pulling it back and wringing both hands together awkwardly.
“Miss Heatherton,” he repeated, his Southern drawl low and conspiratorial. “Why in the world are you knocking on my door at the break of dawn?”
“The agency told me to arrive at seven a.m.” This wasn’t going well, she realized. Not at all as she had imagined it. For a lot of different reasons.
“P.M.,” he said harshly. “Post meridiem. Or generally speaking...in the evening. I told the agency specifically that I needed the applicant to show up at seven p.m.”
“Oh,” she said foolishly, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks.
His gaze skipped over hers, lowered to her lips and returned once again to her eyes. “That’s right—p.m.,” he said slowly. “So, not only are you a full day early, you reported at the wrong time. I was asleep, and now you’ve woken me.”
“I’m so sorry.” The blush in her cheeks must be red as fire, because her face burned.
“I’m certain you’ve noticed my affliction. I am cursed with paleness. A lack of pigment. Albinism.” His chin jutted into the air defiantly. “It does not lend itself to sunlight. I keep night hours, and I’m very protective of them.” He sighed, and those unapologetic eyes didn’t look away from her. “But you’re here. Though I specifically requested someone who wasn’t attractive. Makes it easier.” Those eyes still rested on her. The heat on her face grew to volcanic levels. “I take it you can read and write?”
“Of course.”
“How’s your eyesight?”
“Perfect.”
He nodded. “And your hands? Can you can handle fine tools and small mechanical parts? Smaller than a fingernail?
“I’m very sure-handed.”
“You can work the night through? Adjust to my schedule?”
“Certainly.”
“Good. It’s what I value most. That, and discretion.” He stepped aside the slightest bit to make room for her, forcing her to brush against him as she entered. “Come in.”
She took in the interior of the house with a few quick glances: white marble floors, a high ceiling—two floors high—stairs that curled in an elegant arc to the second floor, archways that led to other rooms. A huge grandfather clock began to chime. Sheets covered the furniture and paintings as if the house were bedded down while its owners were away. Splatters of rainbow light still spun over everything.
He shut the door and the blinding rainbows disappeared. When she turned around, he was beside her, almost too close. Shocked at his willingness to invade her independent space, she pulled away from him. Her reaction was an odd mix of aversion and excitement. He seemed dangerous.
He stilled. “Forgive me. My eyesight is very poor, and I am used to stepping close in order to see something.” Then, with a lingering glance, he turned around, and she knew that a moment where they might have established a cordialness between them was lost. When he spoke, it was with a firm and cold voice. “I won’t give you a tour as you’ve already interrupted my sleep. I’m heading to bed. You will start tonight.” He turned and began to climb the stairs.
She followed, taking small, anxious steps. “I’m to work your hours, then?”
“How else do you expect to be my assistant?” His voice boomed in the open space. The stairs creaked under his weight as he climbed, his black robe swirling in the air behind him.
“Of course, Mr. Arundell.”
Without turning around, he waved his hand angrily. “Don’t call me Mr. Arundell. My father was Mr. Arundell, and he’s dead now. Call me Carrick. You’ll be ready to work at dusk and you’ll be with me until dawn. The work is intense, requires a steady hand and a sharp mind. Are you certain that you’re up for the task?”
“I am.” She peered down the hall. “Is there anything you want me to accomplish before we start tonight?”
“The day is yours, Miss. Heatherton. But if I were you, I would sleep, for the night will be a long one.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“You have the run of the house, except for the doors in the kitchen that lead down to the cellar. That is my workroom, and you only enter with me. The house has no staff. You’ll have to see to your own needs.” He was standing on the landing by then. “I’m sure your agency has warned you of my...disposition.”
“Yes. I’ve been warned.” Not enough, though, not enough, she thought. Or perhaps she should have listened to Charlie more closely. But, still, the pay would be worth it. She hoped.
“Good. Then I can dispense with pleasantries. You’ll find a small stairway in the second-floor hall that leads straight up to your room.”
“Fine, yes, then I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yes. Tonight.” As he walked away, she was unable to tear her eyes away from his retreating form.
Then he was gone, and she stood alone in the entry hall. Or so she thought.
* * *
It was a testament to Penrose’s desperation that she stayed the day in that strange mansion. Forty-one rooms and she had walked through fourteen of them before her fear got the better of her and she went and sat in the front parlor, which was so large it was more of a great room. Not a person or servant had shown themselves, and yet the house looked well maintained and orderly. One thing drove her crazy—no matter where she went in the mansion, she could hear the grandfather clock ticking.
The front parlor had a large picture window that looked out over the front lawn. The view was like a fancy oil painting, with a serene pond and a large oak tree standing watch over it. It was easy to imagine a family gathering in this very room every evening, playing games and enjoying the twilight hours. But the eerie quiet of the house belied that image. It was a tomb. And even though the house was dead quiet, save for the clock, something else unsettled her even more. She was standing, staring out of the window and wondering exactly what it was, when the realization hit her.
It felt as if someone was watching her.
The sensation was similar to what she’d felt when she first arrived. But it didn’t seem like nonsense this time. It was very real, and she spun around, eyes darting left and right, skimming the room. What did she expect to find? This was silly. She had the sudden urge to be free of the house, to stand outside in the sun, where everything made sense. There was nothing scary with the wind in your hair and the sunshine on your cheeks.
Her mind was made up. She would go outside. As she walked from the room, she glanced at the door frame and something caught her eye. A growth chart had been carved into the frame. Names and dates were scratched into the wood, noting the heights of children as they grew. All the scratchings were muted and dulled with age.
The tallest carving was dated 1865 and inscribed with the name Carrick. Twenty-one years ago; the same year she was born. She guessed Carrick’s age at thirty-seven or so. Penrose ran her finger over the mark. He would have been too young to head off to war. She noticed other names, Carville and Sampson, that
