Chapter 5: The Debt and the Sale (Part 5)
The corridor curved gently to the left and suddenly opened into a wider area: the entrance to the kitchen, judging by the distant scent of dried herbs and the gleam of copper pots hanging somewhere beyond the swinging door. Emma’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten anything since the hurried breakfast at her mother’s house.
“Ten: don’t starve to death just because the kitchen looks like something out of a period drama. Food is food. Even if it comes on porcelain plates that cost more than my old rent.”
She carefully pushed open the swinging door.
The kitchen was enormous. A stone sink, an old-fashioned stove that nevertheless looked perfectly functional, a central island made of light-colored wood, and tall cabinets that reached all the way to the ceiling. Everything was impeccably clean. There was no one around. Only a still-steaming cup of tea on the table and a note written in elegant, firm handwriting:
Miss Craven,
Mrs. Whitmore will be available tomorrow at seven. Until then, please feel free to help yourself to anything in the pantry. Avoid the locked cabinet on the left.
— N.R.
Emma read the note twice. Then she looked at the locked cabinet on the left. It was an ordinary cabinet made of dark wood, with an iron lock.
“Of course,” she murmured. “The forbidden cabinet. Every castle has one. Eleven: don’t open the forbidden cabinet. Even if curiosity is screaming at you. Especially if it’s screaming.”
Instead, she opened the pantry. The shelves were neatly arranged with glass jars, canned goods, bread wrapped in cloth, cheeses, and fresh fruit. Someone—probably the mysterious Mrs. Whitmore—had prepared for her arrival. Emma picked up an apple, a piece of bread, and some mild cheese. She sat on the edge of the large table and ate in silence, listening only to the distant ticking of some clock.
As she chewed, her mental list continued to grow.
“Twelve: don’t get used to good food. It creates dangerous expectations.
“Thirteen: don’t ask why the note was signed with initials only. ‘N.R.’ sounds like the name of a villain in a cheap gothic romance.
“Fourteen: don’t laugh to yourself in the kitchen. The echo here is merciless.”
She finished the apple, washed her hands in the sink (the water ran icy cold and crystal clear), and returned to the corridor. Now her goal was to find the “quarters” the driver had mentioned. “Near the kitchen,” Nicco had said. Practical. As if she were a maid who needed to remain within a few steps of the stove at all times.
Two doors later, she found a small side corridor with three doors. One bore a discreet brass plaque: “Staff Quarters.”
Emma took a deep breath and opened it.
The room was… surprisingly pleasant. It wasn’t the damp basement she had feared. It was a spacious room with a light wooden bed, a clean white quilt, an antique dresser, a tall wardrobe, and a window that, for once, wasn’t completely covered by heavy curtains. The late-afternoon light filtered through in golden slivers, illuminating dust particles dancing in the air. Her suitcase was already sitting on a bench at the foot of the bed, open and impeccably organized—someone had unpacked her few belongings with almost excessive care.
Emma closed the door behind her and sank onto the edge of the bed. The mattress was firm but comfortable. The room smelled of lavender and coconut soap.
For a moment, her determination wavered. The mansion was too large, too silent, too old. And the man who ruled it had looked at her as if he already knew exactly how many buttons were on her shirt and how many times she had lied that day.
She pulled the diary from her suitcase. The very same diary she had sworn not to open. She turned to the first blank page and began writing in the slanted handwriting of someone who wrote far too quickly:
Day 1.
The house is a museum that breathes.
The boss is annoyingly handsome and speaks as if every word were measured in grams of gold.
I will not break.
I will not run away.
I will not fall in love with the library (if it exists).
And I definitely will not ask why he doesn’t look old enough to own a mansion like this.
Five years.
Just five years.
I can do this.
She closed the diary, tucked it into the dresser drawer, and stood up. There was still plenty of daylight left. She decided to explore the ground floor a little more—just the ground floor—before night truly fell.
She returned to the main corridor. Now she paid attention to the details: the gleam of the marble, the intricate patterns of the moldings, the fact that there wasn’t a single visible cobweb anywhere. Someone kept this house in immaculate condition. Mrs. Whitmore, probably. Or an army of very organized ghosts.
Emma stopped in front of a wider door. She carefully pushed it open.
It was the library.
She let out a quiet, almost reverent sigh.