Kaima woke to the pale, watery light of an English morning filtering through the gaps in the heavy damask curtains. For a moment, she lay still, disorientated by the unfamiliar vastness of the room and the profound silence. Then, the events of the previous evening rushed back: the shadowed library, the firelight, and him. Damien Tewksbury.
A jumble of feelings twisted inside her, lingering professional intrigue, a thrum of nervousness, and something else, something she was reluctant to name. Needing to ground herself, she reached for her phone. It was barely eight. Gloria would be awake, probably scrambling to get ready for work.
She video-called, and her friend's face appeared seconds later, makeup brush in hand.
"You're alive!" Gloria exclaimed, her voice a loud, welcome intrusion into the manor's silence. "I was about to send a search party. Well? Don't leave me in suspense. What's the mysterious widower like? Is he a hundred years old and smells of mothballs?"
Kaima propped the phone up against a lamp on the bedside table, getting out of bed. "No," she said, heading to the ensuite bathroom. "Not at all. He's… well, he's actually quite young. And he's not what I expected."
"Young?" Gloria's interest was immediately piqued. She put down the brush. "How young? And 'not what you expected' is not a description, Kaima Bernard. Details. Now."
Kaima turned on the tap, splashing water on her face as she spoke, her voice echoing slightly in the tiled room. "I don't know, mid-thirties? It's hard to tell. He's… incredibly handsome, Gloria. Like, ridiculously so." She grabbed her toothbrush. "But so sad. You can feel it coming off him in waves. He just radiates this profound, ancient grief. We only spoke for a few minutes last night, just an introduction really. He was a perfect gentleman. Very soft-spoken. Almost… mesmerising."
She began brushing her teeth, looking at her friend's incredulous expression on the screen.
"Blimey," Gloria said, her eyes wide. "A young, devastatingly handsome, mysteriously sad rich bloke in a big old house? Kai, you haven't landed a job, you've landed the lead role in a Brontë novel. This is properly weird. Are you sure you're safe?"
"I feel safe," Kaima said, though she wasn't entirely sure if that was true. "He was gentle. And the pay is still five thousand pounds." The toothpaste muffled her words.
"Right. Well, just remember why you're there. Don't go getting all 'I can fix him' because that's how horror films start. You're his therapist, not his… whatever." Gloria's tone was light but edged with genuine concern. "Promise me you'll keep your head screwed on."
"I promise," Kaima said, rinsing her mouth. "It's just a job. A very strange, well-paying job with a very… compelling client."
A firm, precise knock sounded at her bedroom door. Kaima's heart jumped. She quickly wiped her face and hurried out of the bathroom, grabbing the phone.
"Someone's here," she whispered to Gloria.
"Text me later!" Gloria whispered back dramatically before ending the call.
Kaima smoothed down her pyjamas and opened the door. Vincent stood there, as impeccably presented as the day before.
"Good morning, Miss Bernard. Breakfast is ready for you in the morning room. Once you have finished, I am to give you a tour of the principal areas of the house. The Master has scheduled our session for two o'clock this afternoon."
"Thank you, Vincent. I'll be down shortly."
After dressing in smart trousers and a warm jumper, she followed the directions Vincent had given her the previous night. The house felt different this morning. As she walked the long corridors, she heard it: the faint, distant sounds of activity. The soft whisk of a broom on stone, the murmur of voices, the clink of china.
When she reached the grand hall, she stopped in surprise. It was no longer an empty, echoing cavern. Several young women in simple grey maid's uniforms were at work, dusting the vast oak banister, polishing the silver on a side table, sweeping the floor. They worked with a quiet, efficient diligence, their heads down. Unlike the nervous girl from last night, there were more of them, perhaps a dozen that she could see moving between rooms.
It was a hive of quiet industry. The isolation of yesterday had been an illusion. The manor, it seemed, did not sleep; it merely waited for its staff to arrive.
Vincent appeared at her elbow. "This way, Miss Bernard."
He led her to a bright, sunlit room where a small table was laid with a silver breakfast service. As she ate alone, she could see more staff outside, tending to the overgrown topiary in the garden. The transformation was jarring. The house had gone from a silent tomb to a functioning estate between dusk and dawn.
After breakfast, the tour began. Vincent was a curt but knowledgeable guide, his monologue dry and factual. "The Long Gallery… seventeenth-century portraits, primarily of the Tewksbury line… the music room… largely unused since the late 1600s… the formal dining hall…"
The house was even more immense than she had first thought, a labyrinth of grand, cold rooms filled with priceless, dust-shrouded antiques. Throughout the tour, the maids were a constant, silent presence, always dipping their heads and scurrying out of their way, their expressions uniformly blank.
As they moved down a particularly dark corridor on the ground floor, Vincent gestured to a heavy, locked oak door. "The West Wing is not in use. It is structurally unsound and remains off-limits for your safety." His tone brooked no argument, and he moved on quickly before she could even think to ask a question.
The final part of the tour concluded back in the grand hall. "The Master will receive you in the library at two o'clock," Vincent stated. "You have the morning to yourself. I would advise you not to wander."
With that, he gave a slight bow and melted away into the shadows of the house, leaving Kaima amidst the quiet, busy hum of the staff. She felt a prickle of unease again, cutting through her fascination. The empty house had been strange, but this busy one, with its silent, fleeting workers and its firmly locked wings, felt stranger still. Her session with Damien couldn't come soon enough. He, at least, had been real.