Within These Wicked Walls(4)

A somber silence fell over the group. Of course, it was obvious without even asking—the rest of the staff had left. Emma leaned against Tom, and he cradled her head comfortingly. When Edward cleared his throat it sounded harsh against the silence.

“Why doesn’t anyone here wear an amulet?” I asked.

“Superstitious nonsense,” Peggy said, waving away my words as if they stank. “Our God protects us.”

I looked at the others, but they seemed to be deliberately avoiding eye contact with me. I took a deep breath, trying not to sound annoyed. “We worship the same God. He created the doctors to prescribe medicine, just as he created the debtera to craft amulets.”

“Just folksy hogwash,” she said gruffly, and I bit my tongue to keep from lashing back. She pointed to an entryway, glowing brighter than the rest. “Dinner is in the dining room.”

“Good luck,” Tom said, offering an encouraging smile.

“There is no good luck,” Emma said to him as the four of them headed down a hall, “that’s the entire point.”

Entering the dining room was like walking into a séance—there were candles on every surface but the floor. The hardwood table was long with extravagantly ornate chairs. It was a room built for a dinner party, and yet a single man, dressed in a dark Nehru-collared shirt and a long coat, sat at the head of the table. He must’ve heard me come in, because he turned around in his chair, his white smile brighter than any candle in the room.

Even in the dim I could tell he was handsome. His tight curls were cropped close, even closer on the sides and the back, and edged carefully along the hairline. He had cheekbones like smoothed stone, a nose wide and symmetrical, laugh lines that seemed to worship the smile they graced. And if his rich brown skin was as angelic in daylight as by the simple highlight of a candle, I was almost afraid I wouldn’t survive the next few months.

He was beautiful, and it suddenly struck me that maybe he would care that I wasn’t.

“Andromeda?” The man pushed a few scrolls aside and stood. “Welcome. Come, sit.”

“Will others be joining us?” I asked.

“Soon, I hope. But it’s all right, we can start without them.” He gestured to the table of steaming food. “You must be hungry from your journey.”

I approached the table, stopping an appropriate few feet away. He wore a silver amulet around his neck, similar to mine—thin and flat with all the usual etchings and colorful thread wraps one would expect on an all-purpose amulet. He was wiser than Peggy, at least.

We stood like that for a few long seconds, his warm smile slowly slipping to stiff and polite, and I suddenly realized that a respectable man didn’t just presume to touch a woman he didn’t know. I stuck out my hand, and he shook it gently, and then I sidestepped defensively, my muscles tight but ready to act as he … pulled out my chair for me. I swallowed, my face warm with embarrassment. You’re not on the streets anymore. No one wants to attack you. No one wants to take your things. I quickly sat, bowing my head so he wouldn’t see my blush, and let him push my seat in. I even managed to hold still as he placed a wool blanket across my shoulders.

“We’ll have to attend to our own needs tonight.” The man—who had to be none other than Mr. Rochester—took his seat again and shifted a small basin in front of me. I held my palms over it silently as he poured water over them. “There aren’t many servants, despite the size. Not many people are willing to work for a cursed household.”

Servants. I’d never even had a mother. But I nodded politely as he handed me a small towel. “I’m adaptable.”

“Good. You never know what will happen in this— Oh.” He looked a little surprised, and then there was that dazzling smile as I shifted the basin in front of him. Guests didn’t normally wash the hands of the host, but we had limited options. “Thank you.”

I washed his hands, he dried them, and then he prayed over the food.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” Mr. Rochester said, “but why is it that Jember didn’t send you away with a reference letter?”

It was a valid question, but not one I would ever answer honestly. Jember may have raised me and trained me to be a debtera, but he’d also first bought me from my birth parents. People who bought children could never hold them in high enough regard to write a letter designed to praise their accomplishments. Besides, even if by some miracle he had the heart to, he couldn’t be bothered.

“He was too busy to meet my deadline,” I said, trying not to stuff too much food in my mouth at once. I hadn’t eaten in two days, but no one had to know that.

“Is that so?” Mr. Rochester watched me for a moment, and only then did I realize this was my fourth fingerful of food since I’d last spoken. Slow down. “It’s not that I doubt your ability—your résumé is strong. But I don’t seem to know anyone who’s familiar with your work.”

He wouldn’t. Just stepping into the house, it was obvious that we moved in very different social circles. People like him hired people like Jember, who was the best debtera of his generation, licensed and supported by a highly respected church. People like him passed people like me—unlicensed and unrecognized by the church because a bitter mentor had thrown her out before she could earn it—on the street without a second glance.