Page 9 of Wicked Beasts
As I stack them, I marvel at the thought of anyone taking the time to read them all. Only someone particularly ambitious,dedicated, and intelligent would even consider such a task. Even working for Tristan Black for only a few hours, I am fascinated by the mystery of him. When I start a project, I often find my ideas wild and scattered—like writing is more a question of riding the waves of untamed inspiration than some meticulous, organized project. Yet, here is someone with a clear goal, who is willing to spend hours diving deeper and deeper into a particular question until they are satisfied with their answer.
When done, I wait patiently in a chair by a window, but nearly an hour goes by without Tristan’s return.
I glance at the clock. It’s past noon, and Mortimer told me I was supposed to have a lunch break every day at noon. Begrudgingly, I take my bag and head to the kitchen, hoping to perhaps see my employer on my way there.
But the house is quiet, and I end up eating alone without seeing a soul.
I check my phone for any more messages from Tristan, and when I return to his study after lunch, I hazard a text:
Anything else I can help you with today?
After nearly another hour of waiting, I finally get a reply.
No. Thank you.
I can’t help but feel confused—and yes, disappointed. I shove my phone back in my bag before wandering back to my room to spend the rest of the day writing. My words come slowly at first, but before long, I find myself cataloguing each room of this strange house. My sentences flex, stretch, expand as I try to make them encompass the feeling of being in this forlorn, almost sentient building.
Seven
The next morning, I step into the kitchen at dawn, my heart quickening at the sight of Manu and his hulking figure. While I expect to see him, he still startles me. He stands there, the gruff caretaker of the grounds, his coffee steaming like the breath of some slumbering beast. His gaze lands heavy as I sit at the table, but I refuse to let it rattle me.
While I sit scrolling through my phone, he remains immersed in the blackened pages of the newspaper, intentionally oblivious to my presence. As much as I try to feel indifferent towards him, I can’t help but want win him over. After all, there are enough frightening things in the house that it seems inadvisable to create enemies out of the flesh-and-blood people I’m working with. The quiet clinks of ceramic and the crackle of newspaper pages turning punctuate the silence between us. I can basically hear the crumbs of my bagel hit the plate, and the silence is too much. It begins to annoy me.
I’ve only been here a few days, and I refuse to be enemies with this man.
“So, as a groundskeeper, what kind of things do you do?” I ask, forcing down a piece of bagel that suddenly feels too large. Naturally, he doesn’t respond, and I swear, he immerses himselfdeeper into the pages of his newspaper, as if to purposely shield himself from me.
“Well, Amara,” I muse to myself as I straighten my posture, adopting a mockery of his deep, gruff voice while spreading more cream cheese over my bagel. “It takes a lot of work to keep the plants healthy on grounds as extensive as these. That requires a lot of botanical wisdom.”
Botanical wisdom. I have no idea what nonsense I’m blabbering, but his gaze flickers toward me momentarily, and I see a shade of annoyance pass across his dark features just before he resumes his silent reading.
My eyes widen in irritation at his stony silence, but I continue to nibble on my bagel, chasing each bite with a bitter gulp of coffee. After finishing, I wish him a good day and retreat to my room. I snatch up my leather bag as if it holds the key to a more fulfilling day and tread carefully down the hallway to Tristan’s study.
My phone dings as soon as I sit down.
It’s Tristan.
Good morning, Miss Amara. I hope you’ve been adjusting well and that your room is comfortable. Today, I’d like you to please sort through my emails. I left my laptop on the desk. Feel free to sit there and work. I receive a lot of junk mail, but on occasion, I miss important emails that have been marked junk by accident. If you could declutter it, that would be great.
Of course. Have a good day, Mr. Black! Please text me if you need anything.
Likewise, Miss Amara.
My gaze wanders over the desk, where the remnants of his intellectual passion lie sprawled. The thick volumes on biochemistry I gathered for him yesterday tower around a collection of hastily written notes, the ink barely dry, while his laptop hums softly, its screen glowing faintly. The scribbles seem to hold fragments of Tristan’s relentless quest for understanding, and curiosity prickles my fingertips. Was he up all night? Had he managed to go throughallthe books I gathered? I inhale deeply, shaking my head in a futile attempt to quell my desire to explore, determined not to intrude. I settle into his desk chair, feeling its comforting embrace, and slowly lift the lid of his laptop.
As I delve deeper into the task, the hours melt away unnoticed. I'm absorbed in the rhythm of sorting and deleting his junk mail, my mind drifting, until a sudden swish from his computer jolts me back to reality with the arrival of a new message.
NEUROSCIENCE LAB: PET Scan Request
Without looking beyond the subject line, it’s obvious this one is important. I quickly grab my phone and send him a text.
Hi, Mr. Black. Sorry to bother you,
but you just received an email from a neuroscience lab regarding a PET scan.
Did you open it?
No.
