Chapter 4: The Debt and the Sale (Part 4)
Emma adjusted her posture, squared her shoulders, and took her first real step down the ground-floor corridor. The black-and-white marble beneath her sneakers made a ridiculously loud noise, as if the entire house had decided to announce, “Look, the human has arrived, and she doesn’t know how to walk quietly.”
She took a deep breath. The air was cold and far too clean, carrying that smell of old wax and polished wood that reminded her of a museum that had been closed for decades. The towering walls were adorned with elaborate moldings, and every so often, recessed alcoves displayed sculptures of people who seemed to be judging her with their stone eyes.
“Right,” she murmured under her breath, just to break the silence. “Mental list number one: things I must not do if I want to leave this place with my sanity intact.”
She began counting on her fingers as she walked.
“One: don’t yell at the house. No matter how much it deserves it.
“Two: don’t open any curtains on the second floor, even if curiosity kills me.
“Three: don’t make noise after ten. Even if I trip, even if I drop something, even if I have a nervous laughing fit.
“Four: don’t ask why the man of the house looks like he stepped out of a nineteenth-century painting and a modern men’s fashion magazine at the same time.
“Five: don’t call Mr. Ross ‘the vampire boss’ out loud. Yet.”
The corridor was long. Absurdly long. Emma had the feeling that even if she ran, it would still take her several minutes to reach the end. All the side doors looked identical: dark wood, polished brass handles, no labels. Some stood slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of rooms that seemed frozen in time.
She stopped at the first partially open door and peeked inside.
It was a formal sitting room. Dark green velvet sofas, embroidered cushions, a grand piano covered with a white cloth, and a chandelier that seemed to have more crystals than any sane person could possibly need. The light filtering through the gaps in the heavy curtains was faint and golden, almost artificial. Emma felt an urge to pull the curtain back just a little, just to see if the sun still existed outside.
But then she remembered Nicco’s first rule and pulled her hand away as if the curtain might bite her.
“Six: don’t test the rules on the first day. Even if it’s tempting. Especially if it’s tempting.”
She continued walking. The silence was so dense that she could hear her own heartbeat and, occasionally, the faint creak of some distant floorboard. The mansion seemed alive in an unsettling way—not exactly threatening, but watchful. As though every portrait on the walls were taking notes on the new intruder.
Emma stopped in front of one of them. A man with a stern expression, a twisted mustache, and eyes that seemed to follow her movements. Beneath it, a small metal plaque bore only the inscription “R. Ross, 1847.”
“Hello, R. Ross from 1847,” she greeted him in a low voice. “I’m the new girl. Don’t worry, I won’t touch your things. Probably.”
The portrait didn’t answer, which was something of a relief.
She resumed walking, now expanding her list with a few more details.
“Seven: don’t talk to the portraits. No matter how polite they look.
“Eight: don’t try to guess how old Mr. Ross really is. Because the math doesn’t add up, and I don’t need a headache on my first day.
“Nine: don’t fall in love with the library if I find one. Old libraries are dangerous. You go in just to ‘have a quick look’ and emerge three hours later with dust in your hair and your entire sense of time completely destroyed.”