Chapter 9

Chapter 9

ELENA

In the car he had been kind, almost. A little sad. But here, in the house, in front of everyone, his face was different. Closed. Polite. Like a shop window with the blinds pulled down.

"Mrs. Elena," he said, and gave me a small nod.

"Just Elena is fine," I said.

"Mrs. Elena," he said again, like he had not heard me.

He did not move closer. He stood near the door with his hands folded in front of him. And I saw where his eyes went. First to my hands. Then to my bag. Then to the stairs, where the children had gone. Then back to me.

He was watching me the way the guards at the gate watched the road. Like I was something that might go off.

"Did I do something to you?" I asked him. I kept my voice low. "Before? Did I hurt you?"

For a moment, something moved in his face. Then it was gone.

"No, ma'am," he said.

But he did not say it like it was the whole truth.

"Mrs. Hale."

It was Damien's voice. A tall thin woman came down the stairs. She was maybe sixty. Gray hair pulled back so tight it made her face look stretched. Black dress buttoned all the way to her chin. She walked like a ruler, stiff and straight, and her shoes made neat little clicks on every step.

"Sir," she said when she reached the bottom. "Welcome home."

"Elena, this is Mrs. Hale. She runs the house."

Mrs. Hale turned to me. She looked me up and down, slowly, from my messy hair to my hospital shoes. Her lips got very thin.

"Madam," she said. That was all. One word. Cold as a spoon left in the freezer.

"Hello," I said. "It's nice to meet you."

Something crossed her face at that. Surprise, maybe. Then suspicion.

"We have met, madam," she said. "Many times."

"I don't remember."

"So I have been told." She said it the way you say something you do not believe but are too polite to call a lie.

I waited for someone to say something. For Damien to tell them I was hurt. That the doctors said it was real. That they should be kind to me.

He did not.

He was already turning away. Maria still had his jacket over her arm. He said something to Luca about a phone call, and Luca nodded, and the two of them started down the hall to the left, toward a heavy wooden door at the end.

"Damien," I said.

He stopped. He did not turn around.

"Where do I go?" I asked. "Which room is mine?"

There was a long quiet. I heard the clock somewhere ticking. One of the maids shifted her feet.

"Mrs. Hale will see to it," Damien said.

Then he walked away. Luca followed. The heavy door opened, and closed, and they were gone.

I turned to Mrs. Hale.

She was already walking back up the stairs.

"Mrs. Hale?" I called. "Excuse me. He said you'd show me my room."

She did not stop. "I have the children's supper to see to, madam. Someone will be along."

"Who?"

But she was gone too, around the curve of the stairs, her neat shoes clicking away.

I looked at the maids. They looked at the floor. One of them turned and walked quickly toward the back of the house. The other one followed. The man in the vest had disappeared through his door on the left. I had not even seen him go.

And then it was only me, standing in the middle of that huge white hall with my bag in my arms and the lilies making my head hurt. The light from all those crystals was so bright it hurt my eyes. I could hear the children somewhere upstairs, laughing and splashing. I could hear a man's voice behind the heavy door. I could hear pots banging in a kitchen I had never seen.

This was my home. I had lived here for three years. I was the wife. The lady of the house.

And I did not even know where I was supposed to sleep.

My eyes stung. I blinked hard. I would not cry. Not here, not in front of whoever might be watching. I had a feeling that in this house, someone was always watching.

I felt her before I heard her.

The soft sound of bare feet on marble. The smell of expensive perfume, sweet and heavy, cutting through the smell of lilies. Then she was right beside me. So close I could feel the warmth of her arm.

Maria.

She did not have Damien's jacket anymore. She must have taken it to him. Her face was calm and pretty and kind, like a picture of a kind woman. If anyone looked at us from across the hall, they would have seen a friend standing close to a friend. Maybe helping her. Maybe saying something nice.

She leaned in. Her lips almost touched my ear.

"Welcome home," she whispered. Her voice was soft and sweet, like honey poured over broken glass. "Aunt Elena."

Then she stepped back, smiled at me, and walked up the stairs toward the sound of the children, her bare feet silent on the marble.

I stood there frozen.

Aunt.

Aunt Elena.

I did not know what it meant. I did not know why she said it, or why it made my whole body go cold. But I knew one thing, deep in my bones, the same way I had known Damien was my husband before he said his name.

Somewhere upstairs, three children had been told a story about me.

And in that story, I was not their mother.