12:52 – Daisy:I’ll probably meet him later this week.
12:52 – Jenn:You have to tell me everything. He’s… wow.
12:55 – Jenn:Name? I’m Googling.
12:55 – Daisy:Damian Miller.
I sipped my water and scrolled again. Blue eyes. Broad shoulders. Tattoos teasing from under his sleeves. A man cut sharp, impossibleto forget. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and forced myself to close the images. The phone slid from my hand.
I crossed to the bookshelf, pulled down the novel I’d started two days earlier, and sank back onto the couch—pretending words on a page could hold me when my thoughts were already somewhere else.
I followed Beatrice up a spiral staircase into the library.
It was vast, hushed, alive with dust and age. Dark shelves rose to the high ceiling, their leather-bound spines worn smooth by centuries. Wooden beams cut across the ceiling, casting shadows. A leather couch sat in one corner beside a small table. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, barred with silver grilles, while a massive desk near the glass sagged under books, papers, and scattered notes. Boxes sat unopened on the floor.
“Excuse the chaos,” Beatrice said. “I meant to put things in order before leaving, but—well. My health hasn’t made it easy.”
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “Once I have time, I’ll organize the library.”
Her smile was faint, tired. “That’s the spirit. You’ll be good for this place. Mr. Miller will see it, too.”
We descended again, this time into a narrow stairwell that ended at a keypad door. Beatrice typed in the code.
“This is where we keep the most valuable pieces.”
The door opened onto a room chilled and humming with climate control.
A soft pressure bloomed behind my ribs, the kind that comes when something feels bigger than you.
Metal shelves lined the walls, stacked with labeled cases. In the center, glass cabinets glowed under harsh white lights—coins, jeweled daggers, vessels etched with forgotten symbols.
I pressed closer to the glass. “It’s like a museum.”
“It is a museum,” Beatrice said quietly. “Just not for the public.”
The air smelled of metal and old stone. The hum of machines filled the silence.
“One of your tasks,” she added, “will be to catalog, analyze, and protect all of this.”
A thrill rippled through me, sharp and heavy all at once. To stand among treasures most people would never glimpse—it was intoxicating. But the weight of it pressed on me, too. Every jeweled dagger, every carved vessel was history sealed in glass, and soon, I would be the one responsible for them.
Beatrice slid open a cabinet and withdrew a thick folder. “Here’s the full record of this room,” she said, flipping it open with practiced precision. “Everything has been digitized. From now on, we’ll stop keeping duplicate files.” Her finger skimmed the table of contents as if she knew every line by heart.
We put the folder back, the lock clicking shut with finality, before she led me out of the vault. The shop’s main floor felt brighter, almost ordinary in comparison, though her voice kept that undercurrent of formality.
“Ms. Elfhorn—you can call me Beatrice, if you like.” A soft warmth touched her lips.
“Then please, call me Daisy,” I replied, trailing after her.
She gestured toward a desk tucked into the corner. Papers, folders, and a sleek computer sprawled across it. “This is where you’ll handle the administrative side. And here…” She guided me toward the reception counter. A small monitor blinked beside it. “…you’ll greet visitors. This screen shows who’s outside before the doors open. Use it every time.”
I nodded, feeling the subtle emphasis in her words. Surveillance. Vigilance. Secrets.
“You’ll get your contract today,” she added. “Read it carefully before signing. Once it’s returned, you’ll have your codes and access card.”
“Thank you, Beatrice.”
“I know it feels like a lot now, but the routine will become second nature.” Then, with a gentler tone: “For now, let’s step away from the rules. Coffee or tea? Come with me to the kitchen.”
