She had been working since five in the morning, and now she stood there, her stomach growling, lined up with the other servants, all waiting for the boss to come down for breakfast. On the table adorned with fresh flowers, neatly arranged napkins, and silver cutlery, a sumptuous breakfast awaited.
After a long wait, he finally strolled down the stairs, slowly pulled out a chair, and sat down. A male servant unfolded the napkin for him, another turned on the radio and presented him with a newspaper. He leisurely opened the newspaper while sipping his coffee.
Khanyi lowered her head; her petite figure was inconspicuous among the many servants. He didn’t notice her, didn’t say a word to her, not even a glance, but focused on the newspaper and his breakfast.
He finished the steak in front of him, casually took the napkin, and elegantly wiped his mouth. Abigail shot her a look, and Khanyi understood it meant she should step forward to clear the plates.
Her hands rubbed against her apron, hesitating, but Abigail couldn’t wait any longer. She stepped forward, took the empty plate, and harshly handed it to Khanyi.
He prepared to leave, surrounded by servants and aides, taking his hat from the coat rack while quietly conversing with Lieutenant Jacob. They were impeccably dressed, striding confidently into the yard, where the stern-faced driver stood at attention beside the open car door.
Once the boss was gone, it was time for the servants to eat. Khanyi carried her own iron plate and joined the others in the basement kitchen, sitting at one corner of the wooden dining table.
Abigail glared at her with disdain and said, “Who told you to sit here? Stay away from me, you useless pig.”
Khanyi bit her lip and remained silent, obediently moving to the other side of the table, finding a very small corner to sit down.
Everyone gathered around the table and took bread, and only a small piece of burnt bread remained, sitting alone in the center of the plate, clearly unwanted by anyone. Khanyi reached out to take it, stuffing the rock-hard bread into her mouth, biting down with difficulty.
They didn’t leave her a piece of edible bread. A few male servants ate rudely while whispering and laughing among themselves, their eyes occasionally scanning Khanyi.
The women looked at her with a different gaze, but Khanyi didn’t care. Because she would rather chew on this dry, hard-to-swallow food with these servants, being the subject of their jokes, enduring their ridicule, than sit beside that devil, enjoying exquisite and lavish meals.
Because at this table, she felt like a person, even if she was just a lowly servant, ostracized; at this table, she was merely a part of his fine food.
Her bread was quickly finished, yet she still felt hungry, and there was nothing left on the table to eat… It seemed today was destined to be a day of hunger, Nhanyi thought pessimistically. Suddenly, a golden piece of bread appeared before her, accompanied by a pleasant, crisp voice.
“By the looks of you, you haven’t had enough to eat. My bread is too big for me to finish, so I’ll share half with you.” Nhanyi followed the rough, muddy hand with dirt under the fingernails to see a boy about 14 or 15 years old. He was not very tall, with a head of flaxen hair and a pair of black eyes that seemed to smile and speak.
“Thank you,” Nhanyi replied softly, expressing her gratitude with her eyes but not reaching out to take the bread from the boy’s hand.
The boy showed great interest in her and simply sat down beside her. “What’s your name? Are you a new maid? I haven’t seen you at mealtimes before…”
“Charles , have you finished? If you have, hurry up and fix the fence! There’s still a lot of work waiting in the flowerbed!” A sturdy man interrupted the boy.
“I’ll go right away, Uncle Sean.” The boy stuck out his tongue at the uncle and said to Nhanyi, “I have to go work now. Uncle Sean has a bad temper. You should eat it; if you’re full, you’ll have the strength to work.”
Nhanyi picked up the half croissant from the table, swallowed a mouthful of cool water, and took a bite. It was soft and fragrant, made from fine flour, with a hint of milk aroma.
After hanging the clothes she had washed the night before in the backyard, she ran into the boy again. He was standing on a high rack, repairing the fence in the flowerbed. “Hi, Gianna,” he waved at her, greeting her loudly. The boy had somehow found out her name.
