Page 21 of Daughter of a Monster

And no one knows who I am.

No one cares.

chapter eight

BERKLEY

There’s a quiet knock on my door in the morning. I woke earlier than usual, the morning light streaming through the windows made sure of it. I should have pulled them closed the night before but I was too exhausted and the bed too comfortable to be bothered.

“Come in,” I call out.

The door opens and a girl stands in the entrance. She’s small, her frame petite, almost childish in appearance, but somehow she still comes across as weary and old. There’s a look of sadness about her, as though she’s seen a lot of tragedy in her young life.

“Mrs Bellamy said it might be best if I showed you the way to the kitchen.” She keeps her eyes trained on the ground.

“Alma, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She does a curtsey, then pushes a strand of pale hair behind her ear. “And you’re Miss Berkley?” It’s only then that she glances up at me. Her eyes are so pale it’s almost as though they are colorless.

“Just Berkley,” I reply. “Thank goodness you came to find me, I doubt I would ever find my way down otherwise. This place is so big.”

She smiles hesitantly. “You’ll get used to it.”

The kitchen is a bustling hive of activity. Mrs Bellamy informs me that the staff eat in the kitchen, while Mr Priest, Gideon, and Ette eat in the formal dining room. Mrs Bellamy and Alma serve them while the rest of us help ourselves from the pots and pans on the stove.

Back at my apartment in the city, breakfast usually consisted of a single piece of dry toast. But here, my mouth salivates at the options before me. It’s a traditional English breakfast, allowing me an insight into Alma’s faint accent. Plates of bacon, sausages, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, beans and toast are scattered over the kitchen.

The staff accept me easily into their morning routine. There’s laughter and teasing as we eat our meal, and then one by one they peel off to their various duties. The only person who didn’t speak was Miss Jones. She kept to herself, her nose stuck in a book. She peered up at me occasionally, but she never smiled, never acknowledged the presence of someone new.

After breakfast, Alma gives me a tour. I’m in awe at the detail and care that’s gone into restoring the building. There’s something majestic and sacred about the place, even if most of the rooms are sparse and barren. It’s almost as if the ghosts of priests and nuns can be felt in the air, even though, according to Barrett, they would have never been here. I find myself speaking in hushed tones, as if to speak at full volume would somehow be unholy.

After lunch, Mrs Bellamy shows me to the room which is to be the dance studio. It’s a large space, long and narrow. Windows line one side, cutting stripes of light across the polished wooden floors. A baby grand sits untouched in one corner, the black surface shining brightly as though someone had spent many hours ensuring its glimmer. There’s a stereo on the floor, the slice of modern life seeming out of place, but other than that, the space is a blank canvas.

A woman clears her throat behind me, demanding attention. “Miss Berkley, I’d like you to meet Miss Ette.”

I turn around to find a young girl staring up at me solemnly. She approaches, a look of pure innocence on her face. Her eyes are wide and large, and her blonde hair hangs in curls down her back. She’s wearing pale pink.

Miss Jones pushes her forward. “Speak,” she orders.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Berkley.” She shakes my hand and does a little curtsey. I follow suit and then laugh at how formal and rehearsed it all seems. “Please,” I say. “Just call me Berkley. There’s no need for the miss.”

“There is need,” Miss Jones says. “You will call her Miss Berkley.”

I give the girl a wide-eyed look, my gaze darting to where Miss Jones stands. She smiles a little but doesn’t laugh. She looks both too mature and too innocent for her age. Her skin is so pale she could be mistaken for a porcelain doll. In fact, she’s so pale I wonder if she’s ever been outside the castle.

I really must stop calling it that. But I don’t know what else to call it. Anything other than castle or cathedral seems insignificant. Maybe that’s why they keep referring to it as the Sanctuary.

“You will instruct her in classical ballet. There is no need for her to be versed in modern nonsense. The lessons are to last exactly two hours, at the end of which you will deliver her back to her rooms so we can complete our lessons for the day.”

Yes, Ma’am’.” I click my heels and do a salute. Ette’s eyes open in shock, but a small smile plays at the corners of her mouth.

“I am quite serious, Miss Berkley.”

“Yes, I know you are, Miss Jones.” Again, I salute.

There’s something about the woman that just makes me want to mess with her. She has the body of a dancer, small head, long neck, arms and legs, slender figure. Her hair is worn in a bob and has been dyed impossibly black. A thick fringe brushes against her lashes and she’s dressed in a pleated skirt and a cardigan, stockings and sensible shoes.

She lets out a frustrated sigh. “Ette will show you the way to her rooms once she’s done. I expect you to be on time.”

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