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Another new start to add to the whole entire list of new starts we’ve had.
“Be good,” Mom says to me after she presses the intercom button. “Please, Emma.”
I nod at her.
“I will, Mom. I know how important this is for us.”
2
EMMA
Inside the walls, the actual building of the Penmayne mansion is far, far bigger than I had initially imagined when Mom first told me about it. And it’s not just the physical size of the place, but all those crazy little extra features that blow my tiny little mind - those extra features that really hammer home the fact that these people reallyarebillionaires in every sense of the word. There’s the entrance to a hidden underground pool. There’s the helipad for a private helicopter. There’s the garage probably packed full of a fleet of expensive fancy cars. A tennis court on the grounds. Perfectly manicured gardens. Super high-tech security systems. It’s all here in this massive compound.
Before we can even step through the outer gate, a team of beefy guards searches through all our bags like they are on a mission. They’re even more thorough than an overly vigilant TSA agent hyped up on five cups of strong coffee. It appears the Penmaynes hire enough professional security to prowl their grounds to rival a small nation’s standing army.
As we approach the front doors to the main building, they swing open as if from an unseen mystic force.
And a woman glides out toward us from inside the mansion.
She moves unnaturally. Like a spirit. A floating ghoul.
Something from a nightmare, maybe.
Who is this?
I’m guessing she must be middle-aged, around Mom’s age, but is a hell of a lot more...classier. She’s statuesque. Elegant. Well-maintained. Her blue eyes are piercing and steely. Her dark brown hair is elegantly coiffed in a classic and sophisticated manner. She is not smiling in the slightest. She does not seem from this world. No, she’s not just classy - everything about her screams...regal.
And I am instantly intimidated by her.
She must be a Penmayne. She must be our new employer.
And she heads straight for us like a homing missile toward its target.
I’m holding a fairy tale book in one hand, and my grip around it grows tighter as this apparition gets closer.
The woman’s smooth glide down the main stairs stops at the last step so that she towers above Mom and me. I’m guessing she is naturally taller than either of us anyway even if we were standing at the same height, but the step adds even more authority to her figure. The woman’s attention is solely fixed on Mom; she doesn’t even flicker a glance toward me. I am clearly not worth her time or even a beam of her icy stare.
“I have high standards,” she says to Mom, her words perfectly pronounced and her voice so polished. There’s no mention of her name. No handshake. No contact in any way.
So, no time for introductions?
Mom clearly knows who this woman is. She practically bows to her in reverence.
“Of course,” Mom replies toher ladyship.
“I do not tolerate any form of laxness,” the regal woman continues. “I want you to be seen and not heard. Do you understand, Natalie Tucker?”
“We understand,” Mom replies, again with another bow.
What is Mom doing? We’re not in Medieval Europe. This woman isn’t the Pope.
“You may start your work immediately,” Her Highness says. It’s more of a command than an invitation.
I sense someone watching me from afar – you know that weird sensation - so I glance up at the mansion to work out who’s eyeballing me.
And that’s when I spot him - a boy maybe a year or two older than me, standing in the window above the main door of the red brick building. As soon as I lock eyes with him, he’s gone in a flash from the window.
Is he one of those brothers Mom was telling me about? One of the seven spoiled rich boys?
