Page 6 of The Queen (Masterpiece Duet 2)
I can hear a low sound, Gabriel’s voice through the phone. Though I can’t make out the words, I can guess what he’s saying. You shouldn’t be walking alone at night.
“I’m not alone,” she says, proving my guess. “Penny’s with me. There’s safety in numbers.”
There’s safety in numbers.
Her words bounce around inside me, held inside by my skin, by every wish and hope and fear too real to name. That’s what I’ve always believed, what I’ve always wanted to believe. The reason I should fall into Professor Stanhope’s arms, no matter how inappropriate it might be.
Beyond the glow of the lamps, pitch-black night presses in. Anything could be out there. Anyone. I’m not sure we’re safer in ones or in twos. I’m not sure we’re safe at all.
Chapter Three
By the next night I’m really worried about Daddy, but I have to work. Lorenzo barks out dishes as the room service orders come in. Crab cakes and lobster rolls. Surf and turf.
A lone order for pancakes and grits comes in around ten p.m., making me smile. That will be Avery, having forgotten to eat dinner at a regular hour, preferring some comfort food for a late-night snack. Mostly I chop vegetables in large quantities, refilling steel rectangular containers so the line cooks can raid them. I also put garnishes on the dishes with breakfast food and dessert, turning strawberries into stars and beets into accordions.
I spend an extra minute to turn the end of a banana peel into a dolphin, its mouth holding a plump blueberry like a ball. Lorenzo raises a stern eyebrow at my creation, but he puts a silver dome on the tray. And when he thinks I’ve looked away, a small smile appears.
He’s not an easy man to work for. I lived in terror that I was going to lose my job—and my home—when I first started working here. Then I stayed up all night studying for a chemistry exam. In my delirium I sliced open my finger while cutting zucchini. Lorenzo stormed over to me, and I thought, through the pain and exhaustion, This is it. I’m fired.
Instead, red-faced and cursing in Italian, he cleaned my wound himself, his rough knife-scarred hands gentle around mine. Ever since then he’s been a hard-ass about making sure I don’t work too much.
I finish refilling a deep well of chopped green onions and then wash my hands, one of fifty times I’ll do that tonight. From experience I know that the scent will linger on my skin tomorrow. I’ll pause between taking notes, my chin resting on my hand, and get a whiff of something fresh and green.
“Get out of here,” Lorenzo growls, and I glance at the clock. Break time.
On another night I might tease him for worrying about me. Tonight I’m eager to take my break. I grab my phone from my work cubby and head outside. There’s a small courtyard that would have been reserved for the servants—modest by the old standards of mansions and royalty, but a luxury after the heat and clamor of the kitchens.
I sit on a cracked stone bench, pressing the speed dial.
It’s me. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.
This time I do leave a message. “Hey,” I say, the sound of blood rushing blocking out my own voice. “It’s me. You didn’t call last night and… anyway, I worry about you. I understand if you’re busy. Can you just drop me a quick text so I know you’re okay?”
There are other questions caught in my throat. What does Damon make you do for him? Is it dangerous? Of course it’s dangerous. Do you hate me for putting you in this position?
I hang up on dead air, staring into the night. “It’s fine,” I say into the quiet. “Everything is fine. His phone is probably broken. He’s at the store getting it replaced right now.”
With a leaden feeling in my stomach I return to the kitchen and complete the rest of my shift. It’s a good thing that I mostly have to chop vegetables, because my hands can work without my mind. Lorenzo shouts at me once to pay attention, that I’m going to lose a pinky finger, but I end the night with all my appendages intact.
Only when I’m curled up in my bed after midnight do I turn on my phone again.
There’s a text from a study partner about meeting up tomorrow. An e-mail from a professor about the exam next week. Nothing from Daddy. No return phone call. No text telling me he’s okay.
Because he’s not okay, a dark voice whispers inside me.
I should probably go to sleep. That’s the rational thing to do. I can deal with this in the morning. And probably Daddy will have texted me by then. There’s no reason to worry.
Except I find myself dialing the information line for Tanglewood.
