Chapter 8 - The Scent of Pine and Old Paper
The carriage house was warmer and more luxurious than any place I had ever stepped foot in.
The floors were wide-plank white oak, hand-scraped and covered with thick Turkish rugs. In the kitchen, a copper pot sat on a commercial Viking range, filled with rich beef stew that tasted of rosemary and red wine. A loaf of crusty sourdough bread lay wrapped in linen on the counter.
Eli ate until his eyes could barely stay open.
I gave him a warm bath in the clawfoot tub upstairs, listening to the pure water run from polished nickel taps. There was no rust. No metallic smell. Just clean, hot water.
When I tucked him into the queen-sized bed beneath a goose-down duvet, he held onto my hand.
“Mom?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Mr. Hart is dangerous, isn't he?”
I froze, smoothing a dark lock of hair away from his forehead. Eli had always been too observant for his own good. Growing up in my father’s shop, surrounded by quiet scholars and desperate street hustlers, he had learned to read people’s faces before he could read their words.
“He’s very powerful, Eli,” I said softly. “And he lives in a world that isn't like ours.”
“He made Dad go away,” Eli whispered, his chin trembling slightly. “Dad was crying when the big man took him down the stairs. I saw through the door.”
I sat down on the edge of the mattress, pulling the duvet up to his shoulders. “Your father made bad choices for a long time. Mr. Hart made sure he won't hurt us again. That’s all you need to worry about.”
“Are you scared of him?”
I looked at the window, where the dark silhouette of the main manor house loomed through the pine trees.
“No,” I realized, the truth surprising even myself. “I’m not scared of him. But we have to be very careful, Eli. We’re guests here. We do our job, and we don't ask questions about things that aren't our business.”
Eli nodded sleepily, his eyes already drifting shut. Within three minutes, his breathing slowed to a rhythmic, peaceful hush.
I walked down the hall to the master bedroom.
There was a private balcony that looked out over the courtyard between the carriage house and the main mansion. I pushed the French doors open and stepped into the cool night air.
Down below, at the edge of the granite terrace, a lone figure stood in the shadows.
Gabriel.
He had removed his overcoat. He stood with a glass of amber liquor in his hand, looking up toward the carriage house.
When he saw me step onto the balcony, he didn't look away. He didn't raise his glass in a mock salute. He simply stood there, watching over the stone house like a sentinel carved from the same granite as the walls.
For long seconds, our gazes held across the moonlit yard.
May you like
Then, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the estate.
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