House of Glass. Jen Christie

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      “This goes beyond discretion.” She took a quick, sharp glance at me. “You’ll know soon enough. But keep your mouth shut and you’ll be fine.”

      “Second. Your employment is conditional from week to week. If you perform as expected it will never be a problem.”

      “Fine.”

      “Lastly, the door to your room will be locked behind you at 8:00 p.m. sharp and opened again at 6:00 a.m. No exceptions. If you have an emergency, you can ring the bell.” She nodded at a rope that descended through the ceiling. “But only for an emergency.”

      I looked at the rope, which hung like a dead snake. “Where does it lead?”

      “To my room. One last thing. A young woman, pretty, like yourself.” She cleared her throat. “Just like all the rest. Well, keep your head down and don’t get any ideas.” Her expression was stiff. “It’ll only end badly.”

      “I wouldn’t dare to.”

      She continued on. “I’ve seen them, like yourself, coming here young and fresh, giving him eyes. None of those girls last a month. They are always sent back. And then it’s too late. Well,” she looked at her wristwatch, “unpack. Lunch will be in an hour.”

      “That’s fine,” I said.

      She eyed my figure. “I need to get you a decent uniform. Your dress is almost to rags. Let me see what I have. I’ll be right back.”

      The door shut behind her, and for a foolish moment I thought she would lock it. But of course, she didn’t, and I set about unpacking. The dresser was clean, and I put my clothes away.

      A short time later, Mrs. Amber returned and walked into the room without knocking. She carried two dark garments in her hand and placed them on the bed. “Here. These should fit. Put one on and then meet me in the kitchen to help prepare lunch.”

      After she left again, I picked up a dress. It was a somber gray, short sleeved, with a white collar. Practical. A servant’s uniform. I donned it and went to the kitchen.

      Lunch was quick, and I met the staff. The rest of the afternoon, I shadowed Mrs. Amber from room to room, listening to her orders. Not once did I see Mr. St. Claire.

      There was an odd thing that happened, though. We were in a bedroom and I was helping her clean beneath a bed, when the glint of something caught my eye. It was wedged between the leg of the bed and the wall, and a trick of the light made it almost seem to wink at me. Whatever it was, it gleamed gold and bright.

      I pulled it out. It was a brooch, fashioned into a peacock. It was delicate and finely crafted, the tip of each feather festooned with a different colored jewel. I saw a ruby, an emerald, and jewels of every color of the rainbow. Yet for its delicacy, the piece had weight and felt solid in my palm.

      Mrs. Amber snatched it from my hand. I didn’t even know she was behind me. “Where did you find that?” she asked. There was a note of shock in her voice.

      “Right there, beneath the bed. It was wedged between the leg and the wall.”

      “After all this time.” She stared at the jewelry for a moment. “It was Mrs. St. Claire’s. I haven’t seen it since before she disappeared.” Mrs. Amber slipped the brooch into the pocket of her dress.

      Later, I helped Mrs. Amber prepare the servants’ dinner. As we worked the women talked about Mr. St. Claire and I listened intently, and at each mention of his name I inadvertently touched my necklace. He was coming home that night, at any moment, and we were to be ready to work. He would be arriving with his business partners. I offered to help, thinking it was finally a chance to see the man that I remembered.

      Mrs. Amber was quick to deny my wish. “No, I have another task for you after dinner.”

      I sat at the scuffed wooden table in the kitchen, eating quietly. Around me, the servants were talkative, excited at the return of Mr. St. Claire. I was not familiar enough to be included in the conversation, though everyone was polite. When we were done eating, I helped to clear the plates.

      After dinner, the kitchen was empty, but I saw through the window that Mrs. Amber was sitting outside on the servants’ patio. She called out to me. “Reyna, come outside for a moment,” she said.

      I opened the door and stepped outside. The sun was fat and fiery orange, and was sinking slowly into the ocean.

      Mrs. Amber was sitting in a chair, smoking a cigarette. She was more relaxed than usual, and I grew hopeful that she might show kindness to me. “I need you to do me a favor,” she said.

      “What is it?” I asked.

      “Do you know about the glass cottage?” she asked.

      Sweet anticipation bubbled inside me. A thought, no—a wish— that I had buried deep inside me burst into life.

      “Yes,” I offered, trying to sound casual, and I felt like a fisherman casting my line into the sea, waiting for a bite.

      She took it.

      “When Mrs. St. Claire first came here, she had it built for herself.”

      When she started to speak, I felt giddiness like that of a child rise inside of me. I became quiet, still, and listened intently, nodding my head every now and then, urging her on.

      It seemed to work, and she began to tell me about it. “Lucas approved, of course. She had the sand shipped over special. Designed the house herself. It was hers. Not Mr. St. Claire’s. He hated it. Still hates it, for that matter. It’s closed now.” She paused, and shook her head grimly. “What with Celeste’s disappearance, Mr. St. Claire wouldn’t let anyone near it. Those were bad times.”

      Her voice dipped low and I leaned in to savor every word. “You should have seen the fight between Mr. St. Claire and Celeste.” Mrs. Amber looked at me, and shook her head rapidly, like she was clearing cobwebs from her mind. “Listen to me, rattling on like some gossip after I preached at you about discretion.”

      I was so disappointed that she stopped talking. Every word she uttered circled in my mind, and I knew I would mull over them for days to come. “Don’t worry,” I assured her. “I won’t breathe a word of it.” I wouldn’t, either, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t think on it or daydream about it.

      She nodded. “I need you to return the brooch to the cottage. Not one of the servants will go anymore.”

      The tone of her voice had changed, and it startled me.

      “Myself, I’m too old and those stairs scare me now.” She said the words quickly, apologetically. “Anyway,” she went on, “down at the edge of the lawn, there is a trail that leads into a scrub of trees and then a stone staircase. Keep your eyes sharp—you have to look for the first step. It feels like you’re stepping off a cliff, and you are, in a fashion, but just trust in it. Once you do it, it’s easy after that. Follow it until you see the cottage on the bluff. Go inside.” She lifted the keychain from her necklace and slipped off one key. She handed it to me, along with the brooch, and gave me a wary look. “Don’t touch anything. Not one thing. He’ll know,” she warned, looking me straight in the eye. “In the bedroom—you can’t miss it, right across that damned glass floor. Place СКАЧАТЬ