The train ride from London felt like travelling backwards in time. The dense urban landscape gradually unspooled into suburbs, then into wide, wet fields and pockets of ancient woodland, all under a sky the colour of polished lead. Kaima spent the journey rehearsing introductory phrases in her head and trying to ignore the knot of apprehension tightening in her stomach. Five thousand pounds, she repeated to herself like a mantra. Five thousand pounds.
A taxi from the station carried her deeper into the Hertfordshire countryside, down lanes so narrow the hedgerows scraped against its sides. Finally, it turned onto a long, private drive, its gravel crunching a solemn announcement of her arrival. Through the spattering rain on the window, Tewksbury Manor rose into view.
It was even more imposing in person. A great, brooding pile of Jacobean brick and stone, its numerous mullioned windows looked like dark, watchful eyes. One of the tall chimney stacks leaned precariously, and ivy clung to the walls like a shroud. It spoke of immense, decaying wealth and profound isolation.
The taxi driver, a man of few words, helped her haul her suitcase to the enormous oak door before retreating quickly to the warmth of his car, clearly eager to be away. Kaima was left standing alone, the chill damp seeping through her coat. Before she could lift the heavy iron knocker, the door swung open without a sound.
An old man stood in the doorway. He was impeccably dressed in a dark, old-fashioned butler's suit, his posture ramrod straight despite the clear weight of his years. His face was a web of fine lines, and his eyes, a pale and watery blue, held a depth of weariness that seemed centuries old.
"Miss Bernard," he said, his voice exactly as it had been on the phone: measured, quiet, and utterly devoid of warmth. "I am Vincent. Please, come in. You must be cold."
He stepped aside, and Kaima crossed the threshold into a cavernous great hall. The air inside was cool and carried the faint, sweet scent of beeswax and something else underneath, something dry and ancient, like old paper and dust. A magnificent staircase swept upwards into shadows, and the ceilings were lost in darkness high above. The place was silent, a silence so deep it felt heavy, absorbing the sound of her footsteps on the stone flags.
"It's… immense," Kaima said, her voice a small thing in the vast space.
"It has its history," Vincent replied neutrally. "Allow me to show you to your room. The Master is not receiving visitors this evening. He has requested that you rest after your journey. He will send for you when he is ready to begin your sessions."
He led her up the grand staircase and along a seemingly endless gallery lined with portraits of severe-looking men and women in ruffs and powdered wigs, their eyes seeming to follow her progress. The house felt less like a home and more like a museum, a beautiful, empty shell.
Her room, when Vincent opened the door, was a surprise. It was large and beautifully appointed, with a vast four-poster bed and heavy damask curtains. A fire crackled welcomingly in the grate, fighting back the chill. It was the first sign of real comfort she had seen.
"Dinner will be brought to you at seven o'clock," Vincent informed her. "The bathroom is through that door. If you require anything, there is a bell-pull by the bed. I would advise you to remain in this wing of the house." His tone was polite, but the instruction was clear.
With a slight bow, he withdrew, closing the door softly behind him and leaving her utterly alone.
Kaima let out a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding. She texted Gloria a quick update: 'Arrived. Place is a mausoleum. Butler is straight out of a horror film. Client is AWOL. All very odd. Talk tomorrow.'
After a quiet dinner brought by a silent, nervous-looking young maid who refused to meet her eye, Kaima felt restless. The overwhelming silence of the house was beginning to press in on her. Deciding some fresh air was in order, she pulled on her coat and slipped outside through a side door she found.
The gardens were as vast and untamed as the house, a wilderness of formal hedges gone feral and empty flower beds. The rain had softened to a misty drizzle. She walked for a while, the damp grass soaking her trainers, trying to shake off her unease. This was just a job. A strange, quiet job.
As she turned to head back, her gaze drifted up to the manor's facade. And there, in a large, full-length window on the second floor of a darkened wing, was a man.
He was standing perfectly still, watching her. Even from this distance, she could make out the pale, stark planes of his face and the dark intensity of his gaze. He was not elderly. He was young, strikingly so, and his expression was one of such consuming, devastating focus that it felt like a physical touch.
A jolt, part fear, part something else entirely, shot through her. She froze, staring back.
In the blink of an eye, he was gone. The window was just an empty, dark square again.
Kaima stood there for a long moment, her heart hammering against her ribs. Had she imagined it? The figure had been so vivid, his presence so palpable. Shaken, she hurried back inside, the grand manor feeling less like an eccentric's retreat and more like a gilded cage.
Later that night, a soft knock came at her door. It was Vincent.
"The Master will see you now, Miss Bernard."