Petrify

1. The Pianist

The Pianist

“You’ll start next week.”

They are the first words the brusque voice says. No Hello. No Is this Mallary Doyle?

“There will be a car for you at the bus station. I assume you can make your own arrangements to get there, yes?”

It’s an older man. Last time, he only introduced himself briefly before telling me I’d been considered for a position I hadn’t even applied for: Maxim, head butler for one of the oldest families in the Northeast.

The Beauchenes.

“Yes. No problem,” I say. I scribble his instructions onto an old takeout receipt and of course, the pen doesn’t want to work.

“Your employment documents will be sent via email. We will need those signed and sent back as soon as possible.”

“Got it.” Scratching the ball point against the paper, which leaves nothing but an indentation and no ink.

“You will find everything about compensation, your expected responsibilities as tutor, and the rules of the house within those documents. Dress code, NDAs, staff policies, et cetera. Please do not delay reading through everything with your lawyer and sending them back, Miss Doyle.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. A lawyer. Right. “I understand.”

“And Miss Doyle?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “You would do well to keep this to yourself. It would be a shame if any of this ended up on the internet. For the family’s privacy, you’ll understand.”

“Sure—”

The conversation is over as quickly as it began, the call ending with three beeps. It isn’t until after he hangs up that I realize I never gave anyone from their estate my phone number.

Late the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the Beauchene manor looms like a formidable Victorian fortress as we climb the long stone-lined driveway.

Dusted in snow, the cloudy sky above is bruised a silverish purple with distant light pollution.

This far from town, it’s dead silent, save for the idling of the car, which the driver stops right at the front stoop.

He waits until my boot meets the first step before he drives off and disappears around the house. No one waits for me outside.

I’m not sure how I got here.

I don’t belong here.

Two weeks ago I was under the impression that I was stuck as substitute for the current season at the symphony.

Not quite good enough to play the shows, according to Michael, the director, but good enough to string along for two seasons.

I learned the parts, went to rehearsals.

Only once did the principal ever call out.

Sure, my name was on the program. But no one ever heard me play.

I didn’t ask questions when the butler called. Maybe Michael finally felt bad for me and sent Maxim my contact.

My cheeks instantly redden against the chill. The air is brittle, sucking up all noise.

Of a bygone era, but still gilded in the affluence of the family, the mansion is only three stories high.

I can’t help but think about those centuries-old churches that stretch towards the clouds and the supposed heavens above.

Painted gray, so that it nearly blends with the winterly lawn, the only pop of color is the polished copper gutters, which look dull at this hour.

To the east, a spired tower with bay windows, taller than the rest of the house.

A few soft lights shine through curtains and textured glass. Not a detail out of place.

Except, I notice wrought iron bars are bolted across some of the eastern windows. An odd Victorian decoration they’ve decided to keep, no doubt.

Taking another deep breath, I reach for what is a lion’s snarling face, framed by a heavy iron knocker. But before my fingers brush the metal, the door swings open.

I jump, falling back a step.

A man with dark hair combed away from his face and dark eyes peers down at me. The scowl setting his features seems permanent. “Mallary Doyle?”

“Yes.”

“You’re late.” He opens the door wider to allow me entry.

“Sorry.” As though it was my fault the bus was delayed.

Immediately the warmth of the house sets about thawing my frozen fingers, the red tip of my nose.

The foyer I step into is massive—the ceiling peaked above us, two stories high, the entire second floor landing a balcony overlooking the entryway.

Trailing up the grand staircase is a velvety green runner.

A modest crystal chandelier hangs in the center of the space.

And waiting at the far side of the room is an older woman, with a kind but forced smile on her face, her hands clasped together.

“I am Maxim. We spoke earlier.” He gestures to the older woman.

“Ms. Byrne, our housekeeper. She will show you to your room. Should you need anything, please ask Ms. Byrne. You’ll begin in the morning.

Breakfast will be brought to you at seven AM, and you are expected in the second floor parlor by eight sharp to meet the family. ”

“I’m not meeting them now?”

If possible, his scowl deepens. “They are occupied. You will meet them tomorrow.”

“Okay.” I suddenly feel like a child, standing there with my tiny suit case. Too small for the world I’ve stepped foot into.

“Ms. Byrne will explain the rest. It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Doyle.” He doesn’t even nod, before he turns and disappears around a corner, like the task of letting me into the house was a headache.

I turn to Ms. Byrne and smile my best smile, because I’d prefer at least one of them to like me. “Nice to meet you.”

Maybe her expression softens a bit. Or maybe it’s the dim light throwing shadows. “Likewise, Miss Doyle. Maxim manages the house and the family’s schedule, so please forgive his impatience. He’s a busy man.”

“I’m sure.” I look around again, entranced by the high ceilings, the shine to the old wooden paneling, the butter-soft appearance of the curtains.

The foyer alone is almost the size of our entire apartment in the city.

It reeks of wealth, a polished sort of vanity that comes from deep pockets.

Bank accounts with more zeros than I’ve ever seen in my life.

They’d probably faint at the ten dollars in my own account, before my first check hit—preemptive, Maxim said, to help cover the costs of travel.

I’d thought it was a mistake, how much they deposited, before I’d bought more takeout than I could ever possibly eat by myself.

Our fridge was fully stocked for the first time in years.

In my suitcase is the closet overhaul I could finally afford.

I couldn’t show up to work for this family with the same mended sweaters I’d been wearing for the past five years.

Patched jeans. Socks with holes. Shoes with the soles worn paper-thin.

I’m an imposter, standing here in the grand foyer, dressed in my first real cashmere sweater, new boots squeaking against the hardwood floor.

But they chose me to be here. They want me to tutor their son.

If anyone deserves this, it is me.

“Let me show you the way to your room,” Ms. Byrne says, before leading up the stairs and down a hall to the right.

“You will be staying in the guest wing. We have our own staff wing on the back side of the house, but you’ll find this room more comfortable, anyway.

Quieter. As we have no other guests, currently, you will be the only one in the east wing. ”

“Oh.”

I only vaguely register what she’s saying, too distracted by the many artworks lining the walls.

Not the abstract splatter of modern art—the family has decorated the house with landscapes of the estate, all in gilded frames between electric sconces and curtains on the walls.

Portraits of the family members of generations past in oil paint, with following eyes, shadowed faces under layers of yellowing varnish.

“Henri will be glad to meet you,” Ms. Byrne says. “He’s been looking forward to your arrival.”

Henri. The boy I’ve been hired to teach.

“I’m excited to meet him too,” I say. “I haven’t taught someone like this.”

“You’ve given music lessons before?” Ms. Byrne raises a brow.

“Yes. When I was in college. But it was a bit more, um, casual than this.” The rest of it—the story of my own schooling, my past—sits on my tongue, but I don’t let it out. It’s not worth telling.

“Then it sounds like you’ll be perfect for our Henri.”

Doors line each side of the hall, and at the end is another large window overlooking some part of the grounds. The sky is the same murky purple beyond.

“He had another tutor, right? Before me? What happened with that? Were they let go?”

Ms. Byrne doesn’t turn to look at me, but I swear the air becomes tense. “Not let go, per se. Just—not the right fit.”

And she leaves it at that.

That Henri’s tutor would leave him before the end of their tenure seems odd, especially not even halfway through the academic year. But I know nothing about the homeschooling of rich kids and private tutors, so maybe it’s not unusual for families such as this one.

She leads me further down the hall, passing dozens of doors on each side.

A full wing of empty rooms. I imagine beyond each door is furniture draped with white sheets and dust, fragile moths flitting about, while the ghosts of the family from these portraits wander from room to room.

How many generations have passed through these halls? Whose room will I be taking?

Every creak of the wooden floor beneath the rug announces exactly where we are, and if there are any ghosts remaining, well, they’ll know where to find me.

“Rules of the house—I can’t forget.” Ms. Byrne keeps walking on.

“You are allowed to wander in any of the main areas, but the family’s wing is strictly private.

That’s the wing above this one,” she explains.

“Meals are at seven, noon, and seven again. The family eats in the dining room, and we eat in the kitchens—I’ll show you tomorrow at lunch.

As Maxim said, your breakfast will be brought to you in the morning, just this once.

” She reaches for a key ring at her hip, but pauses, and goes on without selecting a key. “Are you hungry?”

“A bit.” It’s a miracle my stomach hasn’t growled this entire time—I haven’t eaten anything since this morning but a granola bar on the bus.

“Good. I told one of the girls to bring up a tray for you. I wasn’t sure if you’ve had dinner.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

Once we are near the end of the wing, she tries the knob of one of the doors. Unlocked. “And this is where you’ll be staying.” She allows me the honor of pushing it open to reveal what’s inside—a bedroom at least three times the size of the closet I grew up in.

I almost drop the handle of my suitcase.

Ms. Byrne steps inside, drawing the curtains closed while she speaks over her shoulder. “As you know from your paperwork, you may keep your cell phone, but it is to be left in your room at all times, silenced. Breaking this rule could lead to termination of your contract.”

“I understand.” My voice is small. I’m frozen in the doorway—

Surely this is not my room.

She turns back around, dozens of feet between us, and I make sure that she reads only cool indifference on my face.

I do belong here.

I deserve the king-sized, four poster bed. I deserve the attached en suite. I deserve the silk sheets, the cashmere, the solid wood furniture, the job.

The past decade of my life I’ve been stuck in less than one thousand square feet with my aunt, who was never bothered enough to keep track of me day to day. Which is still more attention than I could’ve asked for from my mother.

I deserve to be here.

They wouldn’t have hired me otherwise. They wouldn’t have sought me out.

“Oh, another important thing.” She folds her hands together. “Quiet hours begin at nine in the evening until breakfast. Mrs. Beauchene insists on the dark hours remaining quiet. So please do your best to keep this in mind.”

The smile she gives me then doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Do you have any questions for me?”

“No, I—”

It’s then that a young brunette woman raps on the door, letting herself in with a tray of steaming food. She doesn’t greet me, doesn’t even look at me, before setting the tray at the writing desk and scurrying away.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Ms. Byrne says. “Goodnight, Miss Doyle.”

“Goodnight.”

And then she’s gone.

But I’m not alone. It doesn’t feel like it, anyway. A presence remains in the room. My paranoia made tangible, in a new house, a new room, surrounded by opulence I have no business touching.

I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight.

The ceilings are at least ten feet tall, the exterior wall paneled, while the inner walls are papered with a midnight blue filigree.

Though a few lamps are lit, they cast such a soft golden glow that shadows swarm to the corners of the room.

Another large painting, of a lush garden with a crowd of ancient Roman deities.

A full-length mirror hangs next to the bathroom door, reflecting the face of a girl with no expression at all.

Only after I set my bags down and near the tray with my dinner do I hear it; the silence is being chased away by a faint sound.

Slow and haunting.

Music—from a piano. The tune is not one I recognize, lilting from side to side in an unsteady dance.

Someone in the family practicing after their dinner?

It’s only when I go to lock my bedroom door that I realize there is no lock inside.

Of course not. I almost laugh at the unease settling onto my shoulders. An old house, with eerie music echoing through the halls, dozens of rooms collecting dust, and at least one with no lock.

Nothing I’m not used to—my aunt never let me lock the door all through my teen years.

It didn’t keep me from sneaking out, but I learned to jam a chair under the handle if I wanted to sneak someone in through the window.

So that’s what I do. I drag the chair from the writing desk, leaning it just so no one can push the door open from the other side.

I’ll feel silly in the morning when I realize that everyone is perfectly nice and there’s no real threat here. Still, I pull on the door to see if my makeshift doorstop works. And then again, for good measure.

An hour later, after I’ve eaten and bathed, I fall back onto the bed, sinking into the downy comforter that threatens to pull me under, wrapping around me like a cloud.

And I doze off under the watchful eye of painted cherubim in a baroque garden, grinning, eyes piercing through me, maybe guarding me from these old ghosts, or peering into my thoughts, their innocent faces fading into the shadows the moment I cut off the light.