that?”
Harrison yanks his arm free and resumes talking as if the subject never came up. “Periodically, the area aristocracy will provide their servants on loan to assist us in such matters as preparing a feast, hosting a party, or trimming the trees after a storm. But only a handful of us permanently reside here. Hence the pleasant quiet of floor two.”
I’m tempted to say something about his choice of the word “pleasant,” but baiting Harrison is a waste of energy. A distraction from my mission. I need to pay attention, assess the situation, and stop letting my emotions get in my way.
Despite the white rock walls and wood floors, the second level looks a lot more modern, mostly because of the electric light fixtures. The whole place has to be wired, though. The first-floor torches and candles are some kind of design statement or a warning. Any vamp that decorates with flame and weapons has to feel indestructible.
“Guest rooms for visiting aristocrats, including ambassadors, are located on the third floor. As is Her Royal Highness’s personal retreat. They’re currently unoccupied. The twenty-car garage is detached.
“After the spring thaw, you’ll be welcome to use the tennis courts with the mistress’s permission. Speak to eternals when spoken to. That includes the sentries. Avoid the V-word at all costs.” Harrison pauses in front of an arched door that looks like all the rest. He turns the lock with a long, ornate metal key. Hands it to me. “We’re in the process of hiring a new security guard. One of the sentries drained the old one.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Long story?”
He waves me inside. “Not so long. Let’s just say that calling Miranda ‘the dragon princess’ is appropriate to tradition. However, calling her ‘a dragon lady’ is considered offensive to the crown.”
My quarters make Danny Bianchi’s junior executive suite at the Edison Hotel look like a hovel. The living room is furnished with a sofa, oak coffee table with hammered iron hardware, and two oversize brown leather reading chairs with matching ottomans. Double doors open to a dressing room, complete with four copper-bordered oak wardrobes. Another set of double doors opens to the bedroom, which includes an Arts-and-Crafts desk that was once painted green and stripped, a matching spindle chair, two huge arched windows, and a king-size, four-poster bed with green-and-beige gingko-print linens.
My canvas bag is waiting on the corner of the bed. Apparently, Harrison was able to tell by looking that Miranda would choose me as — what did she call it? — her personal assistant and asked a maid to haul up the bag.
“These are servants’ quarters?” I ask.
“We prefer ‘executive administrative staff,’” he says. “You’ll need more clothes, including party clothes. It’s up to the mistress to decide if she wants to dress you or for you to dress at all and whether to upgrade your room. The master upgraded mine.”
Like I care. “Where is this master of yours?”
“He’s the master of us all,” Harrison corrects. “His name is Radford, but you will call him ‘Master’ or ‘Majesty.’” He’s abroad for the month. He left two days ago.”
A month. Looks like I’ll have to make the best of this nightmare for a while. I can hardly imagine it, seeing Miranda night after night. But I can’t help wondering . . . What is her existence like in this place? Does she ever pine for her lost humanity the way I do for the grace of the Big Boss? Does she even remember who she was?
THE FOLLOWING EVENING , my phone rings as I settle behind my office desk.
“Sugar plum,” Father’s voice purrs. “How are the interviews coming?”
It occurs to me that I don’t have many details to share about my new PA. I can’t even remember the name of the eternal that referred him. Avoiding the subject seems prudent. “Quite well, thank you. Are you in London already?”
“I’m on our executive jet,”
Harrison yanks his arm free and resumes talking as if the subject never came up. “Periodically, the area aristocracy will provide their servants on loan to assist us in such matters as preparing a feast, hosting a party, or trimming the trees after a storm. But only a handful of us permanently reside here. Hence the pleasant quiet of floor two.”
I’m tempted to say something about his choice of the word “pleasant,” but baiting Harrison is a waste of energy. A distraction from my mission. I need to pay attention, assess the situation, and stop letting my emotions get in my way.
Despite the white rock walls and wood floors, the second level looks a lot more modern, mostly because of the electric light fixtures. The whole place has to be wired, though. The first-floor torches and candles are some kind of design statement or a warning. Any vamp that decorates with flame and weapons has to feel indestructible.
“Guest rooms for visiting aristocrats, including ambassadors, are located on the third floor. As is Her Royal Highness’s personal retreat. They’re currently unoccupied. The twenty-car garage is detached.
“After the spring thaw, you’ll be welcome to use the tennis courts with the mistress’s permission. Speak to eternals when spoken to. That includes the sentries. Avoid the V-word at all costs.” Harrison pauses in front of an arched door that looks like all the rest. He turns the lock with a long, ornate metal key. Hands it to me. “We’re in the process of hiring a new security guard. One of the sentries drained the old one.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Long story?”
He waves me inside. “Not so long. Let’s just say that calling Miranda ‘the dragon princess’ is appropriate to tradition. However, calling her ‘a dragon lady’ is considered offensive to the crown.”
My quarters make Danny Bianchi’s junior executive suite at the Edison Hotel look like a hovel. The living room is furnished with a sofa, oak coffee table with hammered iron hardware, and two oversize brown leather reading chairs with matching ottomans. Double doors open to a dressing room, complete with four copper-bordered oak wardrobes. Another set of double doors opens to the bedroom, which includes an Arts-and-Crafts desk that was once painted green and stripped, a matching spindle chair, two huge arched windows, and a king-size, four-poster bed with green-and-beige gingko-print linens.
My canvas bag is waiting on the corner of the bed. Apparently, Harrison was able to tell by looking that Miranda would choose me as — what did she call it? — her personal assistant and asked a maid to haul up the bag.
“These are servants’ quarters?” I ask.
“We prefer ‘executive administrative staff,’” he says. “You’ll need more clothes, including party clothes. It’s up to the mistress to decide if she wants to dress you or for you to dress at all and whether to upgrade your room. The master upgraded mine.”
Like I care. “Where is this master of yours?”
“He’s the master of us all,” Harrison corrects. “His name is Radford, but you will call him ‘Master’ or ‘Majesty.’” He’s abroad for the month. He left two days ago.”
A month. Looks like I’ll have to make the best of this nightmare for a while. I can hardly imagine it, seeing Miranda night after night. But I can’t help wondering . . . What is her existence like in this place? Does she ever pine for her lost humanity the way I do for the grace of the Big Boss? Does she even remember who she was?
THE FOLLOWING EVENING , my phone rings as I settle behind my office desk.
“Sugar plum,” Father’s voice purrs. “How are the interviews coming?”
It occurs to me that I don’t have many details to share about my new PA. I can’t even remember the name of the eternal that referred him. Avoiding the subject seems prudent. “Quite well, thank you. Are you in London already?”
“I’m on our executive jet,”
Similar Books
