Properly meeting Margaret

Oddly enough, the kitchens were now deserted. It made a strange contrast to just a short while before, when it had been bustling with girls, all running around, all having a purpose. Now it stood empty, save for Madam Smith. The older lady was stooped over an oven, taking out a plate of cookies.

“Hello, little one.” She says with a grandmotherly smile. “Come help me out with this, my back isn’t what it used to be.” The girl quickly set the plate of tarts onto an empty counter and hurried over to the her, although she couldn’t be more than fifty years of age. Margaret crashed down onto a chair with a tired sigh. “Here.” She said, handing over the large padded oven mitts. “Just take those out of that oven and put them onto that counter, over there.”

Helen pulls them on and hurriedly follows her instructions. “Is there anything else you need, Madam?” She laughs, her voice warming up the room. “Oh, dearie. Don’t call me that here. When we’re alone, I’m just little ol’ Marge, alright? What’s your name? You’re one of the new ones.” She pats the chair next to hers. “Come, sit down.”