Chapter 2: The Quiet Room
The heavy mahogany door of the estate's private antechamber clicked shut behind us, cutting off the swelling murmur of the ballroom like a dropped curtain. The sudden silence in the small parlor was heavy, smelling faintly of old leather and beeswax. I turned to face the young woman standing near the fireplace, shivering despite the warmth radiating from the small hearth.
"Sit down," I said, gesturing toward a velvet armchair near the bookcase. My voice was stripped of the cold authority I usually wore like armor in rooms like this.
Clara—as her breast pocket tag quietly confirmed—hesitated, her hands clutching the fabric of her black and white skirt. She didn't move toward the chair, instead pressing her back against the side of a mahogany sideboard as if afraid the furniture might dissolve beneath her.
"I'm not supposed to be in here, sir," she murmured, keeping her gaze fixed on the Persian rug between us. "If Mrs. Sterling sees me—"
"Victoria isn't coming in here," I interrupted, keeping my tone level. I shrugged off my black trench coat and tossed it over the back of the sofa, revealing the dark grey tie and the neat lines of my tailored black suit. "And even if she does, she has bigger problems right now than where you're sitting."
Slowly, she shuffled forward, lowering herself gingerly onto the edge of the velvet cushion. She winced as her shoulder brushed the fabric, a quiet hiss escaping her lips. I crossed the room to a silver decanter on a side table, poured two fingers of clean water into a crystal glass, and brought it over to her.
"Drink," I instructed, holding it out.
She took the glass with both hands. Her fingers were slender, the skin near her knuckles scraped raw, and the silver coin necklace bobbed against her collarbone with every tremor of her breath. She took a small sip, her eyes darting nervously around the room, taking in the oil paintings on the walls and the heavy velvet drapes.
"What's your name?" I asked, pulling a small leather notebook from my inner pocket, though I didn't open it.
"Clara, sir. Clara Abbott."
"How long have you been working here, Clara?"
"Three months," she whispered, staring into the water glass. "Since my mother passed. The agency sent me here. They said it was a good house. Quiet."
"Quiet," I repeated, the word tasting like ash. I looked at the dark purple bruise blooming along her jaw, trailing down beneath the stiff white collar of her uniform. "Is this what they call quiet?"
Clara flinched, pulling the collar up with one trembling finger. "It was... a mistake. I dropped a crystal vase in the East Gallery. It slipped. I didn't mean to."
"An accident doesn't explain the marks on your neck," I said quietly, stepping closer but keeping a respectful distance so as not to box her in. "Or the riding crop. Victoria doesn't use that for horses, Clara. Does she do this often?"
May you like
Clara looked up, her dark eyes swimming with a mixture of fear and a sudden, sharp exhaustion that aged her ten years. "To the others, too. But the new ones get it worst. She says we need to be broken in."
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. The charm of the Sterling estate—the philanthropy, the society pages, the glittering charity galas—was nothing more than a polished veneer stretched thin over a rotting floorboard. And sitting right in front of me was the one piece of evidence that connected my own forgotten past to this house of glass.
