Boy Building a House of Cards: The night the cards turned on our Master The room, though a mess, is still and quiet, the morning sun settling over it like a sheet smoothed over a bed. Boy is sitting with his back very straight, considering where to place the next card. He does not ask my advice, though I could tell him. I too have passed the time constructing houses of cards. Look at me, Bright Eyes, and listen. I was once like you, poised between child and man, the light on my face, everyone waiting for me to look at them. I understood the power of that poise. But what happens? This: the knees go, the lashes grow stubby, the cheeks coarsen, the hair loses its lustre. No one can hold his back so straight when cleaning cheese from the floor day after day. Soon you will not dare to build a house of cards, but will be content to sit and eat a cast-off apple, waiting for what is to come. I say none of this. Boy sets up his cards. Perhaps if we could remain like this always, Boy with his cards, me waiting for him to look at me, life would be bearable. It is the knowledge of the change to come that is so hard. Only Master's footsteps break Steady Hand's concentration. He knocks down the cards himself, scoops them into a tidy pile. I pocket my knife and the apple, but have no time to pick up the parings before I have to stand for Master's entrance. I wish I did not have apple peel at my feet. Master's eyes are bloodshot, his face drawn. He does not weather these nights so well as he once did. He does not look at me, but glances at Boy, who stands with his eyes lowered, a hand resting on the green felt top of the table. Poor Boy, you don't know how much Master lost last night. If you did you would wear a frown rather than that little half-smile on your pretty lips. Master no longer has the money for two servants. Master is nodding at Boy. Hard night, last night, eh? he announces to the room. In more ways than one. My funds are depleted, and I have had to make some calculations this morning. Master's pause floats in the sunlit air like a speck of dust waiting to settle. He turns to me. Paul, I am afraid I am going to have to let you go. I cannot breathe. Boy's smile grows to three-quarters. He briefly touches the pile of cards. I wonder when Master will notice that the innocence he has been taken in by is already on the turn. I do not bother to pick up the apple peel before I leave the room. Clever Clogs can do that once he has scraped the Camembert from the floor. Tracy Chevalier is the author of Girl with a Pearl Earring (Harper) Taking Time: Chardin's 'Boy building a House of Cards" and other paintings is at Waddesdon Manor, Bucks (01296 653226; waddesdon.org.uk) from Wednesday