Master of the House

The morning’s rhythm carried them into the afternoon and through the remaining drawing and sitting rooms, the parlors, and the long gallery where even more ancestral portraits sneered from the walls. After hours of maintaining them, Cecilia gradually moved from feeling intimidated from their unrelenting stares, to vaguely irritated, to downright annoyed.

They must have been just as haughty in real life if this was them being captured at their best by a hired painter.

By noon, Cecilia’s back ached, but she was beginning to find her place in the rhythm of the work—the sweep and polish, the understanding quick-footedness when stepping around fellow maids, the quick duck into shadows when the steward’s footsteps echoed by…

It was all a part of the unspoken dance that kept the mansion gleaming.

Coriander led her into the great hall, its high, arched ceiling crisscrossed with carved beams darkened by age. At its center, a chandelier of crystal glittered faintly, as though it hoarded the daylight. Cecilia knelt to scrub the marble floor, her rag squeaking against stone. She was so focused she almost didn’t notice the sudden stillness that fell over the staff.

“Miss Coriander,” one of the older maids hissed. “He’s coming.”

It sounded like a warning rather than an announcement. And Coriander, along with every other member of the staff, reacted as such.

Cecilia looked up, startled, as the others scrambled with a new, tense hurry. Every maid and footman straightened, arranging themselves with rigid precision, practically putting themselves on display toward the door. Coriander touched Cecilia’s arm gently, steadying her before she could stumble in her rush to follow suit.

The tall oak doors creaked open, held wide by two butlers bowed deeply at the waist, and in entered the lord of the house. He was a tall figure, broad-shouldered, his dark coat cut to perfection, his boots clicking on the marble like a metronome. His auburn hair was looked mused, tousled, yet artfully so, as if styled by a professional. The air seemed to bend around him; even the light from the chandelier dimmed in deference.

“Good morning, sir,” the staff chorused, their voices hushed but reverent.

Cecilia bowed her head, heart thudding. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Coriander do the same—calm, graceful, a study in composure. It was unlike the rambling, sweet woman she had spent her day with. This was a practiced stance, an entire persona crafted to fit into place and not draw attention.

The lord’s gaze swept the room, sharp and lingering. Those eyes, dark and deep, did not seem to reflect light; they caught it instead, consuming all that emitted from the chandelier and sun alike. When his stare passed over Cecilia, she felt the weight of it as though he had pressed a hand against her shoulders, heavy and pressing. His expression revealed nothing—no warmth, no displeasure, only the faintest flicker of curiosity before he turned away.

Finally, after a handful of seconds that felt like a millennium, he settled his attention on one of the attending stewards. His expression had not shifted, maintaining a sense of indifferent expectation. “You are to see that the east wing is ready for guests by tonight,” he told the steward, his voice deep, resonant, and final. “No delays. I expect perfection.”

“Yes, sir,” the steward replied with a stiff bow.

God, how much time were we all meant to spend bowing? Do they have to do back exercises to counteract this? No wonder they have so much stamina; they’re constantly doing upright sit-ups.

And just as quickly as he had arrived, the lord strode past, his footsteps fading into the cavernous silence he left behind.

Cecilia exhaled shakily, realizing she had been holding her breath.

She did not understand why she felt so nervous around him. He was powerful, that was clear from the others’ behavior, but he seemed like just your average standoffish rich guy.

Why did this situation suddenly feel so much more delicate than that?

She found herself pressing closer to Coriander, not only for guidance, but because in that moment Coriander’s warmth felt like the only bright, safe thing in the looming shadows of the house. “So, by the way,” she said slowly, “What is the lord’s name?”

Coriander whipped her head to face her, eyes wide and disbelieving. “You don’t know who you’re working for?” she asked, incredulous.

She grimaced. “I really don’t like how you phrased that.”

Coriander leaned close, whispering so only she could hear. “That man is Olrin Caine. He is the lord of Sisyphus Manor and our rather…” She paused for a moment, considering her next words before continuing, her voice as soft as a breath. “…particular employer. Just keep your head level around him. It’s best to think of him as you would a storm cloud. Impressive from afar, more threatening the closer he gets—but keep your head down and he will pass you by.”

Cecilia swallowed, nodding quickly. A strange unease coiled in her stomach, as though the lord’s glance had left an imprint that refused to fade, burrowing deeper than the skin.

…

Cecilia thought the moment had passed, that the lord Olrin had swept out with his thundercloud presence and gone to terrorize some greener pastures, but she was wrong. Only minutes later, as the staff moved to the east wing to begin the preparations for whatever event was happening this evening, a thundering returned—the heavy tread of rich leather boots.

He appeared in the doorway of the parlor room they had just begun to tidy, his figure framed by the gloom behind him. The maids froze like startled prey animals, waiting for the predator’s next move so that they could respond and, hopefully, escape unscathed.

Of course, this would be the moment his overwhelming presence would be stifled for her.

Cecilia was still bent over to dust the carved mantel, passively tuning out the footfalls as being the regular clamor of the manor, when a shadow fell over her. Blanketed in a suppressive dark, she felt an uneasy sweat roll down her spine as it dawned on her how awfully quiet the parlor had become.

“You.”

His voice cut clean through the air, and the silence that followed was deafening, as stunned and still as the quiet that follows an unexpected burst of rage. It made Cecilia flinch sharply, even before she realized his commanding voice was directed toward her. A pin dropped and resonated like a gunshot throughout the parlor, prompting a panic of maids scrambling over one another to muffle the noise, lest it attract the lord’s attention to themselves.

A cold sweat dripped down the back of Cecilia’s neck, flooding the delicate neckline of her uniform with salt and stress.

God above, none of the others’ reactions were putting her at ease.

Her eyes flicked between the rest of the startled staff before returning to the lord. Slowly, she straightened, clutching the dust cloth in both hands, squeezing it in a gesture that she hoped seemed more dedicated than anxious.

“You—” He spoke slowly, weightily, with intention, and that same power was reflected in each step he took forward into her space. “—are new.” He stepped into the room and took command of it instantaneously.

His presence alone sent other members of staff stepping backward and well out of his way, heads bowed and shoulders hunched to be as small as possible. They stayed curled inward even once Lord Olrin passed them, holding their breath as the musk of his cloying cologne permeated the space. But pinned in place under his dark gaze, Cecilia could do little more than offer a polite nod—concentratedly slow, as Coriander had taught her.

All the while, his eyes fixed on her with the cool detachment of a man inspecting a novelty, a curiosity, an object. His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but something harboring amusement that was more concerning than genuine. “It does get tiring around the manor, seeing the same bodies over and over. A new face is…welcome, refreshing even.”

What the hell do you say to that?

Cecilia lowered her gaze, murmuring, “Yes, sir.”

“Speak up,” he chided softly, though there with a testing edge, his tongue a prod to see how hard he would need to press to make someone flinch. “I don’t like whispers.”

“Yes, sir,” she said again, louder this time, though despite the confidence she tried to display, her voice wavered.

His boots clicked against the polished floor as he slowly circled her, a shark smelling blood in the water. Her back stayed straight and tense as his eyes racked her over from head to toe. She could not contain a small gasp and sharp twitch when his hand, large and steady, circled her wrist, his thumb trailing the thin skin shielding her veins. “Pretty hands,” he said, deceptively passive. “Too soft for scrubbing, I think. We’ll see how long they last before they blister.” The words might have been teasing, but they carried the weight of a challenge.

Cecilia bit her tongue, gripping the washcloth tighter.

Coriander shifted just a fraction closer, her presence steadying. The lord’s gaze flicked to her, then back to Cecilia, and for an instant his amusement sharpened, like a blade catching the light.

“Stay close to her, do you?” he mused. “Wise. You’ll need allies here.” He released Cecilia’s wrist, a pregnant pause hanging between them before he added with an almost playful cruelty, “But don’t lean too hard. People break when leaned on too much.”

Cecilia’s stomach twisted alongside the washcloth, rung tight and strangled between her fingers. The lord’s tone had the lilt of charm, but it left her feeling smaller, diminished.

Olrin’s eyes were squinted, as sharp and amused as a fox, yet he was not satisfied. They rolled from Cecilia to Coriander, calculating the practiced square of her shoulders and the cross of her hands rested neatly in front of her torso. “Miss Coriander,” he said, his voice already directing, a command for attention—and one that was granted, as Coriander bowed her head in response. “I require your expertise elsewhere. You will be following me for the rest of the day.” There was a flash of white canine as his lips took on a gleaming grin. “I hope you have trained your charge well enough to hold her own for now.”

With a final glance—a spark of possession in his eyes—he turned and strode out, a wave of his hand sending the rest of the room back into motion more frenzied than before. While the room stirred anew, the echo of his footsteps rang through Cecilia’s mind as her wrist burned from the phantom of his touch.

Coriander touched her arm gently, a soothing balm, as she whispered, “Don’t let him see you falter. He enjoys it too much.”

Cecilia nodded faintly as she watched Coriander follow quickly behind Lord Olrin, but the truth weighed heavy like a stone in her chest, all while hearing an all-too-familiar ring in her ear—

Congratulations, Cecilia! You have finally caught the lord’s attention, piqued his interest, and officially begun your story!

—And there was no safety in that.