(part three, fini)

I trudge up the steep staircase, dragging my feet across each eroded step with a whispered rasp of leather sole on stone. I'm exhausted, slick with sweat, my shirt soaked with it and filthy dishwater. My hair, long since fallen out of the knot I tied it in, clings to my neck and cheeks in a stringy mess. Somewhere along the way, I tore the nail off my left thumb. Ripped it right down to the quick, and it's throbbing in time with the headache I'm nursing.

Dim light pools at the head of the staircase, drips down the steps toward me, throwing up smudgy shadows of banisters and railings in odd, contorted angles. A mouth, I think suddenly, pausing to stare at the trick of the light and dark. A gaping mouth with twisted, rotting teeth and thirteen steps that lead to the monstrous pit. Like Cerberus, digesting you and shitting you out into hell below.

"I'm fucking losing it," I mutter. But I climb the rest of the stairs quickly, taking the last two in a single stride.

Amelia sits in an armchair, talking to a couple of The Kids seated on the floor beside her. She continues to address the others, but she watches me as I shamble toward the group. I wait for her to finish her speech, clasp my hands behind my back and turn slightly away.

"...I'll discuss that with Pam and Marni," she says, "but I'm sure it'll be fine. Just remember, you can't go if you've had dishes in the last week."

I take advantage of having my back to them, and roll my eyes in a huge, satisfyingly exaggerated manner. I guess that was for my benefit. Oooh, and I'm so hurt, too.

I wait a beat, listening, but she must be finished, for the room is quiet. "I'm done down there," I say, turning to face them again.

Amelia's lips go white, her eyes narrow a bit. She waves The Kids away from her and stands. "Get downstairs," she tells me.

I blink at her several times before stalking back to the kitchen. Amelia follows at a distance; I hear her heels click-clicking on the tiles well behind me. I enter the dining hall and take advantage of the few seconds' lead to survey my work one last time. Spotless. I wait for Amelia to catch up.

But she stoops at the doorway, swipes her fingers across the floor. "This isn't clean. You'll re-do this," she says. She straightens, runs her fingers over each the tables, flicks on the kitchen lights and pokes around in there a bit.

I wait, glaring at the spot on the floor she insisted was not clean enough. I scrubbed this floor. It's cleaner than when we have a crew down here.

Amelia returns. "What did you use on the floors?" she asks.

"Broom, mop, mop water," I say.

"Well, you must not have changed the water..."

"I changed it three times."

"Then, you must not have swept..."

"I did."

She puts her hands on her hips. "That's enough. Now, I've already let you slide, coming up there with your ‘I'm done,' after I already told you there was to be no talking! You didn't do this floor properly, and you'll re-do it, and keep on doing it until you can get it right."

"It's already clean," I tell her.

"Wait," she growls, and heads back to the kitchen. She returns with a bucket and a sponge. "Here, you'll use this," she says, shoving the sponge at me.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"Get on your knees and scrub the floor." She gives the sponge a shake.

"I'll do no such thing."

Amelia slams the bucket down, throws the sponge into it. "Scrub the floor," she says through her teeth.

I stand motionless. "I've already scrubbed the floor, thank you."

Amelia flies at me, her finger hooked into claws. She grasps me by the shoulders and shoves me down to my knees. "You will get on your knees and you will scrub this floor." She leans down beside me, her face close to mine. "You'll do it this way tomorrow night, too."