The heavy oak front doors closed behind them, sealing out the sound of the storm. The silence that hit Bella was physical. It pressed against her eardrums, heavy and suffocating. The air inside was cool and smelled of lemon polish and old wax.
Two rows of maids stood in the foyer. They looked like statues, their heads bowed, hands clasped in front of their white aprons. Not one of them moved. Not one of them breathed loudly enough to be heard.
Hansel pointed at Bella's feet. He didn't speak. He just held out a pair of soft-soled white cotton slippers.
Bella understood. She kicked off her ruined heels. Mud flaked off onto the pristine marble floor. She winced. Hansel produced a plastic bag, picked up her heels with two fingers as if they were radioactive waste, and dropped them into a bin by the door.
He leaned in close to her ear. "Rule one: No speaking above a whisper. Rule two: No running. Rule three: No vibration or ringtones. If you violate these, I cannot guarantee your safety."
Bella nodded quickly. Her lungs burned with the need to cough, but she swallowed it down.
Hansel gestured for her to follow. They walked down a long corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced men. Bella noticed the details now. The legs of the hallway tables were wrapped in thick felt. The runner carpet was plush, absorbing every footfall. It felt like walking on a sponge.
They passed a set of double doors made of dark mahogany. A dull thud resonated from behind them. It sounded like a body hitting a wall.
Every maid in the vicinity flinched. It was a collective, involuntary spasm of fear.
Hansel paused. He stared at the doors, his jaw tightening. His hand went to his vest pocket, checking something, his fingers trembling slightly.
Bella stared at the doors. This was the West Wing. The forbidden zone.
Hansel turned his body, blocking her view. His eyes were hard. "Curiosity gets people hurt here. Keep moving."
He led her deeper into the house, past the grand rooms and into the narrower, plainer corridors of the servant quarters. He stopped at a small door and pushed it open.
"Your accommodations," he said.
The room was a cell. A single bed, a narrow wardrobe, and no window. The ventilation came from a small grate near the ceiling.
"You stay here until the Master decides what to do with you," Hansel said. He held out his hand. "Phone."
"But-" Bella started.
"Phone," he repeated. "Now."
Bella reached into her pocket and handed it over. It was her lifeline to the outside world, to the hospital where her grandfather was. Hansel slipped it into his pocket.
"The ringer could trigger him," Hansel said, offering the barest explanation. "Rest. Do not leave this room."
The door clicked shut. The lock engaged.
Bella sank onto the thin mattress. The silence of the room was absolute. She felt like she was underwater. She pulled her backpack onto her lap and unzipped it. Inside was a small, polished wooden box.
She opened it. The scent of lavender, chamomile, and dried mint wafted out. It was the smell of her grandfather's shop, the smell of safety. She picked up a small vial of essential oil and held it under her nose, closing her eyes. As a force of habit, she also pulled out a small, pre-made sachet of crushed herbs-her grandfather's emergency blend-and slipped it into the pocket of her dress. A tangible piece of his protection. She tried to regulate her breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four.
Clang.
A sound echoed through the ventilation shaft. It was followed by a high-pitched, terrifying scream. It sounded human, but distorted by pain and terror. Then, the shattering of glass.
Bella dropped the vial. She scrambled backward on the bed, pressing her back into the corner, knees drawn to her chest.
The scream cut off abruptly.
Bella stared at the vent. Her hands were shaking so hard her teeth rattled. She wasn't a guest here. She wasn't even an asset. She was a prisoner in a house with a monster.
"Survive," she whispered to herself, the word barely forming on her lips. "Just survive."
