Page 6 of One Last Goodbye

***

I open my eyes. I lay still for a moment, trying to hold onto the images in my dream, but they have already fled. All I can remember is the sound of teeth scraping on a dinner fork.

I shiver, and the movement shakes the last of the terror from my mind. It's still dark outside, but I check my cell phone and see that it's already half past six. According to the schedule, Catherine emailed me when I accepted the post that the children are expected to have breakfast in an hour. Sophie prepares their lunches and dinners, but breakfast will be left to me.

So, I dress and head to the kitchen. Since I have some time, I take a detour through the parlor, or I suppose they would refer to it as the living room, since Americans rarely make the separation between the two rooms the way Brits do.

The living room continues the post-modern aesthetic. The furniture is lightly colored and seems designed for form more than function. The tile is dark here, some form of basaltic stone that I’m not familiar with, while the walls are silvery-white. It’s not as disgusting as the kitchen was, but it's odd to me. The theme of each room in the house seems to be different. The look overall is modern, but it's almost as though the house is trying to figure out what it's supposed to be.

I leave the living room and open a door to a study. Here, finally, the décor makes some sense to me. The room is floored with laminated hardwood—maple, I believe. The furniture is all of dark mahogany and oiled to a shine. Behind the massive desk is a chair richly upholstered in dark brown leather. There is a computer, of course, but there are also wall-to-wall bookshelves, and beyond the study is a second room which contains a standing globe and models of sailing ships behind glass. It’s a true gentleman’s study and a breath of fresh air to my old-fashioned tastes.

I hear soft whispering coming from the second room. An image flashes through my mind of a tall, pale woman with emptyholes where her eyes should be. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel a strong urge to run.

Then, a figure passes in front of the globe. Instead of a tall, pale woman with empty eyes, it's a petite young woman with straight, dark hair. She wears a black coat that looks somewhat like a monk's robes and carries a tallow candle in front of her.

It’s Olivia. I release the breath I’m holding. My fear turns to curiosity. What is she doing down here this early? And what is the purpose of the candle?

She walks in a circle around the globe, her head bowed. She whispers the entire time, and when she crosses to the opposite side, she raises the candle over her head and lifts her gaze.

Her eyes lock on mine. For a split second, she stares at me, stock still. Then she cries out and drops the candle. The flame sputters out, and I lift my hands placatingly. “It’s all right. It’s just me.”

She runs from the room, brushing past me in her headlong flight from the study. I call her name a few times, but she ignores me. I decide not to follow her. Whatever she was doing, I’ve clearly embarrassed her.

But whatwasshe doing?

I walk into the globe room and look around. The nautical aesthetic is completed by a massive ship's wheel hung on one wall. Other than that, the only sign of anything out of the ordinary is the candle lying on the floor and the rapidly drying drops of tallow that surround it.

I pick the candle up and take it to my room. I’ll return it to Olivia later.

I return to the study with a washcloth and clean the tallow. By the time I’ve finished, it’s nearly seven. Time for me to make breakfast.

I take one last look at the room before I leave for the kitchen. Olivia is only a young girl, but I can’t stifle a disturbing feeling about what I’ve witnessed.

Well, perhaps I’m overthinking it. There are no murders or rumors of murders surrounding this family or this estate.

Still, there’s no denying the oddness of what I’ve just witnessed.

***

Olivia makes no mention of what happened in the study when she comes downstairs for breakfast. She avoids eye contact and eats her breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast with jam, and a small cup of blueberries—without speaking, then rushes upstairs to her room. I’ll need to fetch her for her schoolwork soon, but I’ll allow her some privacy until then.

I’ll take this opportunity to build some rapport with Ethan. He remains equally silent during his breakfast. “Did you like your toast?” I ask.

He frowns quizzically at me. “Yes. Why did you ask about the toast specifically?”

He is shockingly articulate for a young boy. I will have to explore that when I instruct him. Perhaps his quiet is simply an effect of boredom. Young minds need to be challenged, particularly brilliant young minds. “Well, eggs are simple enough, and you’d have to be a fool not to enjoy a fresh blueberry, but I find that some boys take issue with the seeds in strawberry jam.”

He nods. “It’s fine.”

It seems he will take some effort to reach as well. “What do you do for fun, Ethan?”

His brow furrows. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious.”

He holds my eyes for a moment, then shrugs. “I collect comic books.”

I smile. “What kind?”

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