Chapter 7: First Day on the Job (Part 1)
Emma Craven’s imaginary alarm clock went off at six-thirty in the morning in the form of a persistent bird that had decided to sing right outside her bedroom window. She opened her eyes, stared at the ornate ceiling for a few seconds, and muttered:
“Day one. Officially. Don’t break anything. Don’t talk to portraits. Don’t call the boss a vampire. And, above all, don’t be late.”
She sprang out of bed. The room still smelled of lavender. Morning light streamed through the gaps in the curtains in dusty golden bands. Emma dressed in the only pair of jeans that wasn’t too wrinkled, a clean white T-shirt, and her lightweight jacket. She tied her hair into a practical high ponytail. Then she looked at herself in the antique dresser mirror: faint dark circles under her eyes, the expression of someone who had slept poorly from nervousness, and a stubborn determination in her chin.
“You can do this,” she told her reflection. “Five years. One day at a time. And zero broken vases.”
By six fifty-five, she was already in the corridor, walking toward the kitchen with deliberately quiet steps. The marble still echoed beneath her feet, but she was determined to master her “ghost mode.”
Mrs. Whitmore was exactly where the note had promised she would be: standing beside the large table, wearing an immaculate apron, her gray hair pinned into a severe bun, and a pocket watch in her hand.
“Punctual,” the woman said without smiling. Her voice was raspy and practical, with an accent that reminded Emma of the old countryside. “Good. I detest tardy people. Sit down. Coffee.”
Emma sat. The porcelain cup was pushed toward her. The coffee was strong, almost bitter, and perfect.
“I am Mrs. Whitmore. Housekeeper of this estate for thirty-two years. You are Miss Craven. Five-year contract. General household duties. I teach you the routine. You carry it out. No drama. Understood?”
“Understood,” Emma replied, trying to sound as efficient as the woman sitting across from her.
“Good. You’ve already heard the house rules from the master. I’ll reinforce the practical ones: stay out of the north wing. Don’t open the curtains on the second and third floors. Don’t make noise after ten p.m. And if you break something…” Mrs. Whitmore paused, looking at Emma over her glasses. “…you tell me immediately. Don’t hide it. Don’t make excuses. Just tell me.”
Emma swallowed her coffee nervously.
“Tell you. Of course. No excuses.”
The housekeeper raised an eyebrow, as though she already suspected trouble.
“We’ll start with the ground floor. Dusting, organizing, checking the furniture. Today, we’re doing the main sitting room and the entrance hall. After that, we’ll see about the library if there’s time. Mr. Ross usually sleeps late. He prefers not to be disturbed before noon unless it’s an emergency.”
“An emergency like… fire? Flooding? A werewolf invasion?”
Mrs. Whitmore didn’t laugh.
“An emergency like ‘something he needs to know.’ Come along.”
They spent the entire morning on the move. Emma learned how to dust picture frames without knocking anything over, how to arrange cushions at perfect angles, and how never to touch the silver objects without putting on cotton gloves first. Mrs. Whitmore spoke very little, corrected her with a simple, curt “no,” and demonstrated each movement only once.
At ten-thirty, while cleaning the formal sitting room—the one with the green sofas and the covered piano—Emma found herself alone for a few minutes. The housekeeper had gone to check on something in the kitchen. The silence grew heavy once more. Emma carefully dusted a tall shelf filled with delicate porcelain pieces, taking excessive care around an antique blue-and-white porcelain vase at the center. It was decorated with birds and flowers and looked as though it had survived at least three centuries.
She stretched to reach an almost invisible cobweb in the upper corner.
The feather duster slipped.
Her elbow struck the base of the vase.
The vase wobbled.
Emma let out a muffled “No!” and tried to catch it with both hands.
Too late.
The vase tipped over in slow motion, spinning through the air as if determined to dramatize its own demise, and shattered against the marble floor with a sharp, final crash. Blue-and-white porcelain fragments scattered in a radius of nearly two meters. One of the painted birds had split right down the middle, staring at Emma with what looked like eternal accusation.