“Long enough.” Her voice is gravel and smoke.
“And Mr. Rochester? What’s he like?”
She doesn’t answer. Just continues walking toward a staircase that curves up into the shadows like a spine.
We climb to a grandiose landing, illuminated moonlight streaming through tall windows. Then up another flight, where a cobweb brushes my cheek like a curtain. I shudder, distracting my revulsion with portraits of men in uniforms, women in gowns, children with dead eyes watching us pass.
My thighs burn, but Mrs. Fairfax charges ahead without slowing. A painting of a woman with pale skin and blonde ringlets catches my attention. Her eyes seem scratched out in the flickering light. I stop following long enough to lean closer.
“Keep up,” she growls without turning around.
The next floor feels different from the one before. Smaller. Darker. Crumbling. Even the ceiling is lower, pressing down like it’s designed to crush spirits. This has to be the servant’s quarters. Before I can ask how many of us live here, Mrs. Fairfax stops at a door at the end of the hallway and produces a key.
“Your room,” she says, turning the lock. “Breakfast is at seven sharp. Do not be late.”
The door swings open to reveal a space that’s both a prison cell and sanctuary. Moonlight streams in through French doors, illuminating the dark wood floors. A huge bed dominates its center, its posts reaching toward the ceiling like fingers. The room is sparse and basic, apart from the velvet curtains around the bed and the balcony doors.
Mrs. Fairfax shifts aside just enough for me to enter. “The wardrobe contains everything you’ll need.”
I step inside, my shoulders sagging with relief. After a week of paranoia, of feeling like everyone within glancing distance was a cop waiting to drag me to justice, all I want is to be alone to catch my breath. I never thought my life would turn to shit at the age of twenty-five, but hiding out in the middle of nowhere as a nanny is better than the alternative.
“Burlington?” She asks from behind.
I turn, finding her still looming in the doorway. She stares down at me with an intensity that has me rooted to the spot. My fingers twitch. My breath shallows. I wait in agony for several heartbeats, expecting her to ask the same awkward question as the chauffeur.
“Yes?” I finally reply.
“Welcome to Rochester Manor.” I swear thatshe smiles beneath that mask before pulling the door shut behind her with a thud.
With a final exhale, I turn the key in the lock.
The first things I explore are the French doors. They need to open, so I’m no longer breathing air saturated with medicine and polish and rot. I turn the handle and step onto a stone balcony that overlooks the grounds. A cool breeze fans over my fevered skin, and I fill my lungs. The rain has stopped, leaving everything glistening under silver light. Below, formal gardens stretch away from the house lined by hedges in perfect geometric patterns and pathways that lead nowhere. Everything here seems too orderly, too controlled.
It feels like the set of a period movie, and I’m an actress who’s forgotten her lines.
My nipples tighten with the cold, and my skin prickles into goosebumps. I rest my hands against the stone railing, cursing Gil for leading me into an ambush, letting those people make me a murderer, and then casting me out.
Mom said God cursed women to desire men but be crushed under their feet. It was Eve’s punishment for tempting Adam into eating the forbidden fruit. When she and Dad married me off to Brother Matthew, my belief in the scripture crumbled. There was nothing attractive about a bad-tempered old man who stank of horse piss.
I used to think she was full of shit until I met Gil.
He was everything—a change from the rich old guys I’d pick up in cigar bars or casinos. An upgrade from the assholes who’d make me earn my rent money. He was handsome, charming, attentive, and had the body of an athlete. Even if our relationship didn’t last more than amonth, he was the sweetest, strongest, kindest, most generous man I’d ever met. Until he wasn’t.
Fuck that bastard.
And his boss.
With a shiver, I hurry back through the doors and head for the wardrobe. There’s a single black dress hanging inside, pressed and waiting like it’s been expecting to be worn. Arranged on the shelf underneath are white aprons, cotton nightgowns, and underwear still in their packaging. The Facebook Marketplace ad wasn’t exaggerating. Everything really is provided.
I lift the dress off the hanger and grimace. It might fit my waist and hips, but there’s no way in hell it’ll handle my boobs. The only saving grace is the line of buttons down the front. I can wear it open until they find something that actually fits.
Fugitives can’t be fashionistas.
With a sigh, I explore the attached bathroom. The walls are tiled in white subway brick that reflects the moonlight in fractured patterns. When I flip the switch, the bulb flickers once before settling into steady illumination. Probably because no one updated the electrics since the master of this mansion learned to channel lightning.
I turn on the shower, cringing at the groaning pipes sputtering out brown water. As I’m picturing how on earth I plan on getting clean on drinking water, it eventually runs clear. A line of bottles, identical except for their labels, sits in a shower niche, along with a razor and a fresh washcloth. I peel off my damp clothes, my fingers shaking from more than just cold. Now that I’m alone, the adrenaline crash hits me like a fist.
Tremors wrack my frame as I grip the edge of the bathtub. I’m safe. Safe from my shitty old family. Safefrom Gil’s bosses. Safe from the FBI. I step under the spray and let it pound against my neck and shoulders until my skin throbs. I scrub harder than needed, trying to wash away the last week and everything that led me here to this creepy old manor on a Godforsaken island.
