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ELLA
I start making a list.
Not on paper.
In my head.
My mother used to say I remembered things too well. Honestly, while it helped me get through school without cracking too many books, it can also be a curse.
When I was little, it made me difficult.
When I got older, it made me useful.
Now it may be the only weapon I have.
So I count.
I notice.
I remember.
Everything that seems different in Vexley House.
All the locked doors in the west wing.
I pass the main staircase and remember that yesterday, the family portrait above the landing hung straight. Today, it tilts slightly downward on the left. Someone brushed against it. Someone tall. Or someone carrying something wide enough to strike the frame.
Noted.
In the main dining room, as I polish the silver, I notice two place settings are missing.
“Ella.”
I turn.
Audrey stands near the doorway, her clipboard against her chest, her eyes sharp enough to pare skin from bone.
I turn, rubbing the soft cloth over a sterling serving spoon. “Yes?”
“I told you to polish silver in the west dining room. Not here.”
I clear my throat. “Both doors leading to the west dining room are locked.”
She tilts her head. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Check them yourself. They’re locked.”
That seems to satisfy her, until—
“I told you to report to laundry first.”
“They said they didn’t need me.”
“Do you think I care what they said?”
“But—”
She walks swiftly to me, taking the serving spoon from me. “Is this how you polish silver? Look at this tarnish.”
