I’d always wondered what it might be like inside the imposing stone structure that reminded me of something out of a fairy tale.
The kind of story with evil queens and desperate princesses locked in towers.
But I didn’t know it would be like this.
Giant paintings of white men lined the massive stairwell, each one more imposing than the last. I couldn’t help but feel like they were all glaring down at me like some dark interloper who didn’t belong.
Mama pushed me forward when I would have otherwise stayed rooted to the spot.
“Go on, now,” she urged, sharp voice echoing off the sky-high ceiling.
Zion was supposed to come with us, but he had refused. No amount of wheedling or threats could make my brother do anything he didn’t want to do. But Mama gave into it instead of fighting him and let him stay at home to play in the street with his friends.
“At least he won’t be making any trouble for me here,” she’d said. “You know I need this job.”
But she said it affectionately, as if his intransigence were something she valued. And maybe it was. The indulgent tone she used on him was never directed at me. It always seemed like the more I gave into what she wanted, the more things it occurred to her to ask of me.
I was always the quiet one, the agreeable one, the one who didn’t argue.
Even when on the inside, I raged.
It wasn’t lost on me just how much she needed this job. She thought I didn’t see the bills spread out over the kitchen table, stamped with the words PAST DUE in bold red letters. I heard the whispered arguments between her and Grandpa at night when I was supposed to be asleep, about how long each one could go unpaid before the city came out to turn off the water or the heat.
She thought I was too young to understand, but I wasn’t.
That was why I didn’t bother to ask her why she was so insistent we come with her today. Or just me, since she let Zion stay at home.
Dodging responsibility had always been easy for him.
My plain shoes were silent on the marble floor, the soles so worn down I might as well have been barefoot. She hustled me through the house and toward the back, but my widened eyes took in every detail of this place that felt more like a museum than a home.
Ten bedrooms with en suite bathrooms. Oversized kitchen. Infrared sauna and saltwater infinity pool. Five-car garage filled with luxury imports. A full-size bowling alley in the basement next to the wine cellar. All of it tucked into a cozy 25,000 square feet of space.
Mama would list the accoutrements like a mantra, describing in detail all the spaces with a voice that sounded awed. I understood that taking care of this place was back-breaking work, and not just because she told me so at every possible opportunity.
But that first time, I followed her through the house feeling a bit like a lamb led to slaughter. Even if I didn’t understand where that feeling had come from.
I wondered how many people must live here, given the abundance of space. As we turned the corner, I expected there to be a veritable army waiting for us, because this house seemed big enough to comfortably house an entire football team. But every room we passed was empty, each hallway cold and full of only silence.
Mama led me through the kitchen, past a counter laid out with trays of food that made my mouth water, and through a sliding glass door that opened out into manicured gardens. But she didn’t give me a chance to appreciate the view of perfectly symmetrical hedges and neatly groomed flower beds, pulling me by my elbow down the path and away from the house.
Cortland Manor was built on the edge of a sheer cliff, and nothing compared to its views of the sea. The best spot was on the far side of the gardens where a small table had been laid out with fine china, perfectly sized for childlike fingers, set before a pair of wrought iron chairs painted white.
A boy sat at the stone table, glaring off into the distance where waves crashed against the rocky shore. I couldn’t see the exact expression on his face, but unwelcome radiated from the tense set of his shoulders and the way he shifted away as we approached.
“Vincent? This is my daughter, Zaya. Remember, I told you about her.” Mama’s voice was hesitant, which surprised me. She never spoke to anyone else with this sort of respectful hesitation, this reverence. “Your mother thought it might be nice for you to play together.”
“Giselle isn’t my mother.”
The whispered words were harsh and clipped, but Mama had already turned away to rush back toward the house.
My first thought was that his voice sounded so much older than he looked.
In fact, I’d assumed on first glance that he had to be significantly younger than me. His angular body was small with thin shoulders, but the gaze that narrowed on my face was heavy with the knowledge of a hundred years.
I approached the table, but didn’t try to sit down. For some reason, it felt like I needed to wait for his permission.
Some indication that I was welcome.
But he didn’t do what any normal boy of his breeding would and stand up to pull back a chair for me. Instead, he glared with obvious derision in his gaze.
“Why are you here?” he asked, voice caustic.
“To play.” The words weren’t even sarcasm, I just found myself repeating what Mama had said although I didn’t have any idea what she’d meant. This boy definitely didn’t seem like the playing type, and I really wasn’t either. Plus, there didn’t seem to be any toys or games around. “Whatever that means.”
“I don’t play with the help.” The look he
