Chapter 1
First Impressions
Emilia had no way of knowing it would be the most beautiful thing she would ever see. She had heard the stories about the house, of course, as haunted and depraved as the man who lived there. And it wasn’t surprising that the mansion was in the outskirts of Weston—one of the richest areas in Massachusetts—since it had always been her experience that rich people were often more eccentric than the poor. Though mostly, she had heard of how he scrupulously analyzed the work all the girls did, pointing out dirt and dust bunnies that were not really there, ranting long after tears were shed about window streaks and beds not made to perfection.
The woman who employed her gossiped freely about how Ana had hysterically struggled with her heavy German accent to pronounce the names he had called her. And Emilia had been there herself, picking up her paycheck, when Becky outright quit after claiming that “the freak” had threatened to kill her, saying that her blubber was more useful than she was.
At first, Emilia was insulted that she had not been the first one put on the schedule for the freak’s house. She was often requested over the other girls and told that customers liked her for being polite and on time—a fact she knew may have been mediocre, but one she prided herself on, nevertheless. And since this particular house was scheduled for two four-hour cleanings every week, it was a chance to earn some serious tips.
Still, it wasn’t until almost everyone else bluntly refused to go to Iram Manor that Emilia was offered the job. She accepted happily, feigning ignorance at the friendly warnings from her co-workers and more determined than ever to make it work. In her mind, one dirty house was just the same as the next.
Emilia always knew she was in Weston right around the time she spotted the first house worth around (by her guess) half a million. She noticed how they would gradually get a little bigger as she drove along, a little more space between one another, the landscaping more grandiose. The individuals jogging down the street would begin looking more like movie stars than real people, and the children would be riding bicycles that were probably—no, scratch that—definitely worth more than her car.
She recognized one or two of the houses, having cleaned in this neighborhood before. And Emilia was willing to admit to a certain combination of awe and envy she felt when she walked into her first mansion. Yet, sometime in between cleaning their toilets and listening to their children complain about how they needed the newest iPhone, there was an instant where any feelings of jealousy and even the slightest impression of wonder dissolved into simple annoyance.
Most of the time, however, she just smiled, nodded, and tried to bear it when they spoke to her like an imbecile or something under their shoe. She’d often compare it to getting her teeth cleaned, the sensitivity of it painful in some places, but not unbearable. Because, even though she was in the top ten percent of her class, even though she was pre-med and she probably knew more about their own anatomy than they did, she often found that those with money were more likely to look down at those without it.
Emilia continued to drive long past the prestigious houses with acres of meadow for sale, historical sites, and parking lots filled with classic cars. It wasn’t until she took the final turn off the main drive that she came across the dead-end road she was looking for. Immediately, the land around it looked lost, untamed, which in itself was unusual for the prosperous town. Normally, all things in Weston were well managed and refined to the extent one would expect of an area with individuals of higher income. So to see drooping branches over a street sign seemed odd to Emilia, eerie even. And though it was still humid from the Indian summer, she shivered.
She made her way down the road slowly, as it was littered with potholes and more gravel than pavement. Broken pieces of road lay out in the grass, and she wondered how people with so much money would let their tax dollars go to waste. Thinking for sure she was in the wrong place, she looked for a place to turn around until she saw a sign that forewarned “Private Drive” and signaled her blinker.
There were small sticks and branches in the road and even more paved debris. Though it may have been her imagination, it felt as though the street itself was becoming gradually worse in quality; as if enough people didn’t travel along it to make repair worthwhile.
She glanced down at the GPS on the dash. This couldn’t have been it, could it? But suddenly a long line of tall trees and well-trimmed shrubbery emerged, almost blocking a driveway entrance from the road. It wasn’t until she actually pulled into it that she saw the reflective sign against one of the trees: “Private Property.” Another signed warned “Trespassers Prosecuted” each with the lettering in a bold, threatening font. Regardless, Emilia didn’t look at them twice. Several houses in Weston had private security guards outside their gates and everyone had a security system. Though the signs by themselves looked excessive—not to mention outdated—they still weren’t outside the realm of normal.
As the unpaved road turned into a freshly tarred one, she caught a glimpse of the cast-iron gates that were held up by stone pillars. Holding her hand up against the sun, she glanced in both directions—the gate and pillars stretched as far as she could see.
She had no distinct way of knowing—though she guessed, off-hand—that the land around it had to have been at least ten acres; a large estate, but still not unusual for Weston.
Emilia pulled her car, a squealing Honda, up to the front gate and put it in park. Unsurprisingly, there were cameras at the top of the pillars there, blinking every few seconds, but for some reason they gave her a creepy feeling, making her hesitate to remove her seat-belt and even to leave her car. She wasn’t sure why those cameras gave her the heebie jeebies, but they did. Even after she scolded herself the feeling wouldn’t go away. Emilia had to remind herself that a lot of well off people had security cameras—both the real and the fake kind—she knew she had been watched and recorded on them before, so what was the big deal now? It was because she was self-conscious, she told herself. Yeah, that was all. This guy probably only had them as a preliminary requirement for his homeowners insurance. There’s no reason for you to feel weirded out…
She spotted the plastic keypad attached to the front gate right away though the glare from one of the cameras threatened to blind her. No doubt there was a doorbell of some kind, but Emilia never got the chance to discover it for herself before a voice—feminine but stern—emerged from the speaker.
“Leave your vehicle and use the employee entrance located at the back of the house.”
After that, there was nothing else except the subtle sound of the gate opening. “Um, hello?” she said into the speaker. Emilia wasn’t sure she had heard the voice correctly. Leave her car there? Where was the house? Unsure of what to do, she hit the dusty red button at the keypad’s center. “Hi, I’m from Green and Clean Housekeeping…”
She waited, but there was no response.
Emilia stared at the speaker before cursing and stamping her foot into the ground. Even standing on her tippy-toes, she couldn’t see the house. They wanted her to carry all of the cleaning supplies up there? Her green little Civic wasn’t that ugly, was it? Sure, it had a duct-taped mirror, a few dents and bumps, a crack in the windshield, and some torn up interior, but the gas mileage was worth bragging about. Couldn’t the rich relate to how great that was?
She tried not to take it personally and grabbed the cleaning caddies from the trunk. If she were a yuppie, she’d probably want to keep the eyesores of “the help” as far away from her family and guests as possible, too. After all, some of these people had worked extremely hard to earn their living, and once they got to the top of the proverbial food chain, she could understand why being reminded of the poor might be the last thing they might want. Emilia slung one of the caddies over her shoulder and gripped the handlebar of the other, still unable to shake the strange feeling the cameras gave her as she walked through the opening gate.
At first, there was just the yard, as wide and open as the sky itself. Emilia had difficulty just trying to focus on the hundreds of yards of bluegrass as the gates slammed shut behind her. There wasn’t a single tree in sight, making the slight curves that began and ended on the drive look more like a golf course than someone’s yard. Yet, as she continued to walk, she could see in the far distance, sporadic statues, which enlarged the closer she came. Though it was already after Labor Day, a large circle of sunflowers stood proud, surrounded by azaleas and a stone bench. Emilia wanted to stop to admire them properly but knew it was null and void to the work ahead.
Other small gardens came into view; small maple trees, Japanese cedar, dogwood and cherry blossoms with cobblestone paths between… all encompassed by intrinsic flowers that she couldn’t have identified if her life depended on it. Each patch was different, obviously having been designed by someone who was an expert on the subject of landscaping. Even with as beautiful as they were, however, Emilia thought they were not a proper introduction to the manor.
The chimney stacks came into view first. They were different in size but appeared to be symmetrically placed from each other. Emilia counted twelve total. It was odd, in the general vicinity of the neighborhood, so many Weston houses had modernized, Cape-Cod-style homes or oversized ranch farmhouses. This house, however, was something entirely different. Instead of a mansion, it was closer to a château—or what she always imagined one would look like, anyway. Three visible stories looked like they were created from the same kind of stone that surrounded the front gate, the sheltering for Victorian windows.
And while Iram Manor was easily the largest house she had ever seen, that wasn’t what amazed her.
What was so fantastic about the place was its design, its style. The manor looked old world, a castle taken straight out of England and placed right in the middle of Massachusetts. Obviously, since that wasn’t possible, she presumed that it had its own architect, European, undoubtedly, and brimming with good taste. The closer Emilia came to the house, the more beautiful it appeared, and she genuinely admired the obviously painstaking work it must have taken to create the balconies, the slate roofing, the foundation around such a monstrous house on uneven ground.
Emilia walked along as instructed, not surprised there weren’t any toys even this close to the house. People this wealthy had to have at least one or two live-in nannies who did nothing but clean up and take care of the kids. She smiled at the relief. With a house this size, there was easily eight hours of work to do a week, but at least she might not have to cover the kids’ rooms.
There were additional gardens—each more exotic than she could have imagined with flowers that looked like orchids, and something with sharp, yellow petals. A manmade stream ran somewhere she couldn’t see, though she knew it was there from the sound of running water. Another cobblestone path began away from the house and went into a valley of trees so orange, they looked as though they were on fire. She saw a few small birds jumping from branch to branch and told herself that if things worked out, she would have to go exploring.
There were several different doors to choose from once Emilia reached the back of the house, but she was unsure which entrance was for the employees. With muddy footprints and an uncoiled hose on the ground, she presumed she was on the right path but still wasn’t sure exactly where she was supposed to be. An unopened box of garbage bags and an extension cord sat on the edge of the picnic table, so she tried the door closest to there, knocking three, four, then five times.
Emilia waited between knocks, rapping a little harder each time. After a few minutes, however, she grew torn between putting the caddies down and trying the next door. The decision was made for her when an older woman finally answered.
Wearing a straight-legged pant suit, she was probably in her late forties, with pristine makeup and her chestnut hair in a flawless bun. She looked down at Emilia from behind her thick glasses and frowned, which made Emilia second guess her perception of her instantly.
“You’re late.” Emilia instantly recognized the voice from the gate, though there was a noticeable accent there that she hadn’t noticed before.
“I’ve been knocking. I also didn’t account for the extra time it would take to walk—”
“Excuses are not necessary.” As she stepped aside, she withdrew a phone from her jacket pocket and a plastic pen. Emilia cringed, only imagining what kind of note the older woman was probably making about her. “This will not be acceptable in the future.”
Emilia nodded and stepped inside. The older woman was already walking away, so Emilia struggled to close the door and readjust the caddy weight while following her.
“I am Mrs. Levkin, Mr. Zafar’s assistant.” She looked up from her phone. “You will arrive here Tuesdays and Thursdays at 3:00 PM sharp. You will do your duties and leave at 7:00 PM sharp. Your duties are as follows: maintaining the bedrooms on the second floor in addition to dusting, floor care, and the polishing of certain furniture items on the first floor. You are responsible for the sitting room, which includes window washing, empting the fireplace, and steam cleaning the carpet and furniture at appropriate intervals.”
Emilia nodded with each new direction. Of course she had questions, but it seemed vital not to interrupt. How many times had Mrs. Levkin given this same speech to other cleaning girls, a dozen times? Two dozen?
“Before you leave each day, you will vacuum the second floor hall and the rug in the sitting room and dining room. Bathrooms on the first and second floor must be cleaned regularly. Once monthly, you will dust the library and the chandelier in the hall. The kitchen and breakfast rooms are not used often, but when they are, you may have to look after them as well.”
The duo still hadn’t moved from what Emilia was now realizing was a massive laundry room, but if the rest of the house was as massive as this service room, she knew she’d have her work cut out for her.
Emilia let her gaze travel upward. The house was as quiet as a classroom on exam day. No running pipes, running of small feet, voices, or even appliances. Frankly, it was as startling as the cameras. She would have thought that even in the middle of the day, a house that large, that grand, would have been livelier.
“W-what about the third floor?”
Mrs. Levkin’s face formed a grimace. “Under no circumstances are you to go to the third floor. Understand?”
“Yes.”
For a second, she smiled. “Good. Any other questions?”
Emilia shook her head and smiled. For the moment, at least, her objections had been made clear and Emilia appreciated the efficiency Mrs. Levkin seemed to conduct herself and the rest of the house with. Emilia promised herself that as long as she continued to be professional, Emilia would do so as well.
“Well.” She looked the young woman up and down. Emilia hoped that her personality defects wouldn’t be visible. “I hope you last longer than the rest of them.”
Emilia’s eyebrows went straight up, but before she could ask about her meaning, Mrs. Levkin turned on her heel and started walking. “Come along, then I’ll show you the rest of the house.”
Following her short steps, Emilia noticed how they were uneven from each other, the slight limp making the older woman look feeble. Still, she didn’t have any trouble leading Emilia out of the labyrinth of cemented rooms, all semi-connected to one another. While she told Emilia it was “only” the basement, her eyes guessed that in square feet alone it was bigger than Emilia’s entire house.
After journeying up a short set of stairs, she introduced Emilia to a kitchen that was massive but practical, with lots of overhead space and red marble countertops that were not nearly as glamorous as Emilia expected.
“I do the shopping once a week,” Mrs. Levkin said. “This room is the pantry, and as I showed you, the basement may be used for additional food storage.”
Emilia marveled at the massive quantities of food, but the lentils, dried fruits, and granola were the only things she recognized.
“There is the breakfast room…” They walked past a room with golden paneling along the edges of the walls that glittered in the midday light. Emilia was mesmerized by the way they contrasted with the dark curtains and furnishings. Mrs. Levkin continued on—didn’t even yield—and Emilia hurried on behind her as she pointed out one bathroom from another, a closet…
“This is the foyer.” She pointed skyward. “That is the chandelier you will have to clean. I hope you aren’t afraid of heights?”
There was no question that the chandelier was extraordinary. Like hundreds of small diamonds bent upon themselves, the light bounced flawlessly from the sponge-painted limestone and the tall ceiling fixtures. And the crystals provided ample light for the extravagant paintings that hung in what could have been real gold frames on the walls, taller and possibly heavier than Emilia herself.
Once Emilia’s eyes tuned in to the beauty of it, she blinked. “Heights? Ah—no, heights aren’t a problem.”
“Good.”
Mrs. Levkin walked past Emilia as she continued to stare upward, and it was only as her footsteps began to echo away that Emilia awoke from her stupor and rushed to follow.
“The house is so quiet,” she marveled. “How old are the children?”
Mrs. Levkin immediately tensed at the mention of little ones, and Emilia realized that perhaps she had touched on a sadder subject. She made a mental note not to do so again.
“There are no children in the house,” she said, and Emilia cringed at the sternness in her voice.
“Oh, ah…” She felt her palms begin to sweat. “Sorry, I didn’t realize Mr. and Mrs. Zafar didn’t—”“There is no Mrs. Zafar.”
Emilia wanted to hit herself. In less than thirty seconds, she’d stumbled into two personal subjects that she wasn’t meant to step in. Luckily, if they were complete forbidden, Mrs. Levkin didn’t say as much and continued to scroll the screen of her phone.
“Sorry.”
Mrs. Levkin sighed impatiently, but maybe when she looked back up, she saw how genuinely nervous Emilia was and decided it was better to be kind.
“Don’t fret, dear. If you do what you’re told, and act accordingly, then you’ll be fine.”
She would be fine? Emilia already knew that. If this guy was as bad as everyone said then she would tell him so and not come back. The worst-case scenario was that she would get fired, maybe even dismissed from Green and Clean in general. But even then, she could always find another job cleaning somewhere else, right? Besides, it wasn’t as if Emilia hadn’t already been called every name in the book. Threats aside, this guy couldn’t physically hurt her unless he wanted the police knocking down his door. What was there possibly to be afraid of?
“What are you doing with those, by the way?”
She was glad Mrs. Levkin finally acknowledged the supplies she carried, as Emilia’s shoulder burned with the weight, and where she gripped the handle, her fingertips ached from the plastic digging against her skin.
“Oh no.” She shook her head so intensely that Emilia waited for the bun to come undone, but not a single hair budged. “Mr. Zafar insists on his own cleaning products being used. Large parts of the house are marble and chestnut, so certain chemicals would be damaging.”
“Right.” Though Emilia smiled, she seriously doubted Mrs. Levkin’s word that everything in the house was as it seemed. But keeping the customer happy was essential, and even though business management was Emilia’s worst class, even she’d managed to take away that much.
“I told your employer that previously.”
“Sorry,” Emilia said. “She didn’t mention it.”
Emilia dropped the caddies gently on the floor now, feeling nervous, wondering if she should’ve taken her shoes off first. How embarrassing would it be if Mrs. Levkin asked her to and she revealed the discolored socks beneath? She searched her mind, but couldn’t ever remember her boss telling her about the cleaning supplies, or the other girls mentioning it. What if they had and she simply had not been paying attention? Emilia felt around in her shoe—there was at least one hole in her left sock, and her insides cringed.
The noise that interrupted her thoughts came like glass breaking, sudden and shattering. Emilia looked at Mrs. Levkin but the older woman’s expression offered nothing. She looked above where the noise continued to echo. Finally, Emilia thought, some life in this dusty house.
Aasif was reading out loud again, a habit of his, Kasper had come to realize—despite its abominable annoyance—that was incurable. He would rack that little mind of his over ginger tea (Tea—ha!) and mumble and grumble like an angry adolescent, which, Kasper thought, only made him look older while he squinted to see the fine print.
To properly ignore him, Kasper reached for the glass beside him and returned to the drafting table. The cognac was smooth going down but warm once it reached his innards, almost too warm. September was half through and it was still as humid as it had been in July, making his prosthetics uncomfortable, and his temperament all the more bleak. His stomach implored him to reconsider as he brought the glass to his mouth again, but he did so anyway. Instinctively, the body will do anything to survive, to keep going, even if it is just for another minute.
He finished the remainder of the glass in one swallow.
“Honestly, Kasper, it isn’t even four o’clock yet.”
“Perhaps if I didn’t have to worry about the state of my affairs so much—”
“Your affairs are just fine.”
“Fine? Fine? You call this fine?”
Aasif sighed and did something with that device of this, the one that if it was not blinking, it was beeping.
Kasper needed another drink.
“You have more money than Allah himself and will for the rest of your days. This patent is of little importance and you know it.”
“That is not the point!” He withdrew to the service table and poured himself another glass. “I want credit for what is mine. And I will have it, with or without you.”
He took a moment to adjust his face, the rapid movement of functioning muscles causing his mask to slip just slightly. Kasper walked towards the window to be slightly less obvious, but like most things, Aasif was aware and knew not to acknowledge it, making no mention of the flaw.
“As if you could find another attorney to put up with you.” Like some knee-slapping imbecile, Aasif laughed. Though Kasper wanted to thrash the life from him then and there, he was weary—the lawyer did have a point. Because of certain… debilitations and his general condition, Kasper found it impossible to deal with people. Even more difficult was finding anything even remotely related to competent.
Yet just because he was not going to physically harm Aasif did not mean he would get off so easily. The man forgot his place too frequently and regularly needed reminding.
“If you think there are not a hundred good lawyers ready and willing like any good, common street whore to work for me, you had better rethink your position here.”
Aasif calmed himself and became serious. “Perhaps. Yet they would also have to tolerate you. That limits your options a great deal.”
“You forget what country we are in now, Aasif. All Americans are willing to do just about anything for the right price.”
He opened his mouth to retort but Kasper held up his hand to silence him. Taking a brief look at the glass in his hand, he sniffed the rich liquid inside, relishing the strong, warm scent. It was only when he looked up that he saw an image emerging from a hill beyond the drive: a cross between a woman and a girl, angel and darling.
He bit down on his false teeth. Hard.
“That.” He stabbed at the glass pane until the skin between his fingers bent backward, giving them that lizard-like effect he so hated. “What is that?”
“Hmm?” After another minute, Aasif stood up and glanced out the window Kasper so impatiently tapped at. “She’s probably just the new housekeeper. I told you, and I know Katherine told you, they were sending over someone else…”
“Yes. Yes. Yes.” Kasper waved him away, concerned with the fact that she was gone from his sights now, having walked to the back of the house and vanishing like she had never been there at all.
Aasif continued to talk as he left the room, giving Kasper warnings about civil suits and reminders of how many scrapes he had gotten him out of… the importance of treating all of his employees better.
Kasper went into the security room without taking the time to tell him to be quiet. Aasif Shiraz had lectured Kasper on all of this before and would do it again, for surely he would not listen, because without freedom of speech, what good was this country?
The monitors came on promptly, and though Aasif did seem to express some curiosity at his client’s doings, he didn’t question them, only continued to prattle on about the importance of the employer/employee relationship.
“If I cannot criticize the nature of my employees, then what is the point in obtaining their services?”
“It’s not that you do it, it is how you do it.”
For the briefest instant, Kasper saw her again, her image as dictated by the camera in the hall. In that particular light she looked different, magnified by the computer monitor. As much as Kasper hated those wretched devices, he had to confess to being rather fond of them in that moment.
Despite his lack of knowledge about both computers and the cameras themselves, Kasper managed to focus in on the girl as she and Mrs. Levkin moved to the foyer. Yet his moment of victory was only fleeting after a message came up on the screen to tell him that there was an error between the keyboard and computer. He inspected the attachments but could see nothing out of sorts. The moment he clicked out of the message however, it reappeared once more, alerting him to an error he could not see.
“Oh, will you shut up?” He wrenched the keyboard from its place and threw it against the wall. Clearly, he would have to see this apparition for himself.
Being certain to secure his wig, he also fixed the shirtsleeves he had rolled up before, and reaffirmed his facial mask and the tight hold of his gloves. Naturally, he would not allow her to see him, but Kasper was not foolish enough to leave the third floor without the security of his disguise, either.
“If you intend to refile this patent, then you have to sign the renewal.” Poor Aasif prattled along behind him, oblivious, it seemed, to Kasper’s new undertaking.
“Don’t you have a stamp for these things? What in the world am I paying you for if you are not intelligent enough to replicate my signature?”
Mrs. Levkin stopped talking once she was made aware of her employer’s presence. And through the fiddling of her bony hands, Kasper could see her trying to busy herself as she looked toward the girl—of which he then became astutely secure in the knowledge that she was not a figment of his cognac-induced imagination.
Kasper immediately decided henceforth that he must have missed the girl’s flinch.
He had concluded long ago that, at the discovery of his appearance, there was a hierarchy of reaction, the most minimal being the recoil or a widening of the eyes. This had led him to conclude that people were unaware of their own bodies, how they gave themselves away. Americans were especially guilty of this; even when they were disgusted by him they wanted to be polite and always tried to conceal their initial reactions with falsified smiles and extra compliments. Yet, those Western manners were only lies. And Kasper could always see the liars with their recoil from him or the rapid blinking of eyes.
It was only once he saw how quickly individuals recovered from their flinch that he could determine how talented of a liar they were—a helpful factor in deciding whether or not he would do business with them.
Above recoiling was the other, more visible reaction. Those with more weak constitutions tended to exhibit this reaction, paling once they realized he was not wearing a mask as a part of some joke or the extra material of his gloves was not some extended exaggeration. Sadly, Kasper had seen this from even the most industrious medical professionals, so that even when losing color, they shivered from goose bumps in the dead of summer, or their breath and pulse became visibly rapid. Still, it did not compare to the audible reaction.
Among the degrees of disgust, it was the audible reaction that he despised the most. More than one or two females had fainted upon viewing his visage, and still there were those who gasped, startled out loud then begged pardon, or squealed like little mice. Of course the children almost always gave a slight scream or even a laugh before the adults shushed them.
Yet Kasper would rather have the children scream than laugh, the women swoon than giggle…he would have easily given them something to cry about rather than something to be bemused over, a real reason to fear him.
Yet, she did not cringe as Kasper descended the staircase—his intent to remain completely unseen gone somehow. Surely he must have missed it, being slightly distracted by her charms. Or then again, maybe the girl did not have good enough eyesight to notice anything amiss. And wouldn’t that be just like Mrs. Levkin, to test him with a beauty who could not see? If the humor of it were not lost on him, he might have thought to laugh.
Of course, Kasper had seen beautiful women before, but this girl was not entirely a woman. Now that he could see her up close, it seemed that she was not the ravenous beauty he originally thought, though not so plain as to be considered unattractive, either. Her skin was pale and clear, hair the color of a ripe peach and much too long. She was an over mature child at best, as evidenced by her warm cheeks and bright eyes. Kasper searched for a deficiency in the pupil there, slightly amused to find one of the blues darker than the other.
Strangely, he found her staring back at him. Few people had been capable of holding his stare over the years, so he hardly knew what to do in this situation. Even more peculiar was the slight smile that crossed her face when she politely greeted him.
“Hello.”
He thought momentarily her casualness may have indicated she was completely blind. Yet he quickly realized this theory made little sense. Even so, the palpitations began in his chest again, inflaming the insides surrounding his ribcage all at once. He considered reaching for his medication, but a display of weakness in front of this stranger was not something Kasper intended to divulge. Fortunately, however, the girl did not seem to notice.
“A salaam alaikum.” Aasif did not reach out his hand to introduce himself, but Kasper found himself wondering what would have happened if she had. The mere idea of touching her flesh made his breathing stick like tack in his lungs.
Focus.
His eyes wouldn’t move from her. She smiled at Aasif unseemly, not put off by that wretched smell of ginger and the staleness of his turban. It was not a flirtatious smile, nor a nervous one, perhaps, simply, a polite smile, one that offered something, and nothing at all. Her body moved just a little then, and the world moved more slowly, as small hands with broken fingernails tucked her hair behind her ears.
“Well, don’t be rude, Kasper—”
Kasper violently removed Aasif’s hand from his shoulder, but even then, the girl didn’t startle. “I will be whatever I damn well please!”
Katherine Levkin’s eyes darted from Aasif back to Kasper, a silent question hanging in the air.
“Perhaps you should introduce yourself to the young lady?”
“Unless she is a complete nitwit, I presume she has already assessed I am the procurer of the house and therefore the signature on her paycheck!”
Emilia’s body language changed when Kasper snapped those words. Her shoulders stiffened back and her lips lapsed into a frown. And for a moment, he could have sworn… did she roll her eyes at him?
“I assure you, sir, that while I am not the most intelligent individual in the world, I am smart enough to have figured that out.”
“Oh, really? Smart enough, eh? Then why in the world did you bring that?” Kasper pointed out the array of cleaning vessels at her feet. Emilia quickly recovered herself, going back to her smiling disposition. Nevertheless, he had to make sure that she would learn not to challenge him.
“I was unaware—”
“Unaware, indeed.”
Mrs. Levkin and Aasif both jumped in at that juncture like a rescue team on a mission. Little did they know they were not needed. Emilia had dealt with her fair share of financially wealthy individuals who looked down on her, believing they had a license to treat her poorly. And perhaps it was the power in numbers—having possible other disgruntled employees next to her—or maybe it was the potential of simply being fed up with the “upper” class that made her so bold. Regardless, Emilia acted before thinking and, for once, said what she truly thought.
“If I’m not here for cleaning, then what am I here for? Given your reputation, I didn’t exactly come here to enjoy your company.”
“No, I imagine not.”
“You’d have to pay me a great deal more than ten dollars an hour for that.” She mumbled the words before she was able to stop them, and while she thought they were quiet enough for her ears only, Mr. Shiraz erupted into laughter and Mrs. Levkin began smirking under her hand. Despite their reaction, however, Emilia immediately blushed and let her eyes find the floor. What was she thinking?
“Why, you foolish, insolent girl! Do you have any idea who you are talking to?”
In between his bouts of laughter, Aasif managed to explain, “I am afraid you’ll have to sign waivers and the like prior to employment. They take a day or two to process.”
Kasper saw red, both in her face and in the spots before his eyes. This girl, some idiotic child, had the nerve to insinuate something so lurid in front of his face? In front of his people? Now she was all apologies, rushing with words of explanation, and nervousness. “I’m so sorry,” she stammered. “I was way out of line. I d-didn’t mean it.”
Mrs. Levkin made a mediocre attempt to comfort her, though how it could have been taken seriously when she, too, was laughing, was beyond him! At least when the phone rang, it forced Aasif to regain control of himself, or enough of it to leave the room and answer the machine with enough dignity to suggest he was a professional and not the keeper of a madhouse.
The awkward group could hear the Aasif talking quietly from the upstairs hallway. Emilia silently pleaded that he would return sooner rather than later, as the master of the house was staring her down, boring his eyes into her like his glare could make her spontaneously combust if he hated her enough.
“Kasper, it’s the patent office.”
He stared on.
“Kasper!”
He would have continued to stare if, perhaps, it wasn’t for Mrs. Levkin’s abrupt snort from the laughter she had been holding in. Even Emilia turned her head towards the sound, giving Kasper enough leeway to break her gaze and head up the stairs. Within an instant, he could hear the movement of Mrs. Levkin’s heels moving towards the library. Good, then she would take the girl with her—and get her as far away from him as possible.
Aasif handed him the receiver without a smile, his hand slightly tensed. He knew better than to laugh at Kasper with others around, yet he had done it anyway. Perhaps it was just now dawning on him the intensity of the mistake he had made. Thus, no one was more surprised than he when Kasper seemed to disregard him entirely. His eyes instead trailed after Mrs. Levkin, who appeared to be quietly trying to calm the new housekeeper.
“Aasif?”
“Yes?”
The lawyer backed away from the phone slowly, perhaps knowing any step could very well be his last.
“What,” he asked, “is that girl’s name?”
Aasif felt more surprise still. So he had been looking at the new housekeeper after all? “Emilia Ward.”
Yet instead of responding, Kasper remained silent, thinking to himself instead: You, Emilia Ward, have found the wrong person to make an adversary of.
