Chapter 12
ELLIE
Sunday is my day off. I could explore the grounds, try to find the library Mikhail mentioned during orientation, or walk the perimeter of the garden, learn the paths, and breathe some new air.
Instead, I’m in my room in bed. In pajamas — not the Hello Kitty ones, those have been banished to the bottom of the suitcase where they will live out the rest of their days in exile.
I’m in a BU sweatshirt and leggings, propped against the headboard, pretending to read a book I’ve had open on the same page for forty-seven minutes.
The book is about marine biology. I borrowed it from the classroom shelf because it has nice pictures of coral reefs, and I thought it would be calming. Surprisingly, it’s not working. My nervous system has been running on a low-frequency hum the whole time.
I stare at the letters in the book, at the sentence I’ve already read five times that refuses to make any sense.
The way he said my name. Elizabeth Calloway. The tone of his voice still makes my skin prickle.
My phone buzzes.
MARE
How’s the fancy castle? Has the warden shown his face yet?
I type back:
Met him on Friday night. In his kitchen.
The response is immediate.
MARE
WHAT. Call me right now.
I don’t because I can’t talk about this out loud yet. Out loud would make it real, and right now it exists in the liminal space between what happened and what I might have dreamed, and I need it to stay there a little longer.
He’s Anya’s father.
He was getting a drink, and I was making her hot chocolate. It was normal and professional, and I was wearing Hello Kitty pajamas.
MARE
Ellie.
I know.
MARE
What does he look like?
I start to type:
Well, let me see… He’s as tall as a wall, his muscles seem to want to escape from his expensive suit, his face looks like it was carved from a rare stone, and I also can’t forget the eyes that scanned my body and left me with a slight feeling of wanting to jump on him.
He’s probably the hottest guy I’ve ever seen and…
I take a deep breath and delete the message, sending instead:
He’s my boss.
MARE
That is NOT what I asked.
He looks like something Michelangelo would sculpt if Michelangelo had anger issues and a tailoring budget.
MARE
I’m going to need more detail.
Goodnight, Mare.
MARE
ELLIE.
I put the phone face down on the mattress and pull up the covers, keeping my gaze trained on the ceiling.
The house is quiet again. I don’t hear footsteps or doors or Russian voices.
He’s somewhere in this house. I know it because the air changes when he’s inside these walls.
I wonder if he’s thinking about the kitchen too.
I dismiss the thought immediately.
Rolan Belov would not lie in his room on a Sunday night thinking about his daughter’s tutor.
Men like him have bigger problems to worry about.
He’s probably in his office, working or doing whatever wealthy businessmen do.
He’s not thinking about me. He probably forgot the kitchen happened the moment he left it.
I close my eyes. The book slides off my chest onto the comforter.
I see his arm reaching past me. I feel the heat of his chest behind my back. The way he made me feel smaller.
I press my face into the pillow.
Sleep takes a long time to come.
On Monday, the lessons resume, and I throw myself into work the way drowning people throw themselves at anything that floats.
Anya and I paint, read, and work through a math lesson disguised as a story about Bernard the sparrow and his increasingly complex social life.
Bernard now has friends, which means he has to share seeds, which means fractions, which means Anya is learning to divide without realizing she’s learning to divide, which is my favorite kind of teaching.
By afternoon, she’s speaking non-stop. She tells me about a bird she saw in the garden this morning, and that Mr. Whiskers had a dream about carrots. She tells me she likes the way I read voices because I make them sound like real people .
Monday is good.
Tuesday morning is good.
Tuesday afternoon is not good.
It starts with a sniffle during our reading session, small and barely noticeable.
By two o’clock, the sniffle has become a cough.
By three, Anya’s cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are glassy.
She’s curled in the armchair with Mr. Whiskers pulled up to her chin, shivering despite the warmth of the sunroom.
I press my hand to her forehead. She’s hot — not burning, but enough to worry.
“Hey, sweetheart. I think you might be getting sick.”
“I’m fine,” she insists.
“I know you’re fine. But your body’s telling me it needs some rest.”
At least I know an excellent doctor.
Hi! The kid I’m taking care of is sick.
I add her symptoms and age, tapping the floor with my feet as I wait for an answer. It takes ninety seconds.
MARE
There’s a virus going around. Give her fluids and let her rest. Children’s Tylenol. If her temperature goes above 102 or persists for more than 48 hours, bring her in.
I cancel the afternoon lesson and wrap her in a blanket, setting her on the couch while I make hot chocolate.
She holds the mug with both hands and watches me over the rim.
We spend the afternoon on the couch watching Finding Nemo . At some point, her head tips sideways and comes to rest against my arm.
I don’t move, letting her head stay where it is as I watch the movie without really seeing it. As I feel the warmth of this small, sick, trusting child against my arm, a piece of me clicks into place and locks.
By five, she’s asleep. I carry her upstairs in a bundle of blanket and rabbit and tuck her into her bed. She opens her eyes when I pull the duvet over her .
“I’m right down the hall,” I whisper. “Promise me you’ll call if you need anything.”
“Okay,” she whispers back.
I go to my room but can’t manage to sleep. I listen through the wall for coughing or whimpering, wishing I could do more for her. Wishing to take her pain away.
Wednesday morning, the fever has dropped, and Anya eats half a piece of toast, which I count as a victory. She’s still sniffly, still wan, but the glassy look is gone.
I’m checking her temperature for the third time when a knock comes at the door. Mikhail.
“Miss Calloway. A word.”
I step into the hallway.
“Mr. Belov has an important dinner meeting this evening in the main dining room,” he says, although I have no idea where the main dining room is.
“It’s essential that you and Anya remain on this floor for the duration.
Your rooms, the hallway, the west wing sitting room — all fine.
But no going downstairs. Not for any reason. ”
I nod slowly. “Can I ask why?”
“The meeting involves sensitive business matters. Mr. Belov prefers that household staff not be present during these occasions.”
It’s a reasonable explanation. Wealthy people have private meetings. CEOs have dinners where the help disappears.
But Mikhail didn’t say preferable. He said essential. And his tone, despite being calm, suggests a precision that has stopped being preference and become protocol. It makes the back of my neck prickle.
“Of course,” I say. “We’ll stay upstairs.”
He nods. Pauses .
“If you need anything during the evening, use the call button in your room. Someone will come.”
“Thank you, Mikhail.”
I stand in the hallway, watching him leave while the word essential echoes through my head.
In the evening, Anya and I are in my room.
It’s warmer than hers, less white, and now equipped with the TV that I requested.
She’s lying on my bed, propped against pillows with Mr. Whiskers under her arm.
We’re watching Finding Nemo for the second time — her choice, and I’m not about to argue with a sick child who’s found comfort in a clownfish.
At 7:30 p.m., she shifts and winces.
“Ellie, my head hurts.”
I mute the TV and press the back of my hand to her forehead.
She’s burning up. Not the low-grade warmth from yesterday, but a heat I feel before my hand fully makes contact. Her cheeks are bright red, and her eyes are watery. Sweat pricks at her temples.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “You’re running a little hot. Let me find some medicine.”
I call Maren, and she picks up instantly. I give her the info and wait for a miracle.
“How high?”
“I don’t have a thermometer. She’s hot. Visibly flushed.”
“Give her a weight-appropriate dose of children’s ibuprofen. If it doesn’t come down in an hour, or if she hits 103, take her to the ER.”
“I don’t have children’s ibuprofen or a thermometer. I don’t know where they keep medicine in this house.”
“Then find someone who does. ”
I press the call button by the bed and wait.
Nothing.
I press it again.
Still nothing.
Of course. The entire staff is downstairs covering the dinner. The essential dinner that I was told to stay away from.
My gaze returns to Anya. Her face is flushed and damp. She’s watching me. Depending on me.
The instruction was to stay upstairs, but the instruction did not account for a child’s temperature spiking or an unattended call system.
Rolan Belov would want someone to help his daughter.
“I’m going to find you some medicine,” I say. “Five minutes. I promise.”
“Okay.”
I move as fast as I can, going to the private kitchen, but find no medicine. I check every cabinet, every drawer. Nothing.
The staff kitchen is downstairs, where I was told not to go.
I take the service stairwell, and the lower level seems empty. The kitchen is dark, and the stations are vacant. Everyone has been deployed to the dinner. I discover a first aid kit under the sink. Bandages, gauze, antiseptic. No fever reducers. No children’s medicine.
I need to find someone. The only people in this house who can help me are in the room I was told to avoid.
Anya’s forehead is burning. Maren said 103 means the ER, but I have no idea if she’s at 103. I don’t have a way to find out.
I hear muffled voices.
I follow the sound, trying not to make a noise.