“Welcome back, ma’am,” Charon gave a slight bow of the head to the lady coming into the house. It was Mame Treina, mistress of the house.
“Have you prepared supper?” Mame Treina asked.
“I have, ma’am, just now.”
Mame Treina commenced to dine in the dining room, alone. Charon would eat later, as usual. The girl was working as the servant of this woman, and she lived in the attic of the house. However, their relationship wasn’t as simple as that.
In her attic that night, Charon untied her hair and let her brown waves loose. Through the looking glass, she peered into her own brown orbs. The color matched that of Mame Treina’s, though Charon’s look was much less menacing than that of her mother’s.
Yes, Mame Treina was her mother. She was her mother until the marriage broke down, and after that, Charon was disowned and assumed the position and status of Mame Treina’s servant. Charon ought to complain, maybe, but somehow, she didn’t feel the need to do so. She gladly did all the chores and prepared every meal every day. Every single day, she got up early in the morning and prepared Mame Treina’s breakfast. After Mame Treina left the house, she would do the chores, and then buy groceries, prepare supper.
Since she first met Dradel, Charon had a slight change of her everyday schedule. In the morning, when she drew open the curtains of her window, she would see Dradel standing there outside, looking up. She would beam at him, and go on to make breakfast and see Mame Treina off, before she exited through the backdoor to greet him. He understood that she was Mame Treina’s servant, but he knew not that she was also her disowned daughter. The two would then spend the day together, through the chores and the groceries, and by the time Mame Treina returned, Dradel would be gone.
Charon knew. Charon knew, and Dradel knew that she knew, too, that something bothered him. It could be a secret, it could be two secrets, but either way, something made him upset, to an extent that was enough for there to be an ever-existing depressed look in his eyes. It was in his eyes, it was in his voice as he talked, but he never spoke about it.
“You do like pumpkins, don’t you, Dradel?” Charon asked one day, while they were in the market. “I like them, but not raw. Pumpkins are only acceptable when cooked.”
Dradel chuckled. “I see.”
“What about you?”
“I haven’t thought much about pumpkins.”
The serious tone in his answer made her laugh aloud. “You can start thinking about them now, then.”
“Sure will,” he said.