“Are you…bleeding?” Mairead lifted Alba’s hand to take a closer look, noting a small bead of blood rising from the pad of Alba’s thumb.

Alba pulled her hand away and pressed her thumb between her lips. “Damn roses,” she murmured, striding across the kitchen to grab a new towel. She’d been so preoccupied all day, her mind rushing from one task to the next; when Mairead had told her to throw away the wilted roses on the Fairchilds’ dinner table, she’d just grabbed the bouquet without thinking of the thorns. “Anyway–what were you saying?”

“Just that it’s so much quieter here than at Brainerd ‘n’ Armstrong, right?” Mairead asked, handing Alba a serving spoon to dry.

Alba nodded, trying to look grateful. After all, it was Mairead who’d gotten her the job at the Fairchilds’. And Mairead was right–it was quieter here. At the silk mill, the incessant rattle and clatter of machinery made most conversation impossible–not that that stopped some people from trying, yelling their voices hoarse just to pass on some gossip to help pass the time.

But for Alba, there had been something comforting about that noise, and about the monotony of the work: she had been able to shut off entire parts of her brain and withdraw into herself for hours at a time. She’d spent entire shifts lost in her own thoughts, her brain busy composing essays, poems, and speeches while her fingers seemed to work independently. Somehow, for all the noise of the mill, the inside of Alba’s head had always felt so quiet for the hours she spent at the loom.

Here at the Fairchilds’ house, though, it felt like the opposite: the house was all but silent, but Alba’s mind was in a constant uproar. Instead of just having one thing to do all day, Alba suddenly had dozens of small chores, each of which needed to be done in a particular way, in a particular order–an order that the Fairchilds themselves frequently interrupted with new requests. Alba could hardly keep it all straight. Today, her first day on the job, she’d only stabbed herself with a thorn; but what blunder would she make tomorrow? And when would she have time to think–to really think, about something besides cooking and ironing and polishing and scrubbing and…

“We’re done,” Mairead announced, surveying the kitchen with her hands on her hips. Alba watched in a daze as Mairead untied her apron; it took her a moment to realize that she should untie her own, too.

“Thanks for your help today,” Alba sighed. “I would have been lost without you.” She snuck another look at the little prick-mark on her thumb.

“Don’t mention it,” Mairead chirped, leading the way up the narrow stairway to the attic apartment. “So. Now that we’ve finally got some time to ourselves…what do you want to do tonight?”

For the first time all day, Alba’s find felt blank.