“Quite so. Here, let me?—”
“No, I can?—”
Lord Valerian sets me down gently. I get my feet beneath me and stand upright, dusting off my clothes and trying to rid my body of the tingling sensation from where he touched me. Like last night at the pub, his touch is surprisingly cool, but I figure that’s what happens when you live in a draughty medieval castle.
He’s dressed in tight-fitting trousers, knee-high leather boots, and a loose white shirt dotted with paint. His dark curls flop over his eyes, making him look more like a seventeenth-century poet than a rich toff. Where does he get his clothing from? His great-great-great-great-great grandfather’s steamer trunk?
I expect him to smell of dust and paint, but his scent is the same as it was at the pub last night – winter spices and haunted groves. The kiss brushes my memory again. I cantastehimon my tongue. My hand flies to the spot on my neck where he raked his teeth over my flesh, feeling the roughness where he left a small scratch …
“I got the wrong train,” I blurt out as a lone butterfly slams against the walls of my stomach. “I came here yesterday by accident, so I stayed the night at the pub and then met Reginald today, but it was a one-in-a-million mistake and in no way reflects poorly on my organisational abilities. I mean, itdoes, obviously, but I swear that I really am quite good at cluttering cleaner. I mean, cleaning clutter?—”
“Let us not mention it.” Lord Valerian clears his throat, and I know he’s talking about more than my awkward fall. “Mrs Winifred Preston, I apologise?—”
“It’s Ms,” I say. “Always Ms.”
His eyes whip to me then, and my breath stills.
“MsPreston, I apologise that you’ve come all this way for work that is so obviously beneath your skills. All I have is a few canvases and art supplies lying around, nothing to be concerned about, but we are hosting a ball at the castle in six weeks, and my valet is convinced that my things will develop sentience and devour our guests.”
One thing I’ve learned from Mum is that people like her are in denial about how bad things are. Their stuff isn’t just stuff – it’s a precious dragon hoard, and my job is to help them protect it from filthy hobbitses. “This is my job, and I enjoy it. I’m happy to be here. Why don’t you explain to me what you’d like to achieve during my visit? I’ve read the brief from Faye but it was quite vague.”
“Very well.” He sweeps an arm around, indicating the vast room that I think might’ve once been called a study, judging by the enormous desk, piles of books, and dusty globe in the corner. All fancy rich people’s studies have the same globe. I reckon Elon Musk hands them out for free so people will be his friends. “I live here alone, save for Reginald. Over the years, I have acquired several … distractions. These activities keep my mind active and bring me joy, but recently, Reginald has been watching a programme on the television and is convinced I may have a disease. Now, normally, this idea would be preposterous because I cannot become ill. Reginald believes I am suffering from a disease of the mind, one called ‘hoard’. Is that right, Reginald?”
“Hoarding, sir,” Reginald replies. “I think he might be a hoarder, ma’am.”
“He found your company on the computer. Your website said you could clean any mess, big or small. Well, I have a mess in my castle, and an even bigger mess in my head, and Reginald believes you may be able to help me.”
Deep breaths, Winnie.
That word,hoarder, punches me in the gut. People toss it around affectionately to describe their little collections of frog figurines or the messy desk in their office, but nothing about hoarding is funny.
If Lord Valerianisa hoarder then … I am going to work even harder. It’s going to test the very limits of the Winnie Wins System, but I know I can help him. Ihaveto help him.
I plaster a smile on my face and indicate the half-finished locomotive that attacked me. It’s almost large enough for a person to sit on.
“I noticed the model trains. And you’re painting?”
Lord Valerian sweeps his arm dismissively at his desk. I step over three more model trains and a broken record player, shuffle around another pile of teddy bears, and step up to the antique desk beneath the window where several canvases rest on paint-splattered easels.
I gasp.
The paintings are beautiful.
No, beautiful is not the right word. They’rearresting.
Lord Valerian has been painting the landscape he sees from the towering, mullioned window on various nights. Tonight’s effort is streaked with deep violet, the moon a cold eye glinting off the water in the stream winding below. Others show wind-tossed trees and tempest clouds, or crisp, midnight-blue summer skies and spindly, foreboding trees.
“You’re talented, Lord Valerian.”
He frowns. “They are hopeless scribbles. I have many years of practice ahead of me before I’llbe happy with them.”
I study his porcelain features and steady anthracite eyes, trying not to blush as I remember those soft, full lips on mine. He’s young, perhaps a few years older than me. He’stooyoung to be holed up in this castle trying to become a master painter.
“You said you had other hobbies?” I need to get a full sense of what I’m dealing with. The biggest part of being a professional organiser isn’t actually the cleaning up – it’s getting to know your client so you can understand how they think, and then you design a system around that. I’ve learned that the way to get people like him to open up is to get them talking about the things they’re passionate about.
Of course, the only thing most of my clients are passionate about is designer shoes.
“Yes!” Lord Valerian’s face lights up. It’s as though someone has flicked a switch inside him, and he goes from being a grumpy gothic villain to an excited schoolboy. “Come. I will show you.”
