The Windsors led me into their dining room, and I could not help but notice how quiet their house was. The silence was oppressive, almost as if the walls themselves held their breath in anticipation. If they lived in a manor, they must have been part of the peerage, but the quietness made me think they did not have many children—which was odd for people of their station. The atmosphere was almost eerie as Countess Windsor's heels echoed sharply across the checked marble floor, each click reverberating through the hollow corridors like a distant memory of better days.

The dining room was grand, but the emptiness made it feel like a relic of a bygone era. A long dining table dominated the room, surrounded by far too many chairs for the number of guests they appeared not to have. I could imagine this room filled with the buzz of conversations and the clinking of silverware, but now it was a mausoleum of forgotten banquets. The house itself seemed too big for just the couple. The large structure loomed like a gothic castle out of a fairy tale, with dark corners that might have been hiding secrets—or ghosts. Yet, despite its grandeur, I did not see any servants moving about to aid in the maintenance of the property. It was as if the manor was suspended in time, a beautiful, decaying shell with no life to inhabit it.

Earl Windsor, with the deliberate grace of someone well-practised in etiquette, pulled out a chair for his wife at the right-hand side of the table's end. The chair scraped softly against the floor, a sound almost swallowed by the room's vastness. He then moved to the left-hand side, pulling out a chair for me at the same end. His movements were smooth and rehearsed—a routine played out countless times in front of guests far more important than I. We took our seats, and he positioned himself at the head of the table, a place that felt like a throne in this cavernous room. The interview began with little fanfare, more curt and informal than I had expected. It seemed as if they themselves did not know what they were looking for, or perhaps they had long given up hope of finding it.

The earl commenced the interview with a standard question, his voice deep and measured, as if each word was weighed before it was spoken: "Have you worked as a caregiver for anyone before?"

The truth was simple—I had never worked as a caregiver—but nothing is black and white; there is nuance in everything. I took a breath before answering, the weight of the manor pressing down on me. "I work diligently to care for my parents and grandparents who live in the same residence. They are rather old and require a lot of help with their needs. I believe they can pledge my good deeds as their caregiver for the last couple of years or so." My voice echoed slightly in the large room, the words hanging in the air like a fragile promise.

The man nodded slowly, appearing pleased with my answer, while the lady only frowned, her lips pressed into a thin line, presumably thinking ill that my household was an extended family. Her disapproval was palpable, a cold wind that brushed against my skin, and I wondered what it was about my answer that displeased her so. Perhaps she found my situation too common, too ordinary for their tastes.

"How do you handle conflict and disagreements, Miss Becker?" Earl Windsor asked, his tone suggesting that the question was more significant than it seemed.

"Well, my lord," I began, choosing my words carefully, "I try not to start any conflict, but if I do find myself in one, I strive to act as nicely as possible so as not to frustrate the other party further. I believe that conflicts often stem from misunderstandings or a lack of clear communication, such as stereotypes and oversimplifications. Conflicts can be more easily solved if both parties try to understand each other." As I spoke, I noticed the way his eyes focused intently on me, as if he were measuring the sincerity of my words against some internal scale.

"Interesting thought process, Miss Becker. I, too, have had similar thoughts about conflicts in this way before." Earl Windsor smiled faintly at my answer, nodding his head in approval, while his wife continued to openly scowl at me, her discontent deepening the lines on her face. The contrast between the two was stark—the earl's mild approval and the countess's barely concealed disdain. "One more question, Miss Becker: How strong are you?"

"What?" The question caught me off guard, and I could feel my mouth hanging unconsciously agape as his words slowly processed in my brain. I had not expected such a question, and it felt oddly personal, almost invasive. I suppose it was obvious that I might have to carry someone—him, perhaps. He might be too tired to walk, or I might have to put him in his crib if he is of that age. But how heavy was he if they were asking me this question?

The earl cleared his throat as he looked down at the table, his eyes tracing the intricate patterns on the polished wood, before returning his gaze to me. "Well, Miss Becker, any caregiver's duties require some level of strength to accomplish what is needed from them. I am not saying this is required all the time, but some incidents or emergencies may necessitate it." His voice had a hint of something—perhaps concern, perhaps something more—something I couldn't quite place.

Inspecting my appearance, one could easily deduce that I was not a woman of physical strength. I was built like a stick, thin and delicate, and my relatives would often say I was like an autumn leaf holding onto the tree for dear life. They used to say the wind would take me and I would live a successful life. I hesitated before answering, aware that my response could very well determine my suitability for this position.

"While I do not profess to excel in physical endeavours, I am often able to provide the much-needed emotional support vital in any caretaking situation." My words were measured and carefully chosen to reflect my strengths, even if they did not align with what they were explicitly asking for.

The lady scoffed at my comment, her derision sharp and cutting, clearly unimpressed by my response. The air in the room grew tense as she slammed her palms onto the table, the sound reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. She stood up sharply, knocking her chair backwards, the wooden legs scraping harshly against the tiled flooring. The earl and I cringed at the unpleasant sound, and after a moment's hesitation, we both followed her example and stood.

"Lord Marcus, can we please go?" she said, her tone icy, obviously hinting at some previous conversation and agreement between them. There was an urgency in her voice, a desire to be anywhere but here.

"Of course, Dearest," the earl replied, his voice gentle, soothing in contrast to her agitation. He turned to me, a slight smile still lingering on his lips. "Miss Becker, would you like to meet our son?"

"Absolutely," I said, nodding my head eagerly, my curiosity piqued. I imagined what their son would look like. Perhaps he would don a suit, meticulously tailored like his father's, or perhaps he would wear a sailor outfit, complete with a cute little knickerbocker. There was an air of mystery surrounding the boy, one that I was keen to unravel.

"Just so you know, girl," Countess Windsor said, her voice low and threatening, "you must swear to secrecy about our son. You are not allowed to tell anyone about us or him, even if you do not get this job. Okay?"

"Okay, I swear." The words left my mouth before I had a chance to fully process them. The intensity in her eyes left no room for hesitation.

"Good," the countess said, her gaze hard and unyielding. "You better not cross your word, or I will kill you myself." There was no doubt in my mind that she meant every word. The room seemed to grow colder, the shadows longer, as if the manor itself was holding its breath.

The earl pipped in, his voice breaking the tension. "Dearest, the sixth commandment says, 'You shall not murder.'" He tried to make light of the situation, but the edge in his wife's demeanour remained. "Anyway, let us go to him now." His words were gentle, but I could sense the weight behind them, a heaviness that lingered long after they were spoken.