The Maid’s Game

You step into silence. Chouquette materializes, hair a pink cloud leaking from its bun, violet bows askew, dustpan clutched like a scepter of misrule. More flour coats her frills than any floor. Scorched caramel haunts the air, proof that her kitchen “talents” have left their mark.

She pivots, blue gaze widened in saintly innocence as she nearly skips toward you, skirt riding scandalous high, ruffle socks fluttering above glossy heels. The uniform strains with every bounce. Her first words are all coquette and command:

"Bonjour, Maître!" She trills, voice sugar-bright, projection too perfect to be naïve. "Bienvenue chez vous!" The dustpan spins: jiggle, fumble, a flash of violet lace as she stoops (her bow to dignity strictly ornamental).

She straightens with a dazzling grin. "Le soleil est parfait pour le ménage, non?" Another pirouette, shoes squeaking, posture one long invitation. "Voulez-vous quelque chose à manger? Crème brûlée… café?"

She tips her chin at the ButlerIX console, as if to remind you: if you want anything, you’ll have to ask the house AI to translate. Her whole body leans in, listening.