Page 29 of Lair

She merely stares at me, so I try again.

“What about my job? When am I—”

“You don’t need to worry about that.” She is brisk and businesslike, as if we are discussing a purely trivial matter. As if my life has not changed overnight. But then she clears her throat, seeming to sense that an explanation is in order. “You are not being let go. Nor are you expected to work as a stewardess again aboard this boat.”

“So—” I swallow, trying to process this. “So what do I do?”

Mrs. Colding spreads her hands slightly before clasping them once more. “That is entirely up to you, my dear.”

I bark a weary laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t know what’s going on here.”

Mrs. Colding’s lips purse. “I don’t think he knows either, if that’s any comfort to you.”

My heart stumbles in a little flutter.

Mrs. Colding sighs, regarding me. “If I were to give you any advice—if I were the sort of woman who gave advice—I would say to allow whatever happens to happen. Enjoy this for what it is—an honor. Do not think you are like the others; you are not. Understand? You are special, Aurora. It is a special thing, to be here.” She hesitates, overcome with awkwardness, and tries a slight smile before turning to go.

There’s a quaver in my voice that stops her at the door. “Mrs. Colding.”

She turns, surprised. “Yes, dear?”

“Thank you.”

She is not ready for this. She blinks, mouth twitching uncertainly, gratefully. “You’re welcome,” she says, and shuts the door.

I sit there and study the breakfast tray before me in the troughs of my undulating bedspread. When I lift the cover, steam wafts up and coils away to reveal a decadent feast that seems delivered from another world: avocado toast, savory rice porridge, yogurt, apple sauce, water and ginger ale on the side. Perfect for my food poisoning-ravaged stomach. I take in the VIP suite, the clothes, the sea beyond the windows. A view of the fabulously rich. I drag in a deep, steadying breath and let it out with puffed cheeks and rounded lips. Somewhere above, deckhands are calling out orders as they do a washdown. Far away, I can hear the cries of gulls.

SIXTEEN

I sleep for most of the day. At some point I wake to find a meal set out for me, a set of silver silk pajamas. I shower, letting the hot water pound on my shoulders, groaning like a drunk. Then collapse back into bed.

When I wake again it’s dark. The digital clock by the bed reads 3 a.m. Jesus, I need some air.

I pad out in my silk pajamas into the passageway, rubbing at my eyes. The stern would be nice at this hour. I wonder, vaguely, in what part of the Mediterranean we are now. The fact that I no longer have to worry about my schedule is surreal. After nearly a week of having every second of my life regimented and controlled by Mrs. Colding, this sudden freedom is hard to trust, almost scary. Not unlike, I think, stepping free from my life with Josh.

I’m heading through the dining room to the aft doors when I hear the music.

I stop, listening. It’s piano music. Slow, and stately, and hauntingly sad, drifting quietly through the sleeping yacht. It must be close.

And then I think of where a piano is on the Lair. And for whom that room is reserved.

I ascend winding stairs and pad through rooms made strange with night. I know I must stop, that this is a curiosity I should not indulge. But I don’t. The music grows louder, its pained melancholy luring me helplessly on. Ahead, the door to the library stands ajar. A faint light from within.

I hesitate before it, head cocked, listening.

I’m trembling all over.

This is not like the pool. This entrancing music—there is something to it that is more private, angrily despairing. A deep and grievous wound. Something that should not be witnessed or shared. (You must knock before entering.)

But how could I interrupt this music, when it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard?

I place my hand on the door, as if that would get me closer to that sound, and creak it wide.

The music instantly stops in a jarring of notes.

I stiffen, heart racing, but there is no one there. No tortured figure at the baby grand piano. Just the spines of books glowing dimly in the light of shaded lamps.

I stare, disbelieving, and step into the room. But there is no man lurking in any of the shadowed corners. No Voper, seething or aloofly embarrassed by my interruption. And there is no door connecting onto this room other than the one I entered. Where did he go?

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