Free Conrad's Fate by Diana Wynne Jones Page B

my Fate. And there didn’t seem to be any boxes with meals marked in them either.
    Christopher seemed to be trying to hide even worse dismay than I felt. “This is a disaster !” I heard him mutter as he scanned the closely filled right-hand sheet. He put a finger out to one of the only empty squares there was. “Er, someone seems to have forgotten to fill this square in.”
    â€œNo mistake,” Miss Semple said, in her high, cheerful voice. She was one of those nice, kind people who have no sense of humor at all. “You both have two hours off on Wednesday afternoons and two more on a Thursday morning. That’s a legal requirement.”
    â€œGlad to hear it!” Christopher said faintly.
    â€œAnd another hour to yourselves on a Sunday, so that you can write home,” Miss Semple added. “Your full day off comes every six weeks and you can—” A bell began to ring on the board across the lobby. Miss Semple whirled around to look. “That’s Mr. Amos!” She hurried over and unhooked the phone.
    While she was busy saying, “Yes, Mr. Amos … No, Mr. Amos …,” I said to Christopher, “Why did you say this was a disaster?”
    â€œWell, er,” he said. “Grant, did you know we were going to be kept this busy when you applied for the job?”
    â€œNo,” I said dolefully.
    Christopher was going to say more, but Miss Semple hooked the phone back and hastened across the lobby again, saying confusingly, “You can take two free days together every three months if you prefer, but I shall have to show you the undercroft later. Hurry upstairs, boys. Mr. Amos wants a word with you before Tea is Served.”
    We ran up the stone stairs. As Christopher said late that night, if we had grasped one thing about Stallery by then, it was that you did what Mr. Amos said, and you did it fast. “Before he’s said it, if possible,” Christopher added.
    Mr. Amos was waiting for us in the wood-and-stone passage upstairs. He was smoking a cigar. Billows of strong blue smoke surrounded us as he said, “Don’t pant. Staff should never look hurried unless Family particularly tells them to hurry. That’s your first lesson. Second—Straighten those neckcloths, both of you.” He waited, looking irritated, while we fumbled at the white cloths and tried not to pant and not to cough in the smoke. “Second lesson,” he said. “Remember at all times that what you really are is living pieces of furniture.” He pointed the cigar at us three times, in time to the words. “Living. Pieces. Of furniture. Got that?” We nodded. “No, no !” he said. “You say, ‘Yes, Mr. Amos—’”
    â€œYes, Mr. Amos,” we chorused.
    â€œBetter,” he said. “Say it smarter next time. And like furniture, you stand against the walls and seem to be made of wood. When Family asks you for anything, you give it them or you do it, as gracefully and correctly as possible, but you do not speak unless Family makes a personal remark to you. What would you say if the Countess gives you a personal order?”
    â€œYes, your ladyship?” I suggested.
    â€œNo, no !” Mr. Amos said, billowing smoke at me. “Third lesson. The Countess and Lady Felice are to be addressed as ‘my lady’ and Count Robert as ‘my lord.’ Now bear these lessons firmly in mind. You are about to be shown to the Countess while we Serve Tea. You are there for this moment simply to observe and learn. Watch me, watch the footman on duty, and otherwise behave like two chairs against the wall.”
    His stone-colored eyes stared at us expectantly. After a moment we realized why and chorused again, “Yes, Mr. Amos.”
    â€œAnd chairs would be slightly more use,” he said. “Now, repeat back to me—”
    Luckily at that moment a bell shrilled downstairs in the