Page 1 of Fake Maid

One

Eli

Bed rest.

Bed rest.

What am I, one thousand years old? Bed rest is for the elderly and infirm; for feverish children who can’t lift their limbs. Not a thirty-one year old man who climbs mountains and runs ultra-marathons to relax. Who has taken more spills on the cliff than most people take on the stairs.

Bed rest. Please. If I weren’t so insulted, I’d find it funny.

Of course, the problem with hiring the best surgeons in the land is that they have egos to match. And that was the devil’s bargain I struck in my desperation to get better quickly: Doctor Price would fix my mangled hand, but only if I followed his instructions to the letter. And when he reluctantly agreed that ‘bed rest’ could mean ‘house rest’…

In hindsight, after three days trapped in my mansion, it was not worth it. Better to have chanced it with any old doctor. Hell—better to have splinted the damn thing myself.

This is a lesson. Next time I break my bones on the rock face, I’ll remember this and choose differently.

“Mr Koven? Is there something I can fetch for you?”

One of my many housekeepers smooths her manicured hands over her dress, her painted face betraying no hint of alarm that I’ve burst in on her in the library. No hint, except the thrum of her pulse in her throat.

What’s her name again?

God. This is awkward. I should remember my own staff. But I’m so rarely at home, I’d have more chance of recognizing a stranger in the street.

“No,” I tell her, voice hoarse from the way my throat has clenched tight with frustration. Two whole weeks of being trapped at home—and I’m going mad after only three days. “No, thank you. I came to find a book.”

Despite the natural stillness of reading, I’m a lifelong bookworm. I always have been. So this will be my saving grace over the next weeks—a chance to work through my rather ridiculous collection. There are first editions and rare books in this mansion that I’ve never even cracked open, to my great shame.

The housekeeper nods and plasters a smile over her face, then turns and marches swiftly for the doorway. Whatever she was doing in here, I suppose she won’t continue while I’m near.

It’s probably a manners thing. Something they learn in housekeeper school.

So why does that make me feel so damn lonely?

My library is a cavernous room, lined with floor to ceiling shelves crammed with book spines. A large desk worthy of a war general stands beside sparkling glass windows, prepped with a fountain pen and sheets of paper but—to my knowledge—never written on. I do all my own work at the much smaller desk in my office, safely away from distractions, and besides—the desk looks like an antique. I’d rather not scratch a piece of history.

A ladder leans against one of the bookshelves, taunting me and my busted hand, and a slew of squashy armchairs and reading tables are scattered through the room. The air is thick with the smell of paper and varnished wood. Why have I barely stepped foot in this room?

I suppose I’ve barely stepped foot in most of my rooms, always preferring to be outside. This mansion is wasted on me.

My footsteps echo over the floorboards as I stroll to the nearest shelf. I came here looking for a book, any book, but now that I’m here, the choice is almost overwhelming. I pluck the nearest hardback from the shelf with my good hand, flipping it over to read the cover.

Atomic Computing: the Implications.

Rolling my eyes, I slide it back on the shelf.

“Not a page turner?”

I jerk around at the voice. A maid stands in the doorway, a feather duster in one hand and an amused smile curling her mouth. She’s wearing the normal uniform—a black tunic over dark pants, but something about the way she wears it is downright irreverent. Like she’s just strolled off a catwalk, not come in here to clean.

When she shifts against the doorway, I notice the cast on her arm. It’s larger than mine, and more crudely done.

I unstick my jaw.

“I’ve read it before.”

She chuckles, running the feather duster over her tunic absentmindedly. I watch the motion, transfixed. Her nails are clean cut but unpainted on the handle, her hands pale and slender.

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