Chapter 3 - The Blue Uniform
The sound of rubber soles squeaking against marble shattered the silence.
Footsteps.
Fast, uncalculated, and desperate.
Maria rounded the corner of the grand staircase.
Her dark blue uniform was a blur of motion.
The stiff white collar around her neck was askew, scratching against her collarbone as she sprinted down the hall.
A silver serving tray lay abandoned on the Persian rug behind her.
She didn't look at Eleanor's face.
She looked at the green liquid staining the beige lace.
Maria lunged.
Her small, calloused hands bypassed the shot glass entirely.
She grabbed Eleanor’s forearm.
She anchored her weight and yanked backward with every ounce of strength in her fifty-kilo frame.
"Stop!"
Maria’s voice cracked on the vowel.
It was a high, thin sound of absolute terror.
"She didn't do anything wrong!"
The grip on Clara’s jaw slipped.
The shot glass tilted completely horizontal.
The remaining green sludge splashed violently across the black leather of the wheelchair seat.
Clara gasped, choking on the fraction of liquid she had swallowed.
She coughed, a wet, rattling sound, spitting green saliva onto her own chest.
Eleanor did not stumble.
She simply turned her head.
Her black pearls swung and settled.
She looked at the maid’s hands gripping her sleeve.
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It was the look of a woman who had just found a cockroach crawling across her dining table.
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