Chapter 8: First Day on the Job (Part 2)
The silence that followed was deafening.
Emma stood frozen, the feather duster still in her hand, her mouth hanging open, her heart pounding so hard she was certain the entire mansion could hear it.
“Shit,” she whispered. Then, louder, “Shit, shit, shit.”
Quick footsteps echoed down the corridor. Mrs. Whitmore appeared in the doorway, looked at the floor, then at Emma, and closed her eyes for a second as if praying for divine patience.
“Miss Craven.”
“I… I can explain.”
“Don’t explain. Just don’t touch anything else. I’ll call the master.”
“There’s no need to call the master! I’ll pick up the pieces, buy an identical one, work overtime, sell a kidney—”
The housekeeper had already disappeared.
Emma crouched down, trying to gather the larger pieces with trembling hands. The broken bird was still staring at her. Her face burned with embarrassment, and she felt an absurd urge to laugh nervously.
Less than three minutes later, slower, more deliberate footsteps approached. Nicco Ross entered the room.
He was wearing a black shirt again, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair still slightly damp as if he had just stepped out of the shower. His dark eyes swept over the scene: the destroyed vase, the shards, and Emma kneeling in the middle of the disaster with a piece of porcelain in her hand and the expression of someone who had accidentally killed a person.
For a second, his jaw tightened. His patience was clearly being tested.
“Miss Craven.”
His voice was low and controlled, but there was a sharp edge to it.
Emma sprang to her feet so quickly that she nearly slipped on the shards.
“Mr. Ross. I can explain. It was… it was an accident. A very specific accident.”
Nicco crossed his arms and waited.
Emma took a deep breath. The elaborate, hilarious excuse she had promised herself she would come up with the night before surfaced with the force of sheer desperation.
“You see, I was cleaning the top shelf, just as Mrs. Whitmore taught me. Feather duster at a forty-five-degree angle, gentle movements, no excessive pressure. Everything according to protocol. Then…” She gestured toward the empty space where the vase had stood. “…then I spotted a cobweb. A very tiny cobweb. Almost invisible. But I thought, ‘Emma, if you leave that cobweb there, it’ll grow, invite its friends over, build a spider condominium, and in a week we’ll have an infestation. And the master hates noise. Do spiders make noise? No. But Mrs. Whitmore certainly makes noise when she discovers an infestation. So I had to eliminate the cobweb. Out of responsibility. Out of professionalism.’”
Nicco said nothing. He merely raised an eyebrow.
Emma continued, now speaking at an accelerated pace.
“I stretched. Carefully. My elbow… my left elbow, specifically, which is my unlucky elbow, the one that always hits corners… touched the base of the vase. The vase wobbled. I tried to catch it. I swear I thought I could do it. But the vase… Mr. Ross, that vase had a mind of its own. It spun. It chose the floor. I shouted ‘no’ in at least three different languages. It didn’t help. It broke. Into lots of pieces. I counted them. There are thirty-seven large pieces and countless tiny ones. I can glue it back together. I’m good with glue. Or I can look for an identical one. Or I could… work an extra month for free. Or two. Or even until the end of the five years, if necessary. Just… please… don’t fire me on my first day. I haven’t even learned where the laundry detergent is kept yet.”
The silence that followed stretched on.
Nicco looked at the shards, then at Emma, then back at the shards. His jaw was still tense, but something in his eyes had changed. A flicker of amusement, quickly suppressed.
“Thirty-seven large pieces,” he repeated, his voice still dry.
“I counted while I was waiting. It helps calm me down. Counting things.”
“And the unlucky elbow.”
“It’s a genetic condition. My grandfather had it too. He could knock over entire shelves just by walking past them.”