Chapter 11: First Day at Work (Part 5)
“I'm finished.”
The housekeeper held out her hand. Emma handed over the notepad. The woman read it in silence, her expression shifting from resignation to something approaching disbelief. By the end, she closed her eyes for two seconds and slowly shook her head from side to side, as if the universe had once again confirmed that human patience had its limits.
“You actually wrote about the genetic elbow.”
“It’s the truth.”
“And the hypothetical spider infestation.”
“That’s true, too. Potentially.”
Mrs. Whitmore handed the notepad back.
“Take this to Mr. Ross after lunch. He’s in the office on the second floor. Knock twice. Wait. Do not enter without permission. And, Miss Craven… try not to break anything else on your way there.”
“I’ll try. Very hard.”
Emma put the report away as though it were an official state document. Then she finished her coffee, ate the buttered bread the housekeeper had insisted she accept, and spent the rest of the morning helping organize the pantry under strict supervision. Mrs. Whitmore spoke little, but occasionally she would say, “Not like that,” or “Slow down a little,” and Emma would obey with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.
Meanwhile, two floors above, Nicco Ross sat behind the mahogany desk in his private office. The light filtering through the gaps in the heavy curtains was faint and golden. Old papers, a fountain pen, and an open book he wasn't reading lay scattered across the desk.
He kept replaying the story the new maid had told him in his mind.
Unlucky elbow.
Spiderweb.
Hypothetical infestation.
Love letter that resulted in a cake.
Nicco rested his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands in front of his face. He closed his eyes. And, for the first time in more decades than he cared to count, he allowed a genuine smile—small, brief, but sincere—to appear.
It wasn't the polite, distant smile he wore for visitors. Nor was it the sarcastic half-smile that surfaced when something irritated him in a predictable way. This smile had come as a surprise, from somewhere deep inside, as though a forgotten part of him had been prodded without warning.
He couldn't remember the last time someone had made him almost laugh for real. The people around him tended to be careful, formal, fearful, or, in the worst cases, overly serious in their attempts to impress him. Emma Craven, on the other hand, had knelt amid the shards of a Qing vase and offered to work extra hours, glue the pieces back together, and even write love letters as compensation.
Nicco opened his eyes and looked at the office door. He could still hear her voice in his memory, rushing to turn a disaster into an epic tale.
“Interesting,” he murmured to the silence of the room.
He stood up, walked to the window, and drew the curtain back just enough to glimpse a small section of the forest below. The midday light was far too bright for him to remain there for long, but those few seconds were enough to remind him that the world outside continued to turn, indifferent to broken vases and absurd reports.
Nicco let the curtain fall back into place and returned to his desk. He picked up a sheet of paper and wrote in his precise, old-fashioned handwriting:
“Report received.
The genetic elbow theory has been noted.
The spider infestation remains under observation.
Next fragile object: handle with both hands.
— N.R.”
He folded the note and left it on the desk. Then he sat down again and, this time, allowed the smile to return for a few more seconds. Just a few. Then he suppressed it, as he suppressed almost everything.
But the damage had already been done. Something small and inconvenient had shifted inside him.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Emma received permission to go upstairs after lunch. Mrs. Whitmore prepared a simple meal—soup, bread, and cheese—and watched Emma eat with the same attention she gave to the condition of her pots and pans.
“You write well,” the housekeeper remarked suddenly, almost as if the words had slipped out against her will.