Chapter 9: First Day on the Job (Part 3)
Nicco ran a hand over his face as if trying to suppress a sigh.
“That vase,” he finally said, “was from the eighteenth century. Qing Dynasty. Blue and white. One of the few remaining pieces from the family’s original collection.”
Emma felt her stomach drop.
“I… I killed a survivor of a dynasty.”
“Metaphorically.”
“I can pay for it. I can sell things. Take odd jobs. Write love letters on commission. I’m good at that. Once, I wrote a letter so convincing that the couple reconciled and sent me a cake as a thank-you.”
Nicco watched her for a few more seconds. Then, to her surprise, the corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
“Miss Craven. Are you trying to convince me not to be furious by telling me a story about a genetically unlucky elbow, a hypothetical spider infestation, and a love letter that earned you a cake?”
“Is it working?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he bent down, picked up one of the larger pieces—the bird broken in half—and examined it.
“Mrs. Whitmore will bring the broom and dustpan. You will clean up every fragment. Then you will write a detailed report of what happened. Including your theory about the unlucky elbow. I want it in writing.”
Emma blinked.
“A… report?”
“Yes. And tomorrow, you’ll begin learning how to handle fragile objects with both hands. No feather dusters. No cobwebs. No stretching.”
“So… I’m not fired?”
Nicco raised his gaze. His dark eyes were a little softer, though they still held a sardonic glint.
“Not yet. But if the next object you break is more than two hundred years old, I’ll reconsider the possibility of assigning you to clean only the basement. Where there’s no porcelain. Just rats and dampness.”
Emma released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Thank you. Really. I… I’m going to glue the bird back together. Even if it ends up crooked. It’ll become modern art.”
“Don’t glue the bird. Throw it away. Respectfully.”
Mrs. Whitmore reappeared in the doorway with a broom, a dustpan, and the expression of someone who had seen everything and was still disappointed on a daily basis. Nicco handed her a fragment with a brief gesture and turned to leave.
Before crossing the doorway, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder.
“Miss Craven.”
“Yes?”
“Next time you invent an excuse… try not to include a spider infestation. It’s creative. But excessive.”
And he left.
Emma stood frozen amid the shards, a broom now in her hand, her heart still racing, and felt a nervous laugh rising in her throat. She swallowed it. Barely.
Mrs. Whitmore sighed.
“Clean. Everything. Then come to the kitchen. You’re going to need more coffee. Much more coffee.”
Emma knelt down again and began gathering the pieces with almost reverent care. As she worked, her mental list updated itself.
“Twenty-two: don’t break Qing Dynasty vases.
“Twenty-three: if you do, have an excuse ready involving a genetically unlucky elbow and spiders.
“Twenty-four: don’t laugh when the boss nearly loses his temper. It’s dangerous. And a little funny.
“Twenty-five: write the most absurd report in the history of this mansion.”
When the last fragment had been collected and the floor was clean again, Emma looked at the empty space on the shelf. The broken bird was still in the dustpan, staring at her.
“Sorry, buddy,” she whispered. “You were a great vase. You deserved a more dignified death. Something like… a heroic fall during an earthquake. Not an unlucky elbow.”
She carried the dustpan to the kitchen, where Mrs. Whitmore had already prepared a second cup of coffee and a piece of bread with butter.
“Sit. Eat. Then the report.”
Emma obeyed. As she chewed, she felt a small, stubborn spark of hope for the first time since arriving.
The boss had nearly lost his patience.
But he hadn’t fired her.
And he had even requested a written report.
Perhaps, just perhaps, Nicco Ross had a hidden sense of humor beneath all those black shirts and ridiculous rules.
Or perhaps she was delirious with nervousness.
Either way, her first official day had begun with a three-hundred-year-old vase in pieces and an excuse involving spiders.
And Emma Craven, against all expectations, was still standing.
She picked up a sheet of paper and a pen that the housekeeper had left on the table and began writing the most detailed and ridiculous report Ross Manor had ever seen.
Title:
The Qing Vase Incident – Official Account by Miss Emma Craven (and Her Unlucky Elbow)
The rest of the day would still be long.
But at least the worst had already happened.
Or so she hoped.