Chapter Eleven #2
With a sigh of thanks, I move to the wooden table and Jinny serves my breakfast—oatmeal with peaches and cream, thick-cut toast with butter, coffee and fixings. There is no tea, which I wonder at.
“—noticed you never drink the tea,” she’s saying, seeming to notice my curious pause. “I’m a coffee-lover myself.”
The little thoughtfulness that they’ve stopped bringing something because I don’t enjoy it surprises me.
And the fact it was noticed at all. I eat while she tidies up the room.
The food is, as always, heavenly. When I’m through with my breakfast, I move from the table to nestle into one of the soft chairs facing the window and sip my coffee.
It’s become routine to do this, if a bit of a reluctant one.
The lawn is still patchy, browning in spots, and the greenhouse looks a storm away from tipping over, but there is the possibility of beauty.
It’s a vast property, and I suppose it was once lovely.
I am unable to bear shutting the curtains, even as my sensitive eyes squint and water against the sun, and besides, the fresh air coming through the open windows is too lovely.
I let the breeze warm me and try to pick out sounds outside, to remind myself there is life beyond this room, beyond this mansion.
But, as usual, I hear nothing besides the wind rustling the leaves, and even that is faint, as though Mother Nature is afraid to disturb the demon’s atmosphere.
The quiet is deeply unnerving, and I could never grow used to it.
I miss the sound of the ocean calling, the birds, animals, life.
I miss my home. The maid leaves me alone, and I feel it completely.
I wish so hard to be back with Sélie, waking to the sound of her sketching in her drawing pad, grabbing croissants from the bakery on the way to the shop.
I miss grinding powders and smearing stains, miss the scents of the oils and flowers, miss the customers, even miss the haughty gossip of the folks in town.
I miss the gulls flying around and the lap of the sea on my toes.
I miss our home, my books. And, desperately, I miss The Red Clover.
However, beyond that, there’s only one beat pulsing in my mind—well, two.
Av-en. She’s the greatest desperation of all.
For her, I endure. I will learn how to tame the beast. Can I not make do with fate for now? I need his help.
How will I do it? How will I ask? The questions hang about me. But in order to persuade him to answer my questions, I must play the role. Companion. Dancer. Captive. Whatever he likes. I hate even thinking of submitting to him, but ultimately, I have no choice. I’m not going to give up.
So, I wait patiently to dance for him for the sixth time. I take pleasure in my coffee. I let myself be thankful for a good breakfast and a comfortable prison. And tonight, I’ll get to dance. Even if my only audience is a less-than-friendly butler and a demon straight from hell.
As soon as I finish my coffee, I put on the red shoes, which he’s let me keep with me.
At last! they seem to cry as I tie the ribbons up my ankles.
Just as I have done the last couple of days, I dance in my room in my nightgown.
I tell myself it’s not practice for tonight, but as I fly through every step on beat, make every graceful turn, I remember his contempt and think, ha.
I’ll show you. I hate that I want to impress him.
Morning dies, afternoon comes and goes, and once supper is done, a copper tub is brought up to my room.
After several trips by a parade of staff carrying buckets and kettles—most of whom I don’t recognize—the tub is filled with hot, steaming water.
When they are through, there is only me left, and one other person.
It’s the older woman, the one I saw cleaning his room the day I broke in, and she motions to me. Mrs. Minthy. I look her over, a little shyly. Thus far, it’s only been Jinny and Hana delivering my food or changing my linens.
“Come now.” Mrs. Minthy pushes her sleeves up even further on her soft, thick forearms as she gestures to the tub. “In you go.”
“You don’t have to bathe me. I managed fine last time. But thank you.”
She tsks and says, “No need to be modest, ducky. I would have been here to help you then if I hadn’t been busy. In you go.”
I laugh, despite myself. I just can’t be cool with her, try as I might. She looks like a grandmother, a nice one. “I’m not modest. I’m just not used to being waited on like this. I’m a working woman, just like you.”
“Not here. Here you’re a guest, and I take care of my guests.”
I don’t bother arguing that point. If I tell her I’m not a guest—that her employer is a demon keeping me captive—it will just go unheard.
Besides, by the time I drop out of my dress, and she unfastens me out of my undergarments, my offense has softened.
Perhaps I’m no guest, but I know full well, sinking into the soothing water scented with rose oil, this isn’t exactly a cage.
I delight in the pleasurable feel of the hot water against my skin.
Mrs. Minthy squeezes a sponge around my shoulders and cleans behind my ears. Lathering up her hands, she begins washing my hair, digging her nails gently in circles on my scalp, swirling the suds through my mass of waves. It feels incredible. I’m glad I didn’t send her away.
“How long have you worked for him?” I finally break the comfortable silence, unable to contain my curiosity.
“Oh, a good decade, I’d say,” she answers thoughtfully. “This is the fourth residence I’ve held for him.”
“So, you follow him where he goes?”
“Oh no, not everywhere. I stay out of his business affairs, and he’s gone quite a lot.”
“What kind of business is he in?” I ask, just to see what she says. Professional demon? “Something unsavory?”
“You’re funny, Miss Corliss.” Well, that she apparently heard.
She goes on, explaining, “He has investments, property. A family fortune, too, though it’s not my place to know more than that, however I’m sure he’d explain more if you ask.
I’ve yet to meet a wealthy person who doesn’t like to talk about their success. ”
“Ha,” I mumble. Then louder, to her, “Do you enjoy working for him?”
“Yes. Mostly I keep an empty house if I’m being honest, until lately, that is. With him hoping to retire, he wanted to settle somewhere quiet.”
“So you came here with him. To The Pins.”
“Well, I have no family, and I admit I like being needed.”
I place my words carefully. As long as I don’t mention my being captive, or him being a demon, it appears they go through. “So he has a vulnerable side then? He needs someone? Even with being so mean?”
“Mean?” Her laugh is slightly incredulous. “And don’t we all need someone? Of course he has a vulnerable side. He may be a hard man at times, but I’ve never known him to hurt a fly.”
I sink deeper in the water, miserable. “I think the only one who really knows him is Mr. Brown.”
“Oh, that man scares me half to death.” Mrs. Minthy’s voice holds a shiver. “But he’s in Mister Orrin’s confidence, so I assume he’s useful somehow.”
I still. “Orrin? That’s his name? A first name?”
“Why sure, didn’t you know?”
“I didn’t think he had a name,” I muse, half to myself.
She pours a pitcher of clean, warm water over my soapy hair and laughs again, as if I had made a joke.
“Not have a name? I’ve never heard of a person not having a name.
But you folks in The Pins are a bit odd, then, aren’t you?
No offense meant, of course. It’s not that I know many of ya, given we keep to ourselves here. But I’ve been hearing things.”
“Yes,” I say after a moment, almost proud of the things in The Pins I’ve always disregarded, even held in contempt. And suddenly I’m not so sure I can disbelieve—or disapprove—any longer. “We are odd. So…Orrin then? What’s his surname?”
“Colehart. Just like the house, didn’t you know? I expect you’ll learn more as you stay here. I’ve heard you’re a lovely dancer, and so kind, to perform for him in his home, since he doesn’t care to go see public performances. Crowds and such. He is such a private man….”
“Oh.” They know I’m here to dance for him—I didn’t even think to wonder what story he’d told them before now.
I open my mouth to ask more, but I’m not sure what else I want to know.
We drift into a comfortable silence while she tidies the room and I soak until I’m wrinkled and the water turns cold.
Mrs. Minthy helps me out and wraps me in a fluffy towel.
“That was nice.” I smile with gratitude. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
She leaves just as Jinny comes in to do my hair.
I take my seat at the dressing table while she pulls a comb through my wet tresses.
She’s less gentle than Mrs. Minthy, ripping through the dark mass, but her fingers are sure as she twists it up into an elegant chignon, with a few well-placed braids threaded throughout.
She secures the style in place with a pile of plain pins.
I eye them and smile to myself. Finally. Something I can use to my advantage.
“It might fall out when I’m dancing,” I say, turning to admire my hair in the mirror, touching with tentative fingers.
Even with my untraditional tattoos, with the rebellious twist of my lips, with the fire in my eyes, I look elegant.
I look like a real lady, and it will be easier dancing with an updo.
“I’ll add more pins then.” She shoves them in and tips her head to assess her work. “There, Miss. That should hold you.”
“Thank you. I never wore my hair so fancy at home.”
She blushes so that her cheeks are almost as bright as her hair. “Well, now, let’s get you dressed. Mister Colehart said he is ready to see you.”
I roll back my shoulders. Showtime.