She spots me standing out on the balcony and furrows her brows in admonishment.

“Lainey, dear, please come inside and shut the door. There’s a noticeable chill in the air.”

I do as she says, apologizing as I lock the balcony door behind me.

She carries the tea tray over to the sitting area in my room. It’s styled neatly with a coffee table that sits between a reading chair and a loveseat. All the furniture is antique, all chosen by my grandmother. As Margaret places the tray on the table, she frowns and sniffs the air.

Oh no.

“I just blew out a candle a moment ago. Is that what you’re smelling?”

Still frowning, she shakes her head. “That must be it.”

“It won’t linger,” I assure her as I reach down to pour myself a cup of tea. It’s chamomile. Margaret started making it for me when I was young and first had trouble sleeping. When I was on breaks from St. John’s, she’d find me down in the living room, reading by lamplight, trying to chase away the bleak memories. The tea doesn’t always help, but I’ve come to appreciate the nightly ritual.

“Once you make your cup, come over to the vanity and I’ll brush your hair,” she tells me, already headed in that direction.

Margaret has been a fixture in my grandmother’s house since before I can remember. Officially, she’s my grandmother’s lady’s maid, though the title doesn’t come close to encompassing all of Margaret’s duties. In short, she’s indispensable.

When I was younger, I used to wonder what was in it for Margaret. Her arrangement with my grandmother seemed so odd to me. Margaret was so involved with our lives that she seemed to have nothing for herself, no family, no children.

Now, I realize there is more at play behind the scenes. Though neither of them would admit it, Margaret and my grandmother are each other’s best friends, and more than that, they’re lifelong companions. Margaret has a bedroom right beside my grandmother’s. They spend their days arm in arm. They’ve traveled the world together. It’s a relationship that works well for them both, and for that, I’m grateful.

After I sit at the vanity with my tea, Margaret unties my low bun and carefully runs the brush through the long strands. I sit patiently and drink, knowing she enjoys these quiet moments as much as I do.

“How was the art show?”

“A success. I sold quite a few paintings.”

She smiles proudly. “Morgan’s is lucky to have you.”

I release a caustic chuckle. “Tell my grandmother that. I know she wishes I wouldn’t waste my time there.”

Margaret doesn’t reply, and I’m not surprised. I know she’ll never bite the hand that feeds her. Her loyalty lies with my grandmother, though I like to think she cherishes our bond as well.

“Anyone interesting pop up at the gallery tonight?”

I freeze with my cup of tea midway to my mouth. My wide eyes meet hers in the mirror.