Chapter 7
Imogen
Last night I fell asleep watching TV again, still expecting someone to disturb me from my peaceful slumber and show me the
real reason I’m here. But nobody came.
Although it’s very odd being in this house with only Pierre for company. Pierre who moves through the place like a shadow,
close but untouchable. He has taken care of me in so many small ways—preparing my meals, checking if I need anything, doing
laundry, even though I insisted I could do that myself. But aside from that, we haven’t had a lot of conversation—a situation
I intend to change.
As I wander down the stairs, I hear music coming from the kitchen, and Pierre humming along to the unfamiliar song. I’m not
familiar with any modern music. We had a radio at my grandfather’s house, but I rarely heard it on. Certainly I was never
allowed to try it for myself, and it was a source of fascination as a small child. But as I grew older, it became one of the
many things that was simply not mine to touch.
The kitchen seems to be Pierre’s favorite place, and he’s an excellent cook.
Unlike at breakfast, he didn’t ask my preference for lunch or dinner yesterday, he simply served me a plate of food at each meal.
They contained some of the most delicious food I’ve ever eaten in my life.
Although his heavenly smelling apple pies remained untouched on the counter in their glass display cases, and as he seemed annoyed about something, I didn’t dare ask him for a piece. Perhaps later today I will.
He’s still humming softly when I walk into the room, but he stops as soon as he hears me, pressing a button on a screen on
the wall that lowers the music volume a little. “Breakfast, mademoiselle?”
I perch on a stool. “Yes please.”
He’s peeling carrots this morning and I enjoy watching him, while listening to the male vocalist, who’s currently singing
about being on fire—a reference I don’t understand at all.
“And what culinary delights can I fix for you on this wondrous day?” Pierre asks, and I can’t determine if he’s being sarcastic
or genuine.
“Whatever you’re having will be fine.”
“Ah, I do not eat breakfast. Coffee and a cigarette is all I can stomach until lunch.”
“Oh?” I can’t help feeling a little deflated. If Pierre was eating with me, then I would have whatever he was having, and
no doubt it would be much more pleasant than my usual oatmeal. But I do need to eat, because I feel lightheaded if I skip
breakfast. There’s nothing wrong with oatmeal, child. It’s healthy and nutritious! Larissa’s words are never far from me, and I take comfort in them always, even if that feels a little harder to do this morning
when I’m so hungry and Pierre’s suggestion of adding cream, honey or berries yesterday is so deliciously appealing. But I’m
strong, and I was raised right. I won’t discount all her years of teaching simply for the promise of some short-term gratification—as
delicious as it might be. “I’ll just take some oatmeal please.”
“Ach!” He pulls a face, but then he washes his hands and prepares the food without another complaint. A few moments later,
he sets the bowl down in front of me. Then he grabs the pot of coffee.
“Coffee, mademoiselle?”
The smell of coffee intrigues me, rich and smoky, so decadent that it almost feels forbidden. And Pierre seems to enjoy it, given the way he smacks his lips together in satisfaction after he takes that first sip. “I don’t know. I’ve never tasted coffee before.”
He gasps dramatically. “Never tasted coffee?”
“No.” I take a spoonful of the bland paste he just served me and swallow it down.
He grabs a cup and pours me one alongside his own. “I take mine black but I would suggest a little cream for your first time.
And per’aps a little sugar, non?”
“No sugar,” I insist, not wanting to stray too far from my regular diet. “But I’ll try it with the cream.”
He mumbles something in French before handing me the cup. Then he sits opposite me at the table and I don’t bother to hide
my smile at his company. I like Pierre.
“So, take a sip and tell me what you think.” He makes a hurrying gesture with his hands.
I lift the cup to my lips and the rich earthy aroma floods my sense of taste and smell before I even take a sip. It’s bitter,
shockingly so, dulled a little by the cream but still foreign. I swallow quickly, not knowing how to hold it in my mouth.
It leaves an oily residue behind that feels unfamiliar, along with a comforting heat. I take a bigger sip and feel a little
buzz of adrenaline in my chest. Wow!
“Well?” Pierre asks.
I lick my lips, still tasting the lingering bitterness in the back of my throat. “I like it.”
“Bien.” He smiles and then drinks his own.
It’s hard to go back to my oatmeal after the coffee, but I force it all down anyway. Because it’s good for me and it would
be rude to waste food.
“Never had coffee, huh?” Pierre asks, almost to himself.
“No.”
“What about tea?”
“I’ve had green tea,” I tell him, recalling how much I disliked it.
I forced it all down anyway because Larissa made it for me and she would have scolded me for wasting it had I not.
I never asked for it again. I don’t tell Pierre this though, not because I particularly want to keep it secret, but because I think he already thinks me fairly naive and inexperienced, which is true in a lot of ways.
And if I tell him that I don’t even like tea, maybe he’ll stop sharing his coffee with me.
“Soda?” he asks.
I shake my head instinctively and then remember he can’t see me. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Candy?”
Sugar is addictive. It will make you fat and rot your teeth, and it has no nutritional benefit at all. “No.”
“Did your parents not allow you to eat sweet things?”
“My parents died when I was three.”
“I am sorry, mademoiselle.”
I swallow down the pain of having to spend almost all of my life without them. I remember so little. I recall their faces
though. The dark scatter of my father’s stubble and how he would tickle my hand with it. My mother’s beautiful smile. The
limited memories are always bittersweet, because I know for certain my parents would never have allowed me to be sold by the
Brotherhood. In fact, there would have been no suggestion of it. Had they not been murdered by the one man they were supposed
to be able to trust, then my grandfather wouldn’t have had to make a bargain with that vile organization in order to spare
my life. And I wouldn’t be sitting here now telling Pierre I’ve never eaten candy.
“So who raised you, Imogen?” His words pull me back to our conversation and away from my melancholic musings of how my life
might have turned out so very differently.
“My grandfather, and his . . .” I falter, unsure how to describe Larissa and her importance in my life. I would have surely
perished in that house if it hadn’t been for her.
“His what?” Pierre asks, his voice soft and soothing.
“I would guess his housekeeper, perhaps? She didn’t always live there, just a few days a week. But she was much more than
a housekeeper to me. She taught me everything I know. She taught me how to survive.”
He arches an eyebrow. “To survive, mademoiselle?”
Have I spoken out of turn? Surely, Pierre knows how I came to be here? “Do you know why I’m here, Pierre?” I assume he doesn’t
know of my notoriety within the Brotherhood circles, given that he wasn’t aware my parents had died, but surely he knows his
boss bought me.
He hums again, the way he does when he’s thinking. “That is not for me to say, mademoiselle.”
“I mean, do you know how I got here?” my voice is small, a reflection of how I’m feeling right now. For a few special moments,
we were simply two people enjoying a conversation, and I wasn’t the daughter of a traitor, sold off to the highest bidder.
And now I’m her again. Only ever her in this house.
“Ah!” He nods. “I know the circumstances of your arrival, yes. I know of the auction you were a part of.”
“So, then yes, Pierre. I had a pleasant enough, if sheltered, childhood. But yes, I was taught how to survive.”
“Your grandfather and his . . . Larissa, they did not . . .” He winces and flaps his hand around, like he’s searching for
the appropriate word. “They did not stop it? The auction?”
I bristle. Feeling defensive of the only people who have ever shown me any loyalty in this life. If it wasn’t for my grandfather’s
intervention, I’d have died along with my parents and it’s my loyalty that makes me defend him still, even after he handed
me over to those monsters. “They couldn’t.”
“And why is that, mademoiselle? I know of your grandfather. He is Saul DeMotta. He is a very rich man, non? Even Pierre knows this.”
How dare he assume? I take a breath and soothe my temper.
“I guess money doesn’t count for a lot when you made a promise to the Brotherhood, does it?
They wanted their revenge and if it wasn’t for my grandfather paying them off eighteen years ago, I’d have been killed with my mother.
As it was, he managed to bargain for my life, at least until I turned twenty-one. ”
He nods. “Ah, and then you would be returned as property of the Brotherhood, oui?”
“Oui,” I murmur.
Unexpectedly, he reaches across the table, feeling for my hand. He finds it easily and gives it a gentle squeeze, and it’s
strangely comforting. It reminds me of the rare occasions Larissa would pat my hand reassuringly, and how even that simple
contact would brighten my whole day. “You are a brave young woman, mademoiselle.”
I don’t feel brave, but I don’t tell him that. Instead we sit in silence for a few moments before he asks, “Have you ever
tasted apple pie?”
I can’t help but smile, reminded of the pastry still untouched and sitting beneath its glass dome on the counter. “No. But
yours does smell delicious.”
“Then why haven’t you taken a slice, mademoiselle?”
“I wasn’t sure I was permitted to,” I admit, feeling foolish for some reason.