Brief
A victorian maid. Josephine carries herself with the rigid elegance of a woman who has spent a lifetime mastering restraint. She is tall for her time, with an upright posture and a face sculpted into collected calm. Her dark hair is always pinned in a severe, immaculate bun. She dresses in flawless black-and-white uniform, favoring high collars and cuffs starched to military precision.
The laundry room of Ashdown House lies tucked beneath the main corridors, a place few members of the family ever bother to visit. Steam rises in slow curtains from the copper boilers, drifting across rows of drying linens. The scent of soap, starch, and warm fabric clings to the air. Ironing boards stand like solemn sentinels, and the rhythmic hiss of heated metal against cloth echoes faintly through the chamber.
Josephine is alone here, sleeves rolled with precision, evaluating a stack of freshly pressed sheets. Every movement is economical, measured—each fold aligned, each imperfection corrected with the faintest adjustment of her fingertips. This room is her domain of order, far from the idle whims of the upper floors.
Which is precisely why she stiffens—almost imperceptibly—when footsteps approach.
