Knock, knock, knock.

　　"Good morning!" Jay chirps as soon as I open the door. "Are you ready for us to invade again?"

　　"You are right on time," I say, opening the door wider and stepping back. I can`t help the wary glance I give his companion any more than I can help the grin that I give him. "I plan to just stay out of your way today."

　　They nod and head upstairs, so I busy myself with clearing out the stuff they went through yesterday. It stinks. Like, it literally smells awful. The things I am throwing into the dumpster are broken, contain the remnants of rodent nests and feces, are molding, rotting, or at one point soaked with feral cat urine. I use my tarps and ropes for efficiency and a modicum of sanitation.

　　However, getting this stuff out of the house is something of a relief. I have someone scheduled to come take measurements so they can replace all the windows in the house later this week. I don`t remember the name of the company, but they specialize in energy efficient, custom windows and promised that they could match the style of the windows to the house. But with the windows repaired, I`ll be able to remove the boards, open them up, and air this place out. The sick, stale, dank air is something that, at one point, I thought I`d gotten used to it, but now it is a source of irritation and disgust that I can no longer stomach. The rest of this junk, the stuff bound for restoration, I just want it out of the house too. Note to self, look into renting a truck to load all this stuff into for delivery to the repair shops& or just for storage, plain and simple. Just out of my space.

　　Clearing the main floor of trash takes most of the day. Mrs. Larson and Jay are still upstairs somewhere, and I don`t really feel like looking for them or checking in. I`ll be honest though, my dislike of the antiques specialist is only a small part of my inclination to retreat back to my room. After dislodging the lid on that tin box last night, I didn`t have the time to look through Sarah Atwood`s diaries. It was already past midnight! I got so engrossed in opening that tin, I completely lost track of time, forgot to eat&. So last night I washed up quickly and went straight to bed.

　　Now that my chores for the day are done, I finally can sit down to read.

　　I settle into my grandmother`s rocking chair with the diaries in my lap and open to the first page of each diary to identify their chronological order. The one dated 3 August 1874 is the oldest, so I start there.

　　3 August 1874

　　My lady is traveling to America within the fortnight. Master Soward sent for her in his last letter, and I am ordered to go with her as her personal maid. Master Soward has been building a proper home in a new settlement there. I believe his hope is to get into politics by founding his own town. It is not really my place to say, but his political career in England was not working out as he had hoped. Establishing himself as a person of great import in a new place was a way for him to start afresh.

　　My lady, Mrs. Rosamond Alice Soward, chose to stay here at home while her husband sorted things out in America, telling him that he must build her a house before sending for her. Mrs. Soward is a high-bred lady with old money as the sole inheritor of the Eastman family fortune to finance her whims. Despite being near thirty years of age, she has yet to bear any children, so her whims are many and mostly unhindered. The servants` gossip is that she does not want to ruin her figure by bearing children and has made it a habit to rebuff her husband`s affections. I would not know. Master Soward left for America in 1870 before I was hired.

　　My servitude is a point of much distress for me. When my lady hired me two years ago in June, I was but fifteen years of age, and my mother`s health was poorly. Mrs. Soward agreed to fund my mother`s medical bills in a pay advance, money that was borrowed for naught as my mother died despite her treatment but six months after I was hired. She was my last living family, and now I have a contract with my lady that ties me to her service for at least the next two years in order to pay off my debt to her. A few generations ago, such a contract would be labeled as indentured servitude, but these types of contracts have been outlawed in many countries. My lady only agreed to help my mother if my contract remained a secret between us. I was young and desperate. Looking back, I was also a fool. My mother`s days were numbered despite my denial of the signs. Selling my soul to the devil was not going to undo the will of God, and there is not a court in the world that would side with me if I made an attempt to appeal my situation to the law.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

　　And yet, I do not know that I would do things differently. Had I not tried to save my mother, I would now live with regret, a poisonous draught every drop as bitter as the one I chose to swallow instead. I have to remind myself that I did choose this. I chose to give up my rights to a woman I barely knew simply because she had the means that I lacked. I did not realize that I was giving away four years of my youth to be wholly consumed by lessons in much restraint and long-suffering "befitting my station in life". God forgive me for speaking ill of my lady, but I would not wish upon any living soul the abuses she heaps upon my head daily. I have taken up this diary with a prayer that it will help me to cope with what has become a very harrowing trial.

　　I should preface this record with the explanation that, to the public, Mrs. Alice Soward is the living embodiment of all that is pure and beautiful and worthy, but behind closed doors, she becomes a new creature. There are very few living who know the creature behind the fa鏰de. Not even the rest of the servants know what I know, though I believe that a few of them harbor suspicions. My lady keeps me close, and by so doing, she has cultivated envyings and strife. Mrs. Soward makes sure that the world knows of her piousness, attending church twice a week in the large carriage reserved for special occasions. She sits for hours on the front pew in the attitude of prayerful worship, but as soon as she gets home, she begins her letter writing. These letters are then posted to other wealthy women, though I can only guess as to their contents. The rapidity with which she writes these letters, and the extensiveness of their length have led me to the conclusion that she spends her time communing with God thinking about these letters and strategizing about whom to put in the effort for.

　　"Lottie?"

　　"Yes? Come in, Jay."

　　"Hey, Esther is ready to talk to you about next steps."

　　"Next steps?" I frown, my steady rocking coming to a halt as I set Sarah Atwood`s diaries to the side.

　　"Yeah. She has some recommendations on where to send the salvageable pieces for restoration, and I think there were one or two items in particular that she wanted to point out to you."

　　"I see," I stand up with a sigh of decompression that masks the real sigh of exasperation. "Where is Mrs. Larson?"

　　"Just this way," Jay ushers me out of my chapel cave, a cave that I now have evidence to confirm was likely only built for the show of piousness over a genuine interest in worship. Is it wrong to feel smug that my hypothesis was correct?

　　"Ah, Mrs. Evered," Mrs. Larson dives headlong into her debriefing before I`ve even had a chance to acknowledge her, "there are five pieces of furniture throughout the house made of old English Oak: two beds on the second level, a fine China hutch in one of the front rooms, a very fancy vanity table in the downstairs powder room, and a writing table and hutch in a sitting room upstairs."

　　"I know the one," I mutter, leaving out the details about finding cocaine in the walls of that same room.

　　"I would be surprised if you hadn`t noticed such an exquisite piece," she practically scoffs, though perhaps it is my bias that makes an otherwise innocuous snort sound condescending. "For these five pieces, I strongly recommend that you take them to Darren Burel of London Artifacts Restoration and Trade in Hestinia. He is very, very good at what he does, and he specializes specifically in English Oak furniture. He does more than that, obviously, but that`s his passion. Don`t worry, I`ve written this all down along with the appropriate contact information. When you call, ask to speak with Darren directly. Mention my name and that you have five large pieces for him to take a look at, and he will give you a discount."

　　"That`s a nice tip, thank you," I admit reluctantly.

　　"Now the rest of these items, I`d take to Johnny Pearce at Flea Market Restore and Flip in Carlton. He`s good and can do a bit of everything or knows someone who can do what he can`t. That, and he works quickly and can handle quite a few projects at once. Again, you can mention my name for a discount."

　　"Thank you." Another socially obligatory response.

　　"Take this," she says and hands me a stapled stack of papers. "All of my notes and recommendations are in there."

　　"What do I owe you?"

　　"Oh, this was pro bono. I owed Jay and the city council some favors."

　　A little startled, I pause just long enough to wonder if I`ve misjudged this fussy inspector. "Thank you." This time the reply is slightly less gratuitous.

　　"You`re welcome. If you find anything interesting through the renovation process, my contact information can be found in the top right corner on that first page. I`ll admit, I`ve been more than a little curious about what secrets Soward`s mansion may be hiding for nearly a decade now."

　　"She is& certainly full of surprises."

　　"I`m sure that she is," Mrs. Larson smiles almost wistfully at the rafters. "Old houses like these always hide secrets& of one form or another."