by Julie Reece
“Don’t be silly, my dear. Curiosity is natural in young people. But you are here to work, are you not? The rest will come in time, at least I pray so.” I’m not sure what she means by the last comment, but I let it pass.
On we walk until she stops at an arched oak door at the end of the last hall. It looks like eight others we passed on our way here, but who’s counting. I’m never going to find my way back downstairs. If a fire breaks out in this tinderbox, color me crispy fried bacon.
Raven …
I slow. Glancing over my shoulder, I’m sure someone called my name from the stair. “Hello?”
“What is it, dearie?”
“I’m sorry, did you call me?”
“Why no, miss.”
My head swivels behind me once more and back to Jenny. “I swore I heard someone calling.”
The old maid clears her throat. “Old houses make all sorts of odd noises. Not to worry. Come and see your room.” Jenny fiddles with a heavy-looking ring of keys. “I did the best I could on short notice. Mr. Maddox says I’m to expect a list of supplies from you. Once you get settled, you can give it to me, and we’ll get you started. Dinner is downstairs every night promptly at eight. Remember, stay out of the west wing, the rest is yours to explore, only don’t leave the grounds without informing someone.” Jenny stops trying keys, giving me her pointed ‘I mean it’ look again. “Mr. Maddox is quite adamant.”
I’ll bet he is. “Got it. No leaving the grounds without permission.” Does she find my moving here as weird as I do? She gives no hint if she does. Maybe working for arrogant killers makes a person numb to strange circumstances. I have no idea. Sweet as she seems, I doubt she knows all her employer is up to.
“Found it!” Jenny opens the door to a suite of rooms, one opening to the left and one to the right off the larger main.
New carpet smell wafts off the plush cream shag beneath my feet. Light, airy bedclothes cover a queen-sized bed in the center of the main room—white on white on cream on white. The maple furniture is sparse but tasteful. A few steps forward and I notice a theme. Feathers. Massive wings are carved, one folded over another, to make up the four posters of the bed. The design is echoed in the pattern on the quilt and again in the ironwork over the brick fireplace. Cream, fur throws, and pillows sit on a chair and ottoman. They have the carefree look of careful placement by someone with exquisite taste. I stand dumbfounded at the view.
“Is the room to your liking, miss?” Jenny asks.
“It’s the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.” As confounded as I am, I’m thankful not to be chained to a cot in the basement.
“Excellent. Mr. Maddox will be pleased.”
Will he? I wouldn’t think Mr. Maddox gave a damn.
Jenny points. “Through there is your work area with two sewing machines. That way is the bath and dressing area. Eight o’clock sharp for dinner, please. I’ll leave you now … unless there’s anything else I can get you?” Her face looks frantic. If it’s just she and Jamis waiting on Mr. High and Mighty for dinner, I imagine she has better things to do than stand here and hold my hand.
“No, you’re fine, go, go.” I wave her off. “Thanks for showing me around.”
She smiles. Her lips part as if she intends to say more but thinks better of it. She bows with her retreat.
I stare at the lavish room, flabbergasted, until a soft mew snaps me out of my stupor. “Edgar!” I open his crate and lift him out hugging the breath from his tiny little lungs. He meows again, annoyed with me. Too bad.
Strange surroundings, sounds and smells, the idea I will be here, all alone, for the next twelve months runs me over like a Mack Truck. Who cares how fancy my room is if I’m cut off from everyone and everything familiar to me. My knees shake, and I slide to the floor still cradling my cat.
Ben. I miss him. I miss my friends. How can I explain my fear, and how I’d rather be curled up in my sleeping bag on a hard storeroom floor than in this gigantic house?
My breathing comes hard and fast. I fear I’m hyperventilating as I bury my face in Edgar’s soft fur. Oh, God, you have to help me. Get us out of here.
But God doesn’t answer as the first of my tears hits the back of my hand.
Chapter Five
A knock on the door has me bolting upright. Perfect. I guess I fell asleep. Edgar slides off my back to the floor and glares at me. Sorry, boy. “Come in?”
The door opens with a creak and Jamis pokes his head inside. His eyes bug. The old guy works quickly to regain his composure, but I saw him. I’m guessing he’s not used to teen girls, that, or I’m witch-scary after my nap on the carpet. Wiping the drool off the side of my mouth, I say, “Can I help you?”
“Dinner is served, miss.”
Right. “Listen, as you can see, I’m not ready. Do you think I could eat in my room? Actually, I’m not even hungry. I think I’ll just pass tonight.”
“That is ill-advised, Miss Weathersby. You are expected.”
I don’t care if I am or not, until I think of Jenny. The trouble she’s probably gone to in preparing a meal for my first night. She’s the only one who’s nice to me. I don’t want to lose that. “Yeah, all right, just a sec.”
With no time to change, I fly into the bathroom and gasp, both at the size of the joint and my image in the mirror. Wavy, black hair juts out all over my head. My lanky body, pale skin, and tear-stained eyes make me look like an old store manikin that’s past her prime. The jeans are fine. I tug the back of my sable jacket down with one hand while pulling my new burgundy corset up with the other.
My fingers smooth my wild hair into place, then rub across my cheeks in an effort to erase the layers of smudged eyeliner that stain my face. Whatever, good enough. I doubt Jenny cares. I whirl, nearly hitting the copper, claw-foot tub to my rear.
Jamis stands like a toy soldier in the doorframe. If he entertains any thoughts about my post-meltdown appearance, he doesn’t voice them. On the way downstairs, we pass the old photographs. The eyes in every picture seem to follow me down the hall. The butler offers no conversation as we make our way to the dining room. Good, I don’t want to talk to the old prune anyway.
Room after room, I follow him through parts of the house I’ve not yet seen. I’m certain I’ll never find my way back when we enter a last set of heavily carved, wooden doors. Though clean and free of a moldy wedding cake, the dining room reminds me of Miss Havisham’s from the description in Dickens’ book Great Expectations. I read the novel in English last year. Loved it, actually. The old maid in the story wore her wedding dress every day for years until it disintegrated. She wouldn’t clear the wedding decorations after she was jilted at the altar, and eventually, she lit herself on fire and burned to death. There’s something terrible and hypnotic about that sort of crazy.
‘Course, I never thought I’d live my own version either.
Without a word, Jamis pulls out a chair at the end of the table. I sit. He bows and leaves me alone. The stuffed lynx staring at me from the mantle puts me on weirdness overload. Nothing is what I expect, and I don’t know how to act or what’s coming next.
Cosmic forces in the universe must think they’re pretty funny though because the door on the other side of the dining hall opens and in walks Gideon.
Black slacks, ruby dress shirt, and a black velvet vest with ornate silver buttons down the front. He’s stunning with his short blond curls falling in perfect messy rings around his face. His compelling beauty makes me hate him all the more.
“Miss Weathersby.” He greets me with a stiff nod as he slides his chair away from the table.
Why is he here? Never did I think Gideon would show up wanting to eat in the same room with me. Does he think I’ll be his friend, eat with him every night like he hasn’t stolen my life? Well, he better think again. I jump to my feet nearly knocking my chair over in the process.
“Calm down. You’re being rather dramatic, don’t you think?” He s
tands by his chair. The amused expression on his face unnerves me.
My fingers weave together until the knuckles show white. “You never mentioned anything about meals, or …” My hand flaps back and forth between us. “How my living here was going to work. I don’t know what you’re expecting, but maybe we should get some boundaries in place. I’m not here for, uh … to be your … er …” I stop my mind before it wanders into an ugly episode of Law and Order: SVU. My cheeks heat like two stove burners.
His grin spreads wide in the most sincere show of mirth I’ve seen from him yet. He actually laughs. I glare so hard I think I’ll damage my sight. “Oh, Raven. Did you think I brought you here to seduce you?”
Yes. No. “Maybe.” I sit with a huff and Gideon sits. I throw my napkin on the table and stand. Gideon stands. “Stop that!”
“What?” His eyebrows lift.
“Would you stop copying everything I do, it’s making me nervous.”
“Manners first.” The smile is gone and his icy stare is firmly in place. “Let’s talk a while, preferably without you throwing anything heavier than that dinner napkin. All right?”
I lower my butt to the seat beneath me. My gaze never wavers from his. I’m all suspicion and fear, but I concede we need to talk through the logistics of my stay here. If he’s not lying, which I doubt, why on earth does he want to eat in this fancy-schmancy hall together? With my nerves threatening my cool, I glance at the chandelier above the table, anywhere but Gideon’s eyes. The fixture is a gorgeous thing, granted, but as big as Ben’s old recliner. I feel so out of place.
Gideon sits across from me and folds his hands on the table, fingers threading. “Concerning your stay at present, Raven, I hope you’ll consider our arrangement a short-term business agreement.” A year doesn’t sound short-term to me, but okay. “With any merger or acquisition of properties, meetings, conferences, and ongoing negotiations are necessary. Don’t you see? We will not share every meal, quite the contrary, but on occasion, you will report to me of your progress. I will have input, and you may have questions or concerns that need attention.”
I press my lips together. Doubtful, dirt bag.
“There are few electronics in this house. No television, no video games, or computers. You’re here to work. The logistics are in place for you to complete your senior year. There is a landline in the kitchen if you must phone someone. When I require a meeting, you will come without question and without attitude. Do you understand?”
I fantasize about plunging my fork through his manicured hand. First off, no one is allowed input into my work. No one. I work alone, always have. Ben says my creations are a gift from God. That I have a genius. I don’t know, maybe it’s true. I’ve always been able to create beautiful things from the time I was very young. At this moment, however, I feel like an idiot savant because sewing trendy leather boots is all well and good, but they can’t help me here. I can’t create a way to get Ben and me out of this mess. Gideon is winning in a game of high stakes poker, and I have everything I love on the table. He may have strong-armed me into moving in, blackmailed me into giving up a year’s worth of designs, but I’m not his dog to come when called, and he’s going to understand that right now.
“You don’t own me, Gideon. No one will ever own me. I’m here to protect Ben. So, I will give up graduation with my friends, put off my ambitions, and design for you. Allow you to steal from me for a year because I have no choice, but you get nothing else.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. Challenge fills his eyes. “You misunderstand me entirely. For our arrangement to be profitable, you and I must communicate on a regular basis. You will bend to the requests I’ve made, and you will do so with a professional attitude. This is not open for debate. One call and Ben is on the street. Tonight. How long do you think he will wait before there is a bottle in his hand? Another call to Child Services and you are a ward of the state until your eighteenth birthday.” His eyes narrow to slits. “Are we clear?”
My birthday is June 2, seven months away. Ben’s got no money, nowhere to go. Gideon is just mean enough to give him fifty bucks as he leaves the rehab facility, enough for a couple bottles of scotch.
“I hate you.” My shaky response is barely a whisper.
He pulls a large gold coin from his pocket and rolls it with practiced grace between his nimble fingers. “I’m counting on it.” He must see me balk because he adds, “Artists are their most productive when their souls are in a tortured state, did you know? The loveliest music ever written, the most profound poetry, satisfying paintings, beautiful novels all are born from exquisite suffering. There is great power in pain. My father said affliction produces a like-minded bond between spirits with a commonality in experience. Like precious metal refined by fire, those of us who understand the path are drawn to the end product of such agony. We understand and admire it.”
I’m not sure he’s even talking to me anymore. Gideon’s words seem to target someone else, something in his own experience, far beyond the room we occupy. Fear blooms in my chest. The guy is a sadist, or maybe he’s just broken. His bitterness is a sharp, jagged thing, slicing anyone who gets too close. I blink back the tears gathering in my eyes because as warped as he is, I’ve experienced the truth in what he says for myself.
An idea nags at my mind, a thought or feeling asking for acknowledgment. I numb my brain and shove all emotion aside. I’m here for Ben. Nothing else matters.
“You are here first because of your designs,” Gideon says. “I’ve never seen their equal. The innovation, craftsmanship, attention to detail—all of it, your talent is remarkable.” There is no false flattery in his tone. Why would there be? The fact we loathe one another is clear, so he must mean what he says. “What you’re wearing now, in fact, the corset, the jacket, every detail is perfect.”
“Right.” Every clothing item on my body I made with my own two hands, down to my boots. My clothes are cut from antique fabrics. Even my underwear is from vintage lace and disassembled silk nightgowns.
“A subsidiary of Maddox Enterprises took a hit in the last two years with sagging clothing sales. I intend to release a new product line next year with a show both in Paris and New York, renaming the brand Raedoxx Apparel.”
An invisible noose tightens around my neck. “You’re stealing my name, too?” I can’t control the quiver in my bottom lip. Somehow, combining his name with mine is an intimate insult, worse than the loss of my designs. I can’t breathe.
“Part of it.”
“That’s an unnecessarily low blow.” My voice cracks.
“Be that as it may, the name stays. I’m fond of the sound.”
“I’ll hate you ’til I die.”
“Not that long, surely.” His gaze remains hard, despite his small smile. “And my requests?”
Ben, think of Ben. Whole, free of addictions. You can do this. “I’ll do as you ask.”
He tosses the coin high in the air, catches and replaces it in his pocket. “Perfect,” he says. “Excellent.”
Chapter Six
With my room dark as pitch tar, I blink again, tilting my head and listening as hard as I can.
Nothing. No sound at all other than Edgar’s soft purring. Since my cat shows zero concern that an ax murderer waits outside my door, or Gideon, I guess I’m safe enough from attack. Of course, I have no idea how reliable kitties are about watching out for their owners. The fatty would probably beat me out the door at the first sign of trouble, but I pretend the opposite is true for the sake of my sanity.
I ease out of bed and head for the double hung window of my room. The curtains are filmy white sheets of fabric, but they hide light blocking panels that I push aside. Moonlight floods the room. I draw comfort from the full shining orb in the sky, inspiration for so many writers. Poets like my beloved E. A. Poe, though I decide it’s not the smartest to dwell on The Tell-Tale Heart right now.
A shudder overtakes me as I stand at the wind
ow. There’s enough light on the yard to highlight the mighty oak trees outside. Spanish moss sways in the breeze. The draping of foliage waves as though gray banshees dance a warning to stay indoors. Heat lightning flashes in the sky revealing a small building next to a charming little pond amid the trees. If my warden will let me out, maybe I’ll investigate the gardens tomorrow.
A familiar thud signals Edgar has jumped off the bed and is on his way over. “Come here, boy.” I scoop him into my arms and continue watching the yard. Ben’s face pops into my mind. What’s rehab like? Is he in pain, lonely, does he miss me like I miss him? I wish so hard for him that I accidentally squeeze Edgar. I whisper a prayer, begging God to help him and me. Dane, Maggie, and Sales Hollow High assault my thoughts next. Maddox assured me I’d finish school, but how? The thought makes me crazy. He probably lied just to shut me up. I scratch Edgar’s chin and he purrs his brains out. No matter what, I’d always kept my grades up. “What happens now?” I ask my cat. He squints his kitty eyes, ignoring me. All those lessons will remain undone. My seat in each classroom will stay empty. And my teachers, what will they think as they a draw a line through my name on the role, obliterating the memory of my ever having attended at all.
I know I’m feeling sorry for myself, but no one’s here to watch. No one but Edgar. Whoa and the guy outside!
Another flash of lightning shows a boy streaking across the lawn beneath my window. I didn’t get a good look, but he was young, a brunette in a white shirt and black pants. What the heck? Edgar growls, freaking me out more, and I put him down. Peering outside for another glimpse of the stranger, I can’t see a thing.
