Page 8 of Saint Céline
I looked up from my plate.
“Don’t go wandering around the estate. Don’t go near the main house unless someone comes to get you. Mrs. Montgomerysaid we can use the cottage and the path to the staff entrance, but that doesn’t mean the whole property belongs to us.”
“I know.”
“Selena.” Her voice stayed soft, but I heard the worry underneath it.
“I know,” I repeated, gentler this time. “I won’t go anywhere.”
She came around the table and rested her hand on the top of my head, fingers warm from the toaster. “I’m not saying it because I don’t trust you. I’m saying it because this matters. We need this to work.”
We.She always used that word when things felt shaky.Weneed to be quiet.Weneed to wait until he falls asleep.Weneed to leave tonight. Now, it wasweneed this to work, and I understood what she meant better than she probably thought I did.
She bent down and kissed my forehead, her lips cool and quick. “I’ll come back at lunch to check on you.”
“I’m not six anymore.”
“I know.” She smiled then, a real one, small and sad around the edges. “But you’re still my baby.”
She picked up her work bag, gave the kitchen one last look as if she was memorizing it, and stepped out into the rain. Through the window, I watched her walk the wet garden path toward the mansion, shoulders straight, bag held tight against her side. The big house looked even larger in the morning light, grey stone walls and tall windows shining with rain. She disappeared inside the staff entrance, and the door closed behind her with a soft click.
I finished my toast slowly, then washed the plate and glass so she wouldn’t come back to chores waiting for her. After that, the cottage felt too quiet. At first, I liked it. I sat on the couch and listened to the rain, letting the silence wrap around me like a blanket I had never been allowed to keep before. But after awhile, the quiet started pressing against my ears. I wasn’t used to safe quiet. I was used to listening inside it for the next slammed door or raised voice.
By nine o’clock, I had opened every cabinet, folded the clothes from one of the garbage bags into the small dresser upstairs, and tried reading the three gardening books on the living room shelf. After two pages about soil types, I gave up.
Outside, the rain had softened into mist that hung low over the gardens.
I told myself I was only going to look.
The path from the cottage wound between wet hedges and pale stones. I kept my hands in my jacket pockets and walked slowly, careful not to step on the flower beds. Everything smelled clean and cold, rain on roses mixed with the sharp salt of the ocean. The gardens looked almost too perfect, each plant placed exactly where it belonged, nothing bright or messy or out of line.
I stopped near a stone fountain that wasn’t running and looked up at the second-floor window where I had seen the girl the night before. Nothing moved behind the glass, just the grey sky reflected at me. I should have turned around then. Instead, I followed the path a little farther.
The side door near the kitchen opened before I reached it. A woman carrying a basket of linens almost walked straight into me.
“Oh,” she said, startled but smiling. “You must be Mira’s daughter.”
I froze. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to—”
“It’s all right.” She shifted the heavy basket against her hip. “I’m Nora. I work mornings in the kitchen. Come on in before you catch a cold. But wipe your shoes properly first. Mrs. Montgomery hates mud tracked through the back hall.”
I wiped my sneakers on the mat until it looked worse than when I started, then stepped inside. The back hallway smelled like fresh bread and coffee. Voices drifted from deeper in the house, soft and even. Nothing here ever seemed loud.
Nora led me into the kitchen. It was enormous, with copper pans hanging over the big island and two ovens built into the wall. Bowls of fruit lined the counter, apples and pears and oranges stacked like decorations no one actually needed to eat. A woman in a white apron rolled dough near the window, flour dusting her arms.
My stomach tightened even though I had already eaten.
“Selena?” My mother asked from the sink. She had rubber gloves on, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her face changed the second she saw me, not angry exactly, but afraid. “I told you to stay at the cottage.”
“I was just outside.”
“She was by the garden,” Nora said easily. “No harm done.”
My mother gave her a grateful look, then turned back to me. “Selena.”
“I’m sorry,” I said before she could go on.
She sighed, the sound tired but not sharp. Before she could say anything more, a voice came from the doorway.
