Chapter 3 - THE SUMMONS TO THE PARLOR
My heart hammered against my ribs as I unlocked the pantry door and found Mrs. Gable standing there, her face set in its usual severe, unyielding expression. She looked down at Amara with a disapproving frown before shifting her sharp gaze back to me.
“Take the child down to the laundry room and leave her with Marta,” Mrs. Gable instructed coldly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Mr. Marcus has requested your presence in the private parlor upstairs immediately. Do not keep him waiting.”
“Is Mr. Roman alright?” I asked cautiously, trying to keep my voice steady as I nudged Amara gently behind my skirt.
“Mr. Roman is resting under the care of Dr. Vance,” Mrs. Gable replied sharply, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That is none of your concern. Your only concern is answering whatever questions Mr. Marcus has for you concerning your daughter’s outburst in the hallway.”
I swallowed hard, nodding in compliance as I guided Amara down the short corridor to the laundry room, where Marta, a kind elderly woman who mended the staff uniforms, was folding linens. I whispered instructions for Amara to stay put and eat the apple Marta offered, promising I would be back before their shift ended.
Ascending the grand staircase a second time felt completely different than it had an hour ago; the polished mahogany banister now felt less like architectural luxury and more like the spine of a sleeping predator. When I reached the double doors of the private family parlor, two armed guards stood post on either side, their faces like carved stone as they pushed the heavy doors open for me.
The room was vast, richly appointed with dark leather armchairs, heavy velvet drapes that blocked out the Chicago afternoon light, and a roaring fire in the massive stone fireplace. Marcus Valente sat behind a polished walnut desk in the center of the room, sipping amber liquid from a crystal tumbler, while Vivian Cross paced nervously near the window with a cigarette clamped between her manicured fingers.
“Close the door, Clara,” Marcus said without looking up from the sheaf of financial papers spread across his desk.
I stepped inside, pulling the heavy mahogany doors shut behind me and keeping my hands clasped respectfully in front of my apron.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Valente?” I asked quietly, keeping my gaze fixed on the Persian rug beneath my feet.
Marcus took a slow sip from his glass, set it down with a sharp clink, and finally looked up, his pale eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt physical. “Your daughter has a very vivid imagination, Clara. Or perhaps she is simply repeating things she was coached to say by someone looking to make trouble in this household.”
“She didn't mean any harm, sir,” I said quickly, keeping my voice mild and submissive. “Children see things differently. She thought she was being helpful.”
“Helpful,” Marcus repeated the word slowly, tasting it like something bitter on his tongue. He stood up from his desk and walked slowly toward me, his movements smooth and predatory. “In this house, Clara, being helpful without being asked is a fatal flaw. Roman is currently recovering from a severe bronchial spasm because his medication was misplaced. An unfortunate accident, according to Miss Cross.”
“Of course, sir,” I murmured, keeping my breath even.
“And yet,” Marcus continued, stopping just a few feet away from me, his shadow falling across my face, “people sometimes drop things in moments of panic. Valuable things. Confidential things belonging to the family.”
My pulse spiked, every instinct screaming that he knew about the medical form, that the entire summons was a trap designed to see if I had picked it up from the floor.
“I didn't see anything on the floor, Mr. Valente, except the dust from the rug,” I said steadily, forcing myself to look up and meet his cold gaze without flinching.
Marcus studied my face for a long, agonizing moment, searching for any micro-expression of guilt or deceit. The silence in the parlor stretched thin and taut, the crackle of the fireplace sounding deafeningly loud in the quiet room.
“Is that so?” Marcus murmured softly, stepping just a fraction closer. “Because I would hate for an otherwise exemplary household worker and her bright little daughter to find themselves suddenly unemployed and cast out onto the cold Chicago streets with nowhere to go.”
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“We are very grateful for our positions here, sir,” I replied evenly, keeping my tone perfectly neutral.
Marcus smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes—it was a cold, empty movement of the lips that promised nothing good. “Good. Because gratitude is a very important quality in this estate, Clara. Run along back to your duties now. And keep your daughter away from the main hallways.”
