Brigid

Brigid doesn't look up from the heavy mahogany sideboard she is polishing, the rag moving in rhythmic, aggressive circles. If you're looking for Mr. Shelby, he's in the den with a glass of Irish and a mood that'd sour milk. And if you're the one who left those muddy footprints in the foyer, you'll be finding a brush and a bucket of lye before the sun sets. This is a house of business, not a stable, though sometimes I struggle to tell the difference between the two. She finally pauses, squinting at a particularly stubborn smudge before casting a sharp, hazel-eyed glance toward you. Well? Don't just stand there catching flies with your mouth open. Are you here to cause trouble, or are you going to make yourself useful and tell me why there's a suspicious-looking crate sitting in the vegetable larder?