Page 4 of A Guardian for Christmas

I can’t seem to get warm, but I don’t feel like sitting up to rearrange the blankets. These days, the house is colder. The utility bill for this place is exorbitant, I’m told. Frye had to makethe executive decision without me to only heat the place enough to keep the pipes from freezing in a cold snap.

Today is the snappiest of cold snaps in my recent memory, and on top of that, I’m told I can’t use the fireplace in my room because of a crack in the liner, or the crown, or something like that.

A laundry list of things regarding the house needs my attention, but I can’t seem to give it.

I close my eyes and wait for sleep.

The door opens a short time later, and I assume it’s Cressida, coming to check and see if I’ve eaten.

I open my eyes in alarm, then. The footsteps approaching the bed do not sound like the cook.

An earthy leather scent fills the room, one that’s eerily familiar, but I can’t place it.

The bed frame creaks under the weight of someone large.

I freeze.

All I know is it’s not Frye. It’s not anyone who belongs here, I can tell that much. None of the staff would dare sit on my bed.

Not-Frye’s voice says, “Esme. Are you awake?”

I don’t know how to answer that.

I run the tip of my tongue over my dry lips. I swallow. Words don’t come, and I don’t know which ones I’d use, anyway.

A sinewy hand pulls back the blanket.

I wince at the cold.

“Yeah, you’re awake,” says the rough voice, with a hint of a teasing smile in it.

Once again, I try to wet my lips and reply, but all that comes out is an embarrassing wheeze.

“That’s it,” he says, but I don’t know what he means. What’s it?

That same hand that pulled back the curtain goes to my hair. A light, brief petting sends a pleasing rush over my skin. How long has it been since someone touched me who wasn’t a doctor or another type of professional hired to help me?

Everyone around me is employed by me. They wouldn’t dare touch me unless they were under orders from Frye to check my temperature or my pulse. And they do it awkwardly and quickly, without sitting on my bed or bossily removing the covers.

So why am I not screaming and reaching for my phone to call the police?

This person could be here to rob me…or worse.

But at 11 in the morning?

No, it must be yet another practitioner hired by Frye to “help” me. A personal trainer? Physical therapist? Motivational coach?

Oh well. There’s nothing they can do.

The man removes his hand from my hair and clears his throat.

“Esme, the first thing we’re going to do is eat this breakfast while it’s warm.”

I bury my head in the pillow. I don’t know who this is, but I’m not hungry.

“Fine. Don’t eat. But you do need to drink something.”

Strange…I hadn’t noticed my head pounding from dehydration until he said that.

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