Leighton Mia - Hero

“When the Master of the House is in, dinner attire is required. But when it’s just us,” Norman says with a friendly wink, “this will do.”

His attempt at comfort is lost on me. All I hear is someone I don’t know telling me what to do. He ignores my scowl and leads me through a gold-lighted foyer into a high-ceilinged dining room.

Calling attention to the center of the room is a sturdy table with fat, carved legs. It’s long and imposing, with a high-backed chair at each end and ten in between, five on each side. The red runner down the middle is edged with gold trim. I feel insignificant when I sit in the oversized end chair that Norman directs me to. As soon as I hit the cushion, a considerably rotund man is setting a dish in front of me.

“Normally Norman will deliver your food,” he says, shoving his hand between us, “but I’ve been waiting all day to meet you. I’m Chef Michael.”

I can almost feel the dark bags sagging under my eyes when I stare blankly at him.

He straightens up and clears his throat. “It’s not often that we have guests.” He laughs in a quick burst, touches his strawberry-blond hair, and shrugs at Norman. “Not often at all, actually. I’ve made this especially for your arrival. Asian-style quail on a bed of wild rice.”

His tone is irritatingly proud, so I say, “I’m a vegetarian.”

Norman looks down his nose at me. “No, you are not.”

I frown, incensed that he’s called my bluff. I look up at the chef with pleading, watery eyes. “I’m being held hostage,” I tell him. “Please. You have to help me.”

He visibly tenses, but his gaze shifts from mine. “Can I get you anything else, Ms. Ford?”

I just shake my head.

Whatever they gave me turned me ravenous. I clear my plate quickly, along with the warm chocolate soufflé delivered immediately after. The only sound in the room is the echo of my fork clinking against the plate. I’m satisfied, but I eat until the last bite and set my silverware down. I wonder why Guy isn’t here for dinner and when he’ll finally show up. Crude ideas of what our meeting will be like come easily because of an afternoon spent agonizing.

My gaze flits around grand surroundings, noting the long, skinny windows that frame freedom like a painting. Where would I go? Where am I? Am I even near New Rhone anymore? When I look over my shoulder, my eyes land on Norman in the doorway. “I’m ready for the tour,” I say.

His reply comes with a clasp of his hands. “Delightful.”

Carter appears from the kitchen as if he’d been waiting there. My fists shove into the shallow pockets of my jeans as I follow Norman and Carter follows me.

“If a room is unlocked, you are free to enjoy,” Norman explains cheerfully. He takes me around the ground floor, and I count doors and windows. None of the closed doors are included on the tour. There’s a chapel specially installed for the staff at Norman’s request. When he tells me to use it anytime I want, I can’t tell if it’s an invitation or a suggestion. Carter is our silent shadow and makes neither invitations nor suggestions.

Norman seems excited to show me the second floor, which has a game room, home cinema, gym, and another smaller, more intimate dining room. His smile vanishes when I don’t react. But then his eyes light up. “I saved the best for last,” he says.

He leads me down the marble stairs, back to the ground floor. On the way, I think how if I weren’t forced to stay here, I’d have died and gone to heaven. But I don’t realize how true that is until we reach my first slice of happiness in twenty-four hours: the most impressive library I’ve ever seen. Endless books line the walls of a room that somehow manages to be both overwhelming and cozy.

My lips part, inching open until I’m gaping. My head tilts to take in the sheer quantity of books surrounding me. I trace my finger over leather binding, embossed titles, glossy authors. Everything from Atlas Shrugged to Interview with the Vampire to The Velveteen Rabbit . My hearts skips and swells as I recognize stories I’ve read, ones I want to read, and even more thrilling, so many I’ve never heard of.

Norman’s voice disrupts my literary worship. “Perhaps it’s time to rest again. You’ve had a trying day.”

I sigh. “And still no answers.”

“I can’t promise you will ever get your answers; that’s up to the Master of the House. For now, dear, that will have to be answer enough.”

I swallow down the curse I’m tempted to hurl at him. Despite his involvement in keeping me here, I’m not so sure he has any more choice in the matter than I do. So far he’s been kind to me, and though I’m distrustful, it doesn’t seem that taking my anger out on him gets me anywhere. I decide to reserve that for Guy Fowler.

Even having slept much of the day, Norman is right that I’m exhausted. Sleep sounds welcoming. Carter fades into the shadows after a warning look, but Norman follows me up the steps to the third floor.

“Cataline,” he says when we reach the landing.

I turn and face him.

“There’s nothing much to see on your floor. It’s mostly guest bedrooms and storage. However . . .” He points up stairs that fade into darkness, where not a light that I can see shines. “Do not go to the fourth floor.”

“Why not?”

He inhales deeply. “That floor is meant only for the Master of the House, and when necessary, staff. He is very particular about his space.”

I shrug my shoulders with defeat. “Whatever. Goodnight.”

With that, I leave Norman and his sudden grimness at the mouth of floor four.

The equipment’s hum suits the room’s grey, steely surroundings. Machinery that never rests heats the space, but warmth seems inherently wrong for all the sharp edges. Indiscriminate file cabinets filled with data close us in. Files are labeled, alphabetized, slid, shut, and locked into place. Cameras guard the most important corners of the mansion and transmit here. From this underground security chamber, I am even more transcendent than usual. My shoulders depress with a deep and overdue exhale.

“I can handle this, sir,” Norman says to my back. “You have more important things to worry about.”

I ignore him as screen number four of twelve distorts, erratic scribbles marring the black-and-white dining room.

“I know how this type of behavior upsets you,” Carter mutters as he rewinds the footage.

“You say this isn’t the first time?”

“She has fits now and then. So far only during the day when you aren’t around.”

“She should be thankful for that.”

“Give her time,” Norman says. “There’s bound to be some wreckage until she settles.”

I turn to face him with an arched eyebrow. “It’s not the wreckage that concerns me. It’s the disregard for your authority and the lack of a routine. We don’t ask much of her. It shouldn’t be so difficult to acclimate.”

“Put yourself in her shoes,” Norman says under his breath. “It’s only been a week.”

“This is the time for authority. There’s no room for mistakes in our world, you know that. Even the smallest one can change everything. If I could ignore her antics, I would. I don’t give a damn what she does with her days. But disobedience has to be cut off at the source.”

“I understand, but all I’m suggesting is some patience. Maybe I can give her something to make her feel more at home. Is there anything in her apartment she can have?”

“Like I have time to go snooping in her apartment. She seems to like Mexican food—why don’t you have Michael make her some of those chicken tacos?” He frowns when I laugh. “Don’t treat her like such a child, Norman. She’ll adapt. If she doesn’t, I’ll just have to put myself in her path. How’s that for an idea?”