Page 22 of Daughter of a Monster

“Is she always that much fun?” I ask Ette once the door closes.

“She takes her position within the household very seriously,” is the solemn reply.

Lowering myself to the ground, I cross my legs, rest my elbows on my knees, my head on my knuckles, and stare up at Ette. “So, tell me, how much do you know about dance?”

“I’m afraid I know very little, Miss Berkley.”

I blink, surprised that the formal manner of the girl didn’t disappear with her governess. “Just Berkley, remember?”

“But Miss Jones said—”

I hold up my hand. “While we’re here, in this room, you are my student. The rules will be different from when you’re with Miss Jones and my first rule is you must call me Berkley. None of this Miss stuff. I don’t like it. Whenever someone calls me Miss, I feel as though I’m about to get told off.”

She smiles properly at that. A genuine smile. A smile that belongs on a little girl. A dimple appears on her left cheek.

“Now, come sit down opposite me and we’ll talk about what you want to do. I get the feeling that my teaching methods may be a little different from what you’re used to.”

Ette sits on the ground, back straight, hands folded in her lap.

“Now, most importantly, what music do you like?” I ask.

“Well, I like Tchaikovsky, Debussy, Pachelbel—” she takes a breath, ready to list off more but I hold up my hand.

“Do you listen to anything from this century?”

“Miss Jones says that modern music is frivolous and rots the minds of those who listen to it.”

“But I didn’t ask what music Miss Jones likes to listen to, did I?”

She drops her head as though I’ve scolded her.

“Right.” I clap my hands. “So that’s our mission for the day. I’m going to put on some songs and when you hear one you like, I want you to start dancing to it.”

“But I don’t know how to dance.”

“What do you mean?”

“Miss Jones said that dancing is a disciplined art form. One must train for many, many years if they wish to succeed.”

“And is it your wish to become a performing ballerina?”

She shakes her head.

I stand and hold out my hand. “Miss Jones is right but she is also wrong.”

Ette grasps my hand and I pull her to her feet. Bending to the stereo, I connect it to my phone and scroll through my playlists.

“Actually, you might be able to help me with something,” I say, remembering the issue I’d had that morning when trying to call my mother. “I couldn’t seem to get any reception in my room. Is there somewhere to go that I can make a phone call?”

“There is no reception. You have to climb to the very top of the hill behind the house in order for your cellphone to work, or that’s what Alma told me anyway.”

“What about the Wi-Fi? I couldn’t seem to find it.”

She shakes her head again. “There isn’t any. If you want to use the internet you’ll have to ask Mr Priest. The only room it’s available is in his office.”

“This is a very strange place, Miss Ette.”

She laughs. “You’re right. It does kind of sound like you’re telling me off when you say Miss.”

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