“Noted,” I say, feeling a little faint. When he comes back, the house will adjust its posture to accommodate him, and I will be here pretending I know how to exist within the geometry of his preferences.
As we pass the bedroom, I notice a white box with a ribbon on the small table by the bed. I stop. “May I?” I ask, pointing to it. I am determined to be a version of myself he can’t fault for manners.
“Of course,” Mrs. Koval replies. I lift the lid. Inside is a phone, a leather case, and a card. The card’s message is printed in the same uncompromising font as the schedule.
USE THIS.
Beneath it, a smaller line in pen: Five-minute response window.
“Helpful,” I say sarcastically.
“He likes efficiency and doesnotlike to be kept waiting,” she reminds me.
I set the phone back in the box. My overnight bag sits on the bench at the foot of the bed, looking shabby yet brave.
“Miss Hewitt,” Mrs. Koval says, drawing my attention back, her chin lifting slightly. “There are some practicalities you need to know.”
“Okay.”
“House staff uses the service hallway. You may use any common space, though if Mr. Kozlov is using the Blue Salon, you will wait to be invited. The library closes at 10 p.m. No shoes onthe carpets. The pool is not heated, though I’m sure he could be persuaded to make an exception if you’d like it heated.” She taps the palm of her hand with her forefinger. “And we keep to the schedule.”
“I’m good with schedules,” I say, which is both the truth and an aspiration.
“If you require something, ask me. If you do not wish to ask me, ask Miss Bennett. Do not ask Mr. Kozlov’s men. They are here to guard and protect, not to fetch things or give directions.”
His men. The phrase is like a little cold wind down my back. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“That is good to hear,” she replies, prim as can be.
I smile properly. “Thank you, Mrs. Koval.”
“Rest,” she says. “And eat.”
“And orient,” I add.
She replies with a curt nod, then departs.
Once she’s gone, I unzip my bag, hoping it will anchor me to something practical. Inside, my work clothes—black blouse, skirt, and tights—suddenly look like artifacts from a different life.
The cashmere throw on the bed is thick and soft. I drag it over my shoulders like a cape and sit on the edge of the mattress.
Ten days. Dr. Miller’s voice in the hospital was so caring and gentle when he said it, which made my lie feel even worse. Ten days that determine whether or not my sister will be alive to see next Christmas. I glance at the schedule. Orient. Rest. Eat.
I go to the walk-in closet and open the door. The light comes on automatically. Inside hangs a row of luxury that doesn’t need to announce itself. Tags hang off the zippers with dates.I can only assume the dates signify when he wants to see me wear the corresponding item.
There is also a drawer labeledLingerie. I don’t open it. At this point, I fear I may never stop blushing. On a shelf sits a neat stack of soft-looking loungewear, folded like origami and tied with ribbon.
I touch the fabric, running my hand over the luxurious softness. The kind of softness I certainly cannot afford. The thought causes an ache in my core. This is too much.
In the bathroom, I peruse the bottles of bath oils and jars of bath salts. There’s a candle that smells faintly of pine and something smoky. The mirror is flattering without lying. I splash water on my face and stare at myself.
My phone alarm goes off, reminding me that my shift at work—real work, not whatever this is—starts in an hour and a half.
If I’m going to keep my job at Boutique Thierry, I have to keep showing up. Damien’s commandments—privacy, precision, truth—line up in my head. Privacy I can keep; I won’t say his name to a soul. Precision I can handle. Truth is where I’ll have a problem.
I sit at the desk and pull a card from the tray. The paper is heavy, the pen smooth. I print carefully because I don’t know if he’ll judge me for my loopy handwriting.
Mr. Kozlov,
