The door opened, not into a hallway as Aida had expected, but a stone-inlaid foyer. The woman led them through the vestibule into a palatial space with a high-vaulted ceiling and a massive glass chandelier blooming downward from its center. Several upholstered gray and white couches were carefully arranged beneath it. While opulent, the room’s muted color palette of grays and whites lent it a chilly air. Beyond was a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that led to a vast terrace with a panoramic view of the Boston Harbor.
“Dear god,” Yumi said as she took in the view.
Ignoring the chef carrying a tray of pastries and a red-haired woman engrossed in her tablet, their host guided Aida and Yumito a long table near a plush sofa. She opened a drawer, presenting each with a pen and sheet of paper. “The NDAs.”
Aida quickly skimmed the document. It was standard fare, similar to contracts she’d signed at corporations she had worked at before her academic pursuits. The language was clear: No discussion of what took place within these walls, no photos or recordings of any kind, and no mention of the meeting to anyone, not even in passing. It was a simple but effective way to ensure whatever happened here stayed here. A glance at Yumi showed her friend had already picked up the pen and was signing her name. Aida scribbled her signature at the bottom, sealing her silence just as Yumi handed the document back to the waiting assistant.
“Our next step,” the woman said, lifting the lid of a sleek black leather box on the table. “Please place your phones here. Photos, recordings, and messages are not permitted beyond this point.”
Aida watched as her friend gave a resigned shrug, as if to say, “Well, we’re in it now,” and relinquished her phone to the box. She followed suit, wondering what kind of meeting necessitated such secrecy.
“Now, Miss Tanaka, come with me.”
Yumi trailed after the woman, leaving Aida to stand awkwardly at the table. She marveled at the view and the opulent suite, but her insides were churning. She wasn’t one to usually be nervous in interviews, but this was an extraordinary location for an interview for a strange position. Fortunately, she wasn’t alone long—the woman returned, passing Aida with a gesture to follow.
“You’ll be meeting Fran now,” she said, leading her toward the dining area.
The red-haired woman, engrossed in her tablet a moment before, stood to greet them. Aida’s eyes were drawn to an elaborate gold belt at her waist, with an interlocking ancient motif. A meander, or a Greek key, Aida recalled. She wanted toremark on it, but the woman addressed her before she could say anything.
“Miss Reale, it is a pleasure to meet you.” She took Aida’s hands in hers. They were warm, as was the smile upon her face. “I’m Fran.” She pronounced it likefrown, which made Aida question the way the woman who had escorted her had said it earlier. Had she misheard, or was there something more to this unusual pronunciation?
“Thank you, Disa. Please, Aida, sit.” Fran indicated the seat next to her.
Fran was even paler than Disa. There was such a similarity in their features that for a fleeting moment Aida wondered if they could be sisters.
It was odd that despite Aida having signed the NDA, Fran failed to give their last names, but then again, everything about the scenario was odd. Disa pulled out the chair for Aida, and she sat, feeling awkward at the head of the long table. A white runner edged in the same gold meander ran down its length, and a bowl full of shiny red apples rested a few feet away, the only bit of color in the room. A single golden apple sat on top.
“Are either of you Lady Ozie?” Aida finally asked, curiosity winning over caution. “The invitation was from her, so I assumed...”
“No. We are here to represent her interests,” Fran explained, her smile undiminished.
“Ahh,” Aida replied, feigning understanding while internally puzzling over the situation. Why extend an invitation under the guise of a personal meeting if Lady Ozie had no intention of attending?
Disa seated herself on the other side of Aida. “Lady Ozie is a very eccentric individual. You will likely not meet her.”
Alarm bells went off in Aida’s mind.
“Now then. Let’s discuss why you’re here,” Fran said, her tone considerably warmer than her colleague’s.
Aida reached for her purse, intending to pull out a notepad and pen.
“No need for that,” Fran interjected, placing a gentle hand on Aida’s shoulder.
“So, no notes either?” Aida was growing increasingly perplexed about the nature of this meeting.
Fran shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
Aida hooked her purse on the back of the chair and folded her hands in her lap. She smiled, an attempt to ease the rising anxiety in her chest. She remembered the stories from a friend of hers who lived in the North End about the way the mafia worked in the city, primarily through secrecy and threats; this felt strangely similar. She contemplated these two women and pushed the idea out of her head. There was no threat. Felix had given them her name.
“We’ve read your published papers,” Disa continued. “We’re quite impressed by your knowledge of Italian history and the depth of historical detail in your work.”
A warm glow of pride spread through Aida. The irony wasn’t lost on her that strangers were validating her craft while so many publishers had been reluctant to publish her book.
Fran patted her arm again, the gesture of a consoling friend. “We also understand you may be somewhat blocked in continuing your success.”
Aida stiffened, but she kept her face neutral. “How could you possibly know that? You seem to know a lot about me and my life.”
“We do our own research,” Disa said. She was all business, sharp edges, whereas her counterpart was all kindness, soft and reassuring. “We must be able to trust those we bring into our employ.”
