26
THE POISONER
Besides the sleepless night, the morning was no different.
Between the full home and typical chaos, Appraisal preparation was in full swing. I didn’t know we had this much staff. It was like when you flush out an anthill and realize how big it actually was.
I opened the bedroom door to a blockage—a sofa directly in front of my door.
Staff were actively moving a table in front of me, others carried single chairs back and forth.
I had to climb over the back, stepping on the cushions before my slippers met the floor on the other side.
It was hardly necessary to rearrange the entire layout of the home. Unless I was misinterpreting the guest plan, we shouldn’t be having too many more guests. I assumed a representative from each country plus their spouse and an assistant. The mansion was commodious as it was.
Furniture was brought out to the hallway as they rearranged the parlor.
I went down the stairs to see spare rooms being cleared out and cleaned. Maids cleaned the inside window glass as wipers cleaned in tandem from the outside. Every crevice poked and prodded until even the porous stone shined.
Everything smelled like lemon. Typically this was pleasant, but now it was just an onslaught on the senses. I swore even my eyes could feel the sting.
By the time I reached the bottom floor it was an even bigger mess than the previous two.
The gallery doors were wide open as they moved the furniture out to the rest of the home like blood carrying oxygen to the limbs.
Hallways had more sofas than before, new conversation nooks were created, and the gallery was cleared completely.
The only thing that remained was the piano in the corner.
As I turned the corner to head to the other rooms, I had to duck and dodge all sorts of furnishing limbs as well as bustling staff.
The first parlor room didn’t seem to be moved much, as its function didn’t need changing for this event.
The dining room looked more lively than ever.
A new tablecloth with not even a wrinkle pinching the crimson surface.
The napkins were white, which was odd to me when I first started attending dinners in the home.
You would think people who drank blood wouldn’t want something so easily stainable.
My shortcoming was assuming these were normal, working-class folk.
White napkins can be bleached, or they buy new ones completely.
The center vase was red leaded glass that shimmered almost as much as the chandelier above. There were no flowers yet, but I wasn’t looking forward to the next sinus irritation.
Finally, a flash of pink.
“Phoebe,” I called. “Phoebe!”
She disappeared again just as fast as she came.
It was like navigating a busy market, the way I had to push through the multiple teams working on whipping the space into shape.
I practically stumbled into the next room.
This one had been converted into a drink and cigar lounge.
They rolled a solid wood bar into the corner, single seats arranged around each other, rather than sofas.
It was clear who the room was meant for—I suppose gentlemen were allergic to sharing a cushion.
Phoebe stood before the bar, a clipboard and pencil in hand. “Should we order more flowers for the rooftop?” she asked.
I hadn’t even greeted her and there wasn’t so much as a glance up from her list. It wasn’t entirely clear she was speaking to me, specifically.
Except she did peek over her board when I didn’t reply.
I cleared my throat. “Depends.”
“On?”
“The function.”
“Secondary dining spot, breakfast service too.”
“Then yes, since I assume that’s why the outdoor furniture was moved to the hallway outside my door.”
“Oh! Apologies. I thought you would be sharing a different room.” Her brow twitched, the pencil scraping hard as she slashed her list.
“I assumed I could keep my separate room.”
“You can do as you like.”
“You’re really going to be like this?”
“Like what?”
“This.”
Suddenly her back was to me.
Is she really walking away mid-conversation?
“Phoebe!” I demanded.
“I’m busy, keep up or get lost.” She went straight to the front door.
I pulled my robe closer as I followed her out.
The noise outside was almost as boisterous as inside. The smell of hot concrete burned my nose, so did the smell of horse dung and smoke.
Mornings were the worst here if you didn’t have access to a roof. The dawn always rose before the thick fog, trapping whatever charm the city had to offer within the cloud.
My feet felt so bare on the pavement, even with slippers. I wished I had had time to change, but I didn’t think Phoebe would wait. If I lost her now, she might hide from me for the entire day.
Loud banging pierced my ear as we walked next door. The gap between the buildings had a wood fence barrier as the builders worked.
“Miss!” one of them called. “Miss!”
Phoebe stopped, staring at the man. The worker walked up to her. I couldn’t make out what he was saying over the noise, but he pointed toward the street.
A gravel truck was blocking the road, seemingly having trouble getting the right angle to dump within the work zone with how narrow the street was.
Phoebe’s lips moved quickly, directly. The man nodded and whistled for a couple others to go with him toward the truck. One of them pulled a wide commercial wheelbarrow that made the poor man look like a mule pulling a cart.
We continued to the next building over, where she disappeared through the front without even as much as a knock. Now that I was closer, I realized it was a shared residential building.
There were just as many helpers moving furniture and cleaning. I suppose out with the old, in with the new.
Now I remembered, John said they were converting the apartments and attaching the building. The decor was outdated, small things left behind from previous tenants. Sometimes curtain rods, an umbrella, a spare folding chair.
Phoebe was now on the other end of the long hallway, about to disappear again.
I had to jog to get there before she found another corner to turn off to. Narrowly dodging new and old furniture, people crossing in front of my path without even a second look and stepping around boxes of trash. By the time I made it to the end, I’d half expected her to have left already.
The end of the hallway was a sort of reception area and another entrance, except they were converting it for a gathering space and breakfast spot.
To my relief, she left those fast legs to rest on one of the new chairs with her eyes trained firmly on the list.
“You can’t avoid me or outrun me,” I said, though my limited breath made my declaration a bit silly. “We still have work to do.”
Her eyes snapped up at me. It was like I just interrupted her leisurely viewing of the new season’s fashion plates. “What work?”
I pulled one of the old worn chairs across from her to sit.
Even if it felt good in the moment, I regretted how I spoke to her yesterday. I knew she cared, she always did. Even if she was brash and harsh in her delivery, it didn’t help to be angry with one another. As long as she loosened her grip on me, we could work this out.
She straightened her back and turned her board over on her lap so she could cross her arms. Even when she was angry with me, she couldn’t help feeling needed. She gestured with one hand for me to continue.
“You haven’t told me how many people are coming, or if there are any odd protocols I should know.” I clasped my hands in my lap, her expression unchanging. “Or what to wear.”
“I’m surprised you’re taking such an interest at all.” Her defensiveness was evident, but so was her curiosity when I mentioned clothing.
“I care,” I insisted. “I do! I just don’t know what I don’t know. That’s why I have you.”
Phoebe was less than amused, tapping her finger against her forearm as she pressed her tongue to her cheek.
“I’m sorry for calling you an egotist,” I pleaded with her. “You’re . . . charitable with your empathy.”
That earned a light snort despite her refusal to look me in the eye.
“Please.” I tipped my head. “I need your help.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Also,” I mumbled, “I’m sorry. For yesterday.”
She shrugged as she chewed on the inside of her cheek.
The minute her shoulders slouched, I knew the emotional dam was split.
“No, I’m sorry.” She looked at me sheepishly before lowering her eyes again.
“You’re right, as always.” She lifted her arms before they fell back in her lap.
“I haven’t been fair to you. The situation just .
. . frightened me a little, as it did all of us, even you I’m sure.
” She took a deep breath. “I am sorry for being overbearing. Truly. I can’t help but feel protective over you. ”
“I don’t understand why you can’t trust me to learn. I feel as if you think I am a child.”
“No, I don’t think that.” She looked a bit distressed now. “You are my oldest friend. You saved my life. You died for me. I will be forever in your debt, and I can’t help but be protective. I realize now I went too far.”
“You owe me nothing,” I said sternly. “You are my friend, and I love you so dearly. There is no debt.”
She shrugged, her demeanor dampened by the conversation alone.
Even when she was a bit insufferable, controlling, even vicious—I knew her heart. But things like this are why I am convinced she will always be my best of friends. We have falls, we fight, but in the end, we heal.
“We can go shopping,” I suggested.
Her green eyes cut in my direction.
“Then tea after.”
Her face turned to me now.
“Then I was thinking of a promenade in the park.”
There was an audible sigh, and at the very least she let go of the tension in her jaw.
“It isn’t anything too irregular. Dress proper for each activity and occasion, be cordial, and then there’s the diet change. Though I feel you may not stomach that anyway.”
“What about formalities? Titles?”