Page 25 of Daughter of a Monster

So we’re back to the Miss.

“I was just wondering which century we’re in.”

Mr Priest’s—Jericho’s jaw clenches. “Do you have a problem with the way things are done here, Miss Berkley?” He emphasizes the miss even more.

I look him dead in the eye and shrug. “I’ve seen the dining room. The table appears to seat about fifty people.”

In fact, the dining room is magnificent. It’s been fully decorated. Rich tapestries adorn the walls, giving off a feel of opulence and extravagance, not to mention the chandeliers which hang over the table.

“Sixty, actually,” Jericho corrects.

“Seems silly to waste all those chairs when there isn’t enough for all the staff to sit at once in the kitchen,” I say.

A frown appears. “Is this true, Miss Jones?”

“Well, yes. It’s true there isn’t a lot of room by the time everyone appears for dinner but—”

“Very well then, Berkley—” he pronounces my name slowly as if to emphasize the fact that he remembered not to include the ‘Miss,’ “—may dine with us.”

“Yay!” Ette claps excitedly then reaches out to squeeze my hand.

“And the rest of the staff?” I ask, feeling the burning glare of Miss Jones on my back.

“Don’t push me, Miss Berkley. You can accept, or you can break a young girl’s heart. The choice is yours.” He says the words as though challenging me to a gauntlet.

“Oh, please, Berkley.” Ette instantly realizes her mistake and rushes to correct it, her eyes darting to Miss Jones. “I mean please, Miss Berkley.”

She looks at me so hopefully, I can’t refuse. I squeeze Ette’s hand. “Okay, I accept.”

“See you tonight then.” Jericho gives a little bow to each of us. “Ette, Miss Jones, Berkley.”

I almost regret that he’s stopped using the ‘miss.’ But at least this time I didn’t get any flashes. Maybe they were simply because of stress. Maybe now that I’m here, where no one knows who I am, things will be better.

I will be better.

chapter nine

BERKLEY

The dining room table, although able to seat up to sixty people, is set for four. Ette and I are sitting to the right of the head of the table, waiting for Jericho and his brother to arrive.

When Jericho walks in, my breath hitches. His hair is damp and hangs over his eyes. He’s wearing a loose gray sweater over charcoal pants. It’s strange that we’re all dressed so casually while sitting in a room which is so formal. It’s like we’re out of place. Pretending.

“Good evening.” His voice echoes around the cavernous space. He takes his seat and nods to us. Lifting his wrist, he studies his watch just as the door opens and a man, a few years younger than him, strolls in leisurely. They look strikingly similar. Dark hair, strong jawline. But Gideon has a slighter build, a thinner face, and his hair looks as though God just dumped a tumble of black curls on his head without any style or reasoning.

“Gideon,” Jericho says in his deep rumble.

“Brother,” Gideon replies.

Then Gideon turns and looks at me. A wide smile spreads across his face. “And you are?”

“This is my dance teacher, Berkley,” Ette answers for me. “Don’t call her Miss. She doesn’t like it. She’s a wonderful dancer.”

“I know.” Gideon slinks back in his chair, his arm slung over the back. He is decidedly more informal than his brother. He slouches, almost draping himself over the chair. It’s in stark contrast to the way Jericho sits, like someone has strapped a plank to his back.

Gideon pours himself a glass of water but leaves it on the table untouched. “So, Not-Miss-Berkley, what’s your story?”

“There’s no story,” I say quickly. Gideon’s brows shoot upwards. “I mean there’s nothing of interest. Just your average girl.” I shrug. I’m plain babbling now.

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