I'd changed into a crisp button-down…the only one I owned that didn't have a frayed collar, and spent ten minutes trying to tuck it in so it looked like a uniform rather than a costume. It didn't work. I still felt like a kid playing dress-up in a lion's den.
I stepped into the hallway, Phil was already there, checking his watch. He didn't look at me, just turned on his heel.
"Follow me." He commanded.
I scrambled after him, my shoes clicking too loudly on the polished marble. "Where are we going? Is there a handbook? An orientation? I haven't even seen a map of the place yet…"
"East Wing staff hall," Phil replied, cutting me off. "They're waiting."
They?
We turned a corner, leaving the sunlight behind for a corridor lined with heavy oil paintings.. ancestors with judging eyes that seemed to track the tremor in my hands.
