with mistaken joy anytime she heard the rattle of a carriage or the soft thuds of horses.

Every Tuesday morning she wouldn't leave her bed. The nannies are unable to wake her and the maids are hesitant to disturb her rest. She lays there amongst the piles of stuffed toys and soft silken blankets and luscious furs as she stares blankly at the curtains around her bed. She is unable to move, to speak, or to eat, the only thing she is cable of is to weep and weep. Tear streaks can be seen on her soft pale cheeks, her pillow is laden with puddles from her tearful sleep.

Every Wednesday morning she would once again leave her. The nannies were finally able to wake and the maids were able to coax her into a dress. These days she was dressed simply, with lavish gowns and pendants nowhere in sight. Her hair remains woven into a tangled braid as she wandered the grounds, her sharp golden eyes turning into a dull brown. She would spend all day quietly walking through the tall weaving shelves as she tried to waste all the time she could within the books of the library. Staring blankly at book after book she simply wanders through the looming shelves he had set up so long ago.

Every Thursday morning she would have tea with the young lady from next door. The two little Mistresses were dressed in their finest according to the recent trends as they walked down the sunny path to the garden. The blonde and our raven-haired mistress were sitting and chatting as they were offered cups of tea and plates of treats from the other butlers. Soft blue eyes met deep golden ones as they spoke about the peaceful things that had happened before. The young mistress’s eyes were brighter than they had been the day before, but their brilliant shine is hardly ever there anymore.

Every Friday morning she would burst through her grand bedroom doors before the maids could wake her or the doormen move from their post. She rushes down the hallways and the staircases as she makes her way to the mansion’s front entrance. Her eyes were filled with hope today as she threw open the door to greet the postal men in her nightgown, much to her nannies’ distress. The postal men would hand over the bound stack of letters that were addressed to the estate and our young lady would anxiously wait as the heads of the workers went through and passed out each one.

Every Saturday morning she would be shedding tears of joy as she excitedly chittered and chattered with her nannies and maids. The letter had arrived yesterday, the letter bearing news that he would soon return home after so many long years away. The household was a blur of buzzing anticipation as the many servants and caretakers rushed around in preparation. The letter had come from overseas, he would soon be here and we wished to greet him back home with perfection. His favorite meals were cooked, his bed freshly made and his pillows fluffed as we were ordered to do by the young mistress.

Every Sunday morning she stands by the largest window in her bedroom. The patterns cast onto the floor by the beams crossing the tall arching glass were ignored by the same child who had once insisted on them. Ripe fruits and glaze treats had been served to her, through her eyes barely strayed from the window she stood dutifully by. Her soft face is highlighted by the sun’s rays as she stands there, her golden eyes gently glowing as she stares out into the fiery setting sun. She has been standing there all day, dressed in a simple floor-length silk dress adorned with a trinket around her neck, her long black hair loose down her back. She has been watching and waiting the whole day for the crowd of horses and carriages that were to signal his return.

Every Monday morning she would sit in our best foyer, waiting for him. The room is masterfully plastered with mint green paper, with soft and plush chairs of pale sea blue. She has on her best gown of a deep green color and her hair has been curled and pinned to perfection with her emerald tiara sitting atop it. She sits there quietly, looking down at her hands where his favorite book was gently held and his trinket was tightly gripped. She gently runs her hands up and down the spine of the small softly reciting lines of the stories he had told her countless times. She would sit there, on the leftmost couch as she stares out the foyer window from the leftmost couch, sure that he is simply running late.