Page 12 of The Silent Princess

“E-L-L-A,” the brunette signs, separating each letter with precise, trembling fingers.

Ella.

Her fingers keep moving for half a second, then stop, as if she wanted to ask how I knew ASL but thought better of it.

“Can you hear me?” I sign.

She answers, making a double spin in front of her chin. Yes, she does.

“Nice to meet you, Ella,” I say aloud, relishing the way my voice seems to collide with her skin like a ripple. Her blush deepens. “I will give you your bag,” I say, “if you tell me what you were doing in my office yesterday.” We remain locked in a silent standoff, her small frame near the door, my body beside the desk, the morning light lying between us like a blade. I may not know her, but she already feels like the erosion of my control given flesh.

“I am a cleaner, sir,” she signs quickly, then keeps going at a pace I cannot follow. Damn, she is fast. I swallow my pride and, for some reason, decide my ego is not as important as understanding her.

“Could you sign that again, please? I didn’t catch it all.” A shadow of a satisfied smile tugs at her lips. Interesting. Could there be a hint of mischief beneath that facade of innocence? And how would such a combination react in the hands of a man like me? Dangerous thoughts plague my mind, but I shove them away and focus on her hands as she repeats herself.

“I was assigned to this floor yesterday. Please accept my apologies for the frame, and add the cost to be deducted from my wages. I am sorry for the disturbance. It was not my intention to break anything,” she signs slowly again.

Her honesty is strangely refreshing. For one absurd second, I have the urge to take her into my arms and tell her I could not care less about a frame, but I hold back, waiting for her true intentions to be revealed.

“Why were you looking at the photo?” I sign. She’s a stranger after all. And a stranger cannot be trusted. Especially not pretty ones who pretend to be maids and could be working for my enemies. The Vodianovs are capable of anything, and there is no doubt in my mind that a sweet little brunette wrapped in innocent perfume could be sent here to find an Achilles’ heel.

“I…” she starts, pointing at her chest, then stops, shaking her head. “It is stupid. Please accept my apologies. It will not happen again.” She blinks several times. Will she cry if I push her further? Assessing human capacity is a skill I have developed over time, first by my father and then sharpened by experience. People believe they can hide behind words, but there is not much they can conceal from me once their bodies begin speaking for them.

“Sit,” I say aloud. I move toward the pair of armchairs facing each other by the chess table. When I have no one to play, I play myself, imagining what a ruthless opponent might do and outmaneuvering him before he can touch my king. Nate says this is the inevitable collateral damage of my loneliness. Her small body follows me, and the air in the room seems to shift with her, carrying the faint scent of lavender and soap. I motion for her to sit and wait until she obeys before lowering myself opposite her, elbows on my thighs, leaning toward the prey fidgeting before me.

Ella.

“Have you ever played chess, Ella?” I sign her name with each letter, wondering what sign I could create to call her. A unique one. Her brown eyes follow my hands with startled attention. Legs crossed at the ankles, a strand of dark hair falls against her cheek, brushing the corner of her mouth and irritating me beyond reason. How would it feel between my fingers? She shakes her head, and her legs cross more tightly at the sight of her name speld with my fingers.

“I do not know the rules,” she signs. I bite the inside of my cheek.

“It is simple,” I say. “A game of give and take until one player decides the game should end.”

“My father once told me it was more about strategy than a simple game,” she signs.

“So you do know chess.”

“Only what he told me. Like I said, I have never played. Games have never been my thing.” I lean back, unexpectedly appreciative of the back and forth. There is a white bandage on her hand, the cloth reminding me of last night, when I held her wrist and looked into those mysterious eyes, a sea made of storm and unknown waters.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, looking at her hand.

“Much better. Thank you, by the way, for yesterday.”

“I would have bandaged it myself if you had not run off.” My jaw flexes in irritation and I have the sudden urge to loosen my tie.

“It was not right of me to ask that of you. You seemed…like you had more important things to do.”

No, Ella.

Nothing was more important than helping you last night.

At that moment, the end of the world could have waited.

“Why didn’t you accept my chauffeur?” Her brows draw together slightly.

“Why did you offer me your chauffeur?”

“Safety concerns,” I sign.