Chapter 1:
The Girl Who Wanted to Become a Maid
ONCE UPON A TIME, MIZUNAMI RITSUKO’S world was colorless. Born into fortune and raised by well-meaning parents, she knew no suffering and wanted for nothing. She was gifted and, by the age of six, outwitted most adults. Lest one assume she therefore lacked in matters of culture, be assured she did not. Her paintings, published under a pseudonym, fetched exorbitant prices at galleries. The first instrument she picked up, she mastered within the hour. When she sang, birds flocked to her dulcet tones.
Programming was child’s play, first aid a flick of the wrist. And as for self-defense? Grown men trembled in her presence. Mizunami Ritsuko was, quite simply, the greatest prodigy who ever lived.
But then again, did she truly live?
Nothing she ever did was worthwhile. Nothing demanded more than minimal effort from her. Everything she touched turned to gold. And when everything was gold, it began to lose its luster. When you’d been granted every possible accolade, what was left to strive for? What victory was there in a race without competition?
This was not to say that Ritsuko had no betters. She did, but none were her peers. When she lost, it was always to someone older, someone who had dedicated their life to a field, someone whom anyone would have lost to.
She felt nothing.
Cynical pragmatism seeded itself in the young girl’s heart. She did away with the extremes of emotion—the joy and sadness, the pleasure and discomfort, the doubts and certainties of life—and so her world lost its color. Everything passed through this unfeeling filter and came out gray and hueless. Dull and boring to a child’s eyes.
Life was a sad prison to Ritsuko, its bars erected from the conceit she herself had built.
To be human is to judge and be judged. And those geniuses among us all too often recognized their talents but lacked the humility to temper such instincts. Talent bred arrogance, and arrogance bred contempt.
Such was the fate of Ritsuko. She, too, judged the world, although subconsciously in her young mind, and deemed it insufficient, its spectrum too limited.
So said the frog in the well. Gifted though she was, Ritsuko was but six. She knew little of the vastness of the world’s tapestry, nor of its profound depths.
But she would soon learn.
One day, Ritsuko’s parents dragged her to a company function hosted by a handsome English gentleman her father knew from his work—a baron, though “life peer” would have been more accurate. The title was not hereditary.
His villa sat upon a small, picturesque hill. The gentleman chose the garden of this serene estate for his grand tea party. It was here that Ritsuko met her destiny.
Among the dreary blacks and whites of Ritsuko’s monochromatic world appeared a strange anomaly to contradict her perspective.
“Our most humble welcome. Please, do make yourselves at home.”
A beautiful woman pushed a trolley up to Ritsuko’s table. She wore a pitch-black dress with a sheet-white apron. A cap of the same sterile hue rested on top of a head of foreign, bright blonde hair, yet she spoke perfect Japanese. Back straight and knees bent at just the right angle, the woman offered what Ritsuko knew to be a “curtsy.”
The woman went through the offerings of tea and milk with sagacious brevity, then proceeded to meet each and every request flawlessly before leaving to repeat the ritual with other guests.
Ritsuko stared after her. “Mother, who’s that pretty lady?”
“Pretty lady? Ah, that’s just a maid.”
“A maid…”
For all the girl’s knowledge, this was the first she had heard of such a thing; a fault of her selective studies. Though she had learned much of England—its important dates and histories—the minutiae of everyday life had escaped her.
Ritsuko’s father proceeded to explain that this particular woman was a parlormaid, one specializing in waiting on guests, whom the English gentleman had summoned from abroad specifically for today’s event. Ritsuko listened without once taking her eyes off the woman.
The maid eventually noticed. Their eyes met, but before the embarrassment could flush into Ritsuko’s face, the woman smiled at her. And what a perfect smile it was.
Everything changed then.
For the briefest of moments, color returned to a gray world. Or perhaps it didn’t. Perhaps it was an illusion brought on by the vibrant black and white of the maid’s dress that Ritsuko was fixated on. Whichever one it was, she did not care. Ritsuko was feeling something real at last.
“She’s so pretty,” the young girl breathed.
“Yes, I suppose she is,” said her mother. “Getting a good look, dear?”
“What?” her father babbled. “Sweetie, no. I, uh, promise?”
“You’ll do more than that when we get home.”
“Honest! I’ve only got eyes for you, my sweet, beautiful, forgiving wife!”
One smile from a single woman in a black-and-white dress. So trivial. But black and white were the first colors Ritsuko had seen in a long time.
“Maids. Female domestic servants. Popularized in the latter half of 19th century England, the Victorian era. An estate will typically divide work among several types of maids, including kitchen maids, housemaids, parlormaids…”
Ritsuko tore through every scrap of information she could find about her new fascination, all her prodigious talents now laser-focused. She had to learn more. Their history. Their evolution as a profession. She even took it upon herself to learn the tricks of the trade and sew her own uniform, both tasks made easier thanks to her inherent ingenuity and dexterity. Then she went so far as to play maid all around the house.