3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Maddie
I need this job. No, I want this job.
Probably. Maybe.
I know I should want this job, and in my situation, that's good enough. I know I nailed the interview. Well, the second interview, to be precise. The way the head nurse smiled at me when she shook my hand and told me they would be in touch shortly pretty much sealed the deal.
And I'm equal parts thrilled to go back to nursing and terrified that I won't be able to make it. The commute alone is enough to make my brain melt.
It will be a 2.5-hour drive to and from Portland in a car that already has opinions about its need for a timing belt replacement. My life will be officially over.
Ugh. Shit.
I sound like a brat, even to myself. I know why I'm doing this, and that's all that matters.
The bank will take my parents' house over my overly tired, cold body.
Whatever it takes.
Which is, apparently, the Down East Highway and a thermos full of the darkest, strongest coffee ever brewed by mankind. Or orc-kind, because Mom made it for me before I even dragged myself out of bed this morning.
She's awesome like that.
The elevator dings in the lobby of Elven Mercy and I step in.
Two nurses are already inside, mid-conversation and completely absorbed in it.
One is a troll, tall enough to take up most of the back wall, with pale blue skin and long black hair braided back in neat cornrows.
The other is a pixie perched on the rail beside her, orange wings half-folded against her back, an absolutely alarming amount of curly orange hair doing whatever it wants around her face.
"...corner suite," the pixie is saying. "The room is absolutely smothered in flowers. You'd think she's hosting a florist conference or something."
"Marcie told me her grandson is actually coming in for a visit." The troll raises an eyebrow. "Imagine that?"
"That's what I heard." The pixie giggles. "If the famous Demetrius Thornwood actually walks through those doors to visit his grandmother, I will one hundred percent have a heart attack!"
My brain snags on the name and I whip around to face them.
"Sorry." I turn to them. "Are you talking about the minotaur, Demetrius Thornwood?"
The pixie locks gaze with me and shakes her head up and down with the kind of enthusiasm that borders on mania.
"Yeah! Can you believe that? His grandmother is here for a broken hip."
My blood turns cold. "Agatha Thornwood got hurt?"
The pixie's wings do a small involuntary flutter and they exchange a glance.
"You know her?" the troll asks.
"I used to." I clear my throat. "A long time ago."
A lifetime and what feels like an entire timeline ago.
The glance they exchange is that of two people who have just realized the stranger in the elevator riding with them is inexplicably interesting.
The pixie's gaze drops to the navy blazer I bought specifically for this interview three days ago.
I follow her gaze and see the price tag I didn't take off poke from the collar.
The tag I didn't take off because I can't afford not to return that blazer once the interview is done.
My face burns up as I hastily tuck the tag back out of view.
"Do you know him too, the grandson?" The pixie's voice goes up a full register. "The billionaire CEO of Thornwood Industries?"
Well, I can't escape now. Might as well give them what they want.
"Knew him a long time ago," I correct, fast. "Past tense. We lost touch." Which is technically accurate and also a complete lie by omission, but I don't explain that part. "Agatha still lives in my hometown. Big old place at the edge of town called Stronghold."
They nod like I've just confirmed a rumor. I am, apparently, a person of interest.
The troll tilts her head. "Wait. Are you the one interviewing for the ICU position today?"
"That's me."
Her face splits into a warm smile. The pixie claps once, a small bright sound.
"Good luck," the troll says.
"I'm sure you're going to get it," the pixie adds, with the conviction of someone who does not technically have this information.
The elevator opens and they file out at their floor. I start to follow out of habit, realize it's not my floor, and let the doors almost close. Then I reach out and stop it from closing.
I stand there for a second, then I step out and decide to pay an old acquaintance a visit.
It's not hard to find the suite where Agatha Thornwood has taken residence. All one needs to do is follow the scent of flowers. Those nurses weren't kidding.
The door is propped open a few inches and the faint thread of a string quartet drifts from inside.
I remember how much Agatha loves classical music.
She used to listen to music all Sunday afternoon.
I used to sit down in her elegant drawing room and listen with her.
Well, not just with her. I listened with her and someone else, a minotaur whose name is best left to the deepest, darkest recess of my memory.
I knock on the doorframe.
"Yes."
The voice is older than I remember. Weaker, but still carrying an undercurrent of authority.
I push the door open.
The suite is bigger than my parents' kitchen.
There are real lamps from a house, plural, set at side tables that did not come with the room.
An amount of flowers that would set a beehive in a feeding frenzy covers every available surface.
The good kind of flower, too. Roses in all shades of red and pink, ranunculus and lilies.
Not the kind people buy from a hospital boutique. The kind a florist arranges specifically for you with an expert hand.
And there she is. Agatha Thornwood sits in the bed, propped at a careful angle, a wool throw over her legs. A small speaker on the side table plays the quartet, filling the room with an atmosphere that resembles a private club more than a hospital room.
Fifteen years have silvered her. The last time I saw her, her coat still held on to some of its brown.
It's silver-white now, almost snowy around her eyes and along her muzzle.
Her horns are elegant as ever, whitened a little at the tips.
She wears them swept back in a style that went out of fashion decades ago.
On anyone else, it would look dated. On Agatha, it's simply hers.
None of it makes her any less imposing. The bed is clearly the biggest model the hospital could dig up, and she makes it look like dollhouse furniture anyway.
Even stuck in it with a freshly repaired hip, she holds herself like the most important person in the room.
Which she has been, in every room she's entered, for the better part of five decades.
Her face is weathered and aristocratic, the face of a woman who has seen everything and filed most of it under either amusing or disappointing. And her eyes haven't aged a day. Dark brown and sharp, the kind that miss nothing and forgive even less.
She lifts her gaze and her expression moves from surprise to pleasure.
"Madison Berwick." Her mouth stretches in a wide, warm smile. "As I live and breathe."
"Hi, Mrs. Thornwood."
"Agatha." Her eyes turn stern and she tsks at me. "You know me well enough to know I don't like being called Mrs. Thornwood. That stuff is for old people."
I laugh and shake my head. It appears time has not tamed the formidable matriarch of the Thornwood family.
"Agatha." I incline my head.
"Better." She lifts a hand. "Come in. Come in, child. Let me see you."
I come in, drop my bag onto the visitor chair, and hug her, careful not to hold too hard. She still smells the same as I remember, vaguely citrus-y and sweet. Her fur is finer than it looks, soft as the nap of good velvet under my fingers. The silver is new. The feel of it isn't.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this surprise visit?" She holds both my hands in hers as I sit carefully at her side. "If I knew all I needed to get a pop-in from you was to break my hip, I'd have taken a tumble down those old stairs years ago!"
Yep. Still the same. Sharp tongue and sharp mind, all around. I laugh and feel a bit better.
Over two hours of commuting each way might be brutal, but Agatha Thornwood is as sweet and spicy as ever.
"Please don't!" I shake my head between my chuckles. "I came here for a job interview."
Agatha blinks a few times and then nods.
"They had better hire you." Agatha lifts her pointer finger up like a school teacher about to begin an important lesson. "Or else I'll redden their ears with my complaints."
A surprised chuckle escapes me, and then I register she's actually serious. It's so easy to forget that under her simple, humble attitude, she's an extremely rich and powerful woman.
"Well, I'll take any help I can get."
She chuckles at that, then winces. She tries to hide it, but I saw it and I'm on my feet the next instant.
"Oh, Agatha." I look around the room. "You're sitting much too high for someone who just had hip surgery. Let me help you."
She looks at me with pinched lips and I think she's going to tell me to mind my own business, but another wince of pain contorts her features.
"I just hate lying down like some old, incapable lady," she finally says.
"You're not incapable." I lift my brow at her as I move to the head of the bed and start lowering the angle. "You just need to give yourself some grace and take it easy. Didn't the nurse on staff tell you that?"
I bring her down to the optimal angle and reach for the pillow stack behind her shoulder.
"Lift your shoulders forward an inch for me," I tell her.
"So small and yet, so bossy," Agatha quips, but does as she's told.
"There you go. This will help right away."
I reposition the pillows, two under her torso and one to the left of the hip to brace, then move the wool throw over her legs.
A few moments later, Agatha sighs with relief and the line of her mouth softens.
"That's much better." Agatha takes in a deep breath and looks at me with a pointed, inquisitive expression. "How long have you been a nurse?"