Chapter 3 - The Silent Kitchen
Three weeks passed without a single glimpse of the master of the house. Roman Thorne became a ghost again, a presence felt only through the sudden silence that fell over the corridors whenever his heavy boots were heard on the upper landing. But the dynamics within the house had shifted, subtle as a change in barometric pressure before a gale. Martha, who had previously treated Clara like a stray dog that had wandered into her pantry, began leaving an extra link of sausage or a scoop of warm berry cobbler under a napkin on the corner of the prep table.
"He's growing," the old woman grunted one morning as Clara scrubbed the copper grease traps. She didn't specify who she meant, but she nodded toward the ceiling. "A boy needs fat on his ribs if he’s going to survive a Chicago winter in this stone pile. Don't tell Silas I gave you the butter."
"Why are you doing this?" Clara asked, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. "You told me not to look, not to ask. You told me to stay a ghost."
Martha stopped slicing onions, her heavy knife resting on the cutting board. She looked toward the small window above the sink, where the gray light of November was struggling through the iron grates. "Because for twelve years, the only sound in this house has been men arguing about shipments and the clink of ice in scotch glasses. Yesterday, I heard that boy laughing in the north hall because he saw a squirrel on the lawn. It sounded like... like before."
"Before what?"
"Before Roman’s sister took the car that morning," Martha said, her voice dropping to a harsh, dry whisper. "Before the Thorne family became just one man sitting in a dark room with a gun and a list of enemies. You keep that boy quiet, Clara. But don't break his spirit. This house breaks enough things."
At noon, Clara was assigned to take the silver tea service up to the second-floor library—a room adjacent to the south wing that Roman rarely used until the afternoon sun hit the western windows. She carried the heavy tray with both hands, her heart hammering against her ribs with the rhythmic, dull thrum of a funeral drum. The library door was cracked an inch. She pushed it open with her hip, her eyes fixed strictly on the carpet, determined to set the tray on the side table and vanish before she could even register his shadow.
"He left the tail in the hallway," a voice said from the high-backed leather armchair by the window.
Clara froze, the silver teapot rattling against the sugar bowl. Roman Thorne was sitting in the afternoon glare, dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his vest discarded on a nearby stool. He wasn't reading. He was holding the green plastic dinosaur in his left hand, turning it over to examine the jagged plastic where the tail had been snapped off years ago during a scuffle with a daycare bully.
"I can retrieve it, sir," Clara whispered, her eyes glued to the toes of his polished Oxford shoes. "I'll throw it away immediately. I apologize—"
"I didn't say throw it away," Roman said. He set the toy down on the polished walnut table next to a leather-bound edition of Marcus Aurelius. "The boy said his name is Barnaby. Is that after the character in that old television show?"
"My father used to watch it," Clara said, her voice barely audible. "Leo liked the sound of the word. He... he thinks things with names don't get lost."
May you like
Roman looked out the window, his profile sharp and hard against the gray sky—the hooked nose, the slight indentation on his cheekbone from an old fracture, the line of his jaw set like an iron clamp. "Nothing gets lost in this city, Miss Hayes. They just get buried where people stop looking. Tell the boy his property is safe on my desk. But if he comes down that hall again during business hours, I'll have Silas teach him how to clean the kennels."
It was a threat, but the cadence was wrong. It lacked the steel that usually accompanied his orders. Clara bowed her head and backed out of the library, leaving the tea untouched. When she reached the landing, she looked back through the gap in the door; Roman had already picked the dinosaur back up, his thumb tracing the missing leg with a slow, mechanical rhythm that looked terrifyingly like regret.
