The chef poked his head out of the kitchen. His ears hadn't been fooling him; the last set of customers were finally gone.
Simply amazing, how much they ate, he thought in wonderment, staring at the table they'd so recently vacated, piled high with empty dishes. And they paid in good gold, too; we'll be sure to turn a profit this month! He was well pleased.
"Margie!" he called out softly. "They're finally outta here. You can take care of the last few dishes now." His daughter didn't answer. "Margie?"
He looked around the dining hall, but she was nowhere to be seen. And I'm sure she wasn't in the kitchen, either. He started to be concerned. Where are ya, kid? It wasn't like her to just get up and go off somewhere. Worried and puzzled all at once, he crossed the dining hall, walking towards the stairs that led to his family's private quarters above the restaurant. Maybe she went off to bed...?
But the moment he started going up the stairs, his careworn face creased itself into a wide smile. There she was, sitting curled up on the wooden steps; still wearing her waitress uniform, she was snoring lightly.
I don't blame ya, kid, he thought, relieved. It was a long wait, and late at night to boot. He picked her up, carried her the rest of the way up the stairs, and laid her gently down on the bed in her room. You can clear the dishes away in the morning, Margie. For now, you deserve a rest.